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. could receive no news respecting her, nor yet of Nowistchy. I had seized every opportunity from the bustle of war, and written several times, but received no answer ; at last one ray of hope beamed, and yet disappointment was still greater, for by frequent marches and removals from place to place, we had to pass her native village. I sought her home. Imagine me, buoyed up with all the hopes of once again seeing my wife-my all. With sensations which tongue cannot express, I found the house uninhabited, and on inquiry learned that the mother was dead, and the daughter gone, no one could tell where.

To proceed our struggle was near drawing to a close, and one bold attempt must be made ; it was done, but ah ! how fruitlessly. I had been ordered to command the advance guard, and having met a company of Russians, determined to give them battle, though evidently far inferior in point of numbers. We advanced, and oh, God ! what can equal my feelings- my surpriseto see my old companion, my former friend, now my present foe. I stood amazed -confused ; I attempted to mention his name. No ; my tongue refused its utterance, and I know not how long I might have remained, had not a discharge from the enemy caused me to recover my self-possession.

We fought, but were at last overcome, and I and my brave associates were made prisoners. I had even at this time one ray of hope-perhaps I might hear from him of my Annette ; but no ; when I was taken, to my exceeding astonishment, by his express orders, I was cast into prison, to be sent to Russia as a captive. It was over, and Poland lost that independence, however small. And I was compelled to join as a private in the Russian ranks, to my great surprise, under the command of my former friend, now my deadliest foe. The first opportunity that occurred, I intended speaking to him (fully relying on our former friendship) of my Annette ; but, alas ! the last ray of hope was banished from me. I soon found out my mistake ; I was accused with insolence to my superior officer, and was sentenced to three month's close confinement. This conduct almost drove me mad ; what could have induced him to act so ? This change in my situation I could not endure. Ingratitude from one whom I loved as a brother, and anxiety for my wife, determined me to commit some deed which might terminate my miserable existence. Chance soon favored me ; being on duty as sentinel, I had been deeply engrossed with such schemes, and I was startled by hearing the voice of Captain N — y, and not observing him, I did not give that salute which is customaryfor a superior officer to receive ; I was ordered to appear before a court-martial for insolence and neglect of duty ; and being once tried for the same offence previously, I now was sentenced to seven year's transportation. I now gave up all hopes of my Annette.

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The Overseer of convicts was a mild, good man- one that we do not commonly find in that capacity- and to him I told my misfortunes. After three year's sufferance, by his testimony of good conduct, my sentence was mitigated, and I was ordered to return to my former situation in the ranks. I was already worn down with anxiety, fatigue and hardships, until I could no longer endure the labor, and a fever followed. After a long illness, and through the kind attention of the matron, I became convalescent. I was allowed the privilege of walking in the gardens (which are very large) attached to the infirmary. Frequently, at my entrance into these gardens, I observed a female closely wrapped up, whose features I could never discern, and who always seemed to avoid me. Curiosity made me inquire who she was ; when I was informed that she was the wife of Captain NI could have spoken to her ; but no-one more breach of duty and I should be lost to all chance of ever seeing her whom I could not banish from my mind. I made inquiries of the matron, to whom I had formerly told my misfortunes. She said the lady was Captain Nowistchy's wife, that he was very unkind to her, and was very careful that she should not go out without him, and appeared always to keep her confined. A thought crossed my mind- was this my Annette ? but no ; I endeavored to suppress it, but could not ; night and day I had her image before mine eyes, yet I could not banish the thought. " For while there's life there's hope ;" yet how could I expect ever to see her to whom I had so often written, and never received an answer ? One day, whilst deeply absorbed in thought, I cxtended my usual limits, and did not observe what was passing about until I came in contact with my captain's wife, when- Oh, God ! who can paint my feelings, who can describe my sensations, when I now recognized my Annette-my long lost wife ; she as soon knew me and fainted in my arms. I called for assistance, and was immediately answered by my Captain, who had me instantly confined, when, after a few days, I was to be again tried by a court-martial, for insulting his wife. I could not, during my trial, get liberty to explain ; and was accordingly sentenced to perpetual banishment. Before my departure for Siberia, I obtained materials for writing, and soon made a full statement of facts and had them conveyed to the Colonel of the Regiment, who, after, perusing it, came to my condemned cell, and questioned me very strictly. He was a man of honor, and soon caused inquiries to be made into the affair, and submitted them to the Emperor, who, having discovered the truth, transferred the sentence on my old school-fellow ; who, before his going into exile, declared that it was through him I suffered all these misfortunes ; that after he and I first separated, he sent for Annette, to whom he made it appear I was killed in an engagement ,


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THE REGICIDE.

"His harmless life Does with substantial blessedness abound And the soft wings of peace cover him round." COWLEY.

CHAPTER I.

Ir was in the reign of Charles the Second, that there dwelt at the village of Cheshunt, in the county of Herts, two families, both revered and loved by their neighbors, although they each differed in political opinions from the other. At the head of the first of these families was Sir Frederick Davison. He had been, from habit and from conviction, attached to " the good old cause of the monarchy," which he had defended with his sword both at Durham and Worcester. His loyalty was more like fanaticism than the mere result of reason, or of wellregulated feeling. He was as full of frankness, as of honor and of truth. He had, when our story commences, been long separated, by death, from a wife whom he had adored, and now all his affections and all his tenderness were centered in his daughter.

Brought up with the most constant care, and guarded by the most unceasing solicitude, Clara had become a most worthy object of the pride and parental love ofthe old cavalier. Regarding her merely on account of her beauty, she might be said to be perfection itself; and as respects her mind, her talents, and her education, she was amongst the most accomplished ladies of the time. Her imagination was lively and active, her conversation always as full of charms as it was of genuine poetry ; for she was deeply read in the old bard Chaucer, in the elegant poet Spenser, and in the immortal author Shakspeare. But a time came when her mind and her heart were to be occupied with other thoughts than those of mere study.

The gentleman whose desmesnes adjoined those of Sir Frederick Davison, was a Mr. Clarke-and of him it was said that he was good-natured, benevolent, but a little uncouth in his manners. He had been only an inhabitant of the county of Hertford since the year 1680, and no one knew anything very certain either about his descent or his past life. The general opinion, however, was that he must have been a man of some weight and celebrity amongst the Roundheads. There was, too, it was said, at times, something curious in his demeanor, which was in direct contrast to the simple and tranquil manners of a country gentleman. Perfectly indifferent to all that was passing in the luxurious court of the then existing monarch, he passed his life in the most perfect tranquillity, with his wife, his daughter, and his only son, exclusively occupied with the amusements of hunting and fishing, or the occupations of agriculture. Never, in their many associations together, as neighbors,

had he voluntarily trenched upon the dangerous ground of politics. In case that they were referred to, he, sombre and silent listened to the discussion, and never attempted to take any part in it. The most constant prayers that were made to him, joined even with the consciousness of the danger to which he exposed himself at that epoch of monarchical re-action, could never induce him either to drink the King's health, or to take part in the maledictions with which Sir Frederick Davison covered the memory of Oliver Cromwell. If it happened, as it sometimes did, that he was too urgently pressed upon both points, he replied with a melancholy dignity, that although he felt hatred against no one in the world, yet he could not pray for the prosperity of the Stuarts ; and as to " the Protector," so far from joining with his enemies to curse, he prayed that Heaven might, for the sake of his greatness, his genius, and his love for England, pardon him the faults of which he had been guilty, and the errors into which he had fallen. The son of Mr. Clark, Richard, imitated his father, in the veneration he always entertained for the memory of Oliver Cromwell ; but this veneration was nourished in secret. It had in it something of the solemnity of religion, and he could not bear to expose it to the vulgar and the profane. Richard was not more than twentytwo years of age ; but the fire inherent to his youth was tempered by a wisdom that appeared to be almost precocious. Already had he been in love with Clara, and that love did not trouble the calm and tranquil progress of his life ; but events soon arose that made him pay to that passion the unavoidable tribute of agony that it always exacts. A marked coldness grew up between Sir Frederick Davison and his old neighbor, and the two lovers could then only see one another but in secret or by chance- with scarcely time to exchange a vow of affection, or manifest a passing mark of old feelings. The restraint that they were compelled to impose upon themselves was increased by the arrival at the house of the Colonel of a Royalist, named Sir Charles Luttrell, and who was en route through the county of Hertford, on a secret mission from the Earl of Shaftesbury. Sir Charles Luttrell, was at the same time, bold, * insinuating, tricky and courageous. He soon won the entire confidence of Sir Frederick, who, like all other enthusiastic men, had in his nature an immense fund of credulity, and was never capable of distinguishing between cunning and sincerity ; between that which is true and that which is merely assumed. The newcomer so often and so complacently tossed off bumpers " to the health of his Majesty Charles the Second," "the glory of his reign," "to the continuation and solidity of his dynasty," and he flattered the prejudices of the old cavalier with so indefatigable an adulation, that he completely won the good man's heart, who, one evening

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thought of asking how an obscure servant could render of no avail the firm will of the Beronet, or how such an he could exercise a happy influence over their deatiny; but they clung to that inexplicable hope thus presented to them, with ult the ardor of youth, and all the eredulity of love.

As to the oldl domestic, eager to escape from questions that he either wished not, or would not anewer, he with- drew, and as he was about to ascend the steps’ of thé hall-door, he save standing and leaning on the railing, Sir Charles Luttrell. Tho latter appeared to be lost in deep thought. The harsh and gombre countenance of this porson, hia eyes black and deop set in his head, his thick beard, his long hair which fell with moro art than grace upon his shoulders, gave to his appearance some- thing that was sinister and repulsive,

Jon stopped upon secing bim in this altitude, and hegan to observe him with an astonishment so marked, and an attontion go obstinate, (hat Sir Charles felt hir- self put out of countenance. Ashamed, however, of his emotion, he soon resumed his sang froid, drew from his pocket five or six guincas, and presented them to the old man saying, “Tuke these, they are but an camest of the largo present I mean to make you when I marry Miss Davison.”

