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THE BRIDAL EVE.

BY HARRIET BOWLES.

CHAPTER I.

"WHAT a magnificent nuptial present !" exclaimed Mrs. Benton to her daughter, as, on entering the chamber of the latter, at Saratoga, they discovered a costly diamond necklace, with a perfumed note accompanying it, "Mr. Wallingford is indeed all that is generous and noble !" The daughter's cheek became tinged with crimson, though a smile rose to her lip as she contemplated her lover's costly gift. At that moment her heart was torn by contending emotions ; but alas ! she knew that she could find no sympathy in her distress from her parent. Mrs. Benton was a widow, with no child but her beautiful daughter. Aspiring, vain, and mercenary, she resolved that Isabel should make a brilliant match, and for this purpose the mother had brought her daughter to the springs, where her loveliness soon rendered Miss Benton the belle of the season. Her charms had conquered among others the millionaire of the year, a middle aged retired merchant ; and, in obedience to her mother's explicit commands, was, on the ensuing day, to become the bride of Mr. Wallingford. But Isabel, though feeling it to be her duty to obey her parent, could not submit to this doom without many and painful struggles. A year before she had met and -loved a young painter, when on a visit to a friend in the country ; and though they had not met for many months, his memory was still fresh in her heart, and she felt that though she might wed the wealthy Mr. Wallingford, she could never give him the affection she had already bestowed on the poor artist. As the day appointed for her union approached, her feelings became more and more acute, until now she could have flung herself at her mother's feet and begged to be released from her engagement, only that she knew her parent would prove inexorable. "Alas !" thought Isabel, as her mother left the apartment, "there is no escape for me from this hateful alliance. And yet Mr. Wallingford is all that is noble and generous-yet-yet I cannot love him. Oh ! Henry," she exclaimed, apostrophizing her absent lover, " would that you were here. But what do I say ? For months he has not written to me, and alas ! I cannot conceal from myself that I am forgotten. No, it is sinful in me thus to think of one who has deserted me. Oh ! that ever he could forget those dear, dear moments when we walked together under the old avenue, while the moon simmered down through the leaves, and our hearts beat in unison with the music of all nature around us. Oh ! Henry, dear Henry," and she clasped her hands, "that ever you should forget those hours."

"Nor have I forgotten them, dear Isabel !" exclaimed a voice beside her, that thrilled every nerve with ecstacy, and looking around she perceived her lover, who had entered the little parlor unperceived. We will not describe the thousand things that were said at this meeting. Suffice it to say, they were like all lovers' protestations. But the explanation of Henry must be laid before our readers, though a in more suc│cinct, and less broken manner, than he gave it. His tale, however, even as told by himself, was short. He had written, according to promise, to Isabel, but received no answer. Again and again he had written, but always with the like success, until at length his pride forbade him to write again. But his love had survived notwithstanding the apparent coldness of Isabel, and having incidentally heard that she was at the Springs, he had resolved to see her, and learn the worst. " Then it was your mother that intercepted your letters," said Henry, when Isabel had, in turn, narrated her story " and this marriage-oh ! Isabel, dear Isabel, can you sacrifice yourself?" What need to tell the result. Love ever triumphs, and it was arranged that, that night, Isabel should elope with her lover. CHAPTER II.

IT was between the hours of two and three o'clock on the same night, that Isabel, who could not think of sleeping, stole into the little private parlor, that was adjoining to the chamber of her mother, and not far from the apartment occupied by Mr. Wallingford. The position of this parlor rendered it one from which a nocturnal flight was not only possible, but easy, for in this parlor there was a window out of which you could with ease step into the garden, and at the end of that garden was one of the leading streets of the town. Isabel was seated at a table on which there was a small lamp and a tiny watch. The hands of that tiny watch seemed to her to be almost fixed, or to move as if nothing could induce them to go on to the hour of appointment. At first Isabel awaited the hour of rendezvous without hesitation, and without trembling ; but when it was approaching to the hour for the given signal with her lover, her duty to her parent recurred to her, and she hesitated.. Affection for her mother- for Mrs. Benton was still her mother-struggled long with her promise to her lover. At length she said, 66 No, I cannot fly. My mother ! harsh though you may be, I cannot cost you a tear. I will write a note for Henry, telling him I cannot keep my promise with him, and to-morrow I will throw myself at my mother's feet and confess all. She will, she must relent." Accordingly she took up a pen, and hastily wrote a few lines to her lover, at every word blotting the paper with her tears. At length exhausted by her emotions


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. DISTINGUISHED STRANGERS.

A VERMONT SKETCH.

BY GERTRUDE GARLAND.

" I THOUGHT I would just come in and tell you the news ! Mrs. Branch," said the good-natured Mrs. Thomas, the buxom landlady of " The Lion," as she entered the apartment of one of her boarders- her cheeks glowing like the embers, from which, ten minutes before, she had taken the smoking beef-steak- her eyes brighter than her own radiant brittania coffee-pot, and her tongue ready to be as social as the chatty sausages she had been preparing for the table, " I thought I would just drop in and tell you the news !"

"News ! news ! Mrs. Thomas, indeed, and what is it ?" was the quick response of her friend. Now news was a great treat to Mrs. Branch, in common with all the inhabitants of Laurelville. Enclosed on all sides by the Green Mountains-hill rising above hill, with their gently rounded top or rock-capped head, some highly cultivated to their very summit, and others beautiful with wooded sides, and gushing springs, which glancing and dancing in the sunbeams, as they passed over their pebbly beds, gave richness and fertility to their borders, and vied with the songsters ofthe forest in the sweetness of their music, and adorned with a coronet of brilliants, each spray and bending leaf their waters refreshed-this little town lay almost hidden from the world, and buried in its solitude. The stage-coach passed through it twice a week, its ingress and egress announced by the vigorous and rapid repetition of the first ten notes of " Auld Lang Syne," in as loud and harmonious tones as an excellent tin trumpet could produce, in conjunction with strong lungs, good wind, and a willing mind. It was seldom the conveyance of a passenger who was to remain, but always brought a huge leathern bag, containing a few newspapers, and sometimes a letter-always made wonderfully secure with its cumbersome lock and chains. The arrival of this stage and mail was the event of every day on which it occurred, for this, and an occasional journey of some of its inhabitants, were all their means of communication with the great world. Yet here lived a community of several hundred men, women and children who possessed the means of living among themselves and rejoiced in their inherited fields, and while they labored gave thanks for their freedom and their liberty. A district school for children, who under the guidance of Miss. Prim, shot their first ideas- and an Academy, the preceptorship of which had descended from Deacon Jones to his son, each in their turn made pedagogue by their own wants, and the sovereign will of the people, were the meansof giving them a good substantial education, and a taste for reading. This taste was satisfied, but not satiated by a travelling circulating library-the privileges of which were shared equally with all the neighboring villages. It consisted of a huge vehicle, painted bright red, with yellow adornments- a door behind, and a comical shaped sky-light on its top- and might, at first sight, have been mistaken for the pleasure carriage of some mighty beast of the forest, who tired of

" Treading his native wilds and filling vast solitudes with awe!"

had commenced the grand tour of the world, bought his earriage, hired his guide, and was now leisurely taking note of men and manners ; much did " the library" resemble the fancy coaches generally appropriated to the accommodation of their visitors. Two little white horses that evidently had ribs, and were as pale and intellectual looking as the poets of our days- were kept in motion by a long, lank, bony man, with an immense whip, which he used sparingly and with gentleness, preferring to incite them to fresh zeal and energy by continual “ haws and gees," and drawings up of his stiff, unshaven lips to an unsightly and laughable pucker, and smacking out, what if it had touched a fair damsel's rosy cheek, would have been a tremendously sonorous kiss. The internal arrangement of this establishment consisted of queer little dark cup-boards and crannies, for the bestowal of novels, romances, and the nicer sort of books, of alcoves and arches for the substantialities of literature, and of shelves and sliding panels for magazines and periodicals, all systematically arranged on the " multum in parvo" principle. To the treasures there concealed each family in Laurelville could have access, and before it had completed its monthly perambulations, have made themselves masters of the knowledge it dropped at their doors ; then restoring that to its place with which they had become familiar, dip again into the fount and take fresh draughts from this well of knowledge. With these advantages the people of this little town were well informed, somewhat familiar with other nations and countries- intelligent and substantially educated. They knew more of daily domestic duties than of fashions- more of farming than of high life. Generally satisfied with their regular course of labor and enjoyment, with their home comforts and fire-side enjoyments ; had they not yet had a modest inquisitiveness concerning, and an innate fondness for, what they knew so little of, they could hardly as Americans have claimed kindred with us. A piece of news was to them more precious than gold, though that they did not despise-it was the " open sesame" to all ears and hearts, and its possessor had, for the time, a talisman which made him a welcome visitor to all circles, and gave him an honored place at every fire-side. Mrs. Thomas' news was no less than that the English family had arrived, and, that until their house was ready, they

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. bar-room of the little public house had many loungers that day ; and Mrs. Thomas many calls to answer enquiries and make speculations as to all the incidents, events and circumstances, past, present and future, of the Smithe family, became both her's, and her worthy husband's business and pleasure.

