PAGE

The Deserted Chateau; from the French . . . 174

"How old art them 1 !" 193

Hit or Miss. By F. HUDSON 194

The New Doctor . . . . . 203

Stanzas for Music 229

The Long Yarn. By CAPTAIN VALENTIN . . 230

To my Children 241

Winter. By HARRY WINSLOW 244

The Fairies of the Caldon Low; a Midsummer Legend.

By MART HOWITT ..... . 245

On the removal of some old Family Portraits . . 249

1. Frontispiece— COUSIN ISABEL

2. TITLE.

3. THE FARMER'S EOT ... 43

4. THE STORY BOOK .... .7(1

5. GREEK FUGITIVES

6. SUNSET AMONG THE ALPS . . . • .124

7. THE FRIGHT .... - . . 164

8. HIT OR Miss ... .194

9. THE LONG YARN ... . 230 10. WINTER . • .244

THE

LITEEAEY SOUVENIE

COUSIN ISABEL.

BY MISS ELLEN S. RAND.

FAIREST and dearest, I see thee now, With the light of loveliness on thy brow, I love to gaze in those dreamy eyes, Where a gushing fount of affection lies— On the varying hue of thy soft brown cheek, As thou shun'st the praises that others seek. I love thee, for thou art beautiful, And my heart's wild pulses I cannot school, The impassioned feeling, pent up so long, Breaks all restraint, and pours forth in song. 'Tw'ere vain to describe thee, thou lovely one, The tempting lip and the silvery tone, 2

The voice that rises so rich and free,

And thrills with its untaught melody.

But what are the beauties of face and form,

Compared with the torrent of feelings warm,

That is swelling up from thine inmost soul,

And perfects the work in a beauteous whole?

What is the face, be it e'er so fair,

If the heart's deep sympathies be not there?

They are! they are! for in every line

Of thy lovely face, sweet cousin mine,

The lights of science and feeling shine

With a glowing beauty almost divine;

Who ever knew thee and did not love?

What heart has thine eloquence failed to move?

I loved thee in childhood's thoughtless day,

When we were together in work or play;

And now when years have passed lightly by,

We yet look forward without a sigh.

That love is not faded, but only grown

To a deeper feeling— too deep to own;

And while life is ours, through well or ill,

My own bright cousin, I'll love thee still.

BEBUT THE AMBITIOUS.

A PERSIAN TALE.

" Hear this true story, and see whither you may be conducted by ambition."— HAFIZ, the Persian Poet.

IN one of the suburbs of Ispahan, under the reign of Abbas the First, there lived a poor working jeweller. In his neighbourhood he was known by the name of Bebut the Honest. Numberless were the proofs of probity and disinterestedness which had gained for him this title.

In all disputes and quarrels, he was the chosen arbiter. His decisions were generally as conclusive as those of the Kazi himself. Laborious, active, and intelligent, and esteemed by all who knew him, Be-but was happy; and this happiness was still enhanced by love. Tarnira, the beautiful daughter of his patron, was the object of his attachment, which she returned. One thought alone disturbed his felicity; he was poor, and the father of Tamira would never accept a son-in-law without a fortune. Bebut, therefore, often meditated upon the means of getting rich. His thoughts dwelt so much on this subject, that ambition at length became a dangerous rival to the softer sentiment.

There was a grand festival in the harem. In the midst of it the great Schah Abbas dropped the royal aigrette, called jigha, the mark of sovereignty among the Mussulmans. In changing his position, that it might be sought for, he inadvertently trod upon it, and it was broken. The officer who had charge of the crown jewels knew the reputation of Bebut; to him he applied to repair this treasure. None but the most honest could be trusted with an article of such value, and who was there so honest as Bebut? Bebut was enraptured with the confidence. He promised to prove himself deserving of it.

Now Bebut holds in his hands the richest gems of Persia and the Indies. Ambition has already stolen into his bosom. Could it be silent on an occasion like this? It ought to have been so, but it was not.

" A single one of these numerous diamonds," said Bebut to himself, " would make my fortune and that of Tamira! I am incapable of a breach of trust; but were I to commit one, would Abbas be the worse for it? No, so far from it, he would have made two of his subjects happy without being aware. Now, any body else situated as I am, would manage to put aside a vast treasure out of a job like this; but one, and that a very small one, of these many gems will be enough for me. It will be wrong, I confess, but I will replace it by a false ane, cut and enchased with such exquisite taste and skill, that the value of the

workmanship shall makeup for any want of value in the material. It will be impossible to see the change: God and the Prophet will see it plainly enough, I know; but I will atone for the sin, and it shall be my only one. Some time or other I will go a pilgrimage to Mashad, or even to Mecca, should my remorse grow troublesome.

Thus, by the power of a "but" did Bebut the Honest contrive to quiet his conscience. The diamond was removed; a bit of crystal took its place, and the jigha appeared more brilliant than ever to the courtiers of Abbas, who, as they never spoke to him but with their foreheads in the dust, could, of course, form a very accurate estimate of the lustre of his jewels.

One day during the spring equinox, as the chief of the secretaries of AH, according to the custom of Persia, was sitting at the gate of his palace to hear the complaints of his people, a mechanic from the suburb of Julfa broke through the crowd; he prostrated himself at the feet of the Abbas, and prayed • for justice; he accused the kazi of corruption, and of having condemned him wrongfully. " My adversary and I," said he, " at first appealed to Bebut the Honest, who decided in my favour." Being informed who this Bebut was whose name for honesty stood so high in the suburb of Julfa, the Schah ordered the kazi into his presence. The monarch heard both

2*

sides and weighed the affair maturely. He then pronounced for the decision of Bebut the Honest, whom he ordered the kalantar, or governor of the city, immediately to bring before him.

When Bebut saw the officer and his escort halt before the shop where he worked, a sudden tremor ran through his frame; but it was much worse when, in the name of the Schah, the officer commanded him to follow. He was on the point of offering his head at once, in order to save the trouble of a superfluous ceremony which could not, he thought, but end with the scimitar. However, he composed himself, and followed the kalantar.

Arrived before Abbas, he did not dare lift his eyes, lest he should see the fatal aigrette, and the false diamond rise up in judgment against him. Half dead with fright, he thought he already beheld the fierce rikas advancing with their horrid hatchets.*

" Bebut, and you, Ismael-kazi," said Abbas to them, "listen. Since, of the two, it is the jeweller who best administers justice, let the jeweller be a judge, and the judge be a jeweller. Ismael, take Bebut's place in the workshop of his master: may you acquit yourself as well in his office, as he is sure to do in yours."

The sentence was punctually executed; and I am told that Ismael turned out an excellent jeweller.

* Guards of the King of Persia.

Bebut-kazi, on his side, took possession of his place. He was quite determined to limit his ambition to becoming the husband of Tamira, and living holily. He immediately asked her in marriage, and was immediately accepted. Bebut thought himself at the summit of his wishes. He was forming the most delightful projects, when again the kalantar of Ispahan appeared at his door. Still, full of the fright into which this worthy person's first visit had thrown him, he received him with more flurry than politeness. He inquired confusedly to what he was indebted for the honour of this second visit. The kalantar replied, " When I went to the house of your patron to transmit to you the mandate of the magnanimous Abbas, I saw there the beautiful Tamira with the gazelle eyes, the rose of Ispahan, brilliant as the azure campac which only grows in Paradise. Her glance produced on me the magical effect of the seal of Solomon, and I resolved to take her for my wife. I went this very morning to her father, but his word was given to you; and Bebut-kazi is the only obstacle to my happiness. Listen! I possess great riches, and have powerful friends; give up to me your claim on Tamira, and, ere long, I will get you appointed divan-beghi; you shall be the chief sovereign of justice in the first city in the universe; I will give you my own sister for a wife, she who was formerly the nightingale of Iran, the dove of Babylon. I leave

you to reflect on my offer; to-morrow I return for the answer."

The new kazi was thunderstruck. " What! yield my Tamira to him for his sister! Why, she may be old and ugly; 'tis like exchanging a pearl of Bahrein for one of Mascata; but he is powerful. If I do not consent, he will deprive me of my place; and I like my place; and yet I would freely sacrifice it for Tamira. But were I no longer kazi, would her father keep his promise? Doubtful. I love Tamira more than all the world; but we must not be selfish; we must forget our own interest, when it injures those we love. To deprive Tamira of a chance of being the wife of a kalantar would be doing her an injury. How could I have the heart to force her to forego such a glory, merely for the sake of the poor insignificant kazi that I am! I should never get over it; 'tis done! I will immolate my happiness to hers! I shall be very wretched; but—but—I shall be divan-beghi."

If Bebut the Honest, misled by dawning avarice, fancied he committed his first fault for the sake of love, and not of ambition, he must have been undeceived when these two rival passions came into competition, and he could only banish the first. If his eyes were not opened, those of the world began to be; for, from that moment he lost, (when he had more need of them than ever,) the esteem and confi-

dence he had hitherto inspired, and became known by the name of Bebut the Ambitious.

Not yet aware that the higher we rise in rank, the harder we find it to be virtuous, he was for ever flattering himself with the future. Now, his conduct was to be such as should edify the whole body of the magistracy of Ispahan, of which he was become the head. He would not be satisfied with going to Mecca to visit the black stone, the temple of Kaaba, and purifying himself in the waters of Zimzim; the miraculous spring which God caused to issue from the earth for Agar, and her son Ismael. He would do more; he would distribute a double zekath* to the poor, and win back for the divan-beghi the noble title which the people gave to the mechanic of the suburb of Julfa.

The first judgment which he pronounced as divan-beghi, bore evidence of this excellent resolution; but an unfortunate event occurred, which proved the truth of the following verse of the renowned Ferdusi, in his poem of the " Schah-nameh."t

" Our first fault, like the prolific poppy of Abou-tige, produces seeds innumerable. The wind wafts

* Zekath is the Persian name for the tithe of alms which the Koran enjoins to be distributed among the poor.

f Schah-narneh signifies the royal book. It was composed by order of Mahmoud the Gaznevide, and contains in 60,000 distichs, the history of the ancient sovereigns of Persia.

them away, and we know not where they fall or when they may rise; but this we know, they meet us at every step upon the path of life, and strew it with plants of bitterness and poison."

The royal aigrette of Schah Abbas was again broken, and immediately confided to an old comrade of Bebut. He had not, however, the surname of " Honest," and his work was consequently subjected to a cautious scrutiny. Now, it was discovered that a very fine diamond had been taken from the jigha and fraudulently replaced; the unfortunate jeweller was arrested and dragged to the tribunal of the divan-beghi. The ambitious Bebut felt that there was no chance for him if he did not hurry the affair to an immediate close. He forthwith condemned his innocent fellow-labourer to the punishment due to his own iniquity, and the sentence was executed on the instant.

His conscience told him that a man like him was unworthy to administer justice to his fellow-citizens. A pilgrimage to Mecca would now no longer suffice to appease his remorse; his ambition told him it could be lulled by nothing but luxury and splendour. By severe exactions, he amassed large sums; and by gifts contrived to gain over the most influential members of the divan; he thus got appointed Khan of Schamachia, and, from the modest distinctions of the judicature, he passed to the turbulent honours of

military power,—a change by no means rare in Persia.

Abbas was then collecting all his forces to march against the province of Kandahar, and to reduce the Afghans, who have since ruled over his descendants.

O '

In the battles fought on this occasion, Bebut the Ambitious gained the signal favour of one equally ambitious; for Abbas was an indefatigable conqueror, whom fortune, with all her favours, could never satisfy.

The Khan of Schamachia was so thoroughly devoted to his master, so blindly subservient to his will, that he presently became his confidant. He was the very man for the favour of a despot; he had no opinion of his own, and could always find good reasons for those to which he assented. This, in the eyes of Abbas, constituted an excellent counsellor.

The monarch triumphed. Conquerorof the Kurds, the Georgians, the Turks, and the Afghans, he re-entered Ispahan in triumph. He had already made it the capital of his dominions, and now proposed to himself to enjoy there quietly, in the midst of his glory, the fruits of his vast conquests: but the heart of the ambitious can never know repose. The grandeur of the sovereign crushed the people; Abbas felt this; he knew that, though powerful, he was detested; he trembled even in the inmost recesses of his palace.

In pursuance of the Oriental policy which has of late years been introduced into Europe, he resolved to give a diversion to the general hatred, which, in concentrating itself towards a single point, endangered the safety of his throne. With this design, he established, in the principal towns, numerous colonies from the nations he had conquered, and gave them privileges which excited the jealousy of the original inhabitants. The nation immediately divided into two powerful factions, the one calling itself the Po-lenks, the other the Felenks party. Abbas took care to keep up their strength; by alternately exciting and moderating their violence, he distracted their attention from the affairs of government. The disputes between them sometimes looked very serious; but they were kept under until the festival of the birthday of the Schah; on that occasion, the contenders were at last permitted to show their joy by a general fight. Armed with sticks and stones, they strewed the streets with bodies of the dying and the dead. Then the royal troops suddenly appeared, and proclaiming the day's amusement at an end, with slashes of their sabres drove back the Polenks and the Fa-lenks to their homes.

But no sooner had this great politician ceased to fear his people, than he began first to dread his court, and next, his own family. Of his three sons, two had, by his command, been deprived of sight. By

the laws of Persia, they were consequently declared incapable of reigning, and imprisoned in the castle of Alamuth.* He had only one now remaining. This was the noble and generous Safi Mirza—the delight of his father, and the hope of the people. His brilliant qualities, however, were destined only to be his destruction.

Abbas was one day musing, with some uneasiness, on the valour and popular virtues of his son, when the young prince suddenly appeared. He threw himself at his father's feet. He presented him a note which he had just received, and in which, without discovering their names, the nobles of the kingdom declared their weariness of his tyranny. They proposed to the youth to ascend the throne, and undertook to clear his way to it. Safi Mirza, indignant at a project which tended to turn him into a parricide, declared all to the Schah, and placed himself entirely at his disposal. Abbas embraced him, covered him with caresses, and felt his affection for him increase; but, from that moment, his fears redoubled. His anxiety even prevented him from sleeping. In order to get at the conspirators, he caused numbers of really innocent persons to die in tortures; and feeling that

* That is to say, the Castle of the Dead. It was situated in the Mazanderan, (the ancient Hircania,) and had been the abode of the Old Man of the Mountain, the Prince of Assassins. 3

every execution rendered him still more odious, he feared that his son would be again solicited, and would not again have virtue to resist.

This state of terror and suspicion becoming insupportable to him, he resolved to rid himself of it at any cost. A slave was ordered to murder the prince. He refused to obey; and presented his own head. " Have I, then, none but ingrates and traitors about me, to eat my bread and salt?" cried Abbas,—"I swear by my sabre and by the Koran, that, to him who will remove Safi Mirza, my generosity and gratitude shall be boundless." Bebut the Ambitious advanced and said,—" It is written, that what the King wills cannot be wrong. To me thy will is sacred—it shall be obeyed." He went immediately to seek the Prince. He met him coming out of the bath, accompanied by a single atka or valet. He drew his sabre, and presenting the royal mandate,—" Safi Mirza," said he, " submit! thy father wills thy death!" " My father wills my death!" exclaimed the unfortunate prince, with a tone " more in sorrow than in anger." " What have I done, that he should hate me?" And Bebut laid him dead at his feet.

As a reward for his crime, Abbas sent him the royal vest, called the calaata, and immediately created him his Etimadoulet, or Prime Minister.

Paternal love, however, presently resumed its power. Remorse now produced the same effect

upon the King as terror had done before. His nights seemed endless. The bleeding shade of his son incessantly appeared before him, banishing the peace and slumber to which it had been sacrificed. Shrouded in the garb of mourning, the Monarch of Persia dismissed all pleasure from his Court; and, during the rest of his life, could not be known by his attire from the meanest of his subjects.

One day he sent for Bebut, who found him standing on the steps of his throne, entirely clothed in scarlet, the red turban of twelve folds around his head,—in short, in the garb assumed by the Kings of Persia when preparing to pronounce the decree of death. Bebut shuddered. "It is written," said the Schah, " that what the King wills cannot be wrong. Give me to-day the same proof of thy obedience which thou didst once before. Bebut, thou hast a son—bring me his head!" Bebut attempted to speak. " Bebut, Etimadoulet, Khan of Schamachia,—is, then, thy ambition satiated, that thou hesitalest to satisfy my commands? Obey! Thy life depends on it!"

Bebut returned with the head of his only child. " Well," said the father of Mirza, with a horrid smile, " how dost feel?"—" Let these tears tell you how," answered the unhappy Khan: " I have killed with my own hand the being I loved best on earth. You can ask nothing beyond. This day, for the first

time, I have cursed ambition, which could subject me to a necessity like this."—" Go," said the monarch: "you can now judge what you have made me suffer in murdering my son. Ambition has rendered us the two most wretched beings in the empire. But, be it your comfort, that your ambition can soar no higher; for this last deed has brought you on a level with your sovereign."*

* A king coolly ordering one of his subjects to cut off the head of his own child, and being obeyed, is a circumstance so monstrous, that it would appear beyond all possibility, if it were not supported by numerous examples. But, incredible as it may seem, it only paints the common manners of a court, where tyranny, and the vices which it engenders, altogether extinguish the influence of nature. I will cite some instances in proof of what I allege, from the reign of San the First, the successor of Abbas, and son of the same Safi Mirza mentioned in this narrative.

The Schah San, after having with his own hand put to death a part of his family—(for, at that time, in the court of Persia, there were no regular executioners—the Sovereign either executing his sentences himself, or charging the first person he saw to do it for him,)—he next resolved to rid himself also of the three sons of Isa-Khan, his uncle; and after the murder, ordered the three bloody heads to be served up at the table of their father and mother! The latter remained for a moment thunderstruck at this horrible sight; but soon throwing herself at the feet of Safi, she kissed them, and said,—" All is well. May God give the king a long and glorious life!" Isa-Khan added, that, far from feeling dis-

Abbas received from his subjects and posterity the surname of THE GREAT. Bebut the Ambitious was presently known only by the title of Bebut THE INFA-

pleasure at such a spectacle, had he known that Safi desired the heads of his children, he would have anticipated his orders, and brought them to him himself.

Some time after, Schah-Safi put to death the Grand Master of his Guard, by the hand of one of the particular friends of that officer, who did not suffer his intimacy to induce him to decline the commission. Having afterwards called to him the son of the victim, he inquired what he thought of the death of his father. " Why do you call him my father 1 ?" cried the monster: "I recognise no father but my Sovereign. Blessed be he in all his actions!" How fond the people of these countries must be of life!

Chardin and Tavernier abound with similar accounts, which prove to what a degree the words vice and virtue vary in their value and signification among these nations with the varying characters of their different kings. The ambitious, once in the path of shame and distinction, for they were there always synonymous, were forced to proceed in the same course to the end of the chapter; as those once initiated in the mysteries of Isis, could never retrace their steps. In these royal dens, where humanity was treated as high treason, and pity as sedition, twenty crimes were often necessary to procure forgiveness for a single good action. Thevenot relates, that a young Akhta of Safi, having turned his head that he might not see that of a Persian noble cut into pieces, the Schah remarked,—" Since your sight is so delicate, it must be useless to you;" and immediately commanded his eyes to be torn out.

3*

MOUS! It is said, he was a short time after stabbed by the son of the unfortunate jeweller, whom he had so unjustly condemned to death when divan-beghi. Thus were the words of the poet Ferdusi verified. His first fault was the cause of all the others, and their common punishment.

THE DAWN.

THE stars grow weary, for their watch was long;

From their glad vigil palely they depart, As beauty's crowd, from where the dance and song,

And music's magic tones bewitched the heart. The herald of the sun, the morning breeze,

Calls up the waves that sleep upon the lake, And going through the woods, the murmuring trees,

Weary from battling with the winds, awake. I see the pale Dawn, travelling from afar,

Like a wan pilgrim, from some eastern clime; I gaze upon the brilliant morning star,

Like some pure spirit o'er the worlds of time Fervent with rapture—that immortal joy Which the cold world below can damp not nor destroy.

THE HERO OF THE COLISEUM.

To the mind of a modern and an Englishman, monks and monasteries convey no very definite idea. Contemplated in the pages of romance, they acquire somewhat of consistency, and realize a splendid scene of gothic grandeur, and ceremonial pomp. The sunlight streams through emblazoned windows, and rests on many a storied monument of the heroic head;—gorgeous processions sweep through " long-drawn aisles,"—enveloped in clouds of incense, and hailed by music scarcely of this world. Then succeed darker visions, of penance, and gloomy vigil, ignorance, superstition, shame, and sorrow of heart—till the muser's reverie is chequered, as the moonbeams chequered fair Melrose Abbey—

" Where buttress and buttress alternately Seemed formed of ebon and ivory."

Carrying his mind yet further back to an age of which we have few records, and fewer relics,—the first days of monastic institution,—the reverie assumes yet another character. Disapprobation becomes strangely tempered by a sentiment of kindness; and the sincere austerities, and self-denying labours of the early anchorites, not only appeal for pardon,

but sometimes command respect. Here and there we behold a character, born, as it were, out of due time; an individual, fitted to guide and enlighten the world he forsakes; to become an exemplar, not of unmeaning penance, and barbarous privation, but of active practical benevolence; to manifest a self-devotion, gentle, and kind, and wise, kindled it may be in solitude, but expatiating amongst the charities of life.

Towards the close of the fourth century, buried in one of those austere brotherhoods, which the followers of St. Anthony had scattered over Egypt, dwelt the monk Telemachus. His fellow anchorites esteemed him for the peculiar gentleness and simplicity of his manners, but his superiority of mind, his enlarged heart, his power of disinterested exertion, they knew not, nor, had they known, could they have appreciated. A hard mat, or a rough blanket spread on the ground, sufficed for his bed; the same bundle of palm-leaves served at once for a seat by day and a pillow by night; and his food was the coarse biscuit-loaf of the country, varied only by fruit and vegetables. The hours not occupied in study or devotion, were spent in the silent sedentary occupation of forming wooden sandals, or twisting the leaves of the palm-tree into mats and baskets, either for the use of the community, or for sale in some distant market, where superstition regarded them with reverence.

The monasteries of Egypt differed essentially from the more refined and less rigid ones of the West. Cells, or rather separate huts, low, narrow, and of the slightest fabric, were distributed into streets; a fountain of water, various offices, the church, the hospital, and sometimes a library, occupied the centre, and the whole was enclosed by a wall. Those who agreed in diet and discipline formed a fraternity, of which many varieties might exist in the same institution. From some motive or other, Telemachus mingled little with his companions. It might be, that his life, eventful and chequered before he assumed the cowl, furnished memories more interesting than the vapid converse of those around him; or it might be, that the future absorbed his mind, to the exclusion of petty and passing concerns.

A habitation in the desert did not in those days necessarily imply separation from the world; it was possible to " retire into notoriety;" and the reputed sanctity of the monastery in question, and a superb collection of relics, the least of which was efficient for a miracle, drew frequent crowds from the surrounding parts, and not unfrequent visits from individuals of a superior order. On these religious gala days, Telemachus kept more than ever aloof; and left to his brethren the task of edifying the multitude, and the pleasure of gleaning information concerning the world they professed to despise. In fact, the popu-

larity of these good fathers, was in no slight degree owing to their taste for gossip. But if the crowds of more vulgar devotees flocked elsewhere, many a visitant entered the lonely hut of Telemachus, or sought the grove of palm-trees, his private and frequent oratory. The buyers of relics, and delighters in legends, knew well, that father Felicissimus, or the holy monk Hilarion, would better supply their need; but the mother who sought advice for her sick child, the peasant whose ragged sheep-skin proclaimed his beggary, the broken in heart, and the troubled in conscience, the destitute, afflicted, and despairing, intuitively repaired to Telemachus. The traveller, too, whom chance, commerce, or curiosity, made a temporary guest at the monastery, soon singled him out from his brethren; and if that traveller came from Rome, the monk in his turn discovered strong and unusual interest. Details of its buildings and basilica, its former and present history, the character and manners of its people, were listened to with eager interest; and such was the impression left upon his mind by these narrations, that his comfort was sometimes marred by a regret that he had not taken the vows at Rome. But Telemachus was habitually humble, and after a transient sigh, he returned placidly to his cell or his palm-grove, to weave mats, make sandals, or listen to the complaint of some sorrowful peasant.

Thus for nearly twenty years passed his tranquil but not useless life. Neither the errors which he shared in common with the rest of his age, nor the benumbing tendency of monastic seclusion could deaden his fervent unaffected love for mankind; and if his sphere of influence was limited, like the fire-fly of the forest, he cheerfully employed his little light to irradiate and enliven it. Very unexpectedly that sphere became enlarged. Throughout the Christian world of that period, there existed a popular prejudice in favour of the ascetic monks. Pilgrim a o-es

" O O

were made to their cells; questions of spiritual, and even of temporal moment were referred to their casuistry; a favourite hermit was often dragged from his retirement and placed in the episcopal chair; whilst their presence was continually requested by distant monasteries, and sometimes by earthly dignitaries. It chanced, that on some one or other of the thousand points that continually arose to divide public opinion, a number of monks from the most celebrated brotherhoods in Egypt were summoned to Rome, for the purpose of holding a conference. Amongst them went Telemachus, less interested perhaps in his ostensible errand, than in the gratification of his secret, and long-cherished desire, to view for himself the city of the world. An easy and continual intercourse by sea and land connected the provinces of the Roman empire, and the company of Egyptian anchor-

ites reached their place of destination in safety, if not with the speed of modern travellers.

From the stillness of a desert, and the austere habits of a lonely cell, the transition to a scene of imperial and religious pomp like that presented by Rome, was startling alike to mind and body. The glorious trophies with which art had embellished its pagan days, were not as now, mournful and massy ruins overshadowed by the cypress and the pine. Ancient temples, once populous with gods, were changed into imposing basilicas; gorgeous palaces towered beside cloistered convents—and the Coliseum, which after a thousand years of pillage and decay, we still visit as a world's wonder, was standing then, in the pride, the grandeur, and the symmetry of its whole. Beyond the city gates stretched the marble dwellings of the dead, in a long line of impressive majesty; while these, and unnumbered other structures mingling solemnity with splendour, but conducted the eye to natural and distant glories—to stately villas with their glowing depths of shade—to the Alban Mount with its extensive woods,—the purple bloom upon the Sabine hills,— and the glittering summits of the snow-crowned Appennines.

When, however, the first impressions of wonder and delight subsided, and Telemachus had leisure to form a sober estimate of the surrounding objects, disappointment and sadness took possession of his spirit.

Effeminate luxury characterized the inhabitants, in their houses, their dress, their pleasures, and even their occupations. The same corrupting influence was fast gaining ground in the churches and monasteries dedicated to a spiritual religion, and though lodged in the monastery attached to St. John Lateran, called par excellence, " the mother of churches," he had so little taste or so much simplicity, as to mourn after " his lodge in the wilderness."

" Brother Hilarion," said he, one night, to a fellow-anchorite, whose Egyptian dicipline was grievously impaired by his residence in Rome (we may presume he acted on the well-known proverb),— " Brother Hilarion, I would that coming hither to benefit the souls of others, may not bring harm to our own"—and the worthy monk sighed in the sincerity of his heart.

" Dismiss that doubt as a temptation and as a snare, good Telemachus," replied his less sensitive companion.—"I find it good both for soul and body to stay where I am."

" To say that this city has been Christianized by law upwards of a century, I marvel how the people could be worse when it was heathen," continued Telemachus.

Hilarion stared in silence, to hear so heretical an assertion from the pious lips of his companion, but his indignation was cut short by the vesper bell; and 4

Telemachus was not sorry to break off a conversation, which only deepened his regard for the simplicity of his own monastery; there, the sound of the rustic horn, breaking the silence of the desert, called him to a worship in which the seductive aids of outward pomp were utterly unknown. But if he grieved as a monk, he grieved more deeply as a man. The still continued love of gladiatorial shows, and the ob-stinancy with which the mandates of successive Christian emperors for their abolition, had been resisted by the people, weighed heavily on his mind. He had been equally aware of the fact in his seclusion; but when at a distance, and on the spot, there was a vast difference in his power of realization. Then, he sincerely lamented; but now, his days were spent in eloquent if unavailing remonstrances with all to whom he had access; his peace was embittered, and even his dreams were disturbed by the imaged horrors of the arena. It happened too, that during his sojourn at Rome, the subject was rendered prominently interesting. To celebrate the recent victory obtained over the Goths, and the honour of the emperor's visit to the city, preparations were making for magnificent games, to include, as usual, scenes of human butchery; and Rome was alive with expectation.

The fondness of the subordinate ranks for pleasure provided at the public expense, appears natural; but

the Roman plebeian had other sources of gratification. In the amphitheatre, like the senators, and even his emperor, he sat upon a marble seat; the canopy, occasionally extended from the top of the building as a protection from the sun and rain, covered him likewise; the air, refreshed by fountains, and impregnated with odours, contributed to his pleasure not less than to theirs; and if the division assigned him reminded him of inferiority, his pride was soothed by observing the still slighter estimation obtained by the female sex. A wooden gallery at the very summit of the edifice, the least agreeable station of the whole, was assigned to the women! But the absorbing interest, felt, with few exceptions by both sexes, and by all ranks, dwelt in the cruel sports themselves, and in the human, far more than in the animal conflicts.

The day of festival at length arrived. Sunrise beheld, what to a modern, must appear inconceivable,— eighty thousand citizens congregated in that stupendous building, which, lined with marble, decorated with statues, replete with all that luxury coula invent, or wealth, the wealth of a world, command, was devoted to purposes more base and barbarous than the wars of savages.

The first day elapsed in diversions which usually prefaced the introduction of the gladiators. Hunters despatched wild beasts,—wild beasts tore their hun-

ters,—and animals, brought from all parts of the Roman empire, differing in size and ferocity, were matched against each other. The arena, contrived to exhibit a change of scenes, represented on this occasion a vast desert, which acquired a frightful reality from the roaring of the combatants, native as it seemed to the spot, whilst the sand with which it was profusely strewn, tended to heighten the illusion. But its sparkling surface was soon stained with blood; and long before the conclusion of the conflicts, severed limbs, and mangled bodies, both of men and animals, lay scattered amongst the artificial rocks and thickets. On the day following, the arena assumed a new form. The desert, with its howling inhabitants and frightful carnage, was removed, and a scene substituted in its stead, equally perfect, and in its first aspect, more pleasing. Part of what had appeared a barren plain, was, by means of water conveyed through subterraneous pipes, converted into a winding river; which, with a colony of rude huts, backed by a dark and far extended forest, suggested to the audience the country of their Gothic foes.

