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\ . 
















xoxooN : 
FEIHTED AT THE •*BOT3Ci'V3Y.t" 'g^^^^ 

Tili' NKV,- YORK 
IT :.!.;■ !,IBlvAKY 


A:" ' i . 


I.N 'X ANi» ; 

B 1 -l-' L, ■ 













" ■■ The smallest flower 

That twinkles through the meadow green, can 
Form the sabject of a lesson ; aje, as weU 
As the most gorgeoos growth of Indian climes. 
For love of Nature dwells not in the heart 
Which seeks for things beyond our daily ken 
To bid it glow. It is in common life, 
In subjects most familiar, that we find 
Exhaustless matter for our privilege, 
Oar glorious privilege of reading God 
Amid His bright creation." 




The dying embers of a year, glowing with national concord, and brilliant with 
the creations of universal intellect, are now lying smokeless upon the hearth ; yet 
animated by the kindness of oar friends, this, oar last wreath of flowers in 1851, we 
now present to them — to them who, for so many months, have assisted as, by theif 
support and encouragement, to foster the germs of literary talent, where they 
woald otherwise have been stifled, under the natural diffidence of youth and inex- 
perience. To this, our first collection of Bouqwts — wild though they be, we 
trust that each genial summer will add new beauties; that rarer flowers will 
bud forth and gracefully rear their heads in our collection. Yes, kind friends ! with 
a continuation of your assistance, we hope that the Bouquet will throw its perfume 
over an ever-increasing circle, and that if the beauty of its flowers, reared by the 
timid hand of youth, may not cause the passer by to stand lost in admiration, they 
will, at least* recal to hb mind the innocent enthusiasm and hope which gave peace 
and happiness to his own dawn of life. 

Certain that the generous sympathy, which has emboldened us from the first, 
will still encourage us — that our flattering pinions will be smoothed and directed, 
not unkindly shorn, by our older and more critical frien s, we beg at once to record 
our gratitude for the past, and our expectations for the future. Perchance some of 
our fltttterers may hereafter soar, and will not then disdain to remember that their 
first flight to the ''orb of day" was made under the genial smiles of the supporters 
cXiha Bouquet. At the least, kind friends, you have aided an intellectual object; 
you have enabled ns to bring mind into competition with mind; you have a8&l&t«l\w 
■applying a stimulus to exertion and industry w\ivc\i caxiTxoX. ^ei'^. \a ^^ ^^a^^vsv^ 
which may be the means of awakening in some, nobWr aud Yvv^et «a^vc^J\w» ^«=^ 
thtfwotdd otherwise htLte entertained. This is m\icAi,\\iOxx^)a. aJka ^\jj^-\3» ^^I^"^ 


reached To have some hi^h object in view, elevates even the most commonplace 

acts of life to that high level. The Crasaders of old were often gnilty of acts which 

will not bear scrutiny, bnt, oh ! how superior are they to the heroes of Homer, for at 

least they felt that they had a great object to struggle for. It may be that narrow 

but useful pursuits will engross some of our members, but the taste which you have 

fostered will ennoble and dignify those pursuits; it will cause theur minds to transcend 

the limited sphere of individual gain, and to look open it as a part of that mighty 

scheme in which all individual exertion is made to carry out the great designs of 

Providence; it will make them feel that, though living in the world, they are not of 

the world; it will knit them by a universal sympathy with man, their fellow workers, 

and raise their hearts in gratitude to the Father and Framer of all. Thus they shall 

feel that even the petty, changmg objects of life have an ulterior importance; that 



Authentic tidings of invisible things, 

Of ebb and flow and ever-durinjr power. 

And central peace, sabslsting at the heart 

Of endless agitation. 
Nor will the benefits of your support and kindness be confined here: they will 
extend to those young members to whom the denomination of flowers is more 
expressly appropriate. It has been remarked as one of the characteristics of the 
present age, that women are asserting a right to greater consideration than they 
formerly held; and are maintaining it by the poRition which many, who are a glory 
to their sex, have achieved in literature and science. We need not say that the 
Bouqttet has ever been open to our fair young friends: we have made it a point 
not to discourage the most fearful. Not that, like their sisters on the other side 
of the Atlantic, we would wish to see them trenching on the prerogatives of men 
or desiring to contest with them a supremacy of intellect which a sensible woman will 
rejoice that they hold. We believe that women have their own peculiar sphere, in which 
they are as unapproachable as man in his. If it is the business of men by their public 
labours to regulate the external forms of the world, it is woman's part by precept 
and example, from and in the seclusion of her own home, to give life and efficacy to 
those forms. If men, because with a provident energy they bend the most stubborn 
things to their purposes, are justly called " the lords of the creation ;** women, the 
unobtrusive spreaders of piety, humility, charity, peace, are not less the priests of the 
creation. Which is the higher calling? This worli^, with its deference for the 
imposing, would say the former; but heaven, which looks to the heart, authoritatively 
declares the latter. 

That our \\tt\e printificaiion can effect much towards the great end of making 
both sexes feel their peculiar value and abilities for spreading good, we do not 
suppose; but that in its own curcle, it will have such a tendency, we think we may 
affinn. Unlike other periodicals, ours is open for all who choose to detail their 
experience or opinions, to give vent to their joys and sorrows; to inform the under- 
ataDdiog, to awaken the sympathies, to amend the heart. We do not enforce our 
nAtmbenf U*be sle^pji readers,, only ; we iuVile Ihem \a ^m others the benefit 
C ' • * • >- >. 

* fc » * V - fc 


af their thoaghts, because these are times when all shoald think and prompt 
others to think. And how imuch Igood may not flow from [this plan I How many 
who, in these pages, have) entered on their first literary stmggle, have made a nsefal 
preparation which, otherwise, wonld never hare been made at all; how many have 
Fonnd the valne of a cultivated mind in now, for the first time, turning it to accoont; 
liow^many hare learned^accnrately that which they previously had oonceived imper- 
fectly; how many have made that knowledge their own, by (employing it as an 
inxiliary in imparting the feelings of their own hearts to others I 

Snch labour as this,|ihowever humble, gives us,'at least, some] increase of know- 
ledge, at least clearer ideas, at least some ability of expression, at least some appreoia- 
ion of the excellencies of our native language, at least some conception of the value 
)f our native literature. Nay, it does more: it teaches us to measure ourselves 
>y others; it imparts something of that invaluable lesson, yvu9t <navr6v; 
t shows what has been done, it points out our path to excellence. 

Kind supporters ! it is to you we say, aid us then to carry out these beneficial 
snds. You that are as yet but young flowers among our supporters, we urge you to 
put forth your best and brightest buds, such as may be worthy of {yourselves and us 
iVe, the projectors, invite you to take a place among us; we wish you to feel the 
uune interest in the Bouquet as ourselves — for it is the o&pring of your thoughts as 
(fell as of ours; the child on whose fair forehead are imprinted your hopes and fears, 
18 well as ours; the nursling on which the sympathies and affections of your hearts 
ire lavished, as well as ours. ^Doubt not that it will grow in strength : the " Nemo 
ne impune lacesnf of our guardian ** Thistle'' will protect it from secret and open 
memies; firom those who would be glad that in our garden— 

'* All loathliest weeds began to grow 
Thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank. 
And the dock, and henbane, and helmlock dank, 
Stretching ont Its long and hollow shank. 
Stifling the air,;till the dead wind sUnk,'* 

ind communicating its pestiferous miasmata to the young and drooping flowers; as 
irell as firom those who, with the undistinguishing scythe of criticism, would demolish 
Kur garden beds, and scatter the tender buds to the winds. 

In reviewing the labours of the past, we think there is much cause for congra- 
tulation. It is not often that an attempt like ours can meet with any success what- 
Bver. Publications for general curculation are) supported by a regularly enrolled staff 
of writers, and are superintended by experienced publishers. Ours is liable to all 
khe fluctuations inseparable from a desultory correspondence, and, .in some instances, 
&om contributors who are able to bestow upon us only theur spare moments, and 
those frequently snatched from other and uncongenial occupations, when the mind is 
worn oat and the spirits jaded. If our pages, under these circumstances^ should 
Mem less weighty than we could wish, it cannot be a matter q£ ^wi^«c. ^^Nros^.^ 
howeyer. to be able occasional]/ to present to our readers ?oo^ \ot T^«riC\%XL, «a '^^ ^ 
for nwro eatartunment. We may as well inform ow tqsA«t« VJcl«X», ^». w«x^>»!«» 


about our garden, we have lately discovered some saplins of a stnrdy and ▼igorona 
growth, who, in stmggling for mastery, have oft " made cruel way through ranks of 
Greekish youth.*' We expect that these will be found to have at once something 
solid and smart about them. As for what we have already done in endeavonring to 
give some weight to our publication, we may refer, among our papers, to the Btorj 
of Paul, a translation of an ancient Greek treatise, and an inquiry into the proper 
study of mental phenomena, with the view of improving education, while the critieal 
papers have not been without their effects on the style of our younger friends. Our 
presiding Thistle has also made an effort to add a serious object to our produetioDi 
by ofiering to bind a few sprigs of laurel round the young flower, whose scent is 
the sweetest, whose form the fairest, whose colour the most varigated. 

Before we say adieu, allow us ooce more to express our heartfelt thanks for a 
success which, under the disadvantages we have mentioned, is surprising to ourselves. 
Wishing you health and happiness, and that tlie buds which you have, or shall, put 
forth in our Bouquet may burst into blossoms that will adorn and sweeten the path 
of life, we remain your sisters and fellow-labourers. 

The Projectors. 


The Lady Hester G. Browne 

Misses Knatohbull 

Miss Hume Middlemass ... 





The Most Hon. the Dowager Marchioness of Sligo, Portumna 

The Most Honourable the Marquis of Sligo Westport House, Mayo 

The Lady Louisa Knox 

The Lady Elizabeth Browne 

The Lady Emily G. Browne ... 

The Lady Harriet Browne 

The Lady Hester G. Browne 

The Lady Augusta Browne 

The Lady Marianne Browne 

Lord John T. Browne 

Lord Henry Ulick Browne. 

The Bight Honourable Lord Bolton 

The Right Honourable Lady Bolton 

The Right Honourable Lady Dorchester 

The Right Honourable Lady Dormer. 

The Lad J Muj Boss 







Bolton, Hull 


Graywell, Odiham 
3, Chapel Street. Park Lane 
60, Portland Place 

Miss Roes 

• • • • • • 

60, Portland Place 

The Honourable Mrs. Smith 

• • • 

Bobay, Drogheda 

The Hon. Lieut- Col. E. B. \ 

^ilbraham ... 

55. Portland Place 

Sir Thomas J. Burke, Bart., 


Marble Hill, Galway. 

81r Norton Knatchbull, Bart. 

• • • • • • 

8, Mansfield Street 

Lady Knatchbull 

• • • • • • 


Mias Knatchbull 

• • • • • • 


Mifls Eleanor Knatchbull 

• • • • • m 


Hngesson E. Knatchbull 

« • • • • 


Miss Augusta Knatchbull 

• • • 

Ashford, Kent 

Ladj Lister Kaye 

• • • • • ■ 

54, Portland Place 

Miss Amelia Lister Kaye 

« • • • • • 


Mrs. Aubrey Paul 

• •• t • • 

1, Chester Place, Chester S 

Lady Tichborne 

• • ■ • • • 

Grove House, Brompton 

Mrs. John Townley 

• • • • • • 

76, Elton Place 

Mrs. Higgins 

• • • •• • 

1, Lowndes Square 

Sir John N. R. Campbell, K.C.H 

10, Harley Street 

Lady Campbell 

• • • • • • 


Miss Campbell 

• • ■ • • • 


Lieut-General William Sand with, C.B. ... 

Oriental Club 

Bererend Thomas Burnet, D.D., F.R.S. ... 

13, Finsbnry Square 

Reverend N. Fletcher 

• • • • ■ • 

Eldon Road, Reading 

Bererend Robert Montgomery, M.A. 

51, Torrington Square 

Bererend H. B. Rashleigh 

« • • • • • 

Horton, Dartford 

Rererend B. L. Wither 

• • • • • • 

Tangier Park, Basingstoke 

Rowland G. Alston, Esq. 

• • • • • • 

48, Harley Street 

E. 0. Aspinwall, Esq. 

Captain J. Alderson Bailey 

• • • > • • 

Chesterfield House, Tupbric 

Miss Bailey 

• t • •• • 


Mrs. Anthony Bainbridge 

• • • ■ • • 


Miss Barber 

• • • • • • 

51, Porchester Terrace 

Mrs. George Barker 

• • • • • • 

Stanlake Park, Berks 

H A. Bathurst, Esq. 

•• • ••• 

1, Devonshire Place 

Miss M. C. Beaumont 

• • • • • • 

Lenton Hall, Notts 

T. R. Beaumont, Esq. 

• • • • « • 


Mrs. R. Baylis Bennet 

• • • • • • 


Miss L. Bennett 

« • • • • • 


Mrs. r» Bei^^er. 

• • • • • • 

13, Finsbury Square 

Dr. Bemeys 

• *• •• • 

67, Harley Street 

Miss C. Bertrand 

• t • •• • 

Golders HiU 

Mrs. WilKam Scott Binny 

••• ••• 

37, Bryanstone Square 

Miss Bowman 

• •• • • • 

13, Finsbury S<^aat% 

Miss Boxer 

■ • • • • • 

Lmou OTOvftYLo\x&^ 

CokxMl WiiUam J. BrAdford 

•• • • • • 

53, MouUgoA ?x^»x* 


Miss Flora Bradford 
Joho BrowDO, Esq. 
Miss T. G. Bailer 
Mrs. Thomas Burgoyne 
Miss Carleton 
S. E. Carlisle, Esq. 
Miss Garpne 
Mrs. William Ghappell 
Major Gbase 
Mrs. Charles Cope 
Captain Charles James Cox ... 
Mrs. H. M. DaTidson 
Mrs. Edmund Dawkins 
Kohard De Lisle, Esq. 