John stood moveless ag a statue. He seemed not to have heard a word. His looks were pertinaciously fixed upon the hend that Sir Charles Luttrell held toward him. He grasped the hand convulnively, drew it near to his eyes, and then dashing it away from lim with horror, be exelaimel—

“Keep your gold. F do not sell my friendship nor my devotion.”

CHAPTER IIT.

‘Tr was on the banks of the Lea, and at the extremity of a wide park, upon the property of Mr. Clark, that there was tu be seen, at the epoch of our narrative, a small eminence, whith in its site was extremely pic- turesque, because from its sumril might be scen the fertile fields that stretched for many a mile on the other side of the river. Mr, Clark had a particular liking for this poetical solitude, and scarcely an evening passcd away in which he was not to be found there with his ton, discoursing upon the beauties of Nature, and the infinite goodness of God, Whut a noble, calm, and dignified face was that of the old gentleman! To took at hima, it might at onco be seen in hia tranquil brow, that he was destined by nature for that life of retirement which he had selected, and if it wero true that he hai ever known a different and @ higher fortune, it had caused him no regret to be parted from it.

Richard Clark and his father were at this spot one evening, when Sir Frederick, Clara, Sir Charles Luttrell, and tho old man, John, appeared at the foot of the hill.

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The firet inclination of Sir Frederick Davison was to turn back, io order that he might escape an interview that could not but be disagrecable to both parties. A moment's reflection, however, showed him that he coulil not do thia without being guilty of great impolitencss. He, therefore soluted, his neighbors, and took a seat beside them. Need we say that-Clara hed no objection to follow his example?

John remained standing, A shade of doubt passed actoss his facc—but after @ moment's hesitation it was overcoms. He fastened 2 searching glance upon Sit Charles, and then approaching his master, he said—

« Sir, among the many extraordinary events of which in my fong course of lifo I have been a witness, there is one that I have ever religiously preserved in the hopa that it might some day tend to promote the ends of justice. Will you be s0 good as to listen to it, for 1 have now the proper auditory for hearing it,”

The master of John, althongh not a little surprised at this demand, and the manner in which it was made, assented as much from curiosity as from 9, regard for his foithful domestic. Sir Charles alone appeared a good deal annoyed. He shrugged his shouldere, and whistled hetween his tecth the old favorite air of the cavaliers,

After the reflection of a few moments, John spoke as follows:—. .

“It was in the year 1649, when the trial of King Charles took place, that there stooil at a short dictunce from the palace of Whitehall, a small tavern that was much frequented by the Roundheads, In that place misery alone forced me to hold the situation of a waiter. Now, upon that day, that should ever-stand accursed, the 90th of January, two men all of a sudden burst from the crowd that surrounded the scaffold, which you all know was ereeted under the very windows of the palace, and entered into the tavern where I wus. They both wore tausks, and on their clothes were drops of thot wugust blood, which they tind just shed. The one, a large and robust man, remained at first silent and pen- sive, and thon seizing the tankard that I bad placed before him, he dashed it against the wall opposite to him, and in doing it evinced a bitter feeling of disgust —perhaps of remorse—that man, at least I believe #0, was no other than Oliver Cromwell.”

“It is an infamous lic,” cried Mr. Clark, while fire flashed from his eyes, und his pale foreliead was wrinkled by rage.

“I may be deceived, Sir, and indeed what I do say of him is only from my own supposition, for I never saw that person aguin, and his face was altogether unseen by me. Tt was not 40, however, with bis companion, Less cautious than the elder, he unclasped hia mask that he might breathe the more freely. T could scan hia features well, precisely, completcly—and never—never since then could they be effaced from my memory. One particular �


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 of country where there were several villages. At one of these high festival was evidently being held, a dance of women was taking place in the main street, the usual wriggle and stamp affair, to the thump, thump, thump of the native drums. Before one house, on either side of the doorway, stood a man and a woman. The remarkable point about the affair was that their legs were painted white, and as the view of them was not interrupted by clothes, the effect was somewhat startling. "Dear me, Mr.," I said, "that's rather quaint." "We've some very peculiar customs down here regarding twins," said he, before I, being unprepared, had time to turn the conversation.

These customs (Akele) amounted to the mother of twins being kept in her hut for a year after the birth. Then there was a great dance and certain ceremonies, during which the lady and the doctor, not the husband, had their legs painted white. When the ceremonials were over the woman returned to her ordinary avocations.

There is always a sense of there being something uncanny regarding twins in West Africa, and in those tribes where they are not killed they are regarded as requiring great care to prevent them from dying on their own account. I remember once among the Tschwi trying to amuse a sickly child with an image which was near it and which I thought was its doll. The child regarded me with its great melancholy eyes pityingly, as much as to say, "A pretty fool you are making of yourself," and so I was, for I found out that the image was not a doll at all but an image of the child's dead twin which was being kept near it as a habitation for the deceased twin's soul, so that it might not have to wander about, and, feeling lonely, call its companion after it.

The terror with which twins are regarded in the Niger Delta is exceedingly strange and real. When I had the honour of being with Miss Slessor at Okyon, the first twins in that district were saved with their mother from immolation owing entirely to Miss Slessor's great influence with the natives and her own unbounded courage and energy. The mother in this case was a slave woman—an Eboe, the most expensive and valuable of slaves. She was the property of a


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KATE LLEWELLYN.

BY H. SYMMES.

SITUATED in one of the most picturesque counties of Wales, Glyndervin was deservedly admired for the splendor of its mansion, and the beauty of the scenery by which it was surrounded. Commanding an extensive view of finely-grouped mountains, a broad, winding river, and rich woodlands, it also possessed unequalled charms in the luxuriance of its shrubberies, the gaiety of its gardens, and the endless variety of graceful trees, which intermingled their varied foliage in all the matchless loveliness of nature. The house was of the Italian style of architecture, adorned with numerous terraces, bright fountains, costly marbles, and all the tasteful decoration peculiar to that style.

The period at which our tale commences was a bright evening in the May of 18-, when the beauty of the landscape was heightened by the brilliant glow of the setting sun, which " bathed in a flood of light" mountain, valley, wood, and water ; and the rich melodies of the songsters of the wood, as they warbled forth their evening hymn, charmed the ear, and added fresh beauties to the inanimate objects. It was, indeed, a scene calculated to inspire all those who looked upon it with feelings of happiness, such as are derived from the contemplation of the glories of nature, and which, whether clad in smiles or frowns, cannot fail to elevate the mind of man, and inspire it with holy admiration and sacred thoughts. Joyous as nature was around Glyndervin, and calculated as it was to fix the attention of all within her reach, there were two persons seated at the open window of the mansion who seemed unconscious of the beauty by which they were surrounded. A settled melancholy sat upon their features, and their eyes were directed upon the form of a fair girl, who lay on a couch between them. The elder of the two was a lady of perhaps some fifty years, though sorrow and care had stamped upon her fine countenance the furrows of many more ; and the present expression of grief was only equalled by the settled melancholy of the lovely girl, who with herself was watching the pale face of the fragile being beside them. What a contrast to the joy and beauty of the scene without ! The beauty of the flowers, that filled the room with their sweetness, the melody of the birds, all were unseen, unheeded, by those sad watchers. Every sense, every feeling, seemed concentrated in that form, so delicate, so fragile, so fair, so motionless, you would have thought it the spiritless body of an angel, did not the bright though pensive expression that lighted up the heaven-directed face show that a spirit that owned more of heaven than earth dwelt there ; nor did she seem insensible to those objects which her companions did not heed for the bright eyes wandered from flower to

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flower, from hill to dale, and a tear trembled on the lid : an offering, perhaps, to those past days, when she, so young, and bright, and joyous, bounded among the flowers with the butterflies, and made the woods resound with the silver tones of her merry voice- but it. died in its beauty, as again they were upturned to the blue sky above, with a smile so sweet, so lovely- oh ! it was too bright for earth ! The elder lady's sadness seemed to lighten, as she whispered, "Does the air refresh you, dearest ?" " Yes, dear mother, thank you," was the only answer. Soon after, they wished to remove her from the chilli. ness of the evening ; but that fair young girl prayed to remain, to watch the dying glories of the King of Light ; and as she lay upon her couch, one of the songsters of the wood left his companions in the grove, and, flying into the window, stationed himself unabashed upon the ground, and pouring forth a gush of melody, soft yet rich, flew gently out again, and perched upon the window sill, singing still. What chord did the young bird strike in that sad, aching heart ? Why was that fragile form borne, senseless, away in her mother's arms ? Three years before, Kate Llewellyn had entered upon the world a lovely, bright, and joyous girl ; worshipped in society for her beauty and accomplishments ; adored at home for her amiability, her gentleness, her goodness. The idol of the poor, her chief delight was to visit their humble dwellings, and relieve with a generous hand and kind voice their bodily and mental cares ; and fully was her attention repaid by the welcome that ever greeted her appearance. The children would leave their play to gain a smile from kind Miss Kate ; and not one of all those motley groups but had a word of kindness, or a gentle admonition, or some inquiry, from that dear Miss Kate. The aged blessed her as she passed ; and by old and young, parents and children, her coming was hailed as the visit of a ministering angel. Often by the bed of sickness might she, the worshipped idol of the rich and great, be seen soothing the miseries of decaying nature, and pouring into the sick man's car the treasures of the Book of Life. And, oh ! how her rich voice grew richer, and her gentle manner more eager, as she read those lines she herself had studied so diligently. About two years ago, Kate's own children, her adopted poor, noticed a great change come o'er their " dear young lady." The joyous smile was seen more seldom ; her voice had lost its silver laugh ; a shade of melancholy was upon her face, and sometimes even a tear would glisten in her soft blue eye. Various were the surmises as to the cause of this alteration. None could tell why it should be. " Perhaps she was ill." " Perhaps one of the friends she loved so well was ill." " Perhaps," said a pretty newly-married girl, " perhaps she is crossed in


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. her sojourn there ? Hush ! See ! the lips move, the eyelids open ! She murmurs " Mother !"