Clad only in a linen tunic, their long hair gathered into a knot at the top of the head, and unarmed, with the exception of a short sword, and small round buckler, two young warriors of the Alemanni slowly advanced to the front of the arena. They were captives, who had been taken in the late war, and were

reserved with many others, for the present occasion. The approach of the victims was hailed by a shout of applause, painfully contrasted with the sadness of their deportment. They placed themselves on opposite sides of the arena, and expectation hushed the waiting thousands. For some time, the unfortunate opponents exhibited only the harmless play of fencers; not from any dread of death, and still less of pain, but from a mutual and noble disinclination to slay a countryman and brother in arms. But the watchful audience soon perceived and resented the skill which avoided wounds, and with threats and expressions of contempt, commanded them to close. The devoted pair retreated a few steps backwards, cast a glance of unutterable scorn on the glittering ranks of their savage lords, and sprang vehemently forwards, each with the same desire, to throw himself on the sword of the other. One of them succeeded but too well, and sunk, mortally wounded, at the feet of his unwilling conqueror.

" He leans upon his hand—his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agon}', And his droop'd head sinks gradually low— And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavily, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now The arena swims around him—he is gone, Ere ceas'd the inhuman shout which hail'd the one who won.

4*

He heard it, but he heeded not—his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away; He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize; But where his rude hut by the Danube lay There were his rude barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother—he, their sire, Butchered to make a Romam holiday.— All this rush'd with his blood."

But the last hour in which these spectacles were to outrage humanity, was at hand; and a humble monk of the desert, was destined to achieve what emperors had been unequal to.

On the morning of the second day of the games, Telemaehus, to the consternation of Hilarion, announced it as his intention to repair to the Coliseum, there, to make an appeal to the people; and, if needful, descend at all hazards into the arena, and separate the gladiators:—a desperate, or, as Hilarion termed it, "a presumptuous enterprise," but which, judging by results, we may term the inspiration of heroism.

That worthy father put forth a long list of dissua-sives; he represented the unseemliness of the place for an anchorite, enlarged on the probability of danger, the certainty of disappointment, and strengthened his arguments by the authority of every saint and angel then extant—but all in vain.

Telemaehus mildly repeated his resolution, and

patiently explained the motives by which he was actuated, not one of which was intelligible to Hilarion's less fervent spirit. —" Marvellous! marvellous!" ejaculated the poor monk, in a tone and with a countenance of unutterable perplexity and dismay.—"Yes, good brother, of a surety one ought to love one's neighbours as one's self —but running headlong into death and danger, is not loving one's self at all. Can you not pray quietly in your cell, for the deliverance of these unfortunate beings who are forced to run each other through for pastime?—and can you not preach against the sin and shame of blood thirstiness, when you are safe in some pulpit!—but, oh! marvellous! marvellous! to think of going down into the arena, and provoking eighty thousand people in a breath! St. Anthony truly preached to the fishes— but oh! brother!—brother!—you are going to preach to wild beasts!"

" Hilarion," replied Telemachus, with a sweet, if somewhat mournful, smile, " our thoughts take different paths on this point; and to the outward eye, yours is the straightest and easiest to follow; but there is that within my heart, which urges me onwards, and gives me good hope of success, although between it and me, there lies, perchance, a painful death. And now, dear brother Hilarion, farewell; and, seeing you cannot alter my determination, which, believe me, has not been formed on sudden

or vainglorious thoughts,—grant me one favour:— return with all speed to our own homely dwelling, for it is not good either for soul or body to stay where you are; and I would not our brethren should have cause to charge us with fickleness of purpose. Sometimes visit the palm-grove, Hilarion: I have found it oft a sweet and sacred place; and have a special care of the destitute mourners who resort to the monastery,—some of whom may inquire for Telemachus."

With these words, and a fervently-bestowed benediction, he wrapped his cloak round him, and taking his staff, set forth on his way, with the steady step and serious aspect of one, who feels that he has undertaken a great work, from the execution of which he may never return.

He reached the Coliseum just before the gladiator's death. The exulting shouts which then broke from the collected thousands stunned him with affright; and for a moment, his heart recoiled from its noble purpose; but a second glance at the manly form bleeding before his eyes, by appealing to his sympathy, invigorated his courage. There was not, however, time for deliberation. To the first, succeeded a second pair of combatants; and as their encounter commenced with energy, they were hailed with corresponding applause. At that moment— calmly, cheerfully, determinately, with his life in his

hand, and the spirit of Christianity strong in his heart—Telemachus descended into the arena—interposed between the astonished gladiators, and, in the presence of assembled Rome, denounced the sin, the cruelty, and the cowardice of such amusements. Simple amazement at the interruption prevented, for some moments, the exhibition of any other sentiment; but, as Telemachus gathering energy by exertion, proceeded to make a pathetic appeal to the emperor, whose merciful inclinations were no secret to the multitude,—rage at the intruder's audacity, and fear that he might prevail, succeeded. The numberless entrances and passages to the amphitheatre, so exquisitely contrived that the whole of this vast assemblage could collect and disperse with ease and celerity, hastened the fate of their intended victim. As if the same resolution had, in the same instant, been formed by each, hundreds and thousands simultaneously rushed from their seats into the neighbouring streets, and in a few minutes returned to them again, laden with whatever missiles they had been able to collect. Their infuriated shouts, and menacing gestures, announced to Telemachus the doom he had anticipated. Making a signal to the gladiators to retire from the arena, he sank upon his knees, not to implore mercy of man, but to commend his spirit to God; and with folded arms, and head bowed meekly upon his breast, awaited and received

that shower of stones which dismissed him to his rest—the noble martyr of humanity.

Wonderful revolutions of feeling have sometimes taken place in popular assemblies; and that effected in the present instance, was not more striking than it is authentic. Shame, remorse, and sorrow, succeeded to murderous rage; the destroyers bestowed funeral honours on their victim; and when, immediately afterwards, Honorius decreed the abolition of gladiatorial shows, they yielded an unresisting obedience.

It has been esteemed matter of regret that, amongst the benefactors of the human race, neither shrine, nor statue has been erected to Telemachus—a vain and needless feeling, since, while a single stone remains, the COLISEUM itself is his monument.

THE FARMER'S BOY

BY SOUTHWELL.

MY conscience is my crown, Contented thoughts my rest,

My heart is happy in itself, My bliss is in my breast.

Enough I reckon wealth;

That mean, the surest lot, That lies too high for base contempt,

Too low for envy's shot.

My wishes are but few,

All easy to fulfill; I make the limits of my power

The bounds unto my will.

I fear no care for gold,

Well doing is my wealth; My mind to me an empire is,

While grace affordeth health.

I clip high climbing thoughts, The wings of swelling pride;

Their fall is worst, that from the height Of greatest honour slide.

Since sails of largest size The storm doth soonest tear;

I bear so low and small a sail As freeth me from fear.

I wrestle not with rage

While fury's flame cloth burn;

It is vain to stop the stream Until the tide doth turn.

But when the flame is out, And ebbing wrath doth end.

I turn a late enraged foe Into a quiet friend.

And taught with often proof, A'temper'd calm I find

To be most solace to itself, Best cure for angry mind.

Spare diet is my fare,

My clothes more fit than fine; I know I feed and clothe a foe

That, pamper'd, would repine.

I envy not their hap,

Whom favour doth advance,

I take no pleasure in their pain, That have less happy chance.

To rise by others' fall

I deem a losing gain; All states with others' ruin built

To ruin run amain.

No change of Fortune's calm

Can cast my comforts down: When Fortune smiles, I smile to think

How quickly she will frown.

And when in froward mood,

She proved an angry foe, Small gain I found, to let her come—

Less loss, to let her go.

EXTRACT.

BE humble, for it is an envied thing;

And men whose creeping hearts have long submitted Around the column'd height to clasp and cling

Of Titled Pride—by man to man transmitted,— Will grudge the power they have less cause to dread, Oppose thee living, and malign when dead. 5

THE SHELL.

AN HISTORICAL APOLOGUE.

"THE World was made for Man," said he. " I will tell you an apologue," answered the teacher.

1. In a beautiful bay of the celebrated island Atlantis, a large Shell of the most delicate white, and the most rounded form, the relic from some previous world, lay on the smooth and elastic sand. It was left for a long period undisturbed and unaltered; sometimes kissed by the extreme bubbles of the billows, and often trembling so melodiously in the wind as to have furnished to the early gods the first hint of a musical instrument, and to have been the prototype of the sounding conches which accompanied with their deep notes the feasts on Olympus, and the Indian triumphs of Bacchus.

2. The moist dust gradually accumulated within it, and the germ of a sea-weed fell upon the soil, and grew until a fair and flourishing plant, with long dark leaves, overhung the white edge of the thin and moonlike vase. For many months the ocean herb retained its quiet existence, imbibed the night-dew of the heavens, rejoiced in the fresh breezes from the sea, and lived in tranquil safety through every change

of shower and sunshine. At length a storm arose which rolled tfte waters upon the shore. The Shell was overwhelmed, the plant washed out of it, and the light vessel swept into a cleft of the rocks.

3. After some days of calm and warmth, a bird dropped into it a seed, which sprouted, and became an orange-tree. Its leaves were so thick and green, that they would have supplied a graceful chaplet to a wood-nymph, and she might have delighted to place in her bosom the pearly and fragrant blossoms which huno- amid the tuft of verdure. The seasons with

O

their varieties, and the starry influences of gentle nights, nurtured the shrub, and the pure flowers were changed into gorgeous fruits, which gleamed through the foliage like the glimpses of a gilded statue in some deserted temple through the robes and coronals of creepers which have overgrown it. The orange-tree had gladdened many spring-times with its sweetness and its splendour, when it faded and died; and the birds of the air piped a lamentation over the shrub, amid the living beauty of which they had so often nestled.

4. In after years, when nothing remained of the orange but a slight and dreamy odour around the Shell, and the last light grains of the dust wherein it grew had been borne away by the eddying breezes, a butterfly, as red and glittering as the planet Mars, came on its crimson wings to the dim and spiral cell.

It fluttered round the ivory entrance, poised itself upon it for a moment, and waved its silken sails. Then, after darting and circling, like a winged mote of the sunbeam, through the deep woods and over the sea, it returned to perish. While it sank into its quiet and beautiful retreat, it yet seemed loath to leave a world which to it had been a fairy domain; but the necessity of its nature was upon it, and it closed the gay leaflets which had sustained its flight, and resigned itself to death.

5. It was followed by a troop of bees, which took possession of the Shell, and, after their daily excursions over meadow and bloomy bank, returned to its smooth and undulated chambers with the materials of their combs, and with large store of bright and luxurious honey. The tiny echoes of their abode resounded with the constant hum of labour and happiness, and it was soon as brimming as a wine-cup, at a nuptial-feast, with the rich and perfumed treasures of the insects, arranged and sealed in the exact compartments which filled the interior of their silvery palace. But a bird attacked and destroyed their commonwealth, and again the Shell was left empty.

6. A humming-bird, all emerald, ruby, and sapphire, then discovered the lonely nook, and folded there its jewelled wings. It soon found a mate, and together they lived a flowery life. He who had seen either of them wandering at sunset through the glen,

THE SHELL.

would have believed that the brilliant core of the western sky was fluttering away along the earth; or the little animal might have been thought the choicest signet of a prince, transformed of a sudden into a living thing, and endued with the power of flight. When they wheeled together towards their home at twilight, no pair of fire-flies, no twin-lights of the firmament could be brighter than were their diamond crests. The sweet essences of a thousand buds and flowers supplied their nourishment; and, while they sucked the delicious juices of ripe fruits, their wings were tinctured by the lightest bloom of the plum and the grape. But the rain dropped thick and fast into the Shell, and the gentle birds, which seemed made to whisper love-messages in the rose-bud ear of a lady, and to hide themselves in sport among her ringlets, departed from their nest, and sought in sparry grotto, or in southern bower, a more secure habitation for their lovely but frail existence.

7. Lastly, at sunrise, seemed flitting from the morning star an elfin spirit, which danced into the Shell, and assumed it as his home. It thrilled with life and pulsation; and, while a spring gushed out of the rock, and bore it along towards the sea, he spread his thin wings to the breeze, and sailed in his lily-coloured argosy away over the blue and sunny deep. The white Shell and its new sovereign moved forward with the graceful swiftness of a snowy swan,

tilting over the light ripples of the water, and, when nio-ht came with its constellations, seemed to be itself

o

a trembling star on the verge of the horizon. That spirit, too, shall inhabit the shell but for a time, and shall then depart, that he may develope, in some other more fitting position, the whole capacities of his nature. The Shell will sink into the waves, and be joined to the treasures of the ocean caverns, in them, also, to aid the existence of other beings, and to fulfil a new cycle of its ministry.

That Shell is the WORLD: that Spirit, MAN. Yet not for man alone was it created, but for all the living things in the successive stages of existence, which can find in it a means of happiness, and an instrument of the laws which govern their being.

THE PEAYER AT A CHRISTENING.

ALL holy be the hour! and, oh! may Heaven Look down and bless the anxious mother's part,

As meekly she confides the treasure given So lately to her young and hoping heart;

And pleads that God's great love may be his stay,

And guide her little Wanderer on his way.

ZAMOR.

CHAPTER I.

THE air was basking in the noontide among the hills that are traversed by the rapid Erigon. The woody sides of the valleys which opened upon the river, lay slumbering in breezy dimness; but the sky was blue and bright around the breasts and peaks of the mountains, except where broad white clouds, floating high and swift between them and the sun, varied the landscape by occasional sweeps of shadow. The sparkling and winding water flowed silently along the green bases of the eminences, and its surface was marked by nothing but the differences of colour occasioned by the wind and stream, and by the fresh looking islets of water plants, or the trunk of a tree rolling down the current, and showing its brown branches, or the white rent of its stem, among the shining ripples. Down one of the glens which descend towards the stream, a boy of thirteen or fourteen years of age was slowly wandering. He was tall, and of a noble presence. His open and upturned brow was surrounded with careless ringlets of light brown hair, and was shaded by a low cap or bonnet, in which he wore an eagle's feather. His

dark coloured kirtle descended to his knee, over trowsers which left the leg exposed above the sandal. A belt of wolf's skin sustained a short sword, and confined his dress around the waist; and he led with the left hand, in a twisted chain of gold, a large and powerful dog, while, in his right, he carried a strong hunting spear, the point of which gleamed like a star above his head. His features were of a regular and spirited beauty; and his quick eye perpetually glanced from the path he was pursuing to the mountains round him and the skies beyond. He proceeded in his devious and negligent course, now sinking into thought, now rushing and leaping over rocks and bushes, while the dog sprang up, and barked, and sported round him, till he reached an irregular and broken wood, which spread, though with many intervals, along the green banks of the river.

The boy threw himself under the shade of an oak, where he had a glimpse of the cool water among the stems of the trees; and his canine friend couched quietly by his side, now looking up into his face, now rubbing his legs with its nose, and wagging its bushy tail, now closing its eyes, and sinking with a sigh into a tranquil doze. The youth, too, was so still, that he might have been thought to slumber, had not his restless glances indicated the stir within. It was, indeed, a mind not formed for inactivity; but its present thoughts were rather the overflowing and

ZAMOR.

53

sport of its vigour, than the application of it to any definite end. He remembered the oracles which had spoken among the ancient oaks of Epirus, till he almost heard the promise of his own greatness sounding from the trees, while they trembled and rustled around and above him, and then came imaginations of the Dryads, the forest spirits, so beautiful and so capricious, who were accustomed to fly from men, and dedicate their loveliness to the greenwood shade. As the breeze moved the shadow of some branch, he started to think that he saw the waving of the airy locks; and he beheld for a moment the twinkle of the light footsteps, in the casual breach of a sunbeam through the foliage on the dark ground of the vistas before him. These visions passed away, and in their place seemed sweeping through the distant obscurity of the thicket the pomp and triumph of Bacchus,—the youths with arms and wine-cups, and baskets of gorgeous fruits unknown to Europe, the dark eyes and glowing limbs of damsels, whose wreaths of Oriental flowers shook fragrance through the air, while swiftly and gracefully they flung aloft and stuck together their ringing cymbals, ancient Pan with a world of merriment in his pipe, and, amid a tumult of green coronals and wild exultations, the young conqueror himself drawn forward by his lions, with the pride of a hundred victories on his brow, and the joyousness of a hundred vintages on

his lips, and a spear so often washed in wine, and so clustered with grapes and ivy-berries, half hid among their foliage, that not a trace of its myriad death-stains was visible. They gleamed for a moment from the recesses of the green maze on the eye of the dreaming boy; and why should not he too be the conqueror of Asia, and his banners return over the Hellespont, laden and glittering with the spoils of the Euphrates and the Indus?

He rose while he thought it, so hastily that his dog gave a slight cry at feeling the pull which his collar received from the arm of his master, who stepped forward eagerly for an instant, while his right hand grasped the spear with an energy indicating, even then, how bold would be the spirit, and how wide the fame, of Alexander the son of Philip.

He walked forward for a few minutes with boyish impetuosity, when his attention was diverted by seeing a large blue butterfly, which flew across his path. He freed from the collar the chain which held Lacon, and pursued the insect; while the dog, in imitation of his master, rushed barking, and eager in pursuit of the same wandering object. It led him among the hills which he had before left, never coming within his reach, but never mounting so far away as to make him relinquish the pursuit. It flew at last over the edge of a precipice into a broken and narrow dell; but the fearless and active boy dropped

from the verge, and, after scrambling for a minute or two among the rocks and bushes, reached the end of the descent. Tt was a wild and lonely hollow, on the steep banks and narrow area of which the pine and the cypress rose above the thick undergrowth of weeds, shrubs, and flowers. The insect still hovered before its pursuer; and, after a few steps, he found that he had followed it into an ancient cemetery. The tombs seemed to have been mouldering in neglect for centuries, and merely a few irregular mounds, and broken fragments of walls remained. Beyond one of these relics of building, now covered with different vigorous creepers, the bright blue wings disappeared. He went to the spot, and found that, beyond the dilapidated wall, the sun streamed in upon a little patch of grass. Here the insect had poised itself upon a human skull, half covered with moss, and crowned with a natural wreath of trailing honey-suckle. Thus was perched the beautiful and airy creature he had been chasing, with its azure fans expanded, and glittering in the sunshine. It seemed the immortal Psyche, the spiritual life, waiting to take wing from amid the dust and decay of mortality. The boy leaped over the obstruction, and stooped to seize it; but it vibrated for an instant the splendid pennons which served it for sails, and rose swiftly and far above the head of the disappointed pursuer.

He looked after it for a fevy seconds, and Lacon bayed fiercely at the soaring insect; but his owner stooped again to the relic; for, when he had previously bent towards the butterfly, he had seen what appeared to be metal shining on the turf. It was a large gold coin which lay between the teeth of the skull. The device of an eye within a circle was distinctly visible on one side, and on the other was traced, in the oldest character Alexander had ever seen, the word ZAMOR.

He restored the coin to its place; but, such was his recollection of the occurrence, that the signet wherewith, in after years, he sealed Hephsestion's lips, bore the device of a butterfly poised upon a skull, with the motto ZAMOR.

CHAPTER II.

The youth was a youth no more. He was, in all the vigour and beauty of manhood, a sovereign and a conqueror, and roamed no longer in the woods of Macedonia, but in the deep gloom of an Indian forest. He had outstripped his train in the eagerness of his chase; and, when the thick jungle prevented him from continuing his course on horseback, he leaped from the saddle and pierced his way on foot. His

mantle was now of regal splendour, and his light helmet was encircled with a slender diadem of gold. The garment which fell from under his inlaid cuirass to his knee, was interwoven with silver thread, and his sandals were studded with jewels. His lips had gained the firm expression of will and power, and thought had left its stamp upon his forehead.

He speedily penetrated through the thicket which had interrupted him, and found himself in a little glade, surrounded by spreading trees. He stood still, and gazed for a moment; and it seemed to him that he heard not far off the half stifled sobs of sorrow. He moved in the direction of the sound, and, after pushing through a screen of bushes, found himself near an old man, who knelt upon the ground, close to the trunk of a great tree; and, while his clasped hands trembled on his shuddering breast, the tears fell thickly from his eyes. He wore the dress of a Brahmin. Beside him lay the corpse of a girl, apparently twelve or thirteen years of age. Though her skin was rather more dusky than that of Europeans, she was very beautiful in the eyes of the King.—Her round and shining limbs were of the most exquisite delicacy; the long black hair, wreathed with white flowers, fell loose over her maiden bosom, which had ceased to heave with the breath of life. An arrow had pierced her through the body, and the blood had flowed to the knees of the old 6

man, and stained his garments. He was a father wailing over his murdered child.

Alexander silently approached, and saw that on the left breast of the lovely form, in which the heart no longer stirred, a blue butterfly had placed itself. The agony and tears of the parent did not disturb it. He touched the hair and fingers of the body with a trembling affection, and gazed at it long and passionately; and then again his whole frame was shaken, and he burst into a paroxysm of grief. As the King drew near, the insect rose and soared away to the* heavens. Alas! that, like it, the corpse could not raise itself from the dust it adorned, and move again with all the vivacity and grace of its former existence!

The conqueror spoke in a low, reverential, and sympathizing voice to the bereaved father. The old man started at the sound, rose to his feet, and shook off, as far as nature permitted him, the tokens of his agony. Alexander asked him by what misfortune he had lost his daughter. " The soldiers," replied the Brahmin, " of the insane and cruel invader who has attacked our country, seized my child, and would have detained her, but that she escaped by flight from their hands, when one of them shot an arrow, which slew my beautiful and my beloved."—" I swear by the gods, they shall be punished; but do you know, old man, to whom you speak, that you thus venture

to calumniate the great Alexander?"—" If L could not judge by the vulgar signs of those gay and fantastic trappings, I should yet recognise the eyes which so readil - glare, the nostril that dilates, the brow that contracts, with passion. These all mark the man who has been accustomed to command others, but not himself."—" This is a sight," replied the King, pointing to the dead body, " which prompts me to forgive your boldness."—" It is a sight, O King, which should rather teach you that I do not need your forgiveness. You have robbed my earthly existence of its charm and glory—I care not how soon it may end."—" This is philosophy which would have pleased Callisthenes. What is your name and condition?"—" I am called Sabas; and, after having travelled over many countries, and learned your language in the Lesser Asia, I have lived, and been happy" — here he faltered, and looked at his child—" at the tomb of the sage ZAMOR."

The warrior started at the name, and asked of Sabas who was ZAMOR. The Brahmin replied, that he had lived many ages before, and had been a mighty conqueror; but that, after overrunning half the earth, he had flung away at once the sceptre and the sword, and betaken himself to a life of meditation and benevolence. The old man went on to say, that the King could learn more from the chief of the Brahmins, who

attended the tomb, and to him Sabas brought Alexander.

The ancient teacher to whom the Grecian commander was thus introduced, trembled in his presence, and, on his demanding to know something more with regard to ZAMOR, replied, that, in addition to what Sabas had told him, the following information was all he could supply: The venerated being in question had employed the later moments of his protracted life in giving directions as to the place and manner in which his ashes were to be disposed of; and, in the volume of pure morality and sublime devotion which he had left, it was declared that the iron doors which bounded his sepulchre would never open, till one who had been as great a conqueror as himself should demand admission. In the course of many ages none such had presented himself. The pride and curiosity of the Sovereign were aroused, and he desired to be led to the tomb. The Brahmin summoned his brethren, and in long files they preceded Alexander to the cavern. Its rocky circuit was of sufficient extent to include them all; and they ranged themselves around the sides, and their leader and the Monarch advanced to the tomb, on which several lamps were burning. Here the Chief Brahmin offered up his prayers, while the Macedonian went forward to the doors at the farther extremity, and to the horror of the throng, violently smote the

massy metal with the hilt of his sword. The doors crashed open slowly, and displayed a staircase. The king descended fearlessly and alone, and, after a long absence, returned with a haggard countenance and disordered steps to the cavern, while the doors closed suddenly behind him. He seemed, at first, confused and bewildered; but soon recovering himself, he looked round him at the Brahmins, and said, " I know not whether you have a share in yonder mummery; but, at all events, let a wall be built across that entrance, sufficient to prevent any future attempts like mine." He had paused, and seemed relapsing into deep and doubtful thought, when there was heard without, a loud rush and clang, mingled with the sound of trumpets. Alexander knew the notes, and, resuming all the soldier and the king, gravely saluted the Generals who had sprung from their horses, and entered the cave to seek him. He moved before them to the mouth of the cavern, and found his usual train of several hundred horsemen, with the chief nobility of Macedonia, Greece, and Persia, awaiting his appearance. Innumerable variety of dress and arms, of language and countenance, were here assem-

7 CO

bled; and every province he ruled over had sent its noblest and its most splendid inhabitants to swell the court of Alexander. All were mounted on the fleetest and most beautiful coursers of Thessaly and Asia, and an unrivalled steed was led by the grooms of the Mo-

6*

narch. He mounted it with a careless bound, and while he galloped from the spot, followed by the glittering whirlwind of officers, feudatories, and kings, he talked to those around him of the battle, the chase, the banquet, the philosophy of Aristotle, and the charms of Pancaste.

CHAPTER III.

The day had died in storm; and the chamber of Alexander was closed and lighted. He lay on his couch in the restlessness and pain of a fever from which he was never to recover. He was attended only by a young Persian girl, who watched his lightest word and sign with far more than the carefulness of servility.—There was all the intensity of passionate affection in that pale cheek, those tearful eyes, and that quivering forehead. She. moved silently through the splendid room at the least hint of the patient's want, and, when it was satisfied, she would sit down and weep in silence. It was early in the evening when he said, " Abra, I would speak with Perdiccas." She flew from the chamber, and in a few moments returned with the person named, and then retired to the ante-chamber, where, among slaves, guards, attendants, and physicians, she hid her face

in her hands, and sobbed bitterly, while she thought that the man she loved would so soon breathe his last.

Perdiccas entered the room silently and slowly, and sat beside the bed. After a few moments of heavy breathing, the King turned towards his friend, and told him to move the lamp so that it might throw no light upon the couch. He then proceeded thus:

" Perdiccas, you will remember having once found me in India, at the tomb of ZAMOR. I have revealed to no man what I saw there; but I will now disclose it to you. The circumstances which led me thither are of but little importance. Suffice it that I presented myself at the iron gates, and that they opened to admit me. I proceeded down a long and dark flight of steps, then through a passage, then down other steps, and had at last advanced to an immense distance through the rock. I thought for a moment of returning, but I went on, and travelled, as it seemed, league after league. At length I reached an iron grating, which with some difficulty I pushed open, and found myself in a large chamber. On the opposite wall there appeared to be a faint glimmer of light, and to it I proceeded. I touched the spot, and it felt like the side of a tent, and, in truth, I found that it was a curtain, covering an aperture. I pulled it aside, and a broad pale light burst upon me through the opening, which also gave me a view of another, and far larger chamber than that in which I stood.

" The room i-nto which I looked was a vast gallery, which stretched its dreary vista almost beyond the sight. The floor was of black marble, and the sides of polished porphyry. Along the walls thrones were ranged at equal spaces, to an interminable distance. Those on one side were all occupied, except the nearest, which bore the name of ZAMOR, but which his late penitence and imperfect reparation had saved the ancient conqueror from occupying. The throne opposite to this—the first in the vacant line—was inscribed ' Alexander.' And, O Perdic-cas! could I speak with the tongue of one of those Athenian poets whose renown will be as great as mine, I should yet be unable to express the tithe of that horror which seized me when I looked upon the tenants of those other thrones, and saw that a similar one was destined for me! It is not that they had an aged or a barbaric appearance,—though their hairs were white, and their brows haggard, and their dresses were those of the East and of the North,— but their faces were marked with a still desperation, and their bodies settled in a calm agony, of which I had no previous conception. I have often looked upon death; but no pangs from the sword, nor from the torture, ever seemed to me more than a slight discomfort compared to the sufferings of those mighty and glorious warriors. They sat motionless as the rocks on the banks of Phlegethon; but it was the

tranquillity of an endurance which feels that it would be hopeless to attempt escape. The eyes of some of them were nearly closed, and there seemed no light in their countenances, but a dull dead glare which escaped from beneath their shadowing eyelids. There was one hoary head and swarthy cheek, with a diadem of jewels, and the Egyptian beetle on his breast, and I knew the presence of Sesostris. And there was ancient Belus, with the star of the Babylonian wizards on his brow, and leaning his awful head upon his hand. And there was the warrior-deity of those Scythians whom in my boyhood I subdued, clothed in wolf-skins, but with a cuirass on his breast, and a crown of iron around his scarred forehead. Hercules, too, whom we have dreamed a god, leaned upon his club in anguish, which though silent was more horrible than the pangs he endured from the robe of Nessus; and a greater than he, or than all the rest, showed the writhen features and sunken cheeks of lono-sustained suffering beneath those emblems of

a O

mysterious strength, the moonlike horns of Ammon. There was one spirit, and but one, in whom the fiery energy of his nature was not repressed by the tremendous fate to which he was subjected,—the Greek who in his youth was victor over Asia, the fleetest, the most beautiful, the bravest, the most unhappy, the demi-god Achilles. His eyes still shone like stars

amid the burning halo wherewith his head was of old encircled by Minerva, and which still beamed around him, as if in mockery of those white lips compressed and agitated with a paroxysm of affliction too mighty for even the slayer of Hector to master it. In the shield which leant against his knees, I saw not the images of the harvest and the dance, but the reflection of the hero's immeasureable pain.

" The feet of each of these terrible shadows were placed upon an image of the world; and before my throne I saw a similar attribute. My empire seemed to clasp with its boundary an enormous portion of the earth; but its limits were faint and wavering, and methought at every instant they shrank and broke asunder. Above the thrones were trophies; but in the midst of each of them, that gray, stern Destiny, who, from its iron cave, in some distant planet, sends forth the silent blasts that sway the universe, had fixed some emblem of mockery, shame, and evil: the mowing ape, the crawling worm, the foulness of the harpy, the envenomed slime of the serpent, showed themselves among the spoils, weapons, crowns, and banners of royalty and conquest. And over all this a ghastly light was shed from the eyeless sockets of skeleton warders, who waited upon the enthroned victims.

" Can you wonder, my friend, that I felt a horror

which swords, and flames, and menacing millions could not inspire, when I gazed upon the eternal agonies of those beings, so dead to all but misery? My eyes almost failed to see, and my feet to stand, when I turned from them to mark the throne which bore so deeply engraven on its granite pedestal, the name of 'Alexander.' From that hour my nature has changed. I have not had the resolution to yield up my conquests, and disrobe myself of my greatness; but I have sought to lose the memory of my former deeds and future doom in revelries and intoxications, which, at last, have brought me death, though they have never bestowed forgetful ness. I shall soon be among those dreary and tormented shadows of departed power and dearly bought renown. ' Take you this ring,' (and he gave him the emblematic signet,) ' and when you look upon it, remember, that not the image you see upon it, of immortal life and unbroken happiness, will dwell with the remains of kings and conquerors, but the polluting earth-worm and the stinging scorpion.' His voice had grown hoarse and broken; and he proceeded slowly and feebly: 'Though I have failed to profit by the lesson, thus much I have been taught by ZAMOR.' "

He never spoke again. He left for his generals, the slavery of Greece and the distraction of the world; to Perdiccas, a counsel by which he had not

profited himself; to Abra, a desolate existence and a broken heart. And so did he perish at Babylon, whose boyhood had sped so blithely among the hills of Macedonia.