Mrs. James De Sansmarez 
Miss Dewar 
Mrs. 6. F. Dickson, 
Joshna Evans, Esq. 
Miss Gertnide Everard 
Mrs. William Felgate 
Captain Charles Forbes 
George Forbes, Esq. 
Mrs. George Forbes 
Mrs. William Forsyth 
Miss Eliza Frith 
Mrs. Godwin 
Yeats H. Goldsmid, Esq. 
Miss Head 
Major Holland 
Miss A. Hombj 
William J. Hojle, Esq. 
Miss M. G. Hawes 
Miss S. G.Hall 
Mrs. Charles Frederick Hath 
Charles Jellicoe, Esq. 
Mrs. J. A. Joseph, 
Miss Georgina H. King 
Mrs. Northall Lanrie 
Francis Le Breton, Esq. 
Mi9, FnDtM Le Breton 
CC Looock, E^q. 

53, Montague Square 
Gloucester Lodge 
6, York Place 
21, Stratford Place 
25, Bruton Street 
4, Park Place, St James's* 
45, Upper Charlotte Street 
39, Portland Place 
31, Nottingham Place 


21, Langham Place 
Gifford— East Lothian, N. B. 
57, Portland Place 
Junior United Service Clab 


16, Great Cumberland Street 

20. Hanover Terrace 
Golders HllL 

7, Park Vfllas 

5, Hyde Park Gate 

7, Hyde Park Gardens 


3, St. Andrew's FUce 
26, Harewood Squire 

2, Park Crescent 
10, Mansfield Street 
60, Charlotte Street 

22, Park Crescent 

9, Queen Square, Westminster 
Carlton Cottage, Eilbum 
25, Upper Harley Street 

6, Wimpole Street 

7, Blomfield Crescent 


6, Park Square 

21, Sussex Place 

Mount ?\eua.uV VLvtc^'k 


Mrs. Ma'Can 

• • • 

• • • 


Alexander MacIeaD, Esq. 

• • • 

• • • 


James MalcolmHon, Esq. 

• • • 

• •• 

West Lodge, Campden Hill 

Mrs. Massej 

• • • 

• • • 

26, Wimpole Street 

Miss Massej 

• • • 

■ • • 


Charles Massej, Esq. 

• • • 

• • • 


R. Hame Middlemass, Esq. 

• • • 

• • • 

4, St Andrew's Place 

Mrs. Hame Middlemass 

• • • 

• • • 


Miss Hame Middlemass 


• • • 


R. Hame Middlemass, Jan., 


• • • 


Major J. A. Moore, FJ5.S., F.S.A. 

• •• 

19, Portland Place 

Mrs. Moore 

• • • 

• •• 


William R. Moore, Esq. 

• •• 

• •-• 


J. Camac Morris, Esq., F.R.S. 

• • • 

10, Mansfield Street 

Mrs. Morris 

• • • 

• • • 


Miss Morris 

• • • 

• • • 


Frederick Morris, Esq. 

• • • 

• • • 


Horatio Nelson, E^q. 

• • • 

• • • 

Sonth Sqnare, Gray's Inn 

Mrs. Nagent 

• • • 



Miss O'Connell 

• • • 

• • • 


Major Oliphant 

• • • 

• • • 


Mrs. Oliphant 

• • • 

• •• 


R. Penfoli Esq. 

• •• 

• f • 


Mrs. J. D. Powles 

• • • 

• • • 

6, York Place 

Miss Powles 

• • * 

• •• 

6. York Place 

Mrs. William S. D. Pateman 

John Piatt, Esq. 

• •• 

• • • 

22, Park Square 

John Porter, Esq. 

• • • 

• • • 

4, St Andrew's Place 

Mrs. Frederick Presoott 

• • • 

• • • 

13, Oxford Sqoare 

Mrs. Richard Rawlins 

• • • 

• • • 

1, Bloomsbarj Square 

W. Radstone Read, Esq. 

• •• 

• • • 

York Club, York 

Captain P. A. Reynolds 

• • • 


23. Sussex Gardens 

Mrs. General Robertson 

• • • 

• • • 

6, North wick Terrace 

J. A. Rhodes, Esq. 

• • • 

• • • 

Great Stanmore 

Mrs. Collin Robertson 

• • • 

• •• 

34, Moore Street 

Miss Caroline Rapp 


Jesse W. Russell, Esq., F RS. 

., F.S.A., 


Biggin Hall 

Miss Salomons 

• •• 

• •• 

18, Upper Wimpole Street 

Miss Samnel 

• •• 

• • • 

26, Sussex Place 

Captain Howell Shepherd 

• • • 

• • • 

30, Devonshire Street 

Mrs. Sheridan 

• •« 

• • • 

3, Orslo^ Styaat^ 

Leopold Smart, Esq. 

• •• 

• • • 

65,Coiiiia\xp;h\. IwiaRa 

J. W. Smith, Esq. 

■ • • 

• • • 

8, Chestet Teitacft 

DenzU J. TJumaon, Esq. 

• • 

• • • 

27, Montagae Sc^waiT^ 


H. Twynam, Esq. 
Miss Twjnam 
Miss C. Tnrynam 
Mrs. Lawrence Walker 
Mrs. Deoman Whatlej 
Captain James Wigston, R.N 
Miss Ellen Worms 
Georf^e Worms, Esq. 
Henry Worms, Esq. 
Miss Yates 
Miss Zeizer 

3, Gloucester Street, Warwick Sqnare 
3, Gloucester Street, Warwick Square 


46, Welbeck Street 
9, St. Andrew's Place 
Bittern, Southampton 
27, Park Crescent 



26, Sussex Gardens 


A Heart's History 

A Gentoo Song 

A Song, " The smiles of Childhood'' 

A few Observations on the second and third numbers 

of the Bouqttet 
A Fragment 

An old Song to an American tune 
A Story of every Day Life 

Address to the Moon (Latin) ... 
Aggressio Papalis in Britanninm (Latin) 
Answer to Nightshade's Enigma 
Answer to Ditto ... .«. 

Answers to Ge(^aphical Arithmorems 

Addresses to the Supporters 
Answer to Names of Flowers enigmatically expressed 
Beim anblick des Mondes (German) 
Carnation to Mignionette 

Confessions of a Shy Man 



• • • 



f • • 



• • • 


Squirting Cucumber 



• • • 



• • « 



• • • 



• • • 


Ragged Robin 

• • • 



• • • 



• • • 


Myrtle . 

• • • 



• • • 



• • • 



• • • 



• • • 

• • • 




• • • 



• • • 



38, 125 


• • • 



• • • 



• • • 



• • • 



• • • 


• •• 




Critiques and Reviews 

Date Lelia 

Defense de la Masiqae (French) 

Die Naide des Rheims (German) 

Die Liebe (German) 

Doable Acro&tic 

£in Sage aos dem Schwarzwaldt (German) 



Fashions for Jalj 

Florence Shirley 

Floral Aritbmorems 

Fragment —a Dream 

Friendship Rewarded 

Geographical Arithmorems 



I love to see the sunshine 

In the manner of Herrick 


Inscription and Translation 

Invitation to a walk 


Je Taime encore 

Jocellin and Hercales 

Joly, 18dl 

Ulncognita (Italian) 

Lied (German traoslation from Shakespeare) 

La Rosa (Italian) 

La Memoire (French) 

La Mosiqne (French ) 

La Masiqae (French) 

Libertatos Arbor (Latin) 

Lines written on one of H. M. ships retaining 

from foreign service 
Lines on taking leare of a kdy named Faithful 
Lines on the Duke of Marlboroagh (Latin) ... 
Lord Ettrick's Chase 
Lore and Memory 

Mary Qaean of Scots farewell to France 
May, 1851 
Mental Investigation 


Justicia 4' PassionFloioer 208 

• • • 



• • • 



• > • 



• • • 



« « • 


Ragged Robin 

• • • 



14, 61, 107 


• • • 


Ragged Robin 

• • • 



• • • 


Eglantine 24, 52, 84, 138, 160 


• • • 


Heather Bell 

• • • 


Prize Paper,^o.lV, 



• • • 


Lily of the VaUeg.,. 



• • • 



• • • 



• • • 



• • • 



• •• 



• • • 



• • • 


Moss Rose 

• • • 



• • • 



• • • 



• • • 



• • • 



• • • 



• • • 



• • • 



• • « 



• • • 



• • • 



• • • 



• « • 



• • • 



• • • 



• •• 






... ^ 




Miss Gradj's Establishment 

Mj Grandfather's Fireside Stories: — 




No. 1 — Shipwreck 

• m • 

Ragged Robtn 

• • • 


No. II— An Awkward Fix ... 

• • • 


• • • 


No. Ill— The Herring Drave 

• • • 


• • • 


Names of Flowers enigmaticallj expressed 

• • • 


• •• 


Napoleon at Leap Frog 

• • • 

Prize Paper f '. 




• • • 


• • • 


On Time 

• • • 


• • • 


On the departure of a Friend . . . 

• • « 


• • • 


On the Universal Theme 

• • • 


• •• 


On the Birth of a Daughter 

• • • 


• •• 


On the Death, of La Dachesse d*Angouleme 

• • • 


• •• 


Ovemm Jaculatores (Latin) 

• • • 

• •• 


Palatium Industria (Latin) 

• • • 


• •• 


Polyzena's Address to his Mother, &c 

• • • 

TvHap Tree 

• • • 


Preface to No. 1 

• • • 

• • • 


Prize Papers 

• • • 

209, 240 

Qaestion — Child— Answer — Mother 

• • • 


• •• 



• • • 


• • • 


Recollections of mj Youth — ^A Scrap- 

• • • 


• •• 



• • • 


45, 110, 171 

Reminiscences of a Maiden Ladj 

• • • 


• •• 


Sketches by the Way-side 

• • • 


• • • 


Some Remarks on the First Number 

• • • 


• • • 


Song—" A simple lay for floral May" 

• • • 


ft • • 


Song of the Wild Rose 

• • • 

wad Rose 

• • • 


Sonnet on the Sea Shore 

• •• 

Azelea • 

• •• 


Solution of Floral Arithmorems 

• • • 


• • • 


Solution to Rebus, page 9 

• • • 


• •• 


Solution of Flowers enigmatically expressed... 


• • * 



• •• 


• •• 



• • • 


• « • 


Sloe to the Critic of the number for September 

• • • 


Sanscrit Song (Sanscrit) 


• • • 


Solution of Charades 


■ • • 


The Evening Star 


• • • 


The Fate of a Smoker 

Prize Paper, No. I 


The Spanish Donaa 

Myrtk 15,62,71,198,224 

The Court Favourite 



The Abbot's Tale 


• •• 


The Heartsease 


• •• 




• • • 


The Spirit of the Night 


• « • 




The Flower Girl 

• • • 

• f • 

Ragged Robin 

21, 92 

The Sleeper 

• • • 

• • • 



The Bouquet 

• • • 

• • • 



The Boj's Lament for the Flowers 

• • • 



The Captive 

• • • 

• • • 



The Dying Child 

• > • 

• • • 



The Death of Petroclus (Latin) 

• • • 

Ragged Robin 


The Phantom Ship 

• • • 

• • • 

Prize Paper f No. V 


The Wreath 

• • • 

• • • 


• • • 


The Two Frigates 

• • • 

• • • 

Prize Paper, No. VI 


The Baron's Daughter 

• • • 

• • • 


• • • 


The Rover 

• ■ • 

• • • 

Prize Paper,^c 



The ViUage Maid 

> • • 

• • • 


• • • 


The Haunted Tower 

• • • 

• • • 



The Iron Safe 

• • • 

• • • 


78, 134, 202 

The Emigrant 

• • • 

• • • 

LHyofthe Vailey 


The Adventures of an Artificial Bose 

• • • 


205, 229 

The Bold Free- trader 

• • • 

• > • 


• • • 


The Orphan's Complunt 

• • • 

• • • 


■ • • 


The Organ Boy 

• •• 

• • • 


• • • 


The Early Blast 

«• • 

• • • 

Thole Cress. 

• •• 


The Music of the Ocean 

• • • 

• • • 


• • • 


The Soothsayer 

»• • 

• • • 


• •• 


The Story of Paul 

• > • 

• • • 


• • • 


The Lancastrians Betum 

• • • 

• • • 


• • • 


The Exile's Departure 

• • • 

• • • 


• •• 


The Tnvalids 

• • • 

• •• 


• •• 


The Gipsy 

• • • 

• • • 



Telegraphus Eleetrioiis (Latin) 

• • • 


• •• 


Thoughts on Matrimony 

• • • 

• •• 


• • • 


Thou art anothers now 

• •• 

• •• 


• •• 


To our Readers 

• • 

• • • 


• •• 


To a ChUd, on her Birthday 

• •• 

• • • 


• • • 


To a Friend, on the Death of her Daughter ... 


