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. THE OUTCAST . BY GEORGE W. BURCH.

It was a dark night in the dreary month of November —the season when summer, with all its vernal richness, has but lately disappeared-when nature puts off the green attire which clothes each tree with waving foliage, and every field with verdure clad was blooming soft and fresh, imparting to the soul its own still smiling joyousness- when the breath of Heaven travels onward, like the bee, and gathers sweets from every flower, wafting to the sense its grateful odors, mild, salubrious and free. But now, how changed ! The face of nature late so smiling, has turned to deepest gloom ; the chill wind sweeps along in fitful gusts, and sighs its mournful notes through every bough where late the merry rustle of each leaf was music to the ear.

The tall trees yield obedient to the blast, and bow their stately heads in solemn grandeur, as the rude tempestuous gale drives on its ceaseless course, and makes each bough to groan and writhe as though in very agony beneath its sway ; the dry leaves by force impelled, in myriads scour the plain, then suddenly whirling upward into air, are scattered over the face of the earth. Dark clouds that veil the heavens in their misty vapor, in quick succession course each other beneath the sky , obscuring every star and shutting out the moon's soft light, whose dim pale face, just visible between each gloomy mass, at intervals darts forth a solitary ray with just enough of light to show the rugged scene below -whose wild and cheerless aspect meets the view, awakening that chill sense of wintry desolation that strikes the heart with misery indefinable. Ah ! well for those whose lucky stars have blest them with a home- a refuge from the chilling blast, whose moaning, melancholy voice proclaims, in whispers loud, the misery without, and hark ! the pattering raindrops, driven by the rude winds down the quivering casements, trickle fast, while every gust with mighty rushing sound, whirls past and shakes the fabric to its base. Now, there was one who, lone, sad, and slow, went her weary way along the barren moor, an outcast. A ruthless sire had driven her forth to seek another home, and she, poor helpless one, without a roof to shelter that sweet babe who nestles to her breast, unconscious of its mother's woes. She turned her looks to Heaven ; there all was dark ; and when she prayed, the rough winds choked her voice ; but still her heart was there, and she | implored some timely succor for the little one whose sobs

broke forth as every chilling blast defied the mother's fond protection. " Ah !" she cried ; " my father, was it well to thrust me forth, at this dark hour, with the poor babe who never harmed thee ; 't was cruel-yes ;" and she wept as though her heart would break.

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Awhile she lingered, not knowing where to turn her steps, ' till at last she saw, far in the distance, a faint light that glimmered like a star, and pointed out some habitation ; this she followed with trembling steps, and eagerly strained her eyes amid the gloom to catch from whence it came ; this cheered her heart, and she travelled on toward the spot with newly-awakened hopes. Now the winds abated, and soon the clouds poured the rain in torrents forth, and, like a deluge came the mountain stream, foaming, and swelling as it rolled its downward course from rock to rock-uprooting trees whose branches swept by the hill, went crashing on, and with the waters bounding over each craggy point, descended to the vale. Here all was dark ; but soon the hollow rush of waves, as the river burst its banks, struck on the wanderer's ear. She turned, and as the moon shot forth one solitary ray, espied with horror-stricken gaze, the shining waters bearing on her steps with rapid haste. She clasped her babe with strong convulsive eagerness, and flew, for fear impelled her course, as on her footsteps now the quiet encroaching torrent gained ; yet on she went, and still the tide pursued ; she paused for lack of breath, then on again ; fear lent her wings, until at last her waning strength could bear no more ; she sank, still with her babe, that now had stilled its cries, and on its mother's beating heart reposed unconscious of its coming doom. "Ah, mercy !" so she cried, " to perish thus ; my babe, thou ' lt share thy helpless mother's fate ; sleep on- there -yes, soon to sleep in death. Thy father, too- O, could he see us now ; but I forgive him—yes, may God forgive him too." There was a pause-the interval of a moment -then a rushing sound of many waters, and the mother and her infant, swept by the boiling surge, were hurrying on to dark eternity. I could not tell all the agony she felt-all the silent anguish of despair-the throbbing of the heart-the grasping at every straw or slender twig that floated by the fleeting breath that choked each cry, which rose each moment to her lips, stifled by the wind that made the swollen waters foam and writhe like the waves of a dark tempestuous sea. The owlet from its eyrie driven, screamed and flapped its wings amid the scene of desolation ; earth and heaven, all alike seemed veiled in gloom unfathomable, save now and then one long and lingering flash would penetrate the darkness, for a moment lighting up the dismal horrors of the night, and making all its terrors visible. Not far from where the torrent whirled its rapid flight in headlong fury on, over many a rock whose craggy summit rose above the wave, there stood a cot, whose inmates, sheltered from the raging elements that warred above, were seated in a nook, while on the cheerful hearth a goodly fire blazed, and threw around its welcome light on every face, whose smiling looks pro-


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THE SOLDIER'S CHILD.

BY H. SYMMES.

"My father died," said Hamilton, " when I was an infant, and I was left to the care of my mother ; who, by carefully managing the small property that remained to her, was enabled to live respectably, and give me a good education. My father had been a clergyman ; and before I could speak, my mother destined me for the church. The progress I afterward made in classical literature, gave my fond parent sanguine hopes that I would one day adorn that sacred and honorable profession. But I entertained an aversion to it I have since been surprised at. Military glory was my darling passion. The histories of these glorious climes of battle and of song, which my studies led me to peruse, served little to allay it ; and my enthusiastic imagination soon erected a pillar of fame, which the doughtiest hero either of ancient or modern times might be proud of. This ardor was fanned into a flame by a gentleman of my mother's acquaintance proposing the army as a better field for my exertions, and more likely to suit my inclination. I need not tell you how my heart beat, when he tendered his influence to procure me a pair of colors ; or how my mother, with a pale cheek and faltering voice, hastily but gratefully refused the offer. Alas ! she loved me too well ; but, wrapped as I was in selfishness and ambition, I wept through despite and bitterness. I saw not that her whole existence was wrapped in mine,-in me,-who became her murderer ? -Nay," continued the narrator, as a dark flush crossed his brow, " you need not start. I did not kill her, I only broke her heart ! In my sixteenth year I entered college, where I spent some time with tolerable assiduity and credit, till I contracted some intimacies that gradually led me into expensive follies. These were soon too much for the scanty allowance my mother could afford me. I applied for fresh supplies, which I received with earnest entreaties to be frugal, and hints, which, though not explicit, might have been sufficient to convince me that my mother was straitening herself to support my extravagance. But, alas ! neither these, nor the religious and moral principles which had been carefully implanted in me, could enable me to resist temptation. I spent an entire night in a gaming-house, in too many of which Dublin abounds. I rose the next morning from the table, without a farthing, and in debt to a considerable amount, for which I was obliged to give up my watch, and some articles of value. In an agony of mind which I cannot describe, I walked down the southern road, without knowing whither I was going. The whole of the previous night's transactions, and the journey of some hours the following morning, are like a blank in my recollection, or rather like the lurid remembrance of some horrible dream. The first thing that awoke me from this state of mental stupefaction. was my overtaking a regiment of Highlanders, then on their march for Cork, where they were to embark for the Netherlands. It was a beautiful morning in the spring of 1815. The sun was shining bright, and their arms and accoutrements were glittering in his rays. The waving plumes, martial dress, and military music, soon dissipated the clouds of despondency from an imagination young and ardent, and opened a long vista of glory. In a few moments, fancy had glided over the whole career, and restored me, high in rank, and covered with honors, to my native village, to my mother, and to my friends. The first step to this ideal promotion was easily obtained. In a few minutes I had the honor of being enrolled a private in the 79th Highlanders ; and before my arrival at Cork, was fully equipped in the garb of the warlike Celts. I need not detain you with an account of my dull and uninteresting life, after our arrival in Belgium, previous to the memorable fight of Waterloo. With the occurrences of that day you are all well acquaint d, and my kind friends here have often enough listened to the narration of my own ' hair-breadth ' scapes.' Though the feeling is natural, I have been too fond of pointing at the only bright spot in the blank of a nameless existence. The night before the battle, I was pacing backward and forward, a solitary sentinel at one of our outposts. There was a weight in the midnight atmosphere, that spread an unwonted gloom over my soul ; and the thoughts of a widowed, deserted, and heart-broken mother assumed the place that highwrought romance was wont to occupy. There was a silence throughout the whole of our army, which formed a striking contrast to the loud shouts of the enemy, as they passed the night in carousing around their watchfires. I should not, perhaps, call it silence, and yet it was something like it,-but not the silence of sleep. The stern and sullen sourd with which the word and countersign were exchanged, the low but deep tone in which the necessary orders for the following day were given,-the sigh of contending feelings in the soul, which almost resembled the groans extorted by bodily pain from the wounded-were all still more audible than the distinct clang of the armourer, and the snorting and prancing of the steed, and shewed that all around was waking watchfulness and anxiety. About the middle of the night, I received a visit from a young man with whom I had formed an intimate acquaintance. He was the only son of a gentleman of large property in the south of Ireland ; but having formed an attachment to a beautiful girl in humble life, and married her against the will of his father, he had been disinherited, and turned out of doors. The youth had soon reason to repent of his rashness. His wife was beautiful, virtuous, and affectionate ; but her want of education, and entire

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THE MURDER.

A TALE OF FRONTIER LIFE.

BY WILLIAM WALLACE.

