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About Google Book Search Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web at|http : //books . google . com/ SJo ^0 uu "\^33H.H l^arfaarH CoUege Itbrarg FROM THE BRIGHT LEGACY. One half the income from this Lei^acy, which was received in 1880 under the will of JONATHAN BROWN BRIGHT of Waltham, MusachoBetts, is to be expended for books for the College Ubnuy. The other half of the income is devoted to scholarships in Harvard Uni> versity for the benefit of descendants of HENRY BRIGHT, JR., who died at ^R%ur^riym^l^^mmtkmmlitmJm^am^m,i^ the absence of such/i'S eligible to the schoU ^ this annnnncement si to the Librq Fv^ ^J^ Jftf \ ^ % '^ A J I ^^ i-' THE ROVER WEEKLY MAGAZINE OP TALES, POETRY, AND ENGRAVINGS, ORIGINAL AND SELECTED. EDITED BY BEBA SMITH AND LAWRENCE LABREE. VOLUME ONE. NEW YORK: PUBLISHED BY LABREE, DEAN & Co., 162 NASSAU STREET; AXD FOR 6ALB BT THE PRINCIPAL B00K6KLUBR8 AND AOKNTS THROUGHOUT THE UKXTSD STATES. 1843. "? 33t.4- CO NTENTS OF VOLUME I. • The original aidcles are ncarked with an asterisk or star; those that are illustrated by baviog their titles in suau. capitals. A Piece of a Hundred Sous, - - - - A Tals of Venice, A Mother's Story, A Hazy Ni«ht, - - - A Slory of Modem Honor, - -, - • A Country Apothecary, A Visit to Wordsworth, A Leaf from the Note Book of an Oki Bachetor, A Sketch. -■ A Tale of Boston in the Oklen Time, « An Inkling of an Adventure, . . . . An Independent Judge, ..... Anecdotes of Guerilla Warfare, - - - . Allegoric Vision, Batile of Bloody Brook, Beginning the World, Ben Blower's Story, Bonaparte's First Victoryj - - - - CaTolire Howard, Claude Queux, Count Julian and his Family, . « . . Ches^PIay, ------. Circumstantial Evidence, . - . - • Ckmsin Kate, - . ■ . Christopher Crotchet, Death at the Toilet, DmYBuaaM Abbey, - . . . . . Escape of the Duston Family, ... Palls or Momtmobbnoy, - - . . Pint Minister from the United States to Onat Britain, First Lovej - — Friendship of a Panther, . . . . . Gnido and -Isabel, ♦Getting over the Difficulty, . . . . Hans in Kelder, • - Heriditary Henors^ Ranter's Oravej ----.- How to -Cook a H^isbead, • . . . . Intereating- Incident,' ..... Independence^ ....... laoiated Afiectlon, Jeannot and Colin, ...... Jacqueline, Jefierson's Personal Habits, . . . . Just Fifteek, -.--.. John Mackay Wilson, Johnny Brotherton's Five Sunny Days, Jewish Superstition, Julian and Leonor, ..... Lady Betty's Pocket Book, . . . . Lacy de Vere, *L086 OF THE ASEONA, . . . . . Lafayette and the Indian Qirl, ... Life on the Gulf of Mexico. The Commission Merchant, ThePatgaud, The Pestilence, *Mamfbbd, Man and Woman, »Malvouo and the CouNTxes, - - . - Mary Magdalene, ...... Merry Terry, Marcus Bell, ....... Mom*- Saint-Michel, . . - . - ^Mibabbl the Bealty, . . I - Natural Affection, Origin of Genius, 49 Olivia de Castbo, . - . . 73 OldJupe, ----.. 329 Paseion— its History, . . . . 160 Pbotestamt Bvbial Gbound at Rome, 202 "Passing Away," 318 Pulpit Ingenuity. .... 280 I Romance of Real Life, . . . . 281 Rustic Courtship in New England, 284 Singular Instance of Sudden Death, 407 Story of Captain Bird, 175 Sir Patrick Hume, 284 Story of an Hbiress, 285 St. Croix. 255 Tale of an Old Highlander, 341 ♦This Cold, 199 Timothy Tuttle, 402 "TotherEendoftheGun, - Terrific Encounter with a rirate, 162 Two Scenes from the Civil War, 17 The Attacked Escort, Bank Note, 61 130 157 277 381 129 382 338 336 308 366 183 361 101 161 246 411 287 89 392 158 168 250 274 291 311 336 104 297 77 177 251 337 338 379 369 410 289 247 140 206 209 64 204 410 Bald Eagle, Black Kniffht, . . . . Bride of All, .... Brown Mug, - - .- .. - Broken Miniature, ... Captain's Lady, - .• - Comet, - - - .- .- Condemned, ♦Coquette and tbb Two Sfitobs, Curate Confessor of Viroflay, Cruise of the Sparkler, Dairyman's Bill, . . . . Duel. Death Watch, . . . . First Daughter of Eve, First and Last Dinner, • • • First and Last Robbery, Field of Waterloo, . . • Florentine Mothar, • . . Ghost of Kllsheelan, Ghost, ♦Gbben Movm'Aiif Bot, Glass Lookers, .... Haunted Manor-House, Haunted Hogshead, ... House of Disaster, . . . Hussar's Saddle, ... Indian Wife, Indian Captive, - - . - Irish Reaper, - . . . Iron Shroud, . . . . Idiot, Jewel of the Harem, ... Kelp Gatherer, . . . . Lantern in the Castle Yard, Lame Pig, Last Days of Timothy Tuttle, - Last Bachelor, - - . - Last Voyage, .... Little Hump-Backed Giri, ♦Little Visitob, - . . ♦Lovers, lovebs' quabrel, ... ♦Log Driver, - - - . - MiLLEB OF COBBEIL, . . - Miser's Wife, . . . . ♦Mother's Waekinc, 81 300 117 145 288 394 336 409 287 306 333 267 38 314 236 324 348 363 261 346 42 242 970 136 343 387 234 84 219 401 m 214 32T 13 249 241 2T 37T 296 S83 107 21 194 264 373 221 387 170 71 211 339 153 250 44 236 213 139 404 137 367 386 306 321 353 257 33 313 113 CONTENTS. The Merchant's Clerk, 7 Necromancer, 47 Outpost, 191 ProdiialSon, 292 ♦Pagers Revenge, 227 Passing Crowd, 176 Pirate's Retreat, 393 Rattlesnake Hunter, 197 ♦Romance of Physic, - - . . 132 Red-Noc« I Lieutenant, - - - - 357 Sexton of Cologne, - - - - 125 Sculptor of Florence, - - - - 147 Shoemaker and his two Wives, - - 403 SiSTKRS OF THE SiLVXB PaLACE, - - 97 Sisters, 391 Soldier's Son, 185 Soul Gages, B4 SpMstreShip, 331 Stonr of Teiisina, 188 Stroller's Tale, 67 Student of Esslingen, - - - - 50 Tempter, 115 Tournament, 122 Vow, --.-..- 192 Wages of Sin, 171 White Witch of Soignies, - - - 165 ♦Widow's Grave, 91 Widow's Ordeal, ----- 4 Widower, 25 Wife's Prst Love, 246 WineCeHar, 69 Woridasitis, 29 Worthies of Virginia, 271 Yankee Ball, 96 Yellow Domino, 317 Uggero the Dane. 223 Uncle Pete and the Bear, 239 Victor, or the Fisherman's Foundling, - - 110 Washington AUston, 304 Washington's Escape, - - - - - 1 Yankeb- Notions, ------ 385 Zoe, - 62 POETRY. A Flower in the Desert, . - - . 247 AucE, 251 Beauty, - - 348 ♦Blannerhassett, the Lord of the Isle, - • 366 ♦Brackett's Bust of Bryant-^SonnetC, - - 304 Chatelar to Mary Stuart, 112 ♦Courtship of Cfaptain Miles Staodish, - - 273 ♦Content, - 411 ♦Death of Washington Allston—Sonnett - 304 ♦Distribution of the Blessed Bbsad, - - 161 ♦Greenwood Cemetry, ----- 321 I know thou hast Ghme, 128 Invitation, 224 ♦Isadore, - - 329 ♦LausDeo, 353 Let us Love One Another, - - - - 300 Life, 311 Ode to an Indian Gold Coin, - - . - 224 Pray for Me, 96 Serenade, 261 Spring, 77 Stanzas, ....-.- 144 Summer, • 285 Time's Changes, 144 ToaStar, 96 To Beauty, 96 ♦To Elizaiith, 80 ♦To Eliza, 296 To Juliet, 314 ♦The Birth of Aurora, 267 Free Rover, 391 Last Man, - - - s. - - 128 Maid of Malahide, 64 Mysterious Visitor, ... - S20 Park Fountain, 257 Pool of Bethesda, • . . . 38S Sea Cave, 160 ValeofOvoca, 241 Water, 401 Widow's Mite, 80 Wyoming, 208 LIST OF EMBELLISHMENTS. Vignette Title, lanka, 17 ThfiMUl, 33 Marie before Sir James, 49 Mirabel the Beauty, 65 Olivia de Castro, 81 The Elopement, .--..- 97 The Mother's Warning, 113 Dryburffh Abbey, 129 Pyramid of Caius Cestue, - - - - 145 Distribution of the Blessed Bread, - - 161 Loss of the Abeona, - _ 177 Fort Ticonderoga, 193 Mont-Saint-Michd, 209 Alice, 225 Evening, 241 The Serenade, 267 Just Fifteen, 273 Scene from Twelfth Night, - - - - 289 The Little Visitor, SOS The Lovers, 321 Falls of Montmorency, 337 . The Lover's Quarrel; 361 Manfred} - -- 369 Boston, -------- 385 The Coquette and 4he Two Suitors, - - - 401 -o-^y^ ^\'^f THE ROVER. With bodies how to clothe Ideas, tanght; And how to draw the picture of a thought. WASHINGTON'S ESCAPE; A TALE OF THE KEVOLDTION. On a bright morniDg io the sammer of 77, an unu- EQal bustle was observable in the camp of Washington, whose officers were seen gliding from tent to tenl, pre- paring iheir own accoutrements, or superintending the ca(>ari8oning of their fleetest steeds The army was quieily lying on the banks of the Hudson, and no im- mediate hostilities expected, although the British head quarters were but a few miles distant. The present ex- citement was occasioned by an invitation from Colonel M'Aubum, the noble owner of a seat in the neighbor- hood, to attend an entertainment given in honor of his onlv daughter, the young eountess of Clevesdown, who had lately returned from bejjond sea. As among mUi- lary menalofiy bearing, apiide of personal appearance, are jiildom wanting, it is not surprising that a more than ordinary solicitude was evinced. Ola coats and saddle- cloths were carefully brushed, boots and spurs burnish- ed, swords and holsters borrowed, and yet none of the young men seemed perfectly satisfied with themselves, save Charles DeCarroll, the youthful aid of Lafayette, who was lounging on a log, with soiled linen and un- powdered locks, while the smile and sparkling glances indicated the paradise of his imagination. In vain his noble ^ charger neighed and pawed, at the door of his tent, in seeming disgust at the soiled trappings with which he waj covered— DeCarrolPs reverie was not to be broken. At this moment, a couple of brother offi- cers passing, inquired at what hour they were to ride. "At ten, precisely," answered Major E.. and observ- ing the young aid with surprise, asked, " it the favorite was not invited 1" "O, certainly," replied Lieutenant G., "next in the I'lst to Lafayette himself; but depending on the liberali- ty with which nature has gifted him, or school-boy ac- quaintance with the young countess, he neglects all per- sonal decorations." "But perhaps he may find himself in the vocative," said Mtyor £.^ " and be treated with the same coldness as Captain Bliss, who presumed on the same footing. But a girl at school and a peeress come out, he will find diflerent persons — ^but let him alone ; we shall see," whispered Major E., casting an envious glance from his own diminutive person to the elegant figure of DeCar- roll, who remained unmoved. Just as they hurried on. General Bourtelou, in whom all the good qualities of humanity appeared to have found a welcome, happened to pass^ and seeing the absorbed condition of our hero, gave him a violent shake, and in a ha If reproachful tone, inquired if he did not remember that Washington was punctual to an appointment 1 " And while you sit here," added he, "dreaming of auburn ringlets and slender arms floating around your browned visage, and infantile pleadings for the convey- ance of kisses and tear drops across the Atlantic, *to dearest Maria,' as Dr. Franklin tells the story, we will be far on the way to Marathon. A hint to the wise," said Bourtelou. significantly, " is sufficient," as DeCar- roll, deeply coloring, glided into his tent ; and when he joined the'troop, his superb suit of blue and gold, pow- dered curls and magnificent trappings, decided that he and his man Cato had spent no idle time. As he vault- ed into the saddle, his splendid appearance caused a flmile among the senior officers, which was nothing di- xnioished by the trusty black saying to his Arabian : " You be mighty proud to-day, master Janus ; may be you tink you tote Queen Ann« on your back ; you try to strike me, do you, dat feed you, aat tend you all de time." " Perhaps he has discovered we are going to the wed- ding, Cato, and that the groom is in company," said General Bourtelou, glancing ironically at DeCarroll, while the whole cavalcade, putting spurs to their horses. Vol. l.-No. L gallopped off, leaving the eyes and the mouth of the ne- ^ro in a state of distension, who hastened, as much as in him lay, to bring up the rear. Merrily the troop s(y>ured over hill and valley— and surely, in no age nor country, were there ever truer hearts, or a more gallant band ; all were handsome, talented men. in the brilliancy of youth, or prime of manhood, and glowing with that enthusiasm for liberty and love of country, wliich seemed to breathe of some- thing more than mortal. Washington and Lafayette rode in front j Lincoln, Wayne, Lee, Bourtelou and DeCarroll, with many others, followed closely after. An hour's spirited riding brought them in view of Ma- rathon^ as the coloners residence was called. But in this band of choice spirits, were all truet Alas! no — for even among them was a traitor who would gladly have led them all iilto the heart of the Bri- tish camp ; but his time was not yet come. And as he, too, endeavored to pass gaily along, it was with mali- cious joy he perceived fnat envy and rivalship would probably add another facility to his purpose, as he fol- lowed the disdainful glance of Major E., whose cha- grin at DeCarroll's superior appearance was only sup- Dortable by observing that some obtruding anxiety had dissipated the wearer's mental sunshine. On. cheerily, however, they went, and dismounted at a long shed, fastening their horses with accoutrements on, the com- mander-in-chief having so directed. They then walk- ed slowly up the ascent on which the edifice was situa- ted, to the entrance of a lofty portico, where they were received by Colonel M' Auburn with his usual fascina- tion of manner, thanking theni, apparently most cor- dially, for the honor they did him, and shaking hands with each individual, in true planter style, led the way to the saloon. The folding doors were thrown open, and the fh^t glance delermmed the taste and affluence of the owner, the furniture and ornaments being of the richest materials, and arranged in the most elegant style imaginable. At the entrance of this palace of the Hudson the younjg officers lingered, while their seniors were paying their respects to the stately lady of the mansion. Mrs. M'- AuDurn. who was easily distinguished from the ladies around her, by the hauteur of her manner, she being well assured, in her own opinion, that her beauty of face had never been surpassed, but having discovered, from many mortifications, that her person was fat and unwieldy,' and her gait awkward, preferred receiving her guests in a sitting posture, honing they would con- clude want of condescension, ana not of charms, pre- vented her rising. While the chiefs received her pro- fusion of civilities with that calm affability peculiar to themselves, and the young officers wailed with some deference their presentation, Bourtelou whispered De- Carroll if the tall, elegant figure, whom the lady host- ess had beckoned to tie up a broken flower, was not the gmiui of the fete 7 The young colonel changed color, and was about to say she must be tin elder sister of Ara- bella, when the recollection that she was an only daugh- ter, and this her fourteenth birth-day, flashed tne truth on his mind. It was herself, he would have said, but the words died away on his lips. The amiable Bourte- lou observed his embarrassment, and endeavored to re- lieve it by a^ain asking if he knew the tawny serpent that was taking the job off the lady's hands 1 "It must be," said DeCarroll, recovering himself, "that baggage of a *Fleur Sauvage,* shot up like an asparagus top—but from her superb crimson habit, and the numerous bells attached to her white satin leggings, one might suppose her an Indian Queen. At this in- stant, the youthful countess turned and presented her hand to Washington, who, gallantly reminding her that he had once been an admirer of her mother's loveliness, received her with parental kindness, and presented her to those of his suite, who had not seen her; but on ap* WASHINGTON'S ESCAPE. proaching DeCarroil, Washtngtoa handed her over to Lafayette, for even be, in his gravity, had heard of the acquaintance of the younff folks., liie lovely gftrl, how- ever, spared the feelings of her friends, by receiving oar hero with anafTected modesty, welcoming him in the name of her absent brothers, without seeming to have any particular recollection of the past. DeCarroil had hoped, in the anxiety of his hearL (and where is the young man on earth that could Blame him V) that Arabella's hetfhtened blushes would excuse his vanity in the eyes of his comrades \ but was forced to acknowledge, mentally, her discretion to be a more powerful ally, in a few moments the whole party were seated ; wine and refreshments freely distributed, and convereation became general, while a band of music, bidden from the view, played the most exhilirating airs. Taken, as our young soldiers were, from the roughness of the tented neld, from the hardsnips of an American ca:np,ilwasnot surprising that the scene around should act like a spell on their excited feelinirs, and, as Tele- machus ia the flowery isle, they should be better pleas- ed than their sage Mentor desired. In the midst, how- ever, of this delicious excitement, the music suddenly ceased, and after a short pause, struck up "God save the Kini[." Instantly Wayne, Lincoln and Lee sprang to the middle of the saloon, while the whole suite rose simultaneously, partly unsheathing their swords, and looking defiance at Arnold^ whose siniificant glances with Mrs. M'Aubum, were immediately observed. In the midst of all this confusion, the Father of the Union remained unmoved, perfectly composed, nor suflfered a shade of agitation to pass oyer his countenance, but smiling at the displav around him, beckoned Lady Ara- bella to his side, and said : ** Lest the spirits of these rattle-caps effervesce in too ranting a manner, give us something on the other side of the <)uestion, ana let your maiden, to change the tone of feeling, play a simple tune on her lute.*' Arabella nodded compliance, and breathing a few SUables, in the Delaware tongue, to " Wild Flower," e band instantly played Yankee Doodle, in the most energetic manner. Immediately the tumult subsided, the officers, abashed, cast side-Ion^ glances at each other, and endeavored to laugh at their own excitement. As the music died away, the Indian girl, softly touching a haip of a strange wild sound, sang the following song: Where wave the fW^sraat orange boughs, With frait and flowers and verdure gay— Where weeping wUlowi kin the wave, And soft and balmy breezes blow, Twat there a chieftain wandered forth With him he saved on battle day, Nor thought for base and sordid gold, That friend would ever friend betray. 'Neath a tall oak, whose leafy shade Obscured the noon*day's piercing ray, Where blossoms bright a carpet laid. The cmel basilisk seized his prey. Bat peace ! we must not trace a scene Which ill accords with fesUve day, Nor tell of blasted oaks, or winds Which, moaning to the traveler, say r A traitor's doom by Heaven's own hand— A nervous scream from Mrs. M'Aubum at this instant interrupted the music, when the colonel, who had not appeared to notice what had passed around him for the last half hour, but to be earnestly engajsed in conversa- tion with Major £.. smiled, and with his usual presence of mind, ascribed the scream to the presence of a spi- der on his lady's many breadth damask— and turning to the company, announced dinner with so much noncha- lance and good humor, that even a critical observer would not have suspected aught. But there was one present, whose eye he dared not to meet— who watched every muscle, and read the inward workings of his soul. As dinner was announced, folding doors on the opposite side of the saloon were thrown open, and displayed a table covered with every luxury of tne old and new world. The ladies, rising, lad the way to the banquet in yie stately manner of the times. "Mrs. M'Aubum prelented her hand to Washington^ and her sisters did the like honor to Lafayette and Lincoln. Lady An- bella, who had stooped to speak to Wild Flower, as she was sitting on a Velvet cuihion at her feet, now rose also, and gave, as by previous agreement, her hand to Muor E., who, casting a haughty glaqce at DeCarroil. led oer away, leaving our hero petnfi^ d to the spot, and pale with rage, and muttering to himself: " Truly, I am no longer anything but a fool— this day is to demonstrate what my mother often said to me in my arrogance : * You will only be prond, son, in every way, when in every way tried.* " "Why don't vou come on, boysl" cried Bourtelou— what! Lee ana DeCarroU in a passion, because they have no lady's glove to boast 1 when here am I, neglect- ed and unmatched; will ye suffer your wounded vanity to boil oter as if ye were slighted maidens 1" **I will tell you, friends, there is very little of the woman in mjr heart just now:" said Lee, ** 1 would rather administer such an oath to our host as I did to Watson, and the worthies of Newport, than to eat salt with him." . ** Mon dieu, talzea vons, yes,'* said BeCanoU, "we must on and be gay." '* Having a care to drink neither too mn^h nor too little," added I^e. And hastening to the table, after much ceremony, all were seated ; and had not the Genius of Liberty pre- sided at the entertainment, the profusion before them, the smiles and compliments of nost and hostess, all of which, when contrasted with the miserable condition of the American army, might prove too flattering, even for the high-toned spirits on wnich they were lavished. Diimer was at length concluded, and the colonel mvi« ted his guests to ramble in his qwicions gardens, which commanded an extensive view of the surrounding coun- try. The majestic Hudson rolled through the vaile vs of plenty, and hills piled on hills, covered with every shade and variety of foliage, while tar in the distance the pur- Ele highlands frowned in hoary battlements to the very eavens. All was lost, however, on DeCarroil, who lingered behind with Bourtelou, occupied with one ob- ject only ; fearing a second defeat, he had not ventured his Krvices to Arabella, who, taking the parental arm of Washington, passed without noticing nim. In the mean time, Mra. M'Aubum, appropriating Maior £. to herself, requested that he and M^or Arnold would accompany her to examine a anking spring in the low- er garaen. • •^ You arc a strange fellow, Charies," said Bourtelou, giving him a jerk, '* scarcely able to identify the yonng peeress, and almost in a phrenzy for the sake of her.' " Ah, dear friend, but you are cruel," sighed our he- ro, " for well you know now long I have adored her." *< Bonne heure sans donte," ioierrupted Bourtelou. "but look through the hedge, the idol that has melted the heart of a brave^ is gathering apricots for Washing- ton, who, farmer-hke, is stowmg them away in hu pockets ; do see, what angelic grace ! what sylph-like movement! ana the auburn ringlets, DeCarroil— can you dispense with them, when the lovely neck and shoulders thev used to conceal, indemnify vou for your confinement f And those diamonds— do they etpul the wreaths of ' belle de nuit,' with which you used to crown her temples in the twilight evenings of her thirteenth summer 1" ** You presi me hard, dear Bourtelou, but look !" and an involuntary shudder passed over them on observing the countess turn deathly pale, from something com- municated to her by '• Wild Flower." who had ap- proached, and was ^thering the fruit her mistress had shaken down. The anguish painted on the countenance of Arabella was extreme, but recovering herself, turned to Washington, and proffered to show him a hanging bird's nest, and as she separated the branches and praised the ingenuity of the feathered architect, softly breathed a few words in his ear. At tliis instant a peach, thrown with unerring dexterity by Wild Flower, disordered her hair and sniveled a superb comb in pieces. ** I wonder that Indian did not kill you, daughter, instead of the wood-pecker she aimed at,^' said Colonel lyf' Auburn, impatiently, as he approached. *' Be not offended, dear father, she meant no harm— I can slip to the house and repair the damages before the signal for assembling at the lake ; it yet lacks thirty minutes to the firing of the first cannon," continued Arabella. "And come with me, « Wild. Flower.' to bring the general's pocket companion, which he bade me remember, fer the bostU of startiiig may make me forget it." WASHINGTON'S ESCAPE. And managing her koop gracefully, she was out of Bight in a 'moment) but soon passed by the still fleeter Indian. " By Jove^** said Bourteloii, " there is something questionable m all this. Perhaps my suspicions were not nnfounded this morning, when Washington ordered the British uniforms recently taken, to be prepared, and a chosen troop ready to ride at a moment's warning." ^ A grasp from the nenroua hand of DeCarroU produced Biience, while Col. M' Auburn smilingly informed them tbat a collation and au agreeable surprise were preparing for them at the entrance of a remarkable cavern, where the reverberations of a field-piece would produce sur- prising effect. Meanwhile, Washington turned, and taking the arm of the colonel, archly said to the young mem " As I have my pockets full, I will spare each of you one of Bell's apncots.*'* and as he passed, extended his hand to DeCarroU, who felt as though an electric- shock obscured his vision, when he perceived written on a smooth leaf: •* Treachery—to camp for succor." In a&irs of danger our hero was on trodden ground. Instantly commanding his feelings, he chewed up the leaves, exchanged l^oks and a few words with Bourte- louy and hastened by a circuitous path to the house, which, as he expected, was deserted by the servants, except a couple of old blacks who were sitting by the door, of whom he inquired if they had seen Cato f " O yes, Massa, he jtat now go into de house with your honor's whip and put him awa^." "Yes, yes: that's like hint— while he is parading about, my noble hone may be kicked to death, for aU him." And slipping a handful of money into the hand of the old woman, passed rapidly into the hall. Here his ste^ were arrested by the exhibition of three portraits which were reUed on their arriyal. In the first, he re- cognised the romi)ing little giil of ten, as he firat beheld her at the Moravian boardmg school ; in the second, the roses and ringlets of her thirteenth summer ; ana the third, as Arabella then was, matured into perfect loveUneas. Charles was entranced— the dangers^the horrors of his flituation--aDd, more than all, nis duty, were for|g[otten. '• Yes, It is she," he exclaimed* ** my own, my long* loved girl, and unless an Almighty fiat has gone out against me, I will deserve her, and she shall be mine." And roflbtng forward^ pressed his lips long and ar- dently to the canvas, till a voice behind him cried oat I ^ ** Charles, dearest Charles, why linger you with those lifeless things, when the existence of so many brave men and your country's liberty depend on your exer- tions 1" He turned, the original of the pictures stood before him, and was instantly clasped in his embrace. " Charles, dearest Charles," repeated the pallid girl, "why will you linger! and yet how soon mayst thou be a mangled corpse ! A dreadful ambush intercepts thy return to camp: but be thyself— put implicit conndence in Wild Flower. Delay not^we must part-^though it try our souls to the utmost." And as she urged him to the door, and said again and a£;ain, " Farewell !" DeCarroU felt every nerve strung With redoubled energy ; and kissing her marble fore- head without uttering a word, hastened to the shed. Here he foond Cato talking to Janus. '* How comes it," cried his master, " that you ne- glected to bring my lady's fiUey. Did you suppose I would take my briae behind me 1" " O no, massa ; me tink de grand horse saddled in the stable fixed purpose for your missus." *' WeU, to the house and be silent— not for a thousand pounds would I hare my present situation discovered." A stem look accelerated the black's departure, whild the colonel sprung his horse to the edge of a steep bluflf. vrbere the bridle was seized hj the Inoian girl, who lea him down tbroogh tangled vmes, and almost perpendi- calar steeps, to the bottom of a deep ravine, while DeCarroU, who had ventured many an Alpine eyrie, found it difficult to foUow; and putting him on an entire new route to the camp. Wild Flower wound up the elifis like a blacksnake, and was out of sight in a mo- ment ; and DeCarroU putting Jannsto his utmost speed, mentaUy repeated ArabeUa's dizections— ** Brin^ the iDBiM dad in Britiih ottifoiiBB." Immediately after the departure of DeCarroU, Arabella returned to the gardens, but the more wily Indian went in the first place to look after Cato, whom she found muttering to himself. " Mighty strange dis, Indian squaw preferred to faith* ful colored man, dat old mistress bring up herself, to tend -on jyoung massa." " Silence ! you black baboon," she whispered, " or I'U throw you down the clifis to feed the wolves-^' And making a sign of taking his scalp* she showed him a tomahawk concealed in the folds of her dress. In the meanwhile all was apparent friendship and gaiety among the guests and their entertainers. Mrs. M* Auburn promenaded, talked, laughed, and seemed almost deUrious with plea^re. Even the colonel appeared to exceU himself in his. ability to please, and to none were his attentions so miniitely directed as to the .mighty spirit whom he had vainly hoped his arts had deceived, but with whom his intrigues availed no more than a mesh of cobwebs thrown to ensnare the monarch of the deep. "Have you brought me the treasure I left in the arbor, my daughter 1" said Washington in a compaSi> sionate voice, as gazing on the lovely paje face of Ara- bella, he almost wbhed her in peace with her sainted mother. With trembling hand she presented him his Bible, which, after opening, be calmly transmitted to his pocket, but not without observing a line drawn under these words: " They sold Joseph to the IshmaeUtes for twenty pieces of silver." He ooserved it,. yet no shade passed -over his placid countenance, no variation of feel- ingseemed to disturb the even current of his souL The first round of artillery now gave the signal for descending into a little spot, called by the colonel the Emerald Valley, where, in honor of the guests, a colla- tion, emirely American, had been prepared. Had the queen of the fairies selected a summer residence in the new world, it certainly would have been this, whieh was inaccessible to mortals till artificial steps were formed in its rocky waUs. Jts verdant carpet, flowers, evergreens and gushing fountains, and a vast cavem^ opening on the one side, rendered it both a cool and curious resort. For the amusement of the present com- pany, the cavern was illuminated, and several tiny boats played in a small lake in its centre. Gaily the whole descended save Washington and La- fayette, who, walking to and fro with M'Auburn, seemed to enjoy the felicity of the merry group. Sudoenly the cannon again poured forth its thunder, which appeared to shake even the distant highlands, and to make the bravest face turn pale. M'Aubum bit his lips, and for a moment appeared to have a fearful misgiving of consequences, till Washington handing his walch to his youthful comrade, said with a smile — ** Please descend and admonish those happy fellows, that pleasure will not dispense with the hour of riding. Bid Wayne to drink ' Bon Repos' in good season, and that the third fire must find them mounted for camp." " We do not propose to have another round, general," said M'Aubum, with an inquiring air« ** Well, then, let*s to the house for the surprise you promised, or we shaU lose our share of the banquet." ** Oh, 1 have no surprise, but three i>ortraii8 of my daughter, of which I would like your opinion," replied M'Auburn, manifestly uneasy at the self-possession of one whose conclusions he foand himself unable to fathom. ^ As they walked toward the house, Washington ex- patiated on the beauty of the surrounding country and added, ** Alas! after all, perhaps cur labor may be in vain. Despotism may yet drain this delightful land of aH its resources; the poor may here, as in other climes, behold the luxury of nature with disappointment !" « " Heaven forbid !" ejacuUited M'Aubum ; ** what do you fear!" ** Nothing so much as treachery. You know one's enemies may be those of his own household; it is pos- sible to be betrayed eten in the house of a fnend." *' Dear general, what can have suggested such horri- ble ideas?" " I only meant," replied Washington. •* to point out the consequences of treachery. But who are those ri- ding so rapidly toward your h, and I will have to omit it at present."" ** Form two deep around this lady." again shouted Lafayette ; and the troop beheld Arabella weeping bit- terlv, while she exclaimed in a voice of despair. My country is saved, but I have lost my father !*' Bourtelou supported her fainting steps, and the Indian maiden was leaaing a horse superbly caparisoned, when Mrs. M' Auburn rushed forward in a phrenzy of rage, seized the reins, and cried : ** Let go the bridle, you red witch ! Shall my abhor- red step-daughter ride tne horse which would have car- ried me tu the British camp a Duchess, had it not been for your accursed intermeddling 1 Let go, or J will tear you to pieces!" The Indian answered not, but whirled her burnished tomahawk in the air. In another instant Lady Ara- bella was in the saddle, and the whole cavalcade, gal- lopping at full speed, left Mrs. M' Auburn to apologise to the British horsemen in the best way she could, for their unexpected and humiliatbg disappointment. Passing over intermediate events, we will raise the curuin to the tent of Washington. The great Ameri- can was seated in silence, but it was evident there ex- isted a strong conflict in his mighty mind between jus- tice and compassion. Before him stood the man whom be once believed ki$ friend, and the friend of liberty, and whose talents and resources he bad greatly valued. But now blasted by ambition, and the intrigues of an aspiriag woman, this pretended friend mu^t be lopped forever from the cause of freedom and from the expect- ations of his family. Yes. without a word of defence stood M'Auburn, though his pockets were filled with intercepted letters accucsmg him of the basest designs, and pujpporting to have been written by Washington, but which in his heart he knew to be forged. Support- ed by Wild Flower, Arabella knelt at her father's feet in unutterable agony. On either side, her brothers, George and Arthur, lay on Utters dreadfully wounded, having returned from a distant expedition just in time to rush upon the ambuscade laid to intercept the return of the troop. Most of the family of the chief were present ; all preserved a mournful silence ; not a groan was heard from the wounded ; not a sigh from the dis- tressed. Thrice Washington essayed to speak, but emo- tion choked his utterance ; till Lsfayette rushing for- ward, seized his hand, then in a hoarse voice he ex- claimed— " Oh ! M' Auburn, M* Auburn ! would to God that you or I had died ere we had seen this day. Justice to my country's wrong points clearly to my duty; but when I reflect on my former friendship-T-when I look upon these young martyrs to the cause ot liberty, and above all, the entreaties of this best friend of the colonies. General Lafayette, I feel that humanity must prevail. Go— your life I shall not require, but your exile forever. And I call heaven and earth to witness, that never again, where 1 hav^ any influence, shall friend or brother es- cape the iust d»»merit of any breach of trust or attempt to sever tne Union ; though it darken my soul, and tear my heart asunder, any one so doing shall receive the punishment due to his crimes." Alas! poor Andre- in thee was this asseyeratioB verified. The long war of the revolution was over ; the times which tried the souls of every true son and damhter of America were passed. And on a beautiful rarm in Rhode Island, which opened to the sea, Arabella and Charles DeCarroll, united by the holiest of earthly ties, sought repose from the severe anxieties they had sufier^ ed. There, under the blossom of their own vine, in a land freed from oppression, they tasted the sweets of friendship, the joys of social life, and that pure serenity of soul which, even in a present existence, is a reward to the virtuous. THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL. BY WASRINOTOK IRVINQ. There was, once upon a time, a certain Duke of Lor- raine, who was acknowledged throughout his domains to be one of the wisest princes that ever lived. In fact, there was not any one measure that he adopted that did not astonish all nis privy counsellors and gentlemen in attendance; and he said so many witty things, and made such sensible speeches, that bis hign chamberlain had his jaws dislocated from laughing with delight at the one, and gaping with wonder at the other. This very witty and exceedingly wise potentate, lived for half a cenmry in single blessedness, wheil his cour- tiers began to think it a great pity so wise and wealthy a prince should not have a child after his own likeness, to inherit his talents and domains ; so they uq^ed him most respectfully to marry, for the good of his estate, and the welfare of his subjeets. He turned their advice in his mind some four or five ' years, and then sending emissaries to all parts, he sum- moned to his court all the beautiful maidens in the land who were ambitious of sharing a ducal crown. The court was soon crowded with beauties of all styles and complexions, from among whom he chose one in the earliest budaing of her charms, and acknowledged by all ihe gentlemen to be unparalleled for grace and love- liness. The courtiers extolled the duke to (he skies for making such a choice, and considered it another proof of hjs great wisdom. " The duke," said they. " is waxmg a little too old ; the damsel, on the other hand, is a little too young ; if one is lacking in years, the other has a superabundance : thus a want on one side is balanced by an excess on me other, and the result is a well-assorted marriage." The duke, as is often the case with wise men who marry rather late, and take damsels rather youthful to their bosoms, became doatingly fond of his wife, and indulged her in all Ihini^j. He \vn^, r;onseauently, cried up by his 8ub.i< l t.^ jn ^piicriil, nnd by the ladies in par- ticular, as a p iTiorn for hu^bAndi;< : uiid, in the end, from the wooderi'ul Jncjlity with which he submitted to be reined and ch^^lif^d, acquired llie amiable and enviable appellation of Duke P In filbert th^ wife-ridden. There was only one thing thai disturbed the conjugal felicity of thb pnraj^on of lin^b^nds : though a conside- rable time elapr^ed afler his niarrin^.', he still remained without any prnpi^ct of an heir. The good duke left no means unlri^.d to propitiate Heaven; be made vows and pilgrimages, he h^ted and b# prayed, but all to no purpose. Thf courtiers were &\\ i^^tonished at the cir- cumstance. They ct^iil^f v^f srpount for it. While the meanest peasant m the country had sturdy brats by do- zens, without putting up a prayer, the duke wore him- self to skin and bone with penances and fastings, yet seemed farther off from his object than ever. At length the worthy prince fell dangerously ill, and felt bis end approaching. He looked with sorrowful eyes upon his young and tender spouse who hung over him with tears and sobbings. " Alas !" said he, *^ tears are soon dried from youthful eyes, and sorrow lies lightly on a youthful heart. In a Utile while I shall be no more, and in the arms of another husband thou wilt forget him who has loved thee so tenderly. " Never ! never !" cried the duchess. " Never will I cleave to another ! Alas, that my lord should think me Gamble of such inconstancy !" The worthy and wife-ridden duke was soothed by her amiiftBcet ; for he oonkl not endure the thoivhti THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL. of giving her up, even eiter he should be dead. Stilt he wished to have some pledge of her endaring con- BUncv. " Far be it from me, my dearest wife," said he. "to control thee through a long life. A year and a day of strict fidelity will appease my troubled spirit. Promise to remaih faithful to my memory for a year and a day, and I will die in peace.'* The dochesB made a solemn tow to that effect. The uxorious feelinn of the duke were not yet satisfied. " Safe bind, sale find,*' thought he : so he made a will, in which he bequeathed to her ail nis domain, on con- dition of her remaining true to him for a year and a day after his decease ; but, should it appear that, within that time, she had in any wise lapsed from her fidelity, the inhentance should go to his nephew, the lord oTa neichboring territory. Having made this will^ the good duke died and was buried. Scarcely was he m his tomb, when his nephew came to take possession, thinking, as his uncle had died withoQt issue, that the domains would be devised to him of couree. He was in a furious passion, however, when the will was produced, and the young widow was de- clared inheritor of the dukedom. As ne was a violent, high-handed man, and one of the sturdiest knights in the land, fears were entertained that he might attempt to seize on the territories by force. He had, however, two bachelor uncles for bosom counsellors. These were two swaggering,, rakehelly old cavaliers, who, having led loose and riotous lives, prided themselves upon knowing the world, and bein^ deeply experienced in human nature. They took their neptiew aside. '* Pri* thee, man, ' said toey, '* be of good cheer. The docheas is a young ana buxom widow. She has just buried our brother, who, God rest his soul! was some- what too much given to praying and fasting, and kept his pretty wife always tied to his girdle. She is now like s bird from a cage. Think you she will keep her vow 1 Impossible I Take our word for it— we know mankind, ana. above all, womankind — it is not in widowhood— we know it, and that's enough. Keep a sharp look out upon the widow, therefore, and within the twelve-month you will catch her tripping— and then the dukedom is yovr owi. The nephew was pleased with this counsel, and im- mediately placed spies round the Duchesa, and bribed several of ner servants to keep a watch upon her, so that she could not take a single step, even from one apartment of her palace to another^ without being ob- served. Never was young and beautiful widow exposed to so terrible an ordeal. The duchess was aware of the watch thus kept upon her. Though confident of her own rectitude, she knew that it was not enough for a woman to be virtuous — she must be above the reach of slander. For the whole term of her probation, therefore, she proclaimed a strict non-intereourse with the other sex. She had females for cabinet ministers and chamberlains, through whom she transacted all her public and private concerns ; and it is said that never were the aiiairs of the dukedom so adroitly administered. AU males were rigorously excluded from the palace ; she never went out of its precincts, and whenever she moved about its courts and gardens, she surrounded her- self with a body-guard of young maids of honor, com- manded by dames renowned for discretion. She slept in abed without curtains, placed in the centre of a room illuminated by innumerable wax tapers. Four ancient spinsters, virtuous as Virginia, perfect dragons of watch- fnlnesL who only slept in the day-time, kept vigils throughout the night, seated in the four comers of the room on stools without backs or arms, and with seats cut in checquersof the hardest woodyto keep them from dozing. Thus wisely and warily did the young duchess con- duct herself for twelve long months, and Slander almost bit her tongue off in despair at finding no room, even for a surmise. Never was ordeal more burdensomoy or more enduringly sustained. The last, odd day arrived. -and along, long day it was. A thousand times did the duchess and her ladies watch the sun from the windows of the palace, as he slowly climbed the vault of heaven, and seemed still more slowly to roll down. By the time the sun sunk behind the horizon, the duchess was in n fidget that passed all bounds, and, though several hours were yet to pass be- fore the day regtdarly expired, she could not have re- mained those hours in durance to gain a roval crown, much less a ducal coronet. So she gavQ her orders, and her palfrey, magnificently caparisoned, was brought into the court-yard of the castle, with palfreys for all her ladies in attendance. In this way she sallied forth just as the sun had gone down, h was a ihiFeion of piet^- — a pilgrim cavalcade to a convent at the foot of a neigh- boring mountain— to return thanks to the blessed Vir- gin for having subtained her through this fearful ordeal. The orisons performed, the duchess and her ladies returned, ambling gently along the border of a forest. It was about that mellow hour of twilight, when night and day are mingled, and all objects indistinct. , Sud- denly some monstrous animal sprang from the thicket, with fearful bowlings. The whole female body-guard was thrown into confusion, and fled different ways. It was some time before they recovered from their panic, and gathered once more together; but the duchess was not to be found. The greatest anxiety was fell for her safety. The hazy mist of twilight had prevented their distinguishing, perfectly, the animal which had affrighted them. Some thought it a wolf, others a bear, and others a wild man of tl^e woods. For upward of an hour did they beleaguer the forest, without daring to venture in, and were on the point of giving up the duch- ess as torn to pieces and devoured, when, to their great {'oy, they beheld her advancing in the gloom, supported >y a stately cavalier. He was a stranger knight, whom nobody knew. It was impossible to distinguish bis countenance in the dark ; but all the ladies agreed that he was of a noble pre:«ence and captivating address. He had rescued the duchess from the very fangs of the monster, which, he ase^ured the ladies, was neither a wolf, nor a bear, nor yet a wild man of^ the woods, bnUa veritable fiery dia^ gon. The duchess would fain have prevailed on her deli- verer to accompany her to her court ; but he had no time to spare, bein« a knight errant, who bad many ad- ventures on hand, and many distressed damsels and af- flicted widows to rescue and relieve in various parts of the country. Taking a respectful Irave, therefore, he pursued his wayfaring, and the duchess and her train returned to the palace. No sooner was the adventure of the wood made pub- lic, than a whirlwind was raised about the ears of^ the beautiful duchess. The blustering nephew of the de- ceased duke went about, armed to the teeth, with a swaggering uncle at each shoulder^ ready to back him, and swore the duchess had forfeited her domain. It was in vain that ahe called all the saints, and angels. and her ladits in attendance, to witness that she had passed a year and a day of immaculate fidelity. One fatal hour runained to be accounted for, and in the space of one little hour, sins enough may be conjured up by evil tonguea, to blast the fame of a whole life of virtue. The two graceless uncles who had eeen the world, were ever ready to bolster the matter through, and, aa they were brawny, broad shouldered warriors, and ve- terans in brawl as well as debauch, they had great sway with the multitude. If any one pretended to aesert the innocence of the duchess, they interrupted him with a loud ha! ha! of derision. "A pretty story, trulv," would they cry, ** about a wolf and a dragon, and a young widow rescued in the dark by a sturdy varlet, who dar^s not ahuw his face in the daylight. Vou may tell that to those who do not know human nature ; for our parts, we know the sex, and that's enough." If, however, the other repeated his assertion, they would suddenly knit their brows, swell, look big, and put their hands upon their swords. As few people like to fight in a cause that does not touch their own inte- rests, the nephew and the uncles were suffered to have their way, and swagger uncontradicted. The matter was at length referred to a tribunal com- posed of all the dignitaries of the dukedom, and many and repeated consultations were held. The character of the ducheas throughout the year, was as bright and spotless as the moon in a cloudless night ; one fatal hour of darkness alone intervened to eclipse its bria^htness. Finding human sagacity incapable of dispelling the mystery, it was determined to leav^ the question to Heaven ; or, in other words, to decide it by the ordeal of the sword— a sage tribunal in the age of chivaby. The nephew and two bully uncles were to maintain their accusation in listed combat, and six months were THE WIDOWS ORDEAL. allowed to the ducheas to provide herself with three ehampioDS, to meet them in the field. . Should she fail in this, or should her championn be vanquished, her ho- nor would be considered as attainted, her fidelity as forfeited, and her dukedom would go to the nephew as a matter of right. With this determination the duchess was fain to com- ply. Proclamations were accordingly made, and he- ralds sent to various parts; but day after day, week after week, and month after month elapsed, without any champion appearing to assert her loyalty through- out that darksome hour. The fair widow was reduced to despair, when tidinga reached her of grand tourna- ments to be held at Toledo, in celebration of the nup- tials of Don Roderick, the last of the Gothic kings, with the Morisco princess Exilona. As a last resort, the duohess repaired to the Spanish court, to implore the gallantry of its assembled chivalry. The ancient city of Toledo was a scene of gorgeous revelry on the event of the royal nuptials. The youth- ful king, brave, ardent and magnlHcent, and his lovely bride, beaming with all the radiant beauty of the East, were hailed with shouts and acclamations whenever they appeared. Their nobles vied with each other in the luxury of their attire, their splendid retinues and prancing steeds ; and the haughty dames of the court appeared in a blaze of jewels. In the midst of all this pageantry, the beautiful Duch- ess of Lorraine made ber approach to the throne. She was dressed in black, and closely veiled ; four duennas of the most staid and severe aspect, and six beautiful demoiselles, formed ber female attendants. She was guarded by several very ancient, withered and gray- beaded cavaliers : and her, train was borne by one of the most deformed and diminutive dwarfs in existence. Advancing to the foot of the throne, she knelt down, and throwing up her veil, revealed a countenance so beautiful, that half the courtiers present were ready to renounce their wives and mistresses, and devote them- selves to her service ; but when she made known that she came in quest of champions to defend her fame, every cavalier i>re8!9fd forward to offer his arm and sword, without inquiring into the merits of the case ; for it seemed clear that so beauteous a lady could have done nothing but what was right ; and that, at any rate, ahe ought to oe championed in following the bent of her humors, whether right or wrong. Encouraged by such gallant zeal, the duchess suffered herself to be raised from the ground, and related the whole story of her distress. When she concluded, the king remamed for some time silent, charmed by the music of her voice. At length : " As 1 hope for salva- tion, most beautiful duchess,]' said he, " were I not a sovereign king, and bound in duty to my kingdom, I myself would put lance in rest to vindicate your cause ; and as it is, I here give full jpermission to my knights, and promise lists and a fair field, and that the contest shall take place before the walls of Toledo, in presence of my assembled court.*' As soon as the pleasure of the king was known, there was a strife among the cavaliers present for the honor of the contest. It was decided by lot, and the success- ful candidates were objects of great envy, for eveir one was ainbitious of finding favor in the eyes of the beau- tiful widow. Missives were seiit, summoning the nephew and his two uncles to Toledo, to maintain their accusation, and a day was appointed for the combat. When the day arrived, all Toledo was in commotion at an early hour Th? lists had been prepared in the usual place, just with- out the wallS|( at the foot of the rugged rocks on which the city is built, and on that beautiful, meadow along the Tagus, known by the name of the King's Garden. The populace had already assembled, each one eager to secure a favorable place ; the balconies were soon filled with the ladies of the court, clad in their richest attire, and bands of youthful knights, splendidly armed, and decorated with tneir ladies' devices, were managing their superbly caparisoned steeds about the field. The king at length came forth in state, accompanied by the queen Exilona. They took their seats in a raised bal- cony, under a canopy of rich damask : and, at sight of them, the people rent the air with accfamationa. The nephew and his uncles now rode into the field, armed cap^a-pie, and followed by a train of cavaliers of their own roistering cast, great swearers and ca'rousers, anaat swashbucklers, that went about with clanking | armor and jingling spurs. When the people of Toledo beheld the vaunting and discourteous appearance of these knights, they were more anxious than ever for the suc- cess of the gentle duchess ; but at the same time, the sturdy and stalwart frames of these warriors, showed that whoever won the victory from them, must do it at the cost of many a bitter bbw. As the nephew and his riotous crew rode in at one side of the field, the fair widow appeared at the other, with her suite of grave gray-headed courtiers, ber an- cient dueunas and dainty demoiselles, and the little dwarf toiling along under the weight of her train. Eve- ry one made way for her as she passed, and blessed her beautiful face, and prayed for success to hsr cause. ' She took her seat in a lower balcony, not far from the sove- reigns ; and her pale face, set off by her mourdfag weeds, was as the moon, shining forth from among the clouds of night. The trumpets sounded for the combat. The warrion were just entering the lists, when a stranger knight, arm- ed in panoply, and followed by two pages and an es- quire, came galloping into the field, and, liding up to the royal balcony, claimed the combat as a matter of right. **In me,** cried he, "behold the cayalier who had the happiness to rescue the duchess from the peril of the forest, and the misfortune to bring on her this grievous «^alumny. It was but recently, in the course of my er- rantly, that tidings of her wrongs have reached my eare, and I have urged hither at all speed, to stand forth in her vindication.