• •• 


To Mr. J— M , Naval Cadet, on 

his first 

going to sea 

• • • 

• ■ ■ 


• • • 


To Mignionette 

• • • 

• • • 


• • • 

69, 103 

To my infant Brother asleep 

• • • 

• • • 


• • • 


To the Moon 

• • • 

• • • 


• •• 


Twa-ihree Lines on the approach of 





Vers! (Italian) 

• • • 

• •• 


• •• 


Voyes page 57 (French) 

• • • 

• • • 

Thale Cress 

• •• 


Wycherley Park 

• « • 

• • • 


»» % 


Walter Lindsay 

• • • 

• • • 


^^n\S5l va 






... ••• ^1| 4lj yi 

... 207,232 



... 33,240 

... 167,216 

13, 27, 56, 88, 142, 164 

... 37 

... ... 37 

92, 109, 167 


EschBcholtzia 9,14,21,38,39,64,81,96 

107, 125, 170, 197, 201 

I.. ... JIZ4; 

32,40, 42, 108, 176, 233 

... ... oo 

13, 19, 60, 82, 94, 105 
109, 121, 159, 176, 211, 232 
Holly ... ... 95 

Honeyflower ... ... 133,238 

Honeysackle ... 133, 166, 167 

Hyadnth 30, 40, 89, 123, 197, 223, 237 
Ivy ... 51,137,218 

Jonquil ... ... 23, 43 

JnBtida ... ... 208 

JJumiae ... ... 235 






















Laburnum 23, 44, 81, 108, 175, 220 

LaMyrte ... 6,101 

Lavender 9, 42, 49, 77, 96, 115, 173 
Le pois ... ... 67 

LUyof the Valley ... 80,117 

Milfoil ... ... 41 

Moss Bose ... ... 61 

Moss ... 131, 170,212 

Myrtle 12 , 14, 6, 18, 62, 64, 70, 71, 76 

88, 101, 104^ 107, 158, 201 


Nightshade ... ... 4^20,57 

Nasturtium ... ... 232 

Orange Flower ... 240 

Pea ... 12, 67, 187, 198 

Passion Flower ... ... 208 

Primrose ... ... 238 

Bagged Robin 11, 21, 42, 82, 92, 95, 128 , 

... 205,2211 
Bose 29, 43, 68, 102, 104, 144, 155, 159 
Bndbeckia ... ... 87 

Rue ... ... 182 

Sloe ...69,103,123,157,220 

Squirting Cucumber ... 100,288 

Snowdrop ... ... 887 

Thale Cress ... ... 107,218 

Thistle ... ... 209,240 

Thyme ... 10,117,209 

Tulip Tree ... ... 125 

WUdBose ... ... 105 

YiooSbvDA ... ... 207 




In presenting our first Bouquet, in this " the sweet spring-time of the 
year," to our kind and gentle Friends, it may not be inappropriate, perhaps, 
to give a brief outline as to the object for which it has been formed, and of 
the fair and youthful hands by whom (with very few exceptions) it has been 

In this refined, enlightened, and I might almost say restless age, when 
the thirst for knowledge, the development of talent, and inci-easing expan- 
sion of all the liberal arts and sciences, like some mighty whirlwind, is 
sweeping over the length and breadth of the land, arousing us from that 
slumber of supineness in which our forefathers were more content to remain, 
it is scarcely to be wondered if some portion of the gust should in its 
course rustle among the leaves of Maiylebone Gardens. That such has 
been the case the gathering of the Bouquet will but too clearly exemplify, 
and when it is known that the majority of the contributors are themselves 
in the very bud and blossom of their youth, indulgence, we feel persuaded, 
will be shewn if a few wild Flowers be sprinkled among the more culti- 
vated Plants. 

To encourage literature, improve the mind, and we hope occupy some 
of that time which, by the greater portion of young people, is frequently 
much misspent, has been the aim and object of the present little work. 
Composition in prose and verse both in English and Foreign Languages will, 
from time to time, comprise the contents of the Bouquet, and though 
bearing that name, it does not follow that Flora is the presiding deity. 

The wish is to draw forth talent on all subjects without confining it to 
any particular one, and by so doing to stimulate our youthful contributors 
in a generous emulation to excel. 

Having said thus much, we place our Bouquet in your hands, trustmg 
that no cutting frost of criticism will ever nip its buds or blight its blossoms, 
but that the genial and sunny smiles of kindness may make them expand 
into perfection whether our ofiering be composed of the early promise of 
Spring, the frill beauties and glory of Summer, the sear and yellow leaf 
of Autumn, or the bright holly and evergreen of merry Christmas. 

May, 1851 



To all the world these few short linee we send, 

For all the world to read them we intend-^ 

We hope to meet with gen'ral approbation 

In starting this oar humble pnblioatioD. 

No mikind satire shall deform onr page, 

We've mirth for yonth; phflosophy for age; 

A little news; a few ftusetioas stories; 

And now and then some hits at Whigs and Tories; 

A sentimental tale; a dark romanoe; 

Shall each find place, and each alike entrance; 

Armj and Nayj, Fashion, Table-talk, 

When the Qoeen went oat riding, when to walk. 

Something we tell of all: the State, the Chorch ; 

Nor leave the Crystal Palace in the larch. 

Thas, gentle readers, we, to plesse, will try, 

And for oar work entreat yoar sympathy ; 

Kindly regard oar effivts, prose, or verse, 

Flora's fair daaghters aid with pen and parse. 

Mignionette, Blue-hdlSf Kingcupi, all are oars; 

Yet to oor Bouquet add a few mere flow'rs. 



Scene — A Garden. 

Yoong Ladies seated in an Arboar, at work, conversing. 

M. — ^Do yoa ever write poetry, K. ? 

jr.--C)ocaaionaUy ; my sister does. I prefer stories. 

M» — SodoL Have yon seen my German stray? 

jr._No; I should like very much to do sa Is it to be pablished ? 

Jii. — Oh! no; I only wrote it for amusement; it is very horrible; I should M 

rather ashamed to see it in print. 
B.— I do not think you have any reason to be so; all German stories are horrible. 
M. — ^By-the-bye; what do yon think of getting np a little woric amongst oaradves, 

and printing it Would either of you write ? 

should be delighted to do so, provided it be not published; and I am inrs my 

sister N. would Join. Would yoa not do lo B. ? 


JS.— Yes ; bat how are we to get it printed ? We ooDld not manage that part of it. 

If.— That conld be easily done. I have often thought of this; I have arranged it all 
in mj own mind. I propose that the name should be ''A Boaqnet of Wild 
Flowers, called, in Marylebone Grardens," bj ns, under fictitioas names. 

X.— But why Marylebone Gardens ? I do not like that idea. 

Jf.— Why, do you not know that many years ago there was a famous place in our 
neighbourhood, so called, resembling the present Vauxhall, but far more 
fashionable; it was attended by the first people of the day. I beliere 
Harley Street, and the streets about it, are now where the Ckurdens were; so 
on that account I propose this name. 

B. — ^I like the idea yeiy much.— Continue. 

Jf . — ^Nezt, I propose that we get as many firiends as we can to sabscribe, to pay the 
expense of printmg. 

X.^Tes, that will do; except that I do not like the title; I think '* The Bouquet 
from Maiylebone Gardens,'* culled by so and so, would be better; and I would 
also suggest, that each contributor take the name of a flower, the first letter 
of which is the initial letter of their Christian names;— bnt who are to write 
for it, and what are to be the subjects ? 

M. — None but subscribers are to write^ and they may do so on any subject, and in 
any language; for I think an Editor should be appointed, who is to have the 
power of rejecting whaterer she may consider objectionable in any way. 

B. — ^I like your plan ; — ^but what are the names to be ? I think we should take that 
of fiowers, and I should prefer — 

** The Harebell bright and blae. 
That decks the dingle wlld» 
In whose cemlean hae 
Heaven's blest tints we view 
On day serene and mild.** 

I shall be Blue-bell; it begins with the first letter of my name. 
K. — I should have some difficulty to find a flower beginning with the first letter of 

my name, there are so few. 

M. — ^Mme is not so difficult. I shall call myself Mignionette, for^ 

'* No goigeons flowen the meek Beseda grace, 
Tet sip with eager trunk yon busy race, 
Her simple cap, nor heed the dazsling gem. 
That beams in Fritilleiia's diadem." 

B. — Oh ! yon wish to be called the ^ Frenchman's Darhng," do you ; for that is one 

of its names? 
K. — ^Tour sporting has called to my remembrance — 

The pretty little Eingcaps, 

Oh I the pretty flowers ; 
Coming ere the spring thne 

To tell of sunny hours. 

It is not a very pretty name, but it will do. 
B, — ^But we still want an Editor; will you underUke \V,'W\|BEA!iyM^X»'^ 


M. — No, mj pretty Bloe-bell; bat 1 think I can find one, and her nameithall be 

A*.— Now that is settled. When and how often shall onr printification come ootr I 

think once a month. / 

if. — ^Yes, once a month. The farther arrangement of it shall be left to oar EHitor ; 

and, in the meantime, we mast get some sabsoribers to Ths Bouquet 


ITo a Cf)illr on f)er l3irtf)Ty«c. 

I TWINS a wreath of sommer flow'rs, 

Meet garland for thy brow, 
Thongh Spring, with sweet endearing smile, 

Bests lightly on thee now ! 

As yet her early bkMsoms grace 

Thy cheek and forehead fair. 
Bat soon will snmmer beanty lay 

Her magic finger there I 

Bright as the promise of thy spring 

May be thine after day ! 
And joyoas as the Lark that soars 

On his exalting way. 

Trae to thine own flair home on earth, 

Tet seeking one above: 
Oh I be thoa still, what now thou art, 

A thmg to bless and loye I 



Les efifets malheoreoz de la mnsiqne sent si nombrenz qa'on ne pent pas les 
citer tons. Les anciens pensaient qa*il n'y avait rien plos pemicienx i one bonne 
r^pnbliqae qne d'y admettre la mnmqae ; parceqae ses tons passion^s amolissentresprit 
et empoisonnent T&me en Tezposant ^ la sanction des sens. 

U y a des gens qni aiment la mnsiqne comme par instinct, et son inflnence snr 

eaz est si grande, qnlls ne penvent pins distingoer le bon et le mal, et en croyant qne 

o'eak one joniaBaDce spiritaelle ils se livrenta nne passion laqnelle est pire qoe mon- 

dalae. En un mot la niusiqoe est un inveuUfiii du dibuyii v^ox «fe^\^ ^»& ^gsD& 

tvecplaa de Acilit^, ea charmant leius sena. , ^. 


A Manuscript found in the ViOage of , by a Traveller, 

I was near her as she stood at the altar, and a smile was on my face; how 
different to the deep ^ef within my heart, as I stood watching the downfall of my 
happiness, and felt all joy dying within me, as I witnessed it. She came np to me, 
after the breakfast, jost before they started, and thanked me for all the kindness I 
had ever shewn her, (little enough it seemed to me then),—- she asked me to forgive 
her for all the troable which she felt she had caused me, and also for any way in 
which she had offended me. Ab if she ever did, or ever conld, ofifond me; she, in- 
deed, when I worshipped the very ground she trod on I I never felt, until that 
moment, the full extent of the sacrifice I was making. But was it not my duty, had 
I not promised her dying father to promote her happiness in every way ? And was 
it not for her happiness that she married Eustace ? Ought I to have dared to think, 
for one instant, that she, (bright seraph that she was,) could ever stoop to care for 
me, old, ugly wretch that I am ? Eadi word of endearment she addressed to Eustace 
was like a dagger in my heart Did shenot speak kindly, sweetly, aye, even tenderl;/, 
to me also ? But it was not in the way she did to him; ah I no, it was not the same, 
IfeU it was not. Then, even then, as she was speaking to me, I could have thrown 
myself at her feet, (weak fool that I was), and told her how I loved her, how my 
whole soul was bound up in her. Thank Heaven, I resisted the temptation, I only 
kissed her tenderly, and replied to her as well as I was able. All took my emotion 
for sorrow at parting with my young companion, the light of my home ; henceforth 
to be desolate, how desolate, only I could tell. " She would often come and see me," 
she said; but would it be the same to me ? No. — Could I bear to see her (whom, in 
my blmdness, I had fiancied I should one day call mine own, in truth, and before 
Heaven,) could I bear to see her, I say, as the wife of another? No. — ^I resolved m 
my own mind not to see her until I could bear it My resolution was not destined to 
be tried, I was spared this trial for a greater; I never saw her more I I took her to 
the carriage, she threw her arms round my neck, and kissed me, and called me her 
^ Dear, dear fiither I " Fatherf why did that word add another pang to my wounded 
heart; did I not know that she had always looked upon me in the light of a parent? 
Alas, how weak I was, I thought I had nerved myself to bear it alL I pressed her to 
my heart, shook hands with Eustace, and, with my eyes fixed on her fiice, down which 
the tears were coursing rapidly, I agam, in a firm tone, bade firom my heart, God 
bless them. The door is shut, the postillion cracks his whip, they are gone. I saw 
her leanmg from the window, and looking back at me, through her tears, and when 
she could no longer distinguish my form, I saw her wave her handkerchief I 
foUowed her with my eyes, and when the carriage, which bore her from my sight,- 
had diminished in the distance, first to a speck, and then entirely, I set off walking, 
as fast as possible, with my eyes fixed in the direction they had taken. Was I mad ? 
What strange impulse made me thus follow her? Ica\»iQ\>\«31X^\^s(^>KXJ!s«'*^Q:^ * 
when I dropped down exhausted by the road side, l^aft ixvsc^ >}casL V««&^^ ^s^^s^Sssox 
home, and with difScnlty I crawled to a neigh\)OUTmR Ni\\a«6, 'wXiSsw \ ^'svN- '^^ 
ibe wedding gueete seen me thus set off, they ^o\j\!i Yik^^ c«t\»a^l 'QoaT^^P^^ 


lost my senaes; as it was, thej imagined I had rttired to my room, to weep in secret 
OTer my loss; for none were with me when my angel drove off, for thanks to Hrs. 
DeUand, my good housekeeper, and faithfiil friend, I was left alone in front of the 
faonse, as she thought I should wish to be alone with my darling when the last 
moment came. She felt for me, for she knew how I loved the child, how I had ever 
loved her; but even she,' woman though she was, (and if there is a secret, they are sure 
to discover it,) even shs knew not m^ secret. No, it shall go with me to the grave^ 
and only when I am crumbled with the dust, and these outpourings of my troubled 

heart are discovered, only then, will the inhabitants of know why^I'was^called, 

and what made me, the " MeUmcholy Man.** When I recovered from a fever, the 
consequence of the excitement and exertion I had undergone, some one asked me, if I 
would return to my home. '* Home ! " I cried, and I burst into tears. Pity me, ye 
into whose hands this manuscript may fall; if ye have ever felt as I have, resisted 
the temptation, and came unscathed, but sorrowing, out of tiie fiery trial, I ask 
ye, would ye not then think it hard to be denied the relief of tears, when Heaven in 
mercy sends this ease for a troubled spirit ? The proud may despise me for my weak- 
ness, the merciful will pity me, and from all women I shall obtun Heaven's brightest 
jewel, the tear of sympathy. I had no home now. I wrote to Mrs. DeUand, and 
encloeed her a bill for eight hundred pounds, telling her, I should have no further 
need of her services, and bidding her go to her friends. For answer she came to me, 
"Would the be the one to leave me in sorrow and sickness, not she." She had only 
waited to hear where I was, for she " knew I would write," and she joined me. " She 
had wondered at my abeence, of course she had, but it was not her business to interfere 
with, or follow me, but when she heard where I was, how could she keep away from 
me?** I told her I had sorrows I would not burden her with, which weighed down 
my spirits; that she would find me dnll and altered; much more I said to make her 
change her purpose, for why should I bring her to share my misery? Faithful soul, 
she wovld remain with me: many years she made a home for me; kst week I closed 
her eyes. I live alone now; I am old in spirit; yet, do I repent what I have done? 
Heaven forbid ! She is happy, that is enough for me. Was it not my only wish to 
promote her happiness, and have I not succeeded in doing so ? What cause then have 
I for sorrow, or regret? Tet, Ao«; I loved her! I loved her too well, I was devoted 
to her, I made an idol of her. It was to shut my eyes to earthly vanities, and draw 
my mind from the contemplation of earthly bliss, that my angel was snatched from 
my sight, and, thank Heaven, I can now look cahnly on the past, and bless the hand 

that wounded me. 