THE EVENING.

THE last red sunbeam now is taking wing, Through life it lingered with a fond delay, And, like some hopeless victim of decay,

I see the feeble Daylight languishing

O'er the bright clouds in all their colouring— The gorgeous couch on which he faints away, Oh, there the smile left by the lord of day

Is beautiful beyond imagining!

Yon star, her taper, dim-eyed Evening shows To light her advent through the darkening blue;

And see, the noiseless Angel of repose

Comes down to earth descending with the dew.

As musings when the weary eyelids close,

So vaguely fades the landscape from the view.

AN EVENING THOUGHT.

FAR within the charmed circle,

Of a fairy-haunted grove, Where but Elfin songs are chanted,

And but Elfin footsteps move, I would ever dwell and dream Near the music of a stream, Wearing morn and night away In such quiet company!

On a starbeam's golden pavement, Wandering up the lonely sky—

Where no sound might break the silence, But dim spirits rushing by—

List'ning—from the rainbow's rim,

Angels at their evening hymn—

I would wear in sweet decay,

Year, on happy year, away!

THE STORY BOOK.

THE MOTHER ADDRESSES THE AUTHOR OF THE STORY

BOOK.

BT B. BARTOJf.

IT is no unsubstantial good to dwell

In childhood's heart, on childhood's guileless

tongue, To be the chosen, favourite oracle,

Consulted by the innocent and young: To be remembered as the light that flung

Its first fresh lustre on the unwrinkled brow; And my boy's heart may cleave, as mine has clung,

To hours which I enjoyed, yet knew not how, To him thou shall be, then, what Day* to me is now.

A being lov'd and honoured for the sake

Of past enjoyment; aye! and still possessing

When thoughts of happy infancy awake,

A charm beyond the power of words expressing.

Yes, I am not ashamed of thus confessing

O

Thomas Day, Esq., author of Sandford and Merton,one of the best of all writers for the young.

J. B.Forrest,

The debt my early childhood seems to owe; And if I had the power to invoke a blessing On them who first excited rapture's glow, 'Twould fall on Barbauld, Berquin, Bunyan, Day, Defoe!

Their works were dear to me, before I knew,

Or car'd to know, if they were owned by Fame, And after all that life has led me through,

Of pain, and pleasure, they are still the same. "Whene'er I meet them they appear to claim

Familiar greeting not to be denied; Nor should it; for so complex is the frame

On which the mind's whole store is edified, 'Twere hard for me to tell what they have not supplied.

THE INFANT.

HELPLESS thou liest, thy little waxen face Eagerly scann'd by our inquiring glances,

Hoping some lovely likeness there to trace, Which fancy finds and so thy worth enhances;

Clothing with thought mature, and power of mind,

Those infant features, yet so faintly lined.

THE FIRST SETTLERS ON THE OHIO. AN AMERICAN STORY.

BY J. G.

THE wars between the first settlers and the Indians of North America, resembled in ferocity those ancient feuds so celebrated in the early minstrelsy of Europe; fierce and cruel, they may be described as the fermentation arising from the accidental mingling of the elements of future nations.

The settlers, compared with their savage adversaries of the forest, were a tame, domestic race, and in their habits were changed from the warlike practices of their feudal ancestors in the old country; but the courage and fortitude with which they resisted the undaunted aborigines, showed how little in fact the children of civilization differ in nature from their brothers of the wood, even in those qualities of bravery and heroism which are supposed to constitute the only virtues of the Indians, and of which man is supposed to be disarmed as he improves his condition.

A few days after the festival of the new year had been celebrated at Waller, now a considerable town

in the state of Ohio, a number of young men began to assemble at break of day in front of the only tavern in the village, for the purpose of proceeding about fifteen miles through the forest to assist in bringing on the supplies which had been retarded on the road by the open weather. The season had been unusually mild, and the snow having thawed in several places, the sleighing was often interrupted, and provisions in consequence were becoming scarce in the settlement.

As the sun rose, some of the older inhabitants thought that the lowering aspect of the skies prognosticated a storm. The young men however disregarded their bod ings, for they were intent not only to perform a public duty but to enjoy a frolic; they were however induced by the exhortations of their friends to take their blankets and axes lest they should be benighted. Being thus equipped, they set forth in high spirits, and about noon arrived where the teams with the supplies awaited assistance.

Hitherto the storm had only threatened; the mist hung in flakes among the topmost branches of the trees; and the travellers, careless of the signs, prolonged their stay at the rendezvous more than prudence would otherwise have warranted. It was long past mid-day before they thought of returning home; at last they resumed their way, each lessening

the wagon loads by taking a package on his back.

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They had advanced some distance without observing any material change in the weather; but soon after, the woods became more gloomy, giving them reason to apprehend that the fears of their friends in the morning had not been groundless; but still they entertained hopes of being able to reach Waller before the storm would burst.

Presently small flakes of snow began to fall, which, as the wind blew sharply in their faces, were exceedingly annoying; these, together with the blast, increased until the travellers were frequently obliged to turn their backs to avoid the cruel gusts-which swept fiercer and fiercer past them.

When the party were about half-way, and the twilight began to darken, some of them proposed that they should begin to erect their shanty or shed; but it was not till several complained of fatigue, and it became evident that Waller could not be reached without hazard, that this advice was listened to. To separate was dangerous, for the surrounding.forest was infested with wolves, which frequently howled around them, and two were seen crossing their track a short distance in front, and which turned and looked back, uttering a long and melancholy cry, as if grieved to see the band of travellers so numerous.

The snowy wind was still rising, and no fit place for their shanty could be discovered, when one of the party, looking round, said that having been out hunt-

ing in the preceding fall, he had observed a situation well adapted for the purpose; and which he was sure could not then be far oft'. Under his guidance, they accordingly left the supplies, and went a little way into another part of the forest.

While they had been thus consulting, the howling of the wolves had ceased towards the left hand, but was louder and more frequent in the other direction; and, as the settlers were hastening forward, they were startled by the report of a gun. Nothing afraid on their own account, they pushed on to see if they could assist its possessor, who, they concluded, was, at that advanced hour of the evening, most likely in great danger. In the course of a few minutes they perceived a man with his back again a tree defending himself with the butt end of his gun, against several wolves which were furiously attacking him.

The animals, on the approach of the adventurers, immediately fled; for the American wolves are naturally timid, and never attack man except when pressed by hunger.

The stranger whom they had thus relieved from jeopardy expressed his gratitude for their timely assistance; and the leader of the party heartily invited .him to accompany them, for the night was darkening fast.- Soon after, they arrived at a spot where the trees appeared to form an amphitheatre. Here they cleared a space sufficient .for their accommoda-

tion, and proceeded to remove the snow; and, having felled several saplings that grew near, they sharpened their ends and fastened them at equal distances between the trees; filled up the space with boughs and branches, with which they also covered the roof. They then kindled a fire, and prepared to pass the night as comfortably as possible, though the tempest was roaring in the forest with a noise like the falls of Niagara. It was at this time, as they were sitting on the ground round the fire, that the stranger, on being solicited, thus began to relate his adventures.

" I am the son," said he, " of George May, one of the first settlers who emigrated into this part of the country. Having penetrated farther west than had previously been done, he fixed his location in the vast and lonely district of Carevv, a little east of the Ohio, nearly opposite to where the fierce tribe of the Shawnee Taws have a village, but of whom little fears were entertained, as that wide and deep river flowed between. We sometimes had, however, skirmishes with hunting parties who crossed the Ohio, but whom we always defeated, as they had no fire-arms. Thus several years passed on, and the woods around \vere gradually becoming cleared and peopled, but not to such a degree as to restrain our savage neighbours from making incursions, which retarded the progress of the settlement.

" My mother had been dead several years, having

left my father without any one to assist him in bringing up my elder brother and myself, who were then very young. Perhaps it is to that cause, I should ascribe our wild and woodland habits: for, even when mere children, we often wandered heedless into the forest, and acquired familiarity with the boldest creatures that range in unmolested liberty amidst its unfrequented and solitary labyrinths.

" One day, after we had nearly reached manhood, my brother, who had been out hunting, returned in the evening with a wounded settler, belonging to a farm—the nearest—about twelve miles off; and when we had dressed his wounds and given him some re-freshment, he requested to see our father.

"' I asked your sons,' said he to the old man, ' to bring you to me,—for I grow faint, and I fear my life is fast ebbing—in order to warn you of your danger. The Indians yesterday made an attack, in great numbers, on our settlement, and after much resistance succeeded in overpowering us: what has become of my friends I know not, for on these savages rushing into the house, I received a blow on the head which sent we stunned among the bushes, where I lay some time senseless, and on recovering saw only smoking ashes where our dwelling had been. Maimed and helpless, as you see, I then endeavoured to crawl here, shuddering with apprehension, lest our remorseless enemies might be with you before me.'

" ' What numbers do the Indians amount to?'

'" Between thirty and forty.'

'"There are only eight men,' said my father, looking anxiously, ' in this settlement, besides these two lads and myself. But still we must prepare to defend ourselves.'

" So saying, the old man left us, to give the necessary directions, which when we had completed, all being still quiet, he returned to us again, hoping that no assault would be attempted that night. Nevertheless, when we proposed to retire, he stationed a sentinel at a short distance from the house; a wise precaution, for in less than two hours afterwards we were all roused by the report of the sentinel's musket, and having armed ourselves, inquired why he had given the alarm. His answer was appalling; he had seen two Tndians, by the glimpse of the moonlight, skulking among the trees near the house, and had fired at them.

" Upon hearing this, my father said, it might be as well if we all watched the remainder of the night.

O

Nothing was, however, seen for a long time; and some were beginning to think the sentinel had been mistaken, when another, pointing out a clump of bushes, said softly, that he could perceive several Indians gliding behind it, and asked permission to shoot in that direction, which being granted, he fired; and, to our consternation, a loud war whoop, to-

gether with shrieks arose, and a band of the savages discharging their arrows, quickly advanced.

" My father having told us to reserve our fire till he gave the signal, our assailants came rather close; but when the command was given, a sharp and well-directed shower of shot was poured upon them. Still they continued their attack, until having gained a small eminence, they fired again, but with more deadly aim, for two of our party fell fatally wounded. By this time we had reloaded, and eager to revenge our comrades, returned the fire with such effect, that it sent the Indians yelling back to the woods.

" Having seen enough of their numbers to know, that if the man had not exaggerated, there must be several yet concealed in the woods; we hoped the repulse they had received would deter them from making another assault, till we should have time to send for assistance. The difficulty was, however, to find messengers, for the bush was filled with our enemies, and for some time, no one volunteered to go.

" My father, therefore, called us all together, to consult what might next be done; and my brother and myself seeing the necessity of immediate succour, offered to undertake the adventure, to which, after some hesitation, the old man agreed. Taking up our "arms, we left the house, and proceeded slowly through the underwood to the primeval forest

at the back of it, and by making a circuit, gained the path; but as we proceeded, we found every place devastated, and saw that we would have to go so far before we could arrive at any farm which could afford assistance, that most likely our aid would come too late; we therefore resolved to return home.

" The sun was in the meridian; we had been absent many hours, and were so fatigued by our previous watching, that rest was necessary, before we could again be able to make much speed; but we persevered, and, having returned to our own clearing, and hearing no noise, we imagined that the Indians had retreated. How great was our grief and astonishment at seeing our home destroyed, and all silence and ashes! We still, however, went forward, with a wild hope, to discover how it had happened.

" While looking at the wreck of our habitation, our attention was attracted by a loud groan, which proceeded from one of the settlers, whom we then discovered wounded among the bushes. On approaching him, he eagerly begged for a little water, which, when he had received, partly restored him, and enabled him to tell us what had happened in our absence.

"' Soon after you left,' said he, ' we saw the Indians appearing at the skirt of the forest, and in greater numbers than before. Your father then re-

gretted your absence, as in the approaching conflict we would be deprived of your aid; but he still endeavoured to keep up our courage by cheering us with the hopes of your return with succour.

"'The Indians, having gathered themselves together, advanced, but with more caution than before. By keeping up a continual discharge of our fire-arms, we for some time checked them; when seeing the danger of remaining in a body, they separated, and rendered our shot less effective. Your father then ordered us to suspend firing, till they came nearer, or had again united, which unfortunately allowed them to advance till we were within reach of their arrows, which they then began to shower upon us: under cover of them, a party came almost to the very house. We had, therefore, reason to fear that if you did not soon return, we should be overcome— our extremity became desperate. We were obliged to screen ourselves in every possible manner from our enemies, or to rush forth and endeavour to drive them back. The latter alternative was adopted. We sprung out, and attacked them furiously with the butt ends of our guns; but they baffled us by their agility and superior numbers, and after a desperate fight, compelled us to retreat. In returning, I was wounded by an arrow; and the confusion prevented me from being carried off into the house, where my companions sought shelter—I thus be-8

came a passive, helpless spectator. Some of the Indians rushed into the house, and their companions poured in upon our friends, who had taken refuge there, from incessant flights of arrows, both by doors and windows. At last the house was involved in flames, and the refugees throwing open the back door, fled towards the forest, and might have escaped, had not another herd of the savages sprung up before them, and intercepted their flight.

" ' The Indians having thus surrounded their prey, continued to discharge their bows from a distance, which our friends from time to time retaliated with their fire-arms, till they were one after another struck down. Your father alone remained, and seeing no alternative, ran towards the chief, and shot him dead. The Indians seeing their chief fall, uttered a howl of rage, and rushing upon the old man, seized him in their fury, and threw him headlong into the flames, without having, according to their custom, taken his scalp. They immediately, however, scalped our companions, and then taking up the body of their chief, retired into the woods, with loud and mournful cries.'

" This recital exhausted the strength of our only remaining friend; and he soon after expired.

" My brother and myself, overwhelmed with sorrow, our home destroyed, our friends slain, and the dreadful doom of our father engraved as it were with

wounds on our hearts, resolved to quit that fatal spot. After wandering about several days, subsisting on what we could procure by our guns—one afternoon, when the weather was oppressive and sultry, we were surprised at hearing a low moaning among the branches; and at the same time, we observed several deer trotting past among the underwood. We separated to intercept them; but scarcely had I lost sight of my brother, when a terrific blast of wind swept through the forest, and uprooted all the trees that were within the scope of its rage. Alarmed at this appalling phenomenon, the nature of which I had often heard described, under the name of a windfall, I ran as fast as possible against the blast, until the tremendous sound of the falling trees was left far behind me. When I had recovered from the panic, I endeavoured to return to the spot where I had separated from my brother, at the same time calling on him aloud by name; but the windfall had so materially changed the appearance of the woods, that, after seeking for the place where we parted a long time, I was obliged to give up the search.

"I spent the night among the fallen trees, and next morning renewed my search, but in vain. I then laid myself down, and implored heaven to terminate my solitary misery. After some time, I was roused from that desolation of mind, by the voices of several persons talking in an unknown language; and

on looking up, saw they were Indians, but not of the Shawnee Taws. One of them noticed me, and, approaching, inquired in broken English how I had come there; and I informed him of my misfortunes. On hearing my story, he said, that his tribe were then engaged in an hostile expedition against that fierce horde, and invited me to join his party. The proposal had in it the sweetness of comfort—for in my own forlorn condition, it afforded me a refuge from my own sad thoughts, and the chance of revenging my father's death. I accordingly started up from the ground; and, with my rifle, joined the Indians.

" When we reached the banks of the river, we were delayed some time in forming canoes; but on the following afternoon we crossed, and entered the land of our enemies. Hiding our canoes among the weeds of the banks, we then stole, in the twilight, towards their village, situated near the junction of the Wabash and the Ohio. It was dark when we approached it; but by the numerous fires we saw they were in considerable numbers. Some of our party were for an immediate attack; but the proposal was overruled by the advice of an old man, who represented to us that it would be a more advantageous time when the fires were faded, as then our adversaries would have gone to sleep for the night, and be more defenceless. We accordingly lay down

on the ground; and, when at last we saw the fires declining, rose and advanced.

"Although taken by surprise, our enemies resisted us with great bravery, and by their superior numbers repelled us from the field. The darkness, however, of the night, in the woods, favoured our retreat: and we reached the canoes, where every one embarked as quickly as possible. Not so well accustomed to the woods as my companions, I happened to be the farthest behind; and before I reached the spot of embarkation, the canoes had all pushed off from the shore. I had no alternative but to leave my arms on the bank and plunge into the river, calling aloud to be taken up, but this durst not be attempted with the crank canoes in the dark, and I was obliged to swim across, one of the Indians holding me by the skirts of my jacket.

"The Shawnee Taws having no canoes at that place, and unable to follow us, soon returned to their village; and next morning by break of day, I returned across the river for my arms. On joining the Indians again, they received me with many tokens of kindness; and as I had then no other object in life to which I was attached, I entreated them to let me be of their party. To this they readily acceded, and with them I had remained several years, when the desire returned strong upon me to see the face of civilization again; and it was in coming back to the

8*

settlements, that I was attacked by the wolves which, but for your timely assistance, would soon have mastered me."

The young men, who were deeply affected by the tale of his adventures and sufferings, took him with them next morning to Waller. But his habits, by his Indian life, had become wild and roving, and, as soon as the spring opened, he strayed away again into the woods by himself, and they heard of him no more.

THE SEA.

ONCE more, thou darkly rolling main, I bid thy lonely strength adieu;

And sorrowing leave thee once again, Familiar long, yet ever new!

And while, thou changeless, boundless sea,

I leave thy solitary shore, I sigh to turn away from thee,

And think I ne'er may greet thee more.

Thy many voices, which are one,

The varying garbs that robe thy might,

Thy dazzling hues at set of sun, Thy deeper loveliness by night:

The shades that flit with every breeze

Along thy hoar and aged brow, What hath the universe like these,

Or what so strong, so fair as thou?

And when yon radiant friend of earth Has bridged the waters with her rays,

Pure as those beams of heavenly birth, That round a seraph's footsteps blaze:

While lightest clouds at time o'ercast

The splendour gushing from the spheres,

Like softening thought of sorrow past That fill the eyes of joy with tears:

The soul, methinks, in hours like these, Might pant to flee its earthly doom,

And, freed from dust, to mount the breeze, An eagle soaring from a tomb:

Or, mixed in stainless air, to roam

Where'er thy billows know the wind—

To make all climes my spirit's home, And leave the woes of all behind:

Or, wandering into worlds that burn Like lamps of hope to human eyes,

Wake 'mid delights we now but dream, And breathe the rapture of the skies.

But vain the thoughts—my feet are bound To this dim planet—clay to clay—

Condemned to tread one thorny round, And chained with links that ne'er decay,

Yet while thy ceaseless current flows, Thou mighty main! and shrinks again,

Methinks thy rolling floods disclose A refuge safe, at least, from men.

Within thy gently heaving breast

That hides no passions dark and wild,

My weary soul might sink to rest, As in its mother's arms a child.

Forget the world's eternal jars

In murmurous caverns cool and dim,

And long o'ertoiled with angry wars, Hear but thy billows' distant hymn.

UNAMBITIOUS LOVE.

" Do I not feel a burning glow

Steal o'er my cheek when he appears? Do not his parting words bestow

A secret pang too deep for tears? Have not the dreams, which Love endears,

Each calmer joy and hope removed?"— Oh! no;—my griefs, my doubts, my fears,

Alone have vanished since I loved,— Since, like the dove of peace, content Was to my troubled bosom sent.

He leaves me, yet I weep not;—no!

I court no cause for fruitless pain; True as the light of day, I know

That he will come to me again. And months may pass,—nay years,—in vain,

Before our bridal torch shall burn; And would you have me still complain,

And mar with tears his loved return? Nay! dearest, nay!—calm, patient love, Nor grief should tire, nor absence move.

Mark you beneath yon hill's gray brow

A fringe of ancient elms? 'Tis there He dwells. And when I gaze, as now,

I gather from the summer air Tidings of him, and promise fair

Of days when that dear home will hold Each breathing thing that moves my care

In one secure and sacred fold! Say, then,—should wayward melancholy Mingle with hopes so sweet, so holy?

I know, that from the hour I kneel

Before the altar, never more The world's gay splendours will reveal

For me the charm which once they wore. No glittering garb must mantle o'er

My wedded heart,—no pearly string, No garland round my brows, restore

The faded treasures of the spring; He boasts that woman's loveliness Shows fairest in its matron dress.

What then?—the crowd, the wreathing dance, The mimic scene, the festal song

Denied,—joy dwells in lonelier haunts, And shuns, like him, the prating throng.

And still, our native vales among,

Together we shall range the woods, And in sweet fancy commune long

With mountains vast and foaming floods; Finding, while hand in hand we go, A brighter Eden spread below.

You mock my homely joys?—smile on!

I cannot dream beneath the skies A brighter scene,—a happier one,—

Than the dear home which you despise. And think, what sweeter hopes will rise

When children hang around my knee, And tears spring up into his eyes

As he enfolds his babes and me In one long, close embrace,—that blends The love of " country, home and friends."

Together, through our infant bloom,

Through life's meridian lustre, thrown,— Through age's lingering years of gloom,

May neither cling to earth, alone! His kin are kindred to my own,

His joys below, his hopes of heaven, Are mine;—and when to mercy's throne

We kneel, in trust to be forgiven, May the Almighty Judge decree For us one bright eternity!

GREEK FUGITIVES.

BY MISS MARION H. HAND.

WAS it for this, beloved one, I bore thee from afar,

To shine upon my loneliness, My light, my morning star?

To cheer me for a little while, And with the bliss thus given,

To make this weary, weary earth, Almost too much like Heaven.

And must our morning's cheering light So soon be quenched in gloom;

Must I then leave thee, Anasta, And leave thee for the tomb?

Is it for this that thou hast left

A doting father's side, To share the many toils that wait

Upon a patriot's bride?

The children thou hast given me Are twin'd around my heart;

But e'en those life-stiings must be rent, For they and I must part.

Alas! where are the dreams of life So long, so fondly cherished—

Lost in the clang of war and strife, Their brightest hues have perished.

But God hath looked upon our woes,

And looketh not in vain; His vengeance will o'ertake our foes

Ere many moons shall wane.

Then shrink not, fear not, Anasta,

Bear up, when I am gone, And let the spirit of his sire

Descend upon my son.

Teach him his country's bitter wrongs,

And bid him seek the foe, In their dark blood wash out the stain

Of this most dastard blow.

I fear not for thce, Anasta,

Thy courage will not fail, For thou hast witnessed fearful scenes,

Nor has thy cheek turned pale.

Now lay me gently down to rest, And watch me still, mine own:

Oh! God, I thank thee that I die

Not friendless or alone. 9

RED EACH AN THE HUNTER.

A LEGEXD OF GLF.NCOE.

IT is some years since, in the progress of a tour through part of the Western Highlands of Scotland, which I made in company with a friend, we visited the singularly romantic and well-known valley of Glencoe, and were forced to take shelter from a very threatening night, in the comfortless and miserable inn, at the head of that glen.

The night fulfilled its threats to the uttermost, being howling and tempestuous; but, as if the ill-humour of the weather had exhausted itself in blustering, the following morning was fine, and the sun, rising in a bright and cloudless sky, made even the black and rugged hills around us smile under the cheering influence of his beams.—It was a lovely and a smiling season; and, desirous to take advantage of it, not only to explore the picturesque and savage beauties of the glen, but to examine the localities and trace the scenes of that bloody national tragedy of which it had been once made the theatre, I made known my wishes to the landlord of our lowly hos-pitium, and besought him to supply us with a guide, qualified to point out the places which have been so fearfully signalized.

Mine host, a sheep farmer as well as an innkeeper to his trade, had already assumed his gray checkered plaid, and with a stout oaken plant in his hand, was about to stalk off to one of the adjacent hills, upon some matter connected with the sheep-shearing, when this application was made. Casting a somewhat impatient glance upon us, from a keen gray eye, deep-set among a thousand wrinkles, he regretted, in good English, though in Highland accent, " that all his laads were off to the hill, and that not one of them was nearer than three miles, even if they could be spared from the sheep; as for himself, he was for the big Bochall, at the top of Glen Etive, and wud na be back till night; the wife and the bit lassie was a 1 that would be left in the house.—But the gentlemen needna be at a loss: there was old Allisler Dhu,—they would find him at his little bothy, no four miles down the glen—or close by it surely—he was the only man to show the glen— proud was Allister of every gray stone and black rock in it—and as for stories about them, he had more than all the Sheanachies in the country—when he was in the humour."

This last was a species of reservation which needed to be explained; and the landlord, who evidently wished to get rid of the detention we were occasioning to him, merely said that old Allister was at times something crabbed, and when he took a

notion in his head that the gentlefolks were laughing at him, he would grow sulky and silent, and maybe turn his back and be off from them altogether. This was a conclusion which we resolved to avoid, by treating the old Highlander with due respect, and I had private hopes of mollifying the acerbities of his temper in which I trusted mightily; so, although we might have preferred a secure guide from the inn, and could not avoid looking a little blank upon our host when he intimated the impossibility of supplying us, we became reconciled to our disappointment, and with curiosity somewhat excited by this account of old Allister, we mounted our Highland ponies, and proceeded down the glen, according to the directions we had received.

The day kept up as days seldom do in the proverbially moist climate of the West Highlands; and although clouds did occasionally curl round the rugged brows of the sharp and lofty crags on either side, and throw a darker shade over the narrow and naturally gloomy valley, the breeze was always sufficient to dispel them ere they broke in rain; and they served but to vary the splendid mountain scenery, by the magical effect of their flilting shadows, without making us pay for our pleasure by a drenching.

The four miles of our friend, mine host, proved somewhat of the longest, as Highland miles seldom fail to do; for it took us an hour's smart riding to

bring us to the habitation of our proposed guide. The stream, collected from the peat bogs and moss cracks, in the moor, at the head of the glen, and swelled by numerous rills oozing from the surrounding mountains, had worn a deep channel in the bottom of the valley, in some places tumbling and brawling amongst huge gray fragments of granite, in a very narrow space, in others spreading out into a broader bed as the receding banks afforded space. In one of these more open spots, where the belter soil of a little basin had encouraged the growth of a turf as green as emerald, and as smooth as velvet, was situated the dwelling of Allister Dim.

It was a black hut, constructed entirely of turf, or divots, as they are called in the Highlands, cut with the heather growing on them, and built into a wall, and but for the thin stream of blue smoke which found its way to upper air through a hole in the roof, it might have been mistaken for one of the moss-bags, or tufts of black earth, so abundantly scattered over the surrounding moors. A steep mountain brae, sprinkled with gray crags mingled with moss and fern rose behind it to the foot of a frowning and overhanging precipice, from the brow of which the fragments that speckled its side had originally fallen; and before and around it sloped the green turf of which we have spoken, to the verge of the moss-brown bounding stream.

9*

We had no difficulty in finding the object of our search in this lonely wilderness; for, carelessly thrown at length upon the green carpet before the hut, lay a figure which perfectly corresponded with the description we had received of old Allister Dhu. He was a man whose wrinkled countenance might have justified the belief that it bore the furrows of seventy winters, although the ruddy and healthy hue of his brown cheek, the glance of his keen gray eye, and the elastic spring of his gait, seemed to forbid the conclusion. His frame, though it rose not above the middle size, was square and still athletic, exhibiting strong marks of the fine proportions which it must have borne in youth. The national garment, a phelebeg of dark tartan, served to display his sinewy knees and well-shaped legs, which were but partially covered with short gray worsted hose.' His jacket was of coarse and faded blue cloth; a shepherd's plaid of the dark gray check, which has now in great measure superseded the more showy tartans as a serviceable covering, was loosely cast across his breast and shoulders; and his head was covered by a broad blue bonnet, from under which his silver hair streamed clown upon either shoulder. He was quite alone: indeed, the only living things beside himself which animated the wild landscape, were a huge shepherd's dog, which lay at its master's feet with his head couched between its fore paws, and a few

goats which were browsing among the crags above

him.

A growl from the dog, ending in a loud bark, announced to its master the appearance of the strangers; and the old man, looking up, raised himself deliberately, and fixed upon us a keen glance of inquiry as we approached. "Failt 'herry!" said he, doffing his bonnet, and bowing with no undignified action, as we saluted him, " What is your will?"—" Good day to you, my friend," replied I, "but if you mean that we should understand one another, you must talk to us in English, which I am told you can do well." " Och! no just that—a little—a little," replied Allister; adding inquiringly, " The gentlemen will be English, then, no doubt?"—" No, not exactly so neither, Allister," said I. "Scotchmen— ay, and Highlanders—born are we, although not fortunate enough to speak our native language." " Ochone, and that's a pity," said the old man with awakening interest: "and ye're from the Hielands then?—and o' what clan will ye be, sir?" I satisfied him in this particular, and intimated our wish that he would give us his services as guide in our exploratory ride down the glen. " In troth will I, sir," replied he, with alacrity; " and may be there's no many leeving now that can tell ye as muckle about the place as old Allister Dhu Macdonald— good reason sure enough has he to ken about it.—

100 RED EACHAN THE HUNTER.

And ye're a * * * then?—a good name and a brave clan—they were out wi' him in the forty-five—ou! \veel do I ken the * *'s, every family of them, and every foot o' their country.—And what part will ye be from, sir, if ye please?" persisted the old man after a pause, during which, he seemed to expect further information regarding myself—"Are ye o' * * or * * ? " mentioning by name several families, which, one after another, I was forced to disclaim, until at last, after having amused myself with his curiosity, I told him the designation of my family. He started at the name. " The Lord be here! sir— the Lord be here!—and are ye young * * *. Ochone! weel did I ken your worthy father when he was in the * *d, for I was awhile wi' them mysel—and a pretty man he was—Ye'll no be so tall as him, sir,— but its no many ye'll see like * *,—the Lord bless his father's son!"

This accidental recognition of my name and parentage was very favourable to our objects;—the old man quickly girt his plaid about him, drew close the rude screen of boards, which did duty as a door in the orifice by which access was gained to the bothy; and, giving some orders in Gaelic to his dog, which sent the animal towards the goats upon the hills, probably as a guard upon duty until his return, he announced himself ready to attend us.

I explained to old Allister that one of my principal

objects in visiting the Glen, was Jo view with my own eyes the scene of that infamous massacre, which, to the eternal disgrace of the government of that day, had been perpetrated there in 1692. " In troth, then," replied he, " your honour could scarcely have hit upon one better able to content you on these particulars than the ould man that speaks to you—a good right has he to know them, as you shall by-and-bye understand." And accordingly, not a rock, a corry, nor a ravine occurred during our ride, which was not the subject of some remark or traditionary tale.