"AH! the eagle must soon become wearied with the little bird of the forest, and his wings will no longer overshadow it," said Yantee to her white lover in that metaphorical style, which, perhaps, the fervid imagination of the red man as well as the paucity of his language compels him to adopt ; " and," the beautiful girl continued, "the braves of the forest will then scorn it." "Never ! never !" exclaimed the person, to whom the above was addressed, with a startling vehemence. "Never! while the rivers run, the wilderness puts forth its leaves, or yonder sun glitters in his sky !" The girl, as if satisfied, leaned her head upon his bosom, and he, again and again, pressed his lips to her dusky, though most lovely brow. This conversation occurred many, many years ago in the great wilderness of the West. Simple as it was, unregarded by the world, if overheard, as it would have been, yet effects flowed from the passionate words of these forest-denizens which altered the destinies of hundreds, and gave a peculiar character to the history of a populous state. Charles Grayson and his Indian girl were wed. In a few days they left the tribe to which she belonged, and were soon comfortably settled in a hunter's lodge on the extreme verge of civilization.

Years flew by ; and the settlement had already assumed the badges of civilization. The gems of art and agriculture were glittering on the ruins of the wilderness, and prosperity emptied her horn of plenty over the land. As accounts of the change reached the East, hundreds flocked to the clime of promise, and among them one who to personal beauty, the most exquisite, added these graces of metropolitan refinement and education never surpassed, and but rarely equalled. Mary Alton was the belle of her city. Her father had, in the vicissitudes of the times, been suddenly reduced to comparative poverty, and like many others in a similar situation, turned his face westward. Bitter was the struggle in Mary's heart when she became acquainted with her parent's failure, but more bitter still when she saw the necessity of his seeking out a new habitation. It is hard for the young and sensitive to leave a home hallowed by a mother's memory, and the angel-like associations of childhood. But the young, too, are hopeful. The rainbow sparkled out upon the bosom of the cloud ; and Mary Alton, with a cheering and radiant smile, consented to depart. Oh ! smiles of

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the beautiful do ye not speak of a sunnier world ?—a world where the fountain of tears is forever sealed by the seraph of happiness, and grief lies buried beneath the fadeless bower of joy ! And the two, father and daughter, bid adieu to the crowded city for the solitude of a far-distant wilderness. If Mary's charms were all powerful in the East, they were not the less attractive in her new home. She was the toast, the worshipped beau ideal of the young hunters. Her name cheered their hearts, and fired their eyes amid the dangers and privations of the life which their lot often compelled them to lead ; for, even yet, the emigrants of that region were frequently dependant on the chase for subsistence. Among Mary's admirers one was particularly conspicuous. His name, Henry Segard, was an honored one. He had more than once saved the settlement from the dreadful tomahawk, and rescued many a captive from their border foes. The only rival, in prowess, to young Segard was Charles Grayson. Fate seemed to have pitted them against each other from boyhood. Yet, strange to say, they were friends, despite of intense ambition, and the intrigues of their respective followers. There was a rumor, indeed, that they had sworn friendship. But the oath, if such had ever been made, was soon to prove valueless. There was one master passion whose mighty arm would shiver the holy bond and overturn forever the sacred altar.

Henry Segard was the accepted one. Oh ! how his heart thrilled when, arm in arm, he and his beautiful betrothed wandered through the majestic old woods, beneath the silvery stars, and surrounded by all the sweet influences of nature, whose lofty brow yet wore the unsoiled diadem of the lonely wild. How much do we lay down before the shrine of civilization ! How much of the beautiful do we sacrifice ! The mighty river is turned aside, the rippling stream dried up, and the lofty mountain stripped of its emerald coronal, which rustled in kingly magnificence around the marble summit. So let it be ; such is our irresistible law. In these walks, unseen as they imagined themselves, there was an eye on them-an eye dark and keen and sleepless. A glorious evening-a twilight of North Americacloud on cloud, in crimson drapery and ruby gold clustering around the azure palace of the Hesperides ! And Mary, in the still, solemn wood, keeps her tryst. The beautiful girl had been waiting but a few moments,-yet those moments were hours, and her lips murmured, " Why comes he not ?" "He is here !" cried one, leaping from a clump of


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 use of the bean is, entirely to witch palaver; but it is the most respected and dreaded of all oaths, and from its decision there is but one appeal, the appeal open to all condemned persons, but rarely made—the appeal to Long ju-ju. This Long ju-ju means almost certain death, and before it a severe frightening that is worse to a negro mind than mere physical torture.

The Mbiam oath formula I was able to secure in the upper districts of the Calabar. One form of it runs thus, and it is recited before swallowing the drink made of filth and blood:—

"If I have been guilty of this crime, "If I have gone and sought the sick one's hurt, "If I have sent another to seek the sick one's hurt, "If I have employed any one to make charms or to cook bush, "Or to put anything in the road, "Or to touch his cloth, "Or to touch his yams, "Or to touch his goats, "Or to touch his fowl, "Or to touch his children, "If I have prayed for his hurt, "If I have thought to hurt him in my heart, "If I have any intention to hurt him, "If I ever, at any time, do any of these things (recite in full), "Or employ others to do these things (recite in full) "Then, Mbiam! Thou deal with me."

This form I give was for use when a man was sick, and things were generally going badly with him, for it is not customary in cases of disease to wait until death occurs before making an accusation of witchcraft. In the case of Mbiam being administered after a death this long and complicated oath would be worded to meet the case most carefully, the future intention clauses being omitted. In all cases, whenever it is used, the greatest care is taken that the oath be recited in full, oath-takers being sadly prone to kiss their thumb, as it were, particularly ladies who are taking Mbiam for accusations of adultery, in conjunction with the boiling oil ordeal. Indeed, so unreliable is this class of offenders, or let us rather say this


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 pictures with the strongest colours, painted them so grisly, that I sent up to heaven the most fervent thanksgiving for my delivery from that infernal abode.

These horrid dreams vanished at length, giving room to contemplations of a more serious cast. I was every moment reminded of the unhappy fate of my faithful John, and felt an ardent desire to get at the bottom of those mysterious events, that I might be enabled to deliver my poor servant from the clutches of the spirits, or, at least, avenge his death: I was however sensible, that I alone should not be equal to it; the peasants of the village I did not think fit for assisting me in my enterprise, and the whole undertaking too hazardous without the assistance and the counsel of an experienced and resolute man: I therefore was determined to search for such a man, and, aided by his counsel and assistance, once more to encounter those nocturnal sportsmen.


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. clusive argument to the simple child of the woods, that, Mary did not love her husband. The Indian woman of those days never dreamed of infidelity in her sex.

"The Black Eagle shall no longer repose in the bosom of the bird. The blood of but one"-and here checking herself, she, after a few moments, continued "Let the brave long nurse his fawn !" And then dashed off into the forest toward her home.

Segard slowly followed.

A week has rolled by since that night-a dreadful week-and the rough court-room of the settlement is filled with a dense throng. There, congregated together, you might have seen, the stalwart hunter in his picturesque dress -the merchant from the far, far East -the Indian in his sweeping blanket and braided moccasins ; and the attorney, who, even there, assumed the knowing look and professional swagger. Nor should we forget to mention the judge in his leggins and hunting-shirt.

Suddenly a silence as of death fell upon the motley throng. The clerk arose and read an indictment for murder, closing with these words which have struck terror to the hearts of thousands- " Guilty or not guilty !" The prisoner calmly arose, and in a deep, clear, unfaltering voice answered, " not Guilty !" Courage still sat on the brow of Henry Segard--pale as it was with mental suffering. The trial commenced. The state's attorney opened by informing the jury (though they knew it before, ) that, they were to try the prisoner at the bar for a murder on the body of one Charles Grayson. He then went on to give the usual recital of facts connected with the affair, and wound up with the stereotyped phillipic of almost all gentlemen, holding his legal situation, against crime. The witnesses were then called ; and the testimony was, in substance thus : Segard had left his home on the night of the murder, saying, that he was to join a hunt-that no hunt took place, nor had any been contemplated-that the prisoner had been seen going in the direction of Grayson's lodge -that Grayson had been found stabbed and dead - that Segard had often been heard to threaten the deceased's life-that his wife had refused to speak on the subject, and was unable to attend the trial, owing to illness produced by grief- and that Yantee, the wife of Grayson, had not been seen or heard of since the night of the murder. The cross-examination produced nothing worthy of mention, and the case here rested. After the argument of counsel, Segard attempted to rise and address the jury, but was dissuaded by his advocate.

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And Henry Segard was found guilty of murder in the first degree.

Oh! those awful thirty days ! one by one the doomed wretch sees them glide away-he counts every sun- he numbers every hour- he sees the eternity gradually approaching-at last the scaffold-dark and awful meets his quailing eye ; the last hour is here. We need not describe the execution-the first which Horror chilled every had ever occurred in heart, and some shed tears. They remembered Segard's bravery-frankness, nobleness, services, and they wept those stern, iron-nerved hunters ! The last moment has arrived :-Segard stood up, and in a voice, long remembered, exclaimed, "I am innocent !" He was urged to go on, but with a scornful smile said, " The brave do not fear to-day ! I am innocent !" He then knelt and prayed for his wife, father, mother and brothers. "I am ready," said he in a firm tone, and the cap was drawn down- the word was given ; he, the young, the lion-hearted was a- corpse ! " Save him ! Save him !" shouted a wild voice, and Yantee darted into the crowd. "Save him! Save him! the brave is innocent ! I slew the Black Eagle !" The crowd recoiled in horror. " I," she continued-" I met him going to our lodge-he made the bird of the forest believe that the fawn loved not the Eagle-then I had only one to hate -only one to kill . I flew to the lodge -he was asleep-I stabbed him. The daughter of a chief, " cried she, in a proud voice, and drawing herself up to her fullest height, " was revenged ! I fled to my home," she continued ,- " in the woods. I heard that the brave was to die for Yantee's deed . I flew to save him! Too late ! Too late ! The brave would have

slain the Black Eagle, but mine-mine was the right to revenge !" The girl overcome by weariness, grief and passion, sunk upon the ground-lifeless. The chord of life had been stretched too far, and it snapped.