• * • • * 

I am old now in every sense of the word, I walk with a stick, and my hair is 
white, but I have a kind word and a smile for all, and the children of the village 
follow me, and love me. My voice has lost all gaiety of tone, and my smile all bright- 
ness, but my heart is now at peace with itself, and with all the world. I look for- 
ward, with joy, to my journey's end, when I shall have passed through this vale of 
Um/9, Mod fyand a loog-songht-fbr repose, in that peaceful grave, *' where the wicked 

Hxfm tnmblmgf and the weary are at resC 


Now I can write what I ooold not bring myself to do before, for then^ it would 
have doubled mj angaiah, to trace my sorrows with my own hand ; bat now, it is my 
joy to be able to write, and know it true, that Clara is deadi For do not these 
words assure me, that she has entered into that world of joy beyond the tomb, where 
I may soon, through God's mercy to a repentant sinner, join her. Oan I not now die 
in peace, yes, even long to die, when I do not leave the object of all my earthly 
affections in this world of sin and sorrow, where she might lose her spotless parity, 
and falling into temptation, be cat off firom that land of promise, where now she lives 
an angeL Thank Heaven, I can now feel the knowledge of her death a blessing, 
whereas, before, the news of it planged me into the darkest depths of despair. I never 
saw her since her marriage day. She nev^ knew, or imagined, the sufferings I had 
undergone on that day, and since she left me. My last remembrance of her, is as she 
stood in her snowy robes veiled at the altar; thos shall I meet her again, an angel, in 
white garmente. Must I confess it; Eostace, the too happy possessor of an inesti- 
mable treasure, married again nine months after he had been deprived of it by death! 
There are in the world many sceptics, who will call this heart's history a fiction, they 
have no belief in self-sacrificing love, or in love at aU. To them, Eustace, will be a 
natural character, and I, poor I,— 4>nt what care I what such men think; have I not 
woman, tender, true-hearted woman, on my side? My Clara (it is my fancy still to 
call her mine) spent her honeymoon at Paris, and wrote to me twice during that 
period, letters, breathing affection, joy, and happiness. I keep them next my hearty 
they are old now, the paper torn, and the writing faded, but I woold not part with 
these torn papers for all the wealth of India. They told me she had a cold, a trifling 
cold, nothing more, they said, no, nothing more ; she will be well in time for the ball 
at the Palace. And they were satisfied, but was I? Yet why should I go over for 
nothing? No, I could not yet trust myself to see her. Alas, alaa^ what grief was 
in store for me. Three days after, when in the crowded saloons of Versailles, any 
enquired for " La Belle Anglaise," the answer they received caused them to start, 
tarn pale, and shudder, with sighs and exclamations on what they had heard. Thai 
they woald turn away and chat gaily, or join in the dance. Such is the world, and 
each are worldy friends. All were not as these, coald such an angel live and die 
nnwept? Forbid it Heaven, men's hearte are not yet so callous, and dead to all 
earthly feeling. Eustece, like one distracted, tore his hair and refused comfort 
They buried her, my idolised Clara, in a foreign land, I had not even the consolation 
of weeping over her grave. But why shoald I regret that now? Shall I not soon 
join her, never more to be separated from her? All whom I have loved in life are 
gone, why should I remain longer behind them ? I feel my days are numbered, I 
have sown in tears, and I go to reap a harvest of joy. Ckuv, dear one, I come ; I 
will lay me down to sleep at the foot of the cross, on my awa^ning, may I meet my 
Savioor &ce to face. 


Bebus.—- An article of dress, a latin word for aS«c;^\QTL^ \}qa ts^^c«5^jb\A ^ssossssissc^^ 
a vamsan, a fenude Dame, distant, a law tena^ s&ii TXXK^mTXi^TkX ^^ \KiJQa^^ Vsctsw -*. 
iMdf's name, and the Snaia that of a gentlemaii. ^•acws^s^ssvK* 


frtoa3tf)tee Xtnea on tfje apptoaci^ of Spriitfl. 

WnA*s 70a now toddlinfir doon the brae? 
Around her bead there seems a ray ! 
The bonny primrose decks her hair I 
See I there she comes I — some angel fair ! 
! it is Spring— she comes to cheer 
The bursting blossoms 0' the year ! — 
Oh ! welcome I — welcome to my e'e 
Is Spring, wi' a' her witchery. 

Hark ! how the Cuckoo tries his skill 
Amang the birks, ayont the mill I — 
The baimies, clamoring o'er the stile, 
Bin after him mair than a mile ! 
Frae tree to tree he shifts his place, 
An* leads the we'ans a useless ehace ! 
They stop and listen ! — then look round — 
But nae where can the gowk be found ! 
So happiness eludes us a' ! 
When near our reach, it flees awa'. 
Just like a shadow on the wa* ! 
Yet life has mony charms to please 
A mind contented:— ane that sees, 
Wi' grateful sense, each passing day 
Some token of God's love display ! 
For Nature in her varied plan 
Shews Heaven's unceasing care for man ! 
And cauld's the heart that disna own 
Hit bounty that we live upon I 

Spring — Summer — ^Autumn— Winter — a' 
Bring blessings to baith great an' sma'. 
The circling seasons teach us Truth : — 
They comfort Age ; — they caution Youth; — 
They speak of joys and sorrows past, 
And shew that naething here can last ! 
But what tho* days and years rin bye? 
Are we to whine, and fret, and sigh? — 
No ! — let us gratefully embrace. 
With pleasantness in heart and face, 
Our present blessings while we may, 
And so enjoy each passing day ! 
We, surely, may with hope confide 
In Him who doth so well provide ! 



2llilite0« to tf)e iBoon. 

Ntmpha silens ! sea ta lacos, sen prata pererras; 

Sive dies potior sen tibi noctis iter, 

Salve, Nympha ! mihi lioeat penetrare recessus; 

Et tecum viridi tendere membra toro. 

Nam grati mihi sunt montes ladqiie silentes. 

Ah, lioeat mihi; per sylvas et saza Tagari, 

Sive amnis mordet qn& tacitnrnus agroe. 

Noz et nympba silens mites salyete sorores ! 

Lunaque qua lampas clarior una nitet, 

Orbem forte tnmn perfeoto miinere vits 

Umbramm gracilis, Cynthia I tnrba colit 

Ragged Bobin 

^0 8 iTnenli on tf)e IBtat^ of tier I9ausf)tev. 

Most tnily do I sympathise with thee 

In this sad hoar of grief— I monm to know 

That death hath visited the little groop 

Which did encircle thee, and snatched therefrom 

The fairest flower — thine own dear Daogbter ; 

Thas severing a link from oat the chun 

Of holiest affections. Too well, alas ! 

I know the pang it is to part from one 

Of these best gifts of Heav'n, by which the heart 

Is probed ante its very core, leaving 

A woond, that Time, the soother of man's care, 

May heal, bat never can erase; the scar 

Of which, thronghoat existence, will remain, 

And be obliterated only, when 

The frail tenement, that enshrines the soul, 

(Its jewelled casket,) shall fall, to mingle 

With its former dast ! and the bitter tears, 

That sach a grievoas loss can make as shed, 

Will force their way in spite of will— bnt then 

'Tis holy, and not onbeooming, grief; 

For the God, who gave as these choice blessings, 

Gave as with them a fount of purest love 

Wherewith to cherish them; the only love 

That's unalloyed on earth. How deep will be 

Engraven on thy mind, my friend, the smiles 

And looks of thy sweet cherub — and tlrf \iQax\. 

WjJi fed too foil at the fond romeoibiaiifie 


Of thoee enoluuitin^, gnileleaB wsys that were 

So nuurked, in hourly interooorBe, by thee ! 

Those little acts that nuee a monoment 

In neyer dying memory ! 

Thy Daughter, too— the rebellions heart 

Serais prone to say, Oh t spare my oidif girl. 

Unlike to fiuthfal Abraham, yielding 

To his God's decree in oflfering np 

His oniy chUd! May oar gracioos Father 

Teach tM in dnty to submit ! to feel 

That er^iy separation is one tie 

The less to bind ns to this earth; may we 

Find real consolation in the thought 

That oar dear innocents have gone before, 

To liye a life of perfect bliss in Hear'nl 

Oh, may we join them in the realms abore! 

May all winds waft ns homewards — all donds drop 

Refreshing inflaenoe — and all trials 

Parify oar seals for lastmg glory t 


®n ITime. 

A WORD— a thought— a look — and Time is flown ! 

All is hewn down— all fidls beneath its hand. 
Eternity remains — ^remains alone 

Untoached, nnmoved it shall for ever stand. 

Where are those splendid citadels of old, 

Qaeen of the world, all powerfol, mighty Rome? 

Where are thy GsBsars, rich in mind and gold ? 
All, all is past, is centred in the tomb ! 

Men, too, are gone; the Savioor's claimed his own. 

Cities and men from off the earth are past 
Old Father Time, thronghont the world has flown; 

And £ar and near his powerfhl scythe has cast. 

It flies— on the wings of the wind it flies. 

The hoar-glass rnns o*er— the spirit is fled ; 
It bends triomphant its coarse to the skies, 

And fond friends still weeping hang orer the dead. 



iri)e ^bening Stxr. 

The litUe birds were gone to roost, 

The floVrs had dos'd their bells; 
And wearied with the toilsome day, 

The bees had sought their cells. 
The sil?er light of the summer mooa 

Shone clear o'er dale and hill; 
Ko sound was heard in that ey'ning hoar, 

Only the mnrm'ring rill. 
A star firam heaT'n looked down on me, 

I Wd its peaoefnl ray; 
Oh! how sweet was that snmmer night, 

After the garish day! 
And holy thoughts fell fnm that star, 

Fell in a stream of light ; 
And as shining planets they becama 

In my sool's dark night. 
They gave me strength to fight again, 

To struggle on with life; 
I felt I had not fought in vain, 

In the never-ending strife. 
I felt that if I struggled on, 

I might at last attain 
The Christian soldier's promised land. 

Where none shall fight again. 

Dear Emerald Isle ! my own loved native land I 
To praise thee, surely, is my heart's command ; 
And were it not, justice would me constrain 
To vaunt thy merits, and eialt thy fame. 
But, joyfully, my fteble voice 111 raise. 
To join with all that celebrate thy praise. 
Without thee vain were Albion's boast of pow'r; 
Thine arm has help'd her in each darken'd hour. 
Despis'd by some— to few thy beauty known; 
None but thy children do thy beauty own. 
Still they will come, whene'er thy voice shall call, 
To save thy freedom, and prevent thy falL 
But now no more— my Muse, too soon, takes flight 
Erin, sweet Erin, goodnight! a short goodnight! 



In elner klelnen, sehOnen, romantischen HQtte an der Orenie des Sehwarzwaldes 
wohnten, vor einigen Jahren, Rudolph Wertrold und Sabina, seine hfibBche Frau. Der 
diistere, finttere Ausdruck Rudolphs bildete einen groBsen Contrast mit der offnen and 
sanften Miene seiner Frau ; die Naehbam sahen Rudolph mit Furcht and Schrecken 
an, niemand wusste woher er kam oder wer er war, und viele Leute dachten, dass er 
ein schwarses and schweres Verbrechen begangeu h'dtte. Zuweilen sass er Stunden 
lang in unruhige Gedanken vertieft, dann sprang er pldtzlich auf, schlug an seinen 
Kopf und murmelte unverst&ndliche Worte vor sich hin. Sabina war fiber diM Weien 
ihres Mannes sehr bekummert und sagte ihm oft — 

'* Sag, mein Rudolph, was hast Dul Jetst bist Dn immer traorigand doch wiUit 
Du mir nie sagen was Dir fehlt; Du weisst icb liebe Dich, kannst Da Dich dem»«if 
mein treues Herz nicht Terlassen?** 

*' Nichts fehlt mir, Binchen, ich bin wohl,** antwortete er; ** dochm5chte ich Da 
woUtest mich mit solchen Fragen nicht plagen; ist es nicht genug, dass die Naehbam 
sagen, Herr Wertrold muss krank sein, er sieht so traurig aus, ohne dass meine eigene 
Frau mich quilltr 

Diese Antworten machten Sabina schweigen, dochsie beruhigtenihr Herz gar nicht. 
Wer beschreibt aber ihre GefBhle, als sie in drei auf einander folgenden NEchten be- 
merkte, dass mit dem Glockenschlage zwSlf Rudolph auf stand, sich schnell ankleidete 
und hinaus ging. In der vierten Nacht, so bald als er fort war, sog sich Sabina an and 
beschloss auf alien Gefahr hin, ihn zu folgen. 

£r ging einen schmalen Pfad neben seiner Hfltte hinab und sturzte sich in einen 
tiefen Thei des ffirchterlichen Waldes. Da blieb er stehen, stampfte dreimal mit dem 
Fusse und die riesenrnftssige Gestalt eines Mannes in einem grossen, schwarzen Mantel 
eingewickelt erschien ; aus Mund, Ohren und Augen spriihten feurige Flammen herror. 
In einer Hand hielt er einen grossen Stock, in der andem drei kleine Glocken. Er fing 
sogleich ein ernsthaftes Gespr&ch mit Rudolph an. 