A sharp descent brought us to a lower level of the glen, which opened out so far as to admit of a small lake, closely circled in by dark and precipitous mountains. "There," observed Allister, pointing to a cottage of late construction,—"-there is Au-chintriaton—the highest spot in the glen where blood was shed upon that fearful day—little thanks to them that plotted the mischief. The laird of Au-chintriaton was of near kin to Mackian himself— little chance was there of his being spared. But it was na here that he met his doom—ye'll see, ye'll hear all about it yet. Come away, we'll go a bit further Jown the glen yet."

A succession of the most savage, yet picturesque scenery now greeted our regards, and the glen gradually expanded, until at length another lesser valley

102 RED EACHAN THE HUNTER.

opened upon our left, sending down several streamlets to swell the torrent which had accompanied us from the lake.—" See," said our guide, pointing to several houses and huts that were visible in the small valley—" yonder is the bloody bit—yon is Inneriffo-in—and there is Auohnaghon—it was there

O O o

that more than thirty brave Macdonalds, with women and children and all, were shot like wild beasts by the cowardly red-coats in these very touns—but oh, they were blithe touns then, and many a braw lad and bonny lass was there—in these very touns, sir, did the cruel soldiers and their false-hearted commanders, after living among them like friends,— eating of their bread and drinking of their cup, and pledging their hand in token of peace and friendship, —rise in the night, like traitors and butchers as they were, upon their unsuspecting hosts, and slew, while they slept, the men whom they dared not attack in the open face of day!—It was a foul, devilish work, your honour, as no doubt those who planned it and performed it have found out by this time—for the eye of the Lord was upon them, and his justice neither slumbers nor fails. I have been a soldier, sir, myself—but, thank God, I never heard of nor saw such duty put upon brave men—and the officers I have served with, your honour, would have flung their commissions wi' the orders at the head of any man who would have proposed it. Could any living

creature believe, sir, that so much cold-blooded treachery could be in the heart of man, as to make him smile and natter the very men whose blood he Avas going to spill; when, after doing all in their power to welcome him, but alarmed at the preparations they saw, they threw themselves upon his honour, and received his solemn assurances that they were safe—that no ill was intended them—yet thus did the false and cruel Campbell of Glenlyon even to his own kindred!—'What are ye frighted for,' said he to John, the eldest son of Mackian, who asked of him the reason why the soldiers were mustering so strong in the glen and preparing their arms as if for service—' It's only some of these wild Glengarry men that want a dressing—if any thing was brewing against you or yours, think ye I would not have told your brother Sandy and my niece?'—for ye'll understand Allister Macdonald, Glencoe's second son, was married to Glenlyon's niece—and yet did that very Glenlyon not only despatch the two Lindsays and their men against Allister and his worthy father, but with his own lips gave orders for the soldiers to shoot his own host, the good Laird of Inneriggin with nine others of his family—ay, and stood by to see his orders executed. Even the poor boy, Ea-clian Beg, who ran and got hold of his knees for protection against the bloody butchers, did he shake off at the word of the hard-hearted Drummond, and

104 RED EACHAN THE HUNTER.

cast upon the bayonets of the soldiers—but the Lord will repay him!"

" It was in truth a most bloody and infernal transaction," replied I, with an emphasis that was echoed from my very heart—" and so wholly unprovoked too—for I have heard that the clan was quiet, living at peace with all men when the storm burst upon them."

"Ay, your honour, that they were," said the old guide. " They had all seen that it was useless to kick against the pricks, and needed no more to keep them quiet for that time at least. Mackian had taken the oath to government, sir; and Inneriggin had Colonel Hill's protection in his pocket at the very time he was killed—no wonder they little suspected what was coining."

"And yet," said I, " it seems almost unaccountable that the mustering of troops and other preparations should not have roused them to some suspi-

cion.'

" Who would have thought of suspecting the king's government,—ay, or the Highland troops in its pay, of such villanous treachery?" said the guide in reply.—"And yet some among them were not so entirely blind. I told your honour how John Mackian took occasion to question Glenlyon about his intentions. Before that, he met their soldiers on their way from Inverlochy, as they entered Glencoe,

and put the same questions to Lieutenant Lindsay, who, showing him Colonel Hill's orders for the men to quarter in Mackian's country, assured him that no harm was intended. Accordingly they were received with hospitality and entertained with all possible kindness. I'm thinking, too, that old Au-chintriaton was not without his doubts; for even on the very night of the slaughter, he and his brother, with seven or eight or more, sat up watching at Auchnaghon. Little good did his watching do. In the morning, when the bloody villains stole like thieves to the house, and poured in eighteen or twenty shot upon them through the windows and door, as they sat or lay around the fire, Auchintriaton was killed outright with four others; the rest were all more or less wounded, although some of them, by a providential chance, escaped. And, if your honour is na wearied of my talking already, I might tell ye the tale, although it's a strange one—weel may I ken it, for often have I heard it from them who kenned all about it; and it's an old story now, though I'm something concerned in it mysel."—It may easily be conceived that I was quite disposed to indulge the old man's garrulity, and my complaisance was rewarded with the following recital, which, in part at least, is given nearly in the words of Allister Dhu himself.

Each an Ruah Challaher (or Red Hector the Hunter) was foster brother to one of the sons cf 10

106 RED EACHAN THE HUNTER.

Machian of Glencoe, and, according to the customs of the Highlands, lived much more in the laird's family than that of his own parents. Eachan was a clean-limbed handsome young fellow, remarkable for his uncommon activity, quick eye, steady head, and firm foot; which, together with his invincible good-humour and manly spirit, made him a universal favourite. The young Mackians in particular, who were themselves fond of the chase and all mountain sports, would never be easy without one who was so able an assistant in their favourite pastimes. In truth Euchan did little else than attend them upon such parties, and furnish the laird's table with fish and game.

In such pursuits, which led him over most of the surrounding country, young Eachan formed an intimacy with a family, which occupied a remote dwelling in Glen-Leven, and with whom, after a weary day's stalking in the wild hills of the Black Mount, or the JMuir of Rannock, which in those days abounded in red deer and game of all sorts, he •would often find a welcome, with food and shelter for the night. In the course of time his friends and companions began to remark how frequently his steps were turned towards these muirs, and how often he found a resting-place in the bothy of Ian Bochal. That some object more attractive than even the bounding stags and hinds of the Black Mount

occasioned his partiality for this beat, became soon the opinion of every gossiping neighbour, and it was remembered that old Ian the herdsman had a daughter, Isobel (Gaelice, Ishpal), whose dark eyes and raven locks might very naturally have fixed the regards and fascinated the heart of the Red Hunter.

In truth the matter soon became notorious; for it was discovered that old Ian had absolutely signified his consent to resign his black-eyed daughter, with the few beasts which were to form her portion, together with certain household stores, such as sheets and blankets, held to be convenient, if not absolutely necessary, in these primitive days, to the setting up of a young couple, so soon as the Laird of Glencoe should intimate what it might be his pleasure to do for the foster-brother and favourite of his son. Thus Ea-chan became an almost constant indweller of the black bothy which was the home of his mistress and her father, although duty to the chief and his sons occasioned his being very frequently during the brief daylight of the season, in the several touns of Glencoe.

It was well on in February, 1692; and the ferment occasioned by the ill-starred movements in favour of the exiled royal family had in great degree subsided. Most of the Jacobite clans had given up all hope of success, and returned to a reluctant acknowledgment of and obedience to the reigning family, in order to save life and property. But, still, as has been hinted

at above, there remained upon the one hand a jealous suspicion, on the other an anxious alarm and concealed dissatisfaction, which kept the minds of men painfully upon the watch; nor was this irritable state at all lessened by the increase of an armed force, which suddenly made its appearance in the lower part of the Glen.

These troops, as has been already remarked, being received as friends, upon the solemn word of their officers that their coming was in peace, neither meditating nor intending injury to any of the inhabitants, were distributed in small parties in the various dwellings of the clan, in a manner altogether suitable for the murderous part they were destined to act; while their hosts, trusting in these hollow assurances, exerted themselves to greet them with such welcome ( as their means permitted.

Such being the state of affairs, young Eachan, who, from his erratic habits of life, was in the way of hearing every current report, pacific or alarming, divided his presence and his cares between the house of his mistress and the family of his chief; passing from Kinlochleven to Glencoe, or Auchnaghon, as circumstances prompted, and frequently visiting all those places in the course of the same short-lived winter day.

It was upon the afternoon of February 12th, 1G92, that Eachan came to the bothy of Ian Bochal, and

RED EACHAN THE HUNTER. 109

with some agitation informed the old man that he had seen one from Ballichulish, who repqrted^certain movements of the troops there and at Inverlochy, of a suspicious if not an alarming description—" Ye'll better look out for yourself," added he; " and ye had as good drive the cattle up the glen out of sight the night; and, Isobel dear, be ready for a start yourself. As for me, I must be off to the laird, and give him a word of warning;—but I'll be back here, please God, before this time to-morrow; and there's little chance of ill before that time, any way."

The dark eyes of Tsobel bent upon the young man half-mournfully, half-reproachfully, as he spoke, and her lips severed as if she would have addressed him; when at that moment, a black shaggy sheep-dog, which lay basking before the peat-embers on the hearth, raised its head and uttered a loud wailing howl. All eyes were turned upon the animal— Isobel started, and her father, running to the door, cast an anxious look around. " Oh, go not to Glen-coe the-night," said the girl, turning earnestly towards him when they were alone—"don't leave us at such a time, Eachan! See, the night will close in before you're half over the hill, and a wild road is that, even by daylight—see, Shulach won't have you to move."—"Hout, lass, what would keep me?" replied Eachan; "• before the light's done I'll be cross the water, and Auchnaghon is no that far off."—

110 RED EACHAN THE HUNTER.

" What ails thee, Shulach?" said the father, now returning from his espial, and addressing the dog which was so named—" what ails you, poor beoch!—deil a creature is near." The only reply of the animal was another long dismal howl, with a glance at the door-way, and a look at Eachan. " The bitch smells a fox or some vermin," said Eachan; " and she wants me to go after it with her."—" Na, na," replied the father, " that's no the yelp Shulach would give if game or vermin were in the wind— the creature's so canny—she smells mischief, and it's for us to guard against it."—" Oh, Eachan! my father says true," said Isobel, imploringly—" there is mischief about to happen, as sure as ye're before us—oh, let Glencoe and. Mackian alone the night— there's plenty o' them to keep themselves—dinna leave the bothy at this lime o' day."—" What! lass," said the father somewhat sternly—" would ye tempt the lad to forsake his chief at need, and leave his own foster-brother in danger? Na, na! he'll no hear such counsel from old Ian Bochal. Off with you, young man—God speed and bless you—let me alone to take care o' the beasts, and no fear of ourselves."

" I'll no say, sir," continued the old guide, " that there was not a weight upon Eachan's heart, as he took a kiss, and a look at Isobel, and turned to leave the bothy: and scarcely had he passed the threshold,

when Shulach, suddenly rising from her lair, darted before him, and began to howl and to bark more wildly than ever, still crossing and recrossing his path, and seeking, as ye might think, to stop his progress—'Down, Shulach! down, ye fool!' cried he, trying to caress the beast as it bounded past— but it still kept away out of reach, continuing its strange eldrich antics. ' Hear me, Eachan,' at length said Isobel—' It's a true word my father spoke when he said that beast's no canny. Shulach's no like other dogs—mind how often she has led us, by her yelping and tugging, to the beast that has fallen into a peat crack—and was na it she that took my father last winter to the place where old Callum was lying half dead in the drift? Let the beast go wi' you, Eachan—she canna' do you ill, and I'll be easier for it in my mind—for, ochone!—I wish there may na be some evil about to befal us!'—And in truth, sir, the creature would na be forbidden; and, when at last he turned away with a determined step, and whistled her to him,- the beast lap and jumped about him, as if it had been contented to follow since she could not keep him from going on his ill-fated journey.

" Well, sir—away went Eachan. The evening turned out a wild one, and it got so dark with rain, and drift, and snow, that before the night set in, it needed all his skill and stoutness of heart to make

112 RED EACHAN THE HUNTER.

his way to Mackian's dwelling. There he told his story, but the good laird would na believe that any ill could be meant after the plighted words of Glen-lyon and of Lindsay; and he set down all the stir among the soldiers to the score of the Glengarry and Keppoch men. He wanted Eachan to stay the night in the place, but he was keen to be with his foster-brother at Auchnaghon, and off he set straight for the house.

"It seems that the people of Auchnaghon and of Inneriggin had as little thought of danger as the Laird of Glencoe himself, for they all went to their beds as usual, except old Auchintriaton, who, no doubt, alarmed by Eachan's tidings, which, maybe, strengthened his own suspicions, thought it as well to sit up all night along with his whole party.

" Eachan having seen his foster-brother, to whom he told all his suspicions, and whom he earnestly prayed to continue upon his guard, quitted the house, which was already full both of its own folk and of the soldiers quartered there, and retired to that where Auchintriaton kept watch, and took his place with others around a good fire of peats. The early part of the night was passed in talking cheerfully, and drinking moderately; in which the soldiers and officers of the party stationed there freely joined. But as it grew late, the soldiers retired, leaving the room to the poor doomed Macdonalds, who towards

RED EACHAN THE HUNTER. 113

morning began to be drowsy, and to watch less carefully. Among the rest, Eachan, wearied with the buffeting of the night storm, lay down in his plaid upon the floor, behind the rest, and fell into a sound sleep.

" How long he lay in this way, sir, he could not tell, but he was awakened by a loud continued rattle, like that of thunder; and starting up to know what was the matter, was instantly felled to the ground again, by a shock, of which at the moment, he did not know the nature. For a few moments his head swam round, and a sickness like death itself came over him; but soon recovering, and hearing around him a horrid uproar of cries, and groans, and curses, mixed with the heavy tread of men, and the clash of arms, he looked up: the room was filled with smoke of gunpowder; and by the dim light of the fire he saw himself surrounded by the bodies of his companions, stretched dead upon the floor, or writhing with their wounds, while a number of soldiers were bursting into the room, and some were already thrusting their bayonets into the bodies of those who had fallen by their fire. Not a moment had he to think or to recollect himself, sir, for scarcely had he opened his eyes, when he saw the bayonet of one of the butcherly soldiers within a foot of his breast: a waft of his arm dashed the weapon aside, and on looking up at the man who aimed it, the faint gleam

114 RED EACHAN THE HUNTER.

of the fire showed him a face he well knew. ' Hold, hold, Hamish, man!' cried he, ' would ye murder your friend, Eachan Ruah?'—' Deoul! Eachan, are you there, and alive?' cried the man, stepping back a pace; ' but what can I do? see, they are all there, at my back.'—' Oh! but man, dinna let me die by a friend's blow—let me go—let me die out of doors if it must be—not in this hole, to be burnt like a beast, when the fire takes the bothy.'—' Weel, weel,' said Hamish, ' if I canna save you. I'll no kill you—off wi' you, man.' So he let him rise; and Eachan rushed through the throng to the door, where three of the red coats were watching wi' fixed bayonets and loaded muskets. But Eachan was a supple chiel, sir; he pushed through the bayonets, and as the men lifted their guns to fire at him, he took his loose plaid, flung it over their faces, and off he started like a deer.

"There was a serjeant close by, who saw this daring act: ' Seize the fellow,' cried he; and off he set himself, wi' his drawn sword after Eachan. But it was na the like o' him that could catch the lightest foot and best wind in Glencoe or Lochaber; and his useless attempt was the safety of Eachan: for the men, when they freed themselves of the plaid, could not fire after him, for fear of harming their officer. The serjeant saw this when it was too late, and flinging himself on the ground, called out, ' Fire away,

boys—shoot the rascally rebel.' Bang went their pieces; but a dark morning and a running foot spoil a good aim—the balls whizzed by him harmlessly, and on bounded Eachan, dashing across the river, though it was roaring in speat, and up to the hills on the east of the Glen.

" But his course was soon very near being stopped to some purpose; for as he turned the corner of a little knowe, at the foot of which the high road passed up the Glen, he found himself full in front of a dozen soldiers, who were hastily marching onwards. ' Halloo! that's one of them,' roared their leader, 'fire! shoot the fellow!' and Eachan, though he doubled like a hare, had scarcely time to dash across the road, and down a little heathery brae, before eight or ten musket balls were rattling- about him. Nor was theirs so bad an aim; for one of them cut the belt which fastened his phelebeg round his waist, and another gave him a deep flesh wound in the side. But the mischief was little, and he scarcely felt it at the time; and as for the soldiers, their power was spent with their powder—for who, while strength and breath remained, could keep foot with the Red Hunter.

"Away sprang the lad, like a horse that feels the spur; and before a red-coat was fit to follow, he was deep among the wild rocks of the corry. But to skulk like a hunted fox was not the design of Ea-

116 RED EACHAN THE HUNTER.

chan.—'No,' said he to himself—' Isobel!—Isobel! —while I have life and strength, let me strive to reach Glen-Leven—let me see if she be safe yet: and then, come life, come death, Eachan will care but little. Ochone! Ochone for Mackian!—Ochone for the brave young Allister! a black, black day is it for the clan, and the black curse rest on their bloody murderers!' The thought of poor Isobel, perhaps in the hands of these butchers, gave him force and speed; the light was increasing in spite of the driving storm; and Eachan neither halted nor breathed himself, until he saw the black glen below him, from the top of the wild hills above us, sir, which lie between Glencoe and Glen-Leven.

" The road was then easy, for it was all down hill, and he was eagerly looking through the mist for the black bothy of the Bochal. But will cannot strive against nature; the blood which had flowed from his wounds began now to tell—a sick faintness came over him, his knees trembled, and while still distant from the bothy, poor Eachan, in spite of his stout heart and best exertions, fell insensible upon the ground, which was now white with the driving snow; and he would soon have slept the sleep of death with the rest of his wounded clansmen—but there was a Providence watching over him, sir, and the hand of man could not prevail against it.

" The poor lassie, Isobel, had remained the whole

RED EACHAN THE HUNTER. 117

night watching in her father's bothy, attended only by an old woman, who could have been of no use as a protector. For Ian Bochal had on the preceding evening, according to the advice of Eachan, set out with a protchach of a herd boy, to drive the cattle to the hills, and she did not expect him back till the next day. The night passed without disturbance; and when morning dawned she continued earnestly gazing about the bothy door, in hope, and partly in fear, of seeing some one approaching, until her attention was attracted by the sight of a dog running furiously towards the hut. It was Shulach, sir, the creature which had followed Eachan the whole way to Auchnaghon, and accompanied him back when flying from the soldiers, until she saw him fall, and lie like a dead man on the hill; and then it seems the poor beast must have kenned that better help than she could give was wanted, and off she set to the bothy to bring it.

" The moment Isobel saw the dog she gave a scream, and cried out, ' Eachan!—Oh, Eachan! they have murdered you!'—and her heart failed her, so that she fell almost fainting against the door-post. But Shulach running up, fawned upon her, tugging at the skirt of her gown—then ran off again—looked back, and then returned to pull again at her clothes. Isobel was not long of understanding what all this meant, sir.—' Oh Mora'g!' said she to the old 11

118 RED EACHAN THE HUNTER.

woman, ' he is not dead—I am sure of it—Sluilach is calling me to him—he may be wounded or dying in this wild weather—oh! let me go to him at once.' And catching up her plaid, and whatever clothes came first to her hand, with a horn o' whiskey, and a bannock of bread—off she set, following the dog, which, bounding and scampering before her, led her straight to the hill. Sure enough, sir, there did Isobel find her poor Eachan; bloody and stiff; and the coldness of his body went to her heart like ice, for she thought he was dead and gone entirely. But oh! muckle will a woman do for the lad of her heart, your honour. Isobel covered him wi' the plaid, and even laid her own warm body upon his—and, ochone! glad was she when she saw his hurts begin to bleed again, for that was a sure sign of returning life. And so it was in truth, for he opened his eyes, and gasped, and sobbed, while the dog, poor beast, kept licking at his wounds, till at last he glowered about him, and called out ' Isobel!'

"Weel, sir! I need na tell you how she dressed his wounds, and covered him with the clothes and the plaid she had brought; and how he was recovered by a sup o' the whiskey, and came to himself; and Isobel, blithe to see him in life again, was for going back to the bothy. ' No! no! Isobel, dear,—it's the mercy of God that the villains have na been there already—it would be rank madness to go back.

RED EACHAN THE HUNTER. 119

No, no!—let the trash that's in it go—we'll after your father, and be off to Rannoch, till this sore sough blow bye; and then we'll do as the Lord pleases. As for Glencoe, there's as many corpses as gray stones in it by this time o' day.'

"It was well for them, your honour, that they went na back to the bothy; for Isobel had na left it ten minutes before the red-coats came. They murdered the poor creature Moraig, and, plundering it of all the few things it contained, set fire to it, and left the place, cursing, no doubt, the chance that had saved the rest of its in-dwellers.

" Eachan, revived by the refreshment he had received, and by the warmth of the clothes which Isobel had brought him, was able to assist her through the drift and snow to the hill where her father had driven the cattle. To save his master's property and his own, as well as the lives of the whole party, was the point now; and accordingly they drove the beasts as fast as the wild weather and Eachan's wounds would permit, towards Rannoch, where Ian Bochal had a cousin, in whose good will he could trust. There they remained until the false and bloody Glenlyon went off to Holland, and the great folk of the nation began to make a stir about the slaughter of Glencoe, when the surviving sons of Mackian were enabled to claim their own. Ye may believe, sir, that Eachan and Isobel were na long o' being married: and the

120 RED EACHAN THE HUNTER.

man who now tells you the tale is grandson to that very Each an Ruah."

" Indeed! my friend," said I with some surprise; "I did expect to hear that you were in some way connected with this Red Hunter: but, old as you are, I certainly did not give you credit for being the grandson of a man who figured and married so long ago."—"Ay, sir, that may be, for I'm gay and stout, sure enough; but whatever ye may think, it's the truth. I was a weel grown rattling chield at Cullo-den; and if I be spared to Lammas, I'll be just fourscore and five years of age. It's a long-lived race we're of, your honour, and the Glen is a braw place for health."

"And pray, my good friend, how do you live— what are your means?" demanded I, still more interested by the veteran's account of himself. " Oh, its little that keeps the like o' me, sir," replied he. " The family are kind to me, as they have been to all my forebears—I have the little bothy up by, from them, wi' leave for a few goats and some sheep; and the Colonel, God bless him, gives me a pension; and the gentle folks that pass through the Glen give me something for my guidance and my clavers, whiles, and the neighbours are all very kind too—so when it pleases the Lord to call old Allister from this weary world, there'll no be wanting something to bury him

RED EACHAN THE HUNTER. 121

decently, and to gie a dram to the caillachs that cry his coronach."

Delighted with the old Highlander's simplicity and patriotic independence,—for, poor as he was, a slighting look, or an expression against his country or clan, he would not have endured from king George himself—and gratified, perhaps, with his flattering attention to myself—or rather to my name and family, I would willingly have made substantial acknowledgments of the same. But not one penny would the old man accept in the shape of coin. " No, no," said he, " proud would old Allister be, sir, to follow your father's son from the Mull o' Cantyre to Loch Eribol itsel',—forby showing him the bonniest glen in a' the Hielands. If young * * * wad gi' him but a pinch o' snuff out o' his own mull, he wad think more of it than a' the siller."—" That will I, my good friend," said I, presenting him with a handsome Lawrence-Kirk box, which I had lately bought, and filled with right Lnndyfoot; " and you shall keep the box and all for my sake." " Ohone!" said he, "it's too much trouble; may the Lord protect you and bless you, sir, when old Allister is put under his own gray-stone." "Amen!" responded I, "but I hope to see you at the bit bothy yet, once and again before that." The old man turned to me with a softened eye:—" No, no," said he, shaking his head gravely,—" that's no to be thought of—but the

Lord's will be done!" Alas! it was the truth. Many a year had passed, and through many a land had I wandered, before I again visited Glencoe. The scenes were the same, "unchangeable, unchanged," and my heart beat as recollections of the past rushed thick upon it—but a green turfy mound occupied the place of the bothy in the Glen, and its former tenant, my honest old guide, had long been gathered to his fathers.

EARLY WOO'D AND WON.

BT MRS. ABDT.

" Early woo'd and early won, Was never repented under the sun!"

German Proverb.

O! SIGH not for the fair young bride,

Gone in her opening bloom, Far from her kindred, loved and tried,

To glad another home; Already are the gay brief days

Of girlish triumph done, And tranquil happiness repays

The early woo'd and won.

Fear shall invade her peace no more,

Nor sorrow wound the breast, Her passing rivalries are o'er,

Her passing doubts at rest; The glittering haunts of worldly state

Love whispers her to shun, Since scenes of purer bliss await

The early woo'd and won.

Here is a young and guileless heart,

Confiding, fond, and warm, Unsullied by the world's vain mart,

Unscathed by passion's storm; In " hope deferred" she hath not pined,

Till Hope's sweet course was run: No chains of sad remembrance bind

The early woo'd and won.

Her smiles and songs have ceased to grace

The halls of festal mirth, But woman's safest dwelling-place

Is by a true one's hearth; Her hours of duty, joy, and love,

In brightness have begun; Peace be her portion from above,

The early woo'd and won.

SUNSET AMONG THE ALPS.

BY HENRY S. HAGERT.

HUNTER, that all day long hast chased the deer,

And the wild chamois, by the mountain crest— When tired and faint dost even linger here,

And view the sunset fading in the west.

See, the proud eagle seeks his lofty nest, But half way up suspends the giddy flight,

And poising on his wing in airy rest, Strains his plumed neck to view the glorious sight; Then, with a scream of wonder and delight,

Resumes the way to where his eyry hung Among the pine trees on the beetling height,

Is by the zephyrs fanned and by the tempest

swung.

See, what a gorgeous stream of burning gold Bathes yonder ravine and the babbling brook

That dances o'er its rocky bed! Behold— How every cloud grows redder as you look, And each wild flower in its secret nook

Bends its fair head, as though it were to ask The monarch's benison ere he forsook

The throne of day and bade Earth wear the mask

Of starless Night, or in the moonlight bask

While the rude peasant boy, devoid of care, Whistling as he comes plodding from his task, Kneels with the fading day and breathes his evening prayer.

O hunter, here, within this rugged glen

Where through the long rank grass, the soft winds

play A dirge-like music—where the feet of men

Have seldom trodden since that fated day,

When the high Alps re-echoed to the bray Of warlike trump and tramp of harnessed steed,

As he, the world's Enslaver, went his way, To win himself a name—perchance to bleed!— Ambition, speak—is this thy paltry meed?

Is it for this men fret their life away? Hunter, I tell thee thou art blest indeed—

Here 'mid thy native crags and sunset glens to stray.

THE PREMIER AND HIS WIFE.

A STORY OF THE GREAT WORLD.

CHARLES MONTFORT'S history, from fifteen to five-and-twenty, might be comprised in three words, Eton, St. James's, the Guards. The first had sent him forth a tolerable scholar and an intolerable coxcomb; the second had made him a king's page, and taught him the glory of a pair of epaulets, and the wisdom of seeing much, and saying as little about it as possible; and the third had initiated him into the worst mess and the best company in London, into the art of walking St. James's Street six hours a-day, and balancing the loss x by the productive employment of as many of the night at the Clubs, concluding with a mission to the Peninsula, which returned him with a new step in the Gazette, a French ball through his arm, and a determination to die a generalissimo.

But what are the determinations of men, even of guardsmen? His first intelligence, on rejoining his fellow promenaders on the Campagna fclice of St. James's Street, was, that fate had decided against his laurels. The venerable earl, his uncle, was on that bed, from which the staunchest devotion to the bot-

tie, and the minister for the time being, could not save him. A fit of apoplexy had wound up the arrears of the physicians. Expeditious as art might be, nature outran her; and before the most rapid and royal practitioner in town could prescribe a second specific for the earl, the world had lost one of its " best of men," and steadiest bans vivants —the treasury one of its most vigorous voters, the opera one of its most persevering patrons, and Charles Mont-fort his only chance of rivalling Napoleon or Wellington.

Charles's father was still alive, and a brother stood between himself and the title. But an earldom in prospect, or possibility, made him a more important object than he had been twenty-four hours before. It was decided, in a grand council of the family, that the son of so ancient a house was fit for better things than the thrust of a French bayonet. A hint from the treasury, which .was solicitous of keeping up an interest in the family, pointed out diplomacy as the most natural career for the cadet of the noble house; and Charles, with such sighs as a king's page nurtured into the guardsman can heave for any thing under the moon, wore his epaulets for the last time, when at Court he kissed the king's hand, on his appointment to the Secretaryship of the Tuscan mission.

Nelson said, in his sailor-like way, " That he never met an Italian who was not a fiddler or a

scoundrel."—But to the honourable Charles Mont-fort, Tuscany was a bed of roses. Whatever the Court may have become during the last ten years, it was then the consummate scene of la belle folie. The men were a\\ preux of the first distinction, highbred, happy, and heroic—the women, the perfection of grace, constancy, and quadrilling. All was accomplishment. Dukes led their own orchestras, Marchionesses presided at the piano, Sovereign Princes made chansons, and premier Barons played the trombone. The whole atmosphere was music. The influence spread from the ear to the heart, and the lingua Tuscana required no bocca Romana to transfuse into the very " honey dew" of the tender passion.

It is true, that there was not much severity of labour going on in this land of Cythera. The envoys were not often compelled to forego the toilet for the desk, nor the beaux secretaires to give up their lessons on the guitar for the drudgery of copying despatches. A " protocol" would have scared the gentle state from its propriety; and the arrival of the Morning Post, once a week from London, with the account of routs in which they had not shared, and the anticipation of dinners and dej lines which they were never to enjoy, was the only pain which diplomacy suffered to raise a ripple on the tranquil surface of its soul.

The Tuscan ladies are proverbially the most frightful among the females of Italy, a country to which nothing but patriotic blindness, or poetic rapture, ever attributed the perfection of womanhood. But all the world goes to Tuscany—of all the Italian principalities, the one which offers least to the lover of the arts, past or present, but which has the softest name. Romance is the charm of the sex; and all the fairest of the fair, of every land, tend to Florence, like shooting stars darting from every quarter of the heavens to the zenith. And fairest of the fair was the Lady Matilda Mowbray. The description of female beauty is like the description of pictures and churches, out of taste; and, like the architect of old, who desired to rest his claims, not on his words, but on his performances, Lady Matilda's charms are best told by what they effected. In the first hour after her display at court, the honourable Charles Montfort quarrelled, pro tempore, with the Countess Carissima Caricoletta. In a week, he confined himself to a single opera box, and that the Lady Matilda's—and in a month, he had constituted himself her declared attendant, abandoned the Casino and five guinea points, drawn upon himself the open envy of the cavalieri, and earned the irreconcilable hostility of as many duchesses and countesses as would have made a female legion of honour.