But the sun did not stand still-neither did old Father Time stop in Laurelville to see the " English folks," for the days flew past with the quickened speed which an object of interest always lends to them--each morning bringing to light some circumstance in the Smithe movements, and each evening bearing full testimony that they had done something that day. If they staid at home people wondered what they could be about, and thought they must be proud to keep so private-if they sallied out, the boys stopped in their game of leap-frog on the green, made their awkward bows, and were then at liberty to stare- girls dropped their little acts of courtesies, with blushing faces, and ran home to say that they had seen the ladies-labor was suspended while they were in sight-the wood-choppers axe fell and was not raised again-the incessant hammering at the tinmans' ceased--the grocer did not watch the scales and catch the precise moment when the sugar balanced the weight -the merchants' clerks threw themselves into attitudes -and little cracks in window-shutters, and curtains slightly drawn, testified to female curiosity. But the week passed on, and the inquiry arose " where would the Smithe's go to meeting ?" Neither their host or hostess could tell-they had not the trouble of asking, for the Englishman himself came to the bar on Saturday evening to make the proper inquiries.

He heard that the white church was Congregational -that the Baptist had a meeting in the school-housethat the Academy was used by the Methodists, and that once in a month a Catholic priest came from Canada to preach at Mrs. Burbanks, who was a Catholic. " No Established church then, sir ? another glass of your excellent brandy, Mr. Thomas." .. Well, we think the Congregational is pretty well established, sir. Mr. Lovegood has been here nigh upon twenty years," was the reply Mr. Smithe received.

" Mr. Smithe means no Episcopal Church, Mr. Thomas, no, sir ! we have none as yet, but with your efficient aid, I trust, we may have one ' before long," chimed in the obsequious lawyer, who was standing near-he was educated at a college, and by common consent was the standard of elegance and knowledge of the village. " I shall be happy to seat yourself and family, sir," he continued, " and to have you call at my office at any time, sir," and out came a little fillagree card-case, and in less than no time was a card, with "John Brown, Esq." upon it, thrust in Mr. Smithe's face. The Englishman had not concluded his bows and other demonstrations of thankfulness, when Squire Brown, taking the little card from his hand, bent three of the corners slightly down, and returning it, said, " my compliments to the ladies, sir, I shall be happy to wait upon them, and show them our town, and its public buildings." "Thank you, sir, thank you," was the reply of Mr. Smithe, as he made as rapid a retreat as if that Englishman's horror, a Frenchman, had been at his heels. His departing footsteps had hardly ceased to be heard as he crossed the yellow painted floor of the entry-when a coarse, good-humored, red faced man, turning to Mr. Brown, said, " Well, now, Squire, I spose you've done just about the completest thing-but I want to ask, what in nater you intended by spoiling your paste-board, and breaking most off them little cat-e-corner pieces ?" 66 Mr. Colonel Grimes- do you ask what I meant ? Why, sir, in polite society, a card so bent, signifies that it is intended for more than one person. Mr. Smithe knew if you did not !' "Now I like that, Squire," was the reply, "for it must be a great saving of your cards" -and the laugh went round at the lawyers expense, for with all his elegance, the lawyer was one of the scrimping and saving sort of men. Mr. Thomas, ever well disposed, tried to turn the conversation by asking him what buildings he would show the ladies ? But Mr. Brown was sulky, and Colonel Grimes again volunteered his opinion. "He'll show them the meeting-us, Mr. Thomas, the court-us- the school-us-the big hole old Andrus dug for gold-the grave-yard, and Jenkins big dog !" and then the laugh became so general that the discomfited man of law made his exit unobserved. It being ascertained that he was gone, his character was the next subject of discussion, and Colonel Grimes's animosity was explained, by his allusion to Mr. Brown having unmercifully cheated him, in a business transaction-an account of which he gave in full-and added to his remarks, "that Squire Brown would get bit himself some day or nuther, for every body wasn't so goodnatured and forgetible as he was." "John Brown, Esq.," went to the Congregational Church, and was greatly envied as he marched up the aisle, the next morning, with Mrs. Smithe leaning on his arm, the Misses Smithe following-Mr. Smithe and the little girl bringing her doll, still farther behind, and Mr. Smithe, Jun., in the rear. All eyes were levelled at them, all necks were stretched and heads turned. Some little delay was occasioned by Mrs. Smithe in her haste to perform the formula of devotion, so appropriately and beautifully prescribed in the ritual of the Episcopal Church. She dropped on her knees so near the door that those following were obliged to wait the termination of her private supplication- a termination speedily effected by John Brown's efforts to raise her, supposing


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day, fur the green loaves were on the trees, and tho verdant grass was gay in its summer attire before they were completed. Laborera were plenty, and the spring planting being over, Mr. Smithe gave them an English fete—an ox was roasted, and beer and ale wore briskly ctroulated. Popular with all classes, the glury of the Englishman was at its height. Mrs. Smitho was pro- nounced the most notable of house-keepers, and her butter and cheese became the country’s talk—the young, ladies went on their course entertaining with music and conversation all who would come and listen, and accept ing all the civilities so abundantly oflered them. They Promptly returned their catls—they visited and male themselves egrecable, talking of London and Birminghmin—they walked and talked—they rambled and chat- ted—they roile horse-back, with Tartan shawls pinned about their waists, and falling in long but scanty drapery, and little nine-penny chuck bats on their heads. Their steeds—not ficry Arube—but good ploughing horses, with considerable ability in walking, and excellent trot fers, but knew no other guit—were dignificd by the namea of Bucephalus end Mazeppa. Not a awain but fell captive to English charms—but it was John Browu’s forluno to be the favored one—ho, upon whuse educated heart, rosy checked, bright-eyed damsele hud fuilod to take an impression, becmmne the accepted of Misa Caro line Smithe—and as he inwardly thought, possessor of a handsome fortune—as she expressed it « their troth was plighted.”. "The charming Miss ’Arriet’s ‘eart was now the besieged citadel—she sentimentalised, flirted and played with all—but upon tha consummation of her sisters felicity, smiled 80 sweetly upon Mr. Simpson, a widower of six months standing, with a fine family of children and a pleasant house, thot it was supposed he would be the happy man. No! slas for him, for in her pitying and sympethising refusal of his offer, she more than intimated “that” her h-aifeetions had long been placed upon a member of the royat family—it was a moxtual h-attachment that though h-opposite and h-advvoree circumatznces hd combined to separate thom, she yet trusted to give her ‘ani where she bad bestowed her Yeart, ‘The fair Indy was not the less cought, aftcr this intimation, for to be the husband of one who had been beloved by a duke, @ lord, a prince, or perhaps by the king himeelf, was worthy of an effort.

August came, and with it a slight diminution of in- terest in the Sinithe family, An announcement that hoarl might be obtainod there aroused Mrs, Thomas of “the Lion,” and in her angry astonishment she guve ‘Utterance to the wish, “that if the Englishmen were going to mind their Intsiness they would pay them their ues.” Colonel Grimes called for the sctilement of a bill due to him, and not offecting his object, remarked that he guessed * Englishmen were just about as good now as they were when old Ethan Allen whipped them.” As winter approached, Mis Harticl, on accomnt of her loveliness, now that Mrs, Hrown had left them, Proposal opening a school fer young Missee—Mivs Prim immediately discovered that she liked English curls better than English manneni—and intimated that she thought it would be “as well to pay for Amy’s tuition as to take away hor lawful rights’'—rights sho had maintained 40 many years, Notwithstanding these beginnings of murmur, the Smithes' had buarders, and Miss Harriet hail schotars—the scholars soon left, they {ae not like English teaching—the boardefs followed their cxample, they did not like English eating. Not Hong after thia Mr. Smithe was scen nhout night-fall, taggeting to his barn, and vainly endeavoring to feed his horses, A travelling lawyer came to Laurelville, his purpose to collect a debt duc to @ cabinet:maker in Troy, for English fumniture—not being able to obtain money, he attached sufficient property to cover the debt, The homely tenth thut “bad news flies faster than goad,” was never moro fully proved than in this case. Each of ‘Mr. Smnithe’s ereilitors became anxious to secure their , them—farmers came and took away their own shevp and cows—not to trouble the Englishmen, hut to pay {Ro one—and no one personally molested biin—indeed _ he was rarcly to be ween sober, and ecemed passively to drunken forgetiulnesa,
 * own claims—and with no lack of good fecling toward
 * him, each came and took that which secmned right in
 * his own eyes, Cropa were sold to pay for planting
 * themselves, ‘The mastor of the house quarrelled with
 * receive all his misfortunes, seeking relief only in stupid,

The year came round. Smithe Park wae stil} there, but how shorn of its glory! Dvors creaking on rusty hinges, wore blown by the wind to and fro, and gave forth that hollow sound which hetokens empty barns and vacant stables, The house was closed and gloomy. The family—their English glory all departed—ita head might always by day be seen cowering by the hitchen fire, his elbows supporting his head by resting on his knees—and hie face covered with hie handa—be seemed neither to know or care that his eredit, his character, his reputation wera ali gone—that he himself was a drun- kard. What wes now the prospect of that English famity, who a year before hd taken possession of the Holladay farm, and the good senso of the villagera? and who coming to Lauretviile with litile property, were first ratued, more by the will of the people, than by their own pretension, to a height which made their fall, cheir ruin? ‘They left their houso as the spring retummed—te to be carried to his grave—she to go to her English friends in compliance with the urgeut request of both Mr. and Mrz, John Brown, taking litle Amy with her. Smithe twok apprentice hunds with Mr. Pegg, the slioes maker, who ig now the ’andsome Mise ’Avriets ‘oppy ’usband, and has ascertained that the former luver was

dames

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. occurred fully to arouse his slumbering intellect, but in the vague dreams that visited his boyhood, in the wild aspirations that haunted his later youth, in a thousand wildering fancies and emotions that crossed him daily, he experienced the stirrings of the unborn but living genius within him. Howell had never yet written a line, but he had thought of a world of poetry. Often would he go out in the calm moonlight and sit for hours gazing at the placid landscape before him, lost in a reverie too deep for words, and often would he launch his boat amid the surf when the lowering clouds portended a storm, experiencing a strange joy in battling with the tempest. He knew it not, but it was the soul within him that now led him to be an idle dreamer and now impelled him to brave the ocean hurricane, and every one who has felt the cravings of an unsatisfied intellect within has acted as Howell did, though like him, they may often have been unconscious of why they longed—now for quiet, and now for excitement, but ever for novelty. Genius is like the troubled ocean: it can never find rest.