Als Sabina, welche fiber den geheimnissvollen und sonderbaren Freund ihres Mannet 
mehr zn wissen wUnschte, sich n&hrte, horte sie ihn mit einer furchtbaren Stimme, 
welche sie scbaudem machte, sagen— 

Fortsetzttng folgt. Mtbtb. 


1. What prodoces— 10 Sprees f 

2. What place has — 1 Spar ? 

3. What day says — Ay^ 600 hurts? 

4. What makes — 506 grin ? 

5. What paper has— 1000 ties f ' 

6. What will make — 61 stops f 

7. What word is worth — £61 1 

8. What may be divided— m 601 tens t 

9. What has— 600 patches f 

10. Where may be found— 100 routs? 



^^p^,^,^^^^^^,— — W^— ■ ■ ■■■■.■■^l^.l I IIWIIIIW> I ■—■■■—■■■ .III I I ^IIIM ■ 11l»»l III ■ I ■ IW I ■■■■■ MB—l— ^lllB» I I 





la it for thiB the Spanish maid, aroused. 

Hangs on the willow her nnstrung guitar ? 

And, all unsez'd, the anlace has espoused, 

Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war !— J^yron. 

Spain, which for some years had been agitated bj the qnarrels of conflicting 
parties, sought permanent repose by prodaiming Ferdinand and 'IsabeUa joint 
monarchs of Castillo and Arrogan. The splendonr of their coronation far surpassed 
that of any of their contemporaries in other kingdoms. All the nobility of Spain 
flocked to ofiSar homage to the beantifhl Qoeen of Castille, one party alone excepted ; 
those who on thdr swords had sworn to place Donna Jnana, the sopposed daughter of 
Enrico IV, on the throne of her ancestors. The leaders of this party were Don 
Alphonso Carrillo, Archbishop of Toledo, and the Marquis de Vlllena. They, how- 
ever, perceived that the national feeling was too much prepossessed in favour of 
Ferdinand and Isabella to allow them as yet openly to declare their intentions, they 
therefore mingled freely with the guests at the coronation ; and the magnificent Donna 
Inez, xueoe to the Marquis de Villena, shone forth with the brilliant radiance of an 
eastern star at the state ball given to celebrate the accession of the greatest monarchs 
of Spain. 

It was at thisjT^fe, where the resplendent brilliancy of the Spanish Court was 
displayed with gorgeous pomp, that the Donna Inez first captivated Don Boderigo, a 
stanch friend and supporter of the Queen of Castille, high in the esteem and &vour 
of his Sovereign, he was for the first time on that memorable day launched into the 
whirlpool of pleasure and fashion. Handsome, youthful, and fascinating, he was far 
more likely than any of the vast concourse of assembled courtiers to be the chosen 
cavalier of so wily and "intriguante" a Donna, as the dearest friend of the In&nta 
Jnana, and the niece of the very ideal of a Spanish plotter. Donna Inez, trusting to 
the little knowledge he had of court life, hoped to gain a new partizan to Villena's 
faction, she therefore graciously received the attentions heaped on her by Boderigo, 
gave him her hand in nearly every dance, and it was not until he had placed her, 
under the care of the Donna Leanora, an old, wizen, hump-backed, but fiir too 
indulgent, Duenna, and had obtained leave to visit her on the following momiDg, 
that Don Boderigo wended his steps homewards, to dream of the majestic stature, the 
raven, silky locks, and the fiety jet black eyes of Inez de Vlllena. 

Although the friends of Jnana were among the most prominent guests at the 
royal palace, they did not allow time to lie dormant on theur hands; man.^ ^^e^N^o!^ 
pbts and intrigues which were that night instigated at Vlb^ m<C)ia!L«c&>RV«&.^^%sii&^^'r| 
instigators aeemed to be bowing the moat humbly at Vhft ^kraoft ^i ^\fek\^v^ Tv^gc^^^ 
mcaarduf; bat the schemes of the deepest intngascft «» t«!n»>MB«sk o^^afCesJswco. 


There was one in that assembly whose presence in the palace was scarody pereeifed ; 
bat he alone it was who ooold read the secret heart of ToledOi and dive deeply into 
Villena's mysteries. Pepe de Castro was known bat to few, and among those few he 
was considered little better than an idiot; bat it was throagh this state of saj^osed 
idiocy that be contrived to become master of the secrets of all parties. One oofy at 
this crowded coort knew Pepe*s worth, and this was the arrogant Isabella hendi 
From her childhood had Pepe been one of her fayoorite attendants, and when be saw 
her seated on the throne of Spain, the post he chose oat for himself was thediteoferiif 
of all schemes against her government, and making her acquainted with them. 

Bat to retom to oar beaatifal Donna. When Aurora again visited the Pdaeio 
de VUlena, she disoovered her seated in a somptaons chamber, the fonutim and 
aspect of which shewed dose connection with the Moors, sorroonded by hisr maidMS; 
■he was assidooosly working at her tapestry, when the door sfewly opened, md the 
Marquis de ViUena entered the apartment. He was short, ugly, and of an olivt oon- 
plexion; there was nsoally a good-natored smile playing upon his oonntenanoe, but 
that morning gravity and sternness marked his whole demeanour. Inea motioned ts 
her maidens to withdraw, and having placed a seat for her ancle, oommenoad xn^yil^; 
him on his grave coontenance. 

** Can yon expect me to smile, while the throne of Joana, Queen of CattiDi^ ii 
filled by an osorpreos? Inex, banish that lively air, and answer trnly : will you dinrt 
onr cause, on the very eve of success? Our plot is ripe— our Queen is aflUmw J to 
the King of Portugal— increase your ardour, Inez; do not diminish it, neivor let it bo 
said that Villena's niece could, for an instant, flinch firom assiiiting the oaoae oCtfat 
rightful heiress of Castillo." 

" Say, my lord, what have I done to merit this reproof? " answered Inea, draw- 
ing herself up proudly. 

** Think not to deceive me. Donna Inez ; who is this Boderigo, whose attentioaa yet 
receive so graciously ? who but the friend and supporter of Isabella the nanrpress." 

** Can none iorm plots, or put them into execution, but my Lord of Toledo! or 
the Marquis de Villena ? Cannot Inez de Villena practise deception to gain a parti— 
for her friends? Think you, my lord, my proud spirit is so subdued, that I could 
really love so base a churl as one who would bow and cringe at Isabella's foot? Knov 
Inez de Villena better. The youth is innocent, he is not skilled in oourt intrigiooi 
and though he may be the favourite of Isabella, he Is too weak-minded to gnari 
her secrets." 

** Inez, my beloved niece, pardon me ; for once yon have outwitted me^ It wm 
my very wish that you should gain knowledge through the medium of this Bod«igi^ 
but I feared last night that it was from choice yon received his attenticna." 

** You have been muoh mistaken in your niece, to think that the vain, fUfHf 
oompliments of a beardless boy could work upon her mind. Undo, I am nnioh toe 
proud to be vain ; but I expect this Boderigo here this morning, and yoor pnsoMi 
wonld mar all our hoped-for benefit from him." 

** I will leave you, Inez, to deceive still farther yoor poor delnded adminr ; bnli 
remember, the snarer may become ensnared." 



What though your canae be baffled— fireemen cast 

In dungeon— dragged to death, or forced to dee.— Campbell, 

The royal palace was no sooner cleared of its nomeroos guests, than Isabella, 
having retired to her own apartments, despatched a messenger in search of Pepe de 
Castro. Whilst awaiting his arriTal, she commenced reading a letter which had that 
night been, by an nnknown hand, cast at her feet. With great sarpnse, bat qoite 
nnmized with fear, she read as follows:— 

** Inabella, Queen of CasttUe, beware t adeep and well laid plot hangs oyer your headend 
threatens 700 with destruction. Be prepared to meet the worst, the intriguers are wily 
and well skilled in Tlllany ; watch each of your nobles and place trust In no one. An 
ArchMshop and a Mtaqpia must yon ftar the most, they cringe obsequiously before your 
throne^ but they are your bitterest foes. Others amongst the great ones of your Court are 
their aasedates in this Tile intrigue, and even the ladies of your train are not exempt ftom 
treason. The writer of these lines is one who n^joices at your accession to the throne of 
CastOle^ although his name must be a secret; rely, great Queen, on his being Odthflil." 

Ab Isabella finished the perusal of this extraordinary commnnieation, Pepe 
entered the apartment; the Qoeen gave hhn the letter. 

"Can this be tme," she exdaimed. '*Gan those who hare uumimooilj 
welcomed me to the throne— can these be traitors to my cause? Pepe, yon are fiuth- 
fil l g e aroh this for m e th e r e is a mystery sarronndipg it. Who is this Axohbiahop? 

** Madam, they hafe, indeed, Uud a deep plot; bat they need not seek to deceive 
the idiot Pepe. ^phonso Carrillo de Toledo is the crafty Archbishop; and Joan 
de Vmena, son of the wily favoarite of his late Majesty Enrico IV, is the Marqais. 
This nighty as I was loitering throngh the royal apartments, I perceived Villena and 
the yoong Don Christoval de Valkssa in deep conversation ; trosting to my sapposed 
state of idiotqy, I approached, and listened attentively. 'To-morrow night, at the 
hoar of twelve, the Palacio de Toledo enter by the back door with a mask over yoar 
fiuse. The pass-word is La Santa Fel Keep nienoe, and all will be well,' said, in a 
half aadible whisper, Villena. 'Bely on me, my sword and lift shall aid Jnana, 
answered the Don ChiistovaL" 

** These plotters mast be seized, Pepe— what think yoa, shall my guards sor* 
round the baildmg, and let these traitors know that I am Qoeen of Castille?" 

''No, madam; I have thought of another plan. Caoae Ohristoval de Vallassa to 
be siesed fiv the night; I am acgoainted with the pass-word, and can disgoise myself 
80 as not to be known. I will go to this meeting, dedare myself the friend of 
Christoval, and learn the traitors' secrets." 

"Bat how can we plange Christoval into a dongeon? Will not that instantly 
deelare oar knowledge of the plot? " 

" Don Christoval loves one of the ladies m yoar Majesty's train, bat she retazna 
not his affBction. I mean the Donna Catalina. To please yoar Migesty, she, 
asBoredly, woold write to Christoval, appdnt to-night» at eighty to meet him in the 
palace gardens; allore him into my apartments, and, for his detention, leave the rest 


'* I wish that every Qaeen had saoh faithfxi] subjects as Pepe de Gastra Bot 
before this plot of ours is decided on, repair to Kiof; Ferdinand, and gain his coossot 
This paper will shew him who yoa are " said the Qaeen, as she wrote on a slip— 

*« Pepe de Castro Is not the idiot he seems— he is the most CsithAil friend of the throne 

Ct Spain. ISABSKLA." 

After Pepe*s departure, Isabella went herself into the apartments allotted to ths 
Donna Catalina. She foand her on her knees before an image of the Holy Mary, bvfc 
she rose on perceiving her royal mistress, who affectionately taking her by the hand, 
stated the reasons of her presence at so nnnsnal an hour of the night. Gatalioa 
readily agreed to sacrifice her feelings, and to receive for a few moments the obnozioos 
demonstrations of regard which Don Christoval tormented her with on every possible 
occasion. She seated herself at her desk, and wrote to him from the Queen's dietatiofr— 
« To-night, at eight, in the palace garden, the Donna Catalina will give Don Chzistoval 
the interview he has so long wished for.*' 


(TV) he CorUimted.) 


A Legend of Murriah Abbey, 

The night was falling fast: the monks of Marrisk Abbey were assembled ronnd 
the death-bed of their Abbot The heavy breathing of the dying man was the only 
sound audible, whose clammy brow, and glazed eyes, shewed that his end was near. 
A loud knocking at the convent gate suddenly aroused the monks, and unmediately 
afterwards shuffling steps were heard in the passage. The door of the cell opuied, 
and a veUed female entered. A suppressed scream broke from the pale lips of the 
Superior. Slowly did the closely-veiled figured approach the bed. She raised the 
drapery, and the care-worn features of a once beautiful ^froman were exposed to the 
view of the astonished monks. The Prior raised himself in his bed, and gaied 
passionately on her &ce. ^ Mary. . .you will . . .forgive," said he, with difficulty. ** As 
I also hope for forgiveness," was the gentle answer; and the Abbot sank back on his 
pillow. Longdidhelie there; that thin white hand clasped in his. Again he raised 
himself, and pointed to a small casket A monk brought it instantly; with trembling 
hands the Abbot opened it, and took out first a long lock of golden hair, which he 
pressed to his lips, and turning to the monks, he said : " Let it be buried on my heart." 
The monks bowed assent Then turning to the monk next to him, he handed him a 
small packet, with the words: " When I am gone, not before." He sank back, over- 
come; his breathing grew lower, and lower, and with one deep moan the spirit fled. 
Mary bent over him, for one second her lips pressed his cold brow, and she had glided 
from the room before the friars were aware that their Superior was no more. The 
next day, before his body was laid in its last resting place, the papers were opened, 
and before the assembled brotherhood, Father Joachim, to whom they were entmsted, 
read as folio wb:— 


'^I pass over my childhood and my yoath ; I begin the tale of my life, the con- 
fession of my gult, at the period when I became a man; when I first became 

acquainted with Mary D . To know and to loye her was one. I loved her tmly> 

deeply, devotedly; bnt my passion was not returned. Again, and again, I nrged my 
suit, and as often she told me it was in vain; bat I continued to adore her. Foolish 
heart ! be still — cease thy whisperings — cease to murmur, thou lovest her still. Why 
Mary could not love me, I knew not; but at length my reason told me that she would 
never love me, and I resolved to quit a country where I should always be miserable. 
My arrangements were made, and on the last day I repaired to her house, to bid her ; 
farewell for ever. I was shewn into a room, and while I was awaiting her appearance, 
I walked to the window. My brain reeled; I could hardly believe my senses. Mary 

was walking in the garden with my bosom friend Roland N . His arm encircled 

her waist, and her head was reclining on his shoulder I One glance told me alL 
I saw before me the accepted lover. One thought alone occupied my mind, revenge I 
revenge I A thousand voices around me whispered revenge ! I rushed madly from 
ibe house. A terrible idea flashed through my mind. I knew the road Boland must 
pass on his way home, and I waylaid hiuL 

• ••••• 

I pass over the scene of horror which ensued. I left my home a despairing lover ; 
I returned to it a murderer I For many days I feared to quit the house; and it was 
long before I could face Mary. But time at length had its effect; I ceased to regard 
myself with terror, and banished the scene of that night from my thoughts as much 
as possible. But oespite all my efforts, it still lived in my memory. Fourteen months 
had passed since Roland's disappearance, when I again ventured to press my love to 
Mary. She heard me patiently to the end, then raising her piercing black eyes to my 
countenance, she said slowly and calmly: "Brian, where is Boland? " The expres- 
sion of her eyes overcame me; my carefully concealed secret was no more. I fell on 
my knees before her, and confessed all. No word of reproach escaped her lips, in 
vain I implored her to uttt^r one sound to upbraid, to curse me. Pale, motionless as 
a statue she sat there, and I was obliged at length to quit the house. The next day 
I entered this Convent By outward demonstrations of piety I obtained the character 
of sanctity which I have hitherto borne, and I rose at length to be Abbot The body 
of Boland I removed and laid in the north-east comer of the Convent burial-ground. 
I wish my grave to be made beside his. Let the murderer and the victim sleep side 
by side; and when every vestige of the Abbey has faded from the earth, let these 
two mounds be all that remain to bind the present and the past The curse of blood 
has fallen on the building which has a murderer for its Abbot; before a century has 
passed, it will be in ruins, and the tale of the Prior will be forgotten." 