The above tale is true in its leading details. It is almost impossible to execute a person in the section where the melancholy affair occurred, and indeed the whole State has become proverbial for its injudicious mercy toward criminals. Lawyers will tell you, that, Henry Segard, on the testimony, should have been executed. For my own part having read, at least once, the best work on evidence, I must agree with them. And now, reader, judge kindly of A TALE OF CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.


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say, what was the direction that he took, or what his thoughts, his hopes, his desires, and his wishes. During that month- the month in which he was searching for her-how many days were there not of slow and cruel agony for Rachel ! She, alas ! had fallen into that species of paroxysm that, little by little, is sure to undermine health, and, eventually to destroy life. How often had the echo of these Cis-Alpine rocks repeated the beloved name of " Louis !" How often might the unfortunate maiden be seen, her hair scattered in disorder, and leaning as if from the summit of the mountain, and measuring with a haggard eye those abysses that Nature has dug out, as if they were so many vast graves yawning to engulph her ? Antonio, for thus was the mountaineer named, was, as if it were by a species of enchantment, always to be found near her, even in the moment of her greatest despair, and her most bitter sorrow. He placed himself between Rachel and every precipice that was beside her path ; and then, looking at her, his hands clasped together, he seemed to supplicate her to live, and by a sort of smile which he gathered upon his lips, he appeared anxious to remove from his face all that was lowering, and to put off those fearful impressions that his coarse and savage voice were likely to excite. There was in the man something so strange, that it was easy to comprehend that some emotion stronger than that of of pity characterised his conduct. Reared in the midst of the Alps, he had dreamed more than once of that happiness that steals on the soul, when one gazes in the face, and looks into the eyes of a beautiful maiden. He now felt it, but he dared not to tell to Rachel what were his feelings. How could he, so low, so foul, so base, and so obscure, presume to look up to the loveliness and the brightness that invested her, and that followed in her footsteps ; her beauty that, in such a situation, rose, like a resplendent vapor, from a dark, dark valley. But then, if he could not give free vent to his love, he could, at least indulge, in all its energy, and with all its strength, the hatred of the Jew against Louis. He cursed Louis ; he hated the very thought of Louis ; and when that dreaded, detested name was uttered by the lips of Rachel, then did his horny hand grasp, with a firm, deadly gripe, the dagger fastened in his belt. Solomon had charged this man to watch Rachel attentively ; and the manner in which he executed this duty, showed that there was a stronger motive for his conduct than the mere desire to please the father. The state of the young girl gradually became worse ; her sufferings daily were greater ; and her heart was so full, that even the tears that she shed could bring to her no consolation, and in no wise assuage her sorrows. Like unto bodies deprived of life, and submitted to the voltaic battery, there was no pensive electricity to her, excepting

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one-the name of the Christian that she adored. To her every thing else was a mass of confusion-senseless, charmless, graceless, cold, cold as ice. Already consumption, that disease as cruel and remorseless as it is insidious, had seized upon her, when Solomon, one day, came to tell her of the death of her mother, her excellent, her affectionate, her beloved mother ; and yet, she remained, on hearing this, like to one who has been stricken by a thunder-bolt ; broken down- nervelessher eyelids drawn back-her breath stopped, and incapable of uttering a single word. The Jew wept as he clasped her to his heart ; he endeavored, but in vain, to reanimate her scattered spirits. He would have sacrificed all his fortune to save her from this frightful lethargy ; but he would sooner have followed her bier, than wed her to a Christian. The hatred of fanaticism has no pity, no sensibility, no feeling, no remorse. Time thus passed away, when, one fine evening, Rachel, sad and silent, walked along a narrow path that leads to the mountain of the Three-Lances. She had just reached a mass of shapeless marble, which witnessed the passage of the Alps, by Hannibal, when she suddenly stopped, and, raising her eyes to Heaven, she murmured forth sounds, that though they might be said to be inarticulate, still betrayed what was the secret of her heart. The noise made by the crackling of some wild plants, as they were crushed beneath the feet of some traveller, first drew her from the meditation in which she was plunged. She looked - a piercing cry came from her lips- she could not move-she had to lean for support against the block of marble. Louis the Christian was at the feet of the Jewish maiden. How can one draw an exact picture of that interview ? It was on the one side, as on the other, joy, the very delirium of delight, the intoxication of supreme happiness. There were questions without end, and there were answers that were perfectly incoherent. They were insane with love, and it was necessary for both to resay a thousand times that which both had a thousand times before repeated. The moon had already begun to shed its beams through the thick foliage of the old oaks, and Rachel had not yet returned to the cottage ! The mountaineer stood at the cottage door, and called her ; but he called in vain. Never before that evening had she failed to answer him. He felt this, and then he bethought himself of the orders of the Jew, and of the fears which the father had expressed in their last interview. Instantly he determined to go in search of her. Armed, according to the custom of the mountaineers of the Novelese, with a. broad cutlass, he bounded over the rocky torrent, and he climbed the ascent of the Three Lances, with all the agility of a chamois-hunter. The only thing that broke the silence that reigned around him was the rustling of the branches as he rushed along.


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. All had been determined, even though Rachel was not yet able to utter a single word, and that her distraction was a negative proof of the innocence of her father. Her presence, however, in the Court was deemed necessary ; and she, too, was brought to the bar to assist at this last sacrifice to injustice. At length, she appeared, and then pity-which seemed to have fled from the hearts of all -took possession of them, and asserted her supremacy. A murmur of compassion accompanied her on her way from the prison cell to the court-house. To look at her, so innocent, so pure, so completely thoughtless of self, and, dressed, as she was, she looked in her white robes, contrasted with the blood-red robes of her judges, like an angel in the midst of the flames of purgatory. The change produced by this apparition was terrible. The hapless Jew made a movement, as if he would approach to her, but the chains-the cruel chains- with which his arms were bound, would not permit him to open them, in order that he might clasp his child-his dear, his only child to his heart. He could not kiss his daughter, but his groans could be heard by every one.

She was asked several questions, but to none did she give any answer. She only waved her hands, and made some unintelligible motions with her fingers.

The judges then consulted for a moment, and the president arose to declare that they awarded the punishment of death to Solomon Levi, as one guilty of the wilful and deliberate murder of the Count Louis. Even as the sentence was pronounced, a noise was heard at the lower end of the court-house. Rachel shrieked, and then, with one bound, she was in the midst of the spectators, holding, as it were, with a grasp of iron, the mountaineer, who made many efforts to flee, and to disengage himself from her grasp.

" Here !" she shrieked out, " here-here is the assassin of the Count Louis-of my Louis ! Ah, what has happened to me, wretched girl that I am ? Methinks, I still see the dagger that this monster plunged into the heart of my beloved ! I see the ruffian enclose my Louis in the embrace of death ! I see the villain bear him toward the precipice ! My Louis disappears,—and, now, all is darkness-all is obscurity-all is horror ! My Louis fought valiantly, but this wretch-this miscreant-this tiger-drank his blood ." And as she uttered these words, the Jewess was seized with the convulsions of death. She fell in the midst of the crowded court. She lay stretched before the eyes of all, lovely, beautiful, but as destitute of all the powers of vitality as the full ear of corn that the sickle has just stricken down. When they raised her from the pavement, their hands were cumbered with a corpse. , there was a On the first of January, in the year large crowd collected around the principal gate of the city, for before it were erected two gibbets-one was for the Jew, and the other for the mountaincer. -15 VOL. I.-

WOMAN'S LOVE. AN HISTORICAL

ROMANCE.

"GERALD LORTON ! Gerald Lorton !" exclaimed a tall thin female far advanced in life, to a young man, who stood dauntlessly before her, " I warn you, as you are my son, my first-born child - to shun the society of that dark-browed noble. He is a man of deep villainy and desperate designs ; he fears neither God nor man ; he loves not his country or his Sovereign ; he regards not the laws of honor or the land : and, yet, you seek his society and his presence, to the destruction of all virtuous principles, and your present and future welfare." "Nay, mother, nay," answered the son somewhat haughtily, " you love him not, and, therefore, you speak as a prejudiced woman speaks, without either knowledge or reason ; but let me entreat you to go up to the Hall this once, and if he persists in speaking evil of his Sovereign, I will go no more." " Go not, my child, even for an hour- not for a moment to meet those desperate men ; they will lead you on to ruin, and laugh you to scorn, when they see how easily you become their dupe, and embrace their rebellious designs. My son ! -my Gerald !-go not !" "Mother," was the answer, "I cannot stay ; my honor- my word is pledged, and were I to break my faith with Lord Manvers, how should I dare to meet Emily again. I seek not Lord Manvers' society for his own sake, but that of his child. Mother, farewell !" and Gerald Lorton raised his plumed hat from off his fine shaped head, and, bowing lowly to his distracted parent, left the apartment and the house, to ride over to Manvers Hall. Manvers Hall was an irregular building, composed almost entirely of stone, and situated down in a deep vale ; and concealed from view by thick trees which grew around. A cascade fell between two lofty hills, and flowed into a small streamlet, which meandered through the domain, and, excepting where a natural pass presented itself from the summit of a greyfrowning rock, Manvers Hall was inaccessible. Here it was that Gerald prepared to descend, and, leaping from his horse, caught the reins, and walked gently to the Hall, giving his steed to a groom, who was in waiting at the bottom of the pass. On entering the house, a range of doors met the eye on either side, and a chill air pervaded the whole, for it was then late in the month of October. A door, somewhat larger than the rest, opened into a spacious room, hung with crimson and black velvet, and lighted by two immense chandeliers of brass, and placed over long narrow tables, which went partly down the room. A thick cloth was folded on the upper table, and here Lord Manvers sat reading a manuscript with great attention, and a smile now and then crossed his


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. will fulfil your wishes, if they cost me my life, for that is worthless now. I lived but for you-for you I will die ; only tell me you look upon me as a brother, and, if I cannot claim a warmer feeling, yet let me cherish and deserve that one."