From the first moment that Howell saw Kate Eldrington, he loved her; a character like hers was the very one to capture his romantic mind. He loved with all the ardor of youth, with all the intensity of a first affection, and with all the passionate earnestness of his thoroughly poetic nature. Nor did Kate repel his attention. To win the heart of someone as rich and gifted as Howell was a triumph, even for her. Perhaps her heart was incapable of truly loving any object besides herself, but the poetry that Howell breathed in every compliment he paid her at least dazzled her fancy, while the eclat of possessing the rich young heir for a lover captivated her vanity. Still, she was in no haste to receive a proposal and surrender her train of admirers, but she was, on the contrary, very willing to await Howell's majority, when his fortune would come into his possession. She found it not as difficult to manage as she wished. The very poetic nature of Howell had led him to avoid society—whose cant, shallowness, and hollow-heartedness he could not help despising—and he was consequently a mere child in the hands of such a coquette as Kate. But, on this evening, she had imprudently consented to accompany Howell alone on a walk, and he had led her to this romantic spot on the riverside. Kate soon found that her art would not be available here. The scenery around, the mystic moonlight, and the poetry that Howell breathed in every word insensibly influenced even her heart, and she found herself almost before she was aware of it gliding into a strain of sentiment. Then she would have checked herself, but it was too late. Howell had now obtained the mastery, and in burning language he poured forth his passion, while Kate, no longer the imperious beauty, actually listened with a beating heart to his eloquent appeal, and when he had finished, sank weeping on his bosom.

"God bless you, dear, dear Miss Eldrington—or let me henceforth call you Kate, my own sweet Kate. Again, God in heaven, bless you for thus assuring me of your priceless love."

Kate was now completely subdued, and still hiding her head in her lover's bosom, she murmured a reply, which induced Howell to clasp her to him in even greater transport, while tears of unutterable joy gushed from his eyes. And for the remainder of that evening, it seemed as if Kate had caught a portion of her lover's passionate and poetic soul, while she replied to his fond endearments in words equally full of love.

CHAPTER II.

A week had passed when, in a luxurious apartment where Persian carpets, damask curtains, and other magnificent furniture attested to the wealth of the owner, sat Kate Eldrington and her distant and dependent relative Edith Bellanger. A greater contrast could not have existed than that between the two cousins. Kate was tall and queenly, with thick glossy tresses of black, eyes that vied with the ebon darkness of midnight, and a countenance and port that reminded the spectator of a Juno. Edith Bellanger, on the contrary, was rather petite, though her figure was exquisite, and she moved with the grace and airiness of a dryad. Her eyes were a deep blue, soft and melting as the azure of a twilight sky. Her hair was golden and fell in laughing tresses on either side of her face. No one had ever seen Edith's fair countenance distorted with passion, though her amiability was by no means the placid repose of a phlegmatic constitution. Under her usually quiet and retiring manner, she had a mind of no ordinary power and a bosom keenly sensitive to all the holier emotions of the soul. Had Edith been rich like her cousin, she would have won nearly as much admiration, though of a different character; but now, known as a dependent on her cousin's bounty, and feeling that shrinking modesty, which always, in circumstances like hers, attends to a sensitive mind, she almost wholly avoided society. Kate felt no disposition to alter her cousin's determination and was very content that Edith should play the part of a humble dependent rather than that of a rival.

Edward Howell was, therefore, one of the few gentlemen of Kate's acquaintance to whom Edith had become even more casually known. His enthusiastic and romantic character had ever been her admiration, and though she rarely exchanged a word with him, she was delighted to sit unnoticed by and hear his conversation with Kate. Sometimes, when Howell chanced to detect how eagerly she listened to him, a burning blush would shoot over her face, and if, at any time during the remainder of


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A rent of this annuity will only be payable at the end of the $$n$$th year, provided that B be then dead, and A living; but the probability of B being then dead is $$1 - {}_n\!b$$, and that of A being then living $${}_n\!a$$, and these two events are independent; therefore, the probability of their both happening, or that of the rent being received, is $$(1 - {}_n\!b) {}_n\!a = {}_n\!a - {}_n\!(ab)$$; the present value of that rent is, therefore, $$\left [ {}_n\!a - {}_n\!(ab) \right ] v^n$$; whence, it follows, that the required value of the annuity on the life of A after that of B, is $$\text{A} - \text{AB}$$, agreeably to No. 60.

163. If the payment for the annuity which was the subject of the last problem, is not to be made in present money, but by a constant annual premium $$p$$ at the end of each year, while both the lives survive; since $$\text{AB}$$ is the number of years purchase (6) that an annuity on the joint continuance of those lives is worth, the value of p will be determined by this equation, $$\text{p}\,.\,\text{AB} = \text{A} - \text{AB}$$, whence we have $$\text{p} = \frac{\text{A}}{\text{AB}} - 1$$.

164. But if one premium $$p$$ is to be paid down now, and an equal premium at the end of each year while both the lives survive, we shall have $$p\,.\,(1 + \text{AB}) = \text{A} - \text{AB}$$, and $$p = \frac{\text{A} - \text{AB}}{1 + \text{AB}} - 1$$.

165. For numerical examples illustrative of the formulæ given from No. 158 to the present; see Nos. 66—74.

166. A and B are in possession of an annuity on the life of the survivor of them, which, if either of them die before a third person C, is then to be divided equally between C and the survivor during their joint lives; to determine the value of C’s interest.

and the sum of these being $$\tfrac{1}{2} {}_n\!(ac) + \tfrac{1}{2} {}_n\!(bc) - {}_n\!(abc)$$, the value of C’s interest is $$\tfrac{1}{2} \text{AC} + \tfrac{1}{2} \text{BC} - \text{ABC}$$.

167. An annuity after the decease of A, is to be equally divided between B and C during their joint lives, and is then to go entirely to the last survivor for his life; it is proposed to find the value of B’s interest therein.

sum of these being $${}_n\!b - {}_n\!(ab) - \tfrac{1}{2} {}_n\!(bc) + \tfrac{1}{2} {}_n\!(abc)$$, the value of B’s interest is $$\text{B} - \text{AB} - \tfrac{1}{2}\text{BC} + \tfrac{1}{2}\text{ABC}$$.

168. A, B, and C purchase an annuity on the life of the last survivor of them, which is to be divided equally at the end of every year among such of them as may then be living; what should A contribute towards the purchase of this annuity?

the sum of these being $${}_n\!a - \tfrac{1}{2} {}_n\!(ab) - \tfrac{1}{2} {}_n\!(ac) + \tfrac{1}{3} {}_n\!(abc)$$, the required value of A’s interest is $$\text{A} - \tfrac{1}{2}\text{AB} - \tfrac{1}{2}\text{AC} + \tfrac{1}{3}\text{ABC}$$.

169. As soon as any two of the three lives, A, B, and C, are extinct, D or his heirs are to enter upon an annuity; which they are to enjoy during the remainder of the survivor’s life; to determine the value of D’s interest therein.

sum of all these being $${}_n\!a + {}_n\!b + {}_n\!c - 2 {}_n\!(ab) - 2 {}_n\!(ac) - 2 {}_n\!(bc) + 3 {}_n\!(abc)$$, the value of D’s interest is

170. The last four may be sufficient to show the method of proceeding with any similar problems.

171. Let $$\overset{m}{\overline{{}_t\!(abc,\ \&\text{c.})}}$$ denote the probability that the Rh


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. impossible longer to endure the increasing presumption of her dependant cousin, had been restrained only by pity from turning her off, when a distant relative happening to die and leave Edith a few thousand dollars, Kate had at once spoken her mind. The truth was that Miss Bellanger, after the unfeeling remark of her cousin, had resolved to leave Mr. Eldrington's, and was already, though much against his wishes, seeking the place of a governess, when an uncle of her mother died and left her a competent, though not large estate. She instantly left for her new possessions, leaving behind her regret in every heart but that of Kate, who, with the malignity of the injurer, entertained feelings of the bitterest hatred for her cousin.

CHAPTER III.