The prophecy was fulfilled. Ere a hundred years had flown, the Convent was 
tenantless, and nothing now remains to satisfy the gaze of spectators bnt those beauti- 
led ruins called Morrisk Abbey. 


When UvLghs the Lady May, 

And the Lark on high takes flight, 
And the dew, at break of day, 

Fills the air with misty light: 

I love to roam the fields, 

And woodlands badding gieen; 
And cnll what Flora yields 

ThroQghoat the sylvan scene. 

The modest Violet bine. 

And Cowslips, Anemones, 

TheComflow^ porplehne. 
Primroses and Dainee, 

The LOy hiding dose. 

Beneath her leafy bed. 
The clambering Dc^-rose 

With dew-drop laden head. 

Have charms to please the sense, 
And all shine bright and fair, 

And far and wide dispense 

Their perfumes thro* the air. 

Yet none of these I prize 

Above the sweet Bloe-bell; 

Where'er it meets my eyes. 
There's none I love so well. 

Unless by chance I see 

The Yellow Emgonp's sheen, 
Adorning with its drapery 

The meadows fresh and green. 

Oh! how I love those flowers ! 

And there is another yet 
Becalls my childhood's hoars. 

The fragrant MIgnionette I 

Then roam the fields with me. 
And form the Garland gay ; 

Sing, laugh with jocund glee. 
Do homage to the May. 

Conspicuous ui the throng 

Of flowers that deck the pde, 

Let my three &v'rites borne along 
Chrawn well the bloomug whole. 



{AfUr Ovid,) 
Et domns est in^^ens et opos; debebat in urbe 

Trinobantum* aliter non habitare Labor. 
Digna laboriferis hsec sunt delubra tropeeis: 

Kc fera vel GalloB bella movere padet 
Sen quia ab Eoo viset noB iDdicns orbe, 

Sea qnisab ocddaoSolef docendoserit; 
Prospicit hie operis certe restigia sammi; 

Damqne Labore Artem snmma tenere probat 
Spectat et Alberto proeteztom nomine templam, 

Stmctom Paxtonis hortecolentis ope. 

• Urbe Trlnobantnm, London, t The Yankees. 

®n tl^e IBepattute of a ifrtentr^ 
Tho' she's gone, I can love her, and think of her still, 
And thonghts of her kindness my memory shall fill; 
And though years shall elapse ere I see her again, 
Her image with fondness my heart shall retain. 
'Twas the will of my Father, whose throne is in Heav'n,^ 
And whose laws for the good of His creatures are giv'n, 
That one whom I loved should be taken away, 
But, perhaps, 'twas to teach me His word to obey. 
And though never again she should see her lov'd land. 
Yet I would not repine at His merciful hand : 
For if e'en all my friends and my blessings are gone, 
With my Saviour to guide me, I am not alone. 


IT^e iFloboet ^ixl. 
Gome buy my "Bouquet" gay and fur,cull'd in the month of May, 
By " Blue-bell, Kingcup, Mignionette," as they did quietly stray 
In the Gardens of old Mary*bone, where in olden time 
Our ancestors enjoyed themselves, and drank their cup of wine. 
« Blue-bell," the type of ** Constancy," with little " Mignionette," 
Whose qualities surpass her charms, she is the " Frenchman's Pet" 
With the golden little « Kingcup," to « Promise future wealth " 
To all who buy my ** Bouquet," of literature and health. 
By " Thistle" they're protected, of demeanour most "austere," 
Where *'Nemo me impune lacessit " does appear. 


Xixitn brttten on one of fl{. in, S))<p0» 

Retumit^ to Port fnrm, Foreign Service. 

Behold yon f^allant ship, with flowiDg sail, 
Make for her Port before the fav'ring f^ale; 
Behold her well-trimmed yard, her well-set shrondsi 
Her sturdy masts high tap'ring to the clouds, 
Her Ensign proudly floating o*er the lee, 
Emblem of England's fame and sovereignty — 
Homeward she bends her way from foreign clime, 
Where for three years of quickly fleeting time. 
To her hath been to guard with jealous xeal 
Her nation's trade, her nation's rights and weaL 
Now as she brings her country's coast to view, 
No common feelings agitate her crew. 
Mark that smart lad who stands within the chains, 
WhOe to the utmost every nerve he strains 
To give the lead its most extensive sweep, 
And note the fathoms of the faithless deep. 
Delights with rapture in his thoughts to trace 
A mother's kiss, a mother's fond embrace. 
Pictures the time when proudly he shall pour 
Into her lap his small, but hard-earned st<»B; 
Hears her implore with grateful pride and joy, 
Th' Almighty's blessing on her darling boy— 
Or that brave seaman with an arm of steel, 
That stands attention at his post, the wheel. 
Who, while he seems intent the ship to steer, 
Thinks of his faithful wive and children dear. 
Pictures th' approaching bliss when they'll be prest 
With love and ardour to his throbbing breast. 
When he shall hold his partner in his arms. 
And gaze enraptured on her blooming charms. 
And with a Parent's pride delighted trace 
The heighthen'd features of each half known^fiMse— 
Or mark yon Topman while aloft he stands 
To twine the Boyal with its hempen bands, 
And contemplates with mingled hope and fear 
The coming interview with her most dear; 
Fear, that while absent, some more lucky swain 
Has won the prize for which hell sigh in vain; 
Hope, that through trials past, she still may prove 
True to her plighted fiuth and plighted lov&— 
0, yes, believe the Muse, when \mk. we roam 


To oar dear country and still dearer home, 

As thrills the pleasing tbonght through every vein, 

An Exile o'er, we soon shall meet again 

With Parents, Mistress, Brother Sister, Wife, 

And all the dear relationships of life. 

As each known object comes before the view. 

Some peak or chalky cliff, or mountain bine, 

Feelings there are that warm each genVoas breast. 

They may be known, bat cannot be expressed ! 


^f^e ISouquet* 
Once on a balmy mom in May, 

Straying 'midst the new blown flow'rs, 
A groap of mudens, fair and gay. 

Wiled away the sonny hoors. 
The bad half open bathed with dew. 

They coll with eager pleasare. 
Oh, happy age, when life is new. 

And eViy rose a treasure I 
" Sisters,** a maiden cries, " since these 

To charm all hearts have power, 
That we like them may ever please. 

Let each become a flower. 
" That nymph with downcast eyes of blae 

Oar violet sweet shall be; 
And yoQ, with cheek of Bose's hne, 

Beceive her name from me. 
'' The graceful wit without pretence. 

Shall be our Lavender dear, 
Whose perfume, stealing o'er the sense, 

Betains the charm'd one near. 
'' And for my name Til choose Sweetbriar, 

Which many charms adorn; 
Yet at a distance folks admire, 

And cty, beware the thorn. 
" I hope, before another moon. 

To find more blossoms rare, 
And sweet Honey-suckle soon 

Shall scent the balmy air. 
" And now the various flow'rets blending, 

The Bouquet let us bind 
With bands of friendship never ending 

In fragrant garlands twinU" 



A Tale of the Seventeenth Ceniwy, 
Under no roof in Gngland were all good old costoms more religioaelj obeenred 
than at Encombe Hall, an ancient manor hoosei the residence of Mr. Franda Shirij, 
ritnated somewhere in the soath of Hampshire, not far from the coast, (we hope to be 
ex cosed if we are not very exact in oar geography), and here on the Slst of Decem- 
ber, the family party was assembled for the pnrpose of '* welcoming the new year in." 
It wants a few minates to the wished-for honr of twelre, and of these we will take 
advantage to introduce onrselves to the occapants of the old-fashioned drawing-room, 
with its oak panels and walls adorned with tapestry, its wide chimney and andent 
fnmitnre. Two yoong girls were amnsing themselyes at the piano. They were both 
lovely, bat both anlike each other. The eldest, and she was scarcely mneteen, was 
one of those almost ethereal beaaties, formed as it were to attract all who know them, 
call forth love and admiration, and then fading away like a beaotifal vision leave the 
heart utterly desolate, to learn that its cherished idol was too pore and bright for this 
earth. The other meter was also lovely, bat her^s were the black sparkling tjm, 
glossy dark hair, and brilliant complexion, which, perfectly beaatifiil as they are, do 
not, at least to my mind, convey at all the idea of anything too lovely or ethereal for this 
cold world of doU realities. If her sister's beaaty was of that magicsl yet dreamy 
character that would '* take the prisoned soul and lap it in Elysium," hen was certainly 
more calculated to inspire *' the sober certainty of waking bliss." Apparently &8ci- 
nated by the voices of the girls, was a young man who, seated near the instromeBt, 
seemed to have neither eyes nor ears for anything bat the music He was rather below 
than above the middle height, yet had a good figure, and a well formed head and high 
forehead, giving evidence of considerable talent; he was not, strictly speaking, hand- 
some, but the ever varying expresdon of his countenance, and a pur of blue eyes of 
unusual brilliancy, often made him appear so. Two boys, home for the Christmas 
holidays, of the respective ages of twelve and ten, were amuring themselves in that 
art of teazing, in which the boy genus u known to excel The unfortunate object of 
their tricks was an old man, their tutor, who had first made their acquaintance a kng 
time ago, when they were Utile boys Just arrayed in jackets, and entering for the first 
time upon the mysteries of the Latin grammar. This was a period when the young 
Messrs. Shirly found difiScult to call to their remembrance, and as to the age of 
Polish coats and pinafores, that had escaped them altogether, though their sisten 
often took some pains to remind them of it Their elder brother, a boy — ^we beg his par* 
don — a young man between nineteen and twenty, was reclining on a sofa near them, 
sometimes reading, but more often laughing at thdr jokes. One glance at the grey- 
headed father of this happy group, and our picture is complete. Mr. Francis Shirly 
is leaning back in his arm-chair, nnder the pleasing delusion that he his listening to 
the voices of his daughters, but in reality &8t asleep. We mistake— there is yet one 
wanting. Seated apart from the others, and taking no part in their mirth, was a 
young girl, the only sad sorrowful heart there. Hers was a sad history; a few years 
ago she had lost both her parents, under most painful circumstances, which had left 


— — — '- 

a deep and lasting impresdoii on her mind. Bfr. Shirly had noeiTed her into his own 
fMmilj for the sake of a friendship with her &ther began at school and continaed 
throagh a short bat eventful life. Emilj Stanley, yoang as she was, was not happy; 
the sorrows of her childhood had left traces, even on her disposition, to which perhaps 
was owing a settied gloom and reserve of manner which was sach as to repel the 
advances of the warmhearted girls, her companions; in this she did herself injastioe, 
indeed it was her misfortnne rather than her fault As soon as Florence discovered 
that her fiither was &st asleep, the boys amusing themselves at the other end of the 
room, and her cousin, Herbert Meredith, really enjojring the music, she closed the 
piano, and drawing her sister away, exclaiming with afi^ted weariness, ** How dull 
this is I What is the use of singing with no one to listen. Charles, I hoped you at 
least woald have made yourself agreeable, and you have hardly spoke two words to 

** Tour replies, sister, are always so courteous they certainly encourage one to 
co n v e r s e with yoa," he returned, rising from his chair, and at the same time causing 
the book he held in his hand to fly across the room and light upon the person of his 
coosin. ''Ah t Herbert, I beg your pardon; how could I possibly divme the durection 
my missile would take. Are yon hurt? " 

** Not mnch," was the short answer, and taming to Eveline, Herbert continaed: 
" Are youreally going to leave off nnging? " 

**Y9B, certainly," said Florence, answering for her nster; ''and when we 
expect the most elaborate compliments and thanks, yon only ask with a relieved air, 
if we really intend to leave off assailing your ears. CivO, I must say." 