"It is yours -dear Gerald," she said, " a sister's warmest love ; but, oh ! something tells me Monteagle is in danger. I know that my father is linked with desperate men, and he is Monteagle's sworn foe ; -then, Gerald, I beseech you, if it is in your power, save him from destruction-save him, as you value the blessing of a sinful girl-save Monteagle from danger and from death. Gerald, will you do this ? and all will yet be well," she passionately exclaimed, and uttering a fervent blessing on Gerald's head, the warm-hearted girl rushed from the apartment to seek the solitude of her own chamber,-but Gerald Lorton was an altered and broken-hearted man.

Two hours passed on, and he had not moved, when Fawkes glided in, and beckoned him to follow where he should guide. The traitor spoke not, but, pointing to a flight of stairs, urged Lorton down, and entered a long, dark chamber. There sat Lord Manvers, Winter, and Lord Harrington. A few set words were uttered by Lord Manvers, and the oath administered, but his victim neither saw nor felt the importance of their oaths. A smile played over his pale features as he grasped the pen, which added his name to that odious list, and as he glanced rapidly over it, and saw Lord Monteagle's name was not among them, the promise he had made to Emily crossed his mind, and he determined to save the young nobleman. The initiation was over, and the only son of a fond and affectionate mother had become a traitor and an assassin. Daybreak saw Gerald Lorton on his way to London, with many good wishes for his safety and success, but disappointment had rendered him cold and callous. Desperate views entered his mind, and the last sparks of virtue and principle were quelled beneath the torrent of hideous thoughts and overwhelming reproaches which filled his tortured breast.

to answer, but it was too late- the messenger was gone, and he remained alone, looking down the long, dark street with the letter in his hand. Creeping back through the city with a weary step and broken heart, the bearer of that letter at length reached a small miserable tavern on London Bridge, and, for a few moments, stood as if reluctant to enter, but he conquered his aversion, and asked the hostess for a room. "The attic is good enough for such as you," said the Dame, contemptuously glancing at his splashed dress. "6 Go up, and see yourself." The stranger mechanically obeyed her, walked up the narrow staircase, closed the door of a wretched- looking room, and sat down. A flood of tears fell from his half-closed eyes, as he laid his head against the dark wall, and, giving way to his grief, commenced a long prayer, drawing from his bosom a lock of dark silken hair, he pressed it to his lips. "God bless you, my

A fortnight passed on, and the day for completing the treason was close at hand, when, during one of those dark foggy days which visit England in November, a man, enveloped in a dark horseman's cloak, and shrouded in a black velvet cap, which almost concealed his face, walked hurriedly through the streets, and looked anxiously at each house as he passed along, seemingly distracted with care or anxiety, but evidently on some errand of more than ordinary importance. At length his walk ended, and he approached a magnificent mansion, and drew a letter from his pocket. "Give this to your master, Lord Monteagle, sirrah," said he to a valet, who opened the door, " instantly on your peril or evil will happen to you." The man stood a moment about

THE FADING BEAUTY.

Emily," he said, " and you, too, my poor mother. God forgive your unworthy son ; but, oh ! if ought can sweeten death, it is the recollection of one act of mercy. Yes-Monteagle is saved. I have saved him from death." Here the speaker paused, and looked for a moment on the point of his bright stiletto, then drew his finger across the blade, and plunged it into his breast. A stream of dark red blood streamed from the wound, and the once happy Gerald Lorton, the virtuous and the good, lay dead on the floor-a suicide and a traitor. Need I add more, the contents of that letter are well known, the success of that plot, and its happy termination ; but if a thought shall come across my readers as to what saved the country from destruction, I will tell them-Woman's Love. H. J. B.

SONNET. BY EDWARD J. PORTER.

BUT gaze upon those soft, dark eyes, whose light Seems drawn from some celestial source on high,— And on that brow so beautifully bright, Around which float those gleams so exquisite, We own them gifts of gladness from the sky, Lent to illume-as the pale stars that lie Silently twining o'er the brows of night Their dewy garlands- earth's lone ecstasy,And linger o'er those waves of raven hair, That fling soft shadows, as each darkling tress Rolls o'er that pale cheek's glowing loveliness, And folds that neck inexplicably fair,And sigh to think how soon the tomb's damp air So much of heavenly brightness will caress.


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. exhibited was the offspring of his malady. But his melancholy, unlike that of Byron, did not find vent in maledictions against his fellows, in sneers at the purity of human nature, in impious repinings at his lot. His heart bled for the miseries of others rather than for himself. This feeling, united to his extreme sensitiveness, gives a character to his whole poetry, and reveals to us Brainard the man in all his artless simplicity. This brings us to notice the want of art in Brainard's poem.

Brainard was no artist-that is he did not understand how to make the most of his genius ; and the consequence has been that his really good poems were written by accident rather than with " malice aforethought." We do not know that we make ourselves exactly clear, but our position is, that genius will rarely produce a fine poem, unless that genius is directed by artistical skill ; and that just in proportion as this skill is increased will be the merit of the poem. Milton's Paradise Lost could never have been written, if its author had not gathered a thousand stores of learning to enrich his work, besides acquiring the management of the incidents from a study of the great epics of every age and tongue. The later poems of Burns are his best, because they are the result of study as well as of inherent genius. To apply these principles to the case of Brainard. He had genius unquestionably, and some artistical skill ; but, comparatively speaking he was almost destitute of the latter. If ever a man wrote from pure inspiration that man was Brainard. There is nothing like artifice about his poems. You can see through them into the heart of the writer as distinctly as one can see the pebbles at the bottom of a quiet pool. They are not the result of elaborate art like a painting of a French school, but the bold dashes produced by a Raphael in a moment of inspiration. They are simple, truthful and eloquent, full of natural imagery, abounding in quiet and pensive thoughts. A writer of this character will often write a dozen stanzas, and have but one really good verse among the whole, or he will compose a score of poems of which not more than four or five will be worthy of preservation. And so long as a poet writes without regard to the rules of art he will write with these varying and uncertain results. He may, and often will be successful ; but this success will be altogether a matter of chance. A man might almost as well expect to produce a fine painting without having first studied the art, as a poet imagine he can write a poem, and yet be indifferent to the precepts which are in common practice with the craft. It is of no use that Homer, Virgil, and a score of others have written, if no benefit is to be derived from analyzing their works and discovering the principles on which these great poets proceeded. Wherever a man produces a fine poem he does it according to certain fixed rules, and although he may be ignorant of these rules, he follows them unconsciously for the time, just as an uneducated orator will sometimes rival a Demosthenes by stumbling blindly on the principles which the immortal Grecian followed in his fine orations. In short both oratory and poetry may be reduced to a system. We have only to analyze them, to find out the rules which should guide us either in writing the oration or the poem. It is true that no one but a man of genius, even with the utmost artistical skill, can become either a Demosthenes or a Milton ; but neither can a man of genius, without these aids, rise above a Patrick Henry or a Hogg. There is this difference, too, perceptible betwixt the mere man of genius, and the poet who adds to his inborn qualifications a thorough skill in his art, that the former may continually be writing bad poems while the latter never will-that the one will succeed only by accident, the other to a certainty. The art of poetry is reducible to an almost mathematical problem ; for if certain powers are used according to certain rules a certain effect must be produced. There is not a bad line in the Deserted Village- and why ? Because Goldsmith was a consummate artist. Shakspeare's Macbeth is full of faults- and why ? Because the great dramatic poet of England was relatively to Goldsmith no artist at all. Yet Shakspeare was, without question, the greatest genius. We do not now speak of the schools of the two men, for we draw no comparison betwixt that of him of Avon and that of the " merry fellow" Oliver.

Brainard belonged to that class which may be calledinartistical ; and when we have said this we have unriddled the whole secret of the prevalence of bad poems in this volume. He wrote only when his feelings forced him-he wrote on the spur of the moment he wrote carelessly, hurriedly and waywardly, and we do not wonder, therefore, that, in nine cases out of ten, he wrote badly. The wonder is that he ever wrote well. There is another thing that made the matter worse. Brainard was an editor and wrote for his own paper. Many of his pieces were thrown off while the press was waiting for copy, were published in equal haste, and were never afterward corrected. Yet these poems the compiler has had the folly to reprint in the present volume. If the reputation of Brainard is not damned forever it will not be the fault of this sapient editor. Heaven save us from the kind-hearted acts of indiscreet friends ! But in spite of all this, Brainard will still be popular. The very want of art in his poems, paradoxical as it may seem after what we have said, will endear him to the hearts of the people. But then his reputation will be confined to about a dozen poems, and the paradox is explained when we consider that these poems are just such poems as Erainard would have written had he


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 This resolution was the result of my meditations on the first morning after my separation from my companions, and I burned with impatient desire to rid myself of that load of incertitude which lay heavy upon my mind. At length I arrived at the place of my destination, and resumed my recruiting business, assisted by two old serjeants.

I hastened to return to the skirts of the Black Forest, and went to F, where always a number of recruiting officers reside, on account of the great number of journeymen constantly travelling through that town; there I met with Prussian, Austrian, Hessian, and Swedish recruiting officers, and now and then with an old acquaintance of mine.

Amongst others I got acquainted with an old Austrian officer, who was highly respected by every one; when he said any thing, which happened not often, then every body listened with the greatest attention, and when, now


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. Then for the living be the tomb, 8 And for the dead the smile ; Engrave oblivion on the tomb Of pulseless life and deadly bloomDim is such glare : but bright the gloom Around the funeral pile.'

The fine stanzas we shall now quote have long been deservedly popular, and form one of the pieces on which the fame of Brainard as a poet rests. There is a waywardness and melancholy about them which touches the fancy and melts the heart.

" The dead leaves strew the forest walk, And withered are the pale wild flowers ; The forest hangs black'ning on the stalk, The dew-drops fell in frozen showers. Gone are the Spring's green sprouting bowers, Gone Summer's rich and mantling vines, And Autumn, with her yellow hours, On hill and plain no longer shines.