ALONE, in his chamber, sat the midnight student. The apartment was comfortably but not richly furnished. The most prominent article in the room was a book-case which stood in a solid mass of shadow in one corner. A tall, shaded lamp, flinging its glare only across that portion of the chamber where sat the student, and mingling its light with the pale moonbeams that struggled in at the window, enabled him to pursue his laborious task; for he sat before a desk at which he had been writing. There was a deep, awful quiet in the apartment at that hour, and as the student at his solitary vigils, surrounded by his papers and the huge folios which he ever and anon consulted, he would have reminded the spectator of those mighty sages of old who watched, long after the stars had set, at their lonely studies, imbibing knowledge with which to rule the destinies of worlds. Never indeed did Howell-for he was the student- wear a more lofty air than now, when engaged in his midnight labor. As the clock chimed the hour of twelve, he finished a glowing sentence, and leaning back in his chair, with that triumph which none but an author feels, carelessly pushed back the thick hair from his broad, ample brow. At that moment there was something almost godlike in his looks. The proud flashing eye-the free gesture of the hand—and the firmly compressed lip told that the mind within was revelling in the full consciousness of its powers ; and that Edward Howell felt, at that moment, the wild, deep, seductive excitement of a master intellect triumphing in its divinity.

Again he bent to his task. He was writing a work which was to determine his reputation. Political excitement, at that period, ran unusually high, and the two mighty parties which then divided the country were engaged in their last, deadly struggle for the mastery. All the talent of the nation was enlisted on either side, and pamphlets daily poured from the press. Into this trou-bled vortex Edward Howell had fearlessly plunged. He was young indeed ; but with a fine education, no common talents, and the desire to win renown and be avenged on his false mistress, he leaped into the contest as fearlessly as Curtius of old sprang into the abyss which threatened to engulph Rome.

"I will try," said he mentally, "if I fail-well. If I win-why then for glory and revenge!" and he sat down to his work.

It was long past midnight. The deserted streets without were silent; for the hush of death hung on the mighty city, yet that solitary student still sat at his lonely task. His lamp burned dimmer, but he saw it not. The pale moonlight coldly crossed his brow, but he felt, he recked it not. His whole soul was wrapt in the work before him. As he proceeded, his brow knit, and his dark eye shot fire with the excitement of his theme. He took down a volume of Burke and turned hastily over its pages. Long and deeply he pondered on the philosophy of that greatest of political sages, and when he closed the volume, and returned it to his library his dark eye dilated with the consciousness of triumph, and thrusting his papers into his port-folio he folded his arms and strode proudly up and down his room. He was fevered with the excitement of long composition. His brain seemed beating madly in his forehead, and yet the tempest of his feelings, wild, deep, and rushing as they were, he would not have given up for worlds. Oh! there is nothing like a student's life. Pain and sorrow and unrequited toil may indeed be his lot- he may watch at his lonely vigils when all mankind is at rest he may struggle amid poverty and sickness for a scanty livelihood; but there are moments of intellectual triumph which amply repay him for all he has suffered, by firing him with the consciousness of a more exalted existence than belongs to others, and stirring to its lowest depths the divinity within him. Oh! there are minutes in a student's life which are worth an eternity of toil. And one of these minutes had now come for Howell.

"This is glorious," he said, pausing at the window, with folded arms, " I feel now that my revenge is certain my destiny about to be fulfilled. My day is coming fast, false Kate,” he continued, as if apostrophizing her, "and you, who affected to despise the needy, bankrupt suitor will hear men talk of him as the triumphant orator. Ah! it seems but yesterday, instead of four long years, since you sneeringly called me a boy-am I a boy now? They tell me that you have married a wealthy southerner, a haughty, purse-proud man. Are you happy? I credit it not. There was that in your eyes-in every tone of your voice, that moonlit night by the river side, which assures me that you loved me then as much as your nature was capable of loving. You affected to despise me afterward-and your train of fawning worshippers echoed your pretended contempt—well, I can bear it like a man. The despised Howell in has— thank God!—some of his forefathers pride in him


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 and so Disease sent back word to God that he must have help to bring the man; and so God sent another messenger whose name was Death; and Disease and Death together got hold of the man, and took him to God; and God said in future He would always send these messengers to fetch men.

The Fernando Po legend may be taken as fairly pure African, but the Timneh, I expect, is a transmogrified Arabic story—though I do not know of anything like it among Arabic stories; but they are infinite in quantity, and there is a certain ring about it I recognise, and these Timnehs are much in contact with the Mohammedan, Mandingoes, &c. In none of the African stories is there given anything like the importance to dreams that there is given to attempts to account for accidents and death; and surely it must have been more impressive and important to a man to have got his leg or arm snapped off by a crocodile in the river, or by a shark in the surf, or to have got half killed, or have seen a friend killed by a falling tree in the forest in the day time, than to have experienced the most wonderful of dreams. He sees that however terrific his dream-experiences may have been, he was not much the worse for them. Not so in the other case, a limb gone or a life gone is more impressive, and more necessary to account for.

No trace of sun-worship have I ever found. The firmament is, I believe, always the great indifferent and neglected god, the Nyan Kupon of the Tschwi, and the Anzambe, Nzam, &c., of the Bantu races. The African thinks this god has great power if he would only exert it, and when things go very badly with him, when the river rises higher than usual and sweeps away his home and his plantations; when the smallpox stalks through the land, and day and night the corpses float down the river past him, and he finds them jammed among his canoes that are tied to the beach, and choking up his fish traps; and then when at last the death-wail over its victims goes up night and day from his own village, he will rise up and call upon this great god in the terror maddened by despair, that he may hear and restrain the evil workings of these lesser devils; but he evidently finds, as Peer Gynt says, "Nein, er hört nicht. Er ist taub wie gewöhnlich" for there is no organised cult for Anzam.


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 Accounts of apparitions abound in all the West Coast districts, and although the African holds them all in high horror and terror, he does not see anything supernatural in his "Duppy." It is a horrid thing to happen on, but there is nothing strange about it, and he is ten thousand times more frightened than puzzled over the affair. He does not want to "investigate" to see whether there is anything in it. He wants to get clear away, and make ju-ju against it, "one time."

These apparitions have a great variety of form, for, firstly, there are all the true spirits, nature spirits; secondly, the spirits of human beings—these human spirits are held to exist before as well as during and after bodily life; thirdly, the spirits of things. Probably the most horrid of class one is the Tschwi's Sasabonsum. Whether Sasabonsum is an individual or a class is not quite clear, but I believe he is a class of spirits, each individual of which has the same characteristics, the same manner of showing anger, the same personal appearance, and the same kind of residence. I am a devoted student of his cult and I am always coming across equivalent forms of him in other tribes as well as the Tschwi, and I think he is very early. I see no reason why gorillas should not believe in Sasabonsum, only unfortunately Dr. Garner has not given us that grammar and dictionary of Gorillese, so I cannot question these interesting people on the point. As the Tschwi have got their religious notions in a most tidy and definite state, we will take their version of Sasabonsum.

He lives in the forest, in or under those great silk-cotton trees around the roots of which the earth is red. This coloured earth identifies a silk-cotton tree as being the residence of a Sasabonsum, as its colour is held to arise from the blood it whips off him as he goes down to his under-world home after a night's carnage. All silk-cotton trees are suspected because they are held to be the roosts for Duppies. But the red earth ones are feared with a great fear, and no one makes a path by them, or a camp near them at night.

Sasabonsum is a friend of witches. He is of enormous size, and of a red colour. He wears his hair straight and he waylays unprotected wayfarers in the forest at night, and in all districts except that of Apollonia he eats them. Round


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 Apollonia he only sucks their blood. Natives of this district after meeting him have crawled home and given an account of his appearance, and then expired.

Ellis says he is believed to be implacable, and when angered can never be mollified or propitiated, but it is certain that human victims are constantly sacrificed to him in districts beyond white control; in districts under it, the equivalent value of a human sacrifice in sheep and goats is offered to him. In Ashantee he has priests, and of course human sacrifice. Away among the Dahomeyan tribes—where he has kept his habits but got another name, and seems to have crystallised from a class into an individual—the usual way in which a god develops—he has priests and priestesses, and they are holy terrors; but among the Tschwi, Sasabonsum is mainly dealt with by witches, and people desirous of possessing the power of becoming witches. They derive their power from him in a remarkable way. I put myself to great personal inconvenience (fever risk, mosquito certainty, high leopard and snake palaver probability, and grave personal alarm and apprehension) to verify Colonel Ellis's account of the methods witches employ in this case, and finding his account correct I quote it, because it is more concise than mine is likely to be.

Ellis says, "A person who wishes to obtain a suhman (tutelary deity) proceeds to the dark and gloomy recesses of the forest, wherein, among the Bombaces a local Sasabonsum resides. There, having first poured a small quantity of rum upon the earth as a propitiatory offering, he adopts one of the following courses.

"1. He cuts from a tree a moderately thick branch which he carves into a rude resemblance of the human figure; usually these figures are simply cylindrical pieces of wood, from ten to fourteen inches in length and from three to four in diameter. Two or three inches from one end, which may be called the top, the stick is notched so as to roughly resemble a neck, and the top is then rounded to bear some rough distant resemblance to a head.

"2. He takes the root of a plant or bush growing there, scrapes it, and grinds it into a paste with the blood of a fowl.

"3. He takes some red earth from the spot and mixes it


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22 will remain with them—animals so often remember places and conditions where they have encountered difficulties or hurt. Do they only recollect circumstances which are deeply impressed by some shock of fear or sudden pain, and does the remembrance of prolonged strain pass away? Who can tell? But it would seem strangely merciful if nature should blot out these weeks of slow but inevitable torture.