"Florenoet But I don't care, I knowyoa believe the delight it is to me to hear 

"Jfe sing?" she asked mtii such an arch expression in her bright eyes that the 
colour mounted to his temples, and Eveline sought refuge in the furthest comer of the 
room. She sat down by Emily, and kindly tried to amuse her, for she was sufiforing 
from a headache, to which she was very subject. Charles joined them, and they 
b^gan to converse on matters littie likely to interest the gay thoughtless Florence, 
who coothmed walking round and round the room, as was her custom when the even- 
ing was doIL la the coarse of her peregrinations she apprised poor Mr. Warren 
that the candle was approaching to a very dangerous proximity to fais head, for which 
she received from him very grateful thanks, and from her brothers very revengeful 
ghmoes. Herbert Meredith was standing at the window, gazing at the gloomy pros- 
pect without, and not less gloomy were the thoughts which occupied him. He was 
about, for the first time, to leave his uncle's roof, leave Eveline, and all whose good 
opinion had been as yet the highest goal of his ambition. Mr. Shirly was his guardian, 
and without the slightest regard to the young man's own wishes had determined to eda 
catehim for the bar. He had his reasons for this, and perhaps they were good ones. At 
the time I write of, the dark crime of regicide had cast a fearfol stain over the nation, 
men's hands were yet dyed in the blood of their king, and as if for a judgment upoa 
them the kingdom was delivered up into the hands of bad men. Oliver Cromwell 
nigned in all his power. I could be eloquent upon the sab^«&^ ^l >^ <sn^'««&V^^iik 


a subject that moat, and ever will, inspire with enthnsiasm timj Enfrliah heart that 
boasts a spark of feeling;. Bat political reflections have no pUce here, and I will oon- 
tinne with mj narrative. Mr. Shirly had, on account of their yoath, kept his boji 
and his joaug ward safely in the back^rronnd dnrinfi^ all the horrors of the war, bat 
now that it was known that the yonn^ kin^^ Charles II was in the ooontry, and an 
opening thereby made for the advent'rons spirit of the youths of England to shoir 
itself, he was desiroos of giving another and a totally different bent to Herbert^i 
feelings, and had therefore determined to bend that proud, high spirit, burning inisQeot, 
and passionate enthnsiasm, to the dull study of the Uw. But he had nndertaksD a 
task above his strength. Do not, however, let it be imagined that he himsdf leant ii 
the least to the Puritan side of the question. Far from it; he was a zealous rojafiit 
and would willingly have shed his hatrt^s blood in the cause of his sovereign; but hii 
children— to see his noble boys fall around him, to be left alone and desolate in hk 
old age, was a fiite which he anxiously sought by every precaution in his power to 
avoid. It was the /other, not the man, that turned coward when Charles and hii 
cousin would entreat to be allowed to draw their swords also in the war that had mads 
desolate so many hearts and homes of merry England. No remonstrance oo Heriisfth 
part could move the stem will of his uncle, and he was very loth to make too mush 
resistance to his wishes. He fislt his doom was sealed. As Florence passed him she 
Paused, and looking out into the dark starless night, was for a moment lost in thought 
" The last night of the old year, cousin," at lensrth she said in a subdued tone^ 

** Yes; the last night of the last year we shall spend together,** he replied, sad^. 
** Herbert, that makes me unhappy; no earthly power will change papa's nsola- 
tion; and would you really leave us for a soldier? " 

He made no answer, and she went on : '* Eveline is unhappy to-mght ; yoa msks 
her more so by yielding to your sorrow.** 

" Florence I ** he exclaimed hastily, ^ You could help us if you would." 
"If I could! Obi Herbert, you know I would go through fire and water to 
please either of you. But what can I do ? " 

He took her hand, and fixing his eyes upon her with a deep earnest look that 
made her cast down her own to the ground, said : " I believe you, Florence. Tee, I do 
believe you would. You know you have more influence with my uncle than any ont 
else; exert it now in my behalf. Plead for me as you will — ^promise for me what you 
will, I place my cause entirely in your hands. Only say you agree with me. Is it 
not the duty of every son of EngUind to rally round her standard now? The king 
will never get his own again without a struggle; and it is in that glorious s tf ug g to 

that I would take part " 

*' She interrupted him: " And be killed, and leave Eveline a widow I ** 
** You certainly jump at conclusions pretty quickly,'* he replied, rather oonliuii 
by his cousin's speech. ** Bemember she must be a toife first.** 

She only laughed gaily, withdrew her hand, and darting across the room, thrsir 
herself on the sofa beside her sister. 

** What's Herbert been saying to you, Fto.?** asked Charles; ** your ofaosloi «• 
as red as fire." 


** Ask no qaestioDS, and yonll hear — ^bnt, Charles, do yon know I don't like him 
t all. He's such a cnrions boy, and he looks at one in snch a peculiar manner.** 

** That jou don't like him, Florence, is no news, for jon take every opportunity 
f teasing him," replied her brother. ** But come, Eveline, how can you be so un- 
lercifdl, don't you see he's dying to be near you ? " 

It was not convenient for his sister to hear this remark, to which she replied 
nly by sending Florence to waken her father, and when she was gone, Charles sud 
I advise you to make that mad child speak to my father about Meredith; if any one 
iQ alter his determination, she will. Emily, can I get anything for you? " for she 
ad risen and left the sofa. (His sisters, by-the-bye, had often noticed how very 
iger he was to do her any little service.) 

'* No, thank you. I must go to bed, Eveline; I cannot even wait to bid the new 
ear weloome, my head is so bad." 

Charles flew to light her candle, then kissed her hand half playfully, butwith 
uch a look of earnest affection, that in spite of herself she returned it, and blushing, 
ift the room. 

" Is Emily often like this? " he asked, as he sat down agam by his sister. ** So 
ilflot, so sad, yet she is only Florence's age, just seventeen, and there could not be 
I greater difference between them." 

" How wise we grow," exclaimed a gay voice in his ear. " With what difierent 
lyes one looks upon life at the advanced age of nineteen and a half, to-^— " 

*' My tormentor, art thou returned ! " and seizing her by both her hands he 
Iragged Florence on his knee. 

** five minutes to twelve I " proclaimed Edward, who had been at his post before 
he clock for the Ust half-hour. 

'*That is my bonbonier^, if you please, Mr. Warren," said Florenoe, as she saw 

ler beautiful box disappearing in the depths of the tutor's pocket. **Not your snuffbox. 

"Twelve o'clock I" pronounced Edward at hut **Hark I the church bells are ringing." 

In a moment all was bustle and confusion; the glass-doors leading to the terrace 
rere thrown open, and every one rushed out, each pealing a hand-bell provided for 
he occasion. Mr. Shirly rose from his chair only half awake, but after half a minute's 
ODsideration, he joined his children, and was soon pealing the bell put into his hand 
y Florence, the noisiest and gayest of the gay and noisy party. To this scene of 
amult succeeded supper and dancing, and in the course of the evening Herbert 
rand an opportunity of again uiging his suit with his fair cousin, and while she 
enied that she possessed any influence, her bright eyes flashed with proud conscious- 
ess of the power for which he rightly gave her credit An hour later, and all was 
Diet; silence alone reigned in the ancient halls; and all there who had so noisily 
Bloomed the approach of the new year, had dispersed to spend its first hours in sleep, 
efore she retired for the night, Florence had an interview with her father. What 
issed we will not seek to know; suffice it to say, this was the first time his darling 
did had ever crossed his wishes, or ventured to have an opmion contrary to his owoy 
dtint now she did so, she gained her point 

iTobe continued in our next,) ^^^XLhsstxsx^ 


"CsniBtion'' to '' jniflnfonetle." 

Tou aak me % floweret to choose, 

In jour beaatifol Bouquet to place; 
My modesty bids me refuse, 

Lest my ofiTring should prove a disgrace. 
I know not what flowers to name; 

The Blue-heU I fear will not do, 
For the gentlemen surely would blame. 

As they shrink from a belle that is blue ! 

There's a floweret they call London Pride, 
But that would superfluous be; 

Tou have only thro* London to ride. 

And enough of that flower you will see ! 

If a sprig of the Broom should be seen, 
I thought this idea might strike, 

That altho' a new broom may sweep clean, 
Sweeping meastires there's few of us like f 

A Bouquet, selected like ours, 

Ko heartache will eyer produce; 

So among this assemblage of flow'rs 
The Heartsease will be of no use ! 

Should I venture a TuUp to place. 
How useless the ofiTring would be; 

They have but to look at your face, 

And a ttoo lip more sweet they will see I 

Venus*s Loohmg-glass too I disown. 
You possess it already, my dear ! 

For yon have but to look in your own. 
And the floweret at <nice will appear \ 

Should a Backelor^s Button come forth, 
My Mignionette's smiles to obtain, 

A button he scarce would be worth, 
If a bachelor long he remain t 

A Violet should I select, 

And the ofiTring unworthy you see, 

Inviolate let it be kept. 

As a secret Fm certain should be. 

On whatever my fancy may lall. 

When your Bouquet to friends you disclose, 

Lest it prove but a Thorn after all. 
It had better be under the Rose, 


That name bids me add one line more, 

As oar Qaeen is the Maj-qaeen of flowVs, 
Let Rose^ ThisUCf and Shamrock entwine 

Boond a Boaqnet of Friendship like oars. 


Toby meet, the lovely and the brave, 

Around the parent Qaeen; 
Thej meet, bat not with glancing 8Word 

Proad looks, or haughty mien. 
The trampet sounds, but not for war, 

A softer, sweeter sound 
Peals through the lofty aisles afiur, 

Glad welcomes burst around. 

For Peace has waved her olive-branch 
0*er nations near and wide^ 

And bade them welcome in her joy 
To keep a gay May-tide. 

A merry May— a joyous May, 
'Twill echo through the land, 

When nations lay their swords aside 
To join them hand-m-hand. 

But, hush I what solenm tone was there 

Amid the giddy throng ? 
It was — ^it was the sound of prayer 

By a thousand vdoes borne. 

The joyous ones have for awhile 
Laid their gay mirth aside. 

And chased away the lingering smile, 
The starting tear to hide. 

And warriors, once that ventured here, 
With murderous weapons armed. 

Are breathing out, perchance, a prayer, 
The first those lips e'er formed ! 

England has welcomed far and wide, 

To gather at her throne. 
And join with her in worshipping 

The God that all must own t 



A Fairy Story. 


There was onoe a great and powerful king who had two sona; attbeehristaDiog 
of the eldest, who was oained Joscelin, there were several fairies; who each gave him 
some good quality. The queen a year after had another son, and as the fairies had 
bestowed such good gifts on the elder prince, they were also invited to the ohristen- 
ing of the younger. There were four in all, the first promised that the little prince 
should be very handsome, the second that he should be clever, and the third had jut 
said that he should be liked by every one, when they were startled by such a dreadful 
noise that it shook the whole palace; and the fairy Vindictive mounted on a finy 
griffin burst into the apartment. (This fairy either intentionally or from n^ligenoe 
the king had omitted inviting.) She went stnught up to the king, and said: 
'* Though you had not sufficient politeness to invite me, still the prince shall bait 
my gift as well as the others, which is that he shall be the cause of a ^nokofi 
death to his brother." She then presented the king with an ivory distaff nyiiV: 
** If you do not give this distaff to the prince on his tenth birthday, you will piy 
the penalty with your life; if your son does anything wrong, his distaff will break, 
and you may know that the time in which he will be the death of his brother is at 
hand." So saying she struck the griffin with her wand, who immediately leaped out 
of the window with her on his back. The reader may remember, that there was OM 
fairy lefk of the four, who had not spoken when Vindictive came in. Her name wai 
Camelia. She now stepped towards the afflicted king and queen, and spoke as fill- 
bws: ** It is not in my power to prevent the younger prince causing the death of 
Joscelin, because the fairy Vindictive is my senior, but I wiU bestow on him the fjA 
of immense strength, and if Vindictive dies before he breaks the distaff, her powff 
ceases, and her prophecy will not be fulfilled." The king thanked the fiiiry GameBa, 
and the fairies then withdrew. When Hercules, for that was the name of the yoangtf 
prince, was ten years old, the king gave him his distaff, and shut him up in a higi, 
castle, which was in his kingdom ; he had plenty of attendants, and also was alkrHid 
to walk about a little in the garden, but this was surrounded by high walls so tint 
there was no chance of getting out The king, his father, and Joscelin, his farotiMT, 
who was grown a very handsome and accomplished prince, came to see him tmrf 
year, but they came by a private door, of which the king kept the key, and Hmf 
always came with guards, for his majesty never could forget Vindictite's predietkai 
The two princes were very fond of each other, and Joscelin often solicited his fittlw 
to let Hercules come to the palace and play with him, but the king, who had iWfW 
told him about the fairy*s prophecy, fearing it would make him dislike his bntlMii 
always on these occasions turned it off with some vague answer about his brotbsiV 
great strength, making it dangerous for other people his leaving the castle. Hereolil 
certainly was immensely strong : though at this time he was only twelve yean old, Iw 
wasM powerful as a full grown man. VJUeu ^QiM»\\&\:aA «X\jusAdL\yAl9th year, tfat 
Jki^gdiedp sad oo biM death*bed he diadoae^ U» 3Q&s»\YiiN\si^<i:k\\^<ii^\Era^^{^^ 


same time giving him the keys of the castle, and charging him not to release Hercules 
unless he did not break his distaff before the fairy Vindictive's death. He then fell 
back and expired. Joscelin was greatly grieved at his father's death, but he wisely 
resolved to conceal it from Hercules, lest he should ask who had the keys of the tower. 
So the next time he visited him, he told him that his father had gone to a distant 
country, and that therefore he reigned in his absence. Hercules eagerly asked, who 
kept the keys of the castle? Joscelin replied that the king still kept them; which 
was quite true as he was then the king. After Joscdin had reigned about six months 
he went out hunting : and wishing to ride home alone, he shook himself from his followers 
and went home through a wood. Now the king did not know that in this wood lived 
an enormous Ogre: he was thirty feet high, and was possessed of great strength; he 
happened to be walking in the very road in which Joscelin was, who was first apprized 
of his vicinity to the giant by his norse's shying, and great was the fear and astonish- 
ment of the king to see the great ogre coming along; he set spurs to his horse, but 
the giant overtook him in one stride. Joscelin was a brave man, so he drew his 
sword to defend himself, but at the first stroke it snapped in twain, and the monster 
took up the king and his horse as if they had been a teather, and carried them awaj 
to his dungeon, disregarding all Jo8oelin*s entreaties for mercy. *'No, no," said the 
ogre, " I will not spare your life, unless you can find a man strong enough to fight 
me. The king was overjoyed at this, and he proudly told his tyrant, that he had a 
brother who would fight him, and kill him too. The Ogre burst into a loud laugh, 
but allowed Joecelin to send a messenger with the keys of the tower, and a note 
begging his brother to come with all speed. 