I learned a clear and wild-toned note, That rose and swelled from yonder treeA gay bird, with too sweet a throat, There perched and raised her song for me. The winter comes, and where is she ? Away-where summer wings will rove, When birds are fresh, and every tree Is vocal with the vows of love.

Too mild the breath of southern sky, Too fresh the flower that blushes there, The northern breeze that rushes by, Finds leaves too green, and birds too fair ; No forest tree stands stripped and bare, No stream beneath the ice is dead, No mountain top with sleety hair Benda o'er the snows its reverend head. Go there, with all the birds, and seek A happier clime, with livelier flight, Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheek, And leave me lonely with the night. -I'll gaze upon the cold north light, And mark where all its glories shoneSee-that it all is fair and bright, Feel that it all is cold and gone." Here is a poem evincing a mirthfulness combined with a playfulness of manner which is peculiarly characteristic of the man.

""Tis a sweet stream--and so, 't is true, are all That undisturbed, save by the harmless brawl Of mimic rapid or slight waterfall, Pursue their way By mossy bank, and darkly waving wood, By rock, that since the deluge fixed has stood, Showing to sun and moon their crisping flood By night and day. But yet, there's something in its humble rank, Something in its pure wave and sloping bank, Where the deer sported, and the young fawn drank With unscared look ; There's much in its wild history, that teems With all that's superstitious-and that seems To match our fancy and eke out our dreams, In that small brook. Havoc has been upon its peaceful plain, And blood has dropped there, like the drops of rain ; The corn grows o'er the still graves of the slainAnd many a quiver,

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Filled from the reeds that grew on yonder hill, Has spent itself in carnage. Now ' tis still, And whistling plough-boys oft their runlets fill From Salmon River. Here, say old men, the Indian Magi made Their spells by moonlight ; or beneath the shade That shrouds sequestered rock, or dark'ning glade, Or tangled dell, Here Philip came, and Miantonimo And asked about their fortunes long ago, As Saul to Endor, that her witch might show Old Samuel. And here the black fox roved, that howled and shook His thick tail to the hunters, by the brook Where they pursued their game, and him mistook For earthly fox; Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear, And his soft peltry, stripped and dressed, to wear, Or lay a trap, and from his quiet lair Transfer him to a box. Such are the tales they tell. "Tis hard to rhyme About a little and unnoticed stream, That few have heard of- but it is a theme I chance to love ; And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed, And whistle to the note of many a deed Done on this river- which, if there be need, I'll try to prove." The poems on " Niagara," and the " Connecticut River," are extensively known, and will always contribute to the reputation of Brainard. There is, perhaps, more finish in the latter piece than in any other of the productions of our poet. The former has been reviewed with some asperity, while at other hands it has met high praise. We can see many fine things in the poem, and on the whole rank it as one of the best of Brainard's productions. We here close our notice of these poems. We finish, however, with the regret with which we commenced, viz-that this collection of poems was ever made. Had the choicest pieces of our poet been published alone, his fame, among the people, would have stood higher. It will yet, however, be enviable. In spite even of this volume, the simplicity and truthfulness of Brainard will always commend him to the popular ear.

SONNET TO BY HENRY B. HIRST. Go smile on him as thou hast smiled on me, On him who like me never will adore thee, Tho' he has twined his gilded fetters o'er thee. May his young feelings, girl, as fickle be As April skies, or thy more fickle smile ; That meteor lamp which lured me from my way, Beaming with promise of a lovely day, Yet beaming, false one, only to beguile. I will not curse thee when I do recall The happy hours when seated by thy side. When rosy fancy painted thee my bride, An airy castle doomed in grief to fall! Such fate was mine ! Girl, tho' I may repine, 'Tis only that the hand which stung was thine!


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. more confirmed in this first impression ; and, after a fortnight's sojourn at West Point, where Miss Belvoir had been passing the summer, Stanley became completely in love. Nor was Ellen less enamored of the young officer, whose gallant bearing attracted every eye, and whose services in the field had already won for him an enviable name. When, therefore, Stanley proposed for her hand, Ellen accepted it, for she was an orphan, an heiress, and already in possession of her property. It was arranged that the marriage should take place the ensuing winter.

The lovers at length parted, but only for two short months, preparatory to their marriage. Business called the lieutenant to Washington, while his affianced bride, accompanied by her cousin, returned to Boston, by the way of Albany.

It was at the close of a hot, sultry day that the carriage in which they travelled drew up at a neat public house, in one of those quiet villages which are scattered through Massachusetts. They had journeyed the whole day through the mountains, and the sight of the white inn, with its green venetian shutters, and its pretty garden in the rear, all betokening the tidiness of the owner, was peculiarly refreshing to the travellers. The pleasant looking widow lady who met them at the door, increased their delight with the place.

"A sweet village, you have here," said the gentleman on alighting, as he followed the landlady to a small but exquisitely neat parlor.

"Yes sir, although it is small," answered the landlady-" it is rarely that we have many strangers visiting here, and so the place is much as it was in the days of our fathers." There was something in the low, sweet modulated tone of the speaker which made the interrogator start. Surely that voice belonged to no common inkeeper's widow. There was that finish in the tones which is the surest evidence of a refined mind. His cousin seemed to notice this also, for when the landlady had retired, she said, "Our hostess is certainly above the common orderone would almost think she had been born a lady and transformed by some malignant genius into a common inkeeper's widow." " She is obviously a woman of education-perhaps some one whom distress has driven to this business for a livelihood. She has not always kept an inn, be assured, coz." "Still, nothing ought to have induced her to stoop to so degrading an occupation," said his fair cousin, her prejudices at once taking alarm, “ there are ways enough in which an impoverished lady can obtain a livelihood, without resorting to the trade of an inkeeper. Pshaw ! coz, you are wrong, after all-the fact of her having adopted this business is a sufficient proof that she is no VOL. I.- 16

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lady," and she gave a somewhat haughty toss of her head as she spoke. When, after an hour's rest, they met at supper, they were ushered into a neat room, a door from which opened into an apartment beyond, apparently a bed room. This door was ajar, disclosing a portrait hanging on an opposite wall. The light in this inner apartment was somewhat dim, but Ellen could distinguish that the picture represented a young man in uniform, and a second glance assured her that the portrait was that of her affianced lover. She started, and looked again. But she could not be deceived. The broad brow, the searching eye, the whole cast of countenance was that of her lover. The landlady noticed her emotion with some surprise, and as she sat down to do the honors of the table, looked to Ellen for an explanation. Miss Belvoir, fearing that her agitation had been noticed, said. "Pray, if not too inquisitive, may I ask whose portrait I see within there. It bears a striking resemblance to one I have known well." "It is the portrait of my son," quietly answered the was conscious of the worth of him of whom she spoke. "And his name ?" breathlessly asked Ellen. "Edward Stanley," was the response, " he has been on the frontier for years, and but lately returned. His first visit," continued the fond mother, with pride, " was paid to me, and on his departure he sent that portrait to me." " Do you know where he is now ?" asked Ellen, concealing, by a violent effort, the interest she felt in the reply. "At Washington, I believe-he wrote me about a fortnight since from West Point, stating that he should have to visit Washington soon on business. Is your tea, Miss, agreeable ?" she continued, suddenly recollecting that, in her fondness for her child, she had forgotten the duties of her station. Shall we picture the struggle that took place in the mind of Ellen that night after she had retired ? Her cousin, little thinking of the effect it was to produce, had bantered her on her love for the landlady's son, and had thus aroused prejudices which only her affection had hitherto kept down. What ! should she, the proud, the gifted, the high born, wed the son of a village landlady ? Long she lay and thought of it, and every moment her pride grew stronger, so that, although at first her love had struggled for the mastery, her pride of birth eventually came off victor. Perhaps she had never loved with that single-heartedness which is a true woman's jewel-but so it was- she rose, the ensuing morning, determined to break off the match with her lover. She resolved, however, not to apprize him of her determination until she reached Boston.
 * landlady, but a proud smile lit up her face, as if she


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 class of suspected persons, that some one usually says the oath for them.

From the penalty and inconveniences of these accusations of witchcraft there is but one escape, namely flight to a sanctuary. There are several sanctuaries in Congo Français. The great one in the Calabar district is at Omon. Thither mothers of twins, widows, thieves, and slaves fly, and if they reach it are safe. But an attempt at flight is a confession of guilt; no one is quite certain the accusation will fall on him, or her, and hopes for the best until it is generally too late. Moreover, flying anywhere beyond a day's march, is difficult work in West Africa. So the killing goes on and it is no uncommon thing for ten or more people to be destroyed for one man's sickness or death; and thus over immense tracts of country the death-rate exceeds the birth-rate. Indeed some of the smaller tribes have thus been almost wiped out. In the Calabar district I have heard of entire villages taking the bean voluntarily because another village had accused it en bloc of witchcraft. It amounts almost to a mania with these people. Miss Slessor has frequently told me how, during a quarrel, one person has accused another of witchcraft, and the accused has bolted off in a towering rage and swallowed the bean.

The witch-doctor is not always the cause of people being subjected to the ordeal or torture. In Calabar and the Okyon districts all the widows of a dead man are subjected to ordeal.

They have to go the next night after the death, before an assemblage of chiefs and the general surrounding crowd, to a cleared space where there is a fire burning. A fowl is tied to the right hand of each widow, and should that fowl fail to cluck at the sight of the fire the woman is held guilty of having bewitched her dead husband and is dealt with accordingly.

Among the Bantu, although the killing among the wives from the accusation of witchcraft is high, some of them being almost certain to fall victims, yet there is not the wholesale slaughter of women and slaves sent down with the soul of the dead that there is among the Negroes.


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 and then a quarrel arose, every thing was soon settled by his interference.

A man who thus powerfully could influence a set of people, who admit no law but that of superiority, soon engaged my admiration in the highest degree, and I concluded he would be the fittest person to assist me in the execution of my design, to unfold the mystery of the Haunted Castle, if I could but gain his confidence; yet I was sensible that it would be no easy task to ingratiate myself so far with him, that he should not refuse believing a tale like mine, which bore such glaring marks of fiction: I apprehended an old veteran of so much experience, and so serious a turn of mind would laugh at my narrative, and treat it as a nursery tale.

I was the more inclined to fear this apprehension might prove true, when I learned by experience that his curiosity was always guided by cool and just reasoning: His cheerfulness never exceeded the limits of mode-


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.

THE BRIDESMAID.

Tr was 9 sunny and cheerful May moming, and the season was os bright and as beautiful as the hearts and hopes of the young and lovely sisters, who, blushing in their bridal attire, were reclining on a rosewood ottoman in the drawing-room of a spacious eolonnaded mansion that omaments one of the most elegant of our metropo- Jitun squares; and yet there was a spark of sadness that chilled and clouded the spirits of both: the severing of the intimacy, the companionship of ycars, for the first time, probably never again to be relinked—the unknown res to be endurcd=drew tears from their eyes, ax in silence they clasped cach other's hands in @ fond and mutual strain,

“Come, Louisa, you must not droop so; remember you ere my bridesmaid. If you, my supporter, my confidante, fail and forsake me, who will cheer up my courage, and hand a white handkerchief to the Tragedy Queen?”

«You stilt will banter, Charlotte. Well, I am glad you can, We will not think—at least, not talk—of puting yet. Here slops a carriage, but not Aie—yours, I should say.”

“Well, my Louisa, when the Exile from the East returna—the sallow reckoner of rupees ond mohirs, then it will be my turn, and, believe me, F shal] not spate you.”

“Ab, Charlotte! a long voyage, the ocean and its storms, and hope deferred, make tha heart, very, very sick.”

“You will be happy soon, my sister, and all your fretting will be no longer remembered.”

Poor Louisa looked at her eister, her dress, hor new omaments, the ring, aid deeply and hopelessly sighed.

The room soon fillod with tho invited guests; and favors, gloves, and ribbons, flew and fluttered through the long and splendid line of equipages. A quarter of ‘an hour might have passed away, and every carriage tut one hud reccived ite freight of fashion, when a thunder- ing ond unceremonious peal on the hall door’s brazen electric khock of nervous curiosity and alarm, A do- rapper, startled the veiled bride and her sister with an mestie hurried up the stairs, and met them on the tanding-place.

“A foreign letter, Ma'am.”

“Give it me quick !”

“No, Louisa, my love, oblige me, I wilt first open it and read.”

My God, that black seal! I knew, I knew it would be so all along. I dreaded it, 1711 go to him then that no fale of power can prevent now. Read it to me, Charlotte; though, my beart, presuged it, already knows the contents, Poor, poor Edmund.”

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The characters of woe, which her trembling sister articulated falteringly, supplied painful proof to her strange, an‘, alas! too trac forebodings. Her betrothed had been some months dead in India; and his fiend, who wrote the mournful communication, mentioned, that on the day that he last wrote to Louisa, scarcely an hour after he hod impressed his scal upon tho writing that gavo delusive hopes, which bloomed only to he blasted, Denth sealed his destiny with his most rigid imprint, and the sunset shone upon another grave of @ new victira to the Aviatic pestilence.

"The bridesmaid heard the letter read through and finished without a word, groan, or cob. Like a warsior, who, for an instant after the lance has transfixed hito, stands sternly and proud, and falls not, she boro up one moment, and then sank hack and fhinted.

‘Ob! human happiness, how Yuseleas, how tottering ix thy structure. ‘The nuptials were postponed—the feast left untasted ; and when the doctor artivod at the house, where ‘al) things wero tumed to their contraries,” he saw the lovely form of the pale and breathless girl supine upon the couch, and her sister, whom horror had ren- dlered scarcely more life-like, bending over her, still hoiding in her hand the warrant of her fate, ‘The most violent stinmlants, the strongest anil most powerful res- toratives, were for a time epplicd ineffectually ; but at lest eucceeded in bringing back conscioumess, when she tuned to ber sister, raised the letter, and, pressing it to het tomples, dropped one tear, large and agonizing, as if her Druin bad been scathed into weeping,

It would be a ead and painful task to endeavor to describe the rapidity with which this young and lovely creature sunk into decay, ‘The blow was unrering, and she never rallied oven for a moment, ‘The last wards which she addressed to her sister were, Wo must part, my beloved Charlotte! I sink to rest—~rest, quiet and untroubled, where mournful tidings, and lettern that bear news of death, will never ugain break my heart! Raixe ime, sister, till I listens angela speak so low. Tam sure T shall know him—his spirit's robe cannot disguise bia from me—so dazzling they shine, they pain my eyes; but I shalt soon, soon close them for ever, Do not weep, my sister. Now, good bye! We have loved cach other to the last?” and that night the gentle and beauteous bridesmaid closed her eyes for ever.

A Fins Trovowr.—Could we open the secret history of those who have risen to eminence; could we survey their Iofty purposes, their well-digested plan, the skill and energy which they employed ; could we beholl the obstacles they aurmouzited, we mightbetter understand the true import of that appropriate adage, « Every man, in the hand of Providence, is the architect of his own fortune,” �


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. he had promised to write from the Cape, or by any vessel they might hail in their course. Daily she scanned the shipping-list, started at the sound of the postman's horn as he passed through the village of St. Bude, only to meet with a new disappointment.

About this period, the anxiety of Gertrude was fated to take a new direction, or rather fears for the life of her parent were added to those she entertained for the weal. of her far distant lover. Compelled to undertake a hasty journey to London, in consequence of the failure of the banker who held the property of his late wife in trust for her daughter, he found on his arrival that his ruin was complete-that he had eluded the vigilance of his creditors, and sought a refuge beyond the Atlantic.

The Rector bore this reverse of fortune with the fortitude of a Christian, consoled with the conviction that Gertrude would not be less prized by St. John because she came portionless to his arms ; and, without unnecessary delay, he proceeded on his homeward return.

His affectionate daughter, grieving little for the loss of fortune, was dreadfully alarmed at the changed aspect of her father. He imputed the alteration to fatigue, and retired early to his chamber. A low fever soon developed itself ; and, in spite of the most unwearied attentions of his child, and the most eminent medical attendance, the disease proved fatal, and at the termination of a few weeks, the Rector of St. Bude became an inhabitant of the tomb. His bereaved daughter sunk for a while beneath the afflicting stroke ; but roused by the appearance of the new incumbent, she hastened, with the aid of an old friend of her father's to set about the necessary preparation for leaving the Rectory. The last night she spent beneath its roof was to her a night of acute and overwhelming agony, and with the dawn she left the home of her birth, and returned to the cottage of her aged nurse, in a neighboring hamlet. Loved and respected by his flock, the orphan daughter of the Rector lacked no invitations from several families in the neighborhood ; but the lofty spirit, which had laid dormant in the bosom of Gertrude, in the season of prosperity, became developed and shone out in the hour of adversity. She resolved, rather than drag the heavy chain of dependence, to employ those talents and accomplishments which had amused and embellished her idle | hours as a recourse in her present altered fortunes. Her nurse had a daughter married in London, to a respectable mechanic, and apprising Margaret of her intentions, and selecting a few cherished memorials of other days, she proceeded to the toll-house to await the coach in which a place had been secured. As she left the cottage of the nurse, which had been rendered snug and comfortable by the bounty of her father, and as the aged dame stood at the door weeping, and calling down blessings on her head, she

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felt a sinking of the spirits, which she vainly struggled to subdue. The season was in unison with her feelings ; it was the early morn of a cold wintry day, unusually dark and dreary ; and as she entered the coach, a drizzling rain beat heavily against the windows, and a dense fog enveloped the surrounding objects. The embrowned and yellow leaves fell fast from the trees, which skirted the road, and those which still clung to the half-naked branches, exhibited a lively image of decay. It was past midnight when the coach drove into the inn-yard ; but late as it was, Margaret and her husband awaited the arrival of the orphan. The sight of a familiar face produced a powerful revulsion in the feelings of Gertrude, and throwing her arms round the neck of Margaret, she burst into tears. Johnstone, with genuine feelings of delicacy, left the parlor, and having procured a coach, he placed his wife and Gertrude inside, and mounting the box with the driver, directed him where to proceed. The abode of Johnstone was situated in the outskirts of London, near to Finsbury Square, and while he as sisted the coachman to remove the luggage, his wife conducted the weary traveller to a neat bed-room on the first floor, which was luckily untenanted when she received the letter of Gertrude. After partaking of coffee, she undressed with the assistance of Margaret, and retired to court the repose her exhausted frame so much required. Sleep fled, however, from her pillow ; and, when toward morning she sunk into a broken and unquiet dose, the painful thoughts which had occupied her waking hours recurred in broken and distorted images in her dreams ; and when Margaret entered her chamber, she grieved to behold the ravages misfortune and grief had produced in her once blooming joyous countenance. Resolved on the course she meant to pursue, Gertrude lost no time in advertising for the situation of a governess, and on the second morning after its appearance, a flaming chariot drove up to the door of Mrs. Johnstone's dwelling, from which alighted a portly dame, arrayed in the extreme of fashion. She inquired for the young person who wanted the situation of governess, on which Margaret ushered her into the little parlor, where sat Gertrude at work, in the unstudied negligence of a morning robe. The stranger announced herself as the lady of Alderman - and in want of a governess for their two daughters. She did not question -indeed, seemed incapable of questioning Gertrude in regard to her fitness for the office, but she inquired as to terms and references as to character, with a coarseness which grated painfully on the feelings of the bereaved orphan. But pertinaciously cherishing the belief that she was deserted by Hector,-