Thank heaven ! the fatal hour is passed ! By slow degrees the strength of Kate gradually returned, at least, if it could be said to return ; for she varied fearfully, and her sweet spirit seemed to hover so uncertainly twixt life and death, that those who watched her trembled lest their very look should break the frail thread that bound mortality to immortality. But the change in Mrs. Llewellyn was almost as sad. She was so unconscious of the cause of her daughter's illness, and it burst upon her so suddenly, that no wonder was it that she became stupified, almost childish.

Emily Melville had complete control over her, and she looked upon this amiable girl as a superior being-the only creature who seemed to afford pleasure to her during her affliction. And so the mother used to sit, hour after hour, day after day, watching every shade that flitted over her child's face ; and as a smile or a tear settled on it, so her own countenance imaged the expression. It was a sad sight to see those three take the same place every evening, the watchers not a whit less sorrowful,the sufferer not a whit less fragile. Emily had indeed an arduous task to perform ; on her devolved the duties of the household, and the care of the two invalids, whilst her mind was unceasingly preyed upon by the torturing thought that she had been the cause of these misfortunes. The evening after the one on which the story opens, the group was at its usual place, the same as ever, save that the countenance of the invalid was lighted up with an expression of such sweet calmness, almost cheerfulness, that seemed to her mother the harbinger of returning health ; but to Emily it was the last burst of light of • the expiring lamp. Yet she almost dared to hope that a change had been wrought by some unknown cause, and she was surprised at the calm manner in which she alluded in whispers to the past. The sun was just setting behind the distant hills ; it had hitherto been shrouded in dark black clouds ; when suddenly their heavy masses were divided, and it poured forth its beams in one broad flood of light ; the birds resumed their evening song, and the zephyrs seemed to be warmed into new life by the effulgence of the god of light. The rays fell on the watching group, and Kate, as she clasped a hand of each of her companions, said, "I am so happy now !" At that moment a servant entered the room, and begged Miss Melville to step out for a moment. It was very strange. No one was allowed to intrude upon the sacredness of those hours of watching. Mrs. Llewellyn looked surprised, and her astonishment did not seem decreased when Emily re-entered, her countenance as different to when she left the room, as the glorius sun was to the fragile girl. Such a mixture of hope and

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fear, and withal so much joy, that the woe-stricken mother started at her in amazement ; though she quietly obeyed a sign from Emily, to leave her and Kate alone, and retired to the other end of the apartment. Emily now approached the invalid with trembling step, and kneeling down took her hand between her own, and gazing in her face with such a look, as though her own life depended on the expression she there should meet, whispered in a faltering voice, " My sweet Kate, just now you were speaking of the past, and said you should like to hear of- of him. Strange to say, you may now gratify your wish ; for one has just called here," and her voice trembled still more, "who is acquainted with him. Tell me truly, dearest, do you wish, and do you feel able to see this-" "Oh! who is it ? Tell me. Let me see him directly ! Oh ! let me see him !" almost cried Kate, raising herself in her couch, then sinking back again, and covering her face with her hands she muttered, " Oh! God, help me in this trying hour!" With a desperate effort Emily flew to the door, beckoned Mrs. Llewellyn back to her seat, and, ere Kate recovered from the exertion, a tall, graceful figure, wrapped in a cloak, entered the room. His head was bent upon his breast, as though bowed down with grief. One hand covered his eyes, whilst the other was placed in Emily's, who led him to the window. He removed the hand from his eyes, bowed respectfully to Mrs. Llewellyn, and, with a faltering step, approached the couch, knelt down, and taking one of the small white hands, that now hung lifelessly by her side, between his own, bent over it with the solemnity of a worshipper, and a suppressed groan issued from his lips. At that moment the cloak fell from his shoulders, and displayed to Mrs. Llewellyn's bewildered gaze the form of Edward Dalrymple. What a moment of intense anxiety was this to Emily ! Kate opened her eyes, cast one look upon the kneeling figure ; her lips moved, and murmured, "Thank God !" One second more, and she lay

senseless. Mrs. Llewellyn, scarcely heeding the oft-repeated fainting fit, was gazing from one to the other, seeming by her looks to beseech Emily to explain the mystery. But by this time another had been added to the group. A young man of commanding figure and fine countenance, who had entered the room unobserved, gently took Mrs. Llewellyn's hand, and led her from the invalid's couch. Her attention was now diverted from that all-absorbing point, and it was with an exclamation of joy that Arthur Llewellyn was welcomed to his home by his mourning mother. He scarcely allowed the first transports to be over, ere he led her to a distant part of the room, and in a subdued voice hurriedly explained to her the cause of the blight that had fallen on their


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THE CAPUCHIN.

FROM THE FRENCH.

An evening at Palermo is a most lovely thing, when, sitting by the sea shore, listening to the murmuring waves, under the rays of a summer sun, surrounded by a population so lively, so interesting-a thousand times more original and less known than the classic race of the Neapolitan Lazzaroni. Thanks to novels and pictures, Naples is old to me ; it is spoilt, it is worn out by delusion. Sicily is unknown and new : it bears a double reflection both from Arabia and Spain.

Oh, ye ! who boast the talents of the artist, copy for me the tumult of the Marina ; reproduce the hum of an industrious people, who enjoy even the feeling of existence the salutations borne on the air from all parts"Bon jour ! Bon soir !" repeated from carriage to carriage, with more poetical rapture than bon ton. I admired the scene, and, in order to enjoy it more, I leaned against a low wall ornamented by small pilasters of Saracen architecture, which follows the course of the river, and presents to the tired promenaders, a long and commodious seat of marble, defaced and worn out by ages. I seated myself here. The sea-breeze moistened my brow; before me lay the animated scene. A Capuchin monk, with a long beard, placed himself by my side ; he wore an appearance of suffering ; his deportment was rather silent and simple than devout and humble ; he looked about fifty years of age, and had the air of a military man. His countenance was not Sicilian ; instead of being in almost convulsive motion , he was cold, stern, yet resigned. I wished to enter into conversation with him, and asked him the hour. He looked at me fixedly, perceiving, doubtlessly, that I was a stranger in Palermo, and replied in English, " It is eight o'clock." He rose and left me. I recognized the Capuchin's pronunciation as quite national, plainly British. I could not be deceived ; yet how came this Englishman at Palermo ? A man of his nation in Sicily, and in the habit of a Capuchin ! There must be some mystery, and I was determined to unravel it. The next day I returned to the same place, in the hope of finding him there again. For some days I followed the same plan, and by degrees his forbidding manner softened. I then spoke to him in English, and that won his heart. He saw that I desired his friendship, and he willingly gave it to me. He seemed a

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at length, his head resting on his hand, he spoke as follows :"I was born in Hertfordshire. When our army returned from Alexandria, the transport in which I was, with several other officers, was found not seaworthy, and we put into port at Messina. Worn out by innumerable privations, tired of Eastern life and of our vessel, we descended to the Lazaretto. You know what that Lazaretto is ; a badly paved court, with a burying-ground in the centre. There you are, surrounded by human beings, but without any communication with the land, or any recreation save in the hope of soon quitting it. "At length our quarantine came to an end. You are, without doubt, acquainted with the arrangement of the theatres at Messina ; seats are distributed about, and each person places himself as chance directs, so that three or four rows may separate you from your own party. This was the case with me the evening that we were set at liberty. Between the acts, several Sicilians, seated next me, rose, and some English officers, accompanied by a young man in the costume of the town, took their places. They talked very loud, and I learnt that one of the party had arrived that evening by the packet, and that his name was Sir Ormond Mandeville. He was a man about the middle size, his eyes blue and penetrating ; his look steady though not insolent—a real Englishman of the modern school. That sect was new then, and I examined him attentively and listened to him with curiosity. " His cravat was so exceeding tight, his cheeks of such a beautiful saffron color, and his affectation of contemptuous austerity, contrasted so ridiculously with the foppishness of his conversation, that I forgot the play in looking at and listening to him. A great many things have happened to me, my dear fellow,' said he to one of his comrades, ' since our mad pranks at Eton. You will tell me how many cities you have visited, and in how many battles you have fought ; that's all very heroic and very fine. I shall tell you in return, how many horses I have killed out hunting ; and as to the forsaken husbands who have wished me ruined, the list is almost too long by heaven ! but I shall give you no respite. What brings me to Messina to-day, and obliges me to come to this play, is the éclat of my last affair of that sort. It concerns a married woman, pretty and intriguing, and whose raciness might serve as a model to all that France or

man of strong sense, and possessed great practical Spain possesses. Delicacy, you know, prevents my knowledge both of men and things. A fortnight after naming her. All was conducted very prudently ; but our first interview he related the story of his life ; the notwithstanding our ingenuity we were betrayed. A voice of the monk was firm, and his eye was dry, but it woman who keeps an inn on the road to Bath, to whom was very visible how much his serenity cost him ; a deep I had once deigned a little attention, discovered our melancholy clouded his countenance, he was filled with anti-matrimonial plot, and threatened me with making mournful thoughts, and for some moments was silent ; it known. That would have been most dangerous VOT. I.- 24


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 big woman who had always treated her—as indeed most slaves are treated in Calabar—with great kindness and consideration, but when these two children arrived all was changed; immediately she was subjected to torrents of virulent abuse, her things were torn from her, her English china basins, possessions she valued most highly, were smashed, her clothes were torn, and she was driven out as an unclean thing. Had it not been for the fear of incurring Miss Slessor's anger, she would, at this point, have been killed with her children, and the bodies thrown into the bush.