The Lady Matilda had not much in her favour— 12

she was only young, animated, and beautiful. Her rivals were pre-eminent in rouge and romance. The cavalieri wondered round all the circles, ice in hand, how a man of the secretary's tact could contrast the brown skins, fire darting eyes, and solid shapes of the 'enchantresses of Florence, with the niaiseries of the English physiognomy, with dove-like eyes, cheeks of rose, and the proportions of a sylph. But the secretary had been but six months in Tuscany, and that must account for it. His education was incomplete; he was still but a diplomatic barbare; and he would still require six months to mature his taste, make him see the beauties of a half negro skin, and worship a female cento of rappee, macaroni, and airs from the last opera.

But the Lady Matilda had her admirers even among the cavalieri. She possessed one charm, to which the foreign heart has been sensitive in every age from Clovis, and in every corner of the continent, from the White Sea to the Black. She was the mistress of five thousand pounds sterling a year; a sum which, when converted into any shape cognizable by the foreign eye, rixdollar, franc, or milrea, seemed infinite. She had at once a Polish prince at her feet, a German sovereign, with a territory of a dozen square miles and an army of half a regiment, honouring her each night with his supplication for her hand, in the first valse—and an Ex-French count, who had

THE PREMIER AND HIS WIFE. 131

been distinguished in the runaway from Moscow, the runaway from Leipsic, and the runaway from Waterloo, until he had become so expert in fugitation, that he had run away from his creditors and his king alike, in Paris, and was free to exhibit his showy figure, and a dozen stars, at every ridotto, ball, and billiard-table in Christendom. The Lady Matilda was not born a coquette; but

" Who can hold a fire within his hand, By thinking on the frosty Caucasus'!"

In this blaze of cordons, and perpetual glow of homage, what female heart, not absolutely stone, could resist a little nitrification? Besides, the dolce far niente, which an Englishman devotes to the infernal gods every hour he remains under his own foggy sky, molested by the sight of the myriads round him, all busily making their way through life, is the very principle of existence under the bluest of heavens, and in an atmosphere which burns out the activity of man at the summer heat of 150 of Reaumur. Those who must shut their casements at ten in the morning, or be roasted alive, find the necessity of consuming the next six hours in sleep, and the next in paying or receiving the attentions due to the sex in every quarter of the globe. The Chevalier melts down the twelve desperate hours of his day in regulating his mustaches, counting his fortunes at Faro, or preparing

those exquisite civilities of the moment, those impromptus fails a loisir, which establish a lord among wits, and a wit among lords; the brilliant fanfuron of a brilliant circle; and among women, the happy title of the " most dangerous of men." With the fairer portion of the earth, the natural resource is a French novel, or a poodle, inveterate scandal, or a cabinet council with Madame Vaurien, the most celebrated marchande that ever added loveliness to the lovely on the sunny side of the Apennines.

In this world of rapture and yawning, this central paradise of passion indescribable, and tediousness beyond a name, the Lady Matilda was gradually assimilating to the clime. She had already discovered that English reserve was a remnant of the original Pict, which could not be abolished too soon by an aspirant after the graces. The Polish prince was found to be essential to her toilet; the German potentate was the best carrier of an opera-glass within the limits of civilization, and the ex-aid-de-camp of the ex-emperor was the soul of quadrilles, polonoises, and pas a la Turque. The fair Matilda was on the point of becoming a figurante of the most ardent quality—when Montfort stept in between her and this height of foreign fame. He was handsome, manly, and sincere. The heart of the lady recovered its right tone, like an instrument struck by the master's hand. The foreign plating was found light

THE PREMIER AND HIS WIFE. 133

beside the solid material of his honourable heart and matured understanding. The mustached adorers grew tiresome. Foreign love-making is an art, and when the secret is found out, the whole affair is too easily copied to be worth caring for. But Montfort had not been long enough in the school to have acquired the style. He was in love, seriously, gravely, with his whole sober soul. Let the world, whether of St. James's, or St. Petersburg, say what it will, this is the true victor after all. " L'homme qui rit," says Voltaire, " n'est pas dangereux." The adage is true in more than politics. And when Montfort " pulled his hat upon his brows," forgot, like Hamlet, his custom of exercise, and saw this gentle heaven and earth but a pestilent congregation of vapours, when he was seen at Court only to be pronounced dull, and sat in the opera-box of the brilliant Condessa di Cuor's ardente, like one of the carved Cupids on the back of her gilded chair, the English heart of the fair Matilda pronounced him instinctively the most animated of all companions, the most intellectual of all envoys, and the most promising of all lords and masters to be. Obsolete as the phrase is, and suspicious as it. makes the history, they were both prodigiously in love.

But the denouement lingered; for of all passions the true one has the least power of the tongue. That member which acquires 3uch sudden faculties in

general after a month of matrimony, is as generally paralyzed a month before. Montfort, by nature eloquent, and by habit conversant in the happiest turns of levee language, found his art of speech unable to express what his footman could have told in three words. The Lady Matilda, the mistress of three languages, could not find one to say for her what lay before her glance in the first page of every novel on her dressing-table. But there is a time for all things, and the time for the recovery of their organs was at hand.

Montfort and his fair one had met at a bed masque —danced together, supped together, put on, and taken off their masks together. Still the mysterious word which each pined to utter, was unpronounced, when the lady chaperon came to declare that it was the hour of retiring. The command was like the law of the 'Medes and Persians, and Montfort saw with a sigh the withdrawing vision of that beauty which carried away all his aspirations. As he was leaning, in true lover-like wistfulness, on the rose-wreathed balustrades of the concert-room, his ear was caught by a whisper from one of the attendants. The fellow was hurrying one of the fiddlers to get rid of his task, to change his silk draperies for a sur-tout, his instrument for a case of pistols, and be on the watch at the corner of the Casa Doralice. The name startled Montfort. The Lady Matilda tenanted

the two-and-twenty marble saloons of the Casa. He sprang from his position to seize his informant; but as the crowd were gathering at that moment round a Sig-nora with an irresistible voice, and a panache presented to her by the Autocrat of all the Russias, he might as well have charged a division of cuirassiers. The valet escaped, and Montfort's sole resource was to fly on the wings of the wind to the Casa Doralice.

But when did "the course of true love run smooth?" The night without was the most formidable contrast to the night within. Tempest in all its shapes was doing its wild will, from the Zenith to the Nadir. Thunder, lightning, and rain had met, as if by general consent, to celebrate their orgies over the capital of Tuscany. Cavalry, cabriolets, and chasseurs, all had disappeared, and the lover, raging with impatience, fear, and passion, felt how empty a tiling it is to be but an ambassador, or even that more potential thing, the secretary to an ambassador.

However, the lady's danger prohibited delay, and throwing his cloak round him, he rushed into the deserted streets, through ways that might have repulsed Hannibal or Napoleon at the head of their braves, and under a deluge from skies and roofs, which left little to be filled up by the imagination on this side of Niagara.

The streets of Florence at the best of times share

but little of the illumination of the nineteenth century. The little Virgins in the niches had all put out their lamps—the last ray of sanctity or safety had expired on the first blast, through a circuit of five miles of streets, that even in daylight make one of the most difficult tours of Europe. An Englishman in a foreign city, is proverbially of all animals the most easily perplexed. He loses his way by nature. Montfort was no more gifted with the " organ of direction" than the rest of his countrymen, and at the first turning from the palace, and while the flash of its hundred windows was still gleaming in his eyes, he was as much astray as if he had bivouacked in an American prairie.

But Cupid never deserts his true votaries. The storm which had drenched him, and the darkness which had forced him to feel his way from portico to portico, brought him full upon an overturned coach. A group of muffled figures were round it, and the twinkle of a lantern in one of their hands, showed him the fair Matilda fainting on the shoulder of a tall ruffian, with a mask upon his face, and a huge In-spruck cut-and-thrust flourishing in his hand.

This was an adventure in the established style. A more considerate lover would have paused to ascertain whether the design was upon the lady's person or her purse; whether she was not carried off with her own consent, or whether an intruder might not

get the Inspruck cut-and-thrust through his prsecordia. But Montfort was in love a VJlnglaise, which accounts for all kinds of frenzies. He rushed upon the group,—they gathered round the leading chevalier,—some of the straggling police came up,—a reo-ular melee ensued. Pistol-shots were fired, sabre

o

cuts were exchanged; and after a skirmish of a few moments, in which the Italians thought that they were assailed by the majesty of the fiends in person, the paroxysm finished by Montfort's finding the bandits fled, the street empty, the chaperon clinging to his knees, the fair Matilda breathless in his arms, and the whole drenched from top to toe in sheets of immitigable rain.

The morning rose in poetic glory. Homer's Aurora never scattered her roses more profusely than on the skirts of the retiring storm. The story of Montfort's heroism, and the lady's escape, had run through every boudoir before its fair tenants had drawn out the first papillot. A rescue is, by all the laws of romance, an irresistible claim. In the course of that memorable day, Montfort found his lost faculty of speech-, the Lady Matilda had acknowledged his right to the hand which he had so gallantly preserved, and at her soiree, the whole circle of the Tuscan comme il faut presented themselves with renewed homage; the German prince and M. le Comte alone sending their excuses, as " suffering

under sudden and severe colds." Their indisposition was severe, for the Court Chronicle rapidly let out the secret. The Count's cold had taken the form of a pistol-shot in his knee, which disqualified him for Mazurkas for life, and the German Landgrave had, by the same unaccountable accident, received a sword-cut across his cheek, which laid it open, and swept away one half of his mustaches for the rest of his days. The nature of the night's adventure was now disclosed, but the agents were gone. The German had made up his mind to carry off the heiress. The Count had nothing to do with his time, but a great deal to do with his last half rouleau of Napoleons. The German offered to make it a whole one. The Count's heroism was at his service to the last extremity. The affair was common-place, and before a week it was numbered with the things that were.

The close of that week brought a despatch from England. A long, dry letter from a female cousin informed him, " by the Earl's desire," that he was now Lord Castleton, the last hope of the family; his elder brother having died of the combined effects of a steeple chase and a county election; fatigue and the due quantity of popular oratory finished the work of Oxford port, and the Champagne of the Clarendon. The stamina of the young lord were not sufficiently iron for this discipline, and the Bri-

tish empire suddenly lost a legislator. The new lord was now summoned peremptorily to England.

Montfort was distracted at the news. Of his brother he had seen but little, and known less. But th* 1 decencies of sorrow once done, how was he to leave his bel tesoro behind? The lady herself settled the question at once. She would marry him,—when and where he pleased. " In Florence, then," exclaimed the lover, " happiness cannot come too soon."—" In England," sighed the lady, " for I am determined in all things, in mind and in marriage, to be English." The sentiment raised her higher than ever in the Englishman's heart; " In England be it then." The carriages were ordered, the passports sealed, the farewells made, the couriers on horseback, and in twelve hours, the chaperon, the lady, the lover, and a whole caravan of whiskered valets, and chaperoneciyemmes de chambre, were whirling on the noble road to Genoa, the Cornice, Nice,—and that city where all the roads of the world meet, the city of cities,—London.

The marriage was happy, under all its circumstances. The weather was summer, the season was the elite of a London winter, the ceremony was performed by an archbishop, the equipages were built by the royal coach-maker, the Morning Post exceeded its usual eloquence in the panegyric on the bride, the dresses, the breakfast, and the liveries; a

royal duke handed the lady to her carriage, and the happy pair rode off amid the loudest acclamations of the most numerous crowd that had attended, within memory, at the Jerinyn Street side of St. James's.

A month of rapture passed; a second month, singular as the tale may be, and the young lord was on the point of commencing his third lune de miel, inconceivable as the idea is, when he received a double despatch from the Earl and the Ministry, to come up to town. Rinaldo in the bower of Armida was never more startled by the recollection that he had still something to do in the world. The Earl's letter announced to him that he had been elected for one of the family boroughs; and the Minister's expressed, in the blandest terms of office, how signally his presence on \}\e first night of the Session would be considered as a favour. Castleton flung the letters from him, and vowed retirement for life. But his Matilda forbade the resolution like a heroine, and offered to accompany him instantly into the very focus of ambitious politics, Downing street, if such should be the necessities of a lord and a legislator. Resistance to reason and smiles together was useless, and the bowers and fields were left behind with many a regret, but with Roman firmness; a long adieu was bade to streams and groves, and before the time so anxiously appointed by the Minister, the travelling-carriage-and-four of the married lovers was

delving its way through the solid atmosphere of London.

Caslleton's qualities were known to the leaders of office, and seldom as the emergencies of Tuscan diplomacy called on energies of a higher kind than the transmission of the Diario, or the folding of a letter, yet a man of talent will even fold his letter in a way different from a dunce. His communications on his arrival, relative to Italian affairs, had given a striking impression of his intelligence, and the result was a note from the Premier, requesting him to propose the address.

This request it was next to impossible to decline. He showed the note to the partner of all his secrets, and she confirmed him in his acquiescence. He spoke the address, was complimented by both sides of the House on its manliness and eloquence. The leader of Opposition " regretted that such abilities should have embarked in a cause so fatal to all the principles of the Constitution." The Premier silently shook him by the hand. The subordinates of the Ministry crowded round him with their congratulations, and as he passed through the lobby, his ear fed on a buzz which passed into his heart of hearts. From that day forth, Castleton was a politician.

Time flies, and neither men nor Ministries can escape its rules, as it passes by. The Session tur-13

bulent, the debates anxious, the Opposition stronger than ever. Castleton spoke often, and well. But while he was buckling on his armour for the national cause, retorting logic by logic, and earning hear hims innumerable from the Treasury bench, where was the Lady Matilda?—sitting alone, blinding her bright eyes with the last dreary novel, and longing to see the first gray light through the windows, which announced the hour of the division.

Castleton came duly home, but it was after a night of feverish excitement, with a pallid cheek and faltering tongue, to hurry, after a few words of kindness, to his chamber, and there linger out the day unseeing and unseen, but by his wife, or perhaps his physician.

The lady remonstrated in vain.—His constant reply was, that he owed a duty to his country which it would be unmanly not to fulfil. The Session would be over in a week, and then for the country, Matilda, and happiness again.

The week passed, but the Session had only grown more perplexed. The debates were now perpetual, and Castleton's assistance was felt to be of so much value, that even his day was broken in upon by frequent summonses to Downing Street. On his return one morning after a debate of peculiar agitation, he found Matilda with her head resting on the table, beside which she had passed the night. She was

asleep, and as he stepped softly towards her—the morning light fell on her features with a gleam so pallid, that he thought she was actually dead or dying. He raised her in terror, and saw then for the first time the full effect that this watching and anxiety had produced on her young beauty.

" We must go to the country at once, Matilda," said he, pressing her pale cheek to his bosom; " this life does not suit either of us. Before to-morrow morning we must be many a mile from this spot of perpetual fever.'' Matilda was all delight at the thought.

At dinner, a note marked " most private and confidential," was handed to him. It was from the Minister, requesting his " immediate presence." He found the great man in a state of serious agitation. " Lord Castleton," said he, " I have no reserves with you; a man of your honour is made to be trusted. That pitiful fellow," and he named one of the most bustling members of his cabinet, " is endeavouring to outwit us. I have certain knowledge that he is at this moment making terms with the enemy, and that if we suffer him to remain among us another night, wherever the disgrace may lie, the fall will be ours." Castleton " fully agreed with the view which his lordship had taken—he had long seen that a game was going on, and he had only wanted the Minister's permission to expose it."

The Premier half embraced him. " You have now my full permission," was the answer; "and that you may execute this act no less of justice than of public good with the more weight, my colleagues have come to a determination to request your acceptance of his office."

Castleton recoiled. The recollection of his promise flashed across him; he declined the appointment, " high as it was, and gratifying to all his feelings."

But the Minister had too strong an interest in the question, to be repulsed by what he considered as mere political coquetry. The discussion lasted for a considerable time, during which Castleton was beaten from point to point, until, nothing loath, he yielded, and walked home that night to communicate to Matilda that she was the wife of a Secretary of State.

The appointment justified the Minister's sagacity. Castleton, assisted by the impression of his new official rank, produced a powerful effect in the House. The intriguer was the first to feel the change; and the indignant lashing which he received on the first attempt to defend and recriminate, put him out of the pale at once. Real talent is inevitably developed by the occasion, and the Secretary, in a short time, equally surprised his friends and enemies by his skill, activity, and force in debate. The tide now

rapidly turned, and he had the honour of steering the lucky vessel of the Ministry into harbour. Opposition relaxed, and the Session closed with a triumphant majority for Ministers.

But what had become of the Secretary's lady meanwhile? A change had been wrought upon her still more signal than upon her ambitious lord. Her public rank had now placed her in the front of fashion. As the wife of one of the most prominent members of the Cabinet, she too had her " public duties to perform," her levees, patronages, her receptions. The court, the opera, and the petit souper, the most select of the select, an admission to which constituted of itself a title to the first society, and was the object of as much canvassing, and the source of as much jealousy, as the most distinguished honours of the state; and a perpetual round of amusements half official, and politics half pleasure, occupied every hour of the fair Matilda; still the watcher of the dawn, but no longer the pale, the pensive, or the solitary; but the high-rouged, the high-toned, and the highly-surrounded leader of those by whom every thing else is led, the beaux and beauties of the land.

The current of public affairs ran on prosperously, and Castleton was now openly named as the inevitable successor to the premiership on the first vacancy. He sat at the full banquet of power. He was ambi-

13*

tious, and every object that could awake or reward the ambition of man was within his grasp. But there were times when he felt that the spirit longs for simpler, yet not less substantial luxuries; and in the very proudest hours of office, with ambassadors crowding round him, and the fate of kingdoms all but depending on his will, he has found himself thinking of the fields and streams, the quiet meals, and the pleasant evenings, which he had forfeited for this fiery whirl of heart and brain.

The image of his wife, too, as he had seen her in their retirement, young, lovely, and fond, rose up to add at once beauty and melancholy to the picture. But where was she at that moment?—in the centre of the most heartless, nay, the most hazardous, life. The latter idea \vas rejected at once. Yet, if the thought was accidental, it reverted with new power. Some rumours at the Clubs, too, recurred painfully to his mind. He was inflexibly secure that the heart of the woman whom he had so thoroughly known, and so sincerely loved, could not suffer even a thought injurious to his feelings. Yet the thought would recur. To drive all suspicion from his mind, he plunged into business with more avidity than ever.

One night as he was returning from a debate, protracted to an unusually late hour, a shower drove him into one of the Clubs in Pall-Mall, where he had

been an absentee until his face was forgotten. Throwing himself into a corner beside the fire, he took up a newspaper, and was roving over the Ukraine, and following the fates of a Tartar incursion, when he heard his lady's name pronounced, and in something of a peculiar tone. The voice proceeded from a party lingering over their concluding bottle at the further end of the room.

The observation, be it what it might, found an answer in one of the guests, who exclaimed, theatrically,

"Be thouas pure as snow, as chaste as ice, Thou can'st not escape calumny!"

" Calumny, none whatever!" was the reply. " But let the thing be true as it may, what else can you expect from the nature of the case? Here is a pretty woman, a very pretty woman, with as much money as she cars spend, with rank, and every thing that rank can give, to make a pretty woman play the deuce."

" While my lord plays ' the Careless Husband,' " interrupted another.

The point was considered worth a laugh, and the laugh was given.

" Yet not so much ' the Careless Husband,' " said another, " as ' the Fool of Quality.' Here is now what is called a man of talents, and I fairly allow him the possession. He is, in fact, a fellow of great

public powers; and yet, while he is haranguing' away by the hour, convincing, explaining, and certainly giving Opposition as much to do as they can manage, he leaves his house open to every lordling, guardsman, or foreign puppy, that takes the trouble to pay his devoirs."

" But can he help it?" observed some one.

" Not without making himself ridiculous. Jealousy of any kind is out of fashion, but jealousy in a Secretary of State would set the world a-laughing. No, the man must submit to his fate. If he must be pinned to the desk all day,, and to Parliament all night—if he must have separate meals, separate equipages, separate friends, and separate beds—the consequence is as plain as the sun at mid-noon, which either of the parties so seldom has an opportunity of seeing."

" Come, you are too hard upon the world," said a would-be moralist. " The lady has exhibited no decided penchant, and, in that case, the more adorers the safer."

" Yes, as in a multitude of counsellors there is safety," said another, laughing—" a proverb which has as little of the practical in it, as any in the whole round of human wisdom. Why, I could name half a dozen, horse, foot, and dragoons, who carry on a regular fire of sentimentality with her ladyship, are as essential to her as her waiting-maid, who swear

that they could carry her off to Scotland or Kams-chatka, in a twist of their mustaches."

Castleton sprung on his feet; and was about to rush upon the throat of the speaker. But a moment's recollection checked him. He stood in an agony, that need not have been envied by the criminal on the gibbet. His head grew dizzy, his eyes grew dim. He hastily swallowed a glass of water that stood beside him, or he must have fainted. When he had recovered, the party, disturbed by his movement, had separated, and gone down stairs.

He reached home. It was a night of gala. Lady Castleton had given a masquerade, to which the whole beau monde had pressed in a levee en masse. All London had been raving of it for the last month. The choice of costumes, the hopes of getting tickets, the terror of not getting them, the showy anticipations of a fancy ball, given by the most showy leader of the exclusive world, had kept the pillows of the fair and noble restless; or, as Johnson says, on a scarcely more anxious occasion, the amnesty at the Restoration, " awoke the flutter of innumerable bosoms." The night came; the ball was given; and the master of the mansion entered his house with no more knowledge of the proceedings under its roof than if he had dropped from the moon.

No man at least could have been less in the temper to enjoy the festivity. The glare and glitter, the

multitude, every thing round him overpowered his eye and feelings alike, and, after an attempt to exchange civilities with a few of the persons who had been fortunate enough to establish a position on the landing-place, he retired to his chamber and threw himself on the sofa—which lie had not pressed for a fortnight of oratory and diplomacy—to get rid of the world and its revellers, and fall asleep, for once, without caring for " the Division."

But to sleep was impossible. The conversation at the club-room came with fresh keenness upon his mind. A domino, one of the dozen changes, which the spirit of his fair wife was to undergo during the night, had, by some accident made its way into his apartment; he flung it over him, and hurried down, and figured among the bacchanals and bashaws, shepherdesses of the Alps, and suitors wrapped up to the chin in their silks and furs of Doria and Dan-dolo. For the moment Castleton determined to enjoy the scene. But he found himself unconsciously looking for the lady of the fete, and at length asked a superb Spanish cavalier, lounging in stately idleness over his sherbet, whether Lady Castleton had yet made her appearance among the masquers. "I presume, not till supper," was the Don's easy answer, " her ladyship is too ' supreme bon ton" 1 to appear in the melee, that she sets dancing and yawn-

ing here. Besides, after all, it depends on the reigning chevalier whether she appears at all."

Castleton gave an involuntary start. The Don, pleased with having something to say, and some one to listen to it, disburthened his soul. " Her ladyship is a beauty and a belle; but where are the advantages of either, unless they are enjoyed? She loves admiration, as every fine woman does. It is paid to her as every fine woman receives it, by right divine; and if, within a month or a minute, she shall take a trip to the continent, under the protection of her Polish Count, or retire to the soft solitudes of the lakes, under the guidance of her Colonel of the Blues, the whole matter will be, as you know, selon les regies"

Castleton's inmost feelings were wrung by this unconscious tormentor. That the man to whom so many knees bowed, that the Noble, that the leader of the leading interests of the State, should thus degenerate into the subject of a sneer among the triflers of society, was' a sting to his proud heart. But that the sneer should be fastened on him in that relation, where every man feels most sensitively, and where he had once fixed all his hopes of personal happiness, was an agony. Still he paused. To find out his wife instantly, to declare his indignation at the career which she was running, to expel with the most marked ignominy, on the spot, the

whole train of parasites of lovers, or under whatever title they brought his wife's fair fame into the public mouth, was his first impulse. But then his knowledge of human nature told him how little insight he should gain into the real state of the case, by this public explosion; how irretrievable he would make the offence; nay, how possible it was that the whole was the mere thoughtless complaisance of a gay and lovely woman, with the supposed necessities of her position at the head of fashionable life. His purpose softened, her beauty rose before him, the home-felt enjoyment of those hours, when party had not checked the current of domestic life, to pour the whole force of his head and heart among the rocks and precipices of public life, recurred with a self-accusing sensation to his memory.

The air of the splendid saloon, vast as it was, suddenly felt hot, intolerably hot, to this sufferer under the fever of the mind. The glare of the innumerable lights vexed and smote his eye; he threw himself into one of those recesses, that, covered with shrubs and flowers, make the little temporary retreats of the guests for coolness and air.

A picture of Lady Castleton, hung in the alcove, caught his glance. It had been painted in her Tuscan excursion; and the costume, the loveliness, and the look of innocent animation, instantly brought back the whole scene. " Why," he almost audibly

THE PREMIER AND HIS WIFE. 153

exclaimed, " are we not now as we were then? Or why am I now the husband of a gaudy, glittering thing, with a heart for none, or for all; turning my house into a caravansary, and giving my name to be scoffed at by every coxcomb who will condescend to waste an hour or two upon her extravagant entertainments? And yet, is it not the nature of woman to be fond and faithful, until she is cast off from her natural protection? Have I done the duty which I owed to her weakness? Have I not given up to office the time and the thoughts, that in common gratitude, if not in common justice, I ought to h'ave given to a being who trusted herself, her fortune, and her hopes of happy and honourable life to me, in preference to all mankind?" The meditation was broken off by the sound oC voices on the other side of the little screen of shrubs; the voices rose gradually from a whisper, and Castleton heard their words before he could distinguish the tones of the speakers. The topic was the wry one which had just occupied himself. One of the party was evidently urging the other to some hazardous step, by arguments drawn from the remissness of a husband. The reply was half-serious, half gay, but the badinage of the lady seemed only to encourage the gentleman to presume further, until he ended with a direct proposition to fly from the roof of a husband who palpably ne-14

glected her, or probably was anxious only to urge her, by this open insult, to break their mutual chain. The proposal was received in silence, which seemed the silence of consent; but it was soon evident that it was the silence of indignation. The lady reproached the tempter with the folly which had made him construe the common acquiescences of fashionable life into crime; and declaring that she would instantly denounce the offender to her husband, attempted to withdraw.

" Your husband!" was the answer, " and where will you look for him? If truth must be told, is it not notorious, that you are as much separated from each other, as if you were already divorced; that he pursues one mistress, Ambition, or perhaps twenty other mistresses, more nameless, and leaves you to solitude and neglect? How often in the last month have you seen the face of the husband to whom you profess yourself so much attached? Bound you may be, but attached, pardon me, is totally impossible."

No reply followed; the indignation had given way to tears. " Come," said the tempter, " let those tears be the last that you shall ever shed under this roof. All is ready to convey you from the house of a cold-blooded and careless tyrant, who, before all the world, treats you with a contempt not to be endured by youth, birth, and beauty, and convey you where you will be received with honour, and treated

with the homage due to loveliness and Lady Cas-tleton."

" Villain! let loose my hands!" were the only words that Castleton could hear, before he had burst through the screen, and stood before the astonished pair. The gentleman was the identical French Ex-Count, who two years before, in the streets of Florence, had received Castleton's pistol-shot, and who, with the double object of gratifying his revenge, and of carrying off the handsome settlement of the handsome heiress, had availed himself of the first moment of his recovery, to ask passports for England, and present himself at her ladyship's levee. The Count was a dancer no more, for the pistol ball had spoiled his talent in that direction, but he made charades, sung canzonettes, played the guitar, and was a Frenchman! qualifications which are found irresistible with the sex, and which naturally authorized him to think himself indispensable to the brilliant lady of the Minister, and as they have done to a host of brilliant ladies, who having spent six months beyond the Channel, are thenceforth entitled to feel the exquisite superiority of the foreign graces. But in the present instance the Count had calculated too rapidly; and the lady, who had indulged him with her smiles, was perfectly surprised at the accomplished stranger's expecting more than smiles. She had flung him from her, with a sincerity, that per-

fectly surprised the Frenchman in turn. He was a ruffian, and would probably have dragged her reluctant ladyship to the chaise and pair, which he had waiting for the result of his argument, but Castleton's sudden presence put an end to this portion of the plan; and the Count had scarcely begun to make a speech, " accounting for appearances in the most satisfactory manner," when the indignant husband's grasp was on his throat. The struggle was brief, but it was effective. Castleton was strong, but if he had possessed but the nerves of an infant, his towering indignation would have given him vigour. To drag the offender through the saloon would have been tedious, and have attracted attention. The alternative was the window, and through the window was flung the Count. It was, fortunately for his limbs, not high, and it opened into the garden. He alighted in great astonishment, and, in a whirlwind of sacres, made solitary use of that post-chaise which was to have carried along with him the matchless " mistress of his soul," and restorer of his fallen finances, and took the Dover road, inventing epi-grams^m the country, fierce enough to make England wish herself at the bottom of the sea.

Castleton turned to his lady. He, too, had his share of astonishment; he had expected a contrite speech, clasped hands, and a flood of tears. He saw none of the three. But the lady laughed; as far as

bienseance will suffer as rude a thing as laughter to derange the etiquette of a high-born physiognomy. She extended to him one of the fairest possible hands. " You seem to be horribly angry with the Count, my dear lord," said she, " but he is excusable from the manners of his country. I hope you have broken none of my poor admirer's limbs. He must live by his talents, and if you disfigure him, he will be excluded from giving lessons on the guitar to any woman of fashion."

Her husband listened in undissembled wrath. " Madam," he at length exclaimed, " am I to believe my senses? Can this tone be serious? It would better become you to fall on your knees, and thank Heaven for having saved you from the miseries of a life, the most contemptible, the most wretched, and the most hateful that can fall to the lot of a human being!" He turned to leave her—he gave a last glance. She still smiled. "I beg but one thing, my dear lord," said she, once more holding out the lovely hand; " if those can be your real sentiments, that you will keep them as private as possible. They are totally tramontane in this part of the world, however they may exist in Westminster. Attentions from all men are considered a natural tribute on their part, to women of a certain rank; and to refuse them, would be an absolute breach of decorum on ours. At least, these are the lessons which I understand to

14*

be essential to the leaders of society; and as your lordship has been too much occupied by higher pursuits, to care what I learned, or who were my teachers, I have only availed myself of such instructions as make the law of fashion."

"And this is your ladyship's determination," said Castleton. sternly.

" Certainly, until your lordship shall condescend to teach me better," snid the lady, sportively. Her husband, without look or word more, quitted the apartment. The lady rejoined her guests, was more animated, more brilliant, and more admired than ever—was the soul of every thing gay and graceful, till the morning sun, breaking in through curtains and casements, began to make those discoveries in exhausted complexions and dilapidated ringlets, which drive beauty to her couch, saw the last fairy foot glide over the last semblance of the chalked lilies and roses on her floors, heard the last clang of the last steeds over the pave of her courtyard, and then retired to her chamber, to take a miniature of her husband from its case, and weep over it, and sleep with it hid in her bosom.