** No sooner did the duchess hear the accents of the knight, than she recognized his voice, and joined her prayer with his that he might enter the lists. The diffi- culty was, to determine which of the three champions already appointed, should yield his place, each insisting en the h onor of the combat. The stranger knight would have settled the point, by taking the vmole contest up- on himself; but this the other knights would notper^ mit. It was at length determined, as before, by lot, and the cavalier who lost the chance retired murmur- ing and disconsolate. The trumpets again sounded— the lists were opened. The arrogant nephew and his two drawcansir uncles appeared so completely cased in steel, that they and their steed^ were like moving masses of iron. When they understood the stranger knight to be the same that haa rescued the duchess from ner peril, they greeted him with the most boisterous derision t " O ho ! sir Knight of the Dragon," said they : "yon who pretend to champion fair widows in the dark, come on, and vindicate your deeds of darkness in the open day." The only reply of the caf alier was, to put lance in rest, and brace himself for the encounter. Needless is it to relate the particulars of a battle, which was like so many hundred combats that have been said and sung in prose and verse. Who is there but must have forseen the event of a contest, where Heaven had to decide on the guilt or innocence of the most beautiful and imma- culate of widows 1 The sagacious reader, deeply read in this kind of ju- dicial combats, can imagine the encounter of the grace- less nephew and the stranger knight. He sees their con- cussion, man to man. and horse to horse, in mid career, and in that Sir Graceless hurled to the ground, and slain. He will not wonder that the assailants of the brawny uncles were less successful in their rude encounter ; but he will picture to himself the stout stranger spurring to their rescue, in the very critical moment; he will see him transfixing one with his lance, and cleaving the other to the chime with a back stroke of his sword, thus leaving the trio of accusers dead upon the field, ftnd es- tablishing the immaculate fidelity of the ducheas, and her title to the dukedom, beyond the shadow of a doubt. The air rang with acclamations ; nothing was heard but praises of the beauty and yirtue of the duchess, and of the prowess of the stranger knight ; but the pulic joy was still more increased when the champion raised his visor, and revealed the countenance of one of the bra*- vest cavaliers in Spain, renowned for his gallantry in the service of the sex, who had long been absent in search of similar adventures. That worthy knight, however, was severely wounded in the battle, and remained for a long time ill of his wounds. The loviely duchess, grateful for haying twioa THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. owed her protection to his arm, attended him daily du- ring his ilhieflB. A tender passion grew ap between them, and she finality rewarded his gallantry by giving him her hand. The king would fain have had the knight establish his title to such high advancement by farther deeds of arms ; but his conrtiera declared that he had already merited the lady, by thns vindicating her fame and for- lane in a deadly combat to outrance ; and the lady her- self hinted that she was perfectly satisfied of his prow- ess in arms, from the proo& she received in his achieve- ment in the forest. Their nuptials were celebrated with great maffnifi- eenee. The present husband of the duchess did not pfay and fast like his predecessor, Phillibert the wife- ridden ; yet he found greater favor in the eyes of Hea- ven, for their union was blessed with a numerous pro- geny—the daughtera chaste and beauteous as their mo- ther ; the sons all stout and valiant as their sire, and all renownedi like him, for relieving disconsolate damsels and desolate widows. THE MERCHANT'S CLERK; A. LBOKND OF THE OLDEN TIIUC. TowAKS the middle of the second half of the seven- teenth centurv, or, in plainer English, about the year of grace 1672, there lived in London a very rich, and therefore very respectable merchant, who, having come to the very rare resolution that he had made money enough, and haviufs, as he said, no kith or kin, tacked to this said resolution one of more frequent occurrence, namely, that he would take a wife, to be the superin- tendent of his household afiairs, the sharer of his for- tune, the soother'of his sorrows, if ever he should have any, and so forth. And to a man of so much import- ance as was Master Edwards, there were very few ob- stacles in the way of his accomplishing such a puipose, as he might eaaily pick and choose among the maidens or widows of his ward, who would all be but too proud of an alliance with so honorable and substantial a citi- Een. He did not, however, deliberate so long on the matter as might perhaps have been expected, seeing how wide a field he had wherein to exercise his specu- lations ; for at the same time that he informed those friends whom be cbose to consult on the occasion, of his beforenamed intention, he gave thein to under- stand that his choice had already fallen on Dorothy Langton, the daughter of a poor goldsmith and reputed papist, but nevertheless a maiden of good fame, seemly bearing, and twenty-ox years of age. She was tall, fair and well made, but with nothing striking about her face that would csll for particular description, unless one may advert to—what, indeed, was no part of her face— an unusual breadth at the back part of her head, behind her ears, which seemed to give her features an appear- ance of being too smalL The lady was, truth to con- fess, not very much admired in the neighborhood ; and, to continue the confession, she was as little liked. She was said by those who knew her best, or rather, as ii might seem, worst, to be of a sullen temper, and yei, withal, violent; and the death of one young man was laid at her door, all the way, from the East Indies, whither he had gone in despair, after having been tor eleven months her accepted suitor, and then oischarged in a fit of peevishness. How far this incident, which happened before she was twenty, might have formed her after character; or bow fnr even her earlier charac- ter might have been moulded from the fact of her hav- ing been lefl motherless while yet an infant, and bred up afterward under the sole care of her father, a harsh and severe man, it is not tor me to determine ; and much leas so how or why Master Edwards came to fix on her as his partner. Master Edwards himself, at the time we are speaking of, was in the very (irime and vigor of life — that is, in his own opinion ; it may be stated, however, that he was in his five-and-fiftieth Ir^ar : rather corpulent and very gray : but the former act he asserted, and not without trutn, was a proof of hb stoutness; some men, he observed, quite young men Coo. (that is, yonni^er than himself,) had contracted a baa habit of stoopmg, which showed that their walk through life had not been upright ; then, as to his gray hairs, he boasted that they were once the veriest black. but that thought and honorable labor had blanched them; besides, his worst foes could not say he was bald. For the rest. Master Edwards was a man of tole- rable parts, as times went, of an easy and good temper, and one who loved to crack his bottle and his joke as well as any man living, either now or then. For some time, say ihirteen montha, ader the naar- riage, they lived together in all seeming harmony. I say seeming, of course B|)eakiug only of what met the eyes of others \ for far be it from me to intrude any un- necessary inquiry into the discomforts or discrepancies (if any such existed) of the domestic circle— a rather small one, to be sure, seeing it consisted of only two in- dividuals, unless, as a third segment thereof, may be reckoned Master Edwards' clerk, a young man^ an or- phan, of the name of Simon, who had lived with him from a child. He was a youth of good favor, but did not seem to find it in his mistress's eyes; or rather, lat* terly, he did not ; for at her first coming she had be- haved with great kindness to him, while he, on the other hand, always treated her with that distant respect 80 becoming in an inferior, but so mcrtifying to a supe- rior who miy happen, for some purpose or other, to wish to be on more familiar terms. After a little time. Mistress Edwards evidently took a great dislike to poor Simon, and by the exercise of a little domestic despot- ism, she made his home sufficiently uncomfortable. Master Eldvvards seldom interfered in the matter ; and to do his wife justice, she concealed the alteration she had caused in the lad*s comforts, as much as she could, from his master ; and if ever he did happen to make any reference to the subject, she was pat with complaint against Simon for being so often away from the house ; which was no more than truth, as she frequently made it too hot to hold him : and also, that during his ab- sence he was continually to be seen in very bad com- pany—at which his master would sigh— andfl am sorry to say was also no leas than the trutli, and probably the consequence of her harsh treatment. Various little trinkets and other nic-nacs were also said by Mistress Edwards to be from time to time missing— and her lamentations and anger on such subjects were always uttered^ in Simon's hearing, plentifully interlarded with expressions of wonder *\ who the thief could be 1" and sssertions " that such thin^ could not walk off without hands : whereat her facetious husband never failed to remark, " Yes, deary, they might, if they had feet." And this as regularly put her in a passion, and made her vow that, " for her part, she could not see what uss there was in keeping about the house such lazy, loitering, good-for-nothing vagabonds," with various other such ungentle epithets, all of which were quite {.lainly launched at the unfortunate Simon. At the end of these thirteen months, Sinnon, together with several articles of plate, was found missing m real earnest— all mere suspicion on the subject being re- moved by the following note which Master Edwards found on nis breakfast table ; ** Even in the very commission of a deed of wrong ' and villainy, can I not refrain from bidding you fare- well— my Kind, mine honored, my loved master! — even while T am doing wroiu to you. But I am driven to it, and away from your* house, by the cruel and un- just treatment of your wife : beware of her, master of mine, for she is evil. Whither I go, God knows— I care not— nor will He ; for I have abandoned his ways and broken his commands— but I am forced to it — forced to rob, that I may not starve of hunger— to rob you, to whom I owe every thing— but indeed, indeed, I would not do so, knew I not that what 1 take from you can be little missed, and that if I spoke to you, you would not let me quit your house : and sure I am that if I did so without means of living, you would sorrow that the child of your fostering— the boy of your rear- ing—whom you have ever treated more as a son than a servant, should be ♦ • • *' The words that immediately followed were Quite ille- gible, being so blotted, as though the writer had written over drops of water ; then followed a short, thick dash of the pen— and then, in a large and hurried hand, the following : " But this is foolish— and fallacy— farewell, sif^-dear master, farewell: forgive me — I cannot pray fpr you — 1 ask you not to pray for me — but do, if vou think it will avail me aught— if not, forget me — ana oh ! forgive me. I am going wrong— good bye." The signature was also much blotted, but it could be traced to be, " the thankful orphan, Simon." 8 THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. The effect produced by this event was very diflereat, both on Master Edwards and h\a wife, as well as from Vhat might have been expected : the form«r, to use a homely word, took on greatly about the matter, was evidently much hurt, became silent and ab:>tractea, and went 80 far as to shed tear&— a thing which his oldest friends— those who had been his school-fellows — d«- clared they had never known him do in all his life — not even when under the infliction of Dr. Everard's cane — the right-reverend high master of Saint Paul's School, where Master Edwards had learned Latin and peg-top. Mistress Edwards, on the other hand, showed a great share of rejoicing on the occasion, declaring she thought bis room cheaply purchased at the loss of the trumpery be had taken with him. That same afternoon, during dinner, she hinted that she had already a young man in her eye, as the successor of Simon ; atwnich observa- tion her hu&band merely sighed, but made no inquiries — and yet he probably had no conception whom his wife had in her eye, though if some of their neighbors had been present, they might, if they had liked it, have helped him to an inuendo concerning a handsome young man, of whom no one knew any thing, except that he was frequently seen walking with Mistress Ed- wards of evenings^ under the tall elms in Goodman's Fields. There were some hints of a yet more scanda- lous nature — ^but these shall be omitted. The stranger, however, came after the situation, and a handsome young man he was— his name was Lam- bert Smithe— but as (qr his qualihcations for the new place, which Mistress Edwards really seemed uncom* monly anxious he should obtain, as little had best be said as may be : and the less need be said, as Master Edwards was decidedly of opinion that he was utterly unfitted for the office ; for the expression of which opinion he was downright scolded by his wife, and, in- deed, fairly warned that she would nave her own way after aU. * * • • •-•.• A few nights after Simon's dej^rture — a dark and Btormy November night it was— Mistress Edwards was seen— no matter yet by whom— to cross the cloistered court-yard, at the back of her husband's house, bearing a lantern m her hand, which she partially covered over with the large cloak wherein she was muffled, probably with the intention of concealing its light— perhaps only to prevent its being extinguish^'d by the gustful \yind and rain. She approached a low postern-gate, which gave into a pipage leading to Cripplegate church — she un- locked it — opened it besitaiingl)— looked out, as though for some one — came back agam -re-iocked the door — placed the lantern in one of the angles of the cloister, and began slowly pacing up and down under its shelter. In a few moments she stopped and listened — ^hei^body and head slightly beat rightward, toward the postern : a low whistle was heard without — she flew to the gate — opened it, and let in a man, also muffled in a cloak: she addressed him, by exclaiming : ** Late, sir I" The stranger began some excuse, probably, but was at once stopped by a sharp ** hush I" and they conversed in whispers. At length they shifted their position, and advanced toward the house, Mistress Edwards having taken up her light, and leading her companion forward with' the other hand.^ Of a sudden the man stopped, and she also. He sighed, and said, though still m a whisper: " I cannot do it. I cannot— indeed I cannot — any- thing but that !" •* Anything but that ! Why, what else is there to be donel Will you not be master of all— of mc? Nay, come, dear Lambert." The man passed ..ov.- As he turned a second anfile, close to the house' door, a sharp-pointed weajion was diiven into his breast, by some one standing behind one of the thick stone pillars, and with such force, that the point pierced one of his ribs, which prevented the wound from being mortal. The young man shrieked with agony ; and grasping toward the spot whence the blow came, siezed hold of a part of the assassin's dress, who struggled, and extricated himself from his grasp, but left behind him part of a chain, with a watch hung to it ; at the same time he wrenched the dagger from the lacerated bone, and, with a surer blow, drove it in- to his victim's heart. AU this was the work of little more than a moment ; during which. Mistress Edwards, who at first had been ftruck with a stupor of surprise and horror» rushed for* ward, screaming, "Murder! murder!" and fell, swoon- ing, within a few paces of the body. When she recovered, she found several of her neigh- bors and of the watch, standing round, and among them her alarmed husband. She looked round wildly for a moment, fixed her eyes on him for another, then shriek- ed wildly: "Ah! I see— 1 sec him— him! .Seize him— the murderer !" and again fell senseless. Edwards was accordingly seized, though few could understand why or wherefore ; but when he protested he knew nothing about the matter, people began to thick him guilty, especially as soide declared the mur- dered man was the same youth with whom his wife had been often seen walking under the tall elms in Goodman*s Fields; and, upon her second recovery. Mistress Edwards confirmed this declaration by cling- ing round the young man's body, and calling for ven- geance on the murderer of her love. Edwards was carried before a justice of the peace, and afler a short examination, committed to Newgate to tal^e his trial in the court-house there at the next sessions, which were to take place within a week. The day came, and the trial commenced. At the very outset an argument arose between the counsel for the prosecution, and the defence, whether the exclama- tions used by the wife on the night of the murder, accu- sing her husband, could be given as evidence by those who had heard them. For the defence it was urged that as a wife could not ^ippear as a witness either for or against her husband^ so neither could any expression of hers, tending to criminate him, be admissible ; on the other hand, it was contended that as confessions were admissible against a party, so ahusbund aqd wife, being as one in the eye of^the law, such expreeaons as these were in the nature of confessions by the party himself, and therefore should be admitted— and so the recorder decided they should be. In addition to this, other — circumstantial — evidence was produced against the prisoner; the poniard with which Lambert had been stabbed, and which in falling he had borne out of his slayer's hand, was a jeweled Turkish one, known by many to be the property of the prisoner, and to have been in his possession many years, he having brought it home witn him from one of his voyages to the Morea ; the watch also was nroduced, which, with part of the chain, the deceased had held in his clenched hands ; it was a small silver one, shaped like a tulip, and chequer- ed in alternate squares of dead and bright metal; its dial plate of dead silver, figured, with a bright circle, containing black Roman figures ; in the interior, on the works, it bore the inscription, "Thomas Hooke, in Pope's-head-alley," the brother to the celebrated Robert Hooke, who had recently invented thft patent siiring- ix>ckeuwatches. This watch was proved to have also been the property of the prisoner, to have been given by him to his wife, and lately to have be»n returned by her to him in order to be repaired. These, circum- stances, together with the natural imputation that was cast upon him by the consideration of who the murdered man was, were all that were adduced against Edwards : and he was called on for his defence, being, by the mild mercy of the English law, denied the assistance of counsel for that purpose: it beinji wisely considered, that though a man m the nice intricacies of a civil cause, may need technical aid, he cannot possibly do so in a case where the fact of his life being dependent on the success of his pleading, must necessarily induce and assist him to have all his wits about him. The prisoner's situation, however, in this instance, seemed unaccountably to have the contrary eflect on him, and he aopeared embarrassed and confused i he averred he could not explain the cause of his wife's extraordinary error ; but that an error it certainly had been. For the poniard's being in the man's heart, he was equally at a loss to account ; and as for the watch, he admitted all that had been proved, but declared that he had put it by, about a week before the murder, in a cabinet, which he had never since opened, and how it had been re- moved he was unable to tell. Of course, this defence, if such it could be termed, availed him very little— in fact, simply nothing. The jury found him guilty, and the recorder called on him to say why judgment should not be pronounced against him. The prisoner seemed suddenly to have recovered his old, or gained new powers j he broke out into a strong ana passionate appeal, calhng on the judge to behcve hii word, as that of a dying man ; that he was umoceat LOST BEATTTY. — and coQcIuded by solemalv calUng upon God bo to help him as he spoke the truin. He was coodemned. The prisoner hid his face in his bandi*, and sobbed aloud; he was removed from the bar to his solitary cell. , About half oast ten that night, as the recorder was flitting alone, dozing in his easy cnair over the fire and a tankard of mulled claret, he was suddenly startled by a loud knock at the door, followed up by the announce- ment of a stranger, who would brook no delay. He was admitted — a young man, whose features were fear- fully haggard and dmwn, as though with some intense inward struggle ; in fact, the good magistrate did not half like hid looks, and intimated to his servant that as his clerk was gone home, he had belter stay in the room ; which was, on the whole, a confused remark, as, in the firct place, he knew his servant could not writa ; and in toe second, he did not know whether any m riting was required ; but the youth relieved the worthy recorder from his dilemma, by peremptorily stating that the communication he had to make must be made to him alone. The servant therefore with- drew, the recorder put on his spectacles, and the youth began. ** I come to tell you, sir, that you have this day un- justly condemned an innocent man to death." "Bah! bah! And pray, how know you that he is innocent V* " By this token, sir, that I know who did the deed for which you have condemned Master Edwards to suffer. Lambert's murderer stands before you." The recorder, horror-stricken at the notion of being so close to a murderer, at laige, gabbled out an inarticu- late ejaculation, something oi an equivocal nature be- tween an oath and a prayer, and stretched out his hand toward the silver hand- bell which stood before him on the table ; and still more horrified was he when the youth caught his hand, and said : *' I will do you no harm, sir. But my confession shall be a willing and-a free one.*' He removed the hand-bell beyond the recorder's reach, let go his arm, and retired again to a respectful distance. He then proceeded to relate that his name was Simon Johnson, that he was an orphan, and had been bred up with grPat kindness by Master Edwards. In detailing his story, he hinted at an unlawful passion which his mistress had endeavored to excite in his mind toward her; and to his resistance or carelessness of her wiles he partly attributed her hatred and perse- cution of him : Ins home made wretched thereby, he had sought relief in society ; unfortunately for him, he had fallen in with some young men of bad character— among others with this very Lambert, who had been among his moSt strenuous advisers that he should from time to time purloin some of his master's superfluous wealth, for the purpose of supplying himself and his companions with the means of more luxurious living; he had, however, for a long while rejected this advice, until at length goaded by the continual unjust accusa- tions of his mistress, charging him with the very crime he was thus tempted to commit, he had^ in truth, done BO, and had absconded with several articles of value ; but his companions, instead of receiving him with praise, as he bad expected, had loaded bin with invec- tives for not bringing them a richer prize. Instigated by their reproaches and, by a mingled sense of shame and anger, he had intended, by means of a secret key which he had kept, to rob Master Edwards's house on' the very night wh^n the murder was committed. Having gained access to the court-yard, he was just about to open the house door, when he heard footsteps; he retired, and concealed himself. From his place of concealment he had seen Mrs. Edwards encouraging Lambert, by many fond and endearing professions of love for him, and of hatred of his master, to the murder of her husband ; and as Lambert, conquered by her threats and entreaties, was passing him within arm's length, an irresistible impulse had urged him to save his master's life by sacrificing Lambert's ; and having done the deed of death, he had leaped the yard wau and fled. The poniard and watch were part of the property stolen when he had left the house. He ended thus: " After I had left the spot, sir, I fled, I know not whither ; for days and days 1 wandered about in the fields, sleeping in sheds, numbed with cold and half •tarred, never daring to approach the dwelliogs of men to relieve my Wfints, till dark, and the ever feelioc as though eyer^ eye scowled upon me : and when Ileft them again, and was again alone in the fields. I would suddenly start and run, with the feeling that I had been followed, and was about to be taken. In vain 1 strove to overcome these feelinga— in vain I struggled to re- concile myself to the deed I had done— in vain I repre- sented it to my heart as one of good, as one which had saved a life innnitely mbre valuable than his whom I had slain : it was all vain ; a something within tortured me with unnatural and undefinable terror; and even when I sometimes partially succeeded in allaying this feeling, and half convinced myself that I had done for the best, it seemed as if I heard a voice whis[)er in my own soul, * What brought thee to thy master's court-yard that night T and this set me raving af ain. Unable longer to bear this torture, I made up my mind to self-slaughter. for the thoughts of del:vering myself into the hands of justice drove me almost mad ; my heart was hardened against making even this late atonement, and with a reckless daring I resolved on self-slaughter ; but how, how to do this, I knew not; drowning was fearful to me, I should have time perhaps to re[)ent ; and so with starving, even if nature would allow that trial. I re- turned to the suburbs— it was this very evening — a lan- tern hanging on the end of a barber's pole caught my sight— 1 hahtened into the shop, with the intention of destroying myself with the first razor I could lay my hands on: but the shop was quite full. I sat down in a corner, doggedly waiting for my time, and paying no heed to the conversation that was going on, till my master's name struck on my ear. I listened— his trial, condemnation, and coming execution, were the general talk. I surted up, and with a feeling of thankfulneas to God that there was something yet to live for — 1 think I cried out bo— I rushed out of the shop, hurried hither— I am not too late— to— to supply my master's place to- morrow." The yonnff man sank exhausted in a chair, and drop- ped his head on the table. The astonished magistrate leant forward, cautiously extended his hand, seized his hand-bell, and rang loud and long^ beginning at the same time to call over the names of all the servants he had ever had from the first time of his keeping house. liams! very true, sir— by your leave, sir— Godwin ! Ralph ! there's your prisoner, sir," he added to the one wondering servant, who answerell this multitudin- ous call. The sequel may be told in a few lines. A reprieve for Edwards was immediately sent to Newgate, which was followed up by a pardon ; for having been found guilty, of course he could not be declared innocent. The wretched wife of the merchant died by her own hand, on the morning of her husband's reprieve. Simon was tried for Lambert's murder, of course found guilty, and sentenced to death : but in con.^ideraiion of the ex- traordinary circumstances attending his case, this sen- tence was changed into transportation for life. My Lord Chief Justice Hale delivered a very voluminous judgment on the occasion ; the main ground on which he proceeded, seems to have been, that as Siinon had not been legally discharged by Edwards, he might still be considered in the light of his servant, and that he was, therefore, to a certain degree, justifiable in defend- ing his master's life. Simon died on his passage. Edwards, from the time of his release, became a drivelling idiot: he lived several years. It was not till the death of the old man that a secret was discovered— it was ascertained that Simon was a natural son ; and* that, in preventing the intended assassination of the merchant, he had imcon- sciously saved the life of his father. LOST BEAUTY. B7 MRS. S. C. HALL. Nkak one of the windows of a large and anticue house, of the Elizabethan era, two ladies were seated enjoying the cool evening breeze that entered through an open window ; and it we do not descant upon the richness and variety of the landscape, it is because we admire the living more than the material world, and would 10 LOST BEAUTY. make acquaintance with that noble-looking woman whose countenance is turned toward the setting aun, and whose every attitude expresses dignity. How firm- ly, yet how gracefnlly* her head is raised above her Eoilished shoulders I what richness, yet propriety, in er dress! the folds of her velvet robe descend toner feet, that— so delicate are their form— hardly indent the crimson cushion with their slight pressure. Her com- panion is of other, though, it ma^ be, of more wmning beauty. The childish golden hair, that clusters over her expansive brow in such redundancy of freedom, har- monizes well with the cheek of palest rose, and a form that we could imagine might rest upon a bed of violets without crowing a single petal. Her voice is like the breathing of a soft lyre, when awakened by the spirit of joy ; her blue eves are full of hope, that perfectly unead- dened hope, which dwells with youth as a companion, and calls innocence its sister. They are both children of the same parents, though many years passed before Annette was bom., to be the plavmate and friend of the stately Lady Leslie. Ab they sat together in that great chamber, there was a feeling of quiet and solitude around them, which darkened the shadows on Lady Lieslie's mind, and so- bered the smile on the lip of her gay young sister. Thev had both recently suffered from that fell disease which has been the bane of so much beauty. But, while An- nette escaped unscathed, the blight had fallen upon her •ister, and the mistress of Leslie Abbey arose from her bed with the marks of the pestilence written on her once beautiful countenance too strongly to be ever ef- faced. It LB not to be denied that the noble ladv had as large a share of personal vanity as usually falls to the lot of woman. Of high birth, -and large possessions, ahe had consequently a sufficient number of flatterers to praise and fawn. Had she. been as dark as £rebus, ana as deformed as Sin, they would still have sung of and praised her loveliness. But its character and bril- liancy had been such, that she could not move without receiving the homage of eyes— so rarely paid without being sensibly felt and duly appreciated. She had been feted aud sunjf. painted and sculptured, until her exqui- site head whirled upon its pedestal, and, what was still worse, her heart, naturally kind and benevolent, be- came careless of the wants or wishes of her fellow creatures. Prosperity drives pity from the bosoms of the wealthy ; it ia good to feel disappointment, and even adversity, at some period of our lives ; for practical ex- perience IS a benefit to ourselves and others. It was Lady Leslie's beauty that steeled her heart ; she thought of it— acted upon it— dreamed of it. It had gained her the affections of the only man she ever loved. One whom wealth and title could not purchase, was never- theless caught by the matchless face— that now— but ahe could not bear to think of it. To look upon it a second time, thus scarred and disfigured, was impossible ! Her husband had been abroad: and the letter ;^^ich lay open upon her lap, told oi bis hopes of an immediate return ; and spoke much of anticipated happiness in meetin|; again (so ran the words) " yrith his bright and beautiful wife." Annette had watched with all the earnestness and anxiety of her affectionate nature, the effect produced by the perusal of that letter upon her sister's mind. She had longed for the return ot her brother ; lor she felt that now was the time, when Lady Leslie's proud spirit was bowed with mortification, to lead her from the vanity of her ways, and teaeh her to mount far, far above the world's mean and sordid enjoyments. " why should such as she," thought Annette, *' trifle away the . essence and energy of soul that God has given her, upon those whose wonder is cankered by envy— to whose lips blessings are unknown ! Her heart is touched and soft- ened by affliction ; she valued the casket more than the jewel It contained— for she lived among those who could appreciate the first, but not the last ; the roses of her cheek were more lovely in her sight than the blos- soms of her mind, that would have furnished forth such glorious fruit, haa the one been cultivated with half the care bestowed upon the other. But it is not too late ; she is yet in the summer of her days ; and who knows that if Leslie comes not, it may be given to me — to me, her youngest and unworthy sister— to show her better things. When the old Eoman soldier was bknd. he was led by a strippling boy— as one child would lead another ; not that the oAd man was less wise than be- fore, but he wanted sight, and the youth lent him the only faculty he lacked. On the same principle, may I not give unto her, wha is ten times greater than myself, the one quality she needs— the onlv one that I posses»^ and so render her loss a gain V^ Having thought so much. Annette looked into Lady Leslie's face ; it re- tained the traces of recent tears, and was more than usually pale. *' I will not speak vet," thought her sis- ter^ and, without saying a word, she took her lute, and. striking a few wild chords, began that beautiful song of the witty and accomplished Carew t " He tkat loves a rotv cheek. Or a coral Up admiral, Or from itar-Uke eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain hit flret— As old Time makes theie decay, So his flamei must waste away.** She paused, for a moment, at the conclusion of the first verse, and stole a quiet glance at her companion ; but there was no expression that could induce her either to continue or forbear another stanza. She again sung: " But a smooth and steadfast mind, Oentle thoughts and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combin'd, Kindle never dyinir Ares } Where these are not I despite Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.** " Ton are fond of the lays of the olden time,** said Lady Leslie with a sigh ; *^ but I care not for either the modem or the ancient rhymesters; why should I care for anything, when nothing cares for mel" " If you care lor nothing, dear sister, that same no- thing shows marvellous wiidom in caring for you. I wish I coukl imitate it ! But will you not read me Leslie's letter 1" she continued; "or at least, tell me what he says 1 Here have I sat, the perfect picture of maidenly patience, sin^ng and sighing, from fair curi- osity to know what writes my lordly brother.'* '* O, you may see it all ! but stay, I will read yon this passage myself! " ** ' Since you have so long enriched the abbey with your presence, I fear I can nardly hope yon will conti- nue there after my return ; tell me, dearest, do you not pant for the court, of which your beauty was so bright an ornament 1 ' "You hear, Annette." continued the proud lady, rising from her seat, ana pacing the apartment with the grace of a Mary, and the irritation of an Elizabeth : " You hear ! Did he know of the evil I have sufiered, it would be ill talking of beauty ; perhaps he would not think of returning.'* " And have you not told him, then 1 " "Told him, Annette! Oh, no, silly girl*. Do you think I did not want to see him once more ! Him I have so loved '• But your childish nature cannot un- derstand such love ; yon love linnets^ and doves, and wild roses, and—" •* You, sister ! *» "Forgive me, Annette, forgive me!*' said Lady Leslie, with one of those sudden transitions of temper to which petted men, women and children are so often subject ; " some allowance would be made for a king who had lost his crown— for a — ** " You have not lost your crown. It is now my turn to be forgiven, for again interrupting you. I have read of a virtuous woman being a crown of glory to her hus- band ; and do you know what I fancv should be a mar- ried woman's crown 1 Her husband's love.'* " Granted ; my husband's love was what I prised on earth— more than earth's— all earth's other treasures- it is for him I would be beautiful '. " "My dear sister!" " What mean ye, girl ^*» inquired Lady Leslie, with returning haughtiness of manner. " That vou deceive yourself: I grant he was your principal, nut not your only object. Admiration was your food— your existence depended on it ! If he were not present to give the necessary supply, you took it from other hands. Nay, do not look so steady on me. I own that from him it was noeet$r than from any ; but, sister, it was sweet from all.'* . Lady Leslie sazed upon her young sister with ^aston- ishment. She Tiad only considered her an affectionate, kind girl ; she had not soufl^t to penetrate her charan* ter; vain people seldom care for othen sufliciently to LOST BEAUTY. 11 Bcrutinize their minds. And now, astonishtneni at her boldaesB was blended with veneration for her truth. Annette continued—** If mv beloved aiatcr would throw open the rich storehouse of her mind, and cultivate the anectiona of her heart, she would be more beloved than ever by her husband, and command the respect— if, in- deed. It be worth commanding— of those who flattered ; and. better still, of those who never soiled their lips by flattery or falsehood.'* " Annette Feveraham, the philosopher ! " exclaimed the lady, contemptuously. " Annette Feveraham, the naturalist, if you will I " replied her sister, playfully : " May I tell you a little tale 1 it is very short, and very true. You know that when you were engaged in the buaineai of fashionable life, your boy was turned over to his childish aunt, as companions well suited to each other. AVell, aister, I have learned from children more wisdom, more of that natural wisdom which comes directly from God, than I ever learnt from men. Their goodness is so active, and their thoughts given with so much honesty l I love to hear them prattle of their miniature hopes and fears, before deceit has taught them mystery or concealment. Do yon remember, the first day you ventured to your dressing room, you ordered Edward to be brought in 1 I was well long before, and had seen him frequently ; but some weeks had elapsed before he had been per- mitted audience of his mother. Sister, you took nipi in your arm»— kissed his fair brow a thousand times, I times, ana wept sail yec sweet lean oi loy : iney were orighler to my eyes than the gav jewels of your coronet ; for thev were nature's tears/' "Perhaps they were tears of pride, shed at my own sad change." " I'll not believe it ! he. too, had safiered the disease, bm escaped without a blemish. Ah, good my sister, you wept for joy, to see his brow unstained." "Idid!ldid!» - " 1 knew you did. I took him to his chamber, and, after a grave pause, he looked into my face, and, clasp- ing his tiny hands, exclaimed. * I am so happy that mamma has grown ugly : shall I tell you why. dear aunt I It has taoght her to be kind ; she never kissed me before. Shall I pray to-night that she may continue always ugly?' Trust me, dear sister, Ned was the true philosopher: he knew that people, though they may be admired for beauty, are never loved for it." ** My poor boy ! " said the lady, after a painful pause : " Mv poor, dear boy ; be is a noble child ! and I may thank you for it, Annette: I trusted him to menials; you saved him from contamination." *' I am not yet come out.** retorted Miss Feversham with her own peculiar arcnneae of manner; "when ] am I shall have other employments, I daresay, like other young ladies." " Annette, do not trifle now. My child might think those seams of little consequence ; but my husband '• — then those women— those beauties whom 1 have so long edipsed!" " Ah, there it is ! I will not belieye it is on Leslie's account you sorrow— he is but one of the many I If I haYS wronged yon by my frankness," she continued, seeing the cloud agam gathering on her sister's brow. " study but the arts he loves, and on my knees I'll crave a pardon— and never— never— never any more offsnd. He loves a country life— he loves simplicity— " *• He ought to have married you." "Perhaps he would, had I been old enough. My glorious sister ! if you look so upon me, I'll never iest again. I know not why I jest— a jest is a play on truth— and truth I have ever worshipped. With reverence I Seak ; it is the earthly type of all things heavenly, od is truth — his words ^et dwell upon our lips, still flying, still remaining— brighten our eyes-* shed a pure lustre over our features, a lustre that can make beauti- ful the plainest face. A noble thing is truth ! " " Annette, there's a new spirit created or roused with- in you." , " Lady, it is not new ; love may bum faintly for a time, but it can be quickly fanned by circumstances to a flame. I loved my sister : and when I looked into her mmd. I saw but one blot there— 'twas vanity. I feel that 1 am touching a dangerous theme, with much too free a hand ; but you have called me friend ; that is a title dearer far than sister. I've heard you say men were capricious, and would feed on loveliness, like bees, taking honey, returning stings; that they would rove from flower to flower, seek'mg the sweetest t but Leslie is none of these. We look upon the plainness of the thing we love, till it crows into beauty." " He could not look on me, Annette," replied Lady Leslie, "without drawing comparisons, what I was^ and what I am." "My dear sister, let me tell you one more short story, and I have done." "In an eastern country, no matter whether m Persia or Turkey, but somewhere in the East, there was a spring, a fimpid spriilg, whose waters were like crystal : •d The holy men who, journeying from country to coun- try, drank of its refreshing waters, declared that it came directly from the centre of the world, and brought to its surface the virtues and medicaments that before were concealed in the bowels of the earth. The fame of the well spread far and near; and one of the rulers in that country said ; " • Behold ! we will build around our spring— the spring wherewith Allah has blessed our land— a safe^ard and a wall ; and the wall shall be of alabaster, within and without— so that all who pass by shall marvel at the purity of the well. And we will set one to keep the well, and watch over it ; and the name of her who watches and guards the well shall be Tbuth.' " "And all the wise in that country who heard the words of the venerable ruler, declared that they were good. And the ruler stroked his beard| which descend- ed below his girdle. And the ruler said, * IiCt the thing be done forthwith.' "But in that land there were more rulem than one ; and another opened his mouth and spake. 'The brain in the gray head is dry,' said the youthful ruler, ' and his eye dim, so that he cannot discern the fashions that spread over the earth ; his ear is closed against the voice of improvement. Behold! we will tell him a thing. Why should our well, the spring of delight in our wilderness, be closed in alabaster, and one of such exceeding plainness as Truth set to guard its waters 1 Behold ! we will plant a glorious tree beside the well ; and its roots shall descend into the earth, and its branches ascend to the first heaven. And thv tree shall bear the fruit of gejnsand jewels, which will sparkle in the sun, and overshadow our spring with splendor.' And the young and the foolish shouted the shout of joy. And the shouts of the young and the shouts of the fool- ish were louder than the shouts of the wise.^ So the young ruler curled his moustache, till its hair saluted those of his soft hazel eyes, and said, ' The thing shall be done forthwith.' " And the thing was done ; the voice of the foolish prevailed for a time over the voic? of the wise. " * Where is the goodness of the well, and where the purity of the water 1* exclaimed those who once had praised its marvel and its beauty ; ' behold ! the roots of the filthy tree have disturbed iis cleanliness.' *• * My spring— my spring— my limpid spring !' wailed the last spirit that had lingered by its side, and could now no longer remain near its margin. * Birds of no wisdom nest in the branches of the false tree, and the untrue gems have become cankered, and thy waters are corrupt. O that thou hadst been walled by alabaster and guarded by Truth !' " And as the spirit passed sighingly away from the well, the spring itself replied : * The sun shines, and the gems sparkle on me ; what do I desire more V "And a great spirit heard the words; and the great spirit said that the words were foolish. And the ^reat spirit resolved that he would uproot the tree, and after a time restore the well. " And the tree, which was named * Eternal Beauty,' became uprooted, at the command of the great spirit. And the waters of the spring were troubled, and mourn- ed after the tree, and after the gay birds that filled its ear with foolishn " But the sreat spirit said, ** Let be ; the well, in a little time, will regain its purity, now that the glare of eternal beauty is removed from its eight, and the roots of vanity from its heart ; it can now drink into its depths the mysteries of heaven, and the light of Allah, and be satiraed with the wall of alabaster as a guard. Oh that so fine a well should have ever become so cor- rupt !" '*Mydearnster/' penifted the fabulist, seeiag fiitt LEONI. Lady Leslie was not displeased at her invention, "you are the well, and Leslie the wall of alabaster, and I am Truth, and your beauty was the tree ; think less of the tree, and more of your husband and child, and, Annette Feversham's word upon it, he will love you better than ever. I will not tell yoii,'' she continued, with more tact than those unacquainted with the windings, the knowledge and the mysteries of woman's heart, would have ^iven her credit for — " I will not remind you that your hgure is as perfect as ever — your eyes as brilliant — your teeth as white— your smile as graci9U8; and as for those little pitfr^they are graves for vanity! Write to your husband, sister ; tell him—" Lady Leslie started from her seat, and, after a mo- ment's listening, exclaimed, " It is his horse's tramp ; I know the sound of its hoofs among a thousand. O that I could hide this face from him and from the world!" She seized a veil which lay upon the sofa, and would have f]uRg it over her heacf. ^ut Annette drew up her slight figure with a gesture and a dignity that bore a miniature resemblance to her sister— and, taking the rich lace from the trembling and agitated hands of the ladv, said, with both feeling and emphasis : *^ There is but one thing that should make a woman veil before her husband, and that is— shame. The house of Feversham knows it not!" Lady Leslie could hardly help smiling at the to^e of authority assumed by the little Annette ; but she yield- ed, neverthelesB. and forgot at the time, in her bus- band's warm ana affectionate greeting, the mortifica- tion which, for so many weeks, had steeped her proud ■oul in bitterness. , It is again evening— though five years have passed since the commencement of our tale— and on the lawn of Leslie Abbey, the lord and his noble lady are enjoy- ing the prospect and the breeze of their native hills. The moat has been partly filled, and instead of weeds and wilderness have sprung up goodly shrubs and smi- ling flowers. Here a vista has been carefully opened in the wood, and we may see the beautiful river wan- dering like animated silver beneath the smiles of the rising moon, until it is again swallowed in the darkness of the deep, deep forest. Hark ! the voice of joyous children from a neighbor- ing village— the shout— tne laugh— the gay halloo— dan- cing amid the echoes of the hills; asd we can perceive the spire of the village church— the church that they, the lord and his once proud wife, have built and bene- ficed ; the country upon which they look is theirs— the silver river, the dark wood, the waving com; what else 1 the hearts and blessings of their tenantry ! " Where tarries our sister 1" he inquired, after they had surveyed their wide domain, and heard the black- bitd's last whistle, and watched the fog-wreath encircle the wood, and cast its mantle over the valley. "She IS with our children. "Oh. Leslie! we both owe much to that girl, who blends so astonishing the wisdom of the serpent with the gentleness of the dove and the frolic of the wild kid. I shall never forget the first lesson she read me on the advantage of personal plainness.'' " Personal plainness ! what has it to do with you 1" " Peace, peace^ dear Leslie ! Do you not again awaken the vanquished spirit of pride within your wife's bosom; I sometimes fear it only sleeps; yet have I yet learned to bless Most beauty.' M> trial has been turned into a triumph." " Let it sleep on, then," replied the husband, of whose character Annette had rightly judged. "A woman ha? something to be far more proud of than personal beauty." LEONI. A LEGEND OF ITALT. Ths lord of castle Alto is old and gray headed ; four- score yean have flitted silently over him, and the dream of his life is nigh to its awakening, and his ear is dull, and his eye is dim, and his heart is weary. The old man reclines on a couch in the hall of his ancestors, beside an open casement, and the balmy air that floats over the deep blue waters of the broad sea, ^ passes softly through his thin hair, and his weary eye rests on the brightness of a lovely landscape ; for the olive, and the orange, and the myttle are green by the shore of the still waters : and the chy lies whitely be- neath the glance of the sun, as be rides through the cloudless azure of the heaven ; while the purple moun- tains clasp the ocean in their arms, and faae away into the horizon in long lines of misty blue. Alas! the spring time of nature is a mockeir to the winter of age, and Amalfiero turns away in sadness. His vassaJs are waiting around him to do him pleasure ; the minstrel is there with his harp, the maiden with her song; but no mubic is so sweet to the old man's ear as the voice of his daughter Giulietta. Giulietta, when a babe, was a thing of smiles and loveliness, like happy thoughts dancing over the mind. Giulietta, when a cliild, was like the orange blossom in the groves of Friuli, and gladness floated around her like the fragrance of the flower. Giulietta, in her youth, was the fairest maiden in Italy— she glanced among the myrtle bowers like the winged zephyr; the evening star, when it rises gleaming out of the sea into the darkness of the glorious night of Italy, is nqt so bright as the beam that flashed from her large eye through the night of her lovely eye-lashes. Giuiietta's mind was love — all love — to each and every thing. Like music to the sadness of the soul, was Giulietta to the old age of her father. As she passed before him, a light came into the coldness of his eye ; and his ear, when \t was dead tp other sounds, awoke to the mur- mur of her gentle voice. As an angel watches over the last days of a saint upon earth, when the tumult of the battle of his life is over, and sheds peace around hia horns, and bids his day pass sweetly and holily, so Giulietta watched over Amalfiero like an influence of good, and was the sun of his thoughts, and the light of his rejoicing. Giulietta had a brother. Garcio d'Amalfiero was a man of a dark countenance, and the shadows of bis evil passed over it like clouds over the luridness of the stormy heaven, and his look withered those upon whom it fell, and his wrath, once excited, raged like a pestilence, and would not be appeased. He was loved by few, and had many enemies, none of whom he hated as he did the baiidit Leoni, for nim only he feared. Leoni's better nature had been borne down by the violence of his passions, and he became what he ab- horred, and widely was the fear of his name spread ; for he passed over the land like a meteor, and left de- solation behind him in the palaces of. the great and the powerful, but not in the hamlets of the poor. Reluming from a successful attack on the castle of a neighboring baron, Leoni had been once traced to the fastness of the Apennines by Garcio, with a chosen troop of his followers. The bandit gave him battle, and was, as usual, victorious; the followers of Garcio cow» ered back from his thunderbolt charge, and Garcio himself was struck from his horse by the sword of Leo- ni. It had been said of the bandit, that he had never deserted a friend, nor spared an enemy ; but, as hia sabre waved over the head of his prostrate foe, the bea- ver of Garcio's helmet fell open ; Leoni's arm was ar- arrested as if by the hand ot, an invisible being, and a smile of scorn passed over his lip, and then a mildness came into his eye ! he turned calmly away ; and, to the astonishment of his followers, sounded a retreat in the very flush of victory, while Garcio and his dis- heartened and vanquished band were suflfered to retire unmolested. From that time the hatred of Garcio to Leoni was inextinguishable. The shame of defeat and the thirst of revenge gnawed into his heart like vul- tures, for he would rather have been laid dead by the sword of Leoni, than have owed his life to the clemency of his conqueror. Giulietta sat in her chamber in the eastern tower of castle Alto. The evening star rose out of the sea, and climbed slowly up into the sky, and Giulietta's dark eye rested sadly upon it. She was waiting for a voice that rose every evening from the myrtle grove below the castle, as that star disappeared behind the peak of a distant mountain. Giulietta hardly knew how very sweet the voice was to her listening ear, for it was the voice of one who loved her with a more than common love. They had first met when Giulietta was young, very young, and Francesco just verging into manhood— from that hour she was the light of his path, and the ioy of his heart. Her father knew not of his child's love for Francesco, who pleaded to Giulietta some an- cient feud^of their families, as an excuse for maintaiii* ing his secrecy. THE DUEL. 18 When the star touched the misty euinmit of the mountain, and Giulietta drew near to the window, a blush paased over her fair cheek as a minstrel's song rose upon the breeze. She opened a secret door, and descended, and Francesco saw her come forth in her beauty. *' what meant thy Bong to-night, Francesco 1 ** said the maiden. ** What can a farewell to ihee mean, Giulietta, but miserv 1 ** "Nay, this is madness, Francesco," replied the maiden ; ** wherefore must we part 1 " ** Thou sayest well, Giulietta, we will not part— fly with me — night is on the mountain^my band is near. Ere the day dawn we shall be far hence, in safety, in honor, and— if thou wilt, in power." "Thy band I*' repeated Giulietta, "fly with theel With whoftil What meanest thou? Wliat art thou, Francesco l " "I know not, maiden!** said Francesco, "I have not been what I seem to be, yet thou couldst make me 00. With thee, I am Francesco; without thee, 1 am a pestilence, a scourge — in a word, without thee, I am— Leoni 1 '* Aud the name struck through the maiden's heart with a coldness as of death ; the cr^ she would have uttered died upon her lips, and she fainted in the arms of her lover. A hectic flush passed oyer her cheek, and she woke from the partial aeaih with a deep gasp as of one in pain, and her dark eye was lillea with a vague hor- ror. " Francesco, Francesco !" she said, " thou tdd- est me something— it was terrible, tell it me again. Francesco ! — thou are not Franccbco,** and she paused for a moment. " I know now,*' she said ; " I remem- ber well, very well, Francesco is dead, and thou— thou art not, thou canst not, thou shalt not be Leoni — the bandit Leoni— my brother's thou niockest me ! 