As it was, she was hounded out of the village. The rest of her possessions were jammed into an empty gin-case and cast to her. No one would touch her, as they might not touch to kill. Miss Slessor had heard of the twins' arrival and had started off, barefooted and bareheaded, at that pace she can go down a bush path. By the time she had gone four miles she met the procession, the woman coming to her and all the rest of the village yelling and howling behind her. On the top of her head was the gin-case, into which the children had been stuffed, on the top of them the woman's big brass skillet, and on the top of that her two market calabashes. Needless to say, on arriving Miss Slessor took charge of affairs, relieving the unfortunate, weak, staggering woman from her load and carrying it herself, for no one else would touch it, or anything belonging to those awful twin things, and they started back together to Miss Slessor's house in the forest-clearing, saved by that tact which, coupled with her courage, has given Miss Slessor an influence and a power among the negroes unmatched in its way by that of any other white.

She did not take the twins and their mother down the village path to her own house, for though had she done so the people of Okyon would not have prevented her, yet so polluted would the path have been, and so dangerous to pass down, that they would have been compelled to cut another, no light task in that bit of forest, I assure you. So Miss Slessor stood waiting in the broiling sun, in the hot season's height, while a path was being cut to enable her just to get through to her own grounds. The natives worked away hard,


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 knowing that it saved the polluting of a long stretch of market road, and when it was finished Miss Slessor went to her own house by it and attended with all kindness, promptness, and skill, to the woman and children. I arrived in the middle of this affair for my first meeting with Miss Slessor, and things at Okyon were rather crowded, one way and another, that afternoon. All the attention one of the children wanted—the boy, for there was a boy and a girl—was burying, for the people who had crammed them into the box had utterly smashed the child's head. The other child was alive, and is still a member of that household of rescued children all of whom owe their lives to Miss Slessor. There are among them twins from other districts, and delicate children who must have died had they been left in their villages, and a very wonderful young lady, very plump and very pretty, aged about four. Her mother died a few days after her birth, so the child was taken and thrown into the bush, by the side of the road that led to the market. This was done one market-day some distance from the Okyon town. This particular market is held every ninth day, and on the succeeding market-day some women from the village by the side of Miss Slessor's house happened to pass along the path and heard the child feebly crying: they came into Miss Slessor's yard in the evening, and sat chatting over the day's shopping, &c., and casually mentioned in the way of conversation that they had heard the child crying, and that it was rather remarkable it should be still alive. Needless to say, Miss Slessor was off, and had that waif home. It was truly in an awful state, but just alive. In a marvellous way it had been left by leopards and snakes, with which this bit of forest abounds, and, more marvellous still, the driver ants had not scented it. Other ants had considerably eaten into it one way and another; nose, eyes, &c., were swarming with them and flies; the cartilage of the nose and part of the upper lip had been absolutely eaten into, but in spite of this she is now one of the prettiest black children I have ever seen, which is saying a good deal, for negro children are very pretty with their round faces, their large mouths not yet coarsened by heavy lips, their beautifully shaped flat little ears, and their immense melancholy deer-like eyes, and above these charms they possess that of


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her curiosity was excited. Alas !' I continued, this place increases my emotion .' As I spoke I examined the woman's features, which as I proceeded became more and more troubled. I am not sufficiently acquainted with the town of Bath to obtain exact information on the subject which agitates me so cruelly. I know only that the man to whom it is said I owe my dishonor is Sir Ormonde Mandeville. I was serving abroad ; my wife and her mother came to pass some time at Bath. Sir Ormonde visited them at an inn in Bath or its environs ; the younger lady, on pretence of indisposition , had a separate room. In the middle of the night the hostess, hearing a noise, entered her apartment ; Sir Ormonde Mandeville was there, and a hundred pounds were offered by him to this woman, who promised silence.' At these last words I thought my companion would have fainted. I had proceeded with my story as if in complete ignorance of the part this woman had acted, and she was so taken by surprise that at length she was obliged to own that all was correct, and that her Inn was the theatre of the scene. I would not urge my inquiries further, and the next day set out for town without revealing my name. There still remained a last and feeble hope-the possibility of some mistake which would exculpate Mary and restore me to happiness. Can you imagine with what agitation I again found myself at home ? Mary on seeing me threw herself into my arms with a tenderness which, at first, penetrated my heart ; but when I thought of her perfidy, I had nearly repulsed her, but I overcame myself. With what maternal fondness did she speak of our children, of their infantile graces, of her hopes. How I suffered from what, but for one fatal circumstance, would have made me most happy. She wept, still agitated by the joy of my return, and as I sorrowfully gazed upon her I fancied I could discover something horrible in her look. Though her every action breathed tenderness and truth, I only saw cunning and the most consummate deception. She brought the children to me with the joy and triumph of a mother, and then I think she perceived the constraint and torment I felt, for there was between us one moment of embarrassed silence, and I made up my resolution of speaking at once. I told them to take the children back to the nursery and leave us alone. ' Madam,' said I, 'will you have the goodness to reply to a few questions that I wish to ask you ? When did you get acquainted with Sir Ormonde Mandeville ?'

"No answer.

" Was it on your journey from London to Bath ?'

"Still the same silence.

" Answer me, unfortunate woman ; I wish with all my heart to clear you from that infamy which hangs over you- answer me !'

"At these words I rose ; she rose also, extended her arms, and burst into a convulsive laugh, so fearful that I yet tremble with horror when I recall it. For an instant she fixed her tearful gaze on me, and fell. Some regard for her remained, and I hastened to raise her, and recover her from the swoon into which my reproaches had thrown her. I then went to her father's house. The sight of him agitated me much, the tears flowing in torrents from my eyes. His coolness, contrasted with my emotion seemed to reproach me. Though I had never seen him otherwise than calm, yet miserable as I then was, his composure seemed an insult. I endeavored to subdue my feelings, and sadly recounted to him my adventure at Messina and my visit to Bath. He listened in silence. His daughter had appeared in the greatest consternation ; he was merely attentive. He paced the gallery several times as in deep thought, often passing his hand over his forehead, but without betraying any farther emotion.

" It is not impossible,' said he, at last, ' what you tell me is strange ; but we shall see.'

"A tear fell from his eye, he hastily brushed it away. The sorrow of this venerable man, the struggle of pride and paternal love, the tear forced from a man always master of himself, sunk deep into my heart. I shall leave England again soon,' said I, and till my departure I shall reside with my mother, where I shall also place my children.' " You seem to wish to lose no time, Sir,' replied my father-in-law, and I will call on you in the course of the day.' "We parted coldly. I was determined to arrange every thing for a separation as soon as possible. If legal proof was wanting, every circumstance tended to confirm my suspicions. Mary's consternation, her father's long silence, the fatal initials used by the journalists, the visit to Bath mentioned by Sir Ormonde, again by my wife in her letter, and also by the newspaper. "My head swam-my whole frame was convulsed when I arrived at my mother's house. I laid down on a sofa and waited her appearance in anguish. At length she entered saying, 'I come from your house. Your wife has set out in a chaise without saying where she is going to.' At this instant Lord Barodale was announced. He advanced to me with a mingled expression of sorrow and determination. " I have thought over all you have told me,' said he, 'let us not trifle with our happiness ; there may be some mistake in all this. We will set out immediately for Bath, and force this woman to make a full disclosure. Come, Sir!' "We set out. The journey was performed in silence, and early in the evening we arrived at the inn. What / was my astonishment, or rather my indignation, when I saw Mary in the parlor. She was come to assure herself of the discretion of the hostess ; her presence alone was


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 being fairly quiet. This child is not an object of terror, like the twin children; it was just thrown away because no one would be bothered to rear it, but when Miss Slessor had had all the trouble of it the natives had no objection to pet and play with it, calling it "the child of wonder," because of its survival.

With the twin baby it was very different. They would not touch it and only approached it after some days, and then only when it was held by Miss Slessor or me. If either of us wanted to do or get something, and we handed over the bundle to one of the house children to hold, there was a stampede of men and women off the verandah, out of the yard, and over the fence, if need be, that was exceedingly comic, but most convincing as to the reality of the terror and horror in which they held the thing. Even its own mother could not be trusted with the child; she would have killed it. She never betrayed the slightest desire to have it with her, and after a few days' nursing and feeding up she was anxious to go back to her mistress, who, being an enlightened woman, was willing to have her if she came without the child.

The main horror is undoubtedly of the child, the mother being killed more as a punishment for having been so intimately mixed up in bringing the curse, danger, and horror into the village than for anything else.

The woman went back by the road that had been cut for her coming, and would have to live for the rest of her life an outcast, and for a long time in a state of isolation, in a hut of her own into which no one would enter, neither would any one eat or drink with her, nor partake of the food or water she had cooked or fetched. She would lead the life of a leper, working in the plantation by day, and going into her lonely hut at night, shunned and cursed. I tried to find out whether there was any set period for this quarantine, and all I could arrive at was that if—and a very considerable if—a man were to marry her and she were subsequently to present to society an acceptable infant, she would be to a certain extent socially rehabilitated, but she would always be a woman with a past—a thing the African, to his credit be it said, has no taste for.

The woman's own lamentations were pathetic. She would


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. DRAMATIC WRITING.

BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASIETRO.

A maw may be an excellent poet, yet he is unable to write dramatic poetry. Many qualifications are required for that type of composition, which may be dispensed with in others. To imagination must be added experience; that intuitive knowledge of the heart, natural to a true person, must have been confirmed by the actual knowledge of life; and the power over language must be every day reinforced by an enlargement of the faculties on which language is itself created. We speak not here of the greater intensity of thought and feeling ne-cessary, when they are intended to inspire, not merely the poet's own heart with stronger pastime, but to give unreal forms the likeness of the kingly crown of fife. ‘ This is a question of degree and refers to the natural constitution of the poet’s mind.