The dogs are in great form again; for them the greatest circumstance of discomfort is to be constantly wet. It was this circumstance prolonged throughout the gale which nearly lost us our splendid leader 'Osman.' In the morning he was discovered utterly exhausted and only feebly trembling; life was very nearly out of him. He was buried in hay, and lay so for twenty-four hours, refusing food—the wonderful hardihood of his species was again shown by the fact that within another twenty-four hours he was to all appearance as fit as ever.

Antarctic petrels have come about us. This afternoon one was caught.

Later, about 7 Evans saw two icebergs far on the port beam; they could only be seen from the masthead. Whales have been frequently seen—Balænoptera Sibbaldi—supposed to be the biggest mammal that has ever existed.$4$

Friday, December 9.—65° 8′. 177° 41′. Made good S. 4 W. 109′; Scott Island S. 22 W. 147′. At six this morning bergs and pack were reported ahead; at first we thought the pack might consist only of fragments of the bergs, but on entering a stream we found small worn floes—the ice not


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352 returned to the stable he was evidently worse, and Oates and Anton patiently dragged a sack to and fro under his stomach. Every now and again he attempted to lie down, and Oates eventually thought it was wiser to let him do so. Once down, his head gradually drooped until he lay at length, every now and again twitching very horribly with the pain and from time to time raising his head and even scrambling to his legs when it grew intense. I don't think I ever realised before how pathetic a horse could be under such conditions; no sound escapes him, his misery can only be indicated by those distressing spasms and by dumb movements of the head turned with a patient expression always suggestive of appeal. Although alarmed by this time, remembering the care with which the animals are being fed I could not picture anything but a passing indisposition. But as hour after hour passed without improvement, it was impossible not to realise that the poor beast was dangerously ill. Oates administered an opium pill and later on a second, sacks were heated in the oven and placed on the poor beast; beyond this nothing could be done except to watch—Oates and Crean never left the patient. As the evening wore on I visited the stable again and again, but only to hear the same tale—no improvement. Towards midnight I felt very downcast. It is so very certain that we cannot afford to lose a single pony—the margin of safety has already been far overstepped, we are reduced to face the circumstance that we must keep all the animals alive or greatly risk failure.

So far everything has gone so well with them that my fears of a loss had been lulled in a growing hope that all


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 into a paste with blood or rum. In the second and third cases the preparation is kept in a small brass pan, and the red tail-feathers of a parrot are commonly stuck in the paste. A suhman prepared in one of the last three modes is frequently kept covered in Shea butter, but a wooden figure never.

"Having adopted one of these courses, the individual in quest of a suhman then calls upon the spirit of Sasabonsum to enter the object which he has prepared, promising to reverence it and give it offerings. According to most natives he then picks certain leaves, the juice of which he squeezes upon the object, saying, 'eat this and speak.' Then, if a spirit has entered the object—in other words if the latter has become a suhman—a low hissing noise is heard. Being thus assured that the spirit is there, the man then puts a number of questions—ought he, the suhman, to be kept in a box, or left unenclosed? should he be anointed with Shea butter, or left dry? and those questions to which a low hissing sound is heard in reply are believed to be answered in the affirmative."

In the two cases in which I saw a suhman procured, the methods employed were Nos. 1 and 3. I have seen chsuhman in the possession of individuals, answering all the particulars in appearance of the other kinds.

The chief use of a suhman is the power it gives its owner to procure the death of other people, not necessarily his own enemies, for he will sell charms made by the agency of his suhman to another person whose nerves have not been equal to facing Sasabonsum on his own account. He can also provide by its agency other charms, such as those that protect houses from fire, and things and individuals from accidents on the road, or in canoes, and the home circle from good-looking but unprincipled young men, and so on.

The quantity of charms among the Negroes, as among the Bantu, verges on infinity. Most of them are procured from suhman holders, but not all I fancy a suhman wears himself out in making charms, for you will sometimes come across "dead" ones that you may buy. These dead ones are chsuhman (pl.) who have failed several times to work because the spirit has left them; whereas a live charm is treasured, and treated as a sentient thing. A man I know had a bundle


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Author:Abram Markovich Kats

Works

 * Social Insurance in the U.S.S.R. (1927)
 * Unemployment in the U.S.S.R. and the Struggle against It (1927)
 * Protection of Labour in the U.S.S.R. (1927)

title: Author:Abram Markovich Kats


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title: Module:Chapterpage


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 of feathers with a porcupine tail in their midst, and he used always to squirt out of his mouth a little rum over it when he was drinking.

As a rule the person who has a suhman keeps the fact pretty quiet, for the possession of such an article would lead half the catastrophes in his district, from the decease of pigs, fowls, and babies, to fires, &c., to be accredited to him, which would lead to his neighbours making "witch palaver" over him, and he would have to undergo poison-ordeal and other unpleasantness to clear his character. He, however, always keeps a special day in his suhman's honour, and should he be powerful, as a king or big chief, he will keep this day openly. King Kwoffi Karri Kari, whom we fought with in 1874, used to make a big day for his suhman, which was kept in a box covered with gold plates, and he sacrificed a human victim to it every Tuesday, with general festivities and dances in its honour.

I should remark that Sasabonsum is married. His wife, or more properly speaking his female form, is called Shamantin. She is far less malignant than the male form. Her name comes from Srahman—ghost or spirit; the termination "tin" is an abbreviation of tsintsin—tall. She is of immense height, and white; perhaps this idea is derived from the white stem of the silk-cotton trees wherein she invariably abides. Her method of dealing with the solitary wayfarer is no doubt inconvenient to him, but it is kinder than her husband's ways, for she does not kill and eat him, as Sasabonsum does, but merely detains him some months while she teaches him all about the forest what herbs are good to eat, or to cure disease; where the game come to drink, and what they say to each other, and so forth. I often wish I knew this lady, for the grim, grand African forests are like a great library, in which, so far, I can do little more than look at the pictures, although I am now busily learning the alphabet of their language, so that I may some day read what these pictures mean.

Do not go away with the idea, I beg, that goddesses as a general rule, are better than gods. They are not. There are stories about them which I could—I mean I could not—tell you. There is one belonging also to the Tschwi. She lives


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. WHAT IS DUTY?

BY ELLEN ASHTON.

"MOTHER, do not ask me," sobbed a weeping girl, clasping her hands and looking up into her parent's face. "Oh ! If you knew my heart, you would see that I am not disobedient. But I cannot love Mr. Bartlettindeed; indeed, I cannot. Death would be more preferable to me than such a union."

"Really, Miss," said the step-mother, "these are fine times when a daughter thus sets at defiance the wishes of a parent. I will not, however, submit to such disobedience. I command you now to prepare for your marriage with Mr. Bartlett," and with these words, she turned to leave the room. But her daughter clung to her robe.

"Oh, mother, dear mother," she said, "retract those dreadful words. Never have I disobeyed any command of yours, but this I cannot obey. If my heart were my own, I might school it perhaps to love even Mr. Bartlett, but I love another and cannot follow your command."

"What!" exclaimed the stepmother, turning on her daughter like an angry tiger. "You dare to love another—to love without my consent!"And though her passion choked her words, she still glared at the trembling and supplicating girl at her feet, shaking her hand at her as if she would strike her. This, then, is the reason you will not have Mr. Bartlett. This is why you refuse wealth and station. Oh ! I have found you out, have I? And who may pray be this fellow? —some wandering music teacher, I suppose, whom you have met at boarding school, for no one but proper persons have I suffered you to associate with since your return."

"It is no wandering music teacher, no improper person," said Mary with a sudden spirit, "but one whose fair name is as unsullied as that of the best and brightest in the land. Nor is he wholly unknown to you. It is with Henry Alford that I have plighted my troth," and as the daughter thus spoke, her eye kindled, her form became erect with conscious pride, and there was a sudden firmness in her tone that contrasted finely with her late supplicating demeanor. For an instant, the stepmother was overawed by this transformation. But she soon recovered from her surprise.

Hoity toity, Miss," she exclaimed, "a pretty pass things have come to when daughters talk this way to their mothers. Henry Alford, indeed! - a poor, starving, unknown physician, who, I dare say, cheats his landlady and washerwoman out of their bills, and who is never heard of in good society! We'll see whether you'll plight your troth to him, a beggardly fortune-hunter who, if he could get your money, wouldn't care how soon he saw you in your grave."

He is no fortune-hunter," indignantly replied Mary, "and for his family, it is as good as our own. If he sought what you call a good society, its doors would be thrown wide open to him. If he is poor, is that a crime? I have enough for both," and then changing her tone and bursting again into tears, for her overwrought feelings would be no longer controlled, she continued, "Oh, dear mother, forgive me if I talk thus, for Henry Alford is the noblest of men, and your own heart will assure you that you wrong him. I learned to love him years ago, when we were both children, and he was yet a ward of my father. I intended to have told you all long ago, but you favored Mr. Bartlett so much that I delayed it from day to day. If you will not consent to my union with Henry," she continued, speaking so rapidly and eagerly that her mother could not interrupt her, "at least do not force me to marry Mr. Bartlett. I can never love anyone but Henry, yet I will promise not to marry him without your consent; only do not compel me to give my hand where I cannot bestow my heart."

"I have heard quite enough," said the mother, speaking in those tones of forced calmness that extreme anger affects, "and now go to your room. We will see who is to conquer. Go, I say."