1 enemy. O, France&co ! say " I was once Leoni," he replied ; " thy brother's ene. my never, or Garcio had not now lived. Could 1 be the enemy of your brother, Giulietta V And Giulietta felt that it was Franiesco, and not Le- oni who spoke, and she paused in deep sgony. Great was the tumult at castle Alto. An old fisher- man of Pozzuoio had informed Garcio that he had seen two figures imssing down westward on the sea-shore, at the foot oi the castle. One was a maiden of exceed- ing beauty; the countenance of the other, he said, was one whicn he knew well, and which once seen was not easily forgotten— that of the bandit Leooi Then Gar- cio was wild with rage, and he called his folldwers to- gether and the clash of arms was loud in the hall, and then, from the ^ate of castle Alto issued a troop of war- riors^ und their mail shone cold in the starlight, and Garcio spurred on his bloody war-horse in the van. His countenance was pale with wrath, and he dashed madly forward along the winding shore. But one of the maidens of Giulietta. when she heard the peasant's tale, went and sought for her in her father's hall, and she was not there ; anil she descended by the secret staircase, and she saw footsteps in the dew on the grassy ground. Then she returned weeping, and came to Amalfiero, and told him that Leoni the bandit had carried away Giulietta. And the old man was very feeble, and he bowed his head gently upon his breast, and died. • « • 4> • 4> « " Heardest thou nothing ?'* Giulietta* said to Leoni " Nothing, Giulietta," he replied. " Nay, now that I listen, metbinks I bear a sound, far away, like the tramp of steeds along ihe'sand.*' And Giulietta listened, and she was filled wiih gceat fear. " Oh ! fly, Leoni !" she said. " It is Garcio ! Fly, and leave me here !" But Leoni raised her in his arms, and bore her softly forward. And now the rocks were seen rising high from the •ea shore, with the columns of a ruined temple upon their summit, and Leoni knew that his band was near. " On, on, Giulietta !'* he exclaimed, " one eflbrt more, nnd we are safe." ^ And now the tramp ot the galloping horses came nearer, and the voices ot men were heard nrgin^ them on. Louder and louder became the sound, and Giulietta made one last struggle forward, and, hav- ing gained the rocks, the lovers stood beneath the ruins. "Aasehno! AoMlmo!" cried Leoni; and he was answered by a shout from the rocks, and the banditti leaped from their concealment ; but ere they gained the shore, the foremost horseman of the opposite troop dashed into view. It was Garcio. A shout of triumph burst from his lips when he saw Leooi. Giuletta saw bim level his carbine, and with a shriek of afi^ony, she threw herself before Leoni, and fell dead in his arms. The band of Leoni heard the shot, and were around him in an instant ; and lo ! their leader was standing inactive beside the body of a maiden- Th^re was a stillness in his eye and in his features; but it was as the stillness of the volcano before it bursts forth into deso- lation. His troops stood around him in fearful silence, and there was a pause, until like a whirlwind over the quietness of deep waters, came the madness over the soul of Leoni. Ue looked up and saw that his band was beside him. " Steuid by me this night," he said, " and revenge the loss of your leader." Then ha shouted his war-cry, and the banditti swelled the sound with ea^er voices. The followers of Garcio replied, and Le.oni dashed at them like a thunderbolt. Then loudlv, into the quiet- ness of the heaven, rose the roar of the battle, and the echoes rolled heavily over the sea. Leoni burst bb path through the mass of battle, and his bloodshot eye was on the crest bf Garcio | and, whether it were foe or friend whom he met m his frenzy, he dashed the combatants aside, and dove hia way 10 that one plume. With the implacable wrath of an avenging spirit, Leoni sought his single foe. The followers of Garcio shrunk froni his glance, and, as he broke through the front of their battle, some turned and fled, and the rest hung back in disorder and dismay. Then Garcio saw Leoni come upon him with the swoop of an eagle, and his eye quailed before the des- pair of his foe. "Wretch!" cried Leoni, "Jovest thou life 1 O, would that I could make life to thee what thou hast made it to me. and thou shouldst live ! I spared thee once, for her sake; thou hast well rewarded me ! Thy sister strikes thee, Garcio !'* and he smote him dead And the voice of the battle drifted away toward Castle Alto, snd the shouts of the victorious banditti were heard echoing along the clii&. But Leoni was no longer at their head ; in their victory they were without a leader ; they remembered that he had commanded them to revenge his loss, and few, very few, of the followers of Garcio escaped the slaughter of that night. The banditti met, and sought for Leoni among the dead, and they found the bodv of Garcio, and the sword of their leader lying beside it ; but him they found not. And they retired, silently, under cover of the night, to their fastness among the mountains. O calmly, brightly, beautifully rose the morning out of the eastern sea. and widely spread the rosy dawn over the deep ! Gloriously the radiance stole up into the high heaven, where the white clouds waved their light wings in the deepness of the infinite blue, and looked out eastward, rejoicing as they met the morning breeze that sprang uiiward from its repose in the ^rove of silver olives. And the sun lifted its head miyestically out of the sea, and the mists passed away before tiis glance from its surface, and the waves rolled onward singing, with sweet, low voices, and a long golden path was thrown upon them, even unto the shore. O, the radiance of that morning was unconscious of the desolation of the night! There was no sadness in the dawn that shone on the ruins of Castle Alto. The surges that, in the night, had dashed away the blood from the shore, now broke clear and white on the un- stained pebbles. A figure was leaning against a rock on the strand. Few,»very few, would have recognized, in the haggard face, and withered lorm, the once haugnty and fiery Leoni. The fishermen of Pozzuoli afiirm that, for years after that terrible night, the same figure was seen pacing the diore, with the unequal step aud wild gesture of a maniac. THE DUEL. Scare years ago, while traveling in the north of En^r- land, I took occasion to visit one of its old Gothic churches, and while there, iny attention was attracted bv the sound of a voice, chaunting a sublime and beau- tiful hymn. After list4*.ning for several moments, the 14 THE DUEL. voice ceased, and I walked gently forward, and saw a man of midole life leaning against the rails which en- closed a very noble monument, and looking ap to it steadily, with eyes full of tears. I expressed a fear that I was intmding. He turned and looked upon me with a thou^tful glance, as if he would read my heart. Wbe- tber It was my. manner or my countenance that re- assured him, I know not, but ne replied courteously, and did not, as I feared he might nave done, move away. The paleness of his face and the dew upon his forehead alarmed me with the fear that he was abont to faint. I caught him by the arm, as he sunk down upon his knees; and liftrng up his face with cl(»ed eves, upon the lashes of which tears quivered, he asked me if I did not know him, and if I could bear to look upon and speak to him. '*Tbe earth does not contain," said I, *' a stncle be- ing upon whbm I dan disdain to look, or to whom J could not desire to speak with chanty; but to one whom I found engaged as you were when I entered, and from whose lips I neard the hymn you have just end- ed, I would speak at once as to a brother in the best of bonds." '* Alas !'* replied the stranger, ** but I am not a Christian— I am without that hope ; yet it is a mourn- ful pastime to me to repeat that lovely song. I do it oflen—constantiy ; it operates like a lullaby to my tossed mind— as a mere opiate ; and while I listen to mv own mournful voice, I am tranquillized, and pleased, and forget that I am— a murderer !*' I certainly started— I was for a short moment struck mute ; till, as I looked upon his sad penitent form— he had fallen upon his knees— I entreated him to rise, and come into the oj>en air, that he might recover himself. 1 helped to raise him up, saying, " You cannot be a mere murderer : whatever you have done, I look upon of a Higher Power, you can make none : but there b yet room for repentance." ** No," said he, "I am no comnion murderer— for it was mine own familiar friend thai I slew ; and though the law of Heaven was broken, those laws called the Taws of honor were not ; and I am free, and have been these twenty yean." '* 1 understand you," 1 replied ; *^ it was in a duel that you killed your friend.*' " Even so," he answered : you shall hear my story t if yon are a sorrowful man, I ahall make your sorrow light by comparison : if you are happy, it will acquaint you with grave, sad thoughts, which it may not harm you to entertain. ** Arthur Hill and myself were school-fellows— friends; we lived in the same county, within a few miles of each other : and our intimacy sprang up from our traveling to ana fro to school in the same cnaise ; moreover, we were of like age, like taste, and read in the same class ; we were both younger sons, and though receiving a seneral education, were both designed for the army. Uill, in compliance with his own choice, and 1, because my mother was promised a commission for me, and de- sired it. "At sixteen we both received our appointments, and 1 shall not forget till I die, the glad and affectionate ex- pression of Hiirs countenance, when he brought me the Gazette, and I found that our commissions were dated on the same day, and were in the same regiment. The corps to which we were attached was sutioned at Sandown Fort, in the Ise of Wight, and we joined together in the early nring of 18—. The friendship we had formed at school, strengthened every hour: and those officers who were our seniora in rank and life, never wanted some pleasant or kind word for us. "It was upon a hot, sultry evening in the month of August, that a small group of the junior officers were idling upon the sands near the fort, and Hill and myself were oi the party. Hill had got on a new foraging>cap, which was very becoming to him, and I Was quizzmg him upon his vanity— from which, of a truth, never was a youth more free, as I well knew. I was in exuberent spirits, and only joking : but, others being present, per- haps made the joke unpleasant to him. He colored and looked grave, and I thought that he was a little out of humor, and deserved to be shamed into a better temper. Reckoning on my frequent experience at school, I made •are that I should should soon bring back his handsome smile t accordingly I went baniennf on ; I was in a foolish mind— uttered many absoniitiw and laughed all the while convubdvely. " • Woe to light hearts— they soon forerun our fall.' At last, finding my words had not produced the effect I intended, I caught him playfully about the waist, and lifting my hand to the back of his head, tipped off his cap, which fell upon the sand. He released himself from my grasp petulantly, and stooping for his cap, bade me not do it again, in a manner rough, and as I thought, rude. I had never seen him in such a touchy mood be- fore— a circumstance which, if I had had one moment's reflection, would have made me stop my folly— for I well knew his fine disposition, his real generous and loving nature ; but I was beside myself, I laughed loud- er than ever, stole again behind him, and again pushed off his cap. Whether it was the heat caused by stoop- ing that wound up his anger, or some more mysterious impulse, I know not ; but as he raised himself his face was red, and his eyes shot fire; and observing that he did not like practical jokes, he dared me to do the like again. The menace did not open my eyes ; though it was plain I was going too far, but it was not pleasant to me to be checked by a threat before so many of the officera ; and not dreaming of anything beyond a trip- up or a wrestle and a fall, such as we had often given each other at school, I went up to him once more, and jerked off his cap again. He did not stoop, but aiming a straight and violent blow at my breast, for which 1 was wholly unprepared, he knocked me down. " I was instantly picked up by a tali, vulgar young man, who had lately joined the regiment by exchange, in consequence of some affair of honor in which he had been engaged with his captain, and who was. a ready agent of mischief. * This business,' said he, * can only be settled in one way, and the sooner the better.' *' I cast my eyes round to look for Hill ; he had caught up his cap, and was walking away bareheaded, and two brother ensigns following bim— one of whom I knew had a pair of duelUng pistols. A little fellow, who bad only joined a few days, and was not more than fifteen, and to whom we had both been kind, came to me. *0 Vernon,' said he, 'run after him; make all up; it was all ioolisfanessx why it was only pUiy till he got vexed ; and that was your fault. I am sure he was sorryi— let us all agree to say nothing about it at mess— and to keep it f^om the colonel.' " Such was the thoi^fat of the artless boy. Oh ! that he had had man's wisdom, I mean not that of such men as were with us then ; for my tall friend called him a young blockhead, and bade him hold his noupeose ; and remember that officera were not schoolboys. To think that of the seven persons present there was but one peace-maker, and he a child. Had he but gone to the colonel or any of the senior officers, there would not have been wanting some worth and wisdom to stand between ' the boyt* and their calamity^ As it was we were both in the hands oi wicked ami unreasonable men— both the dull and paanve slaves of a cruel cus- tom. ** My tall friend went home with me to my barrack room, and wrote a challeoge, which I copied, scarce knowing what I did. He carried it himself, and wae long away— how busy were my hopes during that in- terval—he will make an apology methought^ he will do anything rather that meet me. The mischief-maker at last returned— he brought no note— a verbal consent to meet me. ' I never saw such a fellow,' sahl the wretch, who had volunteered to be my second, 'knock a man down, and then offer him an apology !— why you would be both turned out of the service— he for ofler- inr, and you for accepting it.' 'I would give my life,' I replied, * to avoid this meeting if it were pos- sible.' 'Well,' said my second, 'it is not possibles ' however, it is a pleasantjandsafe duel for you, for after receiving your shot, he'll of course fire in the air and make an apology : but go to the ground he must, and you need not be uneasy, perhaps you may miss blm ! ' 'Perhaps I may miss him ! ' said I ; ' why I would not fire at him, or hurt a hair of his head for the nniveise.' 'As to that,' rephed my mentor, 'aim at him you must— you are the challenger ; >ou must not call out a man and make a fool of him, and a mockery of a duel, and expect a couple ofgentUmen to stand looking on as seconds, at such a piece of chicken-hearted child's plav. No, no, that will never do ; I feel for yon, my dear fellow, but your honor Lb at stake. It is a sad annoyance, but it can't be helped t I am engaged out to Mpper, ind I abdl mot go to bed to-nigbt* so I THE SPY. 15 ahaU be with you in time. Five is the hour^you need not worry about anything; I have got piacob.' "The heartlen wretch left me— alone^troubled— bewildered^almoBt out of my eeusea. I walked about my room ; I sat down ; I lay down on my bed. I was in a sad confusion of thought. My brain was wearied with its working. I fell asiee»— I awoke at four o'clock, and got a light, washed ana dressed myself. My ser- vant, whom I had roused, stared at me, and asked if I was unwell. I said, ' a little so.' * Might he fetch the doctor, then?* •No.' "The only eomiort I could find or make was in the resoittcion to fire wide of the mark— the only prayer my heart could breathe was the fervent wish that I might manage it well. ' All's well that ends well,' said 1 to myself— we shall be friends again at breakfast as if nothing had happened. Arthur loves me, and I him, better than all otners. "It wanted some minutes to five, when mv odious second arrived, wtth his pistols wrapped in a silk hand- kerchief. We exchanged but a very few words. But as we walked to the ground, he said unfeelingly, * this will not be a pistols for two— coffee for one, kind of a duel, but a very harmless one. Til answer for it, my younker, so you need not look so pale.* My very blood ran chill as he moke, and I felt terrified. '* We proceeded in silence to the sands. Hill and his second were already there. I hoped the duel might yet be averted ; I longed to run over to Hill and to press him to my heart. The ground vras measured. As I found myself opposite the youth whom I best loved, with a pistol in mv hand— my eyes swam, and I felt sick and giddy— all the presence of naind I had was intent upon making sure to miss him. I heard the words. • ready' — * present.' I raised my pistol with a eareful slowneae^ and (according to the rules, when I had gotten tjie aim I designed) I fired. In (hat moment guilt, xemorBe, age, and despair, fell, as it were, upon me, and they have dwelt with me ever since— for twenty long years they have held me in their cruel hands My hope shuddered as my finger pulled the fa- tal trigger. I dared not follow the shot with my eyes, but I heard the fall, and fainted upon the earth. When I recovered my senses, I was laid by the side of Arthur Hill upon the sand, and he had got my hands in his, and he was looking at me kinder and sadder than I ever saw any body upon earth look, and in a few mi- nuter with a heavy sigh, he died. Poor Arthur— I killed him ; and I have never been quite well since — not to say quite right. That hymn you heard me sing, was found in Arthur's desk— copied out in his own hand ; and his friends sent it to me, two years' ago, to comfort me; and it does for the time— but I am very miserable, good sir- very." I saw plainly that his reason had never been per* fectly restored ; but I strove to console him with the only consolation that there is for such a sorrow, or for any other: and I prayed for him. and walked with him about half a mile, to a house where he lived with his uncle, a country gentleman of small property, who told me that his nephew ranged about the park of Boughton, and its neighboring villages, quite unmolested and harm- leas; that he seldom spoke to any one, and that he was mue surprised at his having related to me the story of his melancholy ; but that it was quite true. He had left the army instantly, and had never been able to set^ tie his mind to anything since ; but was very devout, and very humble and lowly. And nothing ever gave him so much comfort as to meet and talk with Chris- tians, when he felt well enough. But he had views as - ooncemiog himself that were very gloomy, and which no one had been able to dissipate." THE SPY. TwAB m the middle of the year 1810, when the Bri- tish army, after various struggles and hard-fought ac- tions, succeeded in occupying the very heart of Spain, that the enemy, greatly reinforced^ and far exceeding our forces in numbers, had taken up a very strong po- BttioD in our front: their out{H>st8 were so much ad- vanced, that the greatest vigilance was necessary to prevent a onrpriae, but ours was on the alert, and ready to check the slightest movement ; rare, indeed, is it to find a British soldier idnmbering at the post of honor. The night, for the time of year in a southern country, was dark and lowering ; all was hushed in silence, save the gentle sounds which broke upon the ear, oi the sentinels' footsteps, as they paced to and iro on the short space of ground ellotted as their post ; or the vi- siting officer on duty, cautiously passing from one spot to another, to see that, all were attentive and steady. A gentle rivulet ran by the right of the British ouu postn. Ever and anon a distant murmur of a movement m the French lines struck through the still air ; then would the officer place his ear to the earth, by which, from fre<^uent habit, he could almost ascertain the numbers in motion ; at all events, he could determine the direction they were moving in. Two or three de« serters this night crossed a ford higher up than the army, and presenting themselves to the pickets, were conducted in the usual form to the head-quarters. Whatever information they gave, whether it was con- sidered true or false^ or what might or might not have been the cause, so it was, that an attack which had been meditated at day-break was countermanded, and the army remained quietly looking at their opponents, making the necessary dispositions to secure, if poaeible, a victory, it being decided, for no doubt good reasons, to avoid, at least Tor the moment^ a general action, ana simply to hold the enemy in cheek. On the first of these nig:hts it was, that I found an amiable young friend and officer gazing on his Eliza's miniature, and employing his fancy in uie pleasing retrospection of the happy hours he had passed with those he loved, when my sudden appearance, startling him for an instant, broke the delightful charm— Klestroying all his airy, blissful visions, and bringing him back to the full feel- ing of his real situation, with its various sensations. A warm and friendly squeeze of the hand assured me that he forgave my interruption, which was in no small de- gree increased on my introducing aperson who greatly excited his curiosity. Figure to yourself a man dressca in a sort of French-Italian costume— a face stained with a yellowish hue — a box suspended from his shoulders by a leather strap, containing snuffs, tobacco, perfumes, thnkets, and a variety of articles likely to be purchased by offioers and soldiers: these he snowed and expa- tiated on with all the volubility and gasconade or a French pedlar following an army Our youth's curiosity was so greatly excited, that all his thoughts of home and love were for the moment obliterated The question of " Where the man came fromV "How he camel" **Why he camel" and many others, were put in rapid succession. I bade him look on the man, and tell me if he had ever before seen him'. He gazed intendyon his face and figure, and assured me he had not. Thus did the disguise ap- pear perfect, though our young friend added mournful- ly^ "his features at first reminded me of my dear friend N ; but that is not possible^ for in a skirmish with the pickets two nights sgo, I was told he had been severely wounded and taken^risoner, while driving them from an ambuscade." The scene now became rf intense interest; friendship, sincere and disinterested friendship, was put to the test and proved. " Poof Frank!" cried he: " Heaven knows if I may ever see him again. I loved him as a brother from early vouth r his heart was the seat of goodness ; his soul of nonor ; and yet he had his full share of life's misfortunes." N^-» stood with his eye fixed on fa w youthful fnendls changing countenance, and the various feelings de- E'letea on his expressive features; then suddenly raising is cap of disguise, casting on him a look full of plea- sure.^ and beaming with friendship most ardent, calling on his name, he rushed to embrace him. Inquiries of how he escaped? what were his wounds 1 and why was he habited in his present costume ^ were the imme- diate consequence of recognition. For the first, it ap- peared, that being dosely engsffed at^ the edge of the rivulet, as before described, dusk coming on, when the pickets were all pell-mell together. N fell by a blow from a musket, which for a time completely stun- ned him, and on recovering, all was still ; no being with life remained near him Not exactly racollecting the spot on which he was, and it being dark, he cautiously forded the stream at a little distance, believed he was joining his troops, it having already been passed more than once : at break of day, however, he found out his mistake, when, to prevent being taken by the enemy, he was forced to make a circuitous route of some miles, ere he could venture again to attempt paosing over to 16 THE SPY. regain his own lines ; this, howe^r, he at last did in safety, and no sooner arrived, than he was told an in- telligent officer was ^^anted to volunteer for a particular service. Ever on the qui vive to show the greatest zeal in his profession, he instantly waited en the general of the division, became acquainted with the hazardous and arduous nature of the undertaking, when he not only offered himself for it, but begged the general's particalar interest in his behalf. This he most cordially promised him, not only from his knowledge of his abilities as an officer, but in all other respects, especially bis perfect acquaintance with several languages, the French parti- cularlv, which for pureness, elegance of pronunciation, and fluency, could scarcely be surpassed by even a Parisian. The generars report to the commander-in- chief proved suificient, and our gallant friend was ap- pointed to a post at once of the highest consequence to the army and of peril to himself: yet was his brave heart undaunted. He received nis instructions, ar- ranged his disguise, and was nov^ devoting this last hour to the delights of sincere and real friendship. It was, indeed, an hour awakening sensations among the three friends easily to be imagined by minds capa- ble of sentiments calculated to make life an enjoyment ; to describe their feelings would be difficult ;suflice it to Bay, that when the moment of parting anived, it was one of melancholy in the truest sense of the word. It was midnight. N was conducted by his two friends to the extreme verge of the advanced sentinels, where a fervent and rapid adieu was exchanged, when N — 7- rusbed forward to prevent those strong emolions of frieud^hip overcoming his feelings, which, with sucb a triumvirate, would otherwise certainly have been the case, and have sent poor N on his way depressed and sorrowful. Our two young officers retraced their steps in silence to their separate quartens, and retired to rest, offering up a prayer for the safety of their early friend. Behold now our spy, tracking his solitary road to a small village, about two leagues* distance, in order to avoid, as much as possible, the chance of falling in with the enemy's videttes, until he had attained a point beyond the reach of suspicion. At day-break he arrived at the village of Calvero del Monte, and enter- ing a venta, demanded of the old Alberguero, in good Spanish, some breakfast. A few French riflemen were in the room smoking, together with half a dozen Span- ish muleteers, who immediately on the entrance of our pedlar spy, approached inquisitively to ascertain the contents of his packages; he showed them several things, quite like a regular trader, and conversed with them m perfect good humor ; but his great object was to engage the attention and cultivate the acquaintance of the soldiers; for that puri>ose, accosting them in pure French, he reauested their observaice and opinion of some peculiarly fine tobacco, which he had to sell cheap ; then giving them a little to make trial of, and speaking their own language with great fluency, an in- stant friendship was brought about. N-— - told them a fictitious story of his birth-place being Bagnere& a small town celebrated for its baths, just on tbe otner side of the Pyrenees — a place with which he was well acquainted, having resided there for a long time when a boy, with an uncle who went there for the recovery of his health. Then, like a true Frenchman, assuming a liveliness of disposition, singing, laughing, chatting, and recounting anecdotes about dear France, N—^ be- came so great a favorite, that at the .hour of relieving the pickets, they begged him to accompany them ; the request was of courk-e complied with, and he thus soon passed through pickets, aa/anced guards, &c., to the main body of the armv, minutely noticing the various dispositions made and making, the numoers, and all that could be of service. Being fearful of committing anything to pa[ier, as the most trifling circumstance, or observation, might cause a discovery, with the instant forfeiture of his life, and as it would have been next to an impossibility for him to carry a recollection of every thing in his mind, he resorted to a curious method of keeping his memory alive. His box contained three separate compartments, each of which had three divi- sions, filled with trinkets of various kinds, tobacco, small packets of snuff, scents, soaps, &c. One part was considered the mam body, and head-qnartere ; the other parts were designed to represent other divisions, advances, &:c.— in fact, all that was necessary, and when separately taken to pieces, and regularly lata out, they would represent the object intended aa accurately as could be desired. Thus did N , with his box strapped before him. pass through the whole French army, mingling with the soldiers and officers, selling some few of his arttclee, and minutely taking his ob- servations of all that was going forwarcl. On one occa- sion he was placed in some jeopardy : being seated on the ground in the evening, laying out his plans, an offi- cer passing observed him attentively, and, before he was aware of it, touched N on the shoulder, asking him whether he was trying his skill at copying the movements of an armjr^ or whether he intended enter- ing the service, and becoming a great general, by study and practice. N was at first much alarmed, but finding the officer was not particularly scrutinizing in his manner, he 9uickly recovered himself, and without the least hesitation or apparent embarrassment, he re- plied in so artless and clear a way, as to throw off all suspicion, and gave the officer an idea that his intel- lects were rather ill-calculated for a general or any post in the army. N soon replaced his box, sa- luted the officer, and joined the host of followers, of which there is never any lack in such situations. Having soon gained all the information he wanted, he quitted the French position by a different route to that he had entered, stating his intention of proceeding on his journey to Madrid : and making a circuit of three or four leagues, regained in safety the advanced posts of his own troops early in the morning, and was imme- diately conducted by a corporal and file of men to the officer who commanded the guard, to whrm he was entirely unknown; and had it been otherwise, he could not have discovered himself He named the ? general of his division, and requested to be carried be- ore him. The general welcomed his safe return, and after some few inquiries, accompanied him himself to the commander-in-chief, to whom N so fully and ably explained every particular of the enemy's army, and evinced so much precision and clearness, that ail was completely understood. N was immediately recommended for, captain; indeed, it was but the just reward of merit, in risking so dangerous a service to accomplish an object so invaluable to the commander of an army, and which he had done with such r4ill. N now repaired to his quarters, where he was re- ceived by his brother officers with every mark of sin- cere friendship. The day was occupied in making the necessary preparations for an attack at day-break. , Or- ders arrived at the different posts in quick succeasipn ; all was on the qui vive, and at the close of the evening, with the utmoet caution and silence,' the troops com- menced moving to take up positions so as to meet more advantageously those of the enemy, acnording to the report by N . This at once proved the value of our friend's information : the night was thus passed, all anxiously anticipating the result of the morrow, both as a body and to themselves individually. Alas ! many who were then so reflecting, on that morrow ceased for ever to think on sublunary things. At the first dawn of day. a rocket from the right of the advance was the signal of attack, and quickly afterwards an in* cessant roar of cannon and musketry reverberated through the air, and shook the earth. Now did the vivid flashes send their death mandates to many a brave and gallant soldier. The husltand, father, son and lov- er, the courageous and the coward, all alike fell without distinction; Toes and friends lay heaped together in one short minute in close embrace, at rest and peace with each other for ever. The battle raged with the utmost fury the whole day ; positions were taken and retaken ; men fought hand to band till toward sunset ; then it was that the French, after struggling to the last, began a rapid retreat, leaving several hundreds of dead and dying on the field, with all their baggage and materiel. The British troops triumphantly entered the town : the vic- tory was complete. Thanks were due to N for the assistance he had aflforded by his valuable information : bnt alas ! fate ordained he should not be conscious of the result of his exertions ; he lived not to enjoy the Erond feeling the glory of this day would have given im. When the returns were sent in, poor N was among the killed, and by inquiries in the regiment, it was ascertained that he had touj^ht nobly during almost the whole day, and it was not till nearly the close of it that the fatal bullet carried its billet. Thus ended the short but brilliant career of one alike distinpished as an ornament to his profession, as he was for ms private virtues. Peace to his manes ! THE R O V E R. Willi bodies how to clolfao idoas, taught; And how to draw the picture of a thought. CLAUDE GUEUX. BT VICTOR HUGO. Skvxn or eight years ago, a man by the name of Claude Gupux, a poor artizan, was living in Paris ; he had with bim a girl who was bis mistrev, and a child by this girl. I tell things as the^ were, leaving the reader to father the moral for himself, as the facts of m^ story bring it before him. The artizan was skilful, qnick, intelligent, very ill-treated by education— very well-treated by nature— able to think, but not to reacf. One winter bis work failed him — there was neither fire nor food in his garret— the man, the girl and the child were cold and hungry ; he committed a theft ; I know not what he stole, or whence he stole it; I'only know that the consequences of this theft were, three days' food and fire to the girl and the chiki, and five years of imprisonment to the man. He was sent 19 undergo his sentence at the house of correction at Clairvanz— ah abbey changed into a jail— a cell cbanged into a prison-cage— an altar changed into a pillory. When we speak of change, it is thus that certain persons understand and execute it— such a mean- ing do they give to the word. To proceed. When arrived there, he was placed in' a dungeon at night, and in a work-shop by day. I have BO Quarrel with the work-shop. ClaudeGueux, lately 8 n honeFt man, now and hence- forth a thief, was dignified and ^rave in appearance : his high forehead was already wrinkled, though he was still yoang; some gray lines lurked among the black and bushy tufts of his hair : his eye was soft, and buried deep beneath his lofty and well- turned eye- brows ; his nostrils were open : his chin advancing ; his lip scornful : it was a fine nead ; we shall see what so- ciety made of it. Hie was a man of few words, more frequent gestures; somewhat iinperious in his whole manner, and one to make himself obeyed ; of a melancholy air— rather se- rious than suffering : for all thht^hehad suffered enough. In the place where he was confined, there was a di- rector of the work-rooms— a kind of functionary pecu- liar to prisons— who combined in himself the offices of tamkey and tradesman, who woald at the same time is- fioe an order to the workman and threaten the prisoner, put tools in his hands and irons on his feet. This man waa a variety of his own species ; a man peremptory, tyrannical, governed by his fancies, holding tight the reins of his ■ authoritv ; and yet on occasion a boon eooipanion.jovial, and condescending to a joke— rather hard than firm — reasoning with no one, not even him- eelf— a good father, and doubtless a food husband, (a duty, by the way, and not a virtue,) in short, evil, but not baci. The principle, the diagonal line of this man's character, was obstinacy ; he was proud of it, and therein comoared himself to Napoleon ; when he had once fixed what he called his will, upon an absurdity, be went to its farthest length, holding his head high, and despising all obstacles. Such violence of purpose, without reason, is only folly tied to the tail of brute force, and serving to lengthen it. For the most part, whenever a catastrophe, whether public or private, happens amon^ men, if we look beneath the rubbish with which it strews the earth, to find in what manner the fallen fabric had been propped, we shall, with rare exceptions, discover it to have oeen blindly put together by a Weak and obstinate man, trusting and admiring hunself implicitly. Many of the smaller of these fatali- ties pass in thp world for providences. ,Such was he who was the director of the work-rooms in the central prison of Clairvaux i such was the stone with which society daily struck its nrisoners to draw sparks from them. The sparks which such stones draw from such flints, often kindle conflagrations. We have said that, onee having arrived at Clairvanx, Vol, l.-No. U. . ■Claude Gueux was classed in a work-room, aikd kept to ' hard labor. The director became acquainted with him, perceived that he worked well, and treated him accord- ingly: it even appeared that one day, being in a good humor, and seeing Claude very sad— for he was always Chinking upon her whom he called his wife— he told him, by way of amnsing as well as consoling him, that the unfortunate creature had become a woman of the town. Claude asked coklly what. had become of the child 1 He did not know. In a short time Claude found the prison air natural to him, and appeared to have forgotten every thing ; a certain severe serenity, which belonged to his character, resumed its mastery. In the same time he had acquired a singular ascend- ancy over all his companions, aa if by a sort of silent agreement, and without any one knowini^ wherefore, not even himself; all these men consulted him, listened to him, admired and imitated him (the last point to which admiration can mount). It was no slight glory to be obeyed by all these lawless natures ; the empire had come to him without his seeking i it was the cpn« sequence of the respect with which tn^y beheld him. The eye of a man is a window, through which may be seen the thoughts which enter into and issue from his heart. Place an individnal who possesses ideas among those who do not : at the end of a given time, and by a law of irresistible attraction^ all their misty minois shall draw together with humility and reverence round his illuminated one. There are men who are iron, and there are men who are loadstone : Claude was lead- stone. / In lesB than three months, he had become the soul, the law, the order of the work room ; be was the 'iial, concentrating all rays; he must even himself have sometimes doubted whether be were king or prisoner; it was the captivity of n po\)e among hi^ cardinals. By as natural a reaction, accomplished step by step, as he was loved by the prit'oners, so was he detested by the jailors : it is always thus ; popularity cannot exist without drsfavor; the love of the slaves is always ex- ceeded one degree by the hate of the masters. Claude was, by his particular organization, a great eater; his stomach was so formed, that food enough for two common men would hardly nave sufficed for his nourishment. M. de Cotadilla had one of these large appetites, and laughed at it ; but that which is a cause of gaiety for a Spanish grandee, with his five hundred thousand sheep, is a heavy charge to an artizan, and a misfortune to a prisoner. Claude Gueux, free, in bis own loft, worked all day, earned his four pounds of breaii, and ate it ; in his prison, he worked all day, and, for hia pains, received one pound and a half of bread and four ounces of meat i the ration admits of no change. Claude was therefore constantly hungry while in the prison of Clairvaux.; he was hungry, and no more ; he did not speak of it, be- cause it was not bis nature so to do. One day, Claude, after devouring his scanty pittance, had returned to his work, thinking to cheat his hunger by it ; the rest -of the prisoners were eating cheterfly. nation, with the air of one who would speak, and dares not. The sight of the man and his bread and meat an- noyed Claude : ** What do yon want V* said he, rudely. " That you would do me a service," said the yoang man, timidly. " What Y* replied Claude. " That yon would help me eat this ; it is too much for iiie.'* A tear ^od in the proud eye of Claude j he took the knife, divided the young man's ration into two equal parts, took one of them, and began eating. " Thank you," said the young man 1 *' if yon like, we shall share 18 CLAUDE GtTEUX. together every dav.'* " What is your name 1" said Claude. "Albin/' " Whereforfr arc you here T* "I have commiited a theft." " And I, too '* said Claude. Henceforth they did thus share together every day. Claude Gueuz was little more than thirty yeurs old, but ai times he appeared tit'iy, so stern were his thoughts usudily. Albin was twenty ; he might have been taken for seventeen, so much innocence was there in the ap- pearance of this thief. A strict friendship was knit up Deiween the two, rather of father to son than brother *to brother, Albin being still almost a child, Claude al- ready nearly an old man. They wrought in the same work-room— they slept under the same vault— Ihey walked in the same airing -ground— they ate of the same bread. Each of these two friends was the uni- verse to the other— it would seem that they were happy. We have already spoken o£ the director of the work- rooms. This man, who was abhorred by the prisoners, was often obliged, in order to enforce obedience, to have recourse to Claude Gueux, who was beloved by tlicm. On more than one occasion, when. the question was^ how to put down a rebellion or a tumult, the au' thority without title of Claude Gueux had given a pow- erful aid to the oHicial authority of the director: in short, to restrain the prisoners, ten words from him were as good as ten gen-d'arms. Claude bad many times rendered this service to the director, wherefore the latter detested him cordially. He was jealous of this thief: there was at the bottom of his hearrt a secret, envious, implacable hatred against Claude— the hate oi' a titular for a real sovereign— of a temporal agaiast a spiritual power: these are the worst of all hatreds. Claude loved Albin greatly, and did not trouble him- self about the directors : one morning when the turn- keys were leading their prisoners two by two from thoir dormitorv to the work-room, one of them called Albin, who was by the side of Claude, and informed him that the director asked for him. ' *' What does he want with you V* said Claude. *' I do not know,*' replied the other. The turnkey took Albin away. The morning passed ; Albin did not return to the work-room. When the dinner-hour arrived, Claude expected that he should rejoin Albin in the airing- ground; but no Albin was there. He returned into the work-room ; still Albin did not make his appearance. So passed the day. At night, when the prisoners were removed to th^ ir dormitory, Claude looked about for Albin, but could not see him. It would seem that he must ti a ve suffered much at that moment, for he ad- dressed the turnkey.-*a thing which he had never done before — " Is Albin sick 1" was his question. ** No," replied the turnkey. " Why is it, then, that he has not made his appearance, to-day V " Ah !" replied the turnkey, carelessly, •*they have put him in another ward." The witnesses who de[)06ed to these facts at a later period, remarked, that, at this answer, Claude's hand, in which was a lighted candle, trembled a little. He again asked, calmly, " Whose order was thisi" The turnkey said, " Monsieur D 's." The name of the director of the work-rooms wafi D . The next day went by, like the last, but no Albin. That evening, when the day's work was ended, the director. Monsieur D , came to make his usual round of inspection. As soon as Claude saw him, he took off liis cap of coarse wool, buttoned his gre^ vest, sad livery of Clairvaux, (it is a principle in prisons^ that a vest, respectfully buttoned, bespeaks the favor ofthe superior officers,) and placed himself at the end of his bench, waiting till the director came by. He passed. " Sir," said Claude. The director stopped, and turned half round. " Sir," said Claude, ** is it true that Albin s ward has been changed V "Yes," returned the di- rector. " Sir," continued Claude, ** I cannot live with- out Albin : you know that with the ration of the house I have not enough to eat, and that Albin shared his bread with me." ** That was his business," replied the director. " Sir, arc there no means of getting Albin re- placed in the same ward as myself!" " Impossible ! it IS so decided." "By whom V' "By myself." "Mon- sieur D , the question is my life and death, and it depends upon you." " I never revoke my decisions." •* Sir, is It because I have given you any oiTence V* " Nons." " In thatiiase," said Claude, " why do you separate me from Albin 1" " It i« my iriff," said the director. With this explanation, be went his way. Claude stooped his head, and made no answer. Poor caged lion« from whom they had taken his dog ! We are obliged to confess, that the grief of thU sepa- ration in BO way changed the prisonei's almost disease of voracity, ifor was he, in other respects, obviously ahered. lie did not speak of Albin to any of his com- rades He walked alone in the airing-ground, in the hours of recreation, and suffered hunger— nothing more. Itjevertheless, those who knew him well, remarked something of a sinister and sombre expression, which daily overepread his countenance more and more. In other respects he^ was i^entler than ever. Many wished to share their ration with him ; he refused with a Fmile. Every evening, after the explanation wliich the di- rector had given him, he committed a sort of folly, which, in so grave a man^ was astonishingf. ^ At the moment when the director, m the progress of his habits ual duty, passed by Claude's working-frame, he would raise his eyes, gaze steadily upon him, and then address to him, in a tone full of distress and anger, combining at once menace and supplication, these two words only : **And Albin .'" The director would either ap- pear not to hear, or pass on, shrugging his shoulders. - He was wrong. It became evident to all the lookers- on of (hese strange ecenes, that Claude Was inwardly derermmed on some step All the prison awaited witn anxiet]^ the result of this strife between obstinacy and resolution. It has been proved, that once Claude said to the di- rector, " Listen, sir ; give me back my c<»mrade : you will do well to do it, I assure you. Take notice that I tell you." Another time, one Sunday, when he had remained in the airing-ground for many hours in the same atti- tude, seated on a stone, his elbows on his knees, and his forehead buried in his hands, the convict Faillettc approached him, and cried out, laughing, "What the devil art thou about there, Claude 1" Claude raised his head slowly, and said, " lamgittinginjudgmentf* At last, on the evening of the 25th of Oitober, 1831, at the moment when the director was making his round, Claude crushed, under his foot a watch glass, which he had that morning found in the corridor. The "" \3 give director inquired whence that noise proceeded 1 " It ia nothing," said Claude, " it is I, M. le Directenr : give me back my comrade." "Impossible !" said his mas- ter. " It must be done, though," said Claude, in a. low and steady voice ; and looking the director full in the face, added. " Reflect ; this is the 26th of October ; I give you till the 4th of November." A turnkey made the remark to Monsieur D , that Claude threatened him, and that it was a case for soli- tary confinement. "No, nothing of the kind," said •the director, with a dis^dainful smile, " we must be gentle with these sort of people." On the morrow, the convict Pernot approached Claude, who walked by himself, melancholy;, leaving the other prisoners to bask in a patch of sunshine at the further corner of the court: **What naw, Claude! What art thinking of! thou seemest sad." ''I am afraid," said Claude, " that some misfortone will hap- pen soon to this gentle M. D ." There are nine full days from the 26th of Ocjober to the 4th of November. Claude did not let one pass without gravely warning the director of the state, more and more miserable, in which the disappearance of Al- bin placed him. The director, worn out, sentenced him to four and twenty hours' solitary confinement, because his prayer was too like a demand. This was all Claude obtained. The 4th of November arrived. On this day, Claude arose with such a serene countenance as he had not worn since the day when the decision of M. D had separated him from his friend. When ris»en, he search- ed in a while wooden box which stood at the font of his bed, and contained his few possessions, and drew from thence a pair of sempstress' scissors. These,' with an odd volume of " Emile," were all that remained to him of the woman he had loved— of the mother of his child — of his happy home of other days: twoarticlea totally useless to Claude ; the scissors could only be of service to a woman— the book to a lettered person. Claude could neither sew nor read. At the time when he was traversing the old cloister, desecrated and blanched, which serves as the winter walk for the prisoners, he approached the convict Fer- rari, who was looking with attention at the enormous bar? of a window. Claude was holding the liftie pair of sciasors ia his hand ; he showed them to Ferrari, CLAUDE. GUEUX. Id saying, '* To-oight I will divide those bars with these seizors." Ferrari laughed incredulously ; Claude ioioed him. That morning he worked with more zeaf than usual — faster and better than ever before. He appeared to at- tach a certain importance to completing that morning a straw bat, for which M. Bresaier, an honest bourgeoise of Troy es, had paid him beforehand. A little past noon he went down on some pretext or other lo the joiner's work-shop, on the ground floor, nnder the story in which was his own. Claude was beloved there, as everywhere else ; but he entered it seldom. Thus it was, " Stop ! here's Claude !" They got round him ; it was a perfect holiday. He cast a quick glance round the room. " Not one of the over- lookers was there. ** Who has a hatchet to lend me ?" said he. " What to do V was the inquiry. " Kill the director of the work-rooms." Thev oifered him many to choose from. He took the smallest of those whicn were very sharp, hid it in his trousers, and went out. There were twenty -seven prisoners in that room. He had- not desired them lo keep his secret: they all ke(^t it. They did not even talk of it among themselves. Every one separately awnited the result. The thing was straightforward — terribly simple. CJaude could neither b^ counselled nor denounced. ' An hour afterward -he approached a convict sixteen years old, who was lounging in the place of exercise, and advised him to learn to read. At this moment, the prisoner Paillette spoke to Claude, and asked him what the devil he was hiding there in nis "trousers. ** It is a hatchet," said Claude, "to kill Monsieur D to- night ; can you see it V* " A little," answered Pail- lette. The rest of the day waa as usual. At seven o'clock at night the prisoners were shut up, eachdivision in the work-room to which they belonged, ana the overlook- ers went out, as it appears was the costom, not to re- turn till after the director's visit. Claude was locked in with his companions like the rest. Then there passed in this work-room an extraordinary scene ; one not without majesty and awe — the only one of the kind which is to be told in this story. There were there -(according to the judiciary deposition after- ward made) four and twenty thieves, including Claude. As soon as the overlookers had left them alone, Claude stood upon a bench, and announced to all the room thai he had something to say. There was silence. Then ClaXide raised his voice and said, "You all know that Albin was my brother. Here they do not give me enough to eat ; even with the bread which I can buy with the little I earn, it is not sufficient. Albin shared his ration with .me. I loved him at first because, he fed me : then, because he loved me. The director, Monsieur D-; — , separated us j our being together could be nothing to him, but he is a hard- hearted man^ who enjoys tormenting others. I have asked him for Albin back again. You have Jieard me. He will not do it. I gave him till the 4th, of November to restore Albin to me. He ordered me into solitary confinement for telling him so. I, during this time have sat in judg- ment upon him, and condemned him to death. We are now at the 4th of November. In two hours he will come to make his round. I warn you that I am about tu kill him. Have you anything to say on the matter 1" Ail continued silent. He went on : he spoke (so it appears) with a peculiar eloquence which was natural to him. He declared that he knew he was about to do a violent deed, but could not think it wrong. He appealed' to the conscience of his three and twenty listeners. He was placed in a cruel extremity^ the necessity of doing justice to him- self was a strait into which every man finds himself driven at one time or other ; he could not, in truth, take the director's life without giving his own for it. but it was right to give his life for a just end. He had thought deeply on the matter, and that alone, for two months : he believed he was not carried away by passion, but if it were so, he trttsted they would warn him. He hon- estly submitted his reasons to the just men whom he addressed. He was about to kill Monsieur D : but if any one had any objection to make, he was ready to hear it. One voice alone was raised to say that before killing the director, Claude ought to make one last attempt to soften him. "It is fair," said Claude, " I will do so." , The great clock struck the hour— it was eight. The director would make his appearance at nine. No sooner had this extraordinary court of appeal rati- fied the sentence he had submitted to it, than Claude resumed his former serenity. He placed upon the table ail the linen and garments he possessed, the scanty property of a prisoner, and calling to him, one after the other, those of his companiona whom he loved best after Albin, he divided all among them. He only kept the little pair of scissors. Then be embraced them all. Some of them wept: upon these he smiled There were moments in this last hour, when he chat« ted with so much tranquillity, and even gaiety, that many of his comrades inwardly hoped, as they after- ward declared, that he might perhaps abandon his re- solution. He even once amused himself with extin- guishing one of the few candles which lighted the work- room, b^ blowing through his nostrils ; Vox. he had vul- gar habits, which deranged his natural dignity often^r than they should have done. There were limes when he could do nothing which did not smack of the ken- nels of Paris He perceived a young convict who was pale, who was gazing npon him with fixed eyes, and trembling, doubtless from expectation of what he was about to witness. " Come, courage, young man," said Claude lo him, softly ; " it will be only the work of a moment." When be had distributed all his ^oods, made all his adieus, pressed all their hands, he interrupted the rest- less whisperings which were heard here and there in the dim corners of the work-room, and commanded that they should return to their labors ; all obeyed him in silence. The apartment in which this passed was an oblong hall, a parallelo^am, ligbied with windpws on its two longer sides, with two doors opposite to each other at the two ends of the room. The working-frames were ranged on each side near the windows, the benches touching the wall at right angles, and the space left free between the two rows of frames formed a sort of ave- nue, which went straight from one door to the other, crossing the hall entirely. It was this which the di- rector traversed in making his inspection ; he was to enter at the sonth door, and go out by the north, after having looked at the workmen on the right and left. Commonly he passed through quickly and without stop- ping. (Claude had reseated himself on his bench, and had betaken himself lo his work, as James Clement betook himself to his prayers. , All were in expectation— the moment approached— on a sudden they heard the clock strike— Claude said, " It is the last quarter." Then he rose, crossed gravely a part of the hall, and placed himself, leaning on his el- bow on the first frame on the left-hand side, close to the door of entrance ; his countenance was perfectly calm and benign. Nine o'clock struck- the door opened— the director came in. At that moment the silence of the work-room waa ai of a chamber full of statues. The director alone was as usual : he entered with his jovial,- self satisfied and stubborn air, without noticing Claude, who was standing at the left side of the door, his right hand hidden in histrowsers, and passing rapidly by the frames, tossing his head, mumbling his words, and casting his glance, which was law, here and there, not perceiving that the eyes of all who surrounded him were fixed upon him as upon a fearful phantom. On a sudden he turned sharply round, surprised to hear a step behind him. It was Claude, who for some instants followed him in silence. " What art thou about there V* said the director ; " what makes thee not in thy place 1" CSlaude Gueux answered respectfully, " Because I have something to say to you, M. le Directeur." "What about 1" " Concerning Albin." " Still Albin !" exclaimed the director. " Always !" replied Claude. "Be quiet," said the director, walking on again; " thou art not content, then, with thy four and twenty hours of solitary confinement." Claude followed him— **M. le J)irecleur, give me back my comrade." " Impossible." 