The season flourished still, and Lady Castleton was now more incontestably than ever, the sovereign of the season. Her fetes were decorated by more counts, ambassadors, and.lords of principalities, from Siberia to the Seine, than any within memory. In

the midst of this glory, she herself was the guiding star,'the most glittering where all was bright: but the rouge covered a cheek which was growing paler and paler, and the jewels covered a bosom rilled with pangs, that the envied possessor of all this opulence felt preying on her existence.

Castleton had turned to his old career with still more activity and success. His mind, once at rest upon the subject of Lady Castleton's fame, and feeling that he might confide in her honour, if he had lost her heart, he determined to forget domestic cares in the whirl of public life. Distinctions now flowed in upon him irrepressibly, as they do upon the favourites of Fortune. A new step in the peerage only ushered in his Majesty's most gracious commands, " that he should lay the basis of a new administration." In another week he was Premier. He had now attained the height for which he had panted; but he had now attained all that once brightened the future, and he feelingly discovered the truth, that hope is essential even to the vigour of ambition. In the loftiness of his public rank, he experienced the common sensation of all men who have nothino- more

O

to gain, and whose anxieties now turn on what they have to lose. In the full blaze of prosperity, he felt chillness of heart growing upon him. To his own wonder, the generous, the daring, the ardent aspirant, was gradually withering into the suspicious, the

anxious, and the stern possessor of power. The discovery pained him still more than it surprised him. He had now been for some months habitually estranged from home; and the newspapers, in their notices of routes and concerts, alone gave him the intimation that his establishment was splendid as ever, his mansion still the temple of the great and the fair, and his lady the presiding priestess of the temple. An involuntary sigh broke from him, as the Hiemory of gentler days came across his mind. He would have thrown off the chains of office, of which he now felt nothing but the weight; the gilding had long lost all its temptation to the eye. But " national emergencies, the will of a sovereign, the necessity of keeping administration together," the cloud of reasons that gather over the understanding when we are yet irresolute in the right, bewildered even the strong mind of the Minister.

He was roused from one of those meditations, by his valet's announcing that he would be too late for the " drawing-room." It was the last of the season, and he must attend. With a heavy and an irritated heart, he obeyed the tyranny of etiquette, and drove to St. James's. Nothing could be more gracious than his reception; but while he was in the very sunshine of royal conversation, a face passed him that obliterated even the presence of royalty. It was pale and thin, through all the artifices of dress.

No magnificence could disguise the fact, that some .secret grief was feeding on the roses there. The face was still beautiful and beaming, but the lustre of the eye was dim. It was Lady Castleton. Both bowed, and a hurried word was exchanged, they passed out of the circle together, and returned to their home together. The phenomenon excited more astonishment than a treaty between the Knights of Malta and the Algerines. It was the universal topic of the evening. The next day, the fact transpired that Lord and Lady Castleton had sent their apologies to the noble mansions at which they were respectively to have dined, and were surmised to have even dined tete-a-tete. Expectation was now fully afloat, and the news followed that a succession of equipages had started from his lordship's mansion at an early hour on the day after the drawing-room. But one wonder more was to be completed, and the wonder came—the announcement to the Peers and Commons that a new Ministry was about to be formed, " the Lord Castleton having, from ill health, resigned." The reason was, like the friar's beard in Rabelais, partly the work of nature, and partly of convenience. The Premier's frame had been sinking under the anxieties of his mind, and if he had delayed his retirement from office a year longer, it must have closed with a retirement into his grave.

Castleton and his lovely lady were forgotten in an

eternity of three months; and as his Lordship was no Meltonian, nor her ladyship the president of a mission for teaching the peasantry to preach in the unknown tongue, tlrey thus threw away the natural means of keeping their names alive.

They remained in their exile for the intermediate period of five years, under the unimaginable penalties of a noble mansion, a lovely landscape round them, a grateful tenantry, and a life full of the diversified occupations of intelligent minds, determined to do what good they can in their day. At the end of the five years they returned to London, on their way to a summer tour among the glories of the Swiss Alps. Time had made formidable inroads among their circle. The beauties had become blues, and the blues had become card-players, critics, and gor-gons. Nine-tenths of the lady's acquaintances had become terrible beyond all power of the toilet.

His lordship's friends had felt the common fate, in the shape of loss of office, or loss of money; claret had extinguished some—gout had made an example of others—and a new Parliament had so unfortunately exempted others from the duty of tending the public interests, that they had summarily crossed the British Channel, to study ways and means of their own.

Castleton was in the prime of life and health, and was rustic enough to think the dulness of the country

more wholesome, and even more interesting, than any number of nights spent between the House and the Clubs. His lady was now the mother of four children, wild and lovely as the wild flowers of their native meadows. She had recovered her beauty; no fictitious colour was now required to give the rose or lily to one of the finest countenances of woman. She had the health of the mind. Her spirit was not now wasted in flashing at midnight over a crowd of sumptuous and weary revelries;—hers was the lamp that threw its sacred light over the sacredness of home. She -honoured her husband for his talents, his acquirements, and his fame, but she loved him for his heart. He had made a high sacrifice for her; and she was proud of him and the sacrifice. Neither count nor prince was now found essential to her existence. Her husband's praise was worth the incense of a kneeling circle of sovereigns. Castleton was an English husband to her; she was an English wife to him, and the name includes all the names of love, honour, and happiness.

THE FRIGHT.

BY GEORGE G. WHITE.

While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped

Through many a listening chamber, cave, and ruin,

And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing

Hopes of high talk with the departed dead—

I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed—

I was not heard: I saw them not.

SHELLEY.

JOHN GRANT was a boy residing in the western part of Virginia, in his thirteeenth year, of mild pleasing deportment, and beloved by most of his acquaintances. One failing was apparent in his disposition, he was too strongly addicted to the marvellous. His brain was half turned from listening to the tales of an old nurse in the family, and reading romances and old ballads. He eagerly drank in stories of deformed witches,

" So withered and so wild in their attire That look not like the inhabitants o' earth And yet are on't,"

of elves that dance by moonlight, and of winged fairies

Gr.'H. C'OTLl • '

•MS IFIEITOrMS,

" In shape no bigger than the agate-stone, On the fore-finger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies, Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep."

He was taught by the nurse to believe the ignis fatuits, or " Jack o'Lantern," as it is vulgarly denominated, was an invisible fiend' carrying a lantern to allure travellers into the profound depths of bogs and morasses; and he would sit hours together in a wood near by, through the long moon-lit evenings, listening to the dim mysterious murmuring of the forest stream, and shaping the uncertain sounds into the infernal jabbering of witches, and the rustling foliage and voices of the numerous crickets, to the whispering and calls of the blithesome little fairies. Then he would start and listen with suspended breath, if a dry branch or withered leaf happened to give way and fall at his feet, or an owl hooted upon a neighbouring tree. Although he generally went upon these expeditions alone, yet sometimes he was accompanied by three other boys of nearly the same age as himself, and nearly if not quite as superstitious. The first one we shall introduce was of rather braver materials than his companions. His name was Philip Green. He loved stories of " goblins," and was so fond of reading, that after some persuasion he had prevailed upon his comrades to institute a library of ?.ll the romances and fairy 15

tales they could pick up, and retreat to some solitary place to read them.

The third, Andrew Thompson, was smaller than his associates, of interesting appearance and affectionate disposition; but participating as deeply in the follies of superstition as any of his comrades. The " last but not least," Robert Justice, was more talented than the others, and never had entered heartily into their romantic affairs. It is true he loved to listen to, or read their foolish tales; but it was only for amusement, and he believed as little of " Gulliver's Travels," " Voyages of Sinbad the Sailor," or tales of fiends and fairies, as any one.

On a pleasant morning in June, John Grant hastened over to Philip Green's, who resided nearer than the other two boys,—to inform him that he and his father were going that morning to town. He intimated that now was the time for increasing the stock of the library,—and that if Philip had any money laid by he should deposit it in his hands, and trust him for the character of the books he purchased. Philip however had but little " saved up," but as he observed "half a loaf is better than no bread," he willingly gave his " mite" to John. Luckily, John had a half-dollar his uncle had given him to buy a slate with;—but he put up with an old cracked one, so as to devote his money to a more congenial purpose. He then proceeded homeward

with light steps, and mounted the seat of his father's lumbering wagon with a merry heart.

On account of late rains his father took a different road from that which he generally pursued. It was a road John had never travelled before, and consequently he saw many new things to amuse him; now walking on beside the wagon, and then clambering in to rest himself. Once when walking in this way, he turned an abrupt corner in the road, and suddenly came before an old ruinous building of a zig-zag shape upon the edge of the forest. A gibbet-post and a ghastly head peering through one of the old worm-eaten windows, was all it wanted to impress upon the mind the idea that it was haunted, that some foul murder had been committed there, or that witches performed their unholy rites there. It was as gloomy, dark, and ancient looking as the wood behind it, and not a doubt existed in the mind of John, but that it was haunted. Suddenly the thought struck him that he and the other boys should meet there that night,—that is, if they could summon courage enough to attempt it, to read the books he was about to purchase. He resolved on his part to come, let what would happen. We will not describe his search through the streets of the town for books to please him; suffice to say, he bought two whose names alone were enough to fill one with horror. The one " Tales of Terror, or the Mysteries of

Magic," the other " Murders and Tragedies on the Land."

That afternoon was a proud one for him, when he

exhibited his trophies to his companions. They all

"agreed to proceed to the ruins or " haunted house"

as thej? called it, that night, which proved to be one

just fitted for such an expedition.

It had partly clouded up through the afternoon, and in the evening, masses of billowy clouds flitted gloomily across the face of the bright full moon. A low mournful breeze whispering among the tall grass or dancing among the forest trees, helped to give a tincture of romance to their expedition, and as it whistled among the hedges they would start fearfully around, as if they expected some grinning phantom or daring foot-pad, to start up in their path. Phil Green was the only one inclined to beguile their solitary walk by conversation, and Robert Justice after some time joined in with him.

"It's just the kind of night," said Green, "that ghosts walk, and I expect we'll see more than one to-night," "And," said Bob Justice, " what would be worse than that, I've read on such nights as this, thieves are about;—I guess however there are none in this neighbourhood, for I fear them more than ghosts."

" Goodness! Bob," said John, " I don't like you to say that. One might start right up here to revenge himself upon you."

" Yes, I've read the like," said Phil, " but I don't know but we'd be a match for any one ghost. A thing without flesh and blood against us four, all stout and strong. Poor odds."

"As for me," observed Andy Thompson, "I can't see what pleases you in this kind of talk. It makes a boy feel rather queer, at least it does me."

" O, pshaw," exclaimed Justice, " we'll not meet any hobgoblins to-night, I guess." " Well, I'd like to see one, for my part," said Green, '^just to see whether books tell the truth in describing them, or not."

" If we keep up this talk a little longer," said Grant, " ten chances to one we'll see one,—for in an old book of my father's, it says, ' talk of the devil and he appears,' and I guess it's pretty much the same way with goblins. But we had better walk up; it's getting late,—I promised to be in by ten at the farthest, and it must be near nine now."

The boys accordingly hastened up, and after walking smartly for a few minutes, they came in sight of the turn in the road the other side of which was the place of destination, which was soon pointed out by Grant, who led the party, and their walk soon increased into a run. Just as they turned the corner, the moon was hid by a cloud, so that nothing was distinguishable but a dark pile. After some moments' hesitation, Philip and Bob found the door and

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pushed it open; all inside was dark or nearly so, for the light of the moon by this time was totally obscured. Seeing nothing their courage revived, and the four boys proceeded noiselessly along a kind of entry, Justice and Green taking the lead. They had scarcely proceeded half a dozen steps when a loud knock immediately ahead startled the three hindmost boys, and an exclamation from Bob Justice frightened them so that they all three rushed to the door. At this moment the moon broke through the clouds and revealed the figure of Bob, rubbing his forehead from the effects of a blow he had received from a projecting beam.

" "Why, what's the matter with you!" he asked, " I only bumped my head against this piece of wood, —come on! here's another door."

" My gracious!" exclaimed Andy Thompson, " I thought to be sure some evil spirit, or something of the kind had knocked." " Well it wasn't. That's one comfort," said Phil, " so come in."

The boys now mounted three wooden steps, pushed open a door, and found themselves in a large room of the most ruinous appearance imaginable. The old rafters were cracked and threatened to give way every moment, while the roof was everywhere full of tremendous gaps, through which the moonbeams streamed mournfully in upon the four boys, which together with the light given in to windows

on one side rendered it light enough for them to read tolerably easily. The building had been used for a wood house, as billets and logs of wood lay scattered around. The boys soon found seats,—Andy Thompson on a large block, and the other three upon a pile of stones, and John Grant pulled the book out of his pocket.

" Who shall read?" he inquired. His voice echoed strangely through the old room.

" Why you; to be sure," said Phil, " you brought it; and you should read. Begin that story I pointed out to-day."

After some search the tale was found and John began. The commencement was not very terrible, and the boys began to breathe more freely. At last, however, it became more and more startling, and Andy, the most cowardly of the four, gazed fearfully round over his shoulder through the window, as if he expected a fiend to rise up in it. The reader had just come to the sentence:—

" The moon buried herself deeper into the clouds, and no light was shed upon the scene, but"—

Here he stopped, for the moon was again obscured and rendered it too dark to read. All around was silent; at length, Green was about to speak when an exclamation of fear from Andy attracted the attention of the party. " What's the matter?" they all inquired; Andy replied in a whisper:—

"As sure as I set here, there's something moving in that window."

All eyes were immediately directed in the quarter indicated, where something white was indistinctly visible, and nearly at the same moment, a low, dismal, half groan-like sound was emitted from the same place. The boys gazed fearfully upon each other, and then their gaze was again fixed upon the object in the window. Presently it moved,—and again the dreaded sound was repeated three several times. They were immovable from terror,—anon, a slight scratching was heard at the door, and a low noise not unlike the growling of a beast of prey. The boys sat quaking with fear,—the cold sweat stood on their brows, and Andy Thompson was nearly insensible,—John Grant was not in a much better condition. Bob Justice and Phil Green were not so bad, —indeed the latter after some time recovered so far as to speak; but had scarcely commenced in a hoarse whisper, when the scratching at the door began again so much louder than before, that he involuntarily stopped. Affairs were now growing serious, and the two most " chicken-hearted" of the four were sick from terror, and the book had fallen from the nerveless hand of John. However, Philip Green, at last summoning up all his courage, with a great effort, before his companions were aware of what he was about to do, sprang up and threw the door wide

open. A shriek instantly broke forth from the boys, as something in the shape of a four-footed monster bounded in with a loud cry, not unlike the bark of a dog, which the frighted boys converted into the exulting cry of a demon who is about to gain his

prey There was a pause —and then Bob

Justice, uttering a joyful cry, exclaimed, " Why it is Carlo! he's followed us from home."

Sure enough, it was the dog. A noise again proceeded from the window, and their eyes were again directed there —then there was a flattering sound, and a large owl sprang from the ledge and soared away.

" Ha! ha! ha!" cried Phil and Bob, " no goblin after all."

" What's the matter with Andy," inquired the latter. " Andy! Andy! don't be afraid, 'tis nothing."

But the poor boy was insensible. After some attentions, however, on the part of his alarmed companions he recovered his health and strength; but his mind was gone, —the shock had been too much for his reason. He had fallen a victflfc to the follies of superstition, and remained an idiot for life.

THE DESERTED CHATEAU.

FROM THE FHEXCH.

THERE stands, about a hundred yards from the small town of Vendome, on the banks of the Loire, an old, lone, and weather-stained mansion, with tall gable-ends and elevated roof. What has once been a garden, extending towards the river, lies in melancholy neglect around it; and there, the yew and the box-tree, which marked its winding alleys and formal terraces, once closely and neatly clipped, now spread forth in overgrown luxuriance. Noxious weeds display their rank but beautiful vegetation along the sloping banks of the stream; and the overhanging fruit-trees, having had the pruning-knife withheld from them for the last ten long years, produce but a scanty and ungathered crop. The espaliers are grown in labyrinths; the walks, once gravelled, have become grassy, and their traces are nearly lost. Yet, from the top of the mountain, where hang the ruins of the old chateau of the dukes of Vendome, the only height whence the eye may penetrate into this inclosure, it is not difficult to recognize the pleasure-grounds and gardens which, in times past, formed, perhaps, the chief pride and re-

creation of some ancient gentleman of the old regime, devoted to the culture of his roses and dahlias; and there may be seen the remains of a rustic summer-house, with its moss-grown seals and worm-eaten table. A sun-dial, whose pedestal is fast falling into decay, stands near the entrance, with this quaint inscription;

Fugit hora brevis.

A sentiment that does not tend to decrease the melancholy associations which the sight of so desolate and ruined a scene must awaken. The chateau itself is much out of repair; the window-shutters, always fast closed, exclude the air from the dismantled apartments, and the summer's dew, the winter's snow, the damp and the dry, have combined to blacken the timbers, stain the ceilings, and discolour the paint. The doors are never opened; tall weeds have sprun^ up among the interstices of the flight of steps which leads to the principal entrance of the building, and the fastenings are encrusted with rust. The silence of this desolate abode remains unbroken, save by the twittering of the birds, which have built a hundred nests in the balconies, or the voice of the solitary vermin, now its sole inhabitants, that come and go in uninterrupted security. On a summer's evening, the owl may be heard hooting from the broken casements, as if to assert her ri^ht of possession; and the

bat flaps its dark wings, like the evil genius ol" the place, among the ivy, which hangs its pendants irom the ruined walls. There is neither life nor br ght-ness about this deserted mansion; all is gloomy, -ind empty, and silent. It seems as if an invisible hind had everywhere traced the word "Mystery!" L is, however, said to have been a small fief, and bears the name of La Grande Breteche: its history being known but to few—those few shrink from a further investigation into its dark secrets.

* * * * * * * * On a cold and cheerless evening in the autumn of 1816, as the notary of Vendome was preparing to retire to rest, a carriage drove hastily up to his door, and word was brought him that the Comtesse de Merset desired his immediate attendance at La Grande Breteche. She was not expected to live through the night, and had just received extreme unction at the hands of her confessor. Rumour said the comtesse and her lord had been living together in the most singular manner during the past six months. They gave admittance to none, and the comtesse resided entirely in her own suite of apartments at one end of the mansion, while the comte confined himself to the other. But a short time before that, at which the notary was summoned to attend the death-bed of the comtesse, the Comte de Merset had suddenly left the chateau, and gone to

Paris, where, after leading a life, it was asserted, of great excess, he had lately died. On the day of his departure, the comtesse had caused the chateau to be almost entirely dismantled, most of the furniture, pictures, and tapestry burnt, or otherwise completely destroyed; and from that moment, had secluded herself within its walls, never emerging from them but to attend mass in the neighbouring church. She refused admittance to all who either from interest or curiosity called upon her; her doors being opened to her confessor alone, whose visits were said to be long and frequent. It was whispered among the gossips of the town, that she was also much changed in appearance; but through the impenetrable black veil she wore when attending mass, the curious vainly strove to ascertain whether this rumour was well or ill founded.

While still in the prime of her youth and loveliness, and one of the richest heiresses in Vendome, the Comte de Merset had been fortunate enough to gain her hand. The world had constantly spoken of them as of an attached and happy couple, though it was hinted the husband's affection was of rather a jealous tendency; but this might, or might not be, the fact, as it was not easily susceptible of proof, and the gentle and engaging manners of the lovely comtesse won all hearts. The sudden change that had lately taken place in her conduct, had not failed to 16

raise many conjectures as to its cause; and by some, madness had been assigned as a sufficient explanation. She was now dying, and no one had even heard she was ill; for she had herself refused all medical aid, feeling, perhaps, her state too hopeless, to allow of human assistance proving of any avail.

It was near midnight, when the notary reached La Grande Breteche, and ascended its dark and lofty staircase. Passing through various large and desolate apartments, wholly deprived of furniture, or of the appearance of being inhabited, cold, damp, and cheerless, around which the light held by the attendant threw a deeper shade, he at length reached the state chamber, where lay the dying comtesse, stretched on a bed whose rich satin hangings and dark waving plumes shed so deep a gloom, it was some time before the eye rested upon its tenant. One strong ray of light, however, from a lamp placed on a small table near her, on which, also, stood an ivory and ebony crucifix, fell upon the white pillows that supported her pale form. The rest of the furniture in the apartment consisted only of a conch for the confidential attendant, and two large fauteuils. Though the night was chill and tempestuous, there was no fire on the wide hearth, and the walls being hung with dark arras, the gloom was unbroken.

On approaching the bed, the notary nearly started

at the sight of the spectral figure within. The comtesse was sitting almost upright, supported by pillows; her large, dark, and glazing eyes immove-ahly fixed in their sockets, seemed already those of the dead; her face was of the hue of a waxen image; her fine black hair, parted across her pale, damp brow, was in parts intermingled with gray, though her years did not exceed thirty, and her hands were painfully shrivelled; the skin was stretched tightly over the bones, and the veins and muscles distinctly visible. Her whole form, thin to emaciation, still bore the traces of past beauty, although it was almost impossible to imagine how any human creature could have retained life in so frail a tenement. She was worn to a shadow by fever—fever which had struck directly at the root of her existence. Her lips were of a violet colour, and when she spoke, they scarcely moved sufficiently to show that they had life; and the upper one, which was beautifully formed, was marked by that soft, dark shade, which is the sign of a naturally strong constitution, and forcibly showed the intensity of the sufferings through which she must have passed, before arriving at that state of artificial existence, now so near the period of its termination. The notary, in the course of his profession, had seen many dying persons; but, their expiring agonies, nay, even the tears and despair of whole sorrowing families, had failed of making the

impression upon him, which the sight of that lady, alone, and perishing in the silence of her vast and deserted chateau, had done on this fearful night. The whole scene lay before his eyes like a picture of the dead, for not a living sound interrupted the awful stillness of the place; even the respiration of the expiring comtesse was so low as to be inaudible, and stirred not the sheets which covered her scarce animated form. At length, her large glassy eyes moved; she made an effort to raise her right hand, but it fell again powerless on the coverlet; words like faint breathings issued from her lips, for her voice was soundless and extinct.

" I have waited long and impatiently for you," she said, and a faint flush passed over her cheek with the effort to address him.

" Lady," the notary began; but she made a sign to him to be silent; at the same moment, her attendant hastily rose from her chair, and approaching him, whispered, " Speak not."

The notary obeyed, and placed himself on the seat she motioned him to take. A few moments after, Madame de Merset, collecting all her powers for one last effort, succeeded in getting her hand underneath her pillow. For an instant, she paused exhausted, then, with another violent exertion, withdrew from it a sealed packet: large drops stood upon her brow, as she feebly addressed her attentive listener.

" I confide to you my will," she said, and a low cry, feeble as that of a new-born infant's, burst from her lips at these words. " Oh! my God! pardon!" she murmured, snatching a crucifix which lay on the bed beside her, and carrying it rapidly to her lips, expired.

Previously there had been suffering and intense sorrow in her eye, but her last look was one of joy; and the bright expression remained fixed on her countenance after death.

When the will was opened, it was found that the Comtesse de Merset had nominated the notary of Vendome her executor, leaving all her large property, with the exception of a few legacies, to the Hospital of Vendome. Her dispositions with regard to La Grande Breteche were very particular, and excited much surprise. The chateau and all its appurtenances were to be left, for the space of fifty years from the day of her death, exactly in the same state in which they then were. All the apartments were to be strictly shut up, and no person whatever allowed to enter them, upon any pretext; no repairs to be permitted, either about the chateau or gardens, but all was to be suffered to fall into the natural state of decay, which so long a period as that named would not fail to bring upon them. If, at the end of the term, the wishes of the testatrix should have been strictly complied with, La Grande Breteche was to

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become the property of the notary or his heirs for ever; should they, however, have been neglected, it reverted to the comtesse's next heirs-at-law; who, as well as the notary, were charged with the fulfilment of certain dispositions annexed in a codicil, the seal of which was not to be broken till the expiration of the above space of time.

Many years passed away; and with them much of the interest and curiosity excited by the description which the notary failed not to give of the Comtesse de Merset's death-bed, her strange testament, and the subsequent decay and ruin of her once beautiful chateau. At length, an incident occurred, which, by throwing light on her mysterious history, revived in some degree the curiosity of the public. A priest belonging to a neighbouring monastery had been summoned to shrive a dying woman of the name of Rosalie Lebas, when a strange and fearful secret was revealed to him; an account of which was found among his papers at his death, a short time after, by the superior of his convent. The following are the facts which was thus elicited.

About six months prior to her death, the Comtesse de Merset, having been seriously indisposed, occupied a separate suite of apartments from those of the comte, at La Grande Breteche. Her sleeping room looked upon the river, and had sash windows opening upon the lawn, which sloped pleasantly to-

wards its banks. Within this apartment was a small recess with a glass door, which served as an oratory; it was about four feet square, and constructed within the thickness of the wall. On the night in question, by one of those strange fatalities for which there is no explanation, the comte returned home two hours later than usual, from a club where he usually spent his evenings in reading the papers or discussing politics. The invasion of France had formed the leading topic of conversation, and the subject for a long and animated discussion; after which, being already excited by argument, the comte had lost a considerable sum at billiards. On returning home, he had usually satisfied himself, for some time past, by asking the comtesse's attendant, Rosalie, if her lady were retired to rest, ere he proceeded to his own apartments; but, on this night, it occurred to him he would visit her himself that he might recount his ill luck. Accordingly, instead of summoning Rosalie, he proceeded directly to the chamber of the comtesse. His well-known step resounded along the corridor, and at the instant he turned the handle of the door, he fancied he heard that of the oratory within, closed suddenly: but, when he entered the apartment, he saw Madame de Merset standing before the hearth, on which smouldered the embers of a half-extinguished fire. It immediately occurred to him it must have been Rosalie who went into the

oratory, from which, however, there was no egress but through the comtesse's apartments. Yet a suspicion of a darker nature, nevertheless, crossed his imagination, like a sudden flash of dazzling light, which could not be extinguished. He looked fixedly at his wife; and there seemed a troubled expression in her eye as she avoided his searching glance.

" You are late to-night," she said: and there was a slight tremor in her voice, usually so clear and musical.

The comte did not reply, for at that instant, as if to strengthen the horrid thoughts which possessed his secret soul, Rosalie entered the room. Turning abruptly from her, he folded his arms moodily across his breast, and impetuously but mechanically paced the apartment.

" You are ill, my lord, I fear —or bring you evil tidings?" gently inquired the comtesse, as Rosalie proceeded to undress her. But he still continued silent. " You may retire," added Madame de Merset to her attendant, for she foresaw something more than usual was gathering on the disturbed brow of her lord, and she wished to meet it alone.

As soon as Rosalie was gone, or supposed to be so, for she took care to remain within hearing, M. de Merset approached his lady, and said, coldly, with an attempt at serenity, though his lips trembled

and his whole face was pale with emotion, " Some one is concealed within that oratory."

The comtesse looked calmly, and somewhat proudly, at her husband; and simply answered, "No! my lord."

That No smote like a knife across his heart, for he dared not believe her: and yet, never had she seemed more pure to him, than at that moment. He was advancing a step towards the door of the oratory, as if to convince himself, when the comtesse, placing her hand upon his arm, arrested him; and, looking at him for a moment, with an expression of deep melancholy, said, in a voice which trembled with emotion,

" Should you find no one there, remember, all must be at an end between us for ever!"

And there was an ineffable dignity in her look and manner which awed the comte's suspicions, and made him pause in his purpose.

"No, Josephine!" he exclaimed, "I open not that door, as, guilty or innocent, we then must part. But listen: I know all thy purity of heart, and the sanctity of the life thou leadest:—thou wouldst not commit a mortal sin at the expense of thy soul!"— She looked at him wildly.—" Here is thy crucifix— take it!—-swear to me, before that image, there is no one there, and I will never seek to enter."

The comtesse took the crucifix and murmured— " I swear."

" Louder!" said her husband, and repeat —" I swear before the Virgin, there is no one concealed in that oratory."

And she repeated the words of the oath without any visible emotion.

" 'Tis well:" M. de Merset coldly said; then added, after a moment's silence—his eye resting upon the crucifix she had just laid down, which was of ebony and silver, and of exquisite workmanship —" You have something there, which I never saw before, or knew that you possessed."

" I met with it accidentally at Duvivier's, who bought it of one of the Spanish prisoners of war, when they passed through Vendome on their way to the frontier."

"Ah!" said the comte, replacing the crucifix on its gilt nail over the chimney-piece: in doing which, at the same moment, he rang the bell. Rosalie came immediately. M. de Merset advanced to meet her, and leading her into the embrasure of the window which opened upon the lawn, abruptly, and in an under tone said, " I understand that poverty alone prevents your union with Philippe, and that you have declared your intention not to become his wife until he shall have found the means of establishing himself in his business as a master mason. Now,

mark me!—go seek him!—bring him hither with his tools. Let him do what I desire, and his fortune shall surpass your utmost wishes. But take especial care to wake no one besides himself in the house:— above all, let not a word escape your lips—a whisper, and " His brow darkened as he looked

menacingly upon her; she was about to leave the room to obey his orders, when he added: " Hold! take my passepartout." He then called "Louis!" in a voice of thunder, along the corridor. Louis, his confidential servant, appeared at the hasty summons of his master, who added, in the same tone of authority, " Get you all to bed!" Then making a sign for him to approach nearer, and lowering his voice, " When they shall be all asleep— asleep, mind, you come and inform me of it."

During none of these extraordinary arrangements had the comte once lost sight of his lady; and when he had finished giving his orders, he returned to where she was seated by the fireside.

When Rosalie re-entered the room, she found the comte and comtesse conversing together, to all appearance mechanically.

" Philippe is here, monsieur," said Rosalie.

" 'Tis well," answered her master, " bid him enter."

The comtesse grew slightly pale on seeing the mason.

" Philippe," said the comte, " you will find materials in the court-yard for walling up the door of yonder cabinet."

And drawing Rosalie and her lover aside: " Listen, Philippe," he continued, " you remain here to-night, but to-morrow you will receive from me a passport which shall enable you to leave this place for some distant town in a foreign land, which I will indicate. I give you the sum of 6000 francs for your journey; and you will remain ten years either in the town to which I shall direct you, or in any other you may yourself select, provided you continue in the country in which it is. situated. But you will first proceed hence, to Paris, where you will await my arrival; then, I will insure you the possession of another 6000 francs, to be paid you, on your return from your expatriation, provided you have strictly complied with my conditions. At this price, understand, whatever you may be called upon to do this night, must remain for ever secret. For you, Rosalie," he continued, turning towards her as he spoke, " I will settle 10,000 francs on you, the day of your marriage with Philippe: but, mark me, this promise is made on the sole condition of your marrying him"

At this moment, the comtesse's voice was heard calling to Rosalie; and the comte, turning away, proceeded quietly to pace the apartment, apparently watching the movements of his wife, Rosalie, and

the mason, but without allowing any indications of suspicion to be discernible. Philippe, meanwhile, in pursuance of the task imposed on him, made a considerable degree of noise; and, seizing his chance of her voice not reaching the ears of the comte, who had just attained the further end of the chamber, the comtesse hurriedly addressed Rosalie, in a tone that was scarcely above a whisper, "A hundred crowns yearly, for thy life, are thine," she said, " if thou canst only obtain one crevice there," pointing to the door of the oratory, which Philippe had commenced building up with brick and plaster. Then, in a louder voice, and with a fearful calmness as her husband approached she added, " Go, Rosalie, to the assistance of Philippe."

The husband and wife, as by a sort of tacit agreement, remained mutually silent during the time employed in filling up the doorway. This silence might perhaps have been assumed, on the part of the comte, to prevent the comtesse from having it in her power to convey any double meaning in her words; while, on her side, it might have been pride, or prudence, perhaps, which prevented her from breaking it. By this time, the wall being about halfway completed, the artful mason, seizing his opportunity when the comte's back was turned towards the scene of his operations, struck a blow on the door of the cabinet which shattered one of the panes 17

of glass. This action gave Madame de Merset to understand the success of the intelligence which subsisted between Rosalie and her lover; and casting a glance of intense anxiety towards the now darkened aperture, the mason, as well as herself, beheld within it, the dark and handsome countenance of a man, whose intrepid look of courage and devotion fell upon her pale and guilty countenance. Ere her husband turned again in his walk, she had made a hasty sign to the stranger, which seemed to say, There is yet hope!

It was near daybreak, that is to say, about four o'clock, for it was the month of May, ere the construction was completed; and the mason having been delivered to the care of Louis, the comte and com-tesse retired to rest.

The next morning, on rising, the comte seized his hat, and making a step towards the door, said, with the utmost appearance of indifference, he must go to the mayoralty for a passport. Then, suddenly turning back, as his eye chanced to rest upon the crucifix, he took it from the chimney-piece, and, as he did so, a thrill of satisfaction passed through the bosom of the comtesse. " He is going to Duvi-vier's-," she thought, " and will be the longer ab-

sent."

Scarcely had he left the apartment, when she rang the bell violently, to summon Rosalie; and in a voice

that was rendered fearful by excess of agitation, cried, " to work! to work!" Then franticly seizing an iron bar, which Rosalie by her direction brought for the purpose, commenced demolishing the yet un-dried work of Philippe. Desperate were her efforts, in the hopes of being able to repair the destruction of the walled-up doorway, before the dreaded return of the comte. Despair lent her energy, and a voice within, which penetrated to her sharpened and her nervous ear alone, encouraged her to proceed. Already a part of the brickwork had yielded, and she was in the act of applying a yet more vigorous blow for the removal of the remaining impediments, when the comte, pale and menacing, stood before her. She shrieked not—spoke not—but fell insensible on the floor.

" Place your lady on her bed," M. de Merset coldly said. The truth was, he had foreseen the probable result of his absence; and had accordingly laid a snare, into which his wretched wife had but too surely fallen. He had written to the mayor, and sent for Duvivier; who arrived just as the com-t^sse's apartment was again restored to order, and herself recovered from her swoon.

"Duvivier," said the comte addressing the unconscious jeweller, " did you receive this crucifix from any of the Spanish officers who passed through

this town as prisoners of war, on their way to the frontier, a short time since?"

" I did not, monsieur, nor have I ever seen it before," was the reply.

" Enough—I thank you," rejoined the comte, calmly restoring the relic to its former place; then, as the jeweller left the room, he desired Louis to see that his repasts were served regularly in the apartments of the comtesse, " who is too ill," continued he, " for me to think of leaving her till her health is in some degree re-established."

And for fifteen days, did the Comte de Merset continue to keep watch over her. During the first six, a noise was from time to time heard in that closed-up cabinet, which struck terror to the soul of the guilty woman, and horror and despair crept through her veins; but, when she would have thrown herself at his feet to implore for mercy on herself and the stranger that was dying there, without allowing her to give utterance to the agonized prayer which rose to her parched lips, with a fierce and cruel emphasis he checked her, saying, " You have sworn on that crucifix, there is no one there."

"HOW OLD ART THOU?"*

COUNT not the days that have idly flown,

The years that were vainly spent, Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own, When thy spirit stands before the throne,

To account for the talents lent.

But number the hours redeemed from sin, The moments employ'd for heaven;— Oh, few and evil thy days have been, Thy life, a toilsome but worthless scene, For a noble purpose given.

Will the shade go back on thy dial plate?

Will thy sun stand still on his way? Both hasten on; and thy spirit's fate %

Rests on the point of life's little date:

Then live while 'tis call'd to-day.

Life's waning hours, like the Sybil's page,

As they lessen, in value rise; Oh rouse thee and live! nor deem that man's age Stands in the length of his pilgrimage,

But in days that are truly wise.

* Genesis, chap, xlvii. 8.

HIT OR MISS.

BY F. HUDSON.

A REGULAR, go-ahead Yankee maxim, which is in the mouth, and has made the fortune of more than one enterprising New-Englander, is, " nothin' like try in'." Well, to be sure there is nothing like trying, if you confine yourself to proper objects, and do not apply the maxim to games of chance. But the best proverbs, maxims, adages, and so forth, will be misapplied. The meaning of the Bible itself has been misrepresented by evil men. Many persons pounce upon some old saw that has, like the one above, been in every one's mouth for half a score of centuries, stretch its application to an extravagant degree to suit their purblind views of their own interest, and, by making it their maxim through life, finally ruin themselves. This is just what Charles p did.

Charles was a friend of mine, and a fine manly fellow he was too. He and I were schoolfellows. His great peculiarity was, that whenever risking any great venture, he would stop, clap his finger very sagely to the side of his nose, and consider the chances pro and con; if there were one in his favour

ea

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he would exclaim, " Well, nothing like trying! Hit or miss, here goes." He certainly was the luckiest fellow I ever met with. He was almost uniformly successful. This rushing blindfold into the midst of the territory of chance was bad enough in the small ventures of a schoolboy; but as he made a farther step in life, it soon became evident that he was determined on his own ruin. The first time that he ever risked any money I recollect well. We were going out on foot, our resources not being very magnificent, to the distance of some seven or eight miles from the town where we resided, to visit a friend of ours. We stopped on our way at an inn to speak with the keeper, with whom we were acquainted. As we were talking, a stout, hard-featured old farmer came lounging in with a goose hanging on his arm. He was returning from the market, so he told the master of the house, having sold every thing but his goose. He wanted to get rid of it some how or other with profit, but no one was disposed to buy. At length, a raffle being proposed and eagerly agreed to by all parties, it was decided that there should be. six tickets at a quarter of a dollar each, and to be, as visual, shaken up in a hat from which each should draw his lot. Three were taken by two grinning countrymen and a brisk mjller; it was of course expected that I would take one. I felt to be sure very much inclined that way, but on reflecting on the

chances against me, I came to the conclusion that I would not risk my quarter, which I could not afford to let go for nothing; besides, I looked upon raffling as no better than gaming. So I refused, much to the anger and disappointment of the old farmer. He then turned to Charles and presented him with a ticket,—talking garrulously at the same time of the magnificence of his goose, and the extreme probability there was of his drawing, and so forth; which eloquence I perceived had a marvellous effect upon him. He looked at me, but I shook my head gravely; then looked at the goose, whose plump beauty produced such an intense and overpowering effect, that he actually began to count his money. He produced first a quarter of a dollar, then a dime, then a cent, and that was all he could show. He looked at his little store and sighed, and then at the goose and sighed again. I saw he was counting the chances of his success, and endeavoured by grave looks to dissuade him, but uselessly; for, after full ten minutes hesitation, he exclaimed as usual, " Well, hit or miss, I'll risk it," and so he did, and won the goose.

Shortly after this little affair we separated, Charles going to New York and entering a counting-house, and I to Yale to finish my education. During the interval that we were thus separated I heard frequently of him. His rage for risking money to

chance seemed to grow on him every day. He certainly did not exactly gamble, but he came within an ace of it, as will be seen from the following:—A party of young men, five in number, made a wager with another party of young men six in number, on the result of a boat-race they were to have. The wager was three hundred dollars a side, to which each was to contribute fifty. As the first party wanted one to make up their number, they waited on Charles to persuade him to join. " We'll be sure to beat them," said they. "We are, to be sure, nearly matched in strength and skill; but then the boat we have engaged is as much superior to theirs as the sun is to the moon, so that we can't help beating them. You will gain fifty dollars by it. You have only to put in your share to make up the wager of three hundred." Charles hesitated a long time, but as usual it ended in his risking his money, " hit or miss." The boats were to start from a country seat on the island, row up the river some distance, turn a buoy, and so come down again. Each party hired an experienced coxswain, and had every thing complete before the eventful day, which was to decide the fate of their several fifties. Of course it came very soon, and the race began in the presence of a good many people, whom this news had brought together. Our hero's party pulled with might and main, and by the time they reached the buoy, were full two boat's length

ahead. Now came the display of skill in the two coxswains. Horrible to tell—that of the foremost ran the boat right against the buoy, and while the crew were engaged in reviling him and in disentangling the boat, their antagonists shot far ahead and won. The plain fact is, that their coxswain had been bribed, j. In due time Charles entered business for himself, whilst I commenced practising medicine in the same city. He was drawn into a great many wild speculations, all of which he rushed into, " hit or miss," sometimes winning, sometimes losing. On the whole however he became rich; and in time married a beautiful and wealthy girl, who died two years after her marriage, leaving him childless.

The slight check which she had kept upon his wild speculative disposition being now removed, he, having recovered from the shock which her death had given him, again resumed his old course. He turned his attention to the speculations in stocks, by which several of his acquaintance had made large fortunes. He examined with attention an institution in which the stocks were at that time very low. He looked cautiously into the state of its affairs, and, for the first time in his life, acted with some prudence. He did not go headlong into the business, " hit or miss." He saw that the institution was sound, that the stock must rise, and that there was no miss at all in the matter;—it was all hit. He invested every

cent of his fortune,—about fifty thousand dollars. As he had foreseen the stock suddenly rose, he sold out, and found himself worth full eighty thousand. I waited on him among the first to congratulate him on his success, and I advised him to invest his ample fortune in real estate, and to retire from business. But I found him mad for speculations in stocks. Of course with his admirable success, the sober sense which he had shown in his first disposition of his money, was gone. He could talk of nothing, think of nothing, dream of nothing but speculations,— speculations. He was convinced of his luck. He was a Caesar,—a Napoleon in fortune. He had never in his life lost a venture. I ventured to remind him of the boat-race. " Pugh that was a trifle:—besides, the coxswain was bribed!" I went away deeply grieved, for I was certain that his ruin was at hand. I returned home, revolving in my mind all the different available stocks, in which I now became as intensely interested as Charles himself, though from different motives. Two days after this I received a note from my friend, informing me that he was going to invest nearly his whole fortune .in a stock, which presented more plausible appearances than even that by which he had made his first speculation. I was now seriously alarmed on his account. I travelled all over the city, gathering what information I could with regard to this institu-

tion, and I found that what I had suspected was the case; that it was rotten; the stock good for nothing, and the directors a pack of rascals who threw a specious colouring over their affairs so as to make them appear sound, to persons who in matters of stock were verdant like Charles. I went round to his house in the greatest anxiety, and pointed out to him the reasons why the institution was unsound, but my advice was received with poohs and pshaws, and, to cut a long story short, he " hit or miss" invested his whole fortune, with the exception of one or two thousand dollars, in the pretty bubble.

The result was exactly what might have been expected. The institution burst; the stock fell and fell until it at length became unsaleable. Charles's handsome fortune of eighty thousand was reduced to two. So much was lost by " hit or miss."

The creditors rushed upon him like hungry wolves. Every thing was lost—every thing, except one horse—a beautiful and swift trotter—part of his former splendid stud — which I know not how he managed to save.

In this distress he called upon me, and imparted to me his mad plan for recovering his fortune, and his object in retaining the steed. He told me he knew a young man who had a good many horses, and who was eternally racing. He proposed to challenge him to race upon the road for a large sum of

money. He was sure to win, he said. His horse was immensely superior to any the other owned:— and in this way—by gambling, he was going to make a nice little capital to begin again the world. Again I took upon me the task of a Mentor. I pointed out to him the guilt of the means he intended to pursue, and the chances against him on the road; and then I advised him to sell his horse, and with the proceeds of the sale, and what money I could lend him, to go to some other place, to enter as clerk in a counting-house, or to open a little store, or take some other sure and honest means of gaining money. But no, no; he must make money at once; —he would not borrow; and he was sure of winning; but, even if he were not, " win or lose,—hit or miss, he'd risk it." I did my best to persuade him, but it was of no use; he was determined.

Two or three days af.er this distressing interview, I was in one of the most romantic spots on the romantic road to S , some miles from the city.

The road was beautifully level—I was sitting on a stone bridge thrown across a ravine, worn to a great depth by a stream which howled and tore through it with wild and terrible though magnificent effect. The road I said was level; and it was strange, as the scenery was rather mountainous. I was sitting on the parapet of the bridge indulging in those pleasing emotions which fine scenery always induces in us, 18

when I saw trotting furiously towards me, two sulkeys. As they drew near I recognized the two racers, and woe is me, Charles was full a length behind. I saw his eye; it was wild,—almost insane; his face was haggard;—the race was hopelessly lost, and nothing but debt and imprisonment remained to him. As he drew nearer he rose in his seat and threw a glance over the parapet of the bridge. Then first I saw his desperate, his impious resolve. I rushed forward to seize his horse, but too late—too late;—he drove violently against the parapet,— sprung over, down,—down into the dark boiling water beneath. That wretched suicide! His plan had been deeply laid! His vehicle was dashed to pieces, and it was supposed it was an accident. No eye but mine saw the speculator rush wilfully into the presence of his Creator.

THE NEW DOCTOR.

A PLEASANT, pretty village is the village of Sutton Hill—built literally upon a hill; one long wide street straggling from the shady bottom, more than halfway up, to the top—interspersed with two or three tall groups of Lombardy poplars, a few magnificent elms, and here and there a venerable hawthorn, rich, in the happy month of May, both in leaf and flower. The village dwellings peep in and out from amid these noble trees, in all the variety of hue and colour belonging to their respective classes. There is the grocer's—so called, because that is the more dignified of his several callings—but, in fact, it is the general shop, the multifarious dispensary of the village, famous for excellent butter, and the finest honey within ten miles round; there it stands, built of red brick, glowing and glaring in the summer sun, the window-frames and door-posts painted a bright blue, and the step of spotless white, upon which step stands the worthy grocer himself, glowing and glaring as his own red brick—there stands honest Jack Flare!—Flare!—what a curious association of name and colour! A little farther on, where that stray branch of the finest hawthorn forms a natural garland

over the pretty bow-window, and seated in its shadow, her head bent over her work, sits Mrs. Lus-combe, the widow of a half-pay lieutenant, with three little children to clothe, and feed, and educate, upon forty pounds a year! No wonder, although her industrious dwelling contains only four rooms—two on each floor—she tries to let the "drawing-rooms." Ay, smile away, courteous reader, and smile again, when I tell you that those two rooms are cheerful, clean, pleasant! and so sweetly furnished! the dimity curtains so white, and the prettiest of French beds, adorned with netted fringe—of various widths, it is true—and yet so tastefully looped up, that Patty Pratee—(what an appropriate name again! Patty Pratee, the news-vender and licensed scandal-monger of the place, who lives yonder in the untidy dwelling, surmounted by a long poking chimney that appears to be looking down every chimney in the village!)— Patty Pratee herself praised the fringe to Jack Flare— (Qy. was it genuine, disinterested praise?)—Jack Flare being known to have a strong affection towards his lady-like neighbour, pale Mrs. Luscombe—an affection which would long ago have ripened into " will you marry me?" but for the patent of gentility supposed to be possessed by a curate's daughter and an officer's widow, often, poor things! to their great discomfort.

" I never could think her a beauty," said Patty,

" though the squire looks oftener al her than the pulpit of a Sunday; but she certainly sets off" her house—to be sure it takes up a deal of time. But I'm thinking, Master Flare, she'll have a let this summer, for I saw a tall, thin, handsomish man go in there, not an hour ago; and as I repassed to get my numperalla "

" Umbrealla!" interrupted Master Flare, looking up at the spotless sky; " why, what put it into your head to want an umbrealla to-day?"

" Umph!" replied the magpie, " wise people always take it in fine weather. He was sitting in the drawing-room with one of the children on his

o

knee—mighty free, I thought, for a stranger."

Master Flare did feel a little uncomfortable, but he did not pretend to, knowing well the habit of his companion.

" Have you heard of the cricket-match between the Sutton Hill lads and those of Harleyfordown? Lucy Grant—the old doctor's Lucy—ah, Master Flare! Master Flare! depend upon it it's a bad world we live in; I never knew an old doctor without a pretty maid-servant—there's proof positive "

" Of what?" again interrupted the grocer.

" Oh, modesty!" exclaimed the antiquated lady, holding up her hands; and as she spoke, on the snowy step we before mentioned stood the very gen-

18*

tleman she had seen in Mrs. Luscombe's drawing-room.

"Have you lodgings to let here?" he inquired in a ripe rich voice, whose very tone commanded respect.

" No, sir," replied the man of figs.

" I'm sure," chimed Patty, " Master Flare, you might let your first floor."

" No, sir, no," he replied to the stranger's look; "no, sir, I like to keep my house to myself; but there is very good accommodation at the Chequers, the green public-house with lead-coloured doors and the red horse-trough, higher up the hill than Mrs. Luscombe's, the widow lady's."

" No, I want a private lodging."

" The old doctor," again chimed in the old maid; "the old doctor, I heard say, he would let, only for company's sake."

" The doctor—a mere village doctor—no, that would be worse and worse; besides, there are reasons against that. No, I should not like the doctor's. The village appears large; are there no houses that let lodgings?"

" Mrs. Luscombe," reiterated Patty.

The gentleman shook his head.

" Well, there is the sawyer's, in the glen; they let the back room—a pleasant look-out right over the

saw-pit, and the river in the distance, if you don't mind the noise of the sawing, at a little after four."

" Thank you," said the stranger, quietly; " that will not do."

"Then, sir," continued the grocer, "I know of nothing else, except the old doctor's."

" I think," replied the stranger, smiling, " the old doctor and myself have served too long under the same standard to agree; we have unhappily dealt in the same commodity," he added, smiling.

Patty and Master Flare exchanged looks as the stranger bade them good morning and sauntered up the hill.

" Served under the same master," repeated Patty, casting up her hands and eyes, " that must be either the devil or death."

" Dealt in the same commodity!" ejaculated Master Flare, " I wonder was it in the wholesale or retail line? and I wonder, altogether, who he is?"

" I'll find out from Mrs. Luscombe or the children, of that I'm positive," persisted Patty, pulling out the strings of her bonnet. " I hardly think—though it is a very strange world indeed to live in—yet I hardly think Mrs. Luscombe would suffer her children to be nursed and kissed by a mere stranger." But Patty was out in her calculation; Mrs. Luscombe said that she certainly knew who the gentleman was, but till he told his own name, the did not feel at liberty

to mention it. Oh! the infinity of gossip and anxiety this declaration cost the inhabitants of Button Hill; and how it was repeated, and adjusted, and debated, and canvassed, and every thing but improved; the village was in an uproar, but nobody conjectured what the result would really be, until the " strange gentleman" astonished them all by taking a very beautiful cottage ornee, which overlooked the dale and a considerable extent of country. Master Flare was not the only person who wondered that a gentleman who could afford to take Daleview, ever thought of " looking for lodgings;" and curiosity was at its height when the London coach deposited a quantity of respectable luggage, and a stiff, stately, upright-looking servant, out of livery, at the Chequers, all being the property of Mr. Harrang, of Daleview cottage.

" There's the name, at all events, Mrs. Lus-combe," exclaimed Patty, in an exulting tone, as she upraised herself from decyphering the direction on an overgrown packing-case. " There's the name, madam, without no thanks to nobody. H-a-r-r-a-n-g."

" Harrang!" repeated Mrs. Luscombe, as she led her little girl on her morning's walk; " Harrang! what a harsh-sounding name; I never heard it before."

" Never heard it before!" screamed the persevering Patty; " well, that is something extraordinary. Never heard it before, when you, with your own

lips, told me, ma'am, that you did not consider yourself at liberty to mention it until he did so first."

" Who?" inquired Mrs. Luscombe, with a bewildered look; " of whom do you speak?"

"Why of Mr. Harrang, of Daleview—People-view it might be called; not a thing passes in the town but he can see from his bed-room window."

" Oh! Miss Patty, what a shame to encroach on your prerogative," replied Mrs. Luscombe, as she walked on.

" Well, if ever! to be sure! what airs! my prerogative! what did she mean by that? Oh, if that worthy Master Flare could only see with my eyes! fine madam, indeed!" muttered the provoked Patty, in every change of tone and every variety of gesture consistent with an old maid's perpendicular.

" When you're done a-spelling over that luggage, I'll trouble you to move, ma'am," said a gruff voice behind her.

" Oh, certainly, sir, certainly," she replied, smiling and curtseying; for, however snappish elderly maidens may be to their own sex, they are generally civil to the other. " Mr. Harrang's gentleman, I presume;" and forthwith set Miss Patty to discover the " gentleman's" master.

This was not so easy a task as most people would imagine. Antony was one of a species of taciturn servants, the race of which is nearly extinct; he

regarded his master's secrets as his own, and had moreover a lingering affection for mystery, which is sometimes the weakness of old bachelorhood; he had, also, in common with all elderly unmarried men, a dislike to plain old maids; consequently, Patty could make nothing of him, although the very next evening she asked him to tea!

It is astonishing—as Mrs. Malaprop would say— it is astonishing the " himprudences which staid, respectable women" constantly commit. Nothing could be made of either the master of Daleview or the master of Daleview's man. If Mrs. Luscornbe had known any thing of him formerly, certainly the acquaintance was not renewed: sometimes, if Mr. Harrang met one of the children, he would pat it on the head, or kiss its rosy cheek; but then every man, woman, and child in Sutton Hill loved the little Luscombes, so fresh and lightsome were their movements—so joyous and musical their voices—so bright and beaming their deep-set eyes. The boy—the eldest one—upon whom sorrow had grafted sagacity at so early a period, that, amongst his other plays, the little fellow often played the man with success, was an especial favourite with each mother in the village, who, the more deep her love of her own children, the more earnestly did she pray, with a full heart, and eyes overflowing with maternal anxiety, that her boys might resemble Alfred Luscombe. The

girls were what—God bless them!—all girls are, before the modern system of education destroys their feelings and cramps their affections. Marion will be, I am sure, the least bit in the world of a coquette—the very least bit; her black eye-lashes fringe so beautifully all round the eye, giving it, when downcast, a soft and sleepy expression; but when the little rogue laughs and looks up—oh, bow of Cupid!— what a blaze! the whole face beams—burns with joy; then, when as suddenly she drops those snowy lids over their sparkling treasures, the gipsy seems as placid as before. Oh, those fringed lids—those fringed lids! I am sure Marion was born a coquette.

D ora —dear little fat Dora—was a darling of another sor t—a thing to roll, and squeeze, and kiss, who loves every body with the earnestness of three years, and cold must be the heart that would not love her in return.

No wonder, then, was it, that Mr. Harrang patted the heads and kissed the cheeks of the little Lus-combes?

The curiosity of Button Hill having reached its pinnacle, stood open-mouthed at the gate of Daleview, seeking much, yet discovering nothing. The clergyman called, and the old doctor called, and their visits were returned, and so the visitings nearly ended; the doctor called again and again—the poor old man

wheezed his way from the bottom to the top of Sut-ton Hill, but Mr. Harrang was not chez lui.

At last some one surmised, or dreamt, or imagined, or "originated," that Mr. Harrang "was in the medical line." How the idea got into motion it was impossible to discover, but so it was, and once in motion, it flew like wildfire; that was the reason, then, that he would not partake of Dr. Doddsley's domicile; that was the reason (could any thing be plainer?) why he declared that himself and the old doctor " had fought too long under the same standard to agree," and why he confessed that they " had unhappily dealt in the same commodity;" that was the reason why he had a large cabinet full of cross-bones and skulls of men and animals; why he was so often seated at twilight on the top of the stile leading into the new church-yard; why he looked at people as if he longed to dissect them; and, above all, why he never laid his hand upon a child's head without feeling for those bumps which are supposed to be more numerous upon Ashantee and Irish skulls than upon any other specimen brain-boxes that have as yet been brought under the consideration of those marvellously wise men termed phrenologists. Besides, the case was nearly made out; did not Mabel EUice—romping Mabel, who always kicked open the church-door, and ran after the hunt—did not Mabel, in one of her uncontrollable fits of high

spirits—did she not almost cut off Sandy Sawney's right arm with a reaping-hook, out of sheer fun? and did not Mr. Harrang (at whose harvest-home it occurred) most positively take the job out of Dr. Doddsley's hands, and with his own fingers stitch up the arm? It was so provoking, as the old doctor observed, doing jobs for nothing, giving people such bad habits. " The Almighty," said the old doctor, " sends people into the world without charge or fee; it is the least thing, then, that they pay body-rent and taxes to the doctor who keeps them in repair. Besides, Miss Patty," persisted the old doctor to that worthy and industrious spinster, who never failed to bring him word how well Sandy's arm was doing, or how " THE NEW DOCTOR," as the inhabitant of Daleview was now designated, had vaccinated such a child, or cured another of the croup, or, such was his humanity, volunteered to " doctor" widow Lane's cow and the tinker's pony; " Besides, Miss Patty, no one need tell me—I know the value of medicine—I remember the cost of a medical education in the good old times, when a doctor's wig and cane cost more than a course of lectures now, at one of their new-fangled hospitals—when the profession was respected—when the doctor's opinion even on secular matters, was so valued, that it was requested before the squire's or the rector's—when children dared not play if he appeared at the other end of the 19

street—and the taking out of his snuff-box commanded the most profound silence in an assembly-room; but, my good Miss Patty, this man wears a blue coat, a black stock, and prescribes, I understand, for cows and ponies; and yet, after that, in defiance of the evidence of their own senses, people are weak enough to think well of his opinion."

" Ay, indeed, Doctor Doddsley, and more people than you think, think well either of his opinion or his man's:—just ask your own maid, at whose gate she stood last night when you were in bed with the lumbago."

Poor old doctor! he was little aware of the turns and twistings of popularity—he little thought that human nature could be so oblivious of past services— that the people whom he had bled, blistered, and medicined, secundum artem, for five and twenty years, could have forgotten those services. He trusted that they would remember the resolution he evinced in withstanding every modern improvement—thinking, as he declared, that human life was too precious to be tampered with by any medicine whose utility had not been established by a twenty years' trial—after that he might be brought to use it, but not before.

He little thought, good man, while dozing in his wicker arm-chair—his feet resting in all the ease of black-listen slippers, upon his own particular

cushion—that the very children whom he had been the means of bringing safely into the world were meditating tricks upon " Doctor Sangrado," and that others who had grown up to men and women's estate laughed at his pretensions and opinions: the truth was he had been a long time out of favour—the inhabitants of Sutton Hill had grown impatient of his despotism, and the "New Doctor" had arrived at the very time when poor Doddsley's star was on the decline: even the old people decided in favour of the new candidate (if candidate he could be called), who never declared his profession—and only smiled when any of his poor neighbours (the only ones he was at all familiar with) complimented him on his skill. His servant never heard his master's degree alluded to without shrugging up one shoulder, and growling out, " Doctor?—augh!" Notwithstanding his reserve, Mr. Harrang grew in favour with rich and poor; the village belles—(they were limited to four)—declared him " the most interesting gentleman who had ever resided at Sutton Hill." Master Flare himself proclaimed that he never served a gentleman he should be so happy to oblige, in either the wholesale or retail way; and the widow whose cow he had cured hit upon a sentence describing him so accurately, that it deserves to be recorded—

" His voice," said she, " is the music, and his face the sunshine of the mourner's sick room."

Poor Patty had become an object of such aversion to the " new doctor's gentleman," that she was more shut out from news—from the news she loved so well—than any one else in the village. She had never been able to penetrate into the shrubberies of Daleview, being always stopped at the gate by the Cerberus, who, shrugging up his shoulder until it nearly touched his ear, exclaimed—" Want the doctor?—augh!" and immediately ran the bolt at the bottom of the gate, to prevent the possibility of entrance. Once, indeed, she thought she had hit upon a plan to insure an interview. She tied a kerchief round her head, as if a toothache had taken possession of her withered face. Her aversion, as usual, was sentinel at the gate before she laid her hand upon the latch, and had slipped the bolt ere she could prevent it. To her enactment of acute suffering he only replied,—

" Bad tooth?—augh! Didn't know vou had a

•>

tooth!—augh. ' New Doctor,'—why you don't suppose my master's a woodman, to hew up stumps? Doctor?—augh!"

This was a rare piece of eloquence for him, and having given utterance thereto, lie turned away, leaving Miss Patty to tear the kerchief from her face, and vent her spleen in bitter exclamations and still more bitter tears. What is so bitter as a disappointed woman? But enough of village gossipings—they

are the thorns upon the roses of retirement; and there are few who, while inhaling the perfume of the one, have not felt the sharpness of the other! My business is now with the little Luscombes.

The three children were playing in the valley, which deepened into a stream at the bottom of the dell, one of those delicious streams whose presence is felt before it is seen. The vegetation, so green and luxuriant, had overgrown its banks, and the musical murmur of its fine trickling waters tinkled beneath the glittering foliage. You felt as if in the presence of some sylvan deity; the air so pure and fresh—the trees—(we began our story in May, gentle reader, and it is now autumn)—the trees cherishing those leaves, which, in more exposed situations, had already fallen, were covered with the most luxuriant greenery; the trembling aspen quivered in the breeze, as if echoing the murmurs of the streamlet. The greatest lovers of cities and their splendours could not fail to appreciate the silent beauty of that holy spot: the love of nature, the often unacknowledged apprehension of her beauty, is implanted in every bosom, however it may be disguised by affectation or chilled by circumstances: its possessor may be able to name it by its name; yet, though the tongue refuse its tribute of applause to the beautiful works of God, the heart beats in silent eloquence,

when—

19*

" The clear depth of noontide, with glittering motion, O'erflows the lone glens, an aerial ocean; When the earth and the heavens, in union profound, Lie blended in beauty, that knows not a sound!"

The weather for many days had been happily calm—the mossy excrescences of the wild rose, and the soft scarlet berries of the honeysuckles, bryony, and viburnum, were covered with the silken threads which the gossamer-spider hangs on every blade of grass. Occasionally the exquisite stillness of nature was disturbed by the clapping of pigeons' wings, as they rose from the distant stubbles; and still more frequenlly-the joyous laugh of Marion Luscombe, or the childish prattle of her little sister, fell upon the ear in tones which told of the pure, perfect happiness of infancy. Alfred lay beneath the shadow of a mountain ash, and the volume he had been reading was by his side.

" Bend down your head, dear brother," exclaimed Marion, " and let me crown you with this wreath of laurel, as they used to crown the old Roman conquerors, that you read to us about not an hour

since.''

" But I am no conqueror, Marion," said the boy looking into her face, " and, listen to me, I think I shall be soon conquered."

" You, Alfred?" she replied, ringing a merry laugh, while her hands, still holding the wreath she

had woven, dropt upon her knees in the prettiest of all attitudes—you conquered, my own brother! I should not like you to be a coward."

" I may be conquered without being a coward, Marion!"

" By whom, dear brother?"

The boy in his turn looked eagerly, yet with a firm expression, into his sister's smiling face; their eyes met, and Marion observed that his cheek flushed while he replied, in a low earnest voice, after a pause—

" By DEATH, my sister."

When he had spoken, his cheek paled as quickly as it had flushed, and his words, accompanied as they were by his changed expression, struck such a terror to the girl's heart, that casting the triumphal wreath far from her, she threw herself into his arms and burst into tears.

Poor Marion! a minute had not elapsed when those eyes, now overflowing with the waters of sorrow, were dancing in laughter; and yet as she clung to, and sobbed upon her brother's bosom, she felt as if her heart would break. The grief of childhood is more fleeting than its joy: suddenly, sorrow ceased to agitate her trembling lips, tears rested on the long lashes of her eyes, she pressed her small palms on the full eheeks of her brother; she kissed his forehead, and

then exclaimed, as the torrent of happiness rolled back into its place—

" You Alfred— you talk of death! You ! your cheeks are round, your forehead cool—there can be no aching in that bold beautiful brow, which mamma blesses when you sleep, brother, and calls so like our father's. Oh! say it does not ache; I know it does not!"

" It does not ache, Marion, and yet it feels so heavy!"

" Ay, that it is, Alfred; you have moped yourself with that stupid history book. ' Death!' death never looked like you; shall I repeat young Lochin-var for you, or sing Jock of Hazeldean, or shall Dora dance? Or shall Tray beg? poor Tray! you have made even Tray look sad: see how he pushes his cold nose into your hand, and gives his paw, and whines! For shame—be merry, Tray—dear Alfred is not ill."

But Alfred was ill, and his illness increased so rapidly, that Marion rejoiced, as they reached the stile, at meeting Mr. Harrang's taciturn servant, who shouldered " Master Alfred" as he would have shouldered a musket, and carried him up the hill.

" Set me down; set me down before I come within sight of mamma's window," said the kind boy; " she will think me worse than I am if I am carried."

" I think, Miss, that young master is likely to

want better advice than the old doctor or the new doctor, augh! can give; so, if madam pleases, I'll go off to the next town for a proper doctor!"

But Marion could not reply to his kindly eloquence, for she was trying to keep back the tears which the certainty of her beloved brother's illness again sent flowing from her eyes.

The old doctor came, and the new doctor, though not sent for, called almost hourly to inquire after

Alfred Luscombe; the physician of H , an able

and skilful man, came also; but the boy's presentiment was fearfully realized; he was attacked by brain fever of the most violent kind, and sank, poor fellow! beneath its strength, after much bodily suffering. It was a sad and mournful sight in that sweet cottage— the widowed mother bending over the death-bed of her only son—of him, the brave and beautiful, whose every movement and thought had been so many copies of his buried father;—the cherished love of years was blighted, the heart was emptied of its hope; in her despair she forgot she still had other children, and called out in her anguish, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" The loved one's hand was clasped in hers, and when she yielded to her grief, she felt the pressure of his fingers upon hers; he opened his eyes, dim and heavy though they were, for the glare of fever had departed from them, and left them covered by the films of death.

" Stoop, mother, and kiss me," murmured the boy. " I cannot see you; but God has not forsaken me, nor you. Mother, there is one not far off who loves you, I think, as well as I did. Mother, your husband is with God. I shall soon be with both: let not my sisters remain without protection. I know he loves you. In the twilight I have heard him listen for your voice; I have seen him watch you in the dale, and by the hawthorn brake; and I was angry, I was selfish, I could not bear that you should love but us. But I learnt—listen, for my strength is going, though, mother, I have no pain—I learnt wisdom: I learnt it from the wood pigeons. Two had built their nest in the large beech tree, and Abel Morlay shot one—I know not which, but the lone one mourned upon its nest: it was so sad to hear its moans; it mourned for two whole days—years in a pigeon's life, their lives are short;—two days it mourned, and then it flew away, and brought another pigeon from the woods; and they two hatched the. young, surpassing each the other in deeds of kindness to the soft callow brood. Mother, do you read my wisdom?"

The boy died that evening, just as the sun was sinking, and his mother buried him in the greenest corner of Sutton churchyard, just where, standing on the stile, a little beyond his grave, you can discern the streamlet, like a thread of silver, winding its

way across the meadows after its escape from the shadows and coverts of the dell. Marion planted a red-berried mountain ash at his head, and little Dora covered the grave with cowslips and primroses.

Time passed on. Patty was positively withering away from inaction. Since poor Alfred's death nothing had aroused the sympathies of the village: the blacksmith's wife, to be sure, had presented her husband with twins, but then they were doing " as well as could be expected." The Miss Doubles, of the large dairy farm, had bought French, instead of English merinos, which was set down as a piece of unpardonable extravagance. Master Flare's nose turned purple in the frost, (Patty declared it was from standing with his hat off in the snow while talking to Mrs. Luscombe.) And the curate's cat produced a kitten with three legs (the County Herald declared it had five.) The old doctor continued to rail at the new; and the new medico was declared to want spirit because he never railed at the old, but let—as Patty very truly observed—the best practice " slip through his fingers," reversing the order of things established time out of mind, and devoting all his attention to the poor instead of the rich. The summer had come again, and the primroses and cowslips blossomed and faded on Alfred's grave— types of his early death. Marion had not forgotten her brother, yet could all but smile when his name

was mentioned: little Dora had forgotten him; but there was one who never could forget;—could the mother cease to weep her first-born? in the silent night by the silver stream, under the mountain-ash alone, alone with her tears, alone during the dreary winter, she waited for the spring, but the fresh breath of April murmured to her of him whose spring had been blighted even unto death. Not that Mrs. Lus-combe indulged in grief to the exclusion of her duties; her daughters were growing in beauty beneath her eyes, and she prayed that they might also grow in goodness. Yet even with her, time was performing his blessed office, of which we seldom think, and for which we are seldom thankful; he was extracting slowly, but surely, the stings from many wounds,— withdrawing the canker from many hearts, and per-' forming his miracles silently and truly—passing with healing on his wings over a thankless multitude!

The dearth of news continued at Sutton Hill; Patty moped,—the old doctor declared her tongue was palsied; when one evening she espied the curate's maid, Kate Brunt, calling first at the parish clerk's, then at the bell-ringers, (the bell-ringers very appropriately lived in Bell-alley, at the corner of Belle-vieu, and their names were Bill Bell, Jack Bell, and Tom Bell,) and then trotting off" into a new haberdasher's shop which outdared Master Flare's grocery; thither Patty followed Kate, an undefined hope flut-

tering round her heart that some one was dead, or married, or born,—any thing, any thing in the world for a change. It so happened that Master Flare, the old doctor's damsel, the blacksmith's wife, and two or three others, were in the shop when Patty entered, and they were standing so closely together that they positively threw into obscurity the crossed pile of ginghams, muslins, and sixpenny prints, which Master Grogram had piled on architectural principles in the centre of the shep. Kate it would appear had commenced her story.

" The pearl-white, if you please, Master Grogram," said the smiling girl; " ten yards—and then Master Flare, as the parlour door was a little ajar, and is right facing the kitchen, where I was all alone by myself, I could not help hearing—Master Grogram, a blue-white silk handkerchief can never go with a pearl-white riband; I must have a match— call that a match? why that's French-white—thank you—that will do—now get me down the bobinnet— master said he would pay for all."

" Well for you, I'm sure," said the old doctor's maid; " my master will never say that to me; if he did, would not I get a smart rig-out?"

" Go on with your story, Kate," said Patty peevishly, " that is, if you have one to tell."

" You need not wait to hear it," retorted Kate, laughing, " if you do not like; where was I? Oh, 20

all alone by myself in the kitchen; it was the dog who pushed open the parlour door after they went in."

"They! who?" exclaimed and inquired the spinster.

" Pray, Mrs. Patty, let Kate tell her story," growled forth Master Flare.

" Went in, and then I heard the most movingest story I ever heard in all my days; if you believe me, 1 cried all the time, and so did master; we both cried —cried our eyes out —but I can do nothing but laugh now; it will be such a noble wedding— (that is the very net, Master Grogram—white ground with white spots; I like white spots better than white sprigs — they look so much innocenter)—such a noble wedding, to be sure; my lord will have it grand "

"Lord! what lord?" exclaimed the agonized old maid.

" Pray, Mrs. Patty, let Kate tell her story," repeated Master Flare.

" Oh, if you had but heard the dear gentleman tell how he had loved her from her childhood, and how', great and grand as he was, she had refused him because she loved his cousin, a young handsome gentleman, better, preferring poverty and love; and if you had heard how he remained single for her sake, and how he followed her from place to place when he found she was a widow, and at last got a sort of promise from her, that if he continued in the

same mind for another year, and did not speak to or come near her, she would then marry him; and how he changed his grand name, so that his living in a village might not create suspicion, and that he might, as he said, ' breathe the same air she breathed, and

be near in case sorrow or sickness visited her, to '

Oh!" exclaimed the kind-hearted girl, " it makes me cry again to think of it, and of the trouble she had in losing that angel; and now the year's up — and she has consented—and they'll be married to-morrow morning—and she'll be my lady;—and now, Master Grogram, let me look at the white gloves."

" Kate Brunt, for the sake of mercy, tell me who you are speaking of!" exclaimed the panting Patty.

" Of Lord George Luscombe, known as Mr. Har-rang!"

"A Lord George turn doctor, and cure people— only think!" exclaimed the old doctor's maid.

" He cured people for amusement; your master kills them for the same reason, I suppose," replied the pert pretty Kate.

" Augh, augh!" exclaimed some one from behind the architectural pile of " soft goods;" and Patty's deadly foe came forward, shrugging his shoulder and laughing his most unmusical laugh, to the confusion of the curate's maid, who tore a glove in endeavouring to force the left on the right hand.

"And Mrs. Luscombe will be again a bride?"

said the blacksmith's wife; " Well, even if she is not so happy as with her first love, it is something to be a lady."

" And," continued Kate, " to have some one to love her, and protect her children!"

" There is one thing I want to know," inquired Master Flare of Antony; " I heard your master say that he had served under the same standard as the old doctor—what did he mean by that?"

" Augh!" replied Antony, who had been a soldier in his early days—" and so he did—didn't he serve as a great officer? kill—and cause to be killed—using lead boluses instead of mercury; only he put people out of pain quickly. Same standard!—augh!—king death."

" And after all there is no " New Doctor," exclaimed the bewildered Patty.

" If there is," said Master Grogram, who piqued himself upon correct and delicate phraseology, " if there is, doubtless, ladies and gentlemen, he has to thank our good village of Sutton Hill for his diploma."

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

WE parted in silence, we parted by night

On the banks of that lonely river, Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite,—

We met, and we parted for ever. The night-bird sang, and the stars above

Told many a touching story, Of friends long past to the kingdom of love,

Where the soul wears its mantle of glory.

f'"We parted in silence,—our cheeks were wet

With the tears that were past controlling; We vow'd we would never—no never forget,

And those vows at the time were consoling: But the lips that echoed the vow of mine,

Are cold as that lonely river; And that eye, the beautiful spirit's shrine,

Has shrouded its fires for ever.

And now on the midnight sky I look,

And my heart grows full to weeping; Each star is to me as a sealed book,

Some tale of that loved one keeping. We parted in silence, we parted in tears,

On the banks of that lonely river; But the odour and bloom of those bygone years

Shall hang round its water for ever. 20*

THE LONG YARN.

BT CAPTAIN VALEJTTIir,

THERE are some men who enter the French marine, as well as our own, in very humble stations, who, nevertheless, show, by their superior style of conversation, that they have considerable education, and some acquaintance with good society. I met a French sailor one winter's clay in a country tavern who belonged to this class. He was in a very ordinary dress, had a lame leg, and his head was tied up with a handkerchief, as though it had been broken in some drunken brawl. Yet this man talked like a book, and with only a slight foreign accent. He was three hours giving us an account of his adventures at sea. It was a tremendous long yarn, but very entertaining. I shall only relate the part of it relating to the escapes he had witnessed when confined in one of those horrible dungeons of cruelty, the British prison ships. This account, as near as I can recollect, was as follows.

You have been told of the most memorable of these escapes, you have read of the dangers of those adventurous men, you have shuddered at their fears, grown pale with their dangers, wept with their tears, and

indeed it was all very frightful and very sad. Nevertheless, gaiety sometimes insisted upon its rights; the drama gave place to comedy, and some merry bursts of laughter smoothed out the wrinkles made on our foreheads by every added year of captivity.

We had not always recourse to those bold attempts at escape which were founded upon labour and patience. Accident, a favourable circumstance, a happy idea, gave birth to events which prospered our undertakings in the cause of liberty. I owed my own escape to a means as simple as it was efficacious, although the abuse that has been made of it has brought it into disrepute. I was walking on the bridge one day, where they allowed us to go by detachments at certain hours, and, watched as we were, and without any apparent means of making our escape, I thought only of enjoying the freshness of the air, when I perceived a labourer at work on the floating bridge lose his balance, and fall into the water; and immediately, moved with compassion, a prisoner jumped overboard and rescued him. Certainly England has well deserved the name of cruel in her behaviour towards us, but we cannot refuse her the credit of the generosity which never forgets a service. The prisoner obtained his liberty, and some days afterwards, by means of some Napoleons I had still in my possession, one of the soldiers who had the care of us, consented to let me rescue him.

We played our parts so well that the poor fellow was almost drowned by the time they came to our assistance.

A more original idea, but one of the same nature, was made use of in the ground prisons. The pri-•oners were set at liberty, if, upon examination, they were found, as was sometimes the case, to be mentally afflicted; so that it was thought a good plan to feign imbecility; and if a man had wit enough to sustain the deception for some months, his liberty was sure to be his reward. It was a great temptation, and one that required a great strength of resolution and continual presence of mind. One prisoner was a singular example of this. He affected a horse mania, and it was curious to see him, for whole days galloping along on sticks, cavalcading on top of the benches with such imperturbable coolness, and so great an appearance of truth, that the authorities thought it necessary to have his condition inquired into. This was the last and most difficult trial. As soon as the commission, headed by the President in his uniform, appeared in the yard where the prisoner had been conducted, the latter advanced gravely towards the President, and, laying his hand upon his shoulder, before any one was aware of his intention, sprang upon his back, and kicked and spurred him so hard, that the unhappy President, obliged to yield, became the laughing stock of every one present.

This sort of thing looks like comedy, but if you were to look beyond the surface, you would see much that is horribly tragic. Take away the mask from such a man, and you will see that whilst he is uttering idiotic peals of laughter, his soul is full of anguish; his burlesque words come from a heart that is in torture with fear and hope. Ah, we were all tragic then!

And sometimes, after so much trouble, so much constraint, a sudden and unforeseen circumstance would entangle the whole affair, as it once happened to a friend of mine, who is still living, and whose co-temporaries can no doubt remember his name.

It was Lanty, of Saint Malo, a brave, bold Corsair, who, on account of having escaped from several prisons, was sent here. He had just come when he arranged his plan, and he executed and sustained it with a perseverance worthy of his character. He begun by showing some signs of bewilderment, which increased until one day, perceiving a lighted oven, he threw himself into it headforemost. He had taken precautions; a covering, placed over his head, had protected him in part, until it disappeared within. He managed it all with so much skill and address, that a report was circulated that Lanty had mistaken a heated oven for the river. From that time his state of mind attracted attention—from that time it became complete. He went into the oven a man, he came out a

cock; I am in earnest, a true cock, with all the gestures, tones, attitudes, and motions of a feathered one. He must have studied it well, for there never was so complete an imitation. He would crow early every morning, and all the real cocks round about the neighbourhood answered him. When angry, his hair would stand out like feathers. He slept standing on one foot, he ate only grain, and made altogether so grotesque an amalgamation of the human and galline races, that, if you had not seen his form and figure, you would undoubtedly have taken him for one of the inhabitants of the barn-vard.

tt

A game so well played, and kept up with so much constancy and address, was sufficient to deceive the most clear-sighted. His dismissal was agreed upon; but before it was put into practice, the inspector, rendered mistrustful by experience, wished to see for himself, and had the prisoner brought to him. After an interview, which I shall not attempt to describe, and in which the Cock's appropriate speeches held an appropriate part, the inspector, wishing to have one last proof, held out a pen to him.

" Come, Lanty! here is the paper which is to set you at liberty— sign it."

" Fie, fie!" replied Lanty, majestically.

" Why! won't you sign it, Lanty?"

" With a pen from a goose's wing?"

But you know this paper must have your signa-

ture.' 1

" Give me a pen from the tail of a cock, I cannot sign it with this."

The more they talked, the more obstinate he became. At last they were obliged to comply with his wishes, and he signed it " The French Cock."

" He is certainly crazy," said the inspector, " let him be immediately sent to Plymouth, where he may go to Cherbourg in the Parlementaire."

When brought forward, Lanty greeted the commission with a fine crow, and he now went back to prison.

His success was now fully established; but he must still be very cautious whilst under the surveillence of the English; for the escort never let him go out of their sight: but it was easier to deceive those who had no interest in believing him to be acting a part. He was now happy; he was going back to Saint Malo to embrace his family and his friends; he would again be a bold Corsair, and make the English pay dearly for the restraint they had imposed upon him; and, full of hope and confidence, he went on board the Parlementaire, where he was received by an officer who gave orders that he should be confined in the hold.

" Do not chain him, he looks mild; but tell him not to go near the others, they would think nothing of strangling him."

The officer turned on his heel, and the sailor, taking Lanty by the arm, led him into the place where he was to be confined. His entrance awakened the other inhabitants; for, no sooner was the door closed upon him, than there was a great rattling of chains, accompanied by horrid imprecations and silly bursts of laughter; but the darkness prevented him from ascertaining the authors of it all. In attempting to walk, his foot was seized, and he was thrown down and violently beaten, and he had to use all his strength to save himself from being assassinated. They were two raging insane men, whom Lanty thought by their dress to have been sailors, and whose hideous aspect, haggard features, wild looks and gestures, inarticulate cries, and their torn garments, announced how far the dreadful disease under which they were labouring had proceeded.

Lanty retired to a corner, as far as possible from these miserable wretches, that is to say, about two feet from them, which was the greatest distance allowed by the narrow enclosure; and although they were both chained, his only means of keeping himself out of their grasp, was to coil himself up, and to keep the strictest watch over both his own actions and theirs. A moment's forgetfulness was danger; he dared not sleep, for if, in so doing, his limbs relaxed their constrained posture, his companions, whose furious malice seemed to unite against him,

dragged him towards them, and wounded him with severe blows. He also had great difficulty in obtaining any thing to eat; for, when the cook came with their rations, his companions seized upon it, and, when their own hunger was appeased, they threw the rest at him, endeavouring to wound him; and, nevertheless, the unhappy man did not dare to complain, for the fear of betraying himself constrained him to continue his old game even in the presence of his raging companions.

This was a horrible situation. The contact of these three creatures—active and patient energy in submission to the brutality of ignoble idiocy, noble and lofty reason trembling before the want of reason, lucid intelligence opposed to vicious instinct—for Lanty trembled; he was intimidated; he felt himself vanquished—he who had braved so many dangers, confronted so many dead men—he dared not look these creatures in the face. Hope, coming back to his heart, had softened it. The scenes he had witnessed, the suffering to which he had been a martyr, had weakened his firmness, while it sharpened his reason. He felt his ideas become confused—he was afraid of becoming really insane, and it was in the midst of such mental and bodily anguish that he spent the five days that elapsed on board the Parle-mentaire between Plymouth and Cherbourg.

They were now to land. This was an opportu-21

nity for Lanty. It was now become very hard to recognise him; the want of fresh air and proper provisions, together with all he had suffered, had hollowed his cheeks and his eyes, and a part of his hair had turned white. Nevertheless, the restoration to .the outer air improved him in some degree; a little bread brought back.some of his strength; he knew the time was a critical one, and that his success, even at the last, depended entirely upon himself; and he was enabled to regain energy sufficient to retain the mask, until the English, after giving him into the hands of the French authorities, had retired.

As soon as they were arrived at the place where they were to await the pleasure of the Commissary General, Lanty, addressing himself to the head of the escort, entreated him so calmly and gravely to procure him an audience with the Commissary, that the man, struck by the sudden change in his manners, yielded to his request. The Commissary himself came down, and ordered Lanty to approach, who did so, declaring his name and grade, and imparted to him the trick he had been guilty of in order to obtain his liberty—exposed his unheard of sufferings on board ship, and ended by asking his pardon, and entreating, that if there were still doubts of his reason being as it ought to be, that he might at least be separated from his dreadful companions.

The Commissary, moved by the recital, heard him

with kindness; and being assured, by repeated questions, of his veracity, ordered him to be furnished with assistance, and advanced towards the other prisoners.

They were tied; but whether it was being brought into the air and light, or that they were overcome by the novelty of their situation, they were quite calm; and one of them even seemed to have been listening to what had passed; for as soon as the Commissary was near him, he stepped forward, and folding his chained hands on his head as a salutation,

" Commissary, I have something to say to you."

" What!" said the astonished Commissary.

" I am no more crazy than you are."

" What is the meaning, then, of these rags and these wounds?"

"Trickery, Commissary."

The Commissary turned towards Lanty, who was standing stupified, and could not believe his ears, when the second maniac approached him, saluted him, and said,

" Commissary, I have something to say to you."

" What! and you are no maniac either?"

" No! Commissary!"

" Why, then, did you treat Captain Lanty so badly?""

" It was necessary to carry out the part we were playing."

" But you knew very well that he was your superior officer. You have failed in the respect and duty which you owed him. You have denied his rank by your conduct to him."

" Please your honour," replied the reprobate, with a mixed expression of drollery and malice, " he kept crowing all the time; and, you know, when the cock crowed, Peter denied his master."

And so ended the long yarn of the French sailor.

TO MY CHILDREN.

YES, my young darlings, since my task is done, Again I'll mingle in your freaks and fun; Be glad, be gay, be thoughtless, if I can, And merge the busy worldling in the man. Not the stiff pedagogue, with brow severe, Authoritative air, and look austere, But the fond sire, with feelings long repress'd, Eager to bless, as eager to be bless'd,— Longing, in home's drear sanctuary, to find The smiling lips, the embrace, the kiss so kind, The cloudless brow, the bearing frank and free, The gladdening shout of merriment and glee, And all the luxury which boisterous mirth Scattered erewhile around our social hearth.

i

Remember ye, my sweet ones, with what " pomp And circumstance" of glee we used to romp From room to room, o'er tables, stools, and chairs, O'erturning household gods—now up the stairs, Now under sofas, now in corners hiding, Now in, now out, now round the garden gliding? Remember ye —when under books and toys The table groan'd, and evening's tranquil joys

Sooth'd your excited spirits to repose— How blithe as larks at peep of dawn ye rose? Pleased every moment, mirthful every hour, As bees love sunshine, or as ducks the shower; No ills annoy'd you, pleasures never pall'd, Cares ne'er corroded, nor repinings gall'd, But, like blithe birds from clime to clime that fly, Each change brought blossoms and a cloudless sky.

But now papa's grown strange, and will not speak, Nor play at blind-man's-buff, or hide-and-seek; Tell no more stories ere we go to bed, Nor kiss us when our evening prayers are said; But still, with thoughtful look, and brow of gloom, He stalks in silence to his study-room, Nor ever seeks our evening sports to share; " Why, what can dear papa be doing there?" Such were the thoughts which oft in tears gush'd

forth,

Amid the pauses of your infant mirth, And dimm'd the lustre of your bright blue eyes— As wandering clouds obscure the moonlight skies, Making their misty mellowness even more Soul-soothing than the glorious light before.

'Mid laurell'd literature's elysian bowers, I've been a-roaming, culling fadeless flowers, And these collected treasures at your feet I lay, ye beautiful! " sweets to the sweet!"

TO MY CHILDREN.

24 H

Yet all too soon I dedicate to you

Flowers of such rich perfume and varied hue,

O'er which the deathless fire of genius breathed;

And all too soon this garland I have wreathed,

To win me favour in your infant eyes;

Though years may come when ye will fondly prize

Affection's fond memorial, given to prove

The doting fondness of a father's love;

Love full as ocean's waters, firm as faith,

Wide as the universe, and strong as death.

WINTER.

BY HARRY WINSLOW.

OH, happy were the days when I

Of treasures had but one, A sled that from the snow-hills high,

Down rapidly would run.

Oh, then I went a-coasting.

How gloriously I started—

Proudly my cap I swung— Swift down the slope I darted—

With shouts the welkin rung;

All when I went a-coasting.

Far on the snowy plain below,

How gracefully I glided, Upset and tumbled in the snow,

My playmates all derided

That day I went a-coasting.

But Yankee boys ne'er mind the bumps

In glory's path endured, They deal their foes much harder thumps,

And thus their woes are cured,

When Yankees go a-coastiug.

Oh rugged nurse of hardy sons!

My country! on your shore, Brave blood in boyish bosoms runs,

Ready to stream when cannons roar, And Britons come a-coasting.

THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON-LOW.

A MIDSUMMER LEGEND. BY MART HOWITT.

" AND where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me?"

" I've been at the top of the Caldon-Low, The Midsummer night to see!"

" And what did you see, my Mary,

All up on the Caldon-Low?" " I saw the blithe sunshine come down,

And I saw the merry winds blow."

" And what did you hear, my Mary,

All up on the Caldon-Hill?" "I heard the drops of the water made,

And the green corn ears to fill."

" Oh, tell me all, my Mary—

All, all that ever you know; For you must have seen the fairies, Last night on the Caldon-Low."

" Then take me on your knee, mother,

And listen, mother of mine:— A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine.

" And merry was the glee of the harp-strings,

And their dancing feet so small; But, oh, the sound of their talking Was merrier far than all!"

"And what were the words, my Mary, That you did hear them say?"

"I'll tell you all, my mother— But let me have my way!

" And some, they played with the water,

And roll'd it down the hill; ' And this,' they said, ' shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill;

" 'For there has been no water

Ever since the first of May; And a busy man shall the miller be By the dawning of the day!

" ' Oh, the miller, how he will laugh, When he sees the mill-dam rise! The jolly old miller, how he will laugh Till the tears fill both his eyes!'

" And some they seized the little winds,

That sounded over the hill, And each put a horn into his mouth, And blew so sharp and shrill:—

" 'And there,' said they, ' the merry winds go,

Away from every horn; And those shall clear the mildew dank, From the blind old widow's corn!

" ' Oh, the poor, blind old widow—

Though she has been blind so long, She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone. And the corn stands stiff and strong!'

" And some they brought the brown lint-seed, And flung it down from the Low—

' And this,' said they, 'by the sun-rise, In the weaver's croft shall grow!

" ' Oh, the poor, lame weaver,

How will he laugh outright, When he sees his dwindling flax field All full of flowers by night!'

" And then upspoke a brownie,

With a long beard on his chin— ' I have spun up all the tow,' said he, ' And I want some more to spin.

" ' I've spun a piece of hempen cloth,

And I want to spin another — A little sheet for Mary's bed, And an apron for her mother!'

" And with that I could not help but laugh,

And I laughed out loud and free; And then on the top of the Caldon-Low There was no one left but me.

" And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low,

The mists were cold and gray, And nothing I saw but the mossy stones That round about me lay.

" But as I came down from the hill-top,

I heard, afar below, How busy the jolly miller was, And how merry the wheel did go!

" And I peep'd into the widow's field;

And, sure enough, was seen The yellow ears of the mildewed corn All standing stiff and green.

" And down by the weaver's croft I stole,

To see if the flax were high; But I saw the weaver at his gate With the good news in his eye!

" Now this is all I heard, mother,

And all that I did see; So, prythee, make my bed, mother, For I'm tired as I can be!"

ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME OLD FAMILY PORTRAITS.—

Silent friends! fare ye well— Shadows! adieu.

Living friends long I've lost,

Now I lose you.

Bitter tears many I've shed,

You've seen them flow;

Dreary hours many I've spent,

Full well ye know.

Yet in my loneliness,

Kindly, methought, Still ye looked down on me,

Mocking me not,

With light speech and hollow words,

Grating so sore The sad heart, with many ills

Sick to the core.

Then, if my clouded skies

Brighten'd awhile,

Seem'd your soft serious eyes Almost to smile.

250 REMOVAL OF SOME OLD FAMILY PORTRAITS.

Silent friends! fare ye well— Shadows! adieu.

Living friends long I've lost,

Now I lose you.

Taken from hearth and board,

When all were gone;

I looked up at you, and felt

Not quite alone.

Not quite companionless,

While in each face

Met me familiar

The stamp of my race.

Thine, gentle ancestress!

Dove-eyed and fair, Melting in sympathy,

Oft for my care.

Grim knight and stern visaged!

Yet I could see, (Smoothing that furrow'd face)

Good-will to me.

Bland looks were beaming

Upon me I knew,

Fair sir!—bonnie lady!—

From you and from you.

REMOVAL OF SOME OLD FAMILY PORTRAITS. 251

Little think happy ones,

Heart-circled round,

How fast to senseless things

Hearts may be bound;

How, when the living prop's

Moulder'd and gone,

Heart-strings, low trailing left,

Clasp the cold stone.

Silent friends! fare ye well—

Shadows! adieu. Living friends long I've lost,

Now I lose you.

Often, when spirit-vexed,

Weary and worn, To your quiet faces, mute

Friends, would I turn.

Soft as I gazed on them,

Soothing as balm,

Lulling the passion-storm,

Stole your deep calm—

Till, as I longer look'd,

Surely, methought,

Ye read and replied to

My questioning thought.

252 REMOVAL OF SOME OLD FAMILY PORTRAITS.

" Daughter," ye softly said—

" Peace to thine heart: We too—yes, daughter! have

Been as thou art,

" Toss'd on the troubled waves,

Life's stormy sea; Chance and change manifold

Proving like thee.

" Hope lifted—doubt depressed— Seeing in part— Tired—troubled—tempted—

Sustained as thou art—

Our God is thy God—what He Willeth is best—

Trust him as we trusted: then

Rest, as we rest."

Silent friends! fare ye well—

Shadows! adieu—

One friend abideth still

Jill changes through.

THE END.