The qualifications of which we have spoken as peculiarly needful to the dramatic writer must be superseded by those of his natural genius, however great and vated. Nature forbids one faculty of the mind to surpass that of another. ‘To imagine well and rapidly, one must never atone for the want of nice discrimination, and then, since knowledge, experience, profound judgment, and even a minute of acquaintance with the human world are necessary, those powers of mind that are necessary to their acquisition must be kept in constant exercise. But it so happens that the poetical temperament is, in itself, unfavorable to their development, and it is equally easy that the two chisves of endowments are rarely bound together.

Hence it is that the appearance of dramatic genius is such an unfrequent occurrence and that those who possess it may fairly be regarded as the most perfectly constituted of bumun beings. In proportion to their excellency, all the powers of their mind, together with the whole system of their passions and sympathies, are beautifully balanced. With other poets, a plan of composition seems discoverable. They almost appear to have recognisable imagination and deep feeling, in the lien of clear sense and judgment. 'Though the world, in its common place hook, has a well-known note of this subject, but nothing of the kind holds good with dramatic writers. ‘Whatever shall be found in human nature, in its least state, and matured by wisdom and extensive knowledge, must be found in them, or they fail in the very end and purpose of their office.

One of the chief circumstances that separates the literary men of ages like our own from those of the grander period is derived from the distinction here alluded to: ‘The nobile spirits of old were bent on being gront, from the belief in that fincst of philosophical themes, that greamewm is a romething, and not a mere quality of relation. In that day, a notion of this kind could scarcely be made intelligible to the world, and literary men partaking in the general error, it is very seldom a hook to present a sufficient sign of merit—that is, of pure intellectual foree—to call for a consideration of more than its comparative worth. When the extreme difficulty of dramatic poetry is taken into account, examples of striking excellence in this class will still be more rarely looked for, and our sentences will generally be founded on the formula—*this is better" or «this is even worse” than what we usually meet with.  THE PET FAWN.

I saw her, when a joyous girl, ‘A sunny, laughing thing, Acrose whose young May mora of fife Time ne'er had spread his wing. Reside a lovely fawn she stood, Her bright eye shone with mirth, And both so beautiful and fair Scomed more of heaven than earth,

We met, when on her brow wae set The mark of riper years, ra And she was ali the woman then, A queen among her peers, And gay and musical her laugh Her footstep still and light, And oh! her glance was yet'as pure Av in her childhood bright.

I saw thet form, that glance no more, But friends my footsteps led To-where the green grass lightly waved Above her lowly bed, And then my fancy painted her In childhood’s early hour, So pure, and gay, and innocent Within that verdant bower! H. TO FRIENDSHIP.

DEDICATED TO———

BY ANDREW MC.MACKIN.

In sacred Friendship’s name my pen essays To marshal np the scenes of other years, And back from Memory's bourne, of smiles.and tears, To win a mirror-wave, in which to gaze On boyhood’s hopes and plane: Youth's sunlight rays That gild the young horizon of the soul, And pave the halcyon way to manhood’s goal With elar-lit nights and bright aud glorious days Friendship, at least with TH2x, was not a flow'r To bloom and fade within tho passing day, Or live but in the tribute wealth can pay To lave and virtue; a more genial pow'r Hath kept perennial on its torrent spray Thy Friendship’s bloom, that ne'er shall pass away.

�


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. The Lord of Alverstein shall die.

Where none shall close his glazing eye.

"And clasping her fatherless boy to her widowed bosom, she only vowed he should never leave the boundaries of his paternal home. It is vain, however, to contend against destiny; she slept with her fathers on a foreign shore; upon the fatal field that hurried so many of the young and noble of our land to an untimely grave, apart from his followers, and alone and unaided, the heir of this wide domain' yielded his dying breath. The lifeless body of my honored father, the gentle and the good, was confided to the billowy sea on his return from a distant and more genial clime, where he had gone with the vain hope of restoring health to a shattered constitution. With fearful exactness has the prophecy of that friend of darkness been fulfilled, and when I, his orphan child, am at rest in an early tomb,' the lordly race of Alverstein will be no more."

It was an age of superstition, and as with a voice scarcely articulate, she concluded, a leaden weight seemed to press upon the young heart of the shuddering Lina, but pausing for a moment to rally herself, she exclaimed with a beaming smile and in her gayest tones,

"Is this the mountain load of misery under which you have been laboring for years? The weighty argument you urge in favor of invariably absenting yourself from a court you are calculated to adorn and immured within this feudal pile with no companion but that withered duenna, denying yourself all the dear delights of social life? Oh, Eva! "I deeply regret that one whose intellectual superiority is so generally acknowledged should thus weakly yield to the dark power of superstition."

She paused, but her words, intended to assure, conveyed no consolation to the bosom of her companion. The impressions received in the tender years of childhood could not so readily be erased. For a moment, she made no reply, and the low twanging of a guitar at that instant, breaking on the stillness of the evening, effectively precluded further conversation. Music tunes the chords of the soul to its own harmony, and as with bold and skillful touch the hand of some unseen performer swept over the quivering strings, the following words, accompanied in a rich, manly voice, exerted a sweetly soothing influence on the stricken heart of at least one fair and eager listener. When the summer clouds are weeping O'er bush, and dell, and tree, When the winds are sweeping Through the lone forest,

When moonbeams are streaming On bending branches and flow's When starlight is gleaming I hie me to thy bow'r.

As music's strains of gladness, Or dying breezes sweet; Those tones of thrilling sadness My raptur'd senses greet.

And pure as in their lightness The stars eternal burn. On me, their mad'ning brightness Those eyes may fondly turn. "It is Everard, my brother!" "He has preceded the carriages to be dispatched by my father, your guardian, to conduct us to Castle Lalenburg, and thus delicately makes known his arrival."

Clasping her hands with girlish delight, with the speed and lightness of a fawn, she bounded to meet and welcome him.

A few hours afterward, in a superb saloon, lighted by innumerable lamps, the stately head of the young Everard of Lalenburg, bent in wrapt attention to the tale, by the persuasion of her friend, Eva had again been induced to breathe into a wondering ear. She had finished, but there was no forced enjoyment in the merry laugh that greeted his startled hearers as the young prince, taking the trembling hand of the lovely narrator, exclaimed in a voice whose every tone was glee.

"And is this the secret to which you so darkly alluded? and which I deemed must forever press its palsying weight on all my hopes and happiness?" But assuming a more serious air, he continued, "Had the sad story of her mournful doom been confided to the Lady Eva at a less tender age, it had not, I trust, thus preyed withering blight upon a heart, which, in this instance, has proved alas! but too susceptible. At a late period, the natural energy of her character and the riper judgment of mature years would have enabled her to make inquiries and ascertain facts, which must undoubtedly dispel her groundless fears. Dearest lady, the'heir of Alverstein did not die upon the ensanguined plain,' unaided and alone. The arms of my father's pil were dying heads, and with the rude forms of mail-clad warriors bending near, he yielded his latest breath. This instance, at least, exposes the falsehood of the random guesses of the moonlight phantom—but again, wonderful to relate—has she spoken with prophetic truth—for truly, the race of Alverstein will be no more when the sweet face of its last descendant is smiling in beauty beneath the gem-lit coronet of a Princess of Lalenburg."

Eva spoke not, but the full tide of rapture, which rushed from an overflowing heart to a countenance now animated with hope and happiness, told more than feeble language can express. And when, in a few short months, Eva of Lalenburg, the loveliest princess of the imperial court, was presented at the foot of Austria's throne, what eye in all the bridal train beamed with such laughing joyousness as that of the happy Lina?

lowed his


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 sit for hours singing or rather mourning out a kind of dirge over herself: "Yesterday I was a woman, now I am a horror, a thing all people run from. Yesterday they would eat with me, now they spit on me. Yesterday they would talk to me with a sweet mouth, now they greet me only with curses and execrations. They have smashed my basin, they have torn my clothes," and so on, and so on. There was no complaint against the people for doing these things, only a bitter sense of injury against some superhuman power that had sent this withering curse of twins down on her. She knew not why; she sang "I have not done this, I have not done that"—and highly interesting information regarding the moral standpoint a good deal of it was. I have tried to find out the reason of this widely diffused custom which is the cause of such a pitiful waste of life; for in addition to the mother and children being killed it often leads to other people, totally unconcerned in the affair, being killed by the relatives of the sufferer on the suspicion of having caused the calamity by witchcraft, and until one gets hold of the underlying idea, and can destroy that, the custom will be hard to stamp out in a district like the great Niger Delta. But I have never been able to hunt it down, though I am sure it is there, and a very quaint idea it undoubtedly is. The usual answer is, "It was the custom of our fathers," but that always and only means, "We don't intend to tell." Another explanation is that the dislike is grounded on the idea that it is like the lower animals. The teeth-filing I think undoubtedly does arise from this; you often hear a native of tribes that go in for filing or knocking out teeth say contemptuously of those who do not follow the custom, "Those men have teeth all same for one with dog." Although I grant that when you are a Niger Delta native you have to be a little careful for fear of being taken for one of the lower animals, just as seedy young men with us object to carrying paper parcels for fear of being taken for tailors, still this idea does not explain the terror, the abject terror, with which twins are regarded, nor the conviction that their existence and proximity bring down on all diseases, difficulties, and disaster. I overheard once a rational reason given, but again the reason was not strong


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would she have given could she have remained in her father's palace, faithful in heart to him she loved, faithful until death should perhaps unite her to him forever.

Yes ! she loved an unknown being, perhaps only a common officer in her father's troops. Yet whatever his rank might be, she felt assured he was by nature noble. That one look at his manly form had left a conviction on her of his loftiness of soul which nothing could dissipate.

Her father noticed her increasing despondency, but attributed it to the natural feelings of one about to leave her home, and enter upon a new and untried sphere. He therefore only rallied her on her melancholy, and strove to dissipate it by describing to her the magnificent preparations which were making for her in the palace of her future lord. Ah ! little did her father know how his words increased the agony of her heart. At length the fatal day came when the princess was to set forth to her affianced husband. Gorgeous was the cavalcade, glad were the shouts of the populace, and splendid were the jewels in which she was decked- but she went forth like a lamb to the sacrifice, and she wept amid all her magnificenee. Her attendants strove to console her but it was in vain. Oh ! how she wished, as she drew nearer to the end of her journey, that she had told all to her father, and thrown herself on his mercy but a moment's reflection convinced her that it would have been useless, and that the Rajah would have deemed it madness for her to love a common soldier of his army. So the heart-broken Haidai could only weep more and more bitterly. It was a golden evening when the cavalcade reached the plain before the capital of her husband's father, where the most magnificent preparations had been made to greet the bride. A costly pavilion, blazing withjewels and gold, had been pitched just outside the gates of the city. This pavilion was surrounded by high officers of state, and troops of gallant cavalry, their bright sabres glistening in the setting sun. A vast concourse of people filled up the outskirts of the crowd, while triumphal music filled the air with harmony. It seemed indeed as if the whole city had been poured forth to greet their future queen-as, if all that power and splendor and wealth could do, had been done, to render her reception worthy of her peerless beauty. But all this magnificence only increased the agony of Haidai's heart, by calling up more forcibly the conviction of her sacrifice. As the cavalcade proceeded, the troops around the pavilion parted, leaving a passage for the bride and her attendants up to the door. With trembling steps Haidai alighted, as the cymbals struck up, and her favorite attendant whispered in her ear that her princely lover awaited her just within the door of the pavilion. She dared not look up, but mechanically obeying the intimation, she moved forward, amid the sound of music,

and the shouts of the populace. She reached the door of the pavilion- she tottered across the threshold-but when she had gone thus far her attendant suddenly left her side, and she became conscious that the curtain, which closed the entrance to the pavilion, had been dropped behind her. It needed nothing to tell her that she was alone with her future lord ; and she felt as if she would sink fainting to the earth. As a quick footstep met her ear she made a last effort to look up. What caused that cry of mingled wonder and delight ? Why did she, who had so lately shrunk from this interview, spring forward to the arms of one who approached her ? Why-but that she recognized in her princely lord the unknown soldier who had rescued her in the pass Djeerade. Our tale is done. It requires little explanation. The young prince had more than once visited the Rajah's court in disguise, in order that he might behold his future bride ; and it was while on one of those visits that intelligence had been received of her capture. He joined the party sent to her rescue as a volunteer and incognito ; and we have seen how he succeeded in personally saving her from the hands of her rapacious captor. It was easy for him to disguise his connexion with the expedition, which he did. That night the two lovers sat together in the palace of the prince, with hands linked in each others, gazing out on the moonlit river, that lay like a sheet of silver, beneath the balcony. With her bridal gems around her, and the light of happiness in her eyes, Haidai sat listening to her lover's narration, repeated for the twentieth time. And often as he told how her beauty had won his heart long ago, her cheek would flush, and with a smile of gladness wreathing her lovely mouth, she would turn for a moment from her lover's face, and look out across the sleeping waters. But it would be only for a moment. Had you seen her then, you would have said indeed that mortal painter could not do justice to the surpassing loveliness of the INDIAN BRIDE.

SONNET. To one who has been long in city pent, "Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven,-to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment ? Returning home at evening, with an ear, Catching the notes of Philomel- an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by : E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.- KEATS.


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 enough, and moreover the source of information was intoxicated.

Affiliated to this custom of twin-killing, and having, I suspect, the same underlying idea, is the custom common in Negro and Bantu tribes of throwing away the body of a woman who has died in her confinement without the child being born, burning everything belonging to her, and blotting out her name and memory. The name of such a woman is never mentioned after the catastrophe, and the body is thrown far away into the bush, not near the path, where the bodies of little children are thrown in order that their souls may choose a new mother from the women who pass by.

Funeral customs vary considerably between the Negro and Bantu, and I never yet found among the Bantu those unpleasant death-charms which are in vogue in the Niger Delta. One of these is the custom of the nearest relatives sitting round the body during the time—an awesome long time considering the climate—that elapses before burial under the house floor, the assembled relatives sniffing frequently and powerfully at the body. The young children are brought in and held over it so that they can sniff too.

I was once in a canoe with four men and women and three children, and a corpse came towards us on the current. My companions paddled towards it with enthusiasm and getting it against the side of the canoe, dipped their calabashes into the water round the corpse, and drank calabash after calabash, until they had got their back teeth under water and then they emptied, in that fine swallow-or-choke and hang-the-spilling style of theirs, calabashes of water into the children until the unfortunate infants fairly overflowed.

"Good death-charm," they said to me. "I shouldn't wonder if it were," said I, "paddle away," for I was frightened lest these people, who are, barring their manners and customs, kindly and affectionate, should have the corpse on board and take it home to their families and make a decoction for home consumption, and it was an unpleasant corpse—smallpox and all that sort of thing, you know. I am told this custom occurs in the Niger estuaries and in the Old Calabar regions. I was in Bantu regions, but my companions were not pure Bantu.


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claimed their heart's content. They listened as each gust swept howling by, and told its tale of cold bleak misery ; then pressing closer to the glowing pile, with outstretched ears they listened to the goodsite's tale- an aged, venerable man, whose silvery hair, and snow-white beard proclaimed the winter of his life, whose statement was received with eager, simple looks, that told the interest they felt, and showed they were all attentive to his words.

The old man paused ; for, as he spoke a sound now thrice repeated, met his ear, which first he took for that low plaintive moan, the herald of each blast, but now more like the human voice ; 'twas still-they listened long with breath suppressed-again- the old man started up ; a child's low plaintive cry now mingled with the wind, and smote their hearts with a sense of woe. The sire gave the word, and each one, torch in hand, now sallied forth, and plunging into darkness, sought the place from whence the cries arose, and as they neared the spot, the roar of waters rose above the still low wail of agony that grew more feeble at each step. They reached the brink, and casting over the gulf the flickering glare from the torch upheld, espied the infant clinging to its mother's neck, whose snow-white arms were twined around the branches of some fallen tree, whose trunk, impeded in its downward course by some projecting rock, upheld this helpless pair. One daring youth descended from above, by a rope entwined, and plunging in the midst, he struggled with the stream till, by great effort, he achieved his end, and seizing in his brawny arms the mother and her child, the three were drawn to shore.

They bore her lifeless to the cot. One held her babe, whose feeble cries had ceased ; they stripped its little form, and chafed its feeble rigid limbs till at last life's current to its heart returned, and every soul was gladdened with its smile. It called, in gentle accentsmother. She, poor hapless one, it seemed was still in death, for yet no signs of life appeared to cheer their eager cares ; her lips were closed-and from her lovely brow, pale as the marble, her dark hair strayed in wild profusion to the ground. Her heart was still- no heaving breast betokened life ; and as they hung above and gazed upon her beauteous face in wondrous admiration, the big tear started to the old man's eye, whose tears were scarcely ever shed before.

The good wife and her daughters, still with anxious and untiring zeal, applied them to the task through the night, and ere the morning dawned their tender cares were blessed with that reward for which they toiled ; and she, the daughter of misfortune, awoke to life, and awoke to bless them for their pains ; and oh ! with what a look- with what a heart of thankfulness and love she pressed once more the babe to that fond breast, whose warm affection now gushed forth in gratitude and joy.

SONNETS ON NAMES.

KATE. THERE is a witchery about you, Kate, "Tis not the saucy sparkle of your eye, Nor step with conscious victory elate, Spurning the suppliant earth in passing by, Nor smile that seems all comers to defyIt is not these, but all of them combined, And voice that varies with each fancy wild, Playing, like noon-tide shadows, o'er thy mind : As wilful art thou as a petted child, Fickle, alluring as an April wind ! None ever yet have touched that heart of fire Burning far down with all this dross aboveAh! that were prize where bold heart may aspire, "T were worth a world to tame thee into love!

CAROLINE. I SEE you sitting with your downcast eye, A modest blush upon your pearly cheek, Your bosom heaving gently with a sigh That tells emotions which you may not speak My pensive Caroline ! If I would seek To read thy inner soul, I would but look A moment on thy face, there ev'ry thought Is written eloquent as in a book ! Oh! thou art meek, with sympathy so fraught, So self-sustaining, from all guile so free, So girt around with purity divine, That as I look I almost dream I see The sainted Mother gazing from her shrine, Wrapt in her all sublime divinity!

LINES TO MRS. WOOD. DIVINE enchantress ! whose excelling art So oft hath bound me in its magic spell, Waking delightful feelings in my heart, And strong with gentle power to dispel, Its gloom of sadness making it rejoiceHow shall I honor thee-methinks e'en now I hear the wondrous magic of thy voice In its surpassing beauty,-soft and low, And sweet as the Eolian, when the brecze Plays gently o'er its chords- and then again, As by the storm-blast sweeping o'er the seas, Woke to a bold, sublimely sounding strain ; Thou sway'st the human heart oft hard to move As rock or stone-starting the graceful tear From eyes unused to weep-filling with love, And hope, and joy, bosoms long warn and sere With the world's commerce-wakening again Within the cold and chilly breast of age Fond memories of youth-oh, not in vain Heaven gave the genius that can thus assuage Man's grief and cares, and gently lead his heart To pure and pleasant feeling-making green The soil else desolate, glorious the art, And glorious thou, its mistress and its Queen. T. K. H.