90 CLAUDE GUEUX. V M. le Directeur," said Claude, in a tone which might have softenrd a fiend, ** I entreat yon restore Al- bin to me. You shall s*e now well I will work. To yoB, who i^re free, it is no matter— you do not know what the worth of a friend is ; bat I have only the four walls of my prison. You can come and go— I , have nothing but Albin— give him back to me. Albin fed nie^yon know it well. It will only cost you the trou> ble of saying yes: what can it be. to you that there sboold be in the same room one man called Clauds Gueuz, and another called Albin 1 for the thing is sim- ply that. M. le Direcieur,- good Monsieur D-: — » 1 be- seech you earnestly for heaven's sake." Claude bad probably never before said so much at one time to a jailor: ezhausled with the effort, he paused. The director replied, with an impatient ges. tnre, '* Impoasible—I have said it : speak to me no more about it— you wear me out." Then, as if in a hurry, he stepped on more quickly. . Claude following. Thus speaking, they had reached the door of exit ; the prisoners looked after them, and listened breathlessly. Claude gently touched the director's arm. ** At least let me know why I am condemned to death— tell me why yon have separated him from ne " ''^I have told you," answered the director. " M U rnvwUl." He turned his back upon Claude, and was about to tnke hold of the laich of the door. On this answer, Claude had retreated a step— the as- sembled statues who were there, saw him bring out his right hand„ and the hatchet with it— it was raised, and ere the victim could utter one cry, three blows, one the other, had cleft his frkuu. At the moment when he fell back, a fourth blow laid his face open ; then, as if his frenzy, once let loose, could not atop,- Claude struck a fifth d16w : 'twas useless— he was dead. *• Now for the other !" cried the murderer, and threw away the hatchet That other was himself. They saw mm draw from his bosom a small pair of scisBon, aiid before anv one could attempt to hinder him, bury them in his Breast. The blade was too short to pene- trate. He struck them in a^ain and aifain, as many as twenty times. *' Accursed neait ! cannot 1 then reach you V* and finally fell in a dead swoon, bathed in blood. Which of theee men was the victim of the other i When Claude returned to consciousness, well attentj^ ed, his wounds carefully bandaged ; some good Sisters of Charity were about his pillow, and more than one* magistrate, who asked him, with the appearance of great interest, ** Are you better 1" He had lost a great qiiantity of blood, but the scissors with which he had wounded himself had done their duty ill— none of the wounds were dangerous. The examinations commenced. They asked him if it were he who killed the director of the work-rooms at Clairvaux. He replied, ** It was." They asked him why he had done it. H« answered, " U was hit will.** Aster this, the wound festered. He was seized with a severe fever, of which he only did not die. November, December, January and February, went over in recov- ering him and pre(>artng for his trial-^physicians and judges alike made him the object of their care— the for- mer healed his wounds, the latter made ready his scaf- fold. To be brief, on the 10th March, -1832, he appear- ed, being peifectly cured, before the Assize Court' at Ttoyes. All the iahabitants of the town who could at- tend, were present. Claude made a good appearance before the Court ; he had been carefully shaved, his head was bare— he was dressed in the sad prison livery of Clairvaux, of two shades of grey. The King's Advocate had crowded the hall with all the bayonets of the province, "To keep .in," as he. in- formed tbtd spectators, ** the wretches who would figure as witnesses m this matter." When the trial was entered upon, a singular difficulty presented itself. Not any of the witnesses of the events of the 4th of November, would make a deposition Against Clatide. The President threatened them with mil discretiottary jwwer in vain. Claude then com- manded them to give evidence. All their 'tongues were looeed They related what they had s^en. Clande lifitened with profound attention. When one of them, out of foigetfamess, or afieetion for him, omit- ted some of the circumstances chargeable upon the ac- eusfd, Claude supplied them. By this means, the chain of facts which we have related, was unfolded before the Court. There was one moment when some of the females present wept. Tbe buissier summoned the convict Al' bin. It was his turn to come forward • He entered, staggering with emotion,— he wept. The gen-d'armes could not prevent his falling into the arms of Claude. Claude raised him, and said with a smile to the Kind's Advocate, *' Here is a villain who shares his bread with those who are hungry." Then he kissed Albin's hand. The list of witnesses having been gone through, the King's Advocate rose and spoke, in these words : "Uen- ilemen of the Jmy, society would be shaken to its foundations, if public vengeance did not overtake such great criminals as this man. who, &c. &c."- After this memorable difecourse, Claude's Advocate spoke. The pleader against, and the i)leader for, made each in due order, the evolutions which thev are ac- customed to make in the arena which is called a crimi- nal court ' Claude did not think that all was said. He arose in hb turn. He spoke in a manner which most have amaz- ed all the intelligent persons present on the occasion. It appeared as if there were more of the orator than the murderer in the poor artizan. He spoke in an upright atitude, with a penetrating and well managed voice, with an open, sincere, ana steadfast gaze, with a ges- ture almost always the same, but full of command. There were moments in which his genuine lofty elo- Juence stirred the crowd to a murmur, during which llande took breath, casting a bold gaze upon the by- standeia. Then again, this nian, who could not read, was as gentle, polished, select in his language as an in- formed person— at other moments, modest, measured, attentive, going step by step over the irritating parts of the argument, courteous to his judges. Once only, he gave way to a buisi of passion : the King's Advocate bad proved in his speech, that Claude Gueux had assas- sinated the director, without any violence on his part, and consequently without provocation. <* What !" exclaimed Claude, " I have not been pro- voked ^. Ah, yes, it is the truth- lunderstand vou. A drunken man strikes me with his daggei^I kill him, I have been provoked, you show mercy to me, you send me to the gallows. But a man who is not drunk, who has his perfect reason, wrings my heart for four years, humbles me for four years, pierces me with a weapon every day. every hour, every minute, in some unexpect- ed point, tor four years ! I had a wife, for whose sake I became a thief— he tortures me through that wife : — a chikl for whom I stole — he tortures me through that child ;— I have not bread enough to eat— a friend gives it me — he takes away my friend and my food ! I ask for my friend back— he condemns me to solitary con- finement—I speak to him— him the soy- respectfully j he answers me in dog's language. I tell him I am suf- fering—he tells me I wear him out What would you then that I should «do 1 I kill him. It is well ; I am a monster, I have murdered this man, I have not been provoked:- you take my life for it; be it so!" • • • The debates being closed, the President made his im- partial and luminous summing up. The results were these: a wicked life— a wretch in purpose— Clande Gueux had begun by living in concubinage— he had sto- len— then murdered. All this was true. When the jury were about being conducted to their apartment, the Frepident asked the accused if he had any ibiug to say upon the question before them. ** Lit- tle,** repfied Claude. " Only this. I am a thief and assassin— I have stolen, and have slain a man. 'But why have I stolen 1 Why have I murdered 1 Add these two questions to the rest, gentlemen of the jury." After a Quarter of an hour's deliberation, on the part of the twelve countrymen whom he had addressed as gentlemen of the jury, Claude Gueux was coiidemned to death. It ife certain, that at the opening of the cause, many of them had remarked that the accused was called Gueux {beggar,) which had made a profound impression upon them. Their decision was read to Claude, who contented hiujself with saying, ** It is well, but why has this man stolen 1 Why has this man murdered 1 These are questions to which they make do answer." He is carried back to prison. He ' supped almost "U^e had no w'ah to make an appeal against his sen- THE GHOST. fence. One of the Sisters, who had nursed him, en- treated hiro, with tears, to do so. He complied out of kindness to her. It would ap))ear as if be had resisted till the very last moment, for when he signed his peti- tion in the register, the legal delay of three daysiiad expired some minutes before. The poor grateful Sister gave him five francs. He accepted the money and thanked her. While hia appeal was pending, offers of escape were made to him by the prisoners at Troyea, who were de- voted to him. They threw, one after the other, into hia dungeon, through its air-hole, a nail, a bit of iron file, and the handle of a bucket. Any of these three tools would have been sufficient to so skilful a man as Claude, to cut through his irons. He gave up the nail, the file, and the handle to the turnkey. On the 1st of Jane, 1832, seven months and four days after the deed, {U expiration arrived, pede elaudtry as we see. That day, at seven o'clock in the morning, the recorder of the tribunal entered Claude's dungeon, and announced to him that he had not more than an hour to live. His petition was rejected. " Come,*» said Claude^ coldly, " I have this night slept well, without troubhng myself that I should sleep better the nejtt." It would appear as if the words of strong men always receive a certain dignity from approi^ching death. The priest arrived— then the executioner. He was humble to the one, gentle to the other. He maintained a perfect ease of spirit. While they were cutting off his hair, eorae one spoke in a comer of the dungeon o( the cholera, which was at that moment threatening Troyea. " For my part." said Claude* with a smile, " I have no fear of the choleni." lie listened to the priest with extreme attention, ac- cusing himself of many thin^s^ and regretting that he had not been instructed in religion. At his request they had aiven him back the sciflsors with which he had wo\indea himself— one blade which had been broken in his breast was wanting. . He en- treated the jailor to have these scissors taken to Albin, aa from hiinseif He said also that he was anxious they should add to this legacy, the ration of bread he ahould have eaten that day. He be9oujnfO. Some time in the year 1800 or 1801, 1 am not certain which, a man by the name of William Morgan— I don't mean the man whose " abduction " has made so much noise in the world — enlisted on board the United States frigate for a three years* cruise in the Mediterra- nean. He was an awful looking person, six feet four inches high; along inle visage deeply furrowed with wrinkles ; sunken eyes far up towards his forehead ; bhusk exuberant hair standing on end as if he waf al- ways frightened at something ; a sharp chin of a length proportioned to his height ; teeth white but very irregu- lar; and the color of his eyes what the writers on au- pematural aftairs call very singular and mysterioos. Besides this his voice was hollow and sepulchral; on his right arm were engraved certahi mysterious devices, surmounted with the letters E. M.; and his tobacco-box was of iron. His every day dress was a canvas -hat with a black ribbon band, a blue jacket, white trowsera, and leather shoes. On Sundays he wore a white bea- ver, which, amon^ sailors, bespoke something extraor- dinary, ana on rainy davs a pea-jacket too short by half a yard. It is Worthy of remark that Morgan entered on Friday ; that the frigate was launched on Friday, that the master carpenter who buiK her was bom on' Friday. All these singular coincidences, combined with his mysterious appearance, caused the sailors to look upon Morgan with some little degree of wonder. During the voyage to Gibraltar, Morgan's conduci served to increase the impression his appearance had rnade on the crew. He sometimes went without- eat- ing for several days together, at least no one ever saw him eat: and, if he ever slept at all, it was without Cutting nis eyes or lyins xlown, for his messmates, one and all, sWore that, waKe at what time of the night they would, Morgan was peen sitting upright in his ham- mock, with his eyes glaring, wide open. When hia turn came to take his watch upon deck, his conduct was equally strange. He would stftnd stock-stiA in one place, gazing at the stars or the ocean, apparently un- conscious of his situation ; and , when roused by his companions, fell flat on the deck in a swoon. Wheli he revived, he would fall to preaching the most strange and incomprehensible rhapsodies that ever were heara. In their idle hours upon the forecastle, Morgan would tell such stories abovt hipiself, and his strange escapes by sea and by land, as caused the sailor's hair to stand on end, and made the jollf fellows look upon him aa a person gifted with the privilege of living for ever. He often indeed hinted that he had as manv lives as a cat, aod more than once offered to let himself be hanged for the gratification of his messmates. On more than one occasion, he was found lying on his back in his ham- mock, apparently without life, his eyes fixed and glow- ing, his limbs stiff and rigid, his lower jaw sunk down. And his pulse motionless, at least so his messmates swore when they went to call the doctor; though when the latter came he always found Morgan as well as ever he was in his life, and apparently unconscious of all that had happened. As they proceeded on the voyage, which proved for the most part a succession of calms, the sailors, having little else to do, either imagined or invented new won- ders about Morgan. At one time a little Welsh foretop- man swore that as he was going to sit down to dinner, his canteen was snatched from under him by an inviai- ble hand, and he fell plump on the deck. A second bad his allowance of grog ** abducted " in a mysterious man- ner, although he was.ready to make oath he never had his eyes off it for a moment. A third had his tobacco- box rifled, though it had never been out of his pocket. A fourth had a crooked sixpence, with a hole by which it was suspended from his neck by a ribbon, taken away without his ever being the wiper for it. These things at length reached the ears of captain R , who, the next time Morgan got into one of hia trances, had him confined for four and twenty hours ; and otherwise punished him in various ways on the re- currence of any of these wonderful reports. All this produced no effect whatever, either on Morgan or the crew, which at length had its wonder t-tretched to the utmost bounds by a singular adventure of our hero. One day, the squadron being about half way acrosa the Atlantic, and the frigate several leagues ahead with a fine breeze, there was an alarm of the magazine being on fire Monan was just coming on deck with a spoon in his hand, for some purpose or other, when, hearing the cry of " magazine on fire," he made one sprina over- board. The fire was extinguii-hed by the daring gallantrv of an officer, now living, and standing in the first rank of our navdl heroes. In the confusion and alarm it was impossible to make any effort? to save Morgan; and it was considered a matter of course that he had perished in the ocean. Two days after, one of the other vessek of the sQuadron came along side the frigate, and sent a boat on boaid with Billy Morgan: Twelve hours after his leap overboard, he bad been found swimming away THE GHOST. gallantly, with the spoon in hie hand. When asked why he did not let it go, he replied that he kept it to help himself to salt water « hen be was dry. This ad- venture fixed in the minds of the saiiors an obstinate opinion^ that Morgan was either a dead man come to life agam. or one that was not ver]^ easily to be killed. After this, Moigan continued his mysterious pranks, the sailors talked and wondered, and Captain R punished him^ until the squadron were within two or three days* sail of Gibraltar, admitting the wind contin- ued fair as it then was. Morgan had been punished pretty severely that morning for star-gazing and falling into a swoon on his watch the night before, and had solenlnly assured his messmates, that he intended^ to jump overboard and drown bims^elf the first opportunity. He made his will, dressed himself in his, best, and set- tled all his aifdirs. He also replenished his tobacco-box, put his allowance of buiscuit m his pocket, and tilled a small canteen with water, which he strung about his neck; saying that perha()s. he might take it into his head to live a day or two in the water before he finally went to the bottom. Between twelve and one, the vessel bein^ becalmed, the night a clear star-light, and the senimels pacing their rounds, Morgan was distinctly seen to come up through the hatchway, walk forward, climb the bul- wark, and let himself arop into the sea. A midshipman and two seamen testified to the facts ; and Morgan be- ing missing the next morning, there was no doubt of his having committed suicide by drowning himself. This affair occasioned much talk, and various were the opin. ions of the ship's crew on the subject. 3ome swore it was one Davy Jones who had been playing his pranks — others that it was no m^n but a ghost or devil that had got among them — and others were in daily expectation of seeing him come on board again, as well as ever he was. in the meantime, the squadron proceeded but slowlv, being detained several days by calms and head winds, most of which was in some way cr other laid to Mor- gan by the gallant tars, who fear nothing but Fridays and men without heads. His fate, however, gradually ceased to be a subject of discussion, and tne wonder was quickly iiassin^ away, when one. night, about a week after his jumpins: overboard, the figure of Morgan, all pale and ghastly, his clothes hanging wet about nim -^with eyes more sunken, hair more upright, and face more thin and cadaverous than ever, was seen by one of his messmates who happened to be lying awake, to emerge slowly from the forepart of the thip, approach one of the tables where there was a can of water, from which it took a hearty draus^bt, and disaopearin the di- rection whence it came. The sailor told the story next morning, but as yet very few believed him. The next night the same figure appeared, and was Been by a different person from him by whom it was first observed. It came from the same quarter again, helped itself to a drink, and disappeared in the same direction it liad done before. The story of Morgan's ghost, in the course of a day or two, came to (he ears ofCaptain R , who caused a search to be made in that part of the vessel whence the ghost had come ; under the im- pression thatlhe jumping overboard of Morgan had been a deception, and that he was now secreted on board the th* ship. The search ended, however, without any dis- covery. The calms and head winds still continued, and not a sailor on board but ascribed them to Billy Morgan's mysterious influence. The ghost made its ap- pearance again the following night after the search, when it was seen, by another of Morgan's messmates, to empty his tobacco-box, and seize some of the frag- ments of supper, which had been accidentally left on a table, with which it again vanished in the manuer be- fore described. The sailor swore that when the a^ost made free with his tobacco- box, he attempted to lay hold of him, but felt nothmg in his hand, but something exactly like cold water. ^ Captain R was excessively provoked at these sto- ries, and caused another and still more thorough search to be made, but without any discovery. He then di- rected a young[ midshipman to keep watch between decks. That night the ghost a^ain madeitstkppearance, and the courageous young officer sallied out upon it ; but the figure darted away with inconceivable velocity, and disappeared. The midshipman, as directed, imme- diately informed Captain R , who instituted ap im- mediate search, but with as little success aa before. By this time there was not one sailor on board that was not afraid of his shadow, and even the officers began to be infected with a auperBtitious dread.- At length the squadron arrived at Gibraltar, and came to in nhe bay of Algesiras^ where the ships remained seme days wait- ing the arrival of those they had come to relieve. About the ubuA hour that nighL the ghoti of Billy Mor- gan again appealed to one of^his messmates, ofieied him its hand, and saying " Good-bye, Tom," disappear- ed as usual. It was a fortnight or more before the squadron sailed up the Mediterranean, during which time the crews of the shije were permitted to take their time to i^o on shore. On one of these occasions, a messmale ot Billy Morgan, named Tom Brown, was passing through a tolerably dark lane in the suburbs of Algesiras, when he heard a well-known voifce call our, " Tom, Tom, d — n your eyes, don't you know your old Biewnate?'' Tom knew the voice, and looking round, teMcguized his old messmate Morgan's ghost : but he had no inclination to renew the acquaintance ; betook to his heels, and with- out looking behind him to see if the ghost followed, ran to the boat where his companions were waiting, and told the story as soon as he could find breath for the purpose. This reached the ear of Captain R , who, being almost sure of the existence of Morgan, applied to the governor of the town, who caused search to be made every where without efiect. No one had ever seen such a person. That very night the ghost made its appearance on board the frigate, and passed its cold wet hand over the face of Tom Brown, to whrm Morgan had left his watch and chest of clothes. The poor fel- low bawled out lustily ; but before any pursuit could be made, the ghon had disappeared in the forward part of the ship as usual. After this, Billy again appeared two or three times alternately to some one of his messmates ; sometimes in the town, at others on board the frigate, but always in the dead of night. He seemed desirous to say something particular, but could never succeed in getting any of the sailors to listen quietly to the com- munication. The last time he made his appearance at Algesiras, on board the frigate, he was heard, by one of the sailors, to utter, in a low hollow whisper, ** You shall see me at Malta ;" after which he vanished as be- fore. Captain R was excessively perplexed at these strange and unaccountable visitations, and instituted every possible inquiry into the circumstances, in the hone of finding some other clu? to explain the mystery. He again caused the ship to be examined \\ ith a view to the discovery either of the place where Morgan secret- ed himself, or the means by which he escaped from the vessel. He questioned every man on board, and threat- ened the severest puni&hment, should he ever discover that they deceived him in their story, or Vere accom- plices to the escape of Morgan. He even removed every thing in the forward part of the ship, and render- ed it impossible for any human being to be there with- out being detected The whole resulted in leaving the affair in complete mystery, and the squadron pro- ceeded up the Mediterranean, to cruise along the Afri- can coast, and rendezvous at Malta. It was some weeks before the frigate came to the lat- ter place, and in the mean time, as nothing had been seen of the ghost, it was concluded that the shade of Billy Morgan was appeased, or rather the whole affair had been gradually forgotten Two nights after her arrival, a party of sailors, being ashore at La Valette, accidentally entered a small tavern in a remote part of the suburbs, where they commenced a frolic, after the manner of those amphioious bi^ieds. Among them was the heir of Billy Morgan, who, about three or four in the morning went to bed, not quite so clear-headed as he might have been. He could not tell how long he had been asleep, when he was awakened by a voice whispering in bis ear. " Tom, Tom, wake up !" On opening his eyes, he beheld, by the pale light of the morning, the ghastly figure of Billy Moiftan leaning over his bed and glaring at him with eyes like saucers. Tom cried, " Murder ! ghost ! Billy Morgan !" as loud as he could bawl, until he roused the landlord, who came to know what wan the matter. Tom related the whole afiliir, and inquired if he had seen any thing of the figure he described. Mine host utterly denied hav. ing ever seen or ever heard of such a figure as Billy Morgan, and so did all his family. The report was again alive on board the frigdte,^ that Billy Morgan's THE GHOST. 28 ghost had taken the field a^aio. " Heaven and earth !" cried Captain R — — , ** is Billy Morgan's gliost come again 1 SliaH I never get rid of this infernal spectre, or whatever else it may be V* Ciptaln R immediately ordered his barge, waited on the governor, explained the situation of hU crew, and b«*gged his assis^lauce in apprehending the ghost of Billy Morgan, or Billy himself, as the case mig^ht be. That night the governor caused the* strictest search to be made in every hole.and corner of the little town of La Yalette; but iii vain. No one had. seen that remark- able being, corporeal or spiritual^ aqd the landlord of the house where the 8i>ectre appeared, together with all his family, utterly denied any knowledge of such a per- son or thing. It is little to be Wondered at, that the search proved ioefieclual, for that very night Billy took a fancy to appear on board the frigate, where he again accosted his old friend Tom, to whom he had bequeath- ed all his goods and chattels. But Tom had no mind ff»r a conlideotial communication with the ghost, and ^roared out lustily, as usual, that it glided away and dis- appeared as before, without being intercepted in the con- fusion which followed. Captain R was in despair; never was man so persecuted by a ghost in this world before. The ship's crew were in a state of terror and dismay, insomuch that had an Algerine come acro^ them they might per- ad venture have surrendered at discretion. They signed a round robin, drawn up by one of Billy Morgan's old, messmates, representing to Captain R the propriety of running the ship ashore, and abandoning her entirely to the ghost, whrcn now appeared almost everv night, sometimes between decks, at others on the end of the bowsprit, and at others cutting capers on the yards and t'>p.g.illantmd8t. The story spead into the town of La Valette, and nothing was talked of but. the ghost of Billv Morgan, which now began to appear occasionally to tne sen.inels of the fort, one of whom had the cour- age to fire at it, by which he alarmed, the whole island and made matters ten times worse than ever. From Malta the squadron, after making a cruise of a few weeks, proceeded to Syracuse, with the intention of remaining some time. They were obliged to perform a long quarantine ; the ships were strictly exammed by the health olficere^ and fumigated with brimstone, to the great saiislaclion of the crew of the frigate, who were in great hopes this would drive away Billy Mor- gin's ghost. These hopes were strengthened by their fieeing no more of that troublesome visiter during the whole time quarantine continued. The very next night after the expiration of the quarantine, Billy again visited his old messmate and heir Tom Brown, lank, lean, and dripping wet as usual, and after giving him a rousing ahake, whi^ered, ** Uush« Tom ; I want to speak to you about my watch and chest of clothes." But Tom bad no inclination to converse with his old friend, and cried out "murder" with all his might; when the ghost vanished as before, muttering, as Tom swore, " You bloody infernal lubber." The re-appearance of the ghoet occasioned greater consternation than ever among the crew of the good ship, and it required all the influence of cevere punish- ment to keep them from deserting on every occasion. Poor Tom Brown, to whom the devoirs of the spectre eeemed most especially directed, left off swearing and chewing tobacco, and dwindled to a perfect shadow. He became very serious, and spent almost all his leisure time id reading chapters in the bible or singing psalms. -Captain R now ordered a constant watch ail night between decks, in hopes of detecting the intruder; but all in vain, although there was hardly a night passed without Tom waking and crying out that the ghost had jast paid him a visit. It was, however, thought very singular, and to afford additional proof of its bein^ a ghost, that on all occasions except two, it was invisible to every body but Tom Brown. In addition to the vexation arising from this perse- veriog and diabolical persecution of Billy's ghost, va- rious other strange and unaccountable things happened almdK every day on board the frigate. Tobacco boxes were emptied in the most mysterious manner and in the dead of the night ; sailors would sometimes be missing a whole day, and return again without being able to give an account of thems'>lves ; and not a few of them were overtaken with liquor, without their be- ing ever the wiser for it, for they all swore they had not drank a drop beyond their allowance. Sometimes £ on going ashore on leave for a limited time, the sailors would be decoyed, as they solemnly assured the cap- tain, by some 'unaccountable influence into strange out of the way places, where they couid not find their road back, ana where they were found by their ofHcers in a state of mysterious stupefaction, though not one had tasted a drop of liquor^ On these occai-ioris they al- ways saw the ghost of Billy Morgan, either ffying through the air, or dancing on the tops of the steeple?, with a fiery tail like a comet, wonder grew upon wonder every day, until the^ wonder transcended the bounds of human credulity. At length Tom Brown, fhe night after receiving a visit from Billy Morgan's ghost, disappeared and wbs never heard of afterward. As the chest of clothes in- herited from his deceased messniate was found entirely empty, it might have been surmised that Tom had de- serted, had not a sailor, who was on the watch, {So- lemnly declared that be saw the ghost of Billy Morgan jump overboard with him in a name of fire, and that they hissed like a red hot plough-share in tne wai^^r. After this bold feat, the spectre appeared no more. The squadron remained some time at Syracuse, and varicus adventures befelthe ofRcers and crews, which those re- maining alive tell to this day. How Macdonough. th< n a madcap midshipman, " licked" the high constable of the town; how burroughs quizzed the governor; what rows they kicked up at masquerades, and whatwondeis they whisiiertd in the ears of Dionysius. From thence, theV again sailed on a cruise, and after teaching the bey of Triiioh a new way of paying tribute, and laying the foundation of that structure of iniperiehable glory which shall one day reach the highett heaven, returned home, after an absence of between two and three years. The crew of the frigate were paid off and diecharged, and it is on record, as a wonder, that their three years* pay lasted some of them nearly three days. But though w e believe in the ghoet of Billy Morgan, we can scarcely credit this incredible wonder. Certain it is, that not a man of them ever doubted for a moment the reality of the spectre, or would have hesitated to make oath to having seen it more than once. Even Captain K spoke of it on his return, as one of those strange, inscru- table things, which baffle the efforts of human uigenui- tj^ and seem to justify the most extraordinary relations of^past and present times. His understanding revolti d at the absurdity of a great part of the wonders ascribo well attested, that a painful doubt woukl often pass over his mind, giving him superstitious inipreseions. He remained in this state of mixed scepticism and credulity, when, some years after his return from the Mediterranean, being on a journey to the westward, he had occasion to halt at a fog houfe on the borders of Tennessee, for refrebhment. A man came forth to re- ceive him, whom he at once recognized as his old ac- quaintance Billy Morgan. " Heavens 1" thought Captain R , "here's Monsieur Tonson come again !" Billy, who had also found out who his ^uest was, when too late to retreat, looked rather sheepish, and invited him in with little of the frank hospitality characteristic of a ({enuine backwoodsman. Captain K followed him into the house, where he found a comely, good natured dame, and two or three yellow haired boys and ^irls, all in a fluster at the stranger. The house had an air of comfort^ and the mistress, by her stirring activity, ac- companied with smiling looks withal^ seemed Pleased at the rare accident of a stranger entering their door. Billy Morgan was at first rather shy a;id awkward. But finding Captain R treated him with good-hu- mored frankness, he, in the course of the evening, when the children were gone to bed, and the wife busy in milking the cows, took occasion to accost his old com- mander. ** Captain, I hope you don't mean to shoot me for a deserter ?" ** By no means," said the, captain, smiling ; " there would be little use in shooting a ghost, or a man with as many lives as scat." Billy Morgan smiled a rather melancholy smile. Ah ! captain, you have not forgotten the ghost, I see. But it is a long time to remember an old score, and I hope you'll forgive ine." "On one condition I will," replied Captain R , " that you tell me honestly how you managed to make all my sailors believe they saw you, night after night, on board the ship as well as on ehore." 84 THE GHOST. ** Thej did see me," replied Billy, in his usual sepul- chral voice. The captain began to be in some doubt whether he was talking to Billy Morgan or his ghost. " You don't pret(^nd to say you were really on board my vessel all the time?*' ^' No, not all the time, only at such times as the sailors saw me — except previous to our arrival at Gib- raltar." " Then their seeing you jump overboard was all a deceotion " " By no means, sir : I did jump overboard— but then I dimoed back again directly after.'* *• The deuce you did — explain " *• I will, sir, as well as I am able. I was many years among the Sandwich islanders, where the vessel in which I was a cabin boy was wrecked, a long time ago, and I can pass whole hours. 1 believe days, in the water, without being fatigued, except for want of sleep. I have aUo got some of their other habits, such as a great dislike to hard work, and a liking for goiii^ where I will, and doing jujl what I please. The discipline of a man of war did not suit me at all, and I grew lired after a few days. To pass the time, aud to make fun for myself with the sailors, I told them stories of my adyemures, and pretended that I could live in the water, and had as many lives as a cat. Be> sides this, as you know, I played them many other pranks, partly from amusement, and partly irom a kind of pride I ^It in making them beheve I Wds half a wizard. The puni-hment you gave me, though I own I deserved it, put me out of ail patience, and I made up my mind to desert the very fin>t opportunity. I had an old shipmate with me, whom I could trust, and we planned the whole thing together. I knew if I deserted at Gibraltar, or aliy of the ports of the Mediterranean, I should almost certainly be caught, and shot as an ex- ample ; and for this purpose we settled that 1 should jump overboard, return again, and hide mys-elf in a coil of cable which was stowed away between decke>, close to the bows, where it was dark even in the day time. My messmate procured a piece of old canvass, with which 1 might Cover my-selt if necessary. To make my jumping overboard have a greater efiect upon the crew, and to provide against accioents until the ^hip arrived at Gibraltar, I took care to fiU my tobacco-box with to- bacco, my pockets with biscuits, and to ^ling a canteen of water round my neck, as I told ihein perhaps I might take it into my head to go to the bottom for two or three days. I got Tom Brown to write my will, in- tending to leave my watch and chest to my messmate, who was to return them tf» me at Gibraltar, the first chance he could gel. But Tom played us a trick, and put his own name in the place of my friend's. Neither he nor I were any great scholars, and the trick was not found out till afterward, when my friend was afraid of' discovery if he made any rout about the matter." •' Who was your friend V* a^-ked Captain li— . ** He is still alive, and in the service. 1 had rather not mention his name." "Very well," replied Captain R , "go on." " That night I jumped overboard." ** How did you get back into the ship T' asked the captain hastily. *• Why, sir, the forward port-hole, on the starboard side, was left oppn. with a oit of r»»pe fastened to the gun, and hanging down so that I could cnioh it. " As soon as 1 had jumped overboard, I swam to the rope, which I held fast, waiting the signal from ray friend to climb up and hide myself in the coil of cable. In the bustle which followed it was easy enough to do this, and nobody saw me but my friend. Here I re- mained in my wet clothes rather uncomfortably as you may suppose, until my provision and water were ex- pended, and my tobacco-box emoty. I calculated they would last till we arrived at Gibraltar, when nothing would have been easier for me than to jump out of the port-hole and swim ashore. But the plaguy head winds and calms, which I dare say you remember, delayed the squadron several days longer than I expected, and left me without supply. I could have gone without bis- cuit and water, but it was impossible to live without tobacco. My friead promised to come near enough to hear signals of distress sometimes, but, as he told m<^ afterward, he was confined several days for picking a ?[uarrel with Tom Brown, whom he longed to flog for oigiog the will. " I remained in this state until I was nearly starved, when, not being able to stand it any longer, I one night, when every body between decks seemed fast asleep, crept out from my hiding place, where I was coiled up in tne shape of a cable, and finding a pitcher of water, took a hearty drink out of it. Thi^ was as far as I dared go at that time, so I went back again a& quietly as pos- sible. But I was to6 hungry to remain quiet, though among the Sandwich islanders I had been used to go without eating for days at a time. The next night I crept out again, and was lucky enough to get a pretty good supply of provisions, which happened to be left by fiome accident in the ^ay. T^vo or three times I heard search making for me, and was very such frightened lest I should be found out in my hole. When we arrived at the bay df Algesiras, I took an opportunity to frighten Tom Brown a little, by visiting nim in the ni)^ht,>and bidding him good bye, after which I slipped quietly out of the port-hole, and swam ashore, while my friend pulled up the rope and shut the port after me." ** But how did you manage to escape from the search made by the police of Algesiras 1" " O, sir ! I was on board the frigate all the lime, in my old hiding place." " And when the ship was searched directly after 1" " I was ashore at that time." " And how did you manage at Malta 1" " The landlord was my sworn brother, and would not have blabbed for a thousand pounds." "And the capers on the yard-arm and top-gallant, the visits paid to Tom Brown at Syracuse, and the wonder- ful stories told by the sailors of being robbed of their • tobacco, getting tipsy upon nothing, and being led astray by nobody 1 What do you say to all this, Mr. Ghost r* said the captain, smiling. " I never paid but two visits to the ship, so far as I remember, sir, after she left Malta. One was the night I wanted to talk to Tom Brown, the other when he disappeared the night afterward. The rest of the sto- ries were all owing to the jokes of some of the sailors, and the fears of the others." " But are you sure you did not jump into the eea with Tom Brown, in a flame of fire 1" " Yes, sir, as I am an honest man. Tom got away without any hfelp of mine, and without my ever know- ing how, until a loti^ time afterward, when I acci- dentally met him at Liverpool." "WellT "He was not to be convinced' I was living, but ran away as hard as he could, and to this day believes in ghosts as much as he does in being alive himself.** " So far all is clear enough," said Captain R-- — ^ ; " but what could possibly induce you to put yourself in the way of being caught after escaping, by visiting the ship and letting yourself be seen 1" ** I wanted to see Tom Brown, sir." " Why so 1" ** 1 wanted to get back my watch and clothes from him " " O' I see it now. But had you no other object 1" " Why, I'll. tell you, sir ; besides that, I had a sort of foolish pride, aU my life, in frightening people, and making them wonder at me, by telling lou^n stories, or doin? strange things. I havn't got over it to this dav, and fiave been well beaten two or three times, besides being put in a jail, for playing the ghost hereabouts, with the country people, at court time. I confess, too, sir. ih it I have once or twice frightened my wife almost into fits, by way of a frolic ; and for all the trouble it has brought upon me, I believe in my soul I shall play the ghost till 1 give up the ghost at last. Besides this, the truth is, sir, 1 bad a little spite at you for bavins put me in the bilboes for sonie of these pranks, as 1 de- served, and had no objection to pay you off, by breeding trouble in the ship." "Truly, ycu succeeded wonderfully; but what be- came of you afterward 7" " Why, sir, after Tom Brown deserted, and, to quiet his conscience, left my watch and clothes to my frjend, I had no motive for playing the ghost any more. I shipped in an American merchantman for Smyrna— from thence I went to Gibraltar— and after voyaging a year or two, and having a few hundred dollars, came to Boston at last. I did not dare to stay along shore, for fear of being known by some of the ofTlcers of the squadron, so 1 took my money and my bundle, and went into the b^ck country. I am a little of every THE WIDOWER. 26 thing, a Jack of all trades, and turned farmer, as sea captains often do when thev are tired of ploughing the ocean. I get on pretty well now, and hope you won't have me shot by a court martial.** " No," replied Captain R- — , " I am out of the navy now. I have turned farmer, too, and you are quite safe." ** I hoj>e you prosper weD, sir 1** " Not quite so well as you, Billy— T have come into the backwoods to see if 1 can do belter " " Only serve under me." .said Billy, " and I will re- pay ail your good offices." *• What, the floggings, et cstera ?** " By God's help, sir, I may," said Billy. "Try me, sir." ** No— I am going a little further." ** You may go further, and fare worse, sir." " Perhaps so— but I believe it is bed-time— and so good night, Mr. Ghost " The captain retired, and WBs so foil of the adventures of Billy Morgan he could not sleep, though he had ridden forty miles that day on horseback. It might be about two hours before daylight, when he thought he heard a eort of low whispering unaer his window, which Was on the ground floor, and all at once the loneliness of -his sit- uation came across his mind. If ever ihere was a man that looked suapicious-, it was Billy Morgan ; and if ever there was a spot where a traveler might' be dispatched with impunity, it was this lonely retreat in the almost pathless forest. The thought also came across hhn, that ne had told Billy that he was come with a view to the purchase of land ; and of course he must have money. At all events, no man could set out on a journey of some thousands of miles, without a few hundred dollars to bear his expenses. Captain R was a man of great resolution ; but there are times and situations in which the apprehension of danger is a thousand times more ap- palling than the reality. Indeed we are persuaded, from our own exoerience, that imagination makes more cow- ards than all other causes put together. The captain tried to reason and then to bully these apprehensions into eilence. But the whisperings continued, and at length he could distinguish the low hollow voice of Billy Mor- gan, saying, " Hush — you'll wake the captain." "Shall [shoot him now!" replied some one in the same suppressed tone. *• No," renlied Billy, " you can*t see him quite plain enough yet. Vou may miss him." " Well, if I do, you can try him afterward." "He'll run away." •• I'll be d d if I do," thought Captain R^ cau- tiously raising himself up in bed, and peeping out at the window which was just at his bed side. There was no moon, and the whole expanse of the heavens was veiled by light fleecy clouds, which entirely hid the stars, and caused an indistinct obscurity, through which objecta could be perceived in- the outlme, but not in their dis- tinct features. Crouching in a large plane tree, whose hollow trunk would have accommodated a troop of rob- bers, he distinguished two figures, cowering and stoop- ing as if to see some object in the distance. " There ! there he is !" whispered one, " fire !'* " D— n it," said Billy, in his low deep tones, ** he's dodged us this time. Look out. again, and the very first glimpse you get of his eyes, tire away." Captain R rose, dressed as briefly as possible, and arming himself with a pair of pistols he haa brought with him, seated himself near the only door of his room, in a situation where he could not be seen without, calmly awaiting the result. The more the appearance of dan- ger assumed the part of reality, the more his courage rose to meet it. He had not sat thus for five mmutes. when he h<;ard the two riflea fired in quick succession. A moment after, the voice of Billy Moigan was distin- gm.«hed. . *• By , we've done for the gentleman." "Not quite," thought Captain R , cocking his pistol, and expecting a visit every moment. " I saw him drop," cried Billy's companion. " He has run away," answered Billy. "You lie, you scoundrel," muttered Captain R , in a violent passion, and sallying forth, as he exclaimed, " I'll show you whether I've nm away." He advanced boldly towards the two villains, who were now groping about among the neighboring bushes. At last one of them cried — " O ! here's the gefUlemany as dead as Julius Caesar. He'll never tell who did it, I reckon." " He's as fat as butter,'' said Billy. " It's not me, after all," thought Captain R , " that they intended to murder. Some poor unfortu- nate fat gentleman, who has lost his way in these woods.*' " Rascals !" cried he, rushing forward, " whom have you been murdering here 1" "Only a bear, sir,"- cried the ghost of Billy Morgan, " he's been robbing my pig-i^en for some time past; but I think I've paid on ail oldf scores now." Captain R — — returned quietly to his room, went to bed, and slept like a top, till the broad sun shone over the summits of the trees into his face, as he lay under the window. He breakfasted sumptuously upon a steak of the fat gentleman, and sat out gallantly for the prai- ries of St. Louis. nettled} " I hope you will not get mto the state prison for playing the ghost." " I'll take care of that, sir ; I've been in the state pri- son three years already, and you won't catch me there again, I warrant you.'* " What do you mean, Billy 1" " I mean that there is little or no odds between state ship and state prison," said Billy, with a face longer than ever, and most expressive shrug. Captain R proceeded on his way, reflecting on the singular story of Billy Morgan, whow pranks on board the frigate had convinced some hundreds of men of the existence of ghosts, and thrown the gloona of supersti- tious horror over the remainder of their existence. " Not a sailor," thought he. " out of more than five hun- dred, with the exception of a single one, but will go to his grave in the full belief in the appearance of Billy Morgan's ghost. What an unlucky rencontre this of mine; it has spoiled one of the best authenticated ghost stories of the age." THE WIDOWER. BT THOMAS HATNBS BAYLY. Wekk T, Damon Daffodil, to announce my intention of writing the memoirs of ray bachelor days, the reading public would be on the tiptoe of expectation, eager to trace the flirtations of un joli ear^on ; while half the Cretly women would be on their exquisite marrow- ones, entreating to be omitted in the long list of m^ conquests But I am no traitor to the fair, or, as it is very justly called, the weaker sex. True it. is, that I have detailed the happy hours of my unmarried fife^ not in black' and white, but on pink paper, with blue ink: but the manuscript is carefully folded, sealed, and tiea with white satin riband : and it is not to be made public for a century at least. I therefore skip my many " hair- breadth 'scHpes," and proceed at once to the day when I so far committed myself as to stand irrevocably on the brink of matrimony. My chosen was not so oretty as I could have wished, being tall, thin and angular; nor did she turn out so amiable as I had thought her, being vain, oninionative and dictatorial. But at the period of whicn I speak, everything was cotUew de rose, so much so, indeed, that I never detected she was a blue. We married ;• and as my wedding-dav was one of weeping to many fair damsels, who shafl at present be nameless, I, of course, anticipated perpetual smiles and suQf^hine on the part of Mrs. Daffodil ; but Mrs. D *s serenity only lasted just so long as she was the one per- son thought of, looked at undattended to in society ; and, not being exactly the fairest of the fair, nor ine brightest of the bright, there were moments when others — and when, it must be owned, I myself— ventured to praise other beaut ies^ and to listen to the silver accents of other lips. Then it was that Rebecca Daffodi] would boil with indignation, and talk at others, and praise her- self, until I began to wish that some more deserving in- dividual had properly appreciated her, and snatchedher from the oflfer which 1 had rather precipitately made. As is the custom in all civilized societies, her portrait was to be painted, and nominaUy presented to her bus- THE WIDOWER. band— that b to say, /was to pay for it^ and then I was to see Lew of it iban anybody else ; for u was id be seni to the Exhibition, and then to be hung up, not in nay own room, for nobody woaid have seen it there, but in the drawing-room. I pitied the |K)or artist from my ■oul. Ue began, and, indeed, very nearly tinished, a vtry admirnble hkeneaa; but, m an unlucky hour, he permitted Rebecca to peep at hia performance. 1 never bhall forget her that day as long as 1 live. **iHave you seen my portrait, love 1" said she to me at dinner. "Yes, dear.'» , , , "And what do you think of it V* cried she. " Admirable ! I never saw a better likeneae." " You are jesting !*' . , , ^. " No, indeed," 1 replied. " As I said to Mr. Tm- turn', it really was like looking at wonrsf//'." . . . *' Hf told me vou said to ; but 1 could n6t beheve it until I heard it from your own lii«. Why, I showed it to fifteen highly-ialented people tbis very day, and they aaid it was abominable." " H>)ving firat been told by you that you did not relish its being thought like." . . " Nonsense, sir. Look at the hnes ; it makes me forty, at least !" '* Well, Becky dear, but you know you art thirly- tev— " " Hold your tongue, Mr. Daffodil. I am aware that I married an old bachelor of fifty ; but— ** " Hem !— to the point, my dear. Your picture.** " Well, it*s condemned. St. Aubyn said to-day that he could not blame Mr. Tintumar, for that / ought to be painted in rainbow t'nts." ** Oh! ah !— that accounts for it.»' " And though raven hair and dark eyes may be paint ed, it is not easy to give the hyacinihine gloss to the one, nor the emanation of the poetic mind to (he other.*' "Yes, yes; I see." " In fact, it is not possible to give to my portrait the delicacy and beauty of the original." " Clearly, money thrown away, then," said I. " S:ill, you know," added my wife, ** that bright cir- cle, of which I am the brilliant centre, expect to see me on canvass, and the attempt must be muae." " It has been made." "He must tar again. Had, my poor mother been alive, this mt^have passed for her.** 1 Haid no more; and Rebecca, like an old hen, went on sitting and silting, until an oval production was ex- hibited to the public, as like her as it was like me. An oval frame was then procured, and the picture was sus- pended. I suspended my judgment, because, thinking It young and beauiiful, I could not conscientious! v sav it resembled Becky ; but my wife's literary friends aU found out some defect — some eye, nose, mouth or chin, not good enough for the corresponding feature in her tnce ; and, lovely as they all declared it to be, they unanimou!)ly said or insinuated that it was leas lovely than the orl^nal. In the spring of 1820,, Becky and 1 agreed to travel. We had resolved to visit Guernsey and Jersey, and then to proceed to St. Malo,or some other port on the coast 01 France. We embarked in a large and com- modious steam-packet, having engaged a small private cabin ; and away we went from the Tower stairs, full of eager hopes and anticipations, as long as we were in calm water in the river^ but all qualms and wretched- ness as soon as the motion of the vessel indicated that we were off the North Foreland. We paddled on. however, whether we liked or not, and got within sight of Dover, when contrary winds, that terrified even our captain, obliged us to nut back and anchor in the Downs. Oh, the misery or the day that we spent, rockin(( and rolling, and pitching to and fro, without advancing one inch on our voyage ! I was very ill my- self, and as for Becky, I really thought she would have died— but she didnU— at least not then. Our cabin was a mere cell, and the misery of it. during the time that we were anchoritCB, is not to be described. But some- how, poor Becky and I never agreed so well in our lives! ay being both sea-sick to a humiliating extent, we were connected by a reciprocity of feeling that had ?»J^?^t before. In the pauses of our indisposi- ^^I'kinAiA^-^^ wistfully at one another, and sympathy Ti : J*"*®", in our bosoms, tn .ni tiff there is nothing like habit; it reconciles us to any lUiog and any body ; and wretched as 1 was in the little cupboard where we were immured, I fell ihrt [ should have been more wretched had 1 been deprived of the society of my wife and her little dog Snap. Snap was as tea-sick as ourselves : and never fhall I forget Becky's answer when a rough .^^silor said, " How your do^ be caiting^ ma'rm ! !" I think there teas a contradiction in the phrase. It is truly said, that ** af- ter astorm comes a calm," and sail did ; but then again, after the calm came another storm ; and so we went on; and we were blown hither and thither, until our paddles were broken, our coals exhau.*>ied, and our pro- visions as low as our spirits. Not that I and Becky cared about provinons — but the crew did; and whi e the captain and mate walked the deck and. consulted what was best to be done, I and my mate watched them in silenoe, like unhalppy criminals expecting every moment to hear sentence of death pronounced upon them. Our vessel had been christened The Duck, but so bat- tered and forlorn w'as her condition, that I could not help asking myself the. old question—** Can a duck tudm ?*• I confess I began to have my misgivings. " The pea was rough, this clouds were daik," and cur captain evidently did not kriaw exactly where we were ; by no means a cheering, f^iluatipn ; but, worn out with watcbing. weariness; and;.want cf'lood, Becky and I undressed ourselves and retired to a very liitle bed. which w.as spread upon a.«on of shelf in cur Chbin. I am morally convinced it never could have been intend- ed to accommodate twOy but in such an hour we were not to be separated, and we both soon fell asleep. All of a sudden the ship struck upon something with a concussion so violent, that I who had placed myself on the outvr extremity of the shelf, was thrown our of bed upon the fluor of the cabin. Becky, I believe, sleiit on— I cannot say positively : I am not sure • for in the hurry of the moment, without thinking of her, poor thing ! I snatched with my right hand a box containing all my valuables, and, seizing my Email clothes with my left, 1 rushed upon deck in a ttate of nudity and anxiety, to see what was the matter; and i found that our vesseL The Duck, had run foul of another vessel, and was filling fust, and going to the bottom. The two vessels became entangled for a minute or two, and it wasjust possible to step from the smaller one into the bigger and the safer. I instantly took ihe step, and found myself standing on the deck of a strange ves- sel, surrounded by gentlemen and ladies I had never seen before : and I just as I had left my pmow, with my box in one nand and my small clothes in the other. I rushed to a secluded corner to put on the latter, and then paid my respects to the captain, politely requesting him to accommodate Mrs. Ddnbdil as well as myself. It was a dreadful moment for a hu&band ! There are tragedies in jeal life too painful to be detailed in a nar- rative, too heart-rending to be represented on the stage ; such was mine. The captain congratulated me on my own escape ; but as for my beloved wife, and The Duck that bore her, of which in the darkness he bad obtained but a glimpse, it appeared to be the general opinion that she waa a wreck and gone to the bottom. What a horrid phraee for a husband to hear! I believe I fainted, and continued for many hours in a state of iii- sensibility. The next day I went on deck, and eagerly looked around for The Duck, nay, for a fragment of that vessel, a hen-coop with Becky astride upon it, waving her tiight-cap to attract attention ; but no, I saw nothing but what people call the waste of waters illu- minated by the rising sun. I was yielding sadly to the combined effects of grief and sea-sickness, when it occurred to me to inquire in what I wassailing, and whither we were going. The ship was the Hope, bound for the East Indies! The East Indies ! Impossible '• I assured Captain Higgins that I could not think of accompanying him. but he smiled, and inquired whether a voyage with him was not preferable to being drowned. I will not dwell on my sensations and sutferini^s; for months I walked the deck, looking on Becky's winding sheet, a Aeet of water! or peeping over the tide of the vessel into the depths below, at the horrible -water- wag- tails which had perhaps devoured her. It was so awkwara to be made extemporaneously a widower; no funeral, no tombstone, no. body buned anywhere! For as to what people call "a watery grave," it amounts, to my thinking, to no grave at Jill; aiid then the sea has such an awkward way of THE FIRST AND LAST DINNER. 27 throwing it np again : one can never feel qaite sure. Poor Becky, 1 piciurea to myself: no coffia, and not a rag of a ahruud, stretched upon an oyster bed, where at least there was no want ot a ahell. All this waa very shocking: she was, as one of the sailors unfeelingly ob- served in my hearing, ♦* food for fishes :" and it was a very long time before 1 could reconcile myself to the- flavor ot soles or turbot. I even loathed lobsters^I wno used to be so partial to them. Another thing that vexed me was the impoesibility of paying proper respect to the defunct, and wearing mourninx. Becky had all the toudt to herself, (sea weedi, alas!) and 1 walked about in a borrowed blue jacket and duck trowsers ; my only mourning for The Duck and her precious p^isseoffer ! My voyage conti- nued unprosperous : what could be exi^ected after such ' a beginning 1 and it was two months beyond the usual time allotted for a voyace, that I landed at Madras. Oh ! that landing I shall I ever forget 1 in such a boat, and amid such a surf: every moment 1 ezpeoied to be re-united to my Becky ; but my better angel presided, and I was snatched from the danger that impended. Iitm not going to dwell upon the events which occur- red in the East, nor my motives for remaining there much longer than I intended. I was now a single man ; no ties united me to my native countrv ; I amused my- self very agreeably, and two years had elapsed before I revisited the land of my fathers. My voyage home was pleasant enough. There was a nice lady on board, and a dear, dark, interesting girl, her daughter. We became intimate ; and suffice it to say, that, when we landed, 1 was alt but *' a happy man ** We went to the same hotel : and the very next night. Mrs. Daffodil are deposited in churchyard, be- neath a very handsome, large, and weighty monument, which has been erectedf to her memoiy by her discon- solate husband. before I had communicated with my man of business, or made known my arrival to my friends, I accompa- nied my fair friends to Drury-lane Theatre, where a young hdy was to m^ke her first appearance in Belvi- dera. We occu,>ied a private box, and. engrossed by the interest of the scene, and with my right hand locked in that of the beautiful Anna Maria, I give myself up to enjoyment, and almost forgot that there was any one else in the house except our three selves. Toward the and of the fifth act, however, there resounded a shrill BCieam from an opposite box, and raising my eyes, 1 saW'tcNK it possible 1 no, it could not be—yet it wa»— it wot Becky, gazing wildly at me, and resting on the shoulder of an exceedingly taU, dark-whiskered gentle- man I fKsream^d too, and then Becky screamed again, and the dehutafi^e on the stage, encouraged by her appa- rent success, screamed akso ; falling on her knees, and scratching away at the boards with ner nails, to d^ up Jdfiier. But without any digging on my part, and wirii- out the aid of any scratch, (unless it was the old one,) there stood Becky alive before me ; and to end so hor- rible an uncertainty, I ran round the house, and entered her private box. It UHi$ Beckv, and by her side was the Irish gentle- man. Captain 0*Diddle, of Killbally curmudgeon Castle, in the county Clare, who was to be united to my wealthy tDidouf on the following Monday. I wassorrv for him, very sorry ; and for myself, more sorry ; ana for Anna Maria, and her mother, and Becky too ; it was unplea- sant for all parties. However, my late wife and 1 were soon established in our old residence ; and she once more became the brilliant centre of a bright circle. The Duck, though very much damaged, had kept afloat un- til her crew and passengers were rescued bv a steanner on her way to Dublin. Becky^ supposing 1 had fallen overboard, mourned a decent time in that capital; and then went to Kiilarney, and the Giant's Causeway, and other celebrated plsces in the Emerald Isle, and made the acquaintance of Captain O* Diddle. She never re- covered ihe«hock, {which shock it is impossible for me say, my lou, or my sudden re-appearance.) At the end of two years she grew nervous; and, having no particu- lar complaint, she employed a new popular doctor, who cured every imaginable disease after a fashion of his own. Mrs. Daffodil died: I never felt so awkward m my life ; I had gone through all the grief which was to be expected on such an occasion already, and could not do it all over again : besides, months ago, I had made up my mind to tier loss. I however went into the deepest mourning, (for that was still due to her,) and I attended the funeral—so that now there can be no mistake, and I am justified in positively staling that the remains of THE FIRST AND LAST DINNER. %Y PKOPBSSOR WrLSON. TwKLw friends, much about the same age, and fixed by their pursuits, their family connections, and other local interests, as permanent inhabitants of the metro- polis, agreed, one day while they were drinking their wine at the Star and Garter at Richmond, to institute an annual dinner among them^lves under thp following regulations: That they hhould dine alternately at each other's houses, on the first and last day of the year; that the first bottle of wine uncorked at the first dinner, should be re-corked and put away to be drank by him who should be the last of their number; that they should never admit a new member; that when one died, eleven should meet, and so on—and that, when onlv one remained, he should on those two days dine by himself, and set the usual hours at his solitary tab e — but the first time he so dined alone, lest it should be the only one, he should then uncork the first bottle, and in tne fytt glass drink to the memory of all who were gone. There was something original and whimsical in the idea, and it was eagerly embraced. They were all in the prime of life^ cloeefy attached by reciprocal friend- ship, fond of social enjoyments, and looked forward to their future meetings with unalloyed antfcipations of pleasure. The only thought, indeed, that darkened these anticipations was one not verv likely to intrude itself at this moment — that of the hapless wight who was destined to uncork ihe first bottle to his lonely repast. It was bright summer when this frolic compact was entered into ; as their pleasure boat skimmed along the bosom of the Thames, on their return to London, they talked of nothing but their first and last feasts of the en- suing years. Their imaffinations ran riot with h thou* sand gay predictions of festive merriment. Thoy wan- toned in conjectures of what changes time would ope- rate, joked each other upon their apiiearance when they should meet — some of them hobbling U|>on crutches af- ter a severe fit of the gout — othera poking about with purblind eyes, whom even spectacles could hardly en- able to distinguish the alderman's walk in a haunch of venison— «ome with portly round bellies and tidy little brown wigs, and others decently dressed out in a new suit of mourning, for the death of a great grand-daughter, or a great-grandpon. "As for you. George," exclaimed one of the twelve, addressin^i his brother-in-law, ** I ex|)ecti shall see you as ary, withered and shrunken as an old eel-skin, yon mere outside of a man !'* and he accompanied the words witn a hearty slap on the shouMer. , Georae Fortescue was leaning carelesriy over the side of the yacht, laughing the loudest of^ any at the conversation which had been carried on. The sudden manual salutation of his brother-in-law threw him off his balance, and in a moment he was overboard. They heard the heavy splash of bis fall. The boat was pro- ceeding swiftly along— but it was instantly fiiopjied. The utmost consternation now prevailed. It was nearly dark, but Fortescue was known to be an excel- lent swimmer, and startling as the socident was. they felt certain he would regain the vessel. They could not see him. They listened, and heard the sound of his hands and feet. They hailed him, and no answer was returned, but in a faint and gurgling voice, and the ex- clamation, ** Oh God !*' struck upon their ears. In an instant, two or three who were expert swimmers, plungea into the river, and swam to the spot whence the exclamations had proceeded. One of them was within an arm's length of Fortescue— he was struggling and buffeting the water, and before he could be reached, he went down, and his distracted friend beheld the eddy- ing circles of the wave iust over the spot where he had sunk. He dived after nim. and touched the bottom — but the tide must have drifted the bedy onward, for it could not be found. They proceeded to one of the nearest stations where drags were kept, and having procured the neoessary ap- paratus, they returned to the fatal spot. After the uipsa THE FIRST AND LAST DINNER. of above an hour, they succeeded in finding the iifelesi body of their lost friend. All the usual rerncdies were employed for restoring suspended aniniation, bat in vain— and thev . now pursued the remainder of their course to London, in mournful silence, with the corpse of him who had commenced the day of pleasure with them in the fullness of health, of spirits, and of life ! Amid their severe grief they could not but remember that one of the joyous twelve had abready slipped out of the little festive circle ! The months rolled on, and cold December came with its cheering round of kindly greeting and merry hospita- lity ; and wiih it came a softened recollection of the fate of poor Foriescue ; eleven of the twelve assembled on the last day of the year; and it was impossible not to see their loss as ihey sal down to dinnf^r. The very irregularity of the table, bix on one side, and only five on me other, forced the melancholy event upon their memory. .There are few sorrows so stubborn as to resist the united influence of wine', a circle of select friends, and a prospective gaiety. . A decorous sigh' or two, a few becoming ejaculations, and an instructive observation on the uncertainty of hfe, made up the sum of tender posthumous otferingd to tbe manes of poor George Fortescue^ as they proceeded to discharge the most important duties for which they had met. By the time the third glass of champagne had gone round, in addition to sundry potations of fine old ock, and capital Madeira, they had ceased to discover anything so very pathetic in the inequality of the two- sides of the table, or so melancholy in their crippled number of eleven. [The rest of the evening passed off very pleasantly in conversation, good humored enjoyment and conviviali- ty, and it was not till toward twelve o'clock that "poor Creorge Foriescue" was again remembered.] They all agreed, at parting, however, that they had never passed such a happy day, cpngratulated each other upon having instituted so delightful a meeting, and promised to be punctual to their appointment the ensuing evening, when they were to celebrate the new year wliose entrance thev nad welcomed in bumperaof claret, as the watchman bawled "past twelve o'clock," beneath their window. They met accordingly, and thejr gaiety was without an alloy or drawback. It was only the first time of their assembling after the death of ^* poor George For- iescue," that made the recollection of it painful ; for, though but a few hours had intervened, they now took their seats at the table as if eleven had been their usual number, and as if all were there who had ever expected to be there. It is thus in every thing. The first time a man enters a pripon — the first book an author writes — the first painting an artist executes — the first battle a general wins— nay, the first time a rogue is hanged^ (for a rotten rope may provide n second performance, even of that ceremony, with all its singleness of Chirac- fer) — differ inconceivably from the first Te{)etilion. There is a charm, a spell, a novelty, a freshness, a de- light, inseparable from the first experience, (hanging always excepted, be it reraembered«) which no art or circumstance can impart to the second. And it is the same in all the darker traits of life. There is a degree of poignancy and anguish in the first assaults of sorrow, which is never found afterward . In every case, it is simply that the first fine edge of our feelings has been taken off*, and that it can never be restored. . Several years had elapsed, and our eleven friends kept up their anniversaries, as they might aptly enough be called, with scarcely any perceptible change. But alas! there came one dinner at last, darkened bv a cala- mity they never expected to witness, for on tnat very day, their friend, companion, brother, almost, was handed ! Yes, Stephen Rowland, the wit, the oracle, the life of their little circle, on the morning of that day. forfeited his life upon a public scafibld, for having made one single stroke of his pen in a wrong niace. In other wordvS, a bill of exchange was passed into his hands for £700, passed out of his hands for £1700 ; he having drawn the important little prefix to the hundreds, and the bill being paid at the banker'i) without examin- ing the words of it. The forgery was discovered- brought home to Rowland— and though the greatest in- terest was used to obtain a remission of the fatal penal- ty, poor Stephen Rowland was hanged. Every body pitied him ; and nobody could tell why he did it. He was not poor, he was not a gambler, he was not a epe- culator, but phrenology settled it. The oiigan of acqai- aitivenefls was discovered on his head, after hia execu- tion, as large as a pigeon's egg. He could not help it. It would be injustice to the ten to say that even wine, friendship, and a merry season, could' dispel the gloom which pervaded this dinner. It was agreed beforehand that they should not allude to the distreasing.and me- lancholy theme : and having thus interdicted the onfy thing which really occupied all their ihonghts, the natu- ftil conseouence was, that silent contemplation took the place of dismal discourse ; and they separated long be- fore midnight. • • ♦ ♦ • Some fifteen yeara had now glided away since .the -fate of poor Rowland, and the ten remained ; but the stealing hand of time nad writ- ten sundry changes in most legible characters. Raven locks had now become grizzled — two or three heads with not as manv locks altogether as may be reckoned in a walk of halt a mile along the Regent's canal— one waa actually covered with a brown wig— the crow's feet were visible in the comer of the eve— good old port and warm Madeira carried it against nock, claret, red bur- gundy and champagne— stews, hashes and ragonta grew into favor— crusts were rarely called for to relish the cheese afierdinner, conversation was less boister- ous, and.it turned chiefly |o politics and the state of the funds, or the value of landea property — apologies were made for coming in thick shoes and warm stockings : the doors and windows were more carefully provided with list and sand bag»— the fire more in request— and a quiet game of whist filled up the houra that were wont to be devoted to drinking, singiniL and riotous merri- ment. Two rubbers, a cup of conee, and at home by eleven o'clock, was the usual cry, when the fifth or sixth glass had gone round after the removal of the cloth. At parting, too, there was a long ceremony in the hall, buttoning up great coats, tying on woolen comforters,, fixing silk handkerchiefs over the mouth and up to the ears, and gra.sping sturdy walking canea, to support un- steady feet. Their fiftieth anniversary came, and death had indeed been busy. One had been killed by the overturning of the mail, in which he had taken his place in order to be present at the dinner, having purchased an estate in Monmouthshire, and retired tbither with his family. Another had undergone the tenific operation for the stone, and expired beneath the knife ; a third had yield- ed up a broken ppirit two years after the loss of an onlv sumving and beloved daughter; a fourth was carried off in afewday8J)y the cholera morbus: a fifth had breathed his last the very morning he ODtained judg- ment in his favor by the Lord Chancellor, which had cost hini his last shilling nearly to get, and which, alter a litigation of eighteen years, declared him the rightful possessor of ten thousand a year— ten minutes after he was no more. A «xth had perished by the hands of a midnight assassin, who broke into his house forplunder, and sacrificed the owner of it as he grasped convulsively a bundle of exchequer bills, which the robber was draw- ing from beneath his pillow, where he kAew they were every knight placed for better security. Four little old men, of withered appearance and de- crepid walk, with cracked voices, and dim raylesseyes, sat down, by the mercy of H>»aven, (as they themselves trcmulooyly declared) to celebrate, for the fiftieth time, the first day of the year; to observe the frolic compact, which half a century before, they had entered into at tbe Star and Garter at Richmond! Eight were in their graves! Yet they chirped cheerily over their glass, though they could scarcely carry it to their lips, if it was half full; and cracked their jokes, and articulated their words with difficulty, and heard each other with still greater difficulty. They Tnumhled, they chattered, they laughed, (if a sort of strangled wheezing mi^ht be calfed a laugh); and when the wines sent their icy blood in wanner pulse through their veins, they talked of the past as it were but a yesterday had passed by them— and the future, as if it Were a busy century that laybefore them. They were just the number for a quiet rubber of whist ; and for three successive years they sat down to one. The fourth came, and their rubber was played with an open dummy : a fifth, and whiat was no longer praciicable.— two could pla^ only at cribbage, and cnb- bage was the game. But it was little more than the mockery of play. Their palsied hands could hardly THE WORLD AS IT IS. 29 bold, or their fading sighi distinguifib the cards, while their lorpid faculties made them dose between each deal. At jength came the last dinner, and the survivor of the twelve, upon whose head fourscore and ten winters had showered their snow, ate his solitary meal. It so chanced that it was in his house, and at his table, they had celebrated the first. In his cellar, too, had remain- ed for eight and fifty years, the bottle they had then un- corked, re-corked, and which he was that day to,, un- cork again. It stood beside him. With a feeble and reluctant grasp be took the frail memorial of a vouthful vow ; and for a moment memory was faithful to her office. She threw open the long vista of years ; and his heart traveled through them all. Their lusty and blithe- some spring—their bright and fervid summer— their ripe and temperate autumn— their chill, but not too froseo winter. He saw, as in a mirror, how, one by one, the laughing companions of that merrv hour, at JElichmoad, had dropjped mto eternity. He felt all the loneliness of bis condition, for he haq eschewed marriage, and in the veins of no living creature ran a drop of blood whose source was in his own ; and ^s he drained the glass which he had filled "to the memory of those who were gone," the tearis slowly trickled down the deep furrows of his aged face. He had thtis fulfilled one part of his vow, and he pre- pared himself to discharge the other by sitting the usual Dumber of hours at his desolate table. With a heavy heart he resigned himself to the gloom of his own thoughts— a lethargic sleep stpleover him— his head fell n|>0D his bosom — confused images crowded into his mind— he babbled to himself— wassilent— and when his servant entered the. room, alartned by a noise which he heard, he found his master stretched upon the carpet at the foot of the easy chair, out of which he had slipped in an anqplectic fit. He never spoke again, nor once opened nis eyes, although the vital spark was not extinct until the following day— and this was his Ltui Day. THE WORLD AS IT IS. ** What a delightful thing the world is ! . Lady Len- nox's ball last night— how charming it was ! every one . so kind, and Charlotte looking so pretty— the nicest girl I ever saw! But I must dress now. Balfour is to be here at twelve with the horse he wants to sell me. How lucky I am to have such a friend^ as Balfour ! so entertaining— so good-natured- 80 devilish clever, too — and such an excellent heart ! Ah ! how unluckv! it rains a little ; but never mind, it will clear up ; ana if it don't— w'hy, there's billiards. What a delightful thing |he world is !" So soliloquized Charles Nugent, a man of twenty-one — a philanthropbl — an optimist. Our young (, itlem'an was an orphan^ of good family and large fortune : brave, generous, conhding and open-hearted. His ability was above the ordinary standard, and he. had a warm love and a pure taste for lettera. He had even bent a knee to Philosophy, but the calm and cold graces with which the goddess receives her servants, had soon discontented the young votary with the worship. " Away !" cried . he, one morning, flioging aside the volume of La Roche- foucault, which be had fancied he understood ; ** away with this selfish and debasing code ! men are not the mean thin^ they are here described :. be it mine to think exaltingly of my species !" My dear Experience, . with how many fine sentiments do you intend to play the devil 1 It is not without reason that Goethe tells us, that though Fate is an excellent, she is also a very ex- pensive school-mistress. ** Ha ! my dear Nugent, how are you V* and Captain Balfour entera the room ; a fine, dark, handsome fel- low, with something of pretension in his air, and a great deal of frankness. " And here is the horse. Come to the window. Does not he step finely 1 What action ! Do you rendark his forehand f How ne carries his tail ! Gad. I don't think you shall have him, after all !" " Nay, my dear fellow, you ;nay well be sornr to part with him. He is superb ! Quite sound-^eh V^ " Have him examined." " Do you think I would not take your word for it 1 The price 1" "Fix it yourself. Prince Paul once offered me a imiidred ana eighty ; but to you—" "You shall have it." " No, Nugent— say a hundred-and fifty." * I won't be outdone— there's a draft for £180." " Upon my soul, I'm ashamed ; but you are such a rich fellow. John, take the horse to Mr. Nugent's sta- bles. Where will you dine to-day 1— at the Cocoa- tree 1" " With all my heart." The young men rdde together. Nugent was delighted with his new purchase. They dined at the Cocoa-tree. Balfour ordered some early peaches. Nugent paid the bill. They went to. the opera. " Do you see that danutue, Florine V* asked Balfour. " Pretty ancle— eh 1" " Yes, commi Qa— but dances awkwardly— not hand- some." " What ! not handsome 1 Come and talk to her. She's more admired than any girl on the stage." They went behind the scenes, and Balfour convinced his friend that he ought to be enchanted with Florine. Before the week was out, the dantetkse kept her car- riage, and in return, Nugent supped with her twice a week. Nugent had written a tale for the " Keepsake s" it was bis first, literary efibrt ; it was tolerably good, and exceedingly popular. One day, he was lounging over his breakfast, and a tall, thin gentleman, in black, was an- nounced by the name of Mr. Gilpin. Mr. Gilpin made a most respectful bow, and heaved a peculiarly profound si^h. Nugent was instantly seized with a lively interest in the stranger. " Sir, it is with great regret," faltered forth Mr. Gilpin, "that I seek you. I — I — I — " A low, consumptive cough checked nis speech. Nugent ofieted him a ciip of tea. The civility was refused, and the story continued. Mr. Gilpin's narration is soon told, when he himself is not the narrator. An unfortunate literary man — once in afiluent circumstances-^security for a treacherousT friend — friend absconded — pressure of unforeseen circum- stances— ^angel wife and four cherub children — a book coming out next season— deep distress at present— bor-' ror at beiug forced to beg— generous sentiments ex- pressed in the tale written by Mr. Nugent forcibly struck him— a ray of hope broke on his mind— and voita the causes of Mr. Gilpin's distress and Mr. Gilpin's visit. Never was there a more interesting personifica- tion of the atflicted man of letters than Gregory Gilpin.. He looked pale, patient and respectable ; he coughed frequently, and was dressed in deep mourning. Nu- gent's heart swelled— he placed a bank-note in Mr. Gilpin's hands — he pioralsed more effectual relief^ and Mr. Gilpin retired, overpowered with his own gratitude and Mr. Nugent's respectful compassion. " How happy I am to be rich !" said the generous young philanihropist, throwing open his chest. Nugent went to a cwwermzione at Lady Lennox's. Her ladyship was a widow, and a charmmg wooian. She was a little of the blue, and a little of the fine lady, and a little of the beauty, and a little of the coquette, and a great deal of the sentimenralift. She had one daughter, without a shilling: the had taken a warm in- terest in a young man of the remarkuble talents and amiability of Charles Nugent. He sate next her— they talked ofthe beartlesEness of (he world — it is a subject on which men of twenty-one and ladies of forty-five are especially eloquent. Lady Lennox complained, Mr. Nugent defended. " One- does not talk of innocence," it is said, or something like it is said, somewhere in Madame d' Epinay's Memoirs, "without being sadly corrupted ;" and nothing brings out the goodness of our hearts more than a charge against the heaitlessness of othere. "An excellent woman," thought Nugent; "what warm feelings ! how pretty her daughter is ! Oh ! a charming family !" . X^lharlotte Lennox played an afiecting air ; Nugent leaned over the piano; they talked about music, poetry, going on the water, sentiment and Richmond Qill. They made up a party of pleasure. Nugent did not sleep well that night^he was certainly in love. When he rose the next morning, the day was bright and fine ; Balfour, the be6t of fnends, was to be with him in an hour; Balfour's horse, the best of horses^ was to convey him to Richmond ; and at Richmoncl, he was to meet Lady Lennox, the most agreeable of mo- thers— and Charlotte, the most enchanting of daughters. The danuvM had always been a bore— she was now 90 HARRIET BRUCE. forgoUen. *' It certainly is a delightfial world !" re- peated Nugent, as he tied hie neckcloth. Some time after the dale of this happy day, Nogent was alone in his apartment, walking to and fro. when Colonel Nelmore, an elderly gentleman, well known in society, with- a line foreheacL a ahrewd, contempta- live eye, and an agreeable address, entered theVobm. To him Nugent poured forth the long list of his griev- ancep, and concluded by begging him to convey a chal- lenge to the best of friends— Captain Balfour. The colonel raised his eye-brows. " But,— my dear sir,— this gentleman baa certainty behaved ill to you, I allow— but for what specific of- fence do you mean to challenge him I" '* For his conduct in general." The colonel laughed. '* For saying yesterday, then, that I was srown a d — d bore, and he should cut me in future, lie told Selwyn so in the bow- window at White's." The colonel took snuff. " Mj good young friend," said he, " I see you don't know the world. Come and dine with me to-day — a punctual seven. We'll talk over these matters. Mean- while, you can't challenge a man for calling you a bore." " Not challenge him !— what should I do thenl" " Laugh—shake your head at him, and say—* Ah ! Balfour, you're a sad fellow !" * The colonel succeeded in preventing the challenge, but Nu^ent's indignation at the best of friends remain- ed as warm as ever. He declined the colonel's invi- tation— he was to dine with the Lennox's. Meanwhile he went to the shady part of Kensinjglon Gardens to in- dulge his reflections. He sat himself down in an axbor, and looking moral- izingly over the initials, the dates and the witucisms, that hands, long since mouldering, ,have consigued to the admiration of posterity. A gay party were strolling by this retreat— the laogh- ter and voices preceded them. ** Yes,'» said a sharp dry voice, which Nugent reccMmized as belonging to one of the wits of the day—" Yes, 1 saw you, Lady Lennox, talking sentiment to Nugent— fie ! now could you wa«te your time so unprofitably !" " Ah ! poor yount man ! he is certainly bien bete, with his fine phrases and so forth : but 'tis a good crea- ture on the whole, and exceedingly useful !" " Useful ! ' ** Yes ; fills up a vacant place at one's table, at a day's warning ; lends me his carriage horses when mine have caught cold ; subsrcibes to my charities for me ; and supplies the drawing-room with flowers. In a word, if we were more sensible, he would be less agreeable : his sole charm is his foibles." ^ Proh, Jm)iier! what a description from the most sen- timental of mothers, of the most talented, the most in- teresting of young men. Nugent was thunderstruck ; the party swept by : he was undiscovered. He raved, he swore, he was furious. He go to the dinner to-day ! No, he would write such a letter to the lady— it should speak daggers ! But the daughter : Charlotte was not oj the party. Charlotte— oh ! Char- lotte was quite a tliflerent creature from her mother— the most natural, the most amiable of human beings, and evidently loved hiin. He could not be mistaken, there. Yes, for her sake he would goto the dinner; he would smother his just resentment. He went (o Lady Lennox's. It was a large party. The young Marquis of Austerly had just returned from his travels. He was silling next to the most lovely of daughters. Nugent was forgotten. After dinner, however, he found an opportunity to say a few words in a whisper to Charlotte. He hinted a tender reproach, and he bmed her to sing " We met; *twa8 in a crowd." Charlotte was hoarse— bad caught cold. Charlotte could not sing. Nugent left the room When he got to the end of the street, he dis- covered that he had left his cane behind He went back for it, (for he was really in love) glad of an excuse for dartins an angry glance at the most simple, the most natural o( human bein«i, that should prevent her sleep- ing the whole night. He aticended the drawing-room ; and Charlotte was delighting the Marquts of Auaterly, who leaned over her chair, with " H*« met ; 'twas %n a crowd/* Charlotte Lennox was young, lovely and artful. Lord Austerly was young, inexperienced and vain. In leas t!ian a month, he proposed, and was accepted. " Well, well !" said poor Nugent, one morning, breaking irom a reverie; ** betrayed in my friendshi[»-, deceived in my love, the plea&ure of doing good is still left to me. Friendship quits us at the first t-iage of life. Love at the second. Benevolence-lafets till death ! Poor Gilpin ' how grateful he is ! I must see if I can get him that place abroad." To amuse his thoughtf!, he took up a new magazine. He o^tened the pa^e at a violent atuck on himself— on his beautiful tale m the "Keepsake." The satire was not confined to the work; it extended to the author. He was a fop, a coxcomb, a ninny, an intellectual dwarf, a miserablo creature, an abortion. These are pleasant Rtudies for a man out of spirits, especially before he is used to them. Nugent had just flung the magazine to the other and of the room, when his lawyer came to arrange matters about a mortgage, which the generous ^ugent had al* ready been forced to raise on his estates. The lawyer was a pleasant, enteruining than o( the world, accus- tomed to the society, for he was accustomed to the wants of vouog men. He perceived Nugent was a lit- tle out of humor. He attributed the cause, naturally enough, to the mortgage ; and to divert his thoughts he entered first on a general conversation. "What rogues there are in the world!" said he. N ugent groaned. " This morning, for instance, before I came to you, I was engaged in a curious piece of business enough. A gentleman gave his son-in-law a qualification to stand for a borough ; the son-in-law kept the deed, and so cheated the good gentleman out of more than £300 a year. Yesterday I was employed against a fraudulent bankrupt- such an instance of long, piemeditated, cold-heartea, deliberate rascality ! And when I leave you, 1 must see what is to be done with a literary swindler, who, oh the strength of a coosumiv tive eottgh, and a suit of black, has been respectably living on compassion for the last two yean." " Ha !" '* He has just comqiitted the most nefarious fraud — a forgery, in short, on his own uncle, who has twice seriously distressed himself to save the rogue of a nefihew. and who must now submit to this loss, or pro- claim,' oy a criminal prosecution, the disgrace of bis own family. The nephew proceeded, ot course, on his knowledge of my client's goodness of heart ; and thus a man suffers in proportion to hid amiabilitv. " Is his name Gil— Gil— Gilpin 1" stammered Nugent. " The same ! 0-ho! have you been bit, too, Mr. Nu- gent r* Before our hero could answer, a letter was brought to hiol. Nugent tore the seal : it was from the editor of the Qia^zine in which he had just read bis own con- demnation. It ran thus : " Sir — Having been absent from London on una- voidable business for the last month, and the care of the Magazine having thereby devolved on ano- ther, who has very ill discharged his duties, I had the sur|)rise and mortificatiod of |)erceiving, on my return this day, that a most unwarrantable and personal at- tack upon you has been admitted in the number for this month I ^ cannot Fufficiently express my regret, the more especially on finding that the article in ques- tion was written by a mere mercenary in letters. To convince you of my concern, and my resolution to guard against such unworthy proceedings in future, I en- close you another, and yet severer attack, which was sent to us for our next number, and for which I grieve to say, the unprincipled author has already succeeded in obtaining from the proprietor»— a remuneration," &c &c. 9cc. Nugent^ eyes fell on the enclosed paper, it was in the hand-writing of Mr. Gregory Gilpin, the moat grateful of distressed literary men. HARRIET BRUCE. BT MRS. CBnj>. " To be beloved it all 1 need. And whom I love I love indeed.— CoJerMFffc . Mt friend Harriet Bruce was a healthy, talL bold- looking girl ; somewhat too large and vigorous for gen- uine beauty, yet gifted with a speaking expression, and a rich perpetual coloring, that would have made any other face stylish and attractive. She was no favorite with the gentlemen; but there was an indescribabU HARRIET BRUCE. 81 somethiDg aboul her appearance and manners which always compelled them to inquire who she was. No person ever talked with her without remembering what •he said : and every one criticised what they could not forget. Yet it was not intellect that made her unpopu- lar-^had she chosen to afTecl reckless misanthropy, maudlin sensibility, or any other foppery whereby to distinguish herself, she would have found plenty of ad- mirers and imitators; but. in her mind, genius was checked by manly philosophy ; and she could ill con- ceal her contempt of those who knew talent only by its most common diseases. The consciousness ofmental power, that lighted up her eye with such a burning spark of pride, and the expression of scorn for ever dancing on her lip corners, ready to embody itself in sarcasm, was unquestionably the true reason why this f^lendid creature became the pariah of the ball-room. She was a i>trange sort of Die Vernon— no, she was not a Die Vernon either— and, as I now remember her, 1 cannot think of a single character, living or imaginary, whom she did resemble. She fascinated her enemies, but never pleased her friends. Power ! power ! and, above all. intellectual power ! waa the constant dream of her wild ambition. To have been sure of Madame de StaePs reputation, she would have renounced hu- mm sympathy, and lived unloving and unbeloved in this wide world -of social happiness — there was such magnificence in the idea of sending one's genius abroad like a ar>ark of electricity, to be active and eternal— de- fying education in its form, duration and power ! Some- times I talked of love, and reminded her how Madame de Stael herself had become its reluctant victim. On thissubject she often philosophised, and always laughed. '* Who," said she, scornfully, '* who that has felt the f U3h and the thrill attendant upon fame, would be fool- ish enough to exchange dommion over many for the despotism of one 1 Thus Harriet Bruce reasoned, and thud she actually thoui^ht ; but 1 knew her better than she knew herself. Her affections were as rich and overflowing as her mental energies; and her craving for human sympathy was in direct proportion to that in- tense love of beauty, which, in her, amounted to an in- tellectual pas^on. That she would love exclusively and exlravagdntly, 1 had no dpubt ; and my penetration soon singled out an object. At a large party, I first saw her with George Macdonoughrthe son of a rich southerner, first in his class, and in the full flush of manly beauty. I knew by the carriage of his neck thatiie whs a Vir- ginian ; and the hauteur with which he received adula- > tion, attracted my attention, as the pawing of a high- mettled horse would have done. His conversation with Harriet seemed at first to be of ^ sober and learned ca£t, but on her part it soon became petulant. Now and then I heard some remark which seemed to relate to a trans- migration of souls, and a continual rise in intellectual existence. " Oh," exclaimed Harriet, " how that idea savors of New England house-keeping! — how can a Virginian patronise a theory so economical V At that moment, a very lovely girl entered the room ; and the yooi g man did not answer Miss Bruce's question. ** Ah, there is the beautiful Bnltimorean,'* said he, '* she whom 1 told you reminded me of that fine engraving of your*, "La belle Suiese.'" "She ii beautiful," said Harriet, with unaffected warmth. " Her full dark eyes are magnificent- what a pity it is they are not lighted from wiihin ; that exi^ession alone is wanting to fill the measure of her gbry !" The remark was made to an inattentive listener, for Macdonough*s whole interest 'was absorbed by the new comer. A slight shade parsed over Harriet's face — but it was loo transient to^ define the emotion in which it originated ; and she smiled, as she said, '* You had best go and talk with your powerful beamy — the body should be where the spirit is." " That reproach is too severe," replied the Virginian. "I meant no reproach," she answered ; " I have observed that beauty is your idol, and I wish you to worship it." "I did not think Misa Bruce had observed my character safficiently to form any conclusion with regard to my taste." The pride of the proudest girl in Christendom was roused— and there was something indescribably provoking in her manner, ^s she^ answered, " I assure you I think vou quite a specimen in your way. ' Socie- ty is sach a bag of polished marbles,' that any thing odd is as valnable a study as the specimeni of quartz Mr. Symmes may bring us. Your modesty has led you into a mistake : I have really taken the trouble to observe yon.*' "Truly, Miss Bruce^ you are the most singular girl I ever met," said the offended southerner; "you never did, said or thought anything like another person." • " When a compliment is doubtful, Chesterfreld says one should always take it; therefore, I am obliged lo . you, Mr. Macdonoogh,*' replied Harriet. And so say* iDg, she turned abruptly from him, and directed her at- tention to me. During the remainder of the evening, I saw no indi- cations of a reconciliation. Harriet danced but once — Macdonough and la belle Sui)»e were near her in the set ; and they met frequently. The extrtme noncha- lance with which she now and then exchanged &ome casual remark, led me to suspect that he had obtained more power over her extraordinary mind than any other individual had ever possessed ; but Harriet was no tii- fler, and I do not venture to prophesy. Time passed on, and with it nearly passed the remem- brance of this skirmish of words, and the thoughts thereby suggested. My unmanageable friend seldom alludea to the fascinating acquaintance frhe had formed • and when she did, it was done naturally and briefly. Soon after this^ I was obliged to b^- absent for several ^ months. I did not return until two days before com- mencement at college ; and Harriet's nrst exclamation wap, " You must go to Mr. Macdonough's room— he is to have the first mir(, and his friends expect every thing from him!" "But I thought you considered com- mencement days very stupid things." said 1. "So I do : you know I always said life itself was a very stupia thing. There is no originality above ground ; every- thing that is, true is dull, and every thing new is fal^e and superficial.. But there is no use in quarreling with the world— it is a pretty good world, after all. You must go to hear Mr. Macdonough*s opinion of it ; T am sure he will express it eloquenHy." " Then you are on good terms now 7" said 1. She blushed painfully- ex- cessively—but soon recovered self-command enough to say, " 1 always thought highly of him." 1 do not know whether my looks expreseed the warning voice my heart was yearning to utter : but I am sure the tone of my assent was reluctant ancT melancholy. George Macdonough apoeared moet brilliantly on that memorable day. Graceful and dignified, handsome and talented, he sent a thrill to allliearts alive to the- grandeur of thought or the beauty of language. During, this scene of triumph, I watched the countenance of Harriet Bruce wiih the keenest interest ; and never be- fore did I see a human face through which the eoul beamed with such intensity. Genius, and pride, and joy, and love, were there ! I then though.t she was in- tellectually beautiful, beyond any thing 1 had ever seen. Poor Harriet ! It was the brightest spot in her life, and 1 love to remember ifc. Macdonough's room was crowded, and the compli- ments he received were intoxicating; but in the midst of it all, I imagined I could see the sparkle of his eyes melt intosoftness, when he met a glance from Harnet. Her looke betrayed nothing to my anxious observation : but once I took notice she called him " Gtorge^** ana suddenly corrected herself with an air of extraordinary confusion Had my friend indulged in habits of girlish trifling, I should no doubt have playfully alluded to this circumstance ; but there was something in her charac- ter and manners which forbade such officiousness. I watched her with the anxiety of sincere friendship. I knew when she once selected an object of pursuit, her whole soul was concentrated ; and I could not believe that the proud Virginian, with all his high hoiies, and his love of dazzling beauty, would ever marry her. 1 knew he was a very conetant vieiter, and I frequently observed lights later than had been usual at Mr. Bruce's quiet habitation; and when he called to bid me fare- well, a few weeks after commencement, the deep gloom on his countenance led me to -think that the pride and apparent indiflerence of my intellectual friend might have surprised him into love. Weeks and months passed on, and I seldom beard an allusion to the absent Macdonough. Harriet's charac- ter and manner seemed changing for the better. The perpetual effervescence of^her spirit in some measure subsided, and the vagaries of her fancy, became less various and startling; yet there was ever a chastened cheerfulness of manner, and an unfailing flow of thought. By degrees her seriousness dtepened, and at last frhe could not conceal from me that she wta* unhap- I attribued it to the illness of her aged father, for riet was motherless, and she cherished her only p*- Harri 82 HARRIET BRT'CE. rent with a doable share of love. Bat when the old loan was rvideotly lecoTerinf , and her meUocholy aill increaaed, I knew there mnA be another, aod a deeper cause. Ooe day, as I rtnod by her, watch iag her pro- Sew in a crayon drawing, arouod which the had rowD much of her earJy tit>irii aod freedom, I pUced my hand afifecttonately on her Kioulder, aod, toucniog her forehead with my Ups, laid, ** You have always told me your tlioiights, Harriet — why not teli me what troubles vou nowV* She continunl her ta&k with a quick and nervous movement, and I saw that her eyea were filled with tears I i^^ently whispered, " Is George Macdoooogh the cau^e V* if he i^ave one shriek, which sounded as if it made a rent in her very soul, and then the tonent of her tears poured forth. It was long before I ventured to say to her, " Then it is as I feared \ You do love George Macdonough ?" She looked in my face with a strange and fixed expres- sion, as she rephed, ** 1 outrht to love, and honor, and obev him ; for he is my bueDand !" I started ! " Vour busoand ! how — when — where were you marned T" " At Providence. Do you remember when I asked you to go with me to Mr. Macdoaough*s room, and vou said, ' So, then, you are on good terms now T — I had been three weeks a wife !" " And your faiher— does he know of it T' '* CerUinly," she said ; *' you know I would not de- ceive \wn*^ ** Then why wa« so much secrecy neces- sary 1** "I now think it was not really neceasary ; at all events, that which need^ to be concealed is wrong. But George's parents wished him to marry wealth, and he feareqto displease them. He has a moderate for- tune of hiB own, of which he will soon come in posses- sion : when he told my father this circumstance, and that ne feared he should be urged to many against his inclination, my father, in the biiodnesB of his dotage, consented to our immediate union." " Then why are you BO unhappy T* I inquired ; ''you have no doubt that your husband will come and claim youT' *' Oh, no ! The certificate is in my father's hands; and if it were not, a sense of honor would lead him here. But, oh ! to have him come coldly and reluctantly ! my heart will break ! my heart will break !" said she, pressing her band hard aaainst her forehead, and weepmg bitterly. . " How could I forget that they who listen to passion, rather than to reason, must always have a precarious in- fluence on each other V* 1 tried to console her— she said nothing, but took a package of letters from her desk, and handed them to me. Their contents proved the mournful prediction of her fears too true. At first George Macdonough wrote with impatient ardor; then bis letters were filled with amusing accounts of the par- ties given to La belle Suisse, whose father had come to reside in their neighborhood ; then he filled his iiages with excellent reasons for not visiting her as soon as he intended : and, finally, when Harriet bowed down her pride, ana intreated-him. if he valued her reputation to come soon, he sent a cold laconic answer, merely sta- ting the time at which he might be expected. Poor Hdiriet ! It was too evident she had thiown away all that made existence joyful. However, 1 tried to soothe her by the idea that gentlene&s, patience, and untiring love, might regain the affection on which her happiness mutt now depend. She loved to listen to such words— they were a balm to her heart. Mr. Macdonough came at the time he had appointed, and [>iiblicly announced his marriage. I did not see their meeting ; but durina the few months he remained at her father's, I observea his manner was uniformly kind, though frequently absent and constrained. An infant daughter formed a new bond of union, and seemed to be the herald of happier days. The young man watch- ed over the little object with the most intense delight, and Harriet's half subdued character seemed entirely softened, in the doating fondness of a mother, and the meek resignation of a wife, loved, " but not enough be- loved ;" none would have recognized the proud, ambi- tious and sarcastic Harriet Bruce. I must not dwell minutely on particulars, which I ob- served closely at the time, and which afterward sunk deeply into my memory. Young Macdonough departed once more to take possession of^his estate, and prepare it for the reception of his w^ife and child. His farewell was afrectionate, and his frequent letters seemed to re- store my imprudent friend to something of her former buoyancy of soul. The idea of separation from her fa- ther wai now her principal source of imhappiness ; but that trial was spared her ; the imbecility of the afiec- tionate old m^n daily iac^e^sed, and, a few days before his dauzhter\< de;id:tnre, death relieved him from the ex. ccled lonelinesfc. The young hu^DHnd came, as he had promised; i»at his maoQer was colder, and his looks more stem than formerly, though none could say he &iled in the fill- • tilinent of hia duty. Harriet never 8}x>ke of any I change • her manner toward him was obedient and atfecti^ate. but never fond. Her romantic risioas of ' human perfection, her prond confidence in her own i strength, were gone, aiul no doubt, she wept bitteriy I over their mutual rashneas. Knowing, as she did, that fehe was a burden, taken up merely from a sense of honor, it is not wonderful her very smile had a look of ! humUity and resignation. Their r^rets were, however, ; kept carefully concealed ; whatever night nave been I their feeling^ both seemed resolved on a system of sa- i lent endurance. There was something in this coone a thousand times more affecting than the most pathetic complainu. I shall never forget the angnuii I felt when I saw Harriet bid farewell to the home of her child- hood—that home where she had ever been an idol and an oracle. The lingering preparstion of depaitnre — the heart-broken expression— the reluctant step— the droop- ing head— and the desperate resolution with which she at last seized the arm of a husband who loved her not, and who was about to convey her among stxaQgers— thev are ail present to me now ! Harriet's fetters soon spoke of declining health ; and before three years had elansed, she implored me to come to her. if I ever wished to look upon her again in this world of shadows. I immediately obeyed the summons. Things were worse than 1 then had expected. She was evidently very weak ; and though she had every thing which we>alth could supply, or politeness dictate, the balm of kindness never refreshed her weary and sinking spirit Mr. Macdonough never spoke harshly — indeed he sel- dom spoke at all; but the attentions tie paid were so obviously from a sense of duty, that they fell like ice- drops on the heart of his suffering wife. I heard no re- proaches on either tide ; but a day seldom passedwith- out some occurrence more or less painfnl to my friend. Once, when little Louisa jumped into her father'to arms, as he entered, snd eagerly exclaimed, " Do yoa love me. papa ?" he kissed her with much fondnessi, and replied, " Yes, I do, my child.'; " And mamma, too ?" inquired the little creature, with a sort of hall entreating tone, so graceful in childhood^ he^ out her away from him, answered coldly, ** Certainly, my daughter." 