Mary did not reply but silently left the room, though the hot tears rolled down her cheeks and her tottering steps could scarcely support her, for well, she knew by those calm tones and by the ominous eye of her parents that her fate was decreed and that her mother was inexorable.

While this conversation was going on in the luxurious mansion of Mrs. Swanson, two people sat in a spare but yet decently furnished physician's office in one of the principal streets of the city. The youngest speaker was one whose ample forehead and intelligent eye made him possess more than ordinary intellect. He was on the point of speaking.

"In this emergency, Penrose, I look to you for counsel. You know Mary; you also know how deeply I love her and that the dear girl has promised to be mine. But I fear we will never win the mother's consent, and Mary will never marry without it. I know that Mrs. Swanson has fixed her heart on a union between this

Mr. Bartlett and her daughter, and that everything that can be done will be done to bring about the marriage. But I know the sweet girl at this point will be firm, though her mother's entreaties should change to persecution. Mrs. Swanson, however, for I know her character will say when she learns all that I am a fortune-hunter, and nothing more will be necessary to prove the charge, in the eyes of most persons, than the mere fact that I am poor and Mary is rich. My only heritage is a godname, and shall I sacrifice it, even though innocent?"

"I scarcely know what to advise," replied Penrose, "for though we ought to pay some deference to the world's opinion, yet I should never hesitate to act whenever I thought I was right. Perhaps, in your situation,


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Rh


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. THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.

Our engraving fur the month is an admirable representation of a scene familiar to many of our readers. The self-complacency of Puss, and the entreating look of the Dog are well pourtrayed. The picture altogether is one of the most truthful we have scen for a long time. Puss is quite as cager as the unfortunate Belinda of Gray, but her fate does not promise to be so melancholy. Many of our readers may have forgotten the adinirable verses to which we allude, and we easmot do better than quote a portion of them. The description of Puss will serve for our own heroine. The little pocm to which we allude was composed by Gray on a favorite Cat, drowned in a tub of Gold Fishes. Miss Puss, mounting to the edge of the china bow] in which they wore swimming, “gazed,” to use the poet's words, “on the lake below.” ‘Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She waw, and purred applause.

Still had she gazed, but, ‘mid the tide, Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's 'Tyrian hue, Through richest purple, to the view Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw, With wany an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize: What female heart can gold desp What Cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent, Again she stretched, again she bent, ‘Nor knew the gulf between: (Malignant Fate sat by and smiled.) The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood, She mewed to every watery god Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred, Nor cruel Tom, of Susan heard: A fav'rite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived, Know one false step ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold: Not all that tempts your wandering eyes, And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, Nor all that glistens gold.” In the works of Raphael painting seems to have attained its highest pitch. Almost contemporaneous with him, lived Coreggio and Titian; hut the seventeenth century produced no worthy successor.

THE CONVICT’S FATE.

A SKETCH FROM FACT.

So before, behind, around thee like an armament of cloud, the black fate labors onward. Hemans.

On the —— day of March 18—, might have been seen, in the country town of L—, an unusual collection of people of every age, size, and sex. All the public houses were filled to overflowing, and still there were many strangers unable to obtain shelter, but the inhabitants of the village, with generous hospitality, threw open their doors, and made the comers welcome. The cause of this concourse is soon told. The day succeeding the one above mentioned, had heen set apart to inflict the utmost punishment of the law on a criminal then lying in the prison. He was a man large in stature, and of powerful strength. He had a short time before, in a moment of passion, taken the life of one of his most intimate friends, a young man of promising talents, and universally respected by a large circle of relatives and friends, The criminal was arrested the day after the murder, tried, and sentenced to death; and that sentence was to be carried out upon the morrow.

The day appointed for the execution was one of the most delightful of the season. The sun rose unusual splendor. But for one being that luminary had no bright rays—to him there was no joy—no contentment—no happy tranquil feelings swelling the heart with love and adoration. Desperate with the thoughts of an ignominious death, he lay upon the floor of his cell, overloaded with chains, revolving in his mind rome bold attempt at an escape—escape when naught but death stared him in the face—escape, when the very hope seemned the roadness of despair! How was this to be accomplished? He was to be removed from the prison-house to the place of execution, which was about a mile distant, guarded by a portion of the militia of the county, carrying arms charged with ball cartridge. The only chance for escape would be when he was being temoved from ihe cart to the scaffold, ae at that period there would be the least suspicion of his intention. The attempt was desperate, but it was resolved upon.

At length the criminal was brought forth, clothed in the customary dress, and placed in the cart upon the coffin intended to receive hia lifeless remains. He was pale and dejected; but with none of his energies impaired by long confinement, His cye, that no suffering could dim, flashed with more than its wonted brilliancy. The prison was built upon an eminence, and upon the spot where he now stood he could look down upon the preparations for his death, and calculate hie chances for escape. One piercing glance revealed every thing——that glance proved sufficient.

The procession moved slowly on. The bell, suspended

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 at Moree, a village five miles from Cape Coast. She is, as is usual with deities, human in shape and colossal in size, and as is not usual with deities, she is covered with hair from head to foot,—short white hair like a goat. Her abode is on the path to surf-cursed Anamabu near the sea-beach, and her name is Aynfwa; a worshipper of hers has only got to mention the name of a person he wishes dead when passing her abode and Aynfwa does the rest. She is the goddess of all albinoes, who are said to be more frequent in occurrence round Moree than elsewhere. Ellis says that in 1886, when he was there, they were 1 per cent. of the entire population. These albinoes are, ipso facto, her priests and priestesses, and in old days an albino had only to name anywhere a person Aynfwa wished for, and that person was forthwith killed.

I think I may safely say that every dangerous place in West Africa is regarded as the residence of a god—rocks and whirlpools in the rivers—swamps "no man fit to pass"—and naturally, the surf. Along the Gold Coast, at every place where you have to land through the surf, it fairly swarms with gods. A little experience with the said surf inclines you to think, as the dabblers in spiritualism say, "that there is something in it." I will back this West Coast surf—"the Calemma," as we call it down South, against any other malevolent abomination, barring only the English climate. Its ways of dealing with human beings are cunning and deceitful. In its most ferocious moods it seizes a boat, straightway swamps it, and feeds its pet sharks with the boat's occupants. If the surf is merely sky-larking it lets your boat's nose just smell the sand, and then says "Thought you were all right this time, did you though," and drags the boat back again under the incoming wave, or catches it under the stern and gaily throws it upside down over you and yours on the beach. Variety, they say, is charming. Let those who say it, and those who believe it, just do a course of surf-work, and I'll warrant they will change their minds; and above all let men who have to do with the demon-possessed surf of the West African sea-board take care not to get their minds entirely filled with the terror of getting drowned or eaten by sharks, for these are minor dangers in the affair, though they occur.


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One morning, and at an earlier hour than the turnkey they might attract your attention, and perhaps amuse usually visited, her, the noise of the bolts being with you."

The impromptu of M. de Castera was nothing better drawn, was heard outside of her door. It was opened gently, and the captive uttered a cry of surprise, perhaps than a simple and peurile piece of bandinage, entitled it was of pleasure, on seeing poor Cabonis, who ap- "Freedom in Prison ." The rhymes were read once or proached her with downcast eyes and like the most twice by the lady, and then given to the jailor, in order timid of visitors. that they might be restored to the imprisoned poet ; but "Be not afraid, lady- there is no danger-it is only the jailor said to her with great naiveteI," he stammered forth. "Would it not be much better than sending him back "Come here," said the young lady, smiling ; " come what he has addressed to you, to give him an answer in here, until I scold you, and thank you. You here, my verse or in prose. Do not smile at my folly ; but in guardian angel, who soothe my sorrow and lessen my prison even the most trifling amusement has great pains ; but why do you make yourself as invisible as if charms for a captive ; and I am very anxious that you you were an angel ? Speak ! -see ! you have promised should have some amusement.” Doubtless it seemed to Mademoiselle de Malortie that to obey me, and I order you to answer me." "Lady," replied the jailor, blushing with delight at the singular project of Cabonis was not altogether unthe gracious familiarity of his prisoner, "I have to tell reasonable, in such a position, and under the circumyou the motive of my visit to-day. I have promised, it stances that she was placed. The oddity of such an is true, to obey you, even though in doing so I exceed adventure, the strangeness of this epistolary intimacy my duty, or in what is not right. Well, then, I do for between two invisible beings, who were thus about to you as well as I can." speak to each other from afar, to know, to appreciate, "I know it- I feel it." and to comprehend each other, in despite of turnkeys, " Fancy then that I have taken , at first sight, without bolts, and bars, had in it something attractive for the my being conscious of, without my wishing, with a very curiosity, the mind, and the heart of a very young girl. strong feeling, with a friendship that is boundless, with She, therefore, with a bewitching grace, consented to an affection that is overwhelming, with an attachment lend herself to the romantic idea of the gentleman and that is irresistible, for one--" the jailor. She answered the poet, and the next day a "For me, perhaps ?" new demand on the part of M. de Castera compelled her "Alas ! yes. My thoughts are so occupied by you to give him a new reply. The day following that again, that I can think of nothing else. I speak so constantly and every succeeding day for an entire month, the letterofyour beauties and your virtues, that I can hardly talk box of Cabonis received with a miraculous punctuality, of any thing else. You are the only subject of my dis- the intimate and confidential correspondence of the two course with the prisoners ; and thanks to my words, to new friends. The verses of M. de Castera were of life, my praises, to my admiration, every one in the prison of gallantry, of frivolity, of tenderness, and of passion. fancies that he knows you, though he has never seen The prose of the lady showed that she was at all times you. Every body here loves you, respects you, admires adorable, and if it sometimes proved that she was timid, you. A few days, and it was I who took a pleasure in embarrassed, trembling, it was, perhaps, the folly of the speaking of you to every one, and now every one seems abode in which she found herself, had infected the pen pleased in speaking to me of you. But a few moments of the young lady. The imagination and the heart ago I was chatting about you to a young prisoner, who sometimes make sad work with sense and reason. is very accomplished, very amiable, and extremely hand- What, then, is to be said of this sweet adventure, this some. He is a M. de Castera. Do you know him ?" romance of letters, this courtship, which was not af" No." frighted by a prison, nor jailors, nor judges, nor the "M. de Castera has not the honor of knowing you, scaffold ? It was one of the million of strange things and yet he has made the finest speeches I ever heard that occurred during the French revolution. But the about you. It was only this morning I found him story must be proceeded with- the hearts of the correswriting verses respecting you with a piece of charcoal pondents began to be effected by their letters. Without on the white wall of his chamber ; and seeing this, I ever seeing each other they were deeply in love. M. de Castera at last expressed an ardent wish to see said to him, with the hope of pleasing you, Citizen, you ought to write some poetry for the amusement of the lady that he was always writing to. He wished for your pretty neighbor.' But then, as M. de Castera a single glance, to heave a single sigh, to speak one had neither pen, ink, nor paper, I gave him my pencil word. Mademoiselle de Malortie was always alone, and tablet, and he has written such splendid poetical always sad, always weary of her solitude, and she compliments, that, though I have not read them my- had not the courage to say " nay" to the desire expresself, I have brought them to you, lady, in the hope that sed by her enamored correspondent. Cabonis was


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jailor, as usual, ascended to the chambers that had been occupied by the nobleman and the young lady. He delighted in touching, in kissing the books that had been read, the paper that had been written upon, by his lovely prisoner. He gathered the flowers that she had left behind her ; he delighted to listen to the song of the birds that she had listened to ; he looked at the horizon that she had gazed upon so often, the stars that she had admired, and the beauteous clouds that she had seen crossing the heavens. Cabonis went every day thus to think over and to weep about the past, and to lose his senses in extatic visions. One evening, after one of those strange visits that he loved to make to the absent fair one, the jailor abandoned the prison, and presented himself at the bar of the death-dealing tribunal. There, having recounted to his judges the innocent history of his love, he demanded for himself the punishment that was awarded to one convicted of having favored the escape of two prisoners of state ; of two suspected persons ; of two aristocrats. Cabonis was arrested, convicted, and condemned !· Having been brought to the fortress of Hâ, to await there the passage of the charrette, the jailor of the evening before obtained permission to pay another visit to the chamber of Mademoiselle de Malortie. He visited it, and there he kissed, for the last time, the withered wall flowers that she had given him. He then marched boldly, gaily, to the scaffold, where his last words were, " Long live the Republic !"

SOMETHING NATURAL.

WHEN first I saw thy soul-deep eyes, My heart yearned to thee instantly, Strange longing in my soul did rise ; I cannot tell the reason why, But I must love thee till I die. 4 The sight of thee hath well nigh grown As needful to me as the light ; I am unrestful when alone, And my heart doth not beat aright Except it dwell within thy sight. And yet, and yet,-Oh selfish love! I am not happy even with thee ; I see thee in thy brightness move, And cannot well-contented be, Save thou should'st shine alone for me. We should love beauty even as flowers ,For all, ' t is said, they bud and blow, They are the world's as well as ours,But thou,-alas ! God made thee grow So fair, I cannot love thee so! J. R. LOWELL.

LOVE IN A STAGE - COACH. BY A BACHELOR.

How it poured ! Rattle-rattle-rattle against the casement : splash- splash-splash on the ground underneath all night, and now, when I awoke, here it was raining away harder than ever, as if a second deluge was at hand. Confound that breakfast bell ! I do wish there was no such thing as a breakfast on a rainy morning, for then one might lie abed all day, or until the storm cleared off. Philosophers tell us that rain is necessary for the economy of nature-it may be true, though I never trouble myself about such things- but if so, men ought to be made like dormice to sleep on in a semi-animated state, until the rain sees fit to cease. Nature never intended us to be out in a shower, or we would have been born with patent oil-cloth or india rubber skins. Down it poured! What on earth was I to do ? The day before had been the brightest one of the bright month of May, and, as I had a passion for walking in the country-more fool for it !-I had trudged away off here, eight miles and more from town, to see a country wedding, " after the good order used among Friends." I must say that the thing was very handsomely done, and that I was much edified thereat-so much so, that, one of these days, I shall perhaps tell how the parties deported themselves, how many new hats there were in the wedding companies, who drove the finest horses, and all the other matters of gossip so interesting to young misses, and old bachelors like myself. The day passed off, with a bright blue sky, until toward dusk, when a thunder-shower came up, that lasted until bed time ; but I retired, fully resolved that the morning would see a clear sky overhead. But morning had come ; and here it was, pouring, pouring down, in one dark, splashy, continuous stream, for all the world like an old maid's objurgations when her tongue gets wagging ! Down I hurried to the breakfast table. I had just buttered my bread and was swallowing the first mouthful of coffee, when the horn of the coach to town was heard, and looking out the window I saw the vehicle, with its four smoking horses, dashing down the turnpike. It was my only chance to reach the city that day. I bolted my bread, gulped down the coffee till my throat was scalded, jammed my hat on my head, and made a dive through the door. The driver did not see me, but cracked his whip with a flourish and went on. I shouted. Still the old villain would not notice

me, but with another flourish of his whip, set his four in hand into a brisker trot, and rattled down the hill. Desperate with the fear of being left I pitched after him, spattering the mud around at every step, and shouting at the top of my lungs ; but I might have ran on and


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from the conscious and blushing little angel at my side. I was just about to pop the question itself, when the coach stopped, and the driver descended and opened the door. My charmer rose. I was taken all aback. "Do you get out here ?" said I in surprise. " Yes !" said she, " I see Mr. Powell is waiting for me." "Mr. Powell," said I, for that was the name of a friend of mine who lived up this very lane, not half a mile from the turnpike, " do you then live with him ? Perhaps you're a relative ? Strange," I muttered to myself, "I never heard him speak of this charming creature." Before I could answer, Powell approached, and while he hailed me, my fellow passenger sprang to the ground as if by magic, and the next minute was in my friend's vehicle. 66 For heaven's sake," said I, half mad that the hearty grip of Powell prevented me from hastening to his ward's assistance, " who is that angel ? Is she a relative, a ward, or what ? I'm dying for love of her !" Powell burst into a laugh, and laughed on until the tears came into his eyes. Confound the fellow what did he mean ? I began to look angry. " Come, my dear boy," he said, " don't get into a passion, but consider how odd it is that you of all men should fall in love with my cook !". I never make acquaintances in a stage-coach now, until I have exchanged cards.

SHE'S DYING NOW. BY MRS. J. W. MERCUR. SHE's dying now, bring hence fresh stores, And strew the room with pearly flowers, Bring hence each gold enamell'd vase, And fill them with bright flow'rs to grace This room where death's still tread has come To bear afar our cherish'd one. Bring rare exotics, let them stand Upon that high wrought burnish'd stand, And let the scenes that she has traced Be hung above each brilliant vase, And let rich broider'd work be flung In all its wealth her couch upon.

And all that's rare that art hath made, And trophies of the ocean's wave ; And gems from many a dark rich mine, Gems which like sunlight gleam and shine, Bring hence ! and let their brightness shed A lustre o'er the dying bed. Bring hence her braids of orient pearls And twine them with her flowing curls, And let the gems she used to wear Gleam once again like starlight there ;

And let her queenly brow once more Be deck'd with brightness as before. Bring hence her books, rare books, where thought With loftiest themes of earth are fraught, And lay them ere her eyes grow dim The circle of this room within ; But lay the holy one full nigh, There, fain she'd rest her waning eye. Bring music, let its strains most clear, Like balm fall on her dying ear ; Bring music that will buoy her up, To calmly drink the bitter cup ; And when life's feeble chord is riven, Oh, may it waft her unto Heaven.

And all she prized when health's bright stream Flowed quickly through each circling vein , Bring quickly hence, and with them blend The recent gifts from many a friend, Gifts by affection's promptings given To one thus rarely mark'd for Heaven. Then light the tapers, let them shed A silvery lustre o'er her bed, And let them blend with scenes around The semblance of enchanted ground ; But quickly, calmly, lightly tread Around our loved one's dying bed. They 're here- all here- rich stores are brought, The room is fill'd with all ye sought, While yet her eyes, though waxing dim, May gaze upon the scene within , While yet her lips their blessings send To many a dear and cherish'd friend. Now I can calmly let her die, Such scenes as these she 'll greet on high, Where music's ever glorious strains From seraph voices ever reigns, Where naught will fade nor cease to be In time nor through eternity.

Where friends will welcome her on high With joy which naught on earth can vie, Where friends will clasp her radiant form That pass'd from earth in youth's bright morn , Where she will bask in Heaven's bright rays, And sing with joy her Maker's praise. But she has gone- her spirit fled, Our loved is number'd with the dead, Yes ! dim has grown her sparkling eye , And gone the pulse that beat so high ; Her spirit it from earth is riven, To waft unto its native Heaven.