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THE BELEAGUERED CASTLE. BY H. J. VERNON. THE castle had already been beleaguered a week, and the hopes of the besieged daily waxed fainter and fainter. The friends who had stood by the gallant old Lord. Derwent when the fortunes of his house were high, had deserted him in the hour of his extremity, and left him to contend alone against the bitterest enemy of his house, an enemy whose hereditary hatred was now inflamed by the refusal of the old Baron to purchase an amnesty by sacrificing his only daughter to the arms of his foe. That daughter had been betrothed years before to a your kinsman of Lord Derwent, who was now on a crusade to the Holy Land, and though nearly two summers had came and gone since intelligence had been received from the good Knight, yet the Baron would have remained firm to his word, even if the suit of his foe had not been, as it was, repulsive to his child. So he had sent back a refusal to the proud De Courtenay, and when the latter threatened to harry his land and lordship unless he retracted the answer, the chivalrous old lord, although conscious of his inability to contend with De Courtenay, had replied by a bold defiance. His foe had proceeded to execute his threat, unchecked by the interposition of the royal hand, for the king himself was a prisoner in Germany, and his unworthy brother John permitted his followers, of whom De Courtenay was one, to pursue their own schemes of revenge or aggrandizement unchecked. Thus the foe of the good Baron had met hitherto no check to his rapacity. He had threatened to harry the lands of Derwent and fearfully had he executed his threat ! Manor after manor had been laid waste, village after village had been burned, and its inhabitants slaughtered or made prisoners, and now the bold father, fighting to the last with desperate bravery, had been driven into his last stronghold, which he was vainly attempting to defend, with an armfull of men, against almost countless numbers.

The siege had already continued a week, and all hope of succor from the old allies of his house, had long since been given over by the Baron. The provisions of the garrison had been exhausted, and the few Knights left in Derwent's train, were now met in the great hall to consult with their leader, respecting the course to be pursued. It was a sad and melancholy group. There were the war-worn and discomfited Knights, their countenances betokening the extremity to which they were reduced there was the grey haired Baron, unable wholly to conceal his fears, and yet unwilling to discourage his followers by betraying any symptoms of anxiety- and there too was the daughter, the innocent cause of the

peril in which all were placed, tenderly gazing up into her father's face, and by that silent display of emotion filling every heart of the group with a renewed determination to perish or preserve her. "I would, Amy," said the Baron, putting back the fair hair from his child's eyes, and gazing into her face with all a father's affection, " that you had staid in your bower with your maidens, and not come here to listen to the extremity to which we are reduced. Even now it is not too late for you to retire-the desperate discussions of brave men in peril are scarce fit for maiden's ears." " Not so - not so, father," interrupted the daughter, "a noble maiden should ever be the first to hear counsel in a moment like this, especially when it is for her that the peril is to be encountered. But this is not all. I have heard the proposal of De Courtenay to withdraw his forces even now, if I am given up. Therefore have I left my bower and joined you in the hall. And now hear me," she said, speaking clearly and slowly, as one who has come to some fixed determination speaks, “ I have too long remained silent, aye ! until I have suffered these brave men to be brought into this extremity, and now it becomes me to speak. It is apparent that no earthly power can prevent this castle from falling into the enemy's hands- then why protract a useless resistance ? I know what you will all say," she continued, seeing that several were about to speak-" that I will thus fall into the hands of De Courtenay. Well- be it So. Can further resistance prevent this ? Then why bring ruin needlessly on all ? If, by protracting the defence, we could ensure succor, then might I listen to you ; but no such hope of relief exists. A prey to the spoiler I must be, then let me be the sacrifice, but let these innocent men escape." For a moment her hearers were speechless at the generosity of her proposal. Then every voice was lifted up against it. "No," exclaimed a veteran Knight, " never will we desert you-we would be recreant Knights if we should. By our hopes of salvation we will, one and all, die in your defence." This gallant speech was welcomed with shouts by the other Knights until the old hall rung with their enthusiasm . "I knew, noble Knights," said the Baron, when the tumult had partially subsided, and his voice betrayed no little emotion as he spoke, " I knew what your answer would be to the insulting proposal of De Courtenay. But I was resolved that you should hear and decide for yourselves. I little thought that my child would be here to make the proposal for herself, but I thank you again and again for your enthusiasm in her favor. I am an old man and my days are numbered ; and all I regret is that I may not be able ere I die to reward you


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explained—and I do not ace in it any thing more atrange than that which has happened to myself.””

“What do you mean, Madam ?”"

“It is, really, @ most extraordinary coincidence.”

«Speak—t beseech of you to speak.”

Well, then—as to that Spanish painting, from which you have made your own portrait—”

“Go on.”

“My father brought it from Andalusia, where he had been a Jong time with tho army, and it was pluced in the chamber where I waa born, As I grew up, it attracted my observation ; and it wns before that head, 30 animated as it seema, with a lively faith, that my Parente made me say my prayers every day. Little by litte [ took pleasure in gazing upon it; and at a later Period, in my girlish illusions, I accustomed myself to think that Heaven would send mea husband whose face ‘would be like to that in the picture.”

Well?”

“Alas! I was very much deceived. The man to whom my hand was given hud neither the youth, nor the features of the holy monk, under whose patronuze T had, in some manner, placed myself: My father, finding that his death was approaching, and having but a small patrimony to leave mo, wished, before ho died, to see me married, I was just eighteen when he proposed to unite me to his best friend, who was a man of high rank, and had an annual income of a hundred thousand francs, Ought I—could I refuse? £ obcyed—I necepted the hushund, ag if he were my second father, and soon the only one, For six years we lived together, and his affection to me was paternal. Even in his Inst moments, it did not abandon him, ‘Amelia,’ said he to me, ‘you made a great aacrifico when you espoused a man who was more than twice your age—whose youth bad long departed from him, and whose constitution was broken down by the cures and anxieties inseparable from a political life, By your angelic sweetness, you spread & charm over a most itl-assorted union. Permit me, then, to give you a proof of my gratitude, I leave to you the entire disposition of my fortune, and I also engage you to divide it with a husband worthy of your choice. You are still young—you can atill be happy, and you require a protector, When, then, the time of your mourning is passed, follow my advice—my last advice, and never forget your old friend”

Louval threw himneelf on his knees before the Countess, who told him that was not the precise moment for ful- filling the wishes of her husband.

“Ah?!” be exclaimed, “it is not for a poor artist that ach blise is reaorved.”

“Do not 60 express yourself, Louval,” she replied, “for great talents are on a level with the very highest Position in soeiety.”

Ina few weeks afterward “tho Spanish Monk,” and

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“tho Lalian Madonna” might be scen together in the collection of M. Aguado, where they still remain. As to those who #0 strongly resembled them, they were about the same time married, and never siuce huve they wished to be separated from each other.

I REMEMBER MY Vow. By 3, 8, JRNKING, Trrwesner my row! 'twas plighted to thee At the hone of e’en, when the warn breath of June Was fresh on thy check, and o’er mountain and lea Shone the silvery light of the early moon,

(Of the myrtle’a rich leaf, and violets rare,

With the blushing moss-rose, and the gay hare-bell, I wove thee a garland to wreatlie in the hair,

Down thy fair sunny brow in beauty that fell.

And I told thee in many an earnest tone,

Phat the Howers [ gathered, were emblema to me, OF the virtue and truth I knew were thine own,

And the love which I ever should clicrish for thee.

‘The watch-fires of heaven shone clearly aul bright Through the gath’ring laze, but faint was their gleaming, And feeble their glow. when compared with the light In thine eye, so fondly and tenderly beaming,

‘The low, plaintive notes of the murmuring rill, Rose sofily and sweetly in glen and in date,

And the lay of the breeze from forest-crownedl hill, Floated gently adown our glad native vale.

But the tones of that voice which haunteth me now Foll softer and sweeter upan my rapt ear,

When warmly they uttered that passionate vow. To hold me, for aye, the bicloved one and dear,

T remember the troth I gave to thee there, ‘With my lips to thine own, thy hand clasped in mine: ft is first in my thought, and last in my prayer— T remember my vow !—dost thou think on thine?

SONNET.

How shall T meet thee, Summer, wont to fill My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide Firat came, and on each coomb’s romantic vide ‘Was heard the distant euckoo’s hallow hill? Frosh Rowers shall fringo the wild brink of the stream, As with the song of joyance and of bepe, ‘Phe bedge-rows shall ring aloud, and on the slope ‘The poplara sparkle on the transient beam, Phe shrubs and laurels which love to tend. ‘Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight, With many a peacefill charm, thee, my best friend, Shall put forth their grcen shoot, and cheer the sight ! But { shall mark their hnos with sick'uing eyes, And weep for her who in the cold grave hes!

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 Dr. Nassau told me of an interesting case which had come under his notice. Once he met a native heathen Akele chief who showed him a string of shells, horns, and wild cats' tails which he said could turn aside bullets. Although the Doctor is well known as a dead shot, the Akele dared him, in a friendly way, to shoot at him with a rifle, and to try him the Doctor pointed the rifle at him, at the distance of a few paces, but the Akele never quailed, and "of course," said the Doctor, "I did not fire." Two years after, that same man when hunting was charged by a wounded elephant and pierced by its tusks. His attendants drove off the beast, and the fearfully lacerated man survived just long enough to accuse one of his women and some slaves of having bewitched his gun and thus caused his death, and on this accusation four people were killed. The ingenious ethnologist may trace from this the accusations made against guns by European sportsmen and recognise survivals in them.

In doubtful cases of death, i.e., in all cases not arising from actual violence, when blood shows in the killing, the Bantu of the S.W. Coast make post-mortem examinations. Notably common is this practice among the Cameroons and Batanga region tribes. The body is cut open to find in the entrails some sign of the path of the injected witch.