1 saw a slight convulsion iii Harriet's face, and Iff the motion of her hands; but it soon peswd. At another time, when we were searchmg in his pri- vate library for the latest number of the Edinburgh, we discovered on a small open desk the curving of La belle Suisse, and near it a newspaper giving an ac- count of the marriage of that young Baltimorean whom George had thought so strongly resembled the picture. The surprise was so 8udden, that Harriet lost the balance of feelings she bad hitherto so well preserv- ed. She rushed out of the room— and it was several hours before I was admitted to her bedride. Fortunately for my sensitive friend, this mental strug- gle was too fierce to be of long- continuance. The closing scene of her life drew near; and to her it seem- ed welcome as sleep to the weary. Sometimes the movements of reluctant nature were visible in the in- tense look of love she cast upon her child, and the con- vulsive energy with which she would clas{;.the little one to her bosom ; but otherwise was all stillness and One day, when she had been nnosually ill, and we all supposed she was about to die, she pressed my hand feebly, and whispered, "Will you ask George to see me once more 1" I immediately repaired lo the library, and told Mr. Macdonough the dying request of his wife. /It first he made a motion toward the door, then, sud- denly checking himself, he said in a determined tone, " I had better not. It will be painful to both. I will wait the event here." I returned to Harriet, but I had not courage to say her request was refused. She listen- ed esgerly to every sound for a while ; then looking in my face mournfully, she said. " He will not come ! My tears answered her. She looked up for a moment, with an expression of extreme agony ; but never spoke THE ROVER. Wi^ bo^U«» how to clolhe idoas, tanght; And how to drsw ^e picture of a thought. THE MILLER OF CORBEIL. ^CosBEiL, With its fertile and Tine-crowned banks, rising above the Seine, ttncontaminated by the pollu- tions poured forth thereafter into its glasy waters by a filthy capital — Corbeil, which, as Boulogne is termed the Fat, might assuredly be called the Mealy— Corbeil. whose villas line the shore with their well- trimmed avenues of limes, and here and there a shrub dipping down into the stream to shelter the baths, constructed by the diverse proprietors, in the bed of the river. The prosperous little town is neither so ornate in its environs as Richmond, nor so stately in its domiciles as Hampton Court I but the wooded heights of St. Germain rise majestically above its suburbs— and if a palace be lack- iog, it boasts an edifice still more unique, and almost as imposing— the celebrated Mill of Corbeil. It happened, that at the period immediately preceding the frightful epoch of the French revolution, the Trem- blaye had brif^hter things to boast of than its golden caip — purer thiqgs than even its crystal fountains. The little farm, concealed within its cozy nook, was tenant- ed bv a worthy wight named Mathurin, whose two daughters enjoyed the envied appellation of the Roses of Corbeil. It is impossible to conceive two lovelier creatures, or two more resembling each other in per- son— more thoroughly dissimilar in character and dispo- sition. There was but a year's difference between them in age : there was a century's in sentiment ! Manette, the elder sister, was a light, lively, gay-hearted crea- ture, 7-iante as the landscapes of Corbeil. Justine, the younger, with the same blue eyes, the same silken hair, the same trim ancle and well-formed figure, was saaana sober ; and the neighbors, who noted among^ themselves her gravity of aspect, were apt to attribute it to the in- fluence of the broken constitution of the mother, who died of a pulmonary dirorder in givinjg her birth. Both sisters, however, by the discretion oi^their deportment, strengthened the high distinctions attained by their beauty; and Maihurin, although watchful over the two nymphs of the Tremblaye as a miser over his gold, was not afraid to let his daughters take their stand on mar- ket-days upon the Place df Notre Dame of Corbeil, with ineir fair fsces shaded by the wide stsaw hats in use among the i)easants of the departments of the Seine et Oise. to preside over the sale of the vegetable pro- duce of his farm, and more especially over the stand of garden-flowers and exotics, the pnde of the gay par- terres surrounding the limpid bath of the Reine Blanche. Manette was a great adept in the art of persuasion te a costomer. Recommended by her animated accent and laughing eyes, his stalest melons and greenest grapes were readily purchased by the Parisian cockneys, who came down to Corbeil to swallow a mouthful or two of country air, and of whatever else Providence might send them : while Justine, an expert florist, had so much to say, ana said it so gently and well, touching the cul- ture of her clove-pinks and geraniums, that there ap- peared every probability of Mathurin*s being enabled to add a second cow to his pastures, and another brood or two of ducks to the clear ponds of the Pleasaunce, in the course of the summer. Every thing prospered with them. While the father busied himself with the cares of bis farm, the daughters contrived to render it avail- able. The barley-mow and the hay- rick diminished— the beds of ranunculuses and tulips were bereft of their brilliant show; but Mathurin's long leathern purse Sew heavier, his linen-press was stocked; and^ at , i^th, he took his pipe at even as well as morning- tide, without much self-reproach on the score of econo- my. He even made the girls partakers of his gains, and Jostine had the happiness to secure from her earnings a weekly mass for the spintual repose of her mother, at the altar of the Sacre CtBur in the church of St. Spire ! Manette, however, had other objects to which to de- VoL. 1.— No. m. vote her superfluous wealth. Manette was young and pretty enough to be curious in the lace of her pinners, and the lawn of her kerchief. Jt was observed one day, as she took her usual stand on the market-plaoei that she exhibited a pair of long gold ear-rings under her straw hat. and that a cross of gold was suspended to the black velvet which habitually encircled her slender throat ; and one or two of the most censorious of th« ladies of the Faubourg, who were accustomed to ex- change a few civil woids with the Roses of the Qorbeil, while they had laid in their stock of mjgnonetts, soon turned disdainfully away when they noticed this acces- sion of finery. Mademoiselle Benoite, indeed, the squint-eyed daughter of a retired notary of St. Germain, was heard to whisper that it was no wonder Manette of La Tremblaye grew so fine, now that she was rowed over the river so often by young Monsieur Clerivault of the Douze Moutins; ana now that young Monsieur Clerivault. of the Douze Moulins. found the fountains of La Tremblaye so refreshing during the midsummer heats. The prudes and scandal mongers were deter^ mined to espy mischief in the innocent coquetry of poor Manette t One sultry summer afternoon, however, the younft girl herself happened to overhear these insinuations of her customers, when she not only pettishly removed from her person the ornaments which had caused them to arise, but instantly took her way homeward, sobbing with indignation, and leaving to her sister the disposal of her merchandize, and the task of remonstrating with her detractors, in extenuation of Manette's proceed- m^B Nou well know, Mademoiselle Benoite," said Jus- J way against my sister's inclinations. You, who are a kins- woman of his family, cannot but be aware that Manette has more than once complained to the old gentleman of the importunities of his son." ** Is It in the way of business for the mill,", retorted the provoked spinster. ** that my cousin Clerivault es- corts Mademoiselle Manette to all the duca$9e$ of the neighborhood 1 Charlet, the ferry-man, related to me only yesterday, that he bad himself encountered the young people one evening after dusk." But her accusations were cut short ; the looks of Justine warned the evil speaker that some person of im- portance stood beside her; and, as Mademoiselle Be* noite turned hastily round, the large dark eyes of Felix Clerivault scowled her into silence. Manette, having met him lounging as usual upon her path homeward to the farm, had apjpealed to his justice against the inso- lence of his cousin. Nor did she hesitate to assail him with her usual epithets of female disdain ; and the re- venge of Felix was to wreak upon the ancient virago threefold the measure of ill-usage he had received from the object of his aflTections. It was not every one, however, who would have ad- ventured so boldly as Manette to vent reproaches on FeUx Clerivault. Felix was a man whom^ if few peo- ple loved, most people feared ; although in eyery way extrinsically endowed to wm afifection, and only quah- fied to excite apprehension by a sort of taciturn reserve, inspiring involuntary mistrust of his tem|)er and disposi- tion, he was chargeable with no act of violence, no act of injustice ; he was charitable, f^enerous, humane ; yet his associates, one and all, refrained- from making him their friend ; and from the singular inotive that they felt convinced he was capable ofbecohiing a bitter ene- my. And thus it was that few people loved Felix ! He was the son of old Clerivault, the rich miller of Cor- beil : but he was nothing more. ClerivaolVs whole life had been spent in the task of money-getting and money- qmring, and the pastime of deceiving the world as to u THE MILLER OF CORBEIL. the extent of hia gains and bis aavingB. No one, not even his son, had the most remote idea of the amount of Clerivauit*8 property ; but when it was rumored in Corbeil that he had made overturrs for an-alliance be- tween Felix and Mademoiselle de Monticny, co-heiress of the chateau de St. Port, the gossips of the town de- cided that he most be a bolder or a richer man than thev had previously imagined; the arbtocratic "De" prefixed to the name of the young lady, being equiva- lent to the value of at least thirty taousand crowns, ma marriage contract with the son of the Miller of Corbeil. Neither the distinction it imparted, however, nor any other attraction, sufficed to overcome the opposition of Felix to the match. While Mademoiselle Benoite and her crew were busy in computing what amount of wealth could justify the Clerivaults in pretending to so grand a connexion, the young man explicitly declared to his father his determination to wed ebsewhere. This might have been held sufficient provocation; but when Felix caihe to particularize that the partner he had chosen wasi no other than pretty Manette, the twin Rose of Corbeil, the gardener's daughter of La Tremblaye, the wrath testified by old Clerivauli against his son was easily accounted for. The casUoff preju- dices of the great usually descend to the little ; and at a time when even the peerage of France was beginning to republicanize — when Versailles itself had declared in favor of the. natural equality of the human species— it was time for the miller to disdain the inter-alliance of his family with that of a market gardener ; nor could an emperor of Germany, insulted by the determination of his son. the king ot the Romans, to espouse the daughter of soma petty baron of the empire, have shown himself more fiercely indignant than old Clerivault. *U had already heard from our cousin Benoite," cried h«>, '* that it was inferred in the town no good would come of your everlasting visits to the sty of a farm yonder, over the water: but, look you. Master Felix, if ever again you set foot upon the turf ot the T(emblaye, I will assuredly put the width of my threshold, between you and me for evermore—ay ! 4 ir, and marry again— (Mademoiselle de Montigny, perhaps —why not the father as well as the son?)— and beget sons and daughters, who shall not thwart me in my eld age, although they share my inheritance with my elder and more stubborn child." " You cannot do better, sir," replied Felix^ without moving a muscle of bis handsome but impaJRSive coun- tenance. ** Although you deny my choice, I am far from inclined to find fault with yours. Marry Made- molBelle de Montigny— disinherit me if you will. I have still two strong arms, and as strong a heart, to enable me to get my o^n living, and- pursue my own inclinap tions." And Clerivault, well aware of the obstinacy of bis son's resolves, gave over the case for lost, and > even made a solemn progress to the chatef u de tit, Port, to offer his apologies to the family of Montigny, and ten-^ der the retraction of his proposals. Yet in spite of this resignation and these formal mea- sures, all hope of the alliance was not at an end. Old Clerivault had an abettor in his projects on whom he little calculated. He could not be more firmly deter- mined that Felix should never become the hu&band of the gardener's daughter, than Manette, that she should never become the wife of the miller's son ! No ! it was not for Aim that she had added the offending trinkets to her costume or folded the snowy lawn upon her bo- som—it was not for him that she loitered by the way on the road from La Tremblaye to the market-place- it was not for him that she ensconced her well-turned foot in slippers of Spanish morocco, to dance upon the greenswara at the annual fete of St. Etienne at Essonne. There were other attractions at the Mill of Corbeil than the homage of Felix Clerivault ; and Mathurin'i daughter, so inaccessible to the addresses of oiie who wooed her with the stem gravity of a Spanish hidalgo, or rather with the jealous but impassioned tenderness of an Orosmanes, had g^iven her heart, with very little asking, to young Valentui, the son of Charlet, the fer- ryman of Corbeil. As has been already observed, the prejudices of the eat are eagerly adopted by the little ; and the rich _ /iller could not express himself more vehemently against his son's Attachment to the daughter of the market-gardener, than did the market-gardener, in bis turn, on bearing his daughter's engagement to the son £1 of a poor ferryman of the Seine. Clerivault wished to marry Felix to the high-bom Clai[iBse de Montigny ; Mathurin, to marry Manette to the wealthy Felix. Clerivault threatened to disinherit his son— Mathurin threatened to horsewhip his daughter ; and when, on the evening succeeding the general eclair ciuementf Fe- lix rowed over to La Tremblaye, and. having fastened his boat to the usual stump, made his way toward a stone bench among the acacias, where often at the same hour he had found the two daughters of Mathurin sitting together— now talking, now listening- sometimes to e&ch other, sometimes to the gurgling of the spriqgB among the grass, or the whistlmg 01 the blackbirds in the groves of St. -Germain-r-he was bitterly taxed by Manette with the indignities he had been the means of drawing upon her endurance. "It is a cruel thing of you, Monmeur Felix," said she^ *' to persist in persecuting me thus, after I have again and again told you that were you Count of Cor- beil, or the king of Fiance himself, I would never be your wife ! And now you have provoked my father to misuse me, (the first time he ever breathed a harsh word against either of his children !) I |do but detest you the more !" " Hate me, and welcome !" said Felix, in an unal- tered voice. ** I have heard you say as much before, and been nothing moved. But never, till to-day— never till from your father's lips this morning, did I learn that Jrou preferred another— that you stooped to bestow the ove denied to me, upon yonder beggar, the son of a beggar— the hireling drudge of my father's mill ! What in beaven— what on earth— do you see to move your affection, in such a fellow as Valentin 1 Answer me, Manette— what do you see to like in Valentin 1" ** That if he were rich, Uke yourself. Monsieur Felix Cerivault, he would not always be thinking of riches, and giving the tiame of beggar, as a word of reproach, to others less fortunate than himself; for Valentin has the heart of a. prince i" " Truly a ragged prince, and with a precious cabin for his palace !" retorted the miller's son, at once justi- fying her accusation ; *' as yoU will find when you lake your place yonder in Charlet's hovel, among the tea half-fed, half-clothed brats who call him father !" " And who^ even for that scanty food and scanty clothing, are indebted to the labor of Valentin !" added Manette, with firmness; " of Valentin, who, when his work at the mill is over^ comes back to his father's hut with a smile upon his face and a song upon his lips ; and, instead of grumbling and murmuring that his limbs are aching with toil, sits down cheerfully to his OEier weaving or mat-work ; or^ during the summer season^ rows oif as stoutly as though his arms had not done a tum of work through the day, to cut reeds for the thatchers or the tile-makers. And for what does he labor 1 To lay up hoards for himself, or to purchase the means of .selfish pleasure 1 No, Monsieur Felix, no !— to get bread for nis paralytic mother— raiment for his brothers and sisters — rent to requite yoilrown purse- proud father for the use of the miserable hut you hold BO cheap. Proud as you are of your fortune, your very means have been swelled by his industry." "Manette," whispered the gentle Justine, laying her hand imploringly upon her sister's shoulder, " you know not how great an injury you may be doing Valentin !" "I understand you!" replied Manette, aluud, "al- though you are afraid to speak out. You mean that Monsieur Felix will be a powerful and malicious enemy to him. Courage, courage, sister! Valentin, by the sweat of his brow and the labor of his hands, earns wages from the miller of Corbeil ; but he is not, there- fore, the slave of either old Clerivault or his son. There is nothing to fear for Valentin ; nor any reason why I should not acquaint the gentleman who is base enough to taunt him with beggary^ that I would rather make one in the hovel by the river side— among its merry inmates and the warm hearts that would welcome me so kindly— than play the lady in the cold, narrow-minded family of Clerivault, where the only cheerful sound is the clack of their own mill!" By this time the soul of Felix was overflowing with ra^e. He mads no allowance for the irritability of a quick-tempered girl, opposed for the first time in her in- clinatiens; but attributed every word uttered by Ma- nette to malice prepense; to preconceived bitterness, such as that engendered by the viper-nature of his kinswoman Mademoiselle Benoite ; and had no doubt THE MILLER OF CORBElt. 35 that sach injurious expreasioAs as she had lavished upon him and hb were in habilual use between herself and Valentin, her father's hireling. On her, indeed, he could avenge nothing; but Aim/— Felix ground his teeth for rage as be thought of Valentin ! But he ut- tered not a syllable. Hls wrath was silent as it was deadly ; and the stillness was only interrupied by the Bobs of Manette, whose petulance as usual exhausted itself in tears. '* Father I" cried she, suddenly starting up from Jus- tine's pacifying embraces, as the footsteps of Maihurin were heara api>roaching the bench on which they sal— '*< I beseech you, command Monsieur Felix Clerivault to quit this place. You explained to me this morning the wickedness of children presuming to disobey their parents ; jou will not surely eqcourage a son to rebel against his father ! Old Clerivault has laid* his injunc- tions on Felix to visit La Tremblaye no more. You have pride, too, father !— surely, you will not stoop to have it said that yon laid snares to seduce a raw, in- experienced boy into marriage with your daughter 1" '* And tcho will dare tasay so V* ejaculated the young man, trembling with suppressed rage at the epithets bestowed upon him. " Your own kinswoman, Mademoiselle B^oite, has said so a thousand times." ** Ma'mselle Benoite is an accursed fool," cried old Mathurin ; and young Clerivault saw no cause to dis- pute the assertion. •' But you cannot surely, my dear father, wish Mon- sieur Felix lo get into trouble by hia visits to La Trem- blaye 1" said Justine, mildly— a question to which the gardener-farmer found it so difficult to reply, that he leant dowtf on pretext of caressing the shaggy-looking cur which was accustomed to lag at his heels, rather than venture on a direct answer. ** And how is my father to hear of them 1*'. demanded Clerivault, haughtily bending his brow. *' Thus !" replied Justine, pointing through the dusk, DOW gathering round them, to the approaching figure of a man bending under the weight of a sack of meal ; who, on putting down his burden, and raising his head as he proceeded to wipe hb streaming browB, presented lo their view the homely features but prepossessing coun- tenance of Valentin; while Charlet's son, startled to find his young master thus apparently domesticated with Mathurin and his daughters, yet in nowise daunted by his presence, cheerfully saluted the party. "What are you doing here, sir^* demanded F«hx, in an angry voice. " Obeying the orders of the.overseer, Monsieur Febx," replied the young man j " who bade me brin^^over " ^* la this a time for doing your mill-work V* interrupted Felix. ** I shall represent to-morrow to my father that yon defer the execution of his business till after-houiSy in order to suit your own whims and convenience." " Yoa will represent what you please, sir," answered Valentin. " But one honest man's word is as good as another'a; and Monsieur Bernardin the overseer has known me too well, from a boy upward, asatruthteller and fair dealer, not to credit my assurance that every minute of my morning's lime was spent in my duty to my employer. If I. have pushed the boat over to La Tremblaye to deliver Monsieur Mathurin his meal this evening, instead of to-morrow morning, as I was direc- ted, it is only because I desired to offer him the boittoir ana my respects to the young ladies." " Y'ouT respects and your salutions are not wanted here, my Ud," growled Mathurin. " If youhadbroi«ht me toe couple of crowns I have had to score up against your father for milk and meal fumiehed to your family, yon would have done something more to the purpose.'* And Mathurin, excited by the desire of saying a vexa- tious thing to the pauper who had presumed to lift his eyes to his i>retty-Manette, renounced the generous in- tention of his better nature to make a free gift to the needy family of the overflowings of bis cruse of plenty. •• Do not fancy I come empty-handed,'' said Valentin, mildly, bat drawing up with conscious prid^ as. he ten- dered the payment of the two crowns to the more pros- perous farmer : and Manette's heart beat, till it was ready to burst her bosom, for joy that her lover was able to redeem himself from humiliation in his rival's pre- sence. '* If I have delayed thus long. Monsieur Ma- thurin, it is that grievous' sickness has arisen, in iny fa- mily from the damps of the season— Monaienr Cleri- vault's workmen having neglected to repair the roof of ouf hut, according to his covenant. But remember that^ although the cost of drugs and doctors may have kept us in your debt, it has not caused mci to break my word. I promised you payment at midsummer, and Saturday next is the eve of St. John." "Good, Valentin; good,'* replied Mathurin, jerking the money into his pocket, and ashamed of the mean- ness into which he had been betrayed. '* You are an honest lad ; and I have naught to say against you, in your way. But your way is not mine, and I do not in- tend to make it so. Henceforward, i shall beg Mon- sieur Bernardiii to choose some other of his mill-lads to to do what business may chance to stiud between us; and charge my old friend Charlet to lay his ii\junc(ion8 on yourself not to be gadding about upon idle errands of evenings, or at least not upon premises of mine.*' **• You nave said enough, Master Mathurin, answered Valentin, involuntarily glancing toward the two girls, who stood overcome with grief and embarrasement, leaning on each other, under the acacia trees; "T am well aware to whom I am indebted for this sudden chance of welcome ; and shall take an opportunity to thank the tale-bearer who, for some time past, has been base enough to play the spy upon my actions." ^ " You lie '. vociferated Felix, upon whom the accu- sing looks of Valentin were now directed. " You lie like a dog! " *' Coward that you are, in daring to use such words to me /" cried the young man, suddenly smiting a vio> lent blow upon his own breast ; *' when you know that I cannot raise my hand against you so long as the bread eaten by my family is provided by your father's wages." •* You have also their beggary to thank for screening your insoltnce from chastisement," said ihe contemptu<« ous Felix. " And as you seem to be in no condition to play the hero, beware in future how you aasume the braggart." "Valentin— dear Valentin!" exclaimed Justine, throwing herself before young Clerivault, to intercept ihe spring which she perceived Valentin on the point of making upon his person, " remember your poor mother —remember your sick sisters." " Let me go !" cried he, struggling in the silent em- brace of Manette, which not even her father's presence sulHced to check when she saw her lover on the eve of rushing into violence— the inevitable ruin to himself and his family. " Let me go->let me not live to have it said of me, thai I dared not defend myself against the insults of a villain !^ Then dashing forward, and again as suddenly checking himself, he buret into tears and covered his face with his hands, while he exclaimed, ♦* He is right I— I dart not strike him— I dare not lay my hand on the son of the Miller of Corbeil ! I was • bom too poor to indulge in the sense of Justice and ho- nor. The walls that shelter us are his falher's wallfr-^ the food we eat spring from him. Father— mother- brothers— sisters, this is the hardest thing I have had to bear for your sake !"' ^ " Never mind him, Valentin ! be of good cheer, dear, dear Valentin !^* sobbed Manette : her sensitive nature excited to the utmost pitch of violence by his distresses. '* Let him be as rich and audacious as he will, I hold him but a dastard and a beggar 1 From me be wjll ob- tain nothing, Valentin ;~^noihing but scorn and detesta- tion. Poor as you are — so poor will I be ! Despise yoa as they may — /honor you ,-=-/ revere you — lune you! My father taay drive me forth,— my friends disown me ; but they have urged me on into defiance by their mis- doings toward you. Valentin, dear Valentin, hear me— hear your wife ; and leave this man to the rebukes of his own conscience." Sad was the scene that ensued upon this open viola- tion of parental authority. But Valentin had not the affliction of seeing the woman he loVed savagely en- treated by her enraged father : for while Mathurin was engaged m driving back his daughter to the farm, and locking her into her room, Felix and himself were en- twined in a deadly struggle— a struggle that left him for a few seconds breathless and senseless on the turf: for the athletic Clerivault was as much the superior or the ill-nourished, over-tasked Valentin, in personal strength, as in worldly endowments. Young Baptieret, a hmd employed upo» the farm, attracted to the spot by the . tumult of the scufBe, proceeded to raise him from the Sound ; while Felix nastily made of£ toward Corbeil. ut when Valentin recovered the effect of hb stunning fall sufficiently to comprehend what had passed, and to THE MILLER OF CORBEIL. feel that he hftd been eogaffed b an altercation with his master's son. which would probably end in the ruin of his whole nousebold, he wrung his hands for very bitterness. ** Would that I were dead !" he ejaculated, as be look his way back to his father's ferry-boat. " Mathurin.has sworn to bestow his daughter upon another. Monaeiir Cierivault will eject my ornther from her habitation when he learns what has occurred. My intemperance will seal the fate of my family, without obtaining me the band of Manette. Woula, would that I were dead! Better be in my grave than thus a burden to myself and all the world." " Be of good cheer. Valentin 1" cried the lad Baptie- ret, who had followed, and was aiding him to unmoor his boat. " Ma'mselle Manette loves you in spite of them all. Ma'mselle Manette has promised that she will one day be your wife !" <« No !— no wife— no house— no hope — no rest ! I was bom with the curse of God upon my soul !*' uttered the ferrvman's son, looking up to the sky— where the faint flaaoes of a summer's storm were already streaming, as if in impious reproach to the Omnipotence who had created a wretch so miserable. "I was bom to eat the bread of toil and biiterneas ; what matters it that such an outcast should cease to hve !" And it came to pass that every petulant word uttered by Valentin to the farm-lad Baptieret during that brief colloquy was eventually inscribed in the judicial archives of the country, with the view of throwing light upon the incidents foUowiug the quarrel of that fatal night ! Old Gharlet's son never agam set foot upon the turf of La Tremblaye. ■ Valentm was mistaken, however, in sappostng that his dispute with Felix would insure his dismLssaffrom the Mill of Corbeil. Either old Clerivauh saw no cause for displeasure in his conduct, or Felix had generously, or |>erhap8 discreetly, forborne to prefer a complaint against him : when, at the ringin|[ of the work-bell the following moming, he presented himself as usual aniiong the men, not a word of remark was made on the sub- ject by Bemardin, the overseer. Valentin had been catting rushes on the river by earliest daylight, in order to repair, to the best of his own a'bilities, the dilapida- ted roof of the hovel, from whence he so much dreaded to witness the ejection of his family ; and, heart-sick with labor and tastinc, he was scarcely able to support the struggle of his feelings on ascertaining that his rash- ness hadnot been the means of immediate iniury to his sick and feeble mother. In the course of the day he had still stronger evidence that no displeasure existed against him in the mind of the Cleriyaults ; for, a trast- worthy messenger being needed to carry over to La Brie the copy of a contract of sale, for signature, to one of the most extensive corojgrowers of the district, Valen- tin was chosen for the office, the usual factor being ab- sent on pressing biisiness at the market of Melun. Ha- ving received his instractions, he accordingly de{>arted ; and, as it was held impossible for him to return to Cor- beil till a late hour at night, it was settled that he should tender an account of his commission to Monsieur Ber- nardin the following morning, when he was to be at the mill half an hour previous to nls usual time. At that usual lime, however,- the work bell rang, but no Valentin made his appearance ; and the young men in Clerivault's employment began lo joke among them- selves, swearing that the sober Valentin must have been guilty of some excess, and detained on the road. At a late hour, Bemardin de8p«tched one of the boys to Gharlet's cottage to make inquiries, but still no Valen- tin had been heard of; and the old ferryman, imeasy in bis turn, began lo inquire on what sort of a horse his son was mounted for the expedition 1 "A valuable one— a favorite with the master and Monsieur Felix," was the reply : but it was the teniper of the beast alone, and not its value, that interested Charlet. The p<>or old man, however, had soon ample opportunity of judging for himeelf ; for, having returned to the mill wiih Ber- nardin's messenger, he found a crowd of workmen and all the idlers of the town assembled round the door of the htUU adjoining Clerivault's mill, with the hoise on which Valentin had set off on the preceding day, stand- ing saddled and bndled in the midst of them. ^^^J? ^'"^!?' "*«tt^" hastily inquired Charlet of one of Glerivault a men, who was lounging on the out- skirts of the crowd. ^ **No, tksre are bo tidiafs of Valentin,*' replied the fellow carelessly, not noticing whom he addressed. ** The horse has been brought home by a countryman, who found him ranging loose this morning in the forest . of Senart, and havmg rode him as far as Essonne to ' make inquiries, found the beast recognized easily enough as the favorite bay of the Miller of Corbeil. '* But Valentin i" ejaculated the old man, striking his hands together, impatient that any one should talk of a horse, when he was asking for nis son — " What can have become of Valentin 1'*^ and aUeady from all parts of the crowd the same question was arising—** What can have become of Valentin 1" " You had better go home. Charlet," said 6eroardiD« when the same inquiry had been fruitheasly reiterated for two hours loncer; "Iwill send word to you th« first news that reaches us. Take another glads of wine, man, and do not tremble so, if yOu can help it.. No harm can have befallen your son ; he had no money in his pocket, either to lead him into intemperance or to tempt any evil-disposed person to attack him. The lad has got into some foolish scrape on the road — has lost the contract, perhaps, and is afraid to retum : but Mon- sieur has sent out m every direction to seek informa- tion respecting him ; and before evening, I wager my life we know all about the matter, and that it wiL prove to be a thing of no manner of moment." But Bemardin was only half justified in his anticipa- tions. Before evening, the public authorities were summoned, and a woca verbal was drawn up. specify- ing the finding of the body of the unfortunate Valentin, suspended by bis own handkerchief to a tree in the forest of Senart. He had dettroyed ki$n9elf. His im- precations of the preceding night were now remembered and recorded. It was recollected that he had declared himself weary of the world- that in bis despair he had cursed his Maker as the origin of his woes. Nothing, alas ! could be plainer. Valentin had blasphemed the Almighty, and straightway, like the recreant apostle; gone ana haitfed himself! It was noticed with sympa- thy by all, that throughout the investigation of the case, young Cierivault, who could not but tax himself as the unintentional cause of the misfortune, was pale as death, and cobpletely overpowered by his feelings. - But if Felix sorrowed for the departed, what was the affiiction of her whom he had so dearly loved— of those who so dearly loved him 1 what the agony of Manette when she knew that he for whom she would have sa- crificed all. had iocorred the guilt of the suicide ! She did not bold him guilty, except, indeed, in leaving her behind to straggle alone with the troubles -of the world ; and as soon as the daylight dawned,^ on the day suc- ceeding that when the oody of Valentin was discovered iO the forest, and, After the usual forms, deposited by the Marecbausse of Corbeil in his father's hovel, previ- ously to interment, she set out alone for Charlet's cot- tage, to comfort the living, to moum over.the dead !, It was a grievous sight--^at miserable hut standing alone in the midst of the green meadows of the bordera of the Seine, like a thing abandoned to the mercy of nature— that miserable but whose prop was now reft away— Ihat refuge for those who had none left to succor them, none left to minister to their wants, or wipe away their tears! Mathufin's dau(^hter lifted the latch as gently as though it were possible that any under Charlet's roof could at such a season be sleeping ; and with the calmness of despair entered the house of mourning. And mournful, indeed was the spectacle ! There, on the only pallet, lay the paralytic mother, hiding her face in the clothes, that she might not look upon the disfi- gured corpse of her first-born — the mattress afibrding the customary bed to the children having been already carried out and sold by the poor ferryman to secure the mesna of a decent burial for bis boy ! And there the livid body of Valentin lay stretched upon the very rushes which his own hand had cut for so different a purpose; while his Utile brothers and sisters, deprived of their rest, and terrified^ and hungry, were huddled together in a comer, stanng with wonder on all that was passing., Charlet, usually so reckless amid his wants and misfortunes, sat with his head drooping on his breast, and scarcely raised his eyes on Manette's entrance ; nor was it till she went close up to him, and kneeled at his feet, and called him "father," and re- viled herself as the cause of the mischief which had happened, that the unhappy man seemed moved to con- sciousneas. THE MILLER OF CORBEIL. 87 " Had he liw d, I should have been your daughter," said Manette. hiding her weeping face upon his Knees, "and then, ail I had would have been yours. Accept it now, Charlet. for his sake," she continued, olacing in his hand a small bag containing^ the amount ot her's and Justine's earnings. " Accept it now, when it can be useful: for to me, worldly goods are henceforward vain.** And she wept long and bitterly, while the Utile children, who had been taught by Valentin to love her, crept foaward and clung to her gown, and whispered to her to be. comforted, for that their orother was surely with God ! " Yes, he is with God !*' said the broken-bearted old man, in a hoarse voice. *' He whose- loss renders these little ones worse than fatherless, and gives so bitter a pang to the poor gray-headed parents, to whom he never, never gave pain before, muet be with God. My boy may appear at the tribunal of Grace with the stain of self-murder on his soul. He, who never imured mortal man, may have been moved to lift his hand against his own precious life. But heaven judges us not as we judge each other : heaven witnessed the cares, the trials, the strugj^les of my poor Valentin, and noted the maddening brain, the breaking heart of the proud 'pau^r— .the tender son— the good brother— the good Christian ; and heaven will forgive him !" "Why, why did he forsake usl" ejaculated Mathu- rin'd daughter, rising from her knees and tottering to- ward the body. "Oh, Valentin! Valentin! why did you forsake me 1" and lifting up the cloth with which Che pious care of the father had covered the face of the dead, she imprinted a fervent kiss upon the blue lips of him who should have been her husband, unterriiied by the 8(artiii|^ eyes — the distended nostrils — and all the ghastly evidence of his mode of death. A t tnat moment her father and sisler, having missed her from the farm, and readily cooiecCuring her route, entered the cottage in search of Manette ; but Mathu- rin'a displeasure against the deceased was over now, and instead of expressing diasatisfaction at his daugh- ter's proceedings, he not only advanced with tearful eyes to sprinkle holy water on the body of her ill-starred lover, but asked permission of Charlet to follow it to the grave. The worthy Beraardin had already ex- pressed his intention to be present at the burial cere- mony : and when the remains of the " warm and true" ValenUn were deposited in the pauper's trench of the churchyard of St. Germain, they were transported thi- ther on the shoulders of his comrades, and followed by so vast a concourse of his fellow-workmen and friends, that the incense of their ajffliction was as that of a bomt^offering, calculated to propitiate the mercy of God toward the suicide. It is probable that a catastrophe so lamentable would have pi[oduced a greater sensation and elicited a closer scrutiny in a little town so uneventful in its history as Corbeir^ but that the still fiercer disasters of the f'rench revolution had already begun in the capital: and even the tongue of Mademoiselle Benoite found a nobler topic in the misfortunes of Marie Antoinette of France than in those of the Roses of Corbeil. There was no time for sympathy in the sorrows of individuals! Clerivniilt, i;>erplexed by apprehensions lest the vast granaries -of his hcUU should attract the rapacity of the populac:*, whose excesses were now every hour on the increase, gratified with9Ut hesitation—* almost mechani- cally— the request of his son that he would assign the grataitoua use of one of his wholesome cottages to Charlet's afflicted family ; nor was it needful for Felix to covenant in return that he would seek no further in- tercourse with the heauty of La Tremblaye : the old man having already ascertained, that from the period of Valentin's untimely end, his rival had made a tracri- fice of the ill-omened connexion. Even Mademoiselle Benoite was ready to avow that Monsieur Felix had altogether renounced his intention of a marriage with Manette. Meaxrwhile, not only Mademoiselle Benoite, but every gossip of the united community, was secretly marveling over the extraordinary change that had taken plaee in the deportment of voung Clerivault : and one and all inferred, from the hmard aspect of his face, and the gradual emaciation of^his person, that his attachment to Mathurin's daughter had been deejper •eated than they had imagined possible. The sacrifice of his paasion was evidently preving U{>on his constitu-: tion; ne grew laogoid^tremuloas— his strength was failing— his temper softened— his audacious deportment had given place to mild depression — instead of sharing the political enthusi^^sm of the tien^ etat of which he formed 9 part— instead of exulting in the degradation of an order which he had been accustomed to reVile as his natural enemy — ^Felix appeared to regard with utter indifrerence the alarms of nis father and the triumphs of the republican party. The young man was not, however, alto^therso care- less as he appeared. Felix nourished in his heart an im- portant project. Although he had done his part toward the resuftance of the foreign alliance created for the suppression of civil and religious liberty in Fmnce, by supplying an active substitute to the conscription^he now determined to devote his personal^ services to his coun- try ; and, fully aware qf the opposition he was likely to experience from a parent who reverenced him as his heir fully as much as he loved him as a son. departed in secret from Corbeil, to volunteer in the ranks of the re- publican armv. " Resolved to accpmplish my part as a citizen, by de- fending the rights of the nation against the insults of the minions of Pitt and Coburfc," said the letter which he subsequently addressed to his father in explanation of his intentions, " I have spared you the pain of opposing my immoveable resolve ; and to evade your pursuit, my dear father, have entered the army of the republic under an assumed name ; nor, till I have proved my- self worthy to be classed among the most faithful of her sons, shall I revisit Corbeil. My last entreaty is that you give all your confidence to Bernardin, your true and diligent servant: and that you do not neglect the desti- tute family of Charlet the Ferryman." ** I knew it would be thus," murmurred the gentle Justine, as she sauntered along the river-walk of her father's garden looking toward the mill of Corbeil, when intelligence of young Cleri vault's departure trana- Eired in the town. *' I was sure he could not remain ere, haunting the same spots and communicating with the same associates as before. He is ri^ht to fly. Fe- lix has nothing more to do at Corbeil : his penance roust be accomplished elsewhere. Miserable, miserable Fe- lix! What thoughts, what recollections accompany him in his flight ;— what griefe, what terrors have been undermining bis heahh ! Yet Manette, who so dearly loved Valentin, has seen and suspected nothing of all this ;— while I. / so long^ so hopelessly devoted to Fe- lix, dfscemed nis conscience-struck affliction from the first moment I saw him gazing yonder from the shore on Charlet's hovel ! The Forest of Senart.— the Forest of Senart ! Oh ! that I could free myself from the ima- gination of that scene.— that fatal, fatal night ! No sooner am I left alone than involuntary the whole black business arises before me. I fancy their encounter,^! seem to hear their quarrel— I seem to see the struggle in which Valentin must have fallen a victim, ere the dreadful idea presented itself to Felix of making him pass for a self-murderer! Apt>earances avouched the imputation,- appearances deceived the officers of jus- lice,— deceived his comrades^ his master, his father, his friends, his affianced wife,— but they did not de- ceive me ; for it was not on Valentin's life, but on Uie well-doing of Felix Clerivault that my happiness was pledged. And, oh! how have I watched over his re- pentance, his despair! Had he triumphed in his wick- edness, I should have learned to hate him : but to see him self-convicted, — penitent,— wretched,— although thrice secure from discovery! Miserable, miserable Felix ! Driven from his home by the clinging curse of ' reminiscences henceforward to be attached to his birthplace — Oh ! when will he venture to return to Cor- beil r Meanwhile the tumults of revolutionary violence were racing : and this question, at first universally re- iterated in the little town, soon came to be repeated by old Clerivault and Justine. The old man had aheady resigned the presidency of the mill to Bernardin, the overseer ; and the fine domain of St. Germain having become national property by the emigration of the noble family with whom it was hereditary, the chateau was readily appropriated by the miller of Corbeil. Thither, with a scanty household, he retired ; and there, uncarea for and alone, falling gradually into a state of imbecility, it was a gratification to hini, when tottering round the lawns whose beauty he was incapable of appreciating, to be accosted bv the younger daughter of nis neighbor Matburtn, with inquiries whether tidings had reached 96 ST. CROIX. him from his son, and how it fared with the armies of France. But the old man's answer was ever the same : ** The armies of France were triumphant-j-but no tidings from his son !" Great names were beginning to arise from obscurity in the annals of the country — Lannes, Victor, Bernadotte, Murat. Duroc, Berthier, Sucnot, Soult. A great soldier had conquered to its badtoere "Ihe eagle- plumed ensign of victory; but no conjecture enabled Clerivauit to discover under what designation Felix had either fallen on the field of honor, or was struggling^ onward in the career of fame. It was rumored m the town that once, when a brigade, on its march to join the army of the Sambre and Meuse, baited at Essoune, a superior officer was seen {galloping back, to the high road m the dusk of the evening irom the portal of the church of St. Spire, where, m the tronc des pauvrei, adjoining the mausoleum of Count Haymon, of Corbeil, a bank* bill of conaideriible amount was found on the succeeding morning. But none could say that the stranger was Felix Clerivauit; and if indeed he, the suns of Egypt and Italy had " written strange de- feature in his face. ' At length (it was the triumphant epoch of the recog- nition of ^ ioLdat heureux as first Emperor of France.) the miller of Corbeil, long sickly and doting, was finally gathered to his rest; when a public advertisement having been legally circulated by the authorities of the department, and the sale of the property subsequently announced— the heir — the long-absent, ine half-forgot- ten Felix— appeared on the spot in the person of one of those eminent generals whose names had long been rife ' in the mouths of Corbeil, and their destinies com- mended to heaven by the prayers of their fellow-coun- trymen. But when, shortly afterwards, the equipage of General Le was seen entering the iron gates of the park of St. Germain, the notion of the presence of one of the heroes of Marengo, of the Pyramids, of Auster- litz, seemed to have superseded all recollection of Felix Clerivauit. The villagers gazed on the noble person of the handsome, grave, and middle-aged soldier, whose head was more than slightly silvered by the toils of war, and saw no trace of the petulant youth they had been accustomed to watch, eighteen years before, crossing the river to La Tremblaye to laugh and jest with the Roses of Corbeil. -To hu eyes, meanwhile, the season and the scene were much the same as when he quitted them. He had become a hero— a statesman ; Euro[)e was familiar with , his name, and bis voice had obtained weight in the * councils of France. His port was now erect and stately —his step firm and measured— his voice stern and com- manding ; he had learned to control the desires and passions of others— fte had learned to control his own. Nothing in him but was altered. But there rolled the same blue Seine— there smiled the same vineyards — there stood the mill of Corbeil — there rose the woods of St. Germain— there the chimneys of the farm of La Tremblaye — there, far below in the meadows, crumbled the ruins of a hovel, the hut of the ferryman— and there — there, in the distant horizon, gfoom'ed the Forest of Senart. And, lo ! unsilenceably resounded in his ears the mandate, "Thou shalt'do no murder!" It was £ome comfort to him to learn that Mathurin was DO more, and the family of Charlet, the ferryman, dispersed and forgotten. " And the Roses of Corbeil 1" inquired General Le , in a low voice, as, accom- panied by the gamekeeper of St. Germain, on the even- ing of his arrival, he pursued his way along the terrace, gazing through the grey evening twilight upon the open country. " Maiurin's eldest daughter, mon General, she who married the young farmer named Baptieret, is the mo- ther of ten fine children, and still living at the Trem- blaye," said the garde-de-chasse. " Her sister, Justine, poor soul ! has become a Sister of Charity." Hastily proceeding in their walk, the opening of the upper avenue of the chateau toward the vineyards brought them in sight of a fine, comely-looking country- woman driving two cows, and accompanied by a lout of a farnaing-boy and two healthy little girls, with un- tnmmed neads and dirty faces. •* Tiens, yoila justement Ma'ame Baptieret et ses en- £in8 !" contmued the gamekeeper. '* Ma'ame Baptieret ! Ijola, Ma*ame Baptieret ! voici Monsieur le General, qui s'informe de vous et de votre famille !" And General Le — ^ found himself perforce required U> staod aod receive the awkward couitesies of the great fat countrywoman before him, and listen to her history of her father's dying of an asthma, and her own happy match with Baptieret the cowboy ! " Brave ears^on si jamais y en fut, ei bien>aime de ce pauvre Va* lentin. Monsieur le General se rappeUe, sans doute, ce pauvre Valentin V* Alas ! what else but the remembrance of Valentin had kept him so long an alien from his father's hearth— ao lonjg an exile from home 1 And it was for the woman before him that he had borne so much— incurred bo much— sinned so greatly, so irreparably ! Poor feeble human nature ! Poor murdered Valentin ! But the trial thus voluntarily encountered proved too much for Felix ; .and. after remaining a few hours lon- ger at St. Germain, General Le quitted for the last time a spot aboundii^ in soul-harrowing reminiscences — ^reminiscences rendering vain his toils of honor, hi> career of glory. For the brief remainder of his life^ the fine mansion of St. Germain remained uninhabited. But the grave of General Le is now at Ehrenbreitstein^ his mo- nument at the Pantheon, and his propeny, having been bequeathed to the foundation of a military hospital, otherwise invested. Strangers abide at the chateau — a company of speculators have assumed the direction of the mill of Corbeil : and nothing remains to comme- morate the past, but the clear fountains of La Trem- blaye, and a deserted grave in the church-yard in the village of St. Germain— a grave whose accusing voice will be heard by the guilty aoul even through the feer- ful stillneas of eternity. ST. CROIX; A TALS OF THE DAYS OF TRRROR. Monsieur St. Csoix was a strange compound of the misanthrope and philanthropisL the miser and the fop» fermented by a strong leaven of^the irritability and way- wardness ofinsanity. And this man dwelt^ three years ago^ and probably atill dwells, in the most profound se- clusion, though in a fashionable street, in the gayest quarter of Paris, where thousands are thronging daily' past his abode of misery, unconscious of the existence of such a being. The stamp of nobility was upon his lofly brow ; and though age, or perhaps sorrow, bad silvered his hair, it had neither bent his tali and finely-proportioned figure, nor wrinkled the face which in youth must have been pre-eminently handsome. We became intimate; our daily conversations be- tween my window and his garden appeared not less agreeable to my neighbor than to niyseif. One great reason for the kindness he invariably manifested tow- ard me, and the interest he took in my welfare, was, I verily beUeve, that in whatever society or place I met him, whether with a gay party in the Louvre, where it was his daily habit to walk in the winter, for the bene- fit of the fires which never gladdened his home, or in the crowded malls of the Tuilleries and Boulevards, I invariably acknowledged the acquaintance of my vene- rable friend with a courteous salutation. After an atxjuaintance of several montl^ I was a^eeably suiprised by a request^ from the old man to visit him : an honor never anticipated ; for not once in a year was a human being known to have been admits ted into his mysterious dwelling. I was shown into a pquare oak-fiodred room, with two windows looking toward the «treet, and two toward the garden. The shutt^ of the former were closed, and the cobwebs and dirt which had been accumulating for years upon the latter, dimmed the bright light of the glorious sky without. There were faded portraits of his ancestors, in flowing wigs and glittering breast-plates, hanging round the walLsL which the recluse pointed out with manifest pride ; out there was one object which excited my curiosity more than all the rest. Above the fire- place, supported by a. broken fork on one side, and a rusty nail on the other, hung*k faded silk window- curtain^^ and though in spite of all my hints. Monsieur St. Croix had forborne to raise it, I felt certain I could distinctly trace the outline of a large picture-frame be- neath. I had been struck by the agitated expression of his countenance when I alluded to tbis curtained de- partment of the wall ; and an opportunity afforded by Uie absence of my host was too tempting to be lost, i ST. CROIX. 