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unacquaintance with those polished manners, and little elegancies of life to which he had been accustomed , soon dissolved much of the charm which her beauty and artlessness had at first thrown around him. After struggling for some time with poverty and discontent, he enlisted in a regiment of heavy dragoons ; and, being ordered to the continent, left his wife, with an infant daughter, in a wretched lodging in London. Chance brought us together in Belgium ; and a similarity of tastes soon produced a friendship.

"Depressed as I was in spirit myself, I was struck with the melancholy tone in which, he that night, accosted me. He felt a presentiment, he said, that he should not survive the battle of the ensuing day. He wished to bid me farewell, and to entrust to my care his portrait, which, with his farewell blessing, was all he had to bequeath to his wife and child. Absence had renewed, or rather redoubled, all his fondness for the former, and pourtrayed her in all the witching loveliness that had won his boyish affection. He talked of her, while the tears ran down his cheeks ; and conjured me, if I ever reached England, to find her out, and make known her case to his father. In vain, while I pledged my word to the fulfilment of his wishes, I endeavored to cheer him with better hopes. He listened in mournful silence to all I could suggest ; flung his arms round my neck,— wrung my hand, and we parted. I saw him but once again. It was during the hottest part of the next and terrible day, when, with a noise that drowned even the roar of the artillery, Sir William Ponsonby's brigade of cavalry dashed past our hollow square, bearing before them, in that tremendous charge, the flower of Napoleon's chivalry. Far ahead even of his national regiment, I saw the manly figure of my friend. It was but for a moment. The next instant he was fighting in the centre ofthe enemy's squadron ; and the clouds of smoke that closed in masses round friend and foe, hid all from my view. When the battle was over, and all was hushed but the groans of the wounded, and the triumphant shouts and rolling drums of the victorious Prussians, who continued the pursuit during the entire of the night-I quitted the shattered remains of the gallant regiment in whose ranks I had that day the honor of standing. The moon was wading through scattered masses of dark and heavy clouds, when I commenced my search for my friend. The light was doubtful and uncertain ; yet it was easy to keep along the track that marked the last career of Ponsonby. Shuddering, lest in every face I should recognize my friend, I passed by, and sometimes trod upon, the cold and motionless heaps, where

' Rider and horse, friend and foe, in one red burial blent,' now looked so unlike the " fiery masses of living valor,' that a few hours before had commingled with a concussion more dreadful than the earthquake's shock.

Although I at first felt a certain conviction of his fate, I afterward began to hope that the object of my search had, contrary to his prediction, survived the terrible encounter. I was about to retire, when a heap of slain, in a ploughed field on which the moon was now shining clearly, attracted my notice. Literally piled on each other, were the bodies of five curassiers ; and lying beneath his horse, was the dead body of my friend. You may form some idea of my astonishment, on finding, by a nearer inspection, that his head was supported and his neck entwined by the arms of a female, from whom also the spirit had taken its departure ; but you can form no conception of the horror I felt, at beholding, in this scene of carnage and desolation,-in the very arms of death, and on the bosom of a corpse, a living infant, sleeping calmly, with the moon-beam resting on its lovely features, and a smile playing on its lips, as if angels were guarding its slumbers and inspiring its dreams ! -And who knows but, perhaps they were ? The conviction now flashed on my mind, that these were the wife and child of my unfortunate friend ; and the letters we afterward found on the person of the former, proved that I was right in the conjecture. Driven aside by the gales of pleasure or ambition, or by the storms of life, the affections of many may veer ; but unchangeable and unchanging is a true heart in woman. 'She loves, and loves for ever.' This faithful wife had followed her husband through a land of strangers, and over the pathless sea,-through the crowded city and the bustling camp, till she found him stretched on the battle field. Perhaps she came in time to receive his parting sigh, and her spirit, quitting its worn-out tenement of clay, winged its way with his, to Him who gave them being. With the assistance of some of my comrades, I consigned this hapless pair to the earth, wrapped in the same military cloak ; and enveloping the infant,-this dear child of my adoption, in my plaid, I returned to the spot where our regiment lay. "But it is time to bring this melancholy story to a conclusion : and there are some circumstances I would rather only glance at. It had been my good fortune, in the course of the day, to attract the notice of an officer of high rank, to whom, toward the evening, I was able to render an essential service. I was advanced to the halbert on the spot ; and the kindness of my patron did not cease, till, shortly after my arrival at Paris, I was presented with a pair of colors. In the pride and joy of my heart, I wrote home an account of my good fortune to my mother, and employed the interval that elapsed before I could receive an answer, in picturing my return to my native village, through the thronging comrades of my school-boy days, and flinging myself into the arms of my delighted parent. Soon, too soon, I had an answer from home. My heart sunk in me as I broke the seal. It was black, the emblem of my future lot. My mother was dead, had died heart-broken !


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small trees, around whose delicate branches clustered the luxuriant tendrils of that small vine peculiar to the West. "He is here !" he repeated ; " one who loves you, who has long, long loved you-one whom you must love." "Never !" and she recognized Charles Grayson. "Never ? I have sworn it !" "Am I bound by your unholy oath ?" cried Mary, "I, the betrothed of another ! Away ! away, sir ! your rashness and villainy may yet remain undiscovered." 66 Mary Alton," said Grayson, in those low, deep, half-articulated tones- which ever speak wild and uncontrollable passion,-" Mary Alton, I have watched you for months-I have watched you at noon, at eve, at night I have kissed the very flowers your fingers have touched- I have stood for hours on the blessed spot your feet have pressed -will you not ? Cannot you return my love ?" Grayson knelt and suddenly seized her hand. Mary stood pale and motionless with fear and astonishment. " Answer! I implore you," he continued. "Traitoress ! wretch !" shrieked rather than spoke Yantee, as she rushed into the scene, with a dagger brandished aloft-"Traitoress ! this-this will revenge the daughter of a chief!" The knife suddenly descended, and would inevitably have proved fatal, had not Grayson sprang to his feet and struck the instrument from the hand of the infuriated girl. "What means this ?" and Henry Segard joined the group. 66 Grayson-Yantee-here ! and that knife ? Explain !" He turned to Mary, who attempted to speak, but from tears and trembling was unable to utter a word. Segard, seeing her ineffectual attempt to answer him, turned to Grayson, and said, "What, sir, do you here? What does that Indian girl here ?" " You-no one shall question me. What do you here ? Ha ha !" Grayson exclaimed, with a wild, mocking laugh ; " you need not answer me either. Yantee !" The girl gazed at him without replying. " Yantee ! away !" The girl silently departed ; but after proceeding a few steps, turned around, and glaring upon Mary, exclaimed, 'Daughter of the pale face beware !" and the boughs soon hid her from sight. Segard, finding Mary insensible, turned to his antagonist. "Grayson, we shall meet again." "Whenever you please," was the laconic, but bitter reply, and he strode firmly away. Mary, in a few minutes having recovered, slowly and

she finished, Henry arose from the spot where he had been kneeling over her, and said in a low, but firm voice, " He dies the death !" "No ! no ! stain not your hand, Segard, the hand betrothed to me, with blood." "I have said it," was his reply. Silently they pursued their way homeward. Neither spoke. Thoughts of sadness with her-thoughts of revenge with him, were too busy for any conversation.
 * painfully answered the questions of her lover. When

And Yantee still ministered to the wants of her faithless lord. But there was a settled fierceness in her dark eye, at once strange and dreadful. Grayson, however, did not observe it. Like many others he underrated a woman's heart, mind, and courage.

Brave men are too often imprudent, and Henry, notwithstanding his marriage should have produced caution, where it never before existed- was one of the number. He related the transaction, which we have described, to several of his companions- swearing revenge against Grayson. They, as usual, urged him on. A few evenings after the scene in the forest, he carefully examined his hunting-knife and gun, and informing Mary and the family (he resided with his father, ) that he should be absent for some time on a night-hunt, with some comrades, left the house. But murder was in his heart, and he directed his course to Grayson's lodge. When about half way, he was met by Yantee, who uttered an exclamation of surprise and delight at the recounter. "The brave of a pale face caresses a tainted fawn," said she. Segard felt the sarcasm, and replied in her own style. "The fawn is pure as the snow on the mountains, and she scorns the Black Eagle." Such was the subriquet of Grayson. "Ha ! how knowest the brave that ? A lie is on the pale face's lip, and his heart nurses the serpent of deceit." Fire flashed from the eyes of Segard, but remembering, that the speaker was a woman, he scornfully smiled and replied, "Would the fawn mate for life with the brave, did she love the cagle ?" An indescribable expression passed over the face of Yantee, and she asked in a half-joyful, half-sorrowful tone, " Has she ?" " Yes !" "Will the brave swear it ?" " I do !" "Tell her then, that, Yantee buries the knife. The white bosom of the fawn shall not bleed." The information of Segard relative to his marriage was a con-


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 The Calabar people, when the consular eye is off them, bury under the house. In the case of a great chief the head is cut off and buried with great secrecy somewhere else, for reasons I have already stated. The body is buried a few days after death, but the really important part of the funeral is the burying of the spirit, and this is the thing that causes all the West Africans, Negro and Bantu alike, great worry, trouble, and expense. For the spirit, no matter what its late owner may have been, is malevolent—all native-made spirits are. The family have to get together a considerable amount of wealth to carry out this burial of the spirit, so between the body-burying and the spirit-burying a considerable time usually elapses; maybe a year, maybe more. The custom of keeping the affair open until the big funeral can be made obtains also in Cabinda and Loango, but there, instead of burying the body in the meantime, it is placed upon a platform of wood, and slow fires kept going underneath to dry it, a mat roof being usually erected over it to keep off rain. When sufficiently dried, it is wrapped in clothes and put into a coffin, until the money to finish the affair is ready. The Duallas are more tied down; their death-dances must be celebrated, I am informed, on the third, seventh, and ninth day after death. On these days the spirit is supposed to be particularly present in its old home. In all the other cases, I should remark, the spirit does not leave the home until its devil is made and if this is delayed too long he naturally becomes fractious.