ETERNITY is a vast and trackless ocean- a widespread expanse without limit and without shore-a sea upon which has never yet floated the hitherward voyager, and upon which we shall have ourselves ere long to embark !


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continued she, turning again to Isabel, "do you remember the lady we are to call upon to-morrow afternoon ?" "No ; who do you mean ?" asked Isabel. 66 Why old " -here her voice sunk to a whisper, not so low, however, but that Frederick's acute ear detected sounds similar to " Old Margaret, the fortune teller," and he readily divined the nature of their intended visit. "6' You don't call her a lady ?" returned Isabel, smiling. " Hush !" said she in a whisper, "I would not have your brother know we are going for the world." Frederick, however, left the room as if to give them opportunity to complete arrangements for the call on "Old Margaret," a withered hag who had acquired some notoriety among the young ladies of the city for her shrewd conjectures and predictions, with regard to the all-important object with them, a happy marriage. Sarah Williams was a beautiful girl ! Her's was the dark featured loveliness of the sunny south, of which clime she was a native. Here eyes were full, lustrous orbs of a midnight blackness, which, when she was animated, flashed with an expression that thrilled to the heart. Her hair was of the like color, and usually bound up in luxuriant folds at the back of her head, or flowing down her neck in long wavy tresses, and her brow was as bright and sunny as her own native sky. Her teeth were of a pearly whiteness, and her cheeks, though wearing the " shadowed livery of the burning sun," were of such a transparent hue as to reveal the bright blood gleaming through, and tinging their darkness with a roseate light, as the setting sun gilds the shadows of early eve. Her figure was petite, but graceful—and its outlines were full and symmetrically rounded. Her step was light and free as the wild gazelle's, and her laugh broke upon the ear like her voice, with a clear, ringing tone, melodious as the swell of an organ. She was an orphan ; her parents both dying of a prevailing epidemic, while she was in her twelfth year of her age, leaving her almost penniless. By this calamity her deceased mother's brother became her guardian, and she left the south to become a resident of his family in this city. Here her loveliness and sweet disposition won her many friends, and her relatives almost idolized her, while she in return loved them, and strove in every manner to manifest her grateful feelings for their many kindnesses. From their unrestrained intimacy she had unconsciously won the heart of her cousin Frederick to a deeper feeling than that warranted by their tie of relationship, which, although she herself remained in ignorance of it, was observed with pleasure by her doating relatives, and they were delighted at the idea of her becoming, at some future day, their daughter and sister as well as cousin and neice. CHAPTER II. ABOUT four o'clock on the succeeding day, two young ladies might have been seen walking with hesi-

tating steps down one of the narrow lanes of Kensington, as if unused to the location, and hardly confident of being in the proper path they wished to pursue. They were dressed in elegant and fashionable style, and their air and manner plainly bespoke them residents of some more notable street than the one they were at the time traversing. Their figures were erect and graceful, strongly contrasting with the thick waists and round shoulders of the coarse and vulgar-looking females who jostled rudely past them, with an occasional expression of ridicule at the fragile forms and sylph-like motions of the two strangers. They kept their features closely veiled, however, and glided on, too timid to bestow even a glance in return, and passing down the entire length of the street, turned into a still more narrow court or alley, where, with a few steps, they stood in front of a low, dark, mysterious looking frame house, which, to say the least of it, bore evident marks of Time's decaying fingers over the whole extent of its exterior. Here they paused, and whispered together for a few moments, and from their gestures and looks of mistrustful curiosity at the low entrance to the humble dwelling, each seemed anxious that the other should have the honor of pioneering the way within ; but, however, through the modest diffidence usually attending real merit, or from some other more cogent reason, both timidly persisted in declining the acceptance of such distinguished priority. At length they ended the generous contest by both advancing at the same time and together- one knocking noiselessly with her fingers at the panel, while the other clung tremblingly to her left arm as if for support and protection. They now listened for some minutes in breathless anxiety ; but hearing no sign of life inside, she was constrained to knock again-and again, thrice repeated, each time the weight of her blows slightly increasing as she acquired from the delay a little fresh confidence, until they sounded three distinct lady-like taps, when the noise of shuffling feet was heard, and the door was slowly opened by a short, withered old yellow woman, who, with a scowl on her features, in a gruff toned voice inquired their pleasure. "We wish to speak with the woman who foretells fortunes," was their timid answer. "Then please to step in-I am her," said the old hag relaxing the frown upon her face, as far as the dignity of her profession would admit. The young ladies,-whom the reader has ere this surmised to be our two cousins, -advanced and seated themselves upon a sort of wooden bench, which served for the accommodation of visiters in lieu of a sofa, when she entered an adjoining room, and gave them ample time to wonder what she could be about, or what had become of her. At length she returned again and briefly asked which of the young ladies would like first to learn


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still more surprising, how came she to be aware of that late visit to the fortune-teller ; but to her surprise he secret, which has been scarcely breathed even to my manifested little satisfaction at the circumstance, though own thought, much less to another ? It is certainly she was well aware he was deeply in love, and did not strange-very strange !" She pondered over it long and desire a greater boon than the hand of his lovely cousin. intently ; yet she could not wish the prediction false. She, however, attributed it to his ignorance of the sex, The veil seemed now lifted from before her eyes, and supposing, as was the case, that he disbelieved in the the whole prospect of futurity lay within view, while all supernatural wisdom of old Margaret, and augured unwas fair-bright as her most ardent hopes could wish ; favorably for his suit, from Sarah's apparent disapproval she loved her noble and generous-hearted cousin ; but of the fortune laid down for her. But she advised him, till now had not cherished the remotest idea that they however, not to despair, for she felt assured he was not would ever be married, for her dependent situation upon | all indifferent to her cousin ; and, perhaps, if he urged the kindness of her friends forbade the thought, and she his passion in connexion with the prediction which she had for this reason ever treated him with more reserve appeared to believe, he might not fail to win her. Enthan she really felt toward him, deeming it a duty to couraged by his sister's advice, he resolved to hazard his refrain from encouraging his evident affection for her. fate upon a single cast ; and by chance entered the parlor while Sarah was thus alone, and interrupted her CHAPTER III. musings. Such a favorable opportunity was not to be A FEW days after the visit to old Margaret, Sarah sat lost, and he determined to improve it to the best advanalone in her uncle's parlor, leaning her head upon her tage. 66 Have you discovered the donor of that boquet, yet, hand, and gazing listlessly from the window toward the sky. Her thoughts were wandering far away to her cousin ?" he inquired, advancing with a smile. She started at this question, but assuming an indifown native clime, and she sighed as the remembrance of the scenes of her early youth passed before her mind. ferent tone and manner, replied— 66 Oh, no ; I have not troubled myself at all about it. She saw the home of her childhood, looking like a fairy palace amid the orange groves, beneath whose . fragrant It was sent by some of my friends, I suppose, as a jest. shade she had strayed, and plucking bright blooming I do not know what else it could mean." This gave a dash to his spirits, for he fondly imagined, flowers in the unclouded gaiety of a glad heart that had known no sorrows, or felt no ills ; and it seemed to her his beautiful offering had found unbounded favor in an elysium, from which she had been driven by the her sight, and he could scarcely repress a sigh that relentless hand of fate, to wander alone, as it were, un- struggled for relief in his breast. But bearing up, he protected and dependent over a cold and selfish world. continued. From thence her thoughts reverted to her uncle's kind"I thought you were very much pleased with it, and ness -and her cousins' manifested affection for her, a eager to learn who sent it you, as it appeared to be such penniless orphan, living upon the bounty of their father, a rare one ." while her heart overflowed with a deep and yearning "I would like to know well enough ; but I receive so sense of gratitude toward them all, and her eyes became many gifts of the kind, that I forget all about them in a suffused with tears. But suppressing these emotions, she short time." strove to divert her thoughts to another subject, for she " And do you never think afterwards of the givers ?" knew it would deeply pain any of her friends if they he inquired mournfully. 66 should chance to find her weeping. Why should I care about them ?" asked Sarah The prediction of her future marriage with Frederick coldly, " they are nothing to me.” Somers made a deep impression upon her mind, and He now began to fear more than ever that the thought had a contrary effect from what might have been ex- of becoming his wife was displeasing to her ; but he felt pected upon her actions. She became suddenly distant it was time to learn the truth, for his impatient spirit and reserved in her manner toward him, for she feared could not brook suspense. that Isabel might imagine that she endeavored to assist "Would it displease you," he commenced, hesitain the fulfilment of the prophecy, and might not perhaps tingly, " to know that I took the liberty of sending you approve ofit. But these thoughts wronged her amiable that bunch of flowers ?" 665 You, cousin Frederick !" she exclaimed, starting and cousin, who was even then looking forward with delight in the anticipation of being endeared to her sweet blushing deeply, while her eyes sparkled with pleasure. Saade by nearer ties than those which bound them at He, however, stupidly attributed their flashing brilliancy present. to another cause, though he could not exactly underFrederick was pained by her change of manner, and stand what reason she had to blush. "Didyoureally ?" sought his sister to learn the cause of it, if possible from she asked with evident interest, forgetting at the moment her. Isabel unfolded to him the whole story of their her self-command.