89 lifted a corner of the mlken Teil, and h^d scarcely time Co perceive beneath the ponratt of a young and lovely female, in the dress of a Carmelite nun, whose full dark eye8» as they met my gaze, beamed with more of ten- derness than devotion, ere the returning footsteps of Monsieur St. Croix were audible in the passage. I dropped the curtain, and saw it no more. I often discerned St. Croix afterward, as I returned home late from the Chjimps Elvsees or the Boulevards, seated at an open upper winofow, upon a dirty striped pillow, reading in the moonlight; and our conversa- tions from his garden were continued without inter- ruption till my return to England. I know not where- fore, but the old man grew attached to me as to a child, and to my gr^at surprise, the day before my de- parture, I saw him hastily crossing the court of our little hotel, and in another moment he entered, unannounced, into the mUon where I sat He held a scroll of papers in his hand, but, as usual, he was without a hat. "My young friend,'* he said, and he smiled, though tears were in his eves, vou are about to depart, and with God's pleasure I shall not be long here, i ou have been kind to a poor desolate old man, and I thank you. You have not mocked niy infirmities like the rest of the world, you have been indulgent to them, though you know not their cause. It is time you should learn the dark events whick made me what 1 am— a scorn and a laughing-stock to fools. You have spoken with a voice 'ot kindness to my broken spirit ; it was long since I had heard such tones from any human bein^, and they were very sweet. In your own land you will read these,** he continued, giving me the roll of papers he held, and presang both my hands convulsively be- tween his iB he did so ; ** you will there learn the fatal tale I have not power to relate, wh^cb, thank God, I sometimes forget; my mind is not what*it was, but I have had cause for madness; I shall miss you much ; bat it will be a pleasure to me to think that you will pity xne when you know all, and that though you are far away, yoii sometimes otfer up your prayers for a^Bolitary and forsaken being who hath great need of them." He then darted from my presence even more abruptly than he entered. It was the last time I beheld hiiu. The following narrative is extracted from his roll of papeis: HASRATrVE OF JtfONSISUR ST. CROIX. My father was one of the hatUe nobUite ; it had been better for me if he had been a beggar. I should never then have been a slave to the leaden bondage of pride: idlenefls would never have nourished the seeds of all the evil passions which, wretched victim ! I inherited firom a long line of corrupted ancestry : they would have had no time to bud and blossom in tne hot-bed of sloth ; I should have been compelled to labor for my daily bread ; hunger would have tamed my wandering thoughts, and I might have been a happy and an honest man. My father and moiher. lived as many other FVench couples do at the present day, and many more did then : they dwelt under the same roof, met seldom, but with perfect politeness on both sides; hated each other veith all their hearts, and spoke or each other (whenever such a rare occurrence did take place) with the tenderest affection. Sentiment covers a multitude of sins. They had two sons, an eider brother and my- self, who were born in the first two years of their mar- riage, bat since that time no prospect of a family had ever existed. ' " . Alpboose, the first-bom, was destined for a military life, war being considered the only admissible profes- sion for the eldest son of a count et pere. I who, un- luckily for myself, came into the world a year later, was, even belore my birth, condemned to the. church, in factf there was nothing else for me. The chief part of my father's income was derived from places under government, and that died with him ; his.estates were inextricably involved by the dissipations of his youth, and the vanity of his old age; and at his death it would be incumbent on my brother to support his family dig*- nity. For the young count to do this npon nothing was as much as could reasonably be expected : and my fa- ther prudently resolved to make the church provide for the rest of his progeny. He had more than one rich benefice in bis eye. which he felt certain he had inter- est to procure : ancl I was scarcely released from swad- dling clothes before I went by the name of the .little Abbe. To all appearance at the time, this decision gave me many advantageis for while my brother was left for many years entirely to the care of servants, and at length transferred to that of an ignorant tutor, who took care that he shotald learn little, but how to ride, dance, dress, and intrigue, I was duly instructed by a learned churchman, in Greek. Latin, and theological science : but at the time I loathed sucn learning, and it has since proved but useless furniture to an overbur- thened brain. There never existed any affection between my brother and myself, and as we grew older, the coldness of our childhood deepened into actual hate. The study of divinity had not tamed my spirit j T was young, ardent, and full of hope, and the' litUe I had seen and heard ot the world made me think it Elysium ; perhaps the con- sciousness that I was condemned to forswear it lent it redoubled lustre. I regarded Alphonse as the being who doomed me to be forever debarred from its plea- sures; was it wonderful then that I detested him 1 while the handsome person which I inherited from my mother, made me the object of his envy and malevolence. Time wore away ; but though I assumed the dress of the priesthood, and was subjected to all the discipline of the cloister, my heart was not in the calling. I incurred penances more than a dozen times a month, for irre- verence of manner, and absence without leave ; I was condemned to fast on bread and water for thirty days, on conviction of the heinous offence of having written a love-letter on the altar, and then thr6wn it, wrapped round a sous^picce, over a wall to a young lady in a>gar- den adjoining the seminary ; but all this severity did but drive the flame inward, to corrode my heart, and burst- forth at a future ];)enod with renewed fury : it could not still the imagination; which flew forever from the page of learning, and the empty ceremonies of religion, to luxuriate in a forbidden world. X was one with whom kindness mi^ht have done much, though tyranny no- thing. But the reign of my oppressors was drawing fast to a close. It was a time when a spirit of liberality and enquiry on every subject vvas spreading rapidly abroad, and the old, afraid ofthe insubordination of the youn^g, took the very way to drive them to rebellion. Opinions were no longer received upon trust evtn in cloistered walls; many like myself df^stested the 'whole system of hypocrisy, slolh, and superstition of which we were made abettors; and my feelings had numerous participators amongst my young companions, who thought with me, that the meanest toil in freedom would be preferable to the drudgery of fasting and prayer to which we were Subjected. There was one older than ourselves in the convent, and better ao* quainted with what was passing in the world, who encouraged our awakened ardor for a change of things. He furnished us in secret with the forbidden works of Voiiaire, Rousseau, and all whose daring spirits were gradually arousing our nation to shake ofTthe chains of superstition and despotism under which they had laia benumbed for centuries. I was too young and too ardent to distinguish accurately what was false in these productions ; but their eloquence fascinated my imagi- nation, and I adopted every opinion as a truth which differed the most directly from all the' dogmas 1 had been taught to believe. My own sacrifice to the shrine of my brother's greatness was to me sufficient argument in favor of equality ; and by the time the States General were convened at Vem^illes, there could not have been found in all France a more violent advocate of the rights of the people than Auguste St. Croix. Many of the clergy under the influence of the Abbe Sieyes, and, frofli a love of novelty, joined the tiers-etat, when that assumed the name of National Assembly ; but their zeal for liberty was soon annihilated by the seizure of the church property, and the suppression of all monastic establishments, on the ISib February, 1790. It was not thus with myself. I felt like a slave whose chains had been miraculously struck off, or a corpse re-awak«ned into life and bursting from the imprisonment of the My father and brother had already fallen sacrifices to the fury of the ancient misused dependcuits of their house, while endeavoring to save their castle in Francne-Compte from plunder and destruction ; and jny mother, terrined by their fate, had escaped into Flan- ders. But my violent republican principles accorded well with the mania of the time ; and though I could not recover my inheritance, 1 had no want of friendp. who supplied my daily necessities, until fortune should reward my exertions in the cause of liberty. I became- ST. CROIX. a member of one of the most violent of the clubs, an in- timate with several members of the National Assembly, and a constant attendant on its debates. But amidst all my political enthusiasm, my appetite for pleasure was undiminished ; and at length I nad none to check me in its indulgence, while thousands emulated me in the EarBuit. Men in those days appeared in a continual de- rium : murder was no more to them than the phantom of a dream. Tumults and bloodshed were in the streets ' one hour, and dancing and revelry the next. Even females might be seen tripping smiliogly with their gallants to tlie public walks, in the evenmg, over the sawdust springled above the nioist blood which had flowed from, the morning's- guillotine. It was like a time of pestileoce, when men eagerly plunge into the wildest dissipation to- forget the uncertainty of life. But no terror operated with me ; 1 was young, fearless of death, and looked on the revolution and its horrors as the noblest efforts of human wisdom and magnani- mity. I loved pleasure for itself alone. It was a lovely summer evening toward the end of June, when I set off witli'a party of friends, in pursuit of this deluded deity, to the little village of Auniere, siiuated below Mootmartre, on the opposite side of the river Seine. It was the village fete, and even the troubles .of the times failed to interrupt these simple festivities of my countrvmen. Never shall I forget that evening t yet why should.! say so 1 I have forgotten it a thousand times, and would that I could for ever '• The sun was sinking bright and cloudlessly toward the western horizon as we crossed the broad fields of La Flanchettefrom the Barrier Courcelle, and we lingered awhile in our little boat on the Seine, to waich its golden beams reflected in the stream, and listen to the soft hum of festivities on its banks. It was the last time I ever experienced the consciousness of happiness. Dancing had already commenced when we reached the village green, and many happy groups were seated around the space left for the rustic performers sharing their bottle of indiflereut wine, and knocking their glasses together with jovial salutations. Black eyes without number were levelled at my companions and ' myself, as soon as we pushed our way through the . moving crowd, and they were not loiup in choosing partners for the dance. I was no lover ofthe pastime : early education had made it awkward to me^ ana having no desire to exhibit before so lar^e an audience, T sought amusement in the contemplation of the busy scene of happy faces around me. But my attention was jMon absorbed by one object. Immediately opposite to me, and surrounded by a Ijroup of persons, who, though dressed with republican simplicity, were manifestly of the highest class, sat a youn^ female of extraordinary beauty ; she might be about nineteen. But why should I attempt to describe what no language nor limner's art could ever paint 1 Can it be that I survive to write thus of thee i Can it be that my mind can contemplate thy perfections without being lost in madness 1 Yes, she was perfection !— and from the instant I be- held her, on that village-green, with the full light of the ■inking sun irradiating her calm and gentle beauty, the conviction that she was so. sunk deep in ray heart. None but a madman could nave doubted it for an in> slant. I was like one planet-stricken from the moment I be. held her ; I could not remove my gaze ; the crowd and their sports became alike inviatble ; their sounds of mirth, and the discord of their rustic music, were equally inaudible to my ear ; I saw only the lovely being before me ; I heard only the magical sweetness of her voice, when she occasionally addressed her companions At length I thought she remarked my admirauon ; for when her eyes met mige for an instant, a deep color mounted to nertemplea, and she turned aside to speak to a gentleman near at hand. I would have given all I posseased at that moment, to have been him whom she thus addressed and smiled upon, though he was old ei^oufh to have been my grandfather. The jokes of my nriends on my abstraction, at the end of the dance, first aroused me from my trance ; but it was not till another set was nearly formed, that I remembered the poasibilty of my obtaining the goddess of my idolatry as a partner. My- hatred of dancing was instantly forgotten. I ad- vanced toward the beautiful unknown with a papitating heart, and in an agitated voice requested that nonor. 1 was refused with the utmost politeness ; but firmly and decAdedly I was refused. There was notlimg astoniah- in^ in this; for she had not danced during the evening with any, even of her own party ; but I was ofieoded, irritated and annoyed; I was disappointed. In spite of my enthusiasm for lioeriy. the pride of my ancestry mounted in my heart, and I felt a haughty conscious- ness that if she had known who I was, I should not have been thus rejected, though I thought that my personal advant^es might have excepted me from the msolt. • ^ . . By a strange chance, I was at this instant recognized by a gentleman who had just joined the party : and in another moment I was formally introduced to Claudine, and her father, Monsieur de iJangeron, the tit%iar of the village: He bad known the elder membera of my family well and long ; and on an invitation to spend the remainder of the evening at his chateau, whither he was just retiring with his party, was politely given, and joyfully accepted. Hie aaugnier said little^ but that "was so soft and gentle, as soon to dispel my displeasure^ and her sweet tmile was more expressive than words. Though dancing was renewed in the interior of the mansion, I observed she did not join in llie amusement, nor did any one present invite her to do so. I was selfish enough no longer to regret it. Seated by her side, for a time I had nothing more to desire. The moon had replaced the glowing sun, when I recrd^sed the Seine that night: but though the calm splendor of heaven was unbroken by a single cloud, the tranquility of my mind was gone. Thenceforwaro I became a daily visitor at Anniere ; but no one seemed to regard or jemark my attention to Claudine, though we were almost constantly together and frequently alone. She had no mother ; and an old aunt, her only female com))anion, unlike most of her age and sex, seemed to entertain not the least sus- picion of the consequence of our intercourse. She left us unmolested, to take long walks by the retired banks of the river, and to sit for hours on the terraced garden of the chateau. Such an intimacy added burning fuel to ray passion; and as Claudine mdually lost her timidity in my presence, every day -disclosed to me the additional charms of her unsullied mind. Though unaware of it herself, it was impossible for me to remain long unconscious that she loved me with all the intensity of a first affection. I never uttered a F 'liable that I aid not meet her glance of approbation ; never departed that tears did not stand in her eyes, nor was met without blushes on my return. Every thought, feeling, hope and fear of the unfortunate girl were mine for ever. Selfish even in my love, I saw and exulted in all this before I disclosed the secret of my afiection. We were seated on the margin of the river, nearly on the same spot where I landed on the first evening I beheld her, and the sun was shining in the western sky as brightly as then, when I whispered the story of my passion in her ear. Her hand trembled violently in mine as she listened, but in vain did I be- seech her to reply to my passionate declamations, ^e gave no answer but by tears. I entreated her by every tender appellation to give me some token of her love, but she neither moved nor spoke — she even ceased to weep. She did not withdraw her hand from mine, but it grew icy chilL her head dropped upon her bosom, and she fell back lifeless in my arms. I was horror-stricken, and it was some time before I recovered sufficient presence of mind to lay her gently on the grass, while 1 brought water from the neighbor- ing river to bathe her hands and forehead Slowly, and after u long interval she revived ; but no sooner was she conscious that my eucircling arms were around her» than she shrunk from' me with convulsive horror, and Htru<;gled to arise. She was too feeble to accom- plish her purpose, and wildly and Dastlnnately I de. tained her as I entreated her to disclose by what fatal chance I had become the object of her hatred. " My hatred, dear Augiiste ! would that you were !" she murmured in almost inaudible accents ; and then fixing her full dark eyes upon me for an instant, before she buried her face in her hands, she added, in a voice tremulous from excess of emotion. '* Is it possible you have yet to learn i}iat lama nun ?" I started as these fearful words fell dull and cold upon my ear, but ii was long before I made any reply. Early prejudices arose like phantoms before my sight ; I remembered, for the first time since our intercourse, that I, too, was bound by a sacred vow to celibacy, and for a time I behekl in these trammels of bigotry the fiat of interminable mifr' fortune. Bat vows, whether sacred or profane, are ST. CROIX. 41 feeble against the tempest 6f paaaion ; and when the mind is once resigned to its despotic influence, princi> pies and prejadices are equally swept away by the whirlwind.' I. did not long yield to •despair; the new doctrines I had adopted in casting aside my priest's frock, though for a moment forgotten in the turbulence of excicing feeling, eoon came to my assistance Ac- cording to these, Claudine and I were as free as at the moment of our birth to follow the guidance of the feel- ings which nature had implanted in oar hearts ; and I endeavored to convince the innocent girl, with all the fervor and eloquence of which I was master, that she was no longer the bride oi heaven, and that her vows had ceased to be binding when formally annulled by the National Assemblv. The next day I returned a^ain to the charge, and though she remained unconvinced, my vehemence si- lenced all opposition. I saw that she wavered between a sense of duty and the passionate feelings of her heart, and I redoubled the earnestness of my supplications. I painted wildly the horror and despair which awaited us riiould she persist in her resolve, and doom us to an eternal separation ; while I described, with all the en- thusiasm which the joyful hope inspired, the felicity attending our union. Gentle being * it was no sin of thine that thon didst yield to the burning words and de- lirioos eloquence with which I tempted thee to thy ruin ! mine' only was the ^uilt, and mine alone be the long, the'never-ending punishment. That night she slept not beneath her father's roof Trembling and breatnless with agitation, I drew her towards the bank of the river, and though, even at the last, she struggled faintly to return, I heeded it not, and lifting her on board the little bark which had borne me from the opposite shore, I dipped, my oars in the stream, and rowed rapidly with the current towards St. Denis. We reached Paris before sunset, and to tranquillize the conscience of poor Claudine. as much as in my power, we were united before nighitall, by such ceremonies as the National Assembly had thought proper to substitute for the ancient marriage-rites. My passion thus gratified, I could, for a time at least, have been perfectly happy, but that I saw that Claudine was not 60. She had acted under the influence of my overwhelming feelings, not her own, and her reason was never for a moment silenced. Though she com- plained not, she drooped under the sense of the mighty weight of guilt she had incurred ; the bloom faded from her cheek, and the roundness of her form gradually wasted away. The state of the times, and the interest which my necessities compelled me to take in public affairs, caused me to be frequently absent from home ; on my return I invariably found her in tears. She shrunk from all society but mine, she refused to join in every amusement, and each day deepened a gloom which all my eflbrts were unable to dispel. It was about this period that a yopng^ pncs^t of the aame of Bemis, who had formerly studied in the same seminary with nAyself, claimed my protection from the persecutiOD instituted against all ma profession who re- fused to take the oaths prescribed bv the Assembly. Before my change of principles, there iiad been a great intimacy between us, and I still liked the man, whom I thought kind-hearted and venerous, though I disap> proved his doctrine. I did not hesitate, therefore, when his life was in danger, to aflbrd him a retreat even ia my own house, where, from my own well- knowo republipan principles, he esteemed himself in Cerfect security. Domesticated under the same roof, e wus of course much in my wife's society. With horror be it spoken, I f rew jealous of that man. I fre- quently surprised him in close and earnest conversalion with Claucline. I saw that she regarded his slightest wish with deference, while I could not help imagining that her manner toward me became gradually more cold and estranged. There was evidently a violent struggle at work in her breast ; her cheea, by day, burnt with the hectic of fever, and at night, amid her troubled and broken sleep, long sighs frequfentlv heaved ' from her bosom, and I more than once heard ner mur- mur,* in fearful accents, the names of Bernts and myself. SaapicioD once aroused in my headstrong nature, it toon assumed the energy of truth ; and at length, after a night little short of the tortures of tlie damned, I aro0e> resolved to expel the priest from the shelter of my roof As if to justify my worst imaginings, he was •Ifeady gone— and Claudine had likewise disappeared. Then did the fatal malady which for successive genera- tions had asserted its black dominion over my race, first take possession of my brain. I swore, 1 blas- phemed, I denounced the bitterest curses against the guilty pair. Had boiling lead been coursing through my veins, it could not have surpassed my agony. Bur, there was a method in my madness. When the first burst ofmv fury passed away, 1 began sedulously to seek out the abode of the fugitives. Step by step I traced them, as the blood-hound follows his prey ; flut when I learned, the secret of their hiding- place, I was i«atisfied; I did not intrude myself on theic privacy, for reproaches and upbraiding would have af- forded no relief to my overburthened soul. No ! I had a deeper, a darker, a more satisfying reuenge in store. Coldlv and calmly, as a sleep-walker, but with fiend- like pleasure, I went and denounced Claudine and her seducer to the revolutionary tribunal, as aristocrats and non-conformists. Yes, I delivered my innocent, my confiding, my adoring Claudine, to the blood-thirsty vengeance of those inhuman vampires, and exulted in the deed ! I have an indistinct remembrance of lingering in the street till the minions of the law bore her forth in their arms to the carriage which was to convey her, with the unfortunate Bemis, to the prison of the Abbey, and of struggling vainly to resoue ner from their grasp : but it is like the confusion of a dream. The first circum- stance which I clearly recollect, after a fearful chasm of many days, was the receipt of a letter, the direction of which, though written with a trembling hand, I instant- ly recognised as my wife's writing ; and eaffer to snatch at anythiug which might prove the fallacy of the thoughts fast thronging on my brain, I tore it wildly open. It was dated from the prison to which I had doomed her. But though thirty years have rolled their dark current above my head since that hour— though every word has been since then like the fling of a ser- pent to my brain — I would, even now, rather die than transcribe ii. It convincea me of her innocence and her love. I gathered frOm its details that the reproaches of Bernis had deepened her repentance of our unholy union ; till at lengthy guided by his advice, she had sacrificed the best affections of her heart at the shrine of imaginary duty, and torn herself rom the only being she loved, to expiate the guilt of that affec(ion in the seclusion of a foreign convent. Poor victim ! she prayed him wh^ had sacrificed her peace and her life to his diabolical passions, to use his influence to pro- cure the liberation of herself and her holy direotor from their fearful prison. Let me briefly pass over the narrative of the day. I started up, flew to the tribunal ofthe commune, attested the innocence of the accused; and my intimacy with tbe chiefs of the democrats sufficed to make my word a law. and procured for me without delay a warrant for the liberation of Claudine and tbe . priest. I hurried with breathless speed along the street toward their prison, but crowds at every turning; impeded my pro* gress. Murder was alrendy abroad in the city. Ii was the 2d of September, 1792— that day which has fixed for ever one of the blackest stains in the history of my country. As I passed the prisons of the Chatelet and air, and blood came flowing past me, down the channels of the streets. Everything betokened that the prisons were burst open, and their unfortunate inhabitants mas- sacred by inhuman ruffians. Dark and fearful were the forebodings which thronged upon my mind, as^ on approaching the Abbey, the same sounds of tumult and murder burst upon mv ear. I hur- ried on, in spite of every obstacle, with a velocity which only madness could have lent me, till I reached the front of the building : and there such a ticene pre- sented itself as my soul sicKcns to think on. The armed multitude of men and women of the lowest clan, re- sembled in their fury rather fiends than human beings— but I heeded them not ; I sprung over the dying and the dead ; I escaped from the grasp of the aseassin — for there was yet hope that I might not be too late ; and. though 1 recognised tbe maneled body of Bemis. amid a heap of slain, I relaxed nothing of my speed— tor my wife, my adored Claudine, might yet survive his de- struction. My suspense was soon at an end. Yes, I saw her, and yet I siitvived the sight. I saw her at a 42 THE BANK NOTE.' little distance ; she was kneeling with ^slaaped hands at the feet of an infuriated rufiian, whose weapon was already at her breast. At thai moment she recognized my cry of agony, sprang wildly on her feet, and called with an imploring voice upon my name. It was the last word she uttered. The steel struck her ere she could escape into my arms. It struck deeply and fa- tally—yet well for Aer.— But for me ! THE BANK NOTE; OB., WOVAN^S LOVB AND MAN'S BEPENTAMCS. It was midnight! Disease and health, virtue and crime, famine and the epicure, were now gone hand in hand together, and for a few short hours thoughts and imaginations, as varied as their names, were sunk in sleep, while the wildest of fashion's children, the crea- tures of dissipation and hereditary folly, with the pan- derers to unhallowed and unlawful passions, and all the other numerous forms of destituiion and depravity that, phantom-like, haunt the midnight air of London, were busy -deepening the gulf into which poor humanity bad already fallen. From one of the largest houses in Square, upon the evening just described, sounds of music, mirth, and revelry, were plainly distinguished, and, despite the lateness of the hour or its disagr^eabteness, numerous carriages with their attendants were waiting around its portals, while a little old man, (called by a singular contrariety the link- boy,) who for several hou/8 had, in company with his pitchy compilation, been alternately dashing himself into the road, and be- neath the horses' girths, nnder the idea that he was lighting the company, was now amusing the lacqueys With some eccentric reminiscence of his equally eccen- trie life. Lady Hearnden was the name of the proprietress of the establishment to which we have introduced the reader; and, despite the coldness of the season, and the various essences with which the place was perfumed, the vast suite of apartmenus were crowded to Sn extent that rendered a position near the window far from dis- agreeable. ^'Half withdrawing the curtains, and gazing upon the cheerless scene without, a young and fashion- ably-dressed man remarked to another wno was stand- ing near him, that the last galop had completely disabled him, and the cold night air was quite refreshing. '* I could not feel the heat of these apartments. Sir Henry," was the reply, **for I have been too busy gazing elsewhere." "And where may that have beeni" inquired his compnnion carelessly. ** An object that could rivet the attention of one so aiscriniinaiing as Vivian De I'Orme must indeed be worthy of another's observation." "Youfldtfer, Sir Henry/' replied the other, "but I was thinking Matilda SaviUe will be a very pretty wo- man !" As the young man spoke, he pointed out to his companion among the group of beauties, one, who, from her dress andgeneral contour, pre- eminently shone. ** WHl be a pretty woman!" exclaimed the young baronet, .with considerable animation in his manner. " By heaven, she is one already. Who is she 1 What is she 1 and where does she come from 1" " She is the daughter of a half-pay officer, and comes from the region ot the shuttle and the loom— Man- chester!* " Indeed !" said Sir Henry. " Well, I imagined she must be a stranfier, as I had not seen her before. But really this is quite romantic ; let me see, poor andpret- ty, a stranger, and the daughter of a half-pay oflEfcer; the last the very ne plus ultra of a romancist." " Add to this," interrupted De I'Orme, " that She is seen by a young baronet, who loves her to distraction upon first meeting her m a ball-room," The words were uttered in a half-laughing tone, but they were not responded to by his companion, and he continued, "But we are wrong; she is not quite so poor as she is beautiful, having great expectations from her aunt; that. magnificent-looking woman yonder, who is almost as tall as yourself.'* " That!" exclaimed Sir Harry. "That, why surely that is Lady Featherficld, the widow of a distant rela- tion of mine." "True; her husband was an Irish peer, and was killed at a steeple -chase. Did yott know him V " I but slightly recollect him ; for I was but a child when he met his death; but I will accost his grand- looking relict, and make her introduce me to her lovely niece." As he uttered these Words, Sir Henry Cathcart (for such was the name of the last speaker) stepped grace- fully forward to a chair, where reclined the person of a lady apparently about fifty, adorned in a style of profuse . magnificence, harmonizing with her portly and massive figure. The dialogue which we have just been nanratin^, took place between two individuals as opposite in their characters as they were in personal appearance. Vivian De I'Orme was a young man of French extraction, about twenty-two years of age. with a east of counte- nance decidedly foreijg^n, joined to a person of diminu- tive stature ; he had for a. considerable period been the most intimate friend of Sir Henry, and although a man of a very confined intellect, yet nevertheless was en- dued with that spurious sort of understanding denomi- nated etmning, which is frequently found to be more use in an abstract sense to tne possessor, than those stores of original ability and erudition that are so rarely to be encountered in tnis every-day world. Sir Henry* Cathcart was his junior, having just attained his majo- rity, and, by the death of both his parents at a much earlier age, was now the sole inheritor of a handsome fortune and estate. His figure offered a strange contrast to that of his companion, being tall, majestic, and com- manding, while his character was frank, open, and generous In short he was what the world would terixi a fine-looking young man, possessing all the appearance of an aristocratic descent, possessing all that absence of hauteur so peculiarly the attribute of the true gentle- man. Lady Featherfield, the lady to whom he was now ad- vancing, must certainly have once been beautiful^ if beauty is ever consonant with a style of face whvch presents us features upon which we can dwell with pleasure, but no expression upon which the imagination can hang with rapture, resembling in a remarkable de- gree some splebdid structure wherein fashion is wont to dwell, and which we acknowledge to be well formed and accurately designed, but, notwithstanding- all its ornamental piflars and decorative balconies, insufficient to attract .more than a mere passing and unadmiring gaze. "I would not ask my friend De TOnrie," commenced the young baronet. " 1 "would not atrk him to present me . to your ladyship, for when I mention my name I flatter myself you will not consider me in the light of a stranger— Henry Cathcart.*' The eyes of the gor^eons widow Were turned for an instant upon the fine intellectual countenance of the speaker, as if reflecting where they had before met. Suddenly she appeared to recollect the features, and exclaimed, " Ah, Siir Henry, I'm delighted to see you. Why, what a height you have grown to ; it is nearly six yeais since I have seen you,, that really I had nigh for> gotten you. Dear me, what an alteration a. few years does make at your age." There was a decided empha- sis on your, and smiling complacently as she bethought herself on the comeliness of her own person, awaited his reply. " Pray, Lady Featherfield," said Sir Henry abriiptly, (impatient of farther delay,) did I hear aright, that tha^ beauiiful young creature yonder is your niece 1" " Yea ; that is my sister's child— fehe is rather pretty, certainly. Not my style of beauty, though ; but still she is attractive among some men!" As she spoke she beckoned the obiect o'f Sir Henry's inquiries toward her. and taking her hand, said, " This is Sir Henry Catncart, my dear, who has been pleased to pass some verv flattering* encomiums upon you, and of whose ap- probation you ought to be prpud. for I hear' that he is a connoisseur. Do you admire tall or little women most. Sir Henry 1" added or interrogated the baroiiesH paren- thetically to Cathcart. " I admire bath,** was the gallant and ready answer; (or her ladyship was full five feet nine, and Matilda scarcely above the ordinary size of her aex. (A size which, en wissantf in the present day appears* degene- rating into Lilliputianism.) "But which mostV retorted her ladyship; "for all men have their tastes." "Upon my honor, Lady Featherfield, wherever beauty is, I gaze and admire, without thinking on its THE BANK NOTK. peculiar merits or order j if I may use an architectural term," replied Cathcart. " Who could say that St. PduPs is not equal to Westminster Abbey 1 Indeed I acknoV^ledge it to be the grandest; but 1 i^refer the lat- ter individually." Thus dexterously obviating the ne- cessity of offending the aunt, and delicately insinuating his intense admiration of the niece. As a more than adequate counterpoise^ Sir Henry applied himself to the pleading task of eliciting the mental powers of Matilda Saville by a not affected display of his own accomplish- ments and sentiments. He found her intelligent, amia- ble, and confiding, but slightly imbued with a taste for the romantic and sentimenul. Sir Henry Cathcart was decidedly a youn^ man of superior mind, if not of very surpaseing abilities ; and, moreover^ united to a person of em'ment elegance a peculiar faculty of pleasing. The growth of love is not to be estimated by any standard with which we are ac- quainted; and we would fain add that our hero was dejerving of the confidence and admiration which he seldom failed to excite : that morally as well as men- tally he was a person to he respected. But alas ! the elements of virtue are not to be attained (or if to be attained, at least it is an exception to a gene- ral rule) among those with whom he was in the habit of mingling^mt* n not uudLdtineuished in the ranks of fashion, and even intellect, but for the most part votacies of dissipation, vice, and irreligion.. Cathcart continued to speak, and Matilda hung en- raptured upon the words that fell from bis lips, full as they were of fancy, of refinement, and of elegant, if not poetical, sentiment; and in the course of a single hour ^xpetienced in her romantic views more pleasure than ever she had before. Sir Henrv had traveled much, although so young; he had beheld the gorgeous remains of Rome's once imperial grandeur; had climb- ed the snow-capped Alps, and rioted in the fair valley below; ocean, and river, hill, cataract^ and lake, were all subjects on which he could expatiate with all the charms of a lively feeling ; and its effect was not lost upon a inind like Matilda's. We do not say she imme- diately became enamoured of the handsome and clever young baronet ; but he knew enough of her sense to feel that his company was not indifferent to her ; and, as he rose to leave, he pressed her to remember their " first nCieeting.** and to grant him on a future occasion the honor of a second. " Well," inquired De TOrme, " what do you think of her T' as Matilda with her aunt left the room. ' " She is a beautiful girl !" replied his companion, " quite a heroine in her langnage, rather too romantic; but that will wear ofi'l" The. Frenchman smiled, and to his companion's in- quiry, answered with something of a snoer in his tone, ** I was thinking how strange things come ^bout. No- body would have thought when we entered this house there was the remotest chance ofj'our getting a wife so soon. Though Lady Matilda (Jathcart would sound pretty enough, and how much nearer the relationship would be between you and the noble-looking baroness." *' You are jesting, Vivian," said Sir Henry, "I fear that cannot be, for I have lost heavily, us jou know, of late, and much as I respect, nay )ove, Matilda Saville, I could not afl'ord to take her portionless; besides I don't think I shall ever marry at all. " The devil ! What is your reason for setting up a la Benredictl" ** Wives are generally bores :" was the laconic reply, " at least so they say at the club." The finish of the sentence bespoke how much he was guided by the mis- taken laws of fashion. « * • • * • • Three months after the above conversation, the Lon- don season being over. Lady Feaiherfield and her niece left lown for a disUnt part of the country. It was re- ported that ill health led her to choose such a retired epof, thoiULh there were others in which her creditors' claims bole a prominent position. By a gingtUar co- incidettce. a few days afterward. Sir Henry Cathcart, who had a hunting -seat in that very part of the country. for the first time in his life, took a fancy to visit it, and with furpriu learned who were his neighbors. The baroness was delighted — \* Her old London ac(^uaint- ance to be so near them ; it was extraordinary ; it was charming^" Cathcart now had numerous opportunities of ineeting with Matilda alone. The romantic feeling whiph he had noticed in London, was here ten-fold increased ; and often would he find her by the side of some plea- sant stream, attended by a favorite dog, and lost in the pages of some fashionable author, . unconscious of his approach till he had reached her side. It was upon such occasions as these that he wound himself around her young heart, until, at length, she loitered but for his coming, and the views that once pleased her were dull and spiritless without him. Lady Feathertield heard of these repeated meetings, and only prolonged the moment of her interference, that she might, as she afterward stated, the more surely secure her niece as his bride ; nor was she awakened to a sense of her improper supineness, till she learned her niece had eloped with the young baronet. The parti- culars of their criminality, the arguments by which Sir Hepry prevailed upon Matilda to forego virtue's name, we must pass over ; suffice it she had fallen ; and as her lover lifted her from the carriage-door, the morning af- ter the elopement he exclaimed, " Kow am I blessed in the memory ot oar first meeting" It was on a gorgeous summer's evening, several years after the above events, just as the day-god was sinking below the horizon, ana crimsoning with his latest lustre the western sky, that a pale, but still beautiful woman, of about twenty-five years of age, was reclining upon a sofa, in a neat but elegantly-furnished boudoir, from the windows of which was a full prospect of Hyde Park. As its occupant gazed upon the scene, her large blue eye dilated for a moment, and then a tear filled up its place, accompanied with sobs, rendered doubly painful from the agonizing, but fruitless, attempt to suppress them. "Alas!" she murmured unconsciously, "in a little while I shall have quitted this weaT>' scene for ever; in a litde while Matilda Saville will exist but in name ; and that, alas ! will be one that conscience conjures up as too odious to give utterance to." . There is nothing, perhaps, can present a more melan- choly spectacle to the eye of fallen man, than the pic- ture of a young and beauteous creature, ere the heyday of life is passed, lying stricken with a nainful and lin- gering disease. Matilda Savage, for sne it was who now occupied the httle chamber, was in the last lin* ger fatal grasp of a consumption. A hectic fiush occa- > sionally overspread her thin transparent skin, and her eyes became pretematurally bright. But it was the dis- ease of the mind that thus oppressed her: and its ago- nizing gloom had overshadowed her soul, and nullified the usual and often efficacious attentions of the leech. It was after a reverie of more than usually intense men- tal suffering, that she gave utterance to the language above described, and then she again relapsed into a train of thought so acute, that though her features bore more the impress of somnolency than life, the cold drops of perspiration that chased each other down her brow, bespoke how deep a wound conscience's dart was making. " I will bear it no longer !" she exclaimed, springing with the excitement of the maniac from her little couch. This, this, shall decide it." With the same wild, unnatural effort, she crossed the room, and reached down a small mahogany case : it was locked, but in a moment the poker had shaUerea in the lid ; the exertion, however, was too much for her ; and ere she could make herself^ mistress of its contents she had swooned upon the ground. Scarcely bad the poor misguided victim of seduction and disease, fallen from the effects of her exertion, ere the little door of the boudpir was thrown violently open, and a young man, his hair dishevelled, his neckcloth loose and disordered, and his whole countenance in- flamed, either from drink or the most violent excite- ment, entered the apartment, followed by one who, from nis dress, was evidently a servant. "Away, sir, to your duly," exclaimed Sir Henry Cathcart, tor he it was who had thiols suddenly entered the chamber. **The villain dies'. Where is the key of my pistol-easel Where is—" The words, froze upon his lips I And the excitement of a madman and a would-be murderer were changed instantaneously to the wild, vacant gaze of unutterable despair. For a mo- ment, and a moment only, every nerve seemed para- lyzed. Then, with one long loud shriek, or cry, he pointed to the fallen form of his mistress, and exclaim- ed^ in a tone of excruciating bitterness, " Scoundrel ! this is thy work ; did I not charge thee not to leave 44 THE JEWEL OF THE HAREM. her, even for an instant, and now she is dead, and her own hand has robbed me of the only charm that could now render life supportable. Honor, fortune, friends, wife ! all, all gone ! What has Cathcart now to live fori" A few hours after the above, in another chamber lay Matilda Saville, her hand clasped in Chat of her lover. *' 1 have lost all !" ezclaimea Sir Henry. " The dice were loaded; the villaia De I'Orme and another had been playing with me for six hours, when I made the discovery. Maddened by ray losses, I hastened from the house, and despite my dress, and-the saiprise of the papers by, made for your boudoif, where 1 knew my pistols were, intending to seek summary justice upon the villain. You know the rest— my horror at finding you, as I thougtit, forever taken from me, and my joy at having; you again restored." ' Matilda arose, and with difficulty placed her emaci- ated, but still lovely hands, upon the hot brow of her "seducer. "Harry.** she exclaimed, " promise me faith- fully that you will never again touch those fatal dice ; say you will never game again 1" ^* What have I to game with now, even had I the willV he exclaimed. "Lost, ruined— a beggar; and by one to whom I have been more than brother-— the villain De l*Orme. I am a beggai^— yes, Matilda, a wretched beggar." . " Not so !" answered Matilda, " you gave me once, in happier days, ere I was the wretched being that I now am, a note for one thousand pounds, it was to buy jewels for my wedding-day: that day will never come. I have never sjient it — it is here. Take it, Harry. I shall die soon, and I shall die happy in the consolation that it will assist you. Take it, Harry, and God bless you with it." As the deeply injured girl spoke, she produced from her bosom a bank-note, and presenting It to her lover, continued— "There, Harry, it is warm from a heart that had ever loved you, but wijl soon cease to beat. I have always worn it there ; knowinjg your gay lift*, I thought the day might come when it would be of service." Then, throwing her arms around his neck, she wept. " No,- no !" gasped Sir Henry, " no, Matilda, you must not die : there are brighter days in store for us yet ; dearest, we will be happy again, though I have deceived you." As he spoke, the tear of true repent- ance stole down his cheek, with a gush of old and warm afteciion, and he added, "No, Matilda, no; I have nothing— nothing now but you." Looking in his face, witn a gaze that told how true fihe spoke, she replied, " Do not attempt to deceive me ; It is useless. I am certain that I shall not survive many days, perhaps hours; but 1 would ask one last request— Renounce your present life. There are but two paths that led to happiness, virtue and the grave ; if our feet have straved from one, |)erchance our souls may gaiff the other." Matilda sank down exhausted. "What a villain I have been '"exclaimed Sir Henry, as he gazed upon the form of his dying[ mistress, apa recalled her image as he had first beheld it in placid in- Docence. His feelings were those of mingled agony and remorse. He had loved Matilda as well as he could love anything on earth ; and her solemn and pathetic appeal had awakened thoughts his heart had always be- fore been a stranger to. He felt that he had seduced and afterward nei^Tected her; but her gentle tenderness and Hmieibiliiy of character, hei patient and unrepining endurance, and her last proof of unceasing love ih pro- viding against distress for one who had so basely de- ceived her, and afterward by his excesses brought po- verty to her dying bed, was something more than human ; it was a warmth that even friendship, strong- est of man*< ties, was tuo cold to reach; it was worthy of its name — it was woman's love ! " You shall not die, Matilda !" exclaimed Sir Henry, ** Much injured woman, the church shall first unite us. Live to call me husband, as in thy heart I feel I have ever been. With a power almost supernatural, Matilda raised herself from the bed, and grasping his hand, exclaimed with a faint smile, " My husband !" There was a pause of a moment ; it was a fearful struggle ; the tongue re- fused its office; the eye-ball sank; and she breathed rather than spoke—" repent." The next moment Sir Henry Cathcart's arms supported dust. "It wa« ray,wiFE-s first, her kut request!" he ex- claimed. Ileader,h€faithfuUyobey€dit. THE JEWEL QF THE HAREM. BY ULWBEHCB UlBBEK. NouBMAHAL wss the most beautiful of all the riaves in the seraglio of the Sulun Ben UseiT. The soft and voluptuous lustre of her laige black eye»— the delicate tint of her beautiful cheek, and the ravishing sweet- ness of her pouting lii», parting at times to betray teeth that rivalled the whiteness of new fallen snow — ^real pearls of Omar— were so many tokens that the posbes- sor was of Georgian extraction — one of the many vic- tims, that, in a late successful invasion of her unhappy country by the sultan and his troops, had been added to the harems of the Persian nobles, and of their ambi- tious and tyrannical monarch. Of all the unfortunate captives of the illustrious Sul- tan, none stood so high in his especial regard as the lovely Nourmahal, andf for her his love and esteem seemed boundless— so much so, that it ws^ suspected that a day was not far distant when the lair Georgian would share the throne of the magnificent Khooeroo Nnoshirwan Ben Useff. With much condescension, kindness and lenity did he treat his beautiful captive, but to no efiect : she re- mained firm and unswerving. She oflen repulsed him with much severiry— upbraiding him as the oppressor of her country, and the merciless jailor of her»elf and her unfortunate companions. Among the nobles of the court of Ben Useff, was Callimachus, a brave and generous priiice of the Selu- cids— a renowned and chivalrous warrior, and a zeal- ous supporter of the Sultan, though optiosed to many of his harsh and tyrannical measures. To him, then, did the Sultan communicate his ill success with the lovely Nourmahal. He pictured to him, in glowing term& the ardor of his passion for the beautiiul captive— of the many and unsuccessful attempts to ingratiate himself ia her favor, and of her continued obstinacy. " I have tempted her love," said the Sultan, " with costly and magnificent presents, and by flattery ; still she resists me, and the only reply she makes, is: 'Re- store me to my friends and my country, and I will bless you— I will pray you ?» " "And does the Kibleh Allum suspect no hitherto un- tried method of subduing the obstinacy of this bright jewel of the seraglio 1" inquired Callimachus. "Alas ! my Callimachus, none. I have exhausted all my efibrts to please, and ,my endeavors to win, to no purpose. Like the houries of Paradise, she seems rather to be dreamed of than possessed." " Favored of the prophet! do the honors which you bestow as freely as falls the dew. seem of no value in the eyes of the lovely Nourmahal V* " Even so." " Yet, deserving as ihou art, O king ! perseverance in thy desires may at length bring thee that love which thou seek est. Recollect that the illustrious Timur, when once hard pressed by his enemies, took shelter in a ruinous building, wheie for many a tedious hour he was obliged to sit alone, ere an opportunity was offered him to escaoe. While thus situated, his attention was arrested by tne efforts of an ant to carry a grain of com up a wall of great height, during which time it fell to the earth sixty-nine times, but at the teventieth time it teas tuccessftU. From 1^19. that great monarch and il- lustrious warrior received a useful leseon, by which, many times in after life, he profited much." " I acknowledge, my Calfimachus. the force of the application; but, then, Timur warred with men. Had he or the ant had to do with the .petulancy of woman, their perseverance would have failed them. However. I have another method in my brain, which I think will prove successful. I ^11 put my cause into thy handa| that you may plead before this proud Geor^an as I would plead for myself ; if you succeed according to my fondest hopes, I will requite the obligation by making thee my Vizier, and the brightest jewel in my diadem shall glitter in thy turban. Be true, be faithful, and my liberality shall know no bounds; but if thou an false, by the beard of the prophet ! my vengeance shall be terrible." ' " God is great, and Mahomet is his prophet. Even as the king of the faithful wishes it, so shall it be done," replied Callimachus. " The slave shall be removed to an apartment in the palace, where you can visit her, and I hope soon to hear that you have succeeded according to my wishes." THE JEWEL THE HAREM. 45 The Sultan quitted the apvtment, leaving Callima- chuB to ponder upon the strange trust confided to his care. The fifUi momioff after the above incident dawned beautifully and brightly. The beams of the rising sun gilded the lofty turrets and minarets of Shiraz, and cast a gleam of cheerfulness upon the countenances of the numerous throngs of rooalems that crowded Its streets — some on their way to the baths, some to' the mosques, others to the bazaars, and many for pleasure. The Bwee.t boweEB of Mosselah, and the rose gardens of the princes, sent to heaven a sweet and grateful fragrance. but among all the brightness and joyousness of the morning, there was one face shrouded in gloom. The pensive tear stood in her upraised eye, her fair cheek rested upon her hand, ana her lips were parted as though in silent prayer. It was the beautiful, the un- fortunate Nourmahal. Although removed to a more commodioufl and magnificent ayartment than was first allotted her. with a (n>or that opened upon a jgarden, still the splendor and garish magnificence which sur- rounded her, illy accorded with the feelings of the poor captive. She thought of her own dear nome, of her pansnia.. her sisten, her brothers, and her grief was too deep h>r utterance. Thoughtfully and silently she mourned, for what did she value hfe, cut off from all that she held dear, a captive, and annoyed daily with a wooer whom she abhorred Thus sat she in silent misery, when her ears caught the sound of steps approaching her apartment. Her heart uembled within her, as she thought of the Sultan and his oppressive importunities. She feared that he would not much longer mildly bear with her abhor- rence of him. She saw no gleam of hofie—she felt none. She dreaded the hour when his patience must tire and his temper fail. The door was opened, and a mild and kind voice addressed her as the most beauti- ful. It thrilled through her every nerve ; she dared not look up : but she could not be mistaken ; it must be — it was the voice of the noble Callf/raachus. As he advanced toward her, she aroseto receive him. His admiring gaze rested upon the fair being before him, and he thouf bt that never, in his brightest and haitpiest dreams of fancy, had he seen aught so lovely. For a while he seemed so rapt in wonder, that he for- got by whose request, and for what purpose, he was sent. " Most lovely, though most unfortunate !" bej^an Cal- limachps ; "the most illustrious of the faithtnl, the Saltan Ben Useff, commissioned me, his devoted slave, to wait upon the royal beauty of the seraglio, to lay be- fore her his distressed condition, and to beg the hu- manity of thy gracious favor to soothe the wound of his mnchHJiscommted heart." , ... " Return, then, to him thou callest thy master," said Nourmahal, " and tell him, that as I am deprived of my liberty, my parents, my country and my friends, life to me is as valueless as niy freedom is unexpected. There is only one way to win my esteem — none to wm my love. I hate— I defy him. He may torture me— he can iavent no torture greater than my, confinement. Death to me were indeed liberty, come in what shape it may. Tell him this ; and likewise that it is my wish be persecute roe no longer. I will hold out no hope to him— there is none ; and it were a waste of breath, of time, of words, to pursue this useless fallacy." "Alas ! sweet flower of Georgia! hast thou consid- erftd well the firmness of thy purpose^ to return such an answer to the Saltan t" . , "So wdl," replied Nourmahal, "that I had deter- mined to tell it to his face, had he presented himself in- stead of thee." " Unfortunate Nourmahal ! pained, as I am, to afliict thy maiden heart, the wishes and behests of my sove- reign must be reverenced. - Yet I could wish thee a better and a happier lot ; as the circumstances which surround thee cannot be avoided, I would advise thee to reconsider the wishes of his heart, and, if thou canst, incline toward his will." *' It is in vain, and your advice falls unheeded. Ei- ther leave, me or cease to persecute roe with the Sul- tan's importunities." Admiration for the spirited girl for a moment held Callimachtts mute, and a strange and heretofore un- known feeling trembled in his breast. At first he scarce knew what report to make to the Sultan ; but he finaUy reaolved thai when he returned, he would flatter him vrilh hopes of his ultimate success, thereby securing the opportunity of often seeing her. He therefore kindly took his leave of her, expressing a hope that he might see her again, and recommending her to think carefully upon what he had said to her. The Sultan, eaj^er to learn the success of Callimachus, impatiently awaited his return in his private apartAient. As he entered, Ben Useff rose to meet him. " Now, my Callimachus, how speeds the wooing 1 What success 1 How seemed she 1 Would she listen to you 1 By the beard of the prophet ! Had you but seen her yesterday— I thought she would smite me !" " Your serene maiesiy will be pleased to hear that she is more inclined to reason to-day : yet she is pos* sessed of great stubbornness^ which will require several days to overcome. But, I will venture to say, you may give some small encouragement to your hopes." " 'Tis very well ; and, Callimachus, begin to hope for the Viziership. Go on, as thou hast begun, and il thou art successnil, there shall be no bounds to my lib- erality." " Thy slave is ever ready at thy bidding— thou mayst command." " 'Tis good. Thou mayst now retire ; but recollect to-raorraw— to-morrow, my Callin^achus." Callimachus, bowing to the command of his sove- reign, turned to depart, and had reached the door, when the stern voice of the Sultan recalled him. " Look you, Callimachus ! see that you do no) play me false, or, by Allah !"