I am informed that it is the lung that is most usually eaten by the spirit. If the deceased is a witch-doctor it is thought, as I have mentioned before, that his familiar spirit has eaten him internally, and he is opened with a view of securing and destroying his witch. In 1893 I saw in a village in Kacongo five unpleasant-looking objects stuck on sticks. They were the livers and lungs, and in fact the plucks, of witch-doctors, and the inhabitants informed me they were the witches that had been found in them on post-mortems and then been secured.

Mrs. Grenfell, of the Upper Congo, told me in the same year, when I had the pleasure of travelling with her from Victoria to Matadi, that a similar practice was in vogue among several of the Upper Congo tribes.

Again in 1893 I came across another instance of the post-mortem practice. A woman had dropped down dead on a factory


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. celerity, and he had soon to appear before the very same judges who had acquitted the assassin of the shepherd. When desired to tell his name, he answered " Paul," and upon the question of the judge, as to whether he was the originator of the murder committed upon the person of Don Micida, he answered, " Its originator, I am not- its executor, I am ;" and then, when called on for his defence, he confined himself to the simple recital of facts. " I am," said he, " the brother of Inez, and the son of Bartholomew-the one was insulted, and the other assassinated, by the wretch on whom I have only done, that which justice was bound to do."

Such a pleading stood not in need of any oratory. Even though it was extremely laconic, its meaning was so plain, and its eloquence so heart-stirring, that it was calculated to excite in men of the dullest sense, the desire to save the unhappy man. But the remarkable answers of Paul, and the nature of his defence were not suited to dispose favorably toward him, the judges who had pronounced the scandalous acquittal of Don Micida. Besides, Paul had taken vengeance for the injury done to him, by shedding the blood of one of the nobles, and Paul, therefore, was condemned to death !

It was upon the very day of his condemnation, that a woman, pale and haggard, all in tears, and her hair in disorder, found her way into the gardens of the Alcazan. She did so at the very time that the beautiful and the generous favorite, Maria Padilla, was taking her usual promenade. The wretched woman cast herself at the feet of her, who was the beloved of Peter the Cruel. Maria, brilliant and happy at the sight of the miserable creature, who was prostrated at her feet, removed the light veil of lace in which she was enveloped, cast upon the suppliant a look of kindness, and in a compassionate voice, said to her"Rise up, my poor woman. It is only before God that we ought to kneel. What can I do for you ?" "Generous lady— ” Sighs interrupted the suppliant, and prevented her from proceeding. "Take courage," said Maria, with the same sweetness of manner. " You are unhappy, and misfortune is a title to my protection. Tell me, without fear, what is the cause of your alarm." "It is the fate of Paul-of my son, lady." " Can I be of any service to him ?" " Oh ! yes, gracious Madam ." 66 'Speak- ask what you wish." "Oh ! they have condemned him." " Condemned him, do you say ? To what?" "Pardon me, Madam, if the word dies on my lips-it is so dreadful to say it." "Poor mother ! To death, perhaps ." 66 Yes-yes-lady," said the trembling mother of Paul. " And what is his crime ?" asked Maria,

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" Oh ! he is not at all guilty, dear lady. He is so good, so kind, so affectionate a son. He has always so is his filial piety that has destroyed him ; but I swear before Heaven, he is not guilty. Pity, then- oh, pity and mercy for him, lady." " Silence," said Maria, with an evident expression of interest. " The King is coming this way. Give me your petition, and remain at some distance from us. I shall have you called, if it be necessary." Saying these words, Maria turned her steps toward an avenue of orange trees, where she perceived the King, who eagerly advanced to meet her. " Peter," said she, presenting him the petition of Paul, "here is an excellent opportunity of making yourself agreeable to me." "I am glad of it, Padilla- then tell me what it is." "It concerns an unhappy man, who has been condemned to death, and in whose fate I am interested. You will make use of one of the noblest prerogatives of Royalty in his regard-you will show that you are merciful. Is it not so, my love ?" Peter had approached his favorite with a smile of satisfaction, which frequently softened the severe expression of his countenance when in her society ; but, on hearing the words that she had just pronounced, he knit his brows, and slightly frowned. The prince piqued himself upon the exhibition of a great respect for justice, and it must be owned that he gave numerous examples of his disposition in that respect. Did the condemned, in whose favor Maria interested herself, deserve any favor to be shown to him or not ? Such was the question Peter put to himself at the moment that Paul's petition was put into his hand. The petition ran thus :66 Sire ! you have punished in the severest way a noble duke, because his servants, at his desire, had beaten a poor tradesman for asking the amount of his bill. You had another sawed in two for the atrocities he had committed in a family, into which he had been introduced in the character of a clergyman ; and you have even applied to yourself the extreme severity of your justice, in knocking off the head of one of your statues in the public square, because some years before you had stabbed a soldier, and you have taken care of the witness who had the courage to denounce you. Why, then, ought not Paul to find at the Alcaza justice and protection ? At the Alcaza, where they weigh in the same balance the weak and the strong. My father fell by the poignard of Don Micida, and the latter was acquitted by the judges. I slew the murderer of my father, and the same judges have condemned me to death. It is an iniquitous sentence, and against it I appeal with perfect confidence to PAUL." you. production, instantly Peter, upon reading this singular gave orders to one of his officers to bring before him, without a moment's delay, the son of Bartholomew. The order fortunately arrived in time, for when the
 * loved his father and his sister, and me, too, Madam. It


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THE STAGE BOX BEAUTY.

BY MRS, M. V. SFENCER.

CHAPTER I.

Hawny Beauchampe was the son of a decayed gentleman, who, after the duo number of attacks of gout; diced and left his only child to starvation, But from this evil the young orphan was preserved by a maternal uncle, who, being an old bachelor, and pos sessing am income far beyond his wants, at once took charge of our hero, and resolved to educate, perhaps to adopt him. Accordingly the young orphan was pro- vided for at = public school, and subsequently at an academy, until bis uncle’s death, an event which hap- pened just as Beauchampe was entering on his fifteenth yeor. The death of his patron, however, did not leave Henry unprovided for; indeed the world looked on it as rather a happy,event for our hero, since it left him the possessor of an estate worth ten thousand a year, The devise, however, was fettered with one condition. It was made a contingency necessary to the enjoyment of the estate by Bosuchampe that he should marry @ niece of his uncle, whom the kind hearted old man ‘had adopted ‘@ fow years after he had done the same act for Henry. This clause, however, afforded no uncasiness to any of the parties, since all reasoned that the young heir would only be too glad to take the estate encumbered by @ lovely wife, for the protégee of the uncle, although Beauchampe had never seen her, bore the character of being exceedingly beautiful.

Accordingly Beauchampe grew up considering himeelf the possessor of his uncle's estate, as much ae if it was slready under his coutrol, Ample provision had been made in the will for the education of the young man. ‘As he waa naturally of cousidersble ability, he passed through college with eclat, and at eighteen took his diploma at the head of his class, His guardian pro- posed that he should devote the three remaining years of his minority, which were generally devoted to the stady of a profession, to.travelling abroad; and accord- ingly Beauchampe sailed for Europe under the guidance ofa tutor. Hert he was absent for two years and a half, It cannot be supposed that travel was without its effect on-hia mind. But happily he had no common amount of sense, and ho passed safely through the temptations of foreign life, without becoming either a fop or a buf foon. Naturally, however, of a poetic, we might say romantic temperement, he increased this tendency by loitering along tho vine-clad hills of the Rhine, and Tistening to the legends of that fascinating region. But, although few mrn were more romantic at heart, his life of fashion when in the great cities of- Paris or London, tanght him to disguise his sentiments; and of all the

Vou L—t8

OF FASHION.

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gay companions he met in the salons of the great and proud, not one would have suspected hie real character.

“Ah! De Burgh,” said he, one morning in the Park at London, to a fashionable acquaintance, “you heave got hack from the continent, and I am glad of it, for £ have to aail in a fortnight for New York.”

«Indeod—why, I thought you were not going uniit the acason was over, and hero it has just begun. Are you serious 1”

«Never more s0 in wy life, Time bas slipped away 0 rapidly of late that I find the poriod when I muet be in America Jose at hand—the more, since I received a lettor from my guardian yesterday, in which hoshints at my approaching majority, and says it would be but polite for me to be at home realy to fulfil the betrothal which my unele made for me.”

“Ah! T have heard of that—is the lady pretty ”

“She is said to be as beautiful as an Houri !””

“She brings you a fortune, my dear fellow, and that would raise a Gorgon into a Jeda,” said De Burgh, patting the neck of his restive steed. .

“Well, I don’t know,” said Beauchampe, «but that, if I had ever seen any one to love, I might give up for- tune and ll, You taughineredulously. But you littie know me. However, since 1 have never yet felt the passion I may as well marry my uncle’s profégce as now”

“ Ha—ha,” said De Burgh, “ you are quite resigned ! One would think you were sbout to suffer martyrdom. It is a good excuse—that inability to love. But come to the opera to-night, and we will test whether your heart is made of adamant.”

« Why—is there a new prima donna, or is the queen to be there, or will there bea row=—what is it? Thaven’t gone near the opern for a week, having just come up to- day from Liverpool.” :

“T went there the hour after I reached town, and shall go there nightly until the opora closce, or this mysterious beauty disappears. Know then that face appeared in the stage box last night which hag set the town mad. Whose it was no ono has been able to find out. The manager is deaf to bribes and prayers alike. All we can Jearn is that sho is a guest of some friend of his, At any rate the face is new, and when a glimpse of it can be caught behind the curtain you think you are looking on an angel's. Come tonight and sce if your heart witl provo unconquerabile.”

“J accept the challenge,” said Beaucharnpe, and the two friends parted.

CHARTZR IT,

“Tg sbe not beautiful ?” said De Burgh. His companion did not seem to heed the question, hut, gazed, a8 if transfixed, up to the stage box, where a deli- cate hand might be ecen holding back the curtain. A �