Among the Congo Français tribes there are many different kinds of burial—as the cannibalistic of the Fan. I may remark, however, that they tell me themselves that it is considered decent to bury a relative, even if you subsequently dig him up and dispose of the body to the neighbours. Then there is the earth-burial of the Igalwas and M'pongwe, and the beating into unrecognisable pulp of the body which, I am told on good native authority, is the method of several Upper Ogowé tribes, including the Adoomas. I had no opportunity of making quiet researches on burial customs when I was above Njoli, because I was so busy trying to avoid qualifying for a burial myself; so I am not quite sure whether this method is the general one among these little


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THE JEWESS AND THE CHRISTIAN.

BY J. Ꭲ. EVANS.

CHAPTER I.

He who has travelled on the high road of Lusa, cannot but have remarked that in the midst of that species of gulph that opens on the right side of Mount Cenis, there are erected some few very small cottages, thatched with straw, and that look so tiny and so frail, that they seem to tremble when exposed to the rude blasts of the north wind. It may be affirmed, that in the spot where they are located, the sun never gilds the rocks with his rays, and that the only appearance of animation that is given to the scene is that conveyed by the dull monotonous brawling of a brook, that seems to be enclosed in the mountains, and with difficulty forces its way into the lower regions of the plain. The ice and the snow constitute the sole covering of these steep rocks, and the barren earth is more ungrateful to the tiller than the rugged lands of Switzerland. It is desolate, but there is about it not one single feature of grandeur ; it affrights the spectator, but does not fill his mind with awe. Such is the Novelese. It was upon a certain evening in the year " that there were observed upon one of the narrow and steep paths of the Novelese, two mules ; they advanced with apparent difficulty. There was seated upon one of them a very old man, and in his looks might be remarked the pleasure with which he contemplated the barren prospect that was before him. Its sterility did not affright him by its wildness, and desolation seemed to be an enjoyment to him. Upon the other mule, there was a very young maiden, clothed in white, and whose limbs seemed to be frozen by the cold and bitter blasts that she encountered. She cast no glance around her ; she seemed to be a stranger to the country through which she was passing, and its novelty had evidently no charms for her. These two were preceded by one individual, who was clad like a rustic, and over whose shoulders were cast the rough skin of a bear. Just as the travellers appeared, dark and reddish clouds covered Mount Cenis, and at the same time, a thin cold rain began to fall. The mules continued to advance, and their sweet- sounding bells were heard, until, at length, they stopped before a cottage, from which there soon issued an old woman, supported on the arm of a strong and athletic mountaineer. The old man then alighted, and he instantly went to help the maiden from her mule. The delicate creature was so exhausted, either by grief, or so transfixed by cold, that she could not move from her pillion, and they had to carry her in their arms, into the cottage. " Rachel !" exclaimed the old man, 66 Rachel, my

daughter, thou art now suffering ; but the Lord will have mercy on thee. Hath he not delivered us out of the hands of Pharoah ? Hath he not given us to drink of fresh water, even in the arid sands of the desert ? I have saved thee, thee, my beloved one, from the snares of Ammon. Lift up, then, thy head, thou child of Israel." The maiden made no answer ; but she turned her eyes from the brook to the high summit of the Alps, and shuddering, affrighted, panting with grief, she showed in her look, and in her attitude, that she was about to fall into a paroxysm of despair ; but then, in a moment afterward, an idea, as if it were vague, obscure, and half-formed, seemed to come to her mind ; it warmed her cheeks with blushes ; her eyes shot forth brilliant glances ; and her soft, low, and musical voice pronounced the single word, " Louis." It was uttered with a charm so ineffable, that as the Jew listened to it, his hands were clenched as if in agony, and the hoarse growl of despair was heard to issue from his lips, as if torture alone had forced it from his heart. In the small cottage, which had received the Jew and Jewess as guests, there might be observed an air of the greatest neatness. Two lovely infants played close to the fire, and, as they did so, they eagerly tried to bring warmth into the limbs of the hapless Rachel. Her father, Solomon, took the young mountaineer to a dark recess in the cottage, and then the two were seen to converse in whispers for a very long time. The remainder of the day was passed in sighs, in tears, in counsels, in expostulations. The wild air of the rough mountaineer contrasted strongly with the appearance of all else that was in the cottage ; and it might be noticed, that every time the harsh tones of the mountaineer's voice were heard, a cold shivering made the white robes of Rachel tremble, as if the wind had blown upon them. The last rays of the sun had already cast a crown of gold upon the pinnacle of Mount Cenis, when Solomon Levi again disappeared in the passes of the Novelese, for the purpose of proceeding to Susa, from which conveyances can easily be procured to Turin. CHAPTER II. ALREADY a cruel month of feverish expectation had passed away. It was gone before Louis, who loved the Jewish maiden so dearly, and by whom he was as tenderly beloved, could discover her retreat. He had, however, discovered the neighborhood in which she was concealed ; and, in order that his absence might not be remarked, he had stated to his attendants, that he intended for a few days to sport in the mountains. He set out then one fine morning, with his fowling piece in proper order, and his horn well filled, and followed by two of his dogs. It is not necessary to


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It was not until he had traversed a large portion of the mountain, that he thought he heard the sound of voices, mingled with sighs. Then, and not till then, his pace was stealthy. He proceeded silently, and at last he was able to see that Rachel was not alone.

The dogs of Louis started up suddenly, and their loud and vehement barking could be heard far and near.

The two lovers, absorbed alike in their sorrow and their affection, seemed to be ignorant of all that was passing around them, when the mountaineer, who had contrived to conceal himself behind the block of marble, suddenly appeared, and, it could be seen, foaming with rage, while his right hand brandished his cutlass, which he presented at the breast of Louis. A frightful struggle took place. Louis in vain endeavored to make use of his fowling-piece ; it was held by a more vigorous hand than his own, and, as he sought to free it from the grasp of the savage, he felt that he was wounded in the breast. He writhed with pain, and as he did so, the mountaineer's brawny arms grasped him as if he were a child, and bearing him to the edge of a deep abyss, hurled him down, the body crashing, crackling, and bursting, as it descended ! Rachel, clinging to the Mountaineer with all the energy that despair can give to weakness, sought also to precipitate herself into the gulph ; but drawn back by the vigorous gripe of her lover's executioner, she was flung upon the bare face of the rock. In a few moments afterward, nought could be heard near the place where the lovers had met, but the howling of the dogs as they scented the blood of Louis. CHAPTER III. IT was in the middle of the month of November in the same year -, in which the transactions already detailed took place, that the Lords of Savoy were summoned by order of his Majesty, the King of Sardinia, to examine into a case of great importance. It was in November that these senatorial Lords were to be seen seated upon their thrones of crimson velvet, whilst there was brought before them Solomon Levi, the Jew, accused of the wilful murder of the Count Louis. These senatorial Lords seemed alike to forget their character as Christians and as judges, when they beheld the unhappy Jew, heavily ironed before them. It was indignation alone that animated them when they gazed upon the Israelite surrounded by his guards, and, by a sad combination of human prejudices, even the crowd that was collected in the Court, shuddered as the unhappy man passed through them, as if there were contamination in misfortune, and that a difference of creed could justify the obliteration of all traces of humanity. The accused was more calm, more cool, and more collected, than his judges, his accusors, or

the auditory. He had that calmness that results from innocence and resignation. Unfortunately for the Jew, he had arrived at the cottage, in which he sought a retreat for his daughter, upon the very evening that her lover Louis had been assassinated. Rachel, who had been carried thither by the fierce mountaineer, could not, when she arrived, recognise her father. She had lost her reason, and with it, the remembrance of the past. The Jew, however, observed that there were some drops of blood upon her dress, and, driven to despair, he asked what had occasioned this unlooked-for misfortune. The assassin stuttered out an explanation, namely, that he had found moment, he had remarked a hunter, who fled away through the passes of the mountain. " Ah !" cried the Jew, "it was Louis- Louis, who must have discovered where I had hidden her, as I thought, from his sight :" and saying this, he turned to his daughter, and exclaimed, " Daughter of Jerusalem gentle flower, whose tender head had been struck down by the tempest. I thought to have preserved thee pure from the Christian ; I thought to have placed thee here as in a promised land, where thou mightest be saved from the hands of Pharaoh ." But he could not continue, so much was his soul afflicted by the cruel spectacle that he gazed upon. All that night he watched by the pillow of his daughter, and aided in his cares by the ancient female cottager. The mountaineer, on the contrary, hid himself in a corner of a cottage, keeping his blood-stained countenance carefully concealed beneath his cloak. The next day Rachel had, in some degree, recovered her strength, and she was immediately removed to Susa, where the most watchful and tender cares were bestowed upon her. The same day, a shepherd, who was passing along the stream, discovered the dead body of Louis. It was frightfully disfigured from the fall ; two dogs were resting beside it-the one seemed to be watching the first fatal wound that had been inflicted on his master, while the other was nestling close to that face, to which hitherto it had looked up with affection, and that had always repaid it with smiles. In a few days afterward, the Hebrew was arrested at Susa, and he was dragged from the arms of his daughter to be plunged into the dark cells of the senatorial prison. Many attempts were made upon the Jew to induce him to avow his guilt ; but he withstood them with a firmness in which innocence when subjected to the agonies of the torture has often been found wanting. At length, the Jew was taken from his prison to go through the forms of a trial, and to find that for one of his tribe there is no mercy. The sentence of the judges was already determined upon, although the proofs were defective, and the witnesses could state nothing certain.
 * Rachel stretched at the foot of a rock, and at the same