— and he furiously stamped his foot upon the marble floor. ^* Am I ignorant of the consequ^ces 1 or dost thou think me a fool 1" replied Callimachus. " Thou art right— Callimachus is not a fool— fare well." The aspiring and ambitions noble departed. His mind was filled with contesting emotions. He had dared to look upon the queen of the seragUo— his Sul- tan's favorite— with the eyes of love ; he nad allowed himself to drink deep of the intoxicating passion — to feast his heart on the beauties of her person, and the nobleness of her mind. Alas ! he had already wan- dered far from the path of duty to his sovereign ; he felt that he was getting into a labyrinth of difficulties, from which it would be hard to extricate himself; yet, like a charmed bird, he gradually closed upon the dan- ger which he could scarcely expect would end other- wise than fatal to himself. The next day, and the next, and the next, found Cal- limachus a visitor of the lovely Nourmahal. He had forgotten, or seemed to, the interests of the Sultan, and for nimself— forhimseff alone^did he now plead; not at first with the oun)ourings of his passion, for that would have shocked the captive's ear ; but with the silent pleading of his eyes— the kind and sympathizing manner of his conversation ; endeavoring to lead her mind from the reflection of her unfortunate captivity — conversing with her of her own dear country^ till, by degrees imperceptible to herself, he won her fnendship and esteem, and at last she began to wait with impa- tience for his daily visits. In the mean time did he re-r port himself to his sovereign as rapidly progressing in his suit, and hoping shortly to remove all difficulties. For a week did he vieit Nourmahal in this manner, and the Sultan began to grow impatient. Callimachus had not yet spoken of love ; but now that things were drawing to a climax — now that the secret could not be hidden much longer, he was determined to havfe a short time of pure ecstacy— a few moments of unalloyed and fearless bliss, in breathing into the ear of the innocent and beautiful Nourmahal the adoration of his fond heart— the declaration of his devoted love ! There cou'd not be— there seemed no hope of escaping detec- tion I but his heart was firm, and his purpose was de- termined ; he would make one effort for himself and for her. and if that failed him— alas ! alas ! On the morning of the seventh day fromTeceiving his commisRion, he entered the apartment of Nourma- hal, resolved on declaring his passion. The Sultan had, on the previous day. shown evident signs of suspicion and displeasure at the length of time already taken by Callimachui«, the more so as he reflected on the beauty^ of his captive. Naturally of a pemlant and suspecting' disposition, his anxiety and impatience seemed to in- crease upon this occasion, to more than their ordinary strength, and with hasty and irregular steps did he pace the marble floors of his palace. 46 THE JEWEL OF THE HAREM. Id ihe mean time was Callimachua breathiog hw idolatry to the object of his heart's adpration. Kneeiiog before her, as she reclined upon a couch of imperial purple, did he whisper to her the fond hopee of his soul. As his heart pictured so did his tongue utter: and asiie knelt, he forgot that he was surrounded by danger, nor seemed he less happy than in his brightest and most enthusiastic visions. Although Nourmahal had been led to suspect, by the manner in which he had of late addressed her, what were the seniimcnts of his heart, yet it sun'rised her when she heard him reveal in direct words, the love he bore her, nor was she less pleased. His daily appear- ance ana kind attentionswere objects to her wnicn won her gratitude and friendship, and each day she more and. more' watched for the hour of his visit, and found greater pleasure in his sooiely. With moistened eyes and a beating heart'did she listen to the fond adulation of Callimachus, and when he had^oken to her'ali that his tongue could utter> or his heart prompt, she threw herse^ weeping on his neck, and as she lay within bis arms, heart to heart, and cheek to cheek, did the inno- cent girl vow to him the reciprocation of her first pure and virgin love. What a paradise to them were those first few brief moments of bliss ! If the heaven of the Moslem contains aught like to it, surely— surely there is some excuse for their wrong, though sincere worship. And now they had declared their love — love that in their present condition they could not enjoy. The time was fast approaching when the Sultan would learn that he had profiled nothing by the visits of Callima- chns— when he would coneidi'^r him as of no further use as a mediator, and remove from him any opportunity oi agam visiting Nourmahal. Upon this and its c6nse- (^tieoces had Callimachua- reflected ; he had not rushed into danger without planning some mode of escape. They both knew that to live apart would be misery to each, and that to enjoy it at all there must be a material change from the present, and he was about unfolding a scheme by which they might escape, when the door suddenly opened, and the Sultan strode into the middle of the room. Nourmahal sprang from the aVms of her lover, and hiding her face in her hands, iremblrngly awaited the sound of the 3ulian^s voice, while Callima- chus with folded- arms and a stern and loity -look, met his fierce and malignant glance' unquailed, and* as he knew his doom was fixed in the Sultan's mind, he was determined to await his fate with that coolness and courageous firmness which had so conspicuously shone in the many battles he had foughufor his sovereign. With inefifable scorn, hatred and contempt did the Sultan regard the objects of his displeasure for a few moments, then callings a guard which was always within hearing, he said : '' "Take this traitor— this recreimt, lovesick lord to prison ; and at noon to-morrow bring me his head, and Jet his dog of a carcase be taken to the plains without the city, fit only for what it will become, food for the ravenous hyenas and jackalls. Away! and see that it is performed, or, by the sword of the holy pro- phet ! there is not a head among ye all that shall not share his fate !" - Instantly tlid the satraps of the Sultan surround the unfortunate Callimanchus to conduct him to his prison, and as they crossed the threshhold of the apartment, a loud shriek was uttered by Nourmahal, and she fell senseless at her captor's feet. Alone, and in his dungeon, Callimachua had leisure to reflect upon his fate. He knew that a fimit had been set to his life, and he made up his mind to ineet, with a philosophical resignation, what he knew to be inevita- ble. While thus reflecting upon his situation, he began to think upon ihe possibility of an escape. He was acquainted with every cell in the prison, and there was a glimmer — one slight ray of hope lighted up the dreari- ness of his condition. There was one cell from which he might escape— only one, and the hope that now remained to him was, that he might be in it. Adjoining one of the cells was another, similar in con- struction, separated by a thick, strong wall of stone, in which v^as a small grated window with upright bars, to all appearance firmly set in the massive wall. In one of these had Callimachusbeen placed^which he ascertained by groping aronnd ii^ the dark. The other apartment was used for the storage of implements of torture, irons for the hands and feet of prisoners, chains, and numerous articles which had been laid aside fbr want of repair. As Callimachua ascertained his situation in the prison, hia heart grew lighter: but there were many diflliculties yet to overcome. In the first place, he had to await lor the approach of night, which he did with as much patience as he could acquire ; to him it seemed the longest da^ he had ever passed; but it did at last roll away^ and as night ^therfd her sable curtain around the city, and hour after hour paused away, till Callimachus thought it. must be midnight, he began to prepare himself for the task that was to him either life or death. He ap- proached the grated window, and with athrobbing heart did he grasp its rusted bars. He applies his strength — his hopes increase— they yield, ana give him entrance to the next apartment "Then cautiously did he grope his way to the foot of a flight of steps which led to the floor above his prison. His foot was upon the first step -^ihe second— the third— he mounted to the top;- he listened— not a sound fell upon his ear ; he put his hand upon the door, and for a moment he hesitated, for upon the chance of its being unfastened, depended all his hopes of escaping. He hardly dared venture to try it, for he trembled between hope ondfear, and one moment would either increase his hopes, or sink him in the lowest despondency. With a sudden efibrt, he brought his mind to a point of determination. He recollected that it was frequently unlocked, for the jailor was il^norant.of any secret communication between tbatceil and those occupied for the detention of prisoners. There was but one besides himself who kikew the secret, and. that one was in Ispahan. He tried the door-t-it opened^ and the fresh air played, on his face ; he stepped softly into the entrance hall of the prisop ; the door that opened upon the street was ajar as though SQme ' person had but for a mpment gqne out. To avail him- self of this opportunity was but the thought of an instant, and rushing into the street, he sped onward as fast as his feet would carry him, nor did be stop till without the city, and free from the tyrant's grasp. The first thought of Callimachus^ when he found himself safe, was to revenge himself upon the Sultan, and secure his beloved Nourmahal from a worse fate than had awaited himself lie pursued his way into Eborasan— enlisted the noblps on his side, and in a short time was' enabled ta THiae an army sufficient to make Ben Useff tremble. It was a time when rival chief tains fought, in their sove- reign's name, their own battles, and the country on one side was ravaged with the Uzbecks,and on the other by the Ottomans. With a powerful army, raised by the friendship of the reigning prince orgovemnrof Khorasan.he marched into the province of Faris. The success of nis arms was complete— he had beaten ihe Sultan's troops in every instance, and at last encamped at night within a day's march ofShiraz, in an open plain, and in view of which reposed the main army of the Sultan, commanded by himself, after a weary day's march, uponun eminence within a mile of them. The decisive battle was yet te be fought, and nn sooner had the light of the following morn began to appear, than both armies were busy in preparing for the ensuing contest. ^ At last the signal for the onset was given and the opposing forces met. The Sultan himself led on the van of his army, and presented a fair opportunity for the marksmen of the mvadeis: but every javelin fell harmle^— every weapon turned from him, and he fought with the ferocity T>f a ti«er. The victory seemed doubtful ; many fell on both sides, and the slaughter was becoming immense, when the at- tention of the armies was directed to a place where the two leaders were engaged in severe combat, face to face —the Sultan and Callimachus [ For awhile it seemed doubtful which would' be the victor, but the youth and coolness of Cirllimachus prevailed, .and one blow of his keen scijnetar clove the tyrant's scull, and in a short time after, the whole army capitulated, and the con- quering Callimachus entered Shiraz as its lord and mas- ter, who^ but a short time before, made his escape from it a fugitive. His first act was to seek Nourmahal, and claim her, without the fear of a rival, for his blushing bride. He found her in the room where he had last seen her. still a captive, but pure and unstained. She shrieked for joy when she saw him enter, and fell swooning into his arms. The reel is soon told. They were shortly after united, and lived long and happily together, beloved by the peo- ple whom they governed, and reelected by their friends* THE NECROMANCER. THE NECROMANCER. "Ho! Sorcerer! Magician! Come forth." These outcries proceeded from a parly of voung men, just re- turned from witnessing the funeral of Charles VII. at St. Denis, and who were knocking violently at a door, on the top of a dark and winding staircase, in the rue St. Pierre. They were replied to by a feeble and • broken voice ; but they heard it not, so vociferously did they call. , , . ''^What! — Necromancer!*' At last the .door was slowly qpened by the object of their search. " What seek ye, my children 1" " We would know the future ; and thou canst dive S' to each man's destiny, thou high priest of the Evil ae— king of sorcerers!^ Come, and tell us quickly; and see that the intelligence be to our liking: for it needs none of thy skill to know that our rapiers have sbarp points.'^ repeated Mande Thebergan, the eldest of the party, as he directed an inquiring, though fearful, glance into the old man's mysterious dwelling. It was only lighted by a small la^p, the glimmering flame oi which scarcely enabled him to distinguish, in one cor- ner of it, a human skeleton; in another^a heap of dusty books; on the floor, spheres and astrolabes, and, fixed to the ceiling, between two beams, an immense white stnfied owl, whose large eyes glared with peculiar bril- liancy, although reflected only by the feeble light of the lamp. Al^ this produced a tearful efl'cct upon the sua- ceptible mind 6t Mande, already predisposed to the su- girnatural, and a positive belief m the t)ld man's power, e was unable to withdraw his gaze from those two large round eyes which were ghttering in the shade, and stood wmpt in the deepest thought, when he was at length aroused by the loud and boisterous laugh of his companions, who were taimting the old man for his want of skill. ... , •„ . When Mande's turn came, he hesitated : tilL jeered by his comrades, he at length held out bis hand ; but it was observed that his manner was grave, and his air thoughtful. ** Mande," exclaimed the old man, and he had not told his name. *' Mande," he- murmured between his teeth ; and he wbispKred some "words in his ear inaudi- ble to the others of the party. . " What has he said to you 1" eagerly inquired his companions; but Mande was silent, and' quitted the place, pale as death; The next morning Maude's first thought was of the necromancer; all night long.he had beheld him in his dreams. The low voice of the magician still murmured in his ear; and when he awoke from his troubled sleep, the last word still vibrated in his ears. '* Am I then . reserved for that 1 and most I then ," he inwardly exclaimed; and his noble heart revolted. at his own conjurings. ** And who told me thial A wretch who laxuridtes upon the ccedulity of mankind— who attacks my purse through the medium of my fears. I am a fool to think of it." He arose, .and went out, but nothing could divert him ; even in the streets he seemed to see but the sorcerer, and to hear but his fatal woids. Timid by nature, and weakened by the excesses of his life, the efl'ects of the sorcerer's prediction, acting upon an enfeebled mind, acquired au all-powerful intensity. After wandering through the city till past the hour of noon, striving to escape from the horrible idea that pursued him, he nought some of his companions of the preceding even- ing, but society he found was a burden to him ; he therefore quitted them to wander alone in the fields. The sun was bright, but to him the heavens appeared clouded ; a balmv and refreshing breeze played around him, but he felt not its soothiog power— his heart was chilled. One dark, freezing, dreadful idea haunted his iaiagination. As he was retracing his steps to his lodg- ^iags, in that despairing mood that takes posaeasion of the mind when nature has no longer any charms for us, and was on the point of crossing LaGreve— he suddenlv stopped short : for he beheld a newly-erected scanold. IViih a convulsiTe shudder he turned aside ; it remind- ed him of the words of the sorcerer ! He could no longer sleep in La Rue Chevet Samt I^nday, which was. opposite La Greve ; he, therefore, gaitted the capital, and took up his residence in a ha- itation situated between Paris and Montmartre. There Ite saw bur little, and heard but little ; if seemed to him liface the silence of the desert at the very gates^of a po- pulous city ) and there he hoped that his troubled ima- gination might have recovered its tone and tranquillity, and the dreadful words of the necromancer iiughl be gradually weakened from the mysterious power ihey had acquired over him— but, alas! they had found a ready echo within his breast always ready to repeat them. The house was inhabited by an old couple and their daughter, the idolized child of their bid age : she was truly beautiful. She had one of those Madonna heads that an ideal style of beauty, such as genius in its haj[>- piest moments of inspiration conceives— black hair plait- ed across her forehead — ^lustrous dark eyes, and a com- plexion pale and transparent as the finest alabaster. — Such was this young maiden, who, with her parents, lived Uke Mande in a state of utter seclusion from the world. No one even knew their names— once he heard the old father address his daughter by the name of Ni- cole. 'Nicole became for him a beloved name, that at times could make him forgei his cherished Sorrow. Love dawned in his bosom, and every sombre idea was eclipsed by its dazzling rays. Nicole, the beautiful Nicole— she haunted him in his dreams; in his medita- tions, even in his prayers, and if he could only catch a glimpse of her as she crossed like a spirit before him, it was for him a day of happiness. He then thought him- self delivered, and oh ! how dearly he loved the object . who had dissipated ilie horrid phantoms and gloomy terrors of his imagination ; often did he steal toward her and bless her in the soft language of love. One Sunday morning he met her in the church of the Abbey of Montmarte ; she was on her knees and pray- ing so fervenUy, that he felt she .must possess a conn- ding— a loving heart ; and when she raised her head ana met his earnest gaze, her pale cheek was slighdy tinged with a blush, and in that timid look there was so much piety and tenderness, that he said to himself. *' surely that is love !" Nor was he mistaken, she did indeed love Mande — she had loved him long and in se- cret, and she revealed it in her glance. He passed that night revelling on the delicious belief, that he was not alone in the world, that he was beloved : and in the joy of the mpment it seemed to him, that he had only to a^k her in marriage of her parents, and obtaih her. He therefore resolved to. tajie this step in the morning'; he could dread no refusal : and he pictured to himself the paradise of a home — of the joys of love— of felicity I *' If happiness is to be found in this world," he mentally exclaimed, " surely this is happiness." But suddenly these golden reveries were diBSjpa ted by the recollection of the tatal words of the soicerer! They came like a damp upon his heart, and froze his very blood. " Hap- piness r he sighed forth, ** happiness! did I say 1" he bitterly exclaimed ! " No, no. not for me, not for the doomed! never shall I taste of happiness.^' His bright hopes deserted him, and he rela()^d into his former gloomy imaginings, which the enchanti;nent of two months' love had partially banished from hts mind. The dreadiul words of the necromancer appeared to him more inevtiable than ever— his wife then would press to her bosom one cursed by heaven-- one already bran- ded by fate, and doomed to his very soul shrupk within him as the word rushed with tenfold force upon his recollection, and he raved in his HUguish, and de- nounced the Almighty, whom he fancied had cast him to irrevocable doom. That very morning he disappeared; evening came» but he returned not ; day afiet day passed^ and month after month, bpt Mande came not again Nicole ten- derly loved him— for she wept bitterly, and vowed she would never marry. The nei(j[hbor8 on his disappearance, recollecting his dejected air and moody habits, supposed that he had made away with himself;- Nicole trembled at the very idea'^a suicide! one whom she had loved so dearly*— she could not believe i^ ; and yet, could she have known the truth, she would have found that the fear of an here- after haq alone withheld the poniard from his bosom— ' devotion had that once saved him from despair. It was on the first of May, 1465, that Mande once more entered Paris: he had been absent five years. The'thought of Nicole still haunted him, and he longed to see her bright angelic face once more, for he had re- tiimed, from over the sea, to worship at the shrine of his first love. He had retained his residence near Montmartre, and trembling, he dire^^ted his steps thither —he was obUged to traveise the quarter of the Hoilea 48 THE NECROMANCER. to reach it-— and, had made a detour to avoid the Place de GreVe. so hateful to him. He was jost entering La Rue de Garnelles, when the sound of mueie attracted his attention, and he perceived a crowd of people ap- proaching. He made some inquiries of a bystander, who told him thai it was a marriage, the nuptials of the son of Henry Cousin, the execotioner of I'aris, and of the daughter of Merry Capiloche, the retired execu- tioner oT the city of Kouen. " A splendid and weU- aasorted match, truly, sir stranger,'* said the man, with a grin. Manae shuddered at the words spoken so lightly, but with such awful meaning to himself. The fatal words rung in his ears as plainly as on the night of his carousal. He had long since become convinced of their truth, and with gloomy tranquillity he awaited his time. The idea had become his faith— his creed— Ur> vary breath of his life — so powerfully was he absorbed in bis belief, that he no longer wrestled with it— no longer endeavored to shake off the delusion which had assumed to his diseased imagination all the circum- sOince of reality. It even impelled him onward^ and, by a mysterious and invisible influence, urged him to anticipate its fulfilment. He walked onward; the mirth and gaiety of the crowd was sickening to him; he wished to avoid the people, but the procession was close upon him, and he stood to see it pass. The bride and bridegroom were returning from the nuptial benediction, greeted bv the plaudits 9f the populace. Mande cast a hurried glance at the principal personage of the pageant, when, instead of turning with his usual disgust at any thing like re- joicing, his gaze became fixed, his eyes were rivited upon that. face. The blood forsook Lis countenance, his lips quivered, he covered his face with his hands, and looked a^rain, as one bewildered. Good God '• was it an apparation ! or waa it a dreadful reality 1 It was too true^ the beautiful—the adored Nicole was there before him, the daughter and wife of an executioner ! — Ho staggered against the wall for support.— Yes, then she was more beautiful than when he first* saw her— the only bright gleam in his dark and troubled life. It was all over ; ifin his hours of reflection he might have entertained some doubts of the horrible fate that hung over hini,^hey had vanished at a single glance. From that moment a species of monomania seized on him. Eveiv place of punishment had a charm for him — ^it was a bloody magnet that attracted him. The gibbet of Montfaucon, that of Monti^y, the scaflblds erected Mn the Place de Greve and m the HolIe8».he visited every day. He no longer went to pray but in the church of St. Jean de Greve, .where the condemn- ed are prepared for death, and where they heard their last mass. Days of happiness had followed the nuptials which had overwhelmed Mande with such sudden terror. Petit Jehan^ loved his beautiful Nicole more and more, who had given him a boy the image of bis mother. Never was child so caressed and beloved, and he was growing in all the happiness and reoose of innocent childhood ; while Mande, who had aaored his mother, was struggling with the anguish of a lite that had been insupportable. Four years had elapsed since he saw Nicole on her way from the altar. One cloudy day, Mande quitted his retreat : he had become a misaninorpe. and shunned the Ught of day. He entered Paris by the street of La Porte Montmar- tre, his pace was irregular, his right hand covered his forehead, across which passed clouds as dark as those which obscured the horizon. He had passed a terrible night— he felt that his hour had at length arrived— that a powerful and irresistible hand was urging him to his fate, while a voice whispered continually in his ear the same words that he beard the sorcerer utter. Despair was in his look — his face was wild and haggard-^his hands were dry and hot — a fire was burning within him, and his throat was parched— a horrible desire came oyer him— be felt that he could only quench his consuming thirst in m.ogp ! A young man approached him. He was attired gaily, as though he were going to some festival ; a smile was on his countenance, and he ■ was humming a chansonnette. With the frightful in- stinct of his distemper, Mande had unclasped a knife with a long thin blade ; the expression of his counte- nance was fiendish, and, as though aware of his repul- sive aspect, he shielded it from the light of day by his broad slouched hat ; but the feeling ol his better nature came over him. " Shall I^" muttered he ; " shall I send a soul to his last account, perhaps with crime upon his head ? bis eternal punishment will be added to ray weight of guilt. No! no! some other victim more innocent than he ;'*— and he was proceeding along, casting about him furious glances of deadly import. " Ha !" said he, ** shall I strike that young maiden, she has the very look of purity and innocence 1'* As he spoke these words a young giil caaie bounding onward; the glow of health and beauty was on her cheek, and her eye seemed tighted up with joy and love. *' But what if I pierce two hearts in one 1" he muttered ; ** she has perhaps an expectant lover ; at a single blow I shall destroy two— the scafibld demands not that:" he reached the comer of La Rue de Gar- nelle. At fifty paces from him was a group of children playing in all the innooency of childhood. How joyoos their cries^how sparkling their eyes — ^how graceful their movement — it was the beau-ideal of joyous life. Mande suddenly stopped, and riveted his glance upon the youngest of the group with flowing chestnut curls and rosy cheeks. '* He is an innocent soul, pure as the wings of angels : I can do no injuiy to hiqi. He is an angel that- 1 shall send back to paradise-7-poor little one, I shall perhaps save thee from many evils, perhaps from crime. How sweet to snatch a human being -from the . sight of such torments as mine." While thus holding fearful converse with himself^ he advanced gradually toward the children, who, excited by his presence; played with renewed ardor. Mande was now within a few paces of the children ; three or four of them ran toward him, and sought to attract hie attention by their innocent gambols. Once he was on the point of retracing his steps; but he could noi—he knew hi$ time was come ! The children gathered round him, and all addressed him at once ; he lifted up in his arms the little creature with the chesnut curls. " Oh ! he is only four years old ; he is the yoiingest of us all,*' exclaimed his little companions. "He is only four years old: he is the youngest and the mo£t innocent," said Manae to himself. And as he encircled him with one of his arms, his dreadful mania came strongly over him ; blood was in his thought— he thirsted only for blood— and his eyes gleamed with the dreadful insanity. The little innocent was frightened at his looks. " Let me go," he cried, struggling to get free- "let me go and play ;" but Mande clutched him convulsive- ly toward him, and plunged the long knife deep in his heart. A stream of blood bubbled from the wound, and the little creature gasped and fell dead with hifl tiny white arms circling the neck of his murderer. The laughter of the children was quickly transformed into cries of terror at the sight of blood. The neighbors ran to the spot ; but Mande made not the slightest at- tempt to escape— he had fulfilled hir destiny. The watch arrived and seized Mande, who, a few days af- terward, was condemned by M. Robert d'Estourville, provost of Paris, to die upon the tcaffM f . On the day following the trial, the condemned, car- rying a lijifhted torch, proceeded barefooted to the place of execution, before tne gates of Notre Dame. As he passed along to the fatal spot the impreqations of the women 'were dreadful : maternal love assumed a sa- vage tenderness that eloquently burst forth — the moihera embraced their little onej, and pressed them wildly to their bosoms as the assassin passed along. Having at length reached the fool of the scaffold, Mande ascended the steps with a firm^ composure : he was supported liy the innate conviction that he had obeyed a law that was inevitable, and he found himself standing face to face to a young executioner whom he had never seen before. They stood alone above the immense crowd below. ** Come, little Jehan— this is your first essay ; remem- ber a father ought not to miss the anauin of an child /\ These encouraging words proceeded from Master Henri Cousin, his sire, and from Master Merry Capiluche. who bore the same affinity to Nicole — it was her child that he had slain. All was prepared Little Jehan waved his thirsty sabre round his head, and as it made Us fatal descent the last mortal sounds that shook the ears of the unfonunate Mande was a hoarse guttural laugh, which proceeded from the old necromanc(?r at the foot of the sc? Told. His ptedicUon was fulfilled— JManrf« died upon i,iu scaffold t , // , //■■ / Jfi? :-\ ilff but tie tiafl Tini vanity fn think hi^ Hjs]sp{iraticc magnificent : attd his |>3ftin and pcEinly wardrobe prt- vtnied him from firing ihr oredii to" hi^ tailor. He used In conclude hi*r nipdaatlon?! hy the reflfetjon thai assuredly the lovely widow was fiilhlling some unavoid- ttt Se a w ard 0 r de?U n y H As f o r h i"? o w n fee 1 i ng , the I ad y was lovely, young, rkh, accomplished, end noled for hf r ^naibiliry and virtue. Could he hesitntp T '* My de^T Frederirjk,** aaid the lady, smilingly, "sU down besiide me, and Jei me i^y aomeiiiing lo you *' Vol. l.-No. IV, walked olonfl, piipporiinE my eteiip, I ihen, thmL veil, distinctly snw your facf? and figure/' "My ligtire!*'^ mid Frederick, in ainazPTiient., " Vts, my friend, ynnr fisure," relumed hifi wife, ' was ro me yoii gmvtf alms on that ni^ht. Tt wafl my life, my honor, twrbafj^, that yuu then saved!" ** You B meudicani ! you, so young, bo beautiful, tnd now so rich :" cried Frederick, " Ye?, my dearest hushandj" replied Ihe lady, " I have in my Ejfe received aim?, ODce only, and from yon. THE ROVER. With bodlei how to clothe ideas, taught; And how to draw the picture of a thought. A PIECE OF A HUNDRED "SOUS. A TOVKG and handsome couple had just returned from the altar where their destiaies were irrevocably united. They were about to start for the country, and they had bidden a temporary farewell to the friends who were present nt the ceremony. For a short time, while the equipage was preparing, they found themselves alone. The newly wedded nusband took one of his bride^s hands in his own. ** Allow me, my dear Marie," said he^ " thus to hold your hand, for dread lest you should quit me. I dread lest all this be an illusion. It seems to me that I am the hero of one of those fairy tales which amused my boyhood, and in which,^ io the hour of happiness, some malignant fairy steps in to throw the victim into grief and despair !'* " Re-assure yourself, my dear Frederick," said the lady. '* I was yesterday the widow of Sir James Mel- ton, and to-day I am Madame de la Tour, your wife, your own Marie. Banish from your mind the idea of the fairy.. This is not a fiction, but a history." Frederick de la Tour had some reason to suppose that his fortunes were the work of a fairy's wand ; for in the course of t^o short months, by a seemingly in- explicable stroke of fortune, he had been raised to hap- piness and to wealth beyond desires. A friendless or- phan, twenty-five years old, he had been the holder of a clerkship, which brought him a scanty livelihood, when, one day, as he passed along the Rue St. Honore, a rich equipage stopped suddenly before him, and a young and elegant woman called from it to him. " Monsieur, Monsieur," said she. At the same time, on a given signal, the footman leaped down, opened the carriage ctoor, and invited Frederick to enter. He did BO, though with some hesitation and surprise, and the carriage started off at full speed. " I have received your note, sir," said the lady to M. de la Tour, in a very soft and sweet voice ; and spite of your refusal. I hopeyet to see you to-morrow evening at ray party." *• To Bee me, madame !" cried Frederick. ** Yea. sir, you Ah ! a thousand pardons !" con- tinued sde, with an air of confusion ; " I see my mis- take. Forgive roe, sir; you are so like a particular friend of mine ! What can you think of me 1 Yet the resemblance is so striking that it would have deceived any one." Of course Frederick replied politely to these apolo- gies. Jttst as they were terminated, the carriage stopped at the door of a splendid mansion, and the young man conld do no leas than offer his arm to Lady Melton, as the fair stranger announced herself to be. Her extreme beauty charmed M. de la Tour, and he congratulated bimself upon this happy accident,, which had gained him such an acquaintance. Lady Melton loaded him with civilities, and he received and accepte^} an invita- tion for the party spoken of Invitations to other par- ties followed : and, to be brief, the young man soon found himself an established visitant at the house of Ladjr Melton. She, a rich and youthful widow, was encircled by many admirers; one by one, however, disappeared, giving way to the poor cferk* who seemed to engross the lady's thoughts. Finally, almost by her own asking^ they were betrothed. Frederick used to look sometimes at the little glass which hung in his humble lodging, and wonder to what circumstance he owed his happy fortune. He was not ill-looking, cer- tainly^ but he had not vanity to think his appearance magnificent ; and his plain and scanty wardrobe pre- vented him fron^ giving the credit to his tailor. He used to conclude his meditations hy the reflection that assuredly the lovely widow was fulfilling some unavoid- able award of destiny. As for his own feeling, the lady was lovely, young, rich, accomplished, and noted for her aenaibihty and virtue. Could he hesitate 1 *' My dear Frederick," said the lady, smilingly, ''sit down beside me, and let me say something to you." Vol. l.-No.lV, The young husband obeyed, but still did not quit her hand. She began — " Once on a time — '* Frederick started^ and half seriously exclaimed, " Heavens ! it is a fairy tale !" ** Listin to me, foolish boy !** resumed the lady. " There was once a young girl, the daughter of parents well bom, and at one time rich, but who had declined sadly in circumstances. Until her fifteenth year, the family lived in Lyons, de- pending entirely for subsistence upon the labor of her father. Some belter hopes sprang up, and induced them to come to Paris ; but ii is ditncult to stop in the descent down the path of misfortune. For three years the father struggled against poverty, but at last died in a hospital. ** The mother soon followed, and the young girl was left alone, the occupant of a garret of which the rent was not paid. If there was any fairy connected with this f tory, this was the moment for her appearance ; but none came. The young girl remained alone, with- out friends or protectors, harrassed by debts which she could not pay, and seeking in vain for some species of employment. She found none. Still it was necessary for her to have food. The night that followed was sleepless. Next day she was again without food, and the poor girl was forced into the resolution of begging. She covered her face with her mother's veil, the only heritage she had received, and stooping so as to imitate age, she went out into the streets When there, she held out her hand. Alas ! that hand was white, and yeuthful, and delicate ! She felt the necessity of cover- ing it up in the folds of the veil, as if it had been lepro- sied. Thus concealed, the poor giri held out the hand to a young woman who passed — one more happy than herself— and asked, * a sous, a single sous to get bread !' The Mtition was unheeded. An old man passed. The menaicant thought that experience of the distresses of life might have softened one like him ; but she was in error. Experience had only hardened, not softened his heart. ^' The night was cold and rainy, and the hour had come when the police appeared to keep the streets clear •f mendicants and suspicious characters. At this pe- riod, the shrinking girl took courage once more to hold out her hand to a passer-by. It was a young man. He stopped at the silent appeal, and diving into his pockets, Eulled out a piece of money, which he threw to her, eing apparently afraid to touch a thing so miserable. Just as he did tnis, one of the police came to the spot, and placing his hand on the girl's shoulder, exclaimed, * Ah ! I have caught you, have 1 1 You are a-begging. To the office with you '. come along.'. The young man here interposed. He took hold hastily of the mendi- cant, whom he had before seemed afraid to touchy and, addressing himself to the policeman, said reprovingly, * This woman is not a beggar. No, she is— she is one whom I know.' *But, sir,' said the officer. *I tell you she is an acquaintance of mine,' said the young stranger. Then, turning to the girl, whom he took for an old woman, he continued, * Come along, my good dame, and permit me to see you safely to the end of the street ;' giving his arm to the unfortunate girl, he led her awav, saying, * Here is a piece of a hundred sous. It is all 1 have ; take it, poor woman.* " The crown of a hundred sous passed from your hand into mine," continued the ladv, "and as you walked along, supporting my steps. I then, through my veil, distinctly saw your face and figure.*' •* My figure !" said Frederick, in amazement. ** Yes, my friend, your figure," returned his wife, *• it was to me you gave alms on that night. It was my life, my honor, perhaps, that you then saved!" "You a mendicant ! you, so young, so beautiful, and now so rich !" cried Frederick. " Yes, my dearest husband," replied the lady, ** I have in my life received alms, once only, and from you. THE STUDENT OF ESSLINGEN. and those alma have decided my fate for life. On the day foUowio^ that miserable mght, an old-\voman, in whom I had inspired some sentiments of pity, enabled me to enter into the family of an English gentleman, a bachelor, who was then, with his two sisters, residing in Paris. She gave me a letter of presentation and re- commendation. , I felt very tbankfiil for this. I hastily prepared myself in my best apparel, adapting it, as near as possible, in such a manner aa seemed least like the fashion of the city, and departed for the residence of Sir James Melton. Wlih a beating heart did I ap- poach the door. I knocked— it seemed not half as nard as the throbbing in my bosom. The door was opened by an elderly woman, the housekeeper. Why I was not frightened from my purpose, I cannot tell, for a more forbidding and severe face I never saw. rer- ^ haps I trembled at the misery of the past. I stated my object— showed my letter, and the woman looked more cross, and I felt more miserable. She told me that the ladies were out — that there was no one at home but Sir James— I could see him ; but she thought there could scarce be any need of me— that I must have been mistaken. I felt sick at heart. I thought of mv'dead parents, and envied them. Discouraged by this re- pulse. I turned to depart, when I heard within the Bound of a gentleman's voice. The few first words I could not understand, but he ended by ordering the cross old housekeeper to show me in. I entered his room.. The first sight of him gave me hope ; be spoke, and his kind tones assured me. He was sitting at a table, in his m9niing-gown, engaged in writing. He inquired my busineas. and I handed to him the letter, which he opened ana read ; then asking me a few ques- tions, he remarked that his sisters were both out, but that I bad better wait for their return. In the mean time, the old lady seemed no well-pleased witness of the scene, standing with her hands upon the back of Sir James* chair. I had not waited more than half an hour, before the ladies returned. Sir James made known to them the object of my call, which ended in inv being encaged. Cheerfulness returned to me with labor. 1 haa the good fortune to become a favorite, and, indeed, I dia my best to merit it. One day, when I had been in the family about six months, sir James asked me to give him my history. I did 80, and he seemed much struck with it. The re- sult was, that he sat down by my side one day, and asked me plainly if I would marry him. *** Marry you !' cried I, in surprise. ^ " Sir James Melton was a man of sixty. In answer to my exclamation of astonishment, he said, ' Yes, I ask if you will be my wife 1 I am rich, but have no comfort, no happiness. My relatives seem to yearn to ■ee me m the grave. I have ailments which require a deep degree of kindly care, that is not to be bought from servants. I have heard your story, and believe you to be one who will support prosperity as well as you have done adversity. I make my proposal sin- cerely, and I hope you may agree to it.' "At that time, Frederick," continued the lady, "1 loved you. I had seen you but once, but that occasion was too memorable for me ever to forget it, and some- thing always insinuated to me that we were to pass through life together. Yet every one around me pressed me to accept tne offer made to me, and the thought struck me that I might one day make you wealthy. At length my only objection to Sir James Melton's pro- posal lay in a disinclination to make myself the instru- ment of vengeance in Sir James* hands, against rela- tives whom he might dislike without good grounds. The objection, when stated, only increased his anxiety for my consent; and finding it would be carrying ro- mance the length of folly to reject the advantageous ■ettlement offered to me, I consented to Sir James* proposal. ** This part of my story, Frederick, is like a fairy tale. I, the poor orph^iu penniless ana friendless, be- came the wife of one of the richest baronetsj of Eng- land. Dressed in silks, and sparkling with jewels, I could now pass in my carriage through the streets where a few months before I had stood m the rain and darkness a mendicant." "Happy Sir James!" cried M. de la Tour, at this part of the story ; " he could prove his love by enrich- ing yoo." " Hfr was happy," resumed the lady. " Our mar- Tuig^f 80 Strangely aasorted, proved much more condu- cive, it is probable, to his comfort, than if he had wed- ded one with whom all the paracfe of settlements and f>in-money would have been necessary.' Never, I be- ieve, did he for an instant repent of our union. I, on my part, conceived mjrsetf bound to do my best for the solace of his declining years; and he, on his part, thought it incumbent on him to provide for my future welfare. He died, leaving me a large part of his substance — as much, indeed, as 1 could prevail upon myself to accept. " I was a widow, and, from the hour m which I be- came bo, I would never again consent to give my hand to a man, except to him who had succored me in my hour of distress, and whose remembrance had ever been preserved in the recesses of my heart. But how to discover that man! Ah, unconscious ingrate! to make no endeavor to come in the way of one who sought to love, to cherish you. In vain I looked for you at balls, assemblies and theatres. You went not there.*' As the lady spoke, she took from her neck a riband, to which was attached a piece of a hundred earned enough afterward in time to permit me to re- deem it I vowed never to part with it, " Ah, how happy I was, Frederick, when I saw yon in the Street ! The excuse which I made for stopping you was the first which arose to my mind. But what terrors I felt even afterward, lest you should have been already married. In that case you would never have heard aught of this fairy tale, though I would have taken some means or other to serve and enrich you. I would have gone to England, and there passed my days, in regret perhaps, but still in peace. But happily it was to be otherwise. You were single." Frederick de la Tour was now awakened, as it were, to the full certainty of his happiness. What he could not but before look upon as a sort of freak of fancy in a young and wealthy woman^ was now poved to be the result of deep, kindly feeling, most honorable to her who entertained it. The heart of the young husband overflowed with gratitude and affection to the lovely and noble-hearted being who had gi^en herself to him. He was too happy to speak. His wife first broke si- lence. " So, Frederick," said she, gaily, " you see that if I am a fairy, it is you that have given me the wand, the talisman, that has effected all." THE STUDENT OF ESSLINGEN. Books, dreami, are each a world.~WoRofwoaTH- Thxke was at one time, in the university of Easlingen, a young student named Herder, whose retired habits and excessive appUcation to hooka, had gained him some notice from the heads of his college, while by his beer-drinking fellow-students he was scarcely known out of the lecture-room : for while they made up noisy parties, and drank and smoked, sang, wakzed and quarrelled, he was bent over some book in his poor lodging on the outskirts of the city, (German students not living within the walls of their colleges,) and his hours were spent in toiling but for one object, the at- tainment of collei^e honors, by which he would at once receive the qualifications for a pastor. One night near the close of June, the beauty of the weather seduced him from his desk, and he took the road out of the city, and strolling along beneath limes and oak trees, watched the last green tinge left in the skies by the departed sunlight, and lulled by the serenity of the hour, he fell into a reverie upon bis own hopes and prospects. Castles in the air are the bright inherit- ance of the young, and the poor student continued to build them, while the twilight deepened and the stars gleamed faintly over his path. Suddenly his dream was broken by the sound ot carriage- wheels coming at a great rale along the road ; then there were shouts, a whirring sound, and a crash, and hurrying forward. Herder saw four plunging horses held oy postillions, and a carriage overturned on the roadside; a groom was assisting a lady iliroogh the door, and the student hastened to her hefp also. She was easily extricated, and Herder expressed his hopes that she bad not been hurt ; and when she an- swered, he perceived that she was closely masked; but THE STtJDENT OF ESSLINGEN. SI her air was highly distinguiahed and her person noble, and he became interested wiih the singularity of his adventure. The lady declined his offer to see her to a house in the neighborhood while the carriage was righted, and she remained standing at the loadside, and conversed with him. Among other f which chat fair mask, with those beautiful and mean- ing eyes, seemed ever to be before him. Day followed day : Herder had returned to his books, and found in them that calm which perhaps is their greatest attraction to the unhappy ; but he wrote more than usual, his thoughts flowed into verse, and now wild and glowing, now sad and bitter, poem after poem was rapidly com posed . On the third evening from that of his remembered meeting with the lady, he had lighted his lamp and ar- ranged his books, and casting one look on the pleasant gardens without, lighted by the summer moon, had closed the casement, when he was startled by the sound of faint music that seemed to be within his cham- ber; be smiled, and thought it could be only fancy. No, there again, and a low chaunting was heard at his door. The sounds were so spiritual, that when they melted away. Herder stood breathless; always imagin- ative, his secluded life had left him peculiarly open to Bupematural impressions. He sprang to the door, and when he had opened it, the masked lady glided into the room. She stood for a moment in silence, regarding the ob- 1'ccts around her, and then turning to poor Herder, who ooked on in amazement, she murmured, in a melan- choly voice : 'U said that I should see you again. And this is your home,^ she continued, fixing upon him those dan- gerous eyed, and added, in an almost pitying tone, •* and arc you happy V* The bfood mounted to the pale cheek of the student at the strangeness of the question: yet there was such an indefinite grace mingled with tier air of command, that Herder was almost charmed by her abruptness. "Without seeming to expect an answer to her question, she turned to his desk, and, glancing at the papers upon it, she exclaimed, *' An! I see you are a poet " and re- mained for some time attentively reading his recent writing^, and then praised them with an enthusiasm that quite transported the author. She begged that she might keep them, and was not refused. At this mo- ment the Clocks in the city were heard striking nine. " Julius^" she said. He started, for he had not told her his christian name. "Julius, I have traveled far to-niKht, that I mi^ht see you, and I wish you to return with me. I can display to your eyes a scene such as poets have fabled, but which is invisible in the dim world— where our wildest and most fantastic thoughts have a shape and life — where the ideal spirit of beauty, that we have adored in our hearts, is infused into breathing miracles of grace, and life retains the fresh- ness of youth, and glows with the fire of inspiration." Where she stood, the moonlight fell around her through the casement, for the lamp burnt dimly ; the enthusiasm of a prophetess seemed to possess her. Her neck and arms were of deathly paleness, and through her mask her eyes gleamed with a light that turned cold the blood of the student. Gradually her manner softened ; and, advancing to him, she held forth a crystal phial, saying: ** Drink of^ this— there is a charm in it." He hesitated ; she took his upraised haDd-— " Drink," she repeated, persuasively. The hand clasped in his was soft and warm, and felt perfectly mortal. Confused, and yet led away by the Fascination of her manner, the student took the phial. There was magic in the touch of that beautiful hand. ** I will drink," said he, " on condition that you tell me your name, and unmask your fsce." "My name,*' she said, slowly, " is Circe. You will behold my features when you have drank of this;" and pausing suddenly — " Listen r* she exclaimed, and, while she spoke, strains of airy music floated through the room, and a plaintive voice chaunted to it — ** Life has closed hit weary eyes, And on a starlit pillow lies. Awaken sleep^i deep mysteries. Day is dona. On the pinions of the night. Thought is taking silent flight Through regions of immortal light Day is gone." The student had drunk of the charm ere the voiee was silent. A delightful languor overcame him ; hii sight was overloaded— the figure of his temptress waxed more and more dim— the world had vanished from him. When he again unclosed his eyes, they were dazzled by the flood of golden light around him— exquisite mu- sic floated on the air, and, ns he rose from the couch where he had been lymg, a figure, croiiching at his feet, started up in the shai>e of one of the piping fauns of an- tiquity, and stood, flute in hand, regarding him atten- tively. As. Herder gazed on tne scene before him, a feeling of intense pleasure filled his being. He stood in a colonnade of marble open to the air, and beyond it lay, in the lustrous moonlight, clusten of trees, and several buildings of Greek architecture . A superoamral light fell upon them, as if they had been seen through colored glass. At his feet there was a flight of steps, which his at- tendant faun invited him to descend: he did not de- scend ; he had no thought but for the objects before him I the heaviness of mortality had been shaken ofil and in his veins there glowed immortal youth. Ah! blessed draught, if the work were thine, who does not sigh to drink 1 Encircled by flowers and ravishing voices that floated on the breath of night, he came to a marble basin, into which gushed four streams of crystal water from a pedestal in the centre, carved around with drooping waterlilies, and supporting a sta- tue of the despairing Hyacinth gazing in vain into that wrinkled fountain for the image of the fatal beauty that immortalized him. Wandering through the trees, the student came be- fore a building illuminated within, and heard the hum of many voices, and laughter and singing. From an ir- resistible impulse he ascended the steps to the entrance, and, as he approached, the brazen doors fell slowly back, and he stood in the blaze of light which issued through them. The guiding faun was no longer by hie side, but he advancedto a gallery hung with garlands. Boys were waving urns of incense about, and on couches irregularly placed lay the forms of men an^ women, who seemed insensible to outward impressions— their glaring eyes fixed on vacancy ; but the student only glanced at tnem~