We will now follow the fortunes of Hercules in his gloomy tower. He had got in 
a passioQ with one of his attendants, and had thrashed the man most unmercifully, 
for which he found his distaff broken. He knew the fearful secret, consequently he 
was so vexed at this circumstance that he was quite frantic. The fairy Vindictive, 
entered at that moment; Hercules flew at her, but she waved her wand over his head, 
and his feet grew into the floor. Vindictive knew the instant the distaff was broken, 
and meeting the messenger of king Joscelin, she took the keys from him, so that it 
was impossible for him to release Hercules. All this she maliciously told the prince, 
who was foaming with rage at not being able to revenge himself. But at this moment 
the change which happens to all fairies (who are always changed to some animal for 
eight days,) was taking place upon the fairy Vindictive, and in another minute she 
was changed to a wonn. The faiiy Camelia, in the form of a bird, now flew in at the 
window, ate up the worm, and released Hercules from his most cruel enemy. Hercules 
transported with delight, would have thrown himself at her feet, but she raised him, 
and said: ''Now go and free your brother; I will give you this sword, which will 
certainly conquer the Ogre with one blow. Take also this Camelia, my emblem, when* 
ever you put it in your bosom it will supply you with as much money as you require. 
She then led Hercules out of the tower, and mounted him on a horse of surprising 
fleetness. He slung his sword by his side, thanked the fairj, «sA ^^^\m^ ^\fo'<^^ 
rescue. He met the Ogre on his way, struck one b\o^ m\]h. >2b& «Qs2![^asXii^^^^^^^^ 
tiw jmastar M dead at his feet. Josoelin now Ubeca!^, «a^T«fi«^\fi&\i<^^^&»^^3^ 


thanked him with the most HyoIj ezpreBrions of gratitude. The brathen wen 
jonrneTuig home together wheo tbej heard shrieke as of some woquu in diatrM. 
Joecelin set spurs to his horse, and galtoped off to the place from whieh the senams 
proceeded. Harooles, astonished at his precipitation, remained motjonkea for a 
minute, and then followed his brother, whom he found engaged in single combat with 
another ogre, the twin brother of the one which had just been killed. This ogre was 
carrying awaj a beautiful princess that he had just caught, when Jcacelin came to 
the rescue. The ogre was just going to strike him to the ground with an iron maoe, 
when Hercules came up, and snatching the maoe from the hand of the guoAf he 
ran lus sword through his body; thus becoming a second time his brathec^ dslivenr. 
Joscelin now turned to the terrified princess Azar, and asked her hand in marrisge; 
and she, admiring his gallant behaTiour, accepted his proposal At this instant the 
fiury Camelia appeared, and the two brothers thanked her most heartilj for her kmd- 
ness to them ever since they were bom; and Hercules threw himself aft her feet, sad 
begged her to marry him, to which the fury consented. The two broihen w«t 
married the same day; and all the fairies, from fifury land, came to the weddioi(> 
Joscelin diyided his kingdom with his brother; and long, happy, and gkrious wii 
the reign of King Hercules and King Joecelm. 

Thb Sun hath set behind a hill, 

The Hea?en of other dimes to light, 
And twilight hovers o'er me still. 

Soft shadows cast bam coming night. 
Who hath not fait, in this calm hour, 
The joys of thought— reflection's power ? 
How sweet to turn from life's turmdl. 
The thirst of gain— ambitious toil; 
To muse alone, with softened heart, 
In moments, such as these which part. 
The peaceful light from wrangling day, 
And worldly sorrows pass away. 





No. II.— JULY. 



To animadvert on the demeanour and condact of others, or Beverely to critidse 
the productions of rising genius, is a task bj no means congenial with the prindplee 
either of good sense or of good breeding. And, yet, to allow the world to go <m 
without noticing any of its arrangements, or without forming and uttering an opinion 
on any of Its maxims and practices, would be derogatory to human intellect, and 
detrimental to the beneficial progress of ciril and social improvement So also, to 
allow the Press to issue from the rivulets and rivers of literature a continuous inun- 
dation of miscellaneous compositions, without either praising the beauties, or alluding 
to the blemishes which might periodically present themselves, would tend very much 
to retard the cultivation of the mind, and give a check to the expanding ardour of 
talent, by withdrawing that stimulus to exertion which the commendation or blame 
of others generally produces. Cherishing these sentiments, and in a spirit of benevo- 
lent intention, I beg permission to o£fer a few cursory remarks on the contents of the 
fint number of a Uttle work just sent to me by the Editor. 

This pretty littie work has a pretty title, " The Bouquet:" and I perceive that 
most of the contributors bear the names of pretty flowers; so that it will require 
much caution and much delicacy in picking out any of the articles for the horHu 
skew of the Critic 

"The Preface" is very well written, and delineates in a sensible manner the 
object and expectancy of this pleasing miscellany. The concluding paragraph of the 
Preface will govern my pen in whatever I may say In my character of Reviewer, or 
Critic; fiv I hate Bourness and austerity, and love " the genial and sonny Bmilfls o£^ 


Nightshade presents as with some suitable introdactory lines. I am gUd to see 
that this is not the plant commonly called deoidly rUghUhade — ^there is nothing here 
of a noxious quality, thonfrh a considerable portion of that vnhertnt ambiUom which 
all pUnts of this spreading species possess, and so we read in the first line ** to otf 
the world these few short Unes toe send" In a political point of view, Mr. Cobdeo 
might claim this writer as an evident supporter of *' Free Trade:** and I am son it 
will please Prince Albert to see that the '* Crystal Palace " is not focgotteo. 

After the Parliamentry ▼ersificatioa of Nightshade^ we have a pleasaat ohit-ofaat 
in a Garden, where we are kindly privileged to hear three young ladies ooDTersing oo 
" German Stories,** ** Botany,** and *' ArchoBology.'* In this ** Comermuiom^ we 
learn the origin of the present literary Bouquet, and have an outline of the regula- 
tions recommended to be adopted in bringing forward the work. Had the writer of 
this Cowoersazione introduced a quotation from Cuningham*s Hand-Book of Loodoo, 
or some such chronicle, relative to the site and character of Marylebone Gardeos, it 
would have given an additional interest to the article. 

We next have some pretty simple *' Lines to a Child on her Birthday,** oompoeed 
appropiatdy by Heartsease; and then we are astounded by some strange sentiments 
on Music by a sentimental young Myrtky who seems to think that the sound of a 
guitar in a myrtle-grove is a most dangerous sound to listen to ! I cannot aoquiesoe 
in any such doctrine, for I quite agree with the great Poet of Nature in believing thai 
<< Music has charms to soothe the savage breast,** and to kindle in the soul of the 
contemplative, aspirations and emotions of the most sublime character. Those high 
celestial beings called ^Cherubim** appear to delight in music, and to adopt its 
sweet cadences in their glorious occupation of praising the Creator and Upholder of 
all things. We are told in holy scripture that they '* sang together ** in cboms on 
the morning of Creation; and that at the birth of our blessed Saviour, their holy 
voices were heard vibrating through our atmosphere in an oratorio of joy and adofa- 
tion. La Myrte, therefore, is in great error in speaking so disparagingly of that 
science which is so assiduously cultivated by the '* heavenly host.** 

^ The Heart*s History,** which succeeds La Myrte's objurgations, is Tsrjr well 
drawn up, and seems to indicate a knowledge of the foibles and afiections of the 
human heart Throughout the interesting narrative, there is an agreeable odour of 
Lavender water. 

We are next puzzled with a *' Rebus,** of which I shall not here offer any solu- 
tion; and that for a very good reason, for, as Ragged Robin yioxiX^ say, ^^ nonpossmn.* 

The "Lines on the approach of Spring** contain some pleasing pictorial ideas, 
so to speak. The allusion to the Cuckoo is true to nature; and the moral sentimeots 
wliich follow are good and edifying. 

The *' Address to the Moon,** contains one or two very good lines, and exhibits 
what progress may be made in Classical learning by any young scholar who properly 
attends to his studies; as it is evident Ragged Robin does. 

The monody on " The Death of a Friend's Daughter,** indicates a feeling heart 
Mnd a cultivated mind. We may coWect from Wxe cigHlH\vaft,\>aa.\,>iJBa& QiVonsJtiaa 
'^ndoleoce is proffered by one who hath experiww:*^ \.Y» «aA w«tQ^% ^\£iO(i «wt- 


■ ■■ ■— — ^^— — — — 

whelm the soul of a parent 00 the death of a beloved child. I quite agree with the 
prayer contained in the concluding sentence. 

We have next, a clever poetical rhapsody on *' Time," by a Myrtle, The ideas 
are good, and so are the allusions; but the versification needs a little polishing. 
Let the Myrtle make a friendly acqaaintance with Apollo, some summer's evening, 
when he loiters with his harp on " the banks of Allan- water." 

Eglantine presents as with an elegant Uttle poem on *^ the Evening Star." Here 
we have a sweet cadence of measure; pleasing to the ear, and redolent of true poetic 
imagery. I am sure Eglantine is fond of music, And I am sure HeUotrope is 
fond of her native land I — ^a fondness which is always conmiendable, and generally 
indicative of an ardent generosity of souL There is something pleasing and pretty in 
the Jirst line. The apostrophe contains in a few words a great deal of iine patriotism, 
The tenth line conveys a sentiment of rather too decided a character: every one who 
has visited Ireland must admire its diversified richness of picturesque scenery; and 
some of our greatest vnts, warriors, and politicians, have emanated from that *^ gem 
of the ocean." 

The Myrtle seems to thrive as well in Germany as in England and France; 
and so we are here favoured with some interesting legendary tradition from one of 
the German forests, in the original language: — then after playing at trap>ball with 
some curious urchins, yclypt**Arithmorems," tossed out of EschschoUzids reticule 
Myrtle wafts us into Spain, and introduces us to a magnificent lady called '* Donna 
Inez," of whom we are told many agreeable particulars in very agreeable language. 
The narrative respecting this Donna is well drawn up, and assumes the form of a 
regular minor historical novel under the title of '* Court Cabals:" and I have no 
hesitation in prognosticating that Myrtle bids fair to become, in a few years, as able 
and as popular a writer in this branch of literature as the celebrated Jane Porter. 

Our attention is next arrested by a well- written article, entitled ^ The Abbot*» 
Tale." This is firom the pen of HeUotrope, and merits much praise. We then aru 
presented with a " Garland " by our primary acquaintance Nightshade, who appea) .s 
here to much advantage. The two first stanzas are really pretty and poetical: and 
we cannot but admire the genteel compliment paid in the sixth, seventh, and eighth, 
to the three flowerets whose names appear as the originators of this interesting 

The '* Palatium Industrise," (after Ovid) is by no means devoid of merit. Per- 
haps the best passage in Ovid for imitation on this subject would have been tbe 

Azalea^s *' Lines on the Departure of a Friend " are replete with good feeling 
and good sense. 

Ragged Robin's sonnet, entitled *' The Flower Girl," displays considerable talent. 
His illustration of Thistle's character by applying to it the Scottish motto ia e.Vv».Y^^ 

Tbe "Lines on one ofH. M. Ships returmng £tom¥otcv^«wrwi»? ^jc^ «^xi^^ 
tbepndaction of one who has experieaoed axxd leVl nOqaX Yl^ \ifttft «i ^^^ ^^imR»3^'<« 


The words are well chosen and well arranged : and the imagery throoghoat pleasmglj 
combines to place before ns a very pretty little cabinet pictore. 

** The Bouquet'' which Labummn presents ns with, is really a Booqnet: prsttily 
arranged and tied together with a sweet-scented ribboa which seems to have been a 
bracelet of one of the Mnses. 

** Florence Shurly " is a pretty interesting tale, and well told. The drawing of 
the di£forent characters introduced, indicates a correct eje and a discriminating 
obserTance of real life. The incidents which diversify the scenery are all natond, 
and jodidoosly selected. I consider Eghntine an author of great promise. 

There is much happy wit and genteel hadmoffe in ** CamaUonCa^ note to 
'^Mignionette,** The reader cannot but obeerye the adroitness with which the 
snccessiTe stanzas are made to contain what we call a " point." The oonchiding 
stanza is, in my opinion, cleTcrly conceiTed. 

The Terses which follow, signed by i2oM, are written and arranged with taste 
and judgment They allude, in well-chosen knguage, and with a sweet Ghristain 
morality of sentiment, to the Great Exhibition which is now attracting the admiration 
of all who value the progress of art and science, as connected with the real fanprove- 
ment of mankind. 

We are next treated with a ** Fairy Story,** which contains several curious and 

astounding incidents, as all fury stories ought. I should like very much to possev 

the " emblem*' which one of the kind-hearted Fairies presented to Heronles, fir I 

should then subscribe for 1,000 copies of " The Bouquet,** and distribute them among 

the pretty young fiuries who saunter at '* fiEdl of eve ** among the laurel groves of 

*' Marylebone Gardens.** And here I very opportunely see the Hawthorn waving its 

pretty white blossoms in the rays of the setting sun f and whispering to HtfocmUh in 

a soft poetic tone, that 

** The ran hath set behind a hill.*' 

And thus I close my reflections and remarks on the contents of the First Number of 

the Bouquet: a work which bids fair to ingratiate itself into the good wishes and 

gooQ graces of all who love to patronise rising gemus, and who possess hearts capabla 

of being enamoured with the beautiful ornaments of Nature, " Thb Flowsbs t ** 

June, 1351. 


Scene — Portland Gardens. 

Blue-bell, Kingcup, and Mignionette walking together. 

JTm^p— Well, Mignionette ! how do you think our first Bouquet has been received? 

Jiigmonette^I have not heard any one say much against it; of course there are 

always some brambles ready to tear it in pieces. 
Blue-ieH—One fault I have heard is that the type is too small. 
JT^— I have heard the Title of it very much spoken against. Many do not like 
*' Marylebone Gardens.** Do either of you know the History of Maiylebooe 
if.— Yes. I have lately been reading about them in ^ Smith*s Topograplucal and 
Historical Aocoont of the Parish of St, Marylebone." 


B. — Ob, do tell as aboat them. Where were they ? 

Jf .— Whj they were a little farther west than these gardens. The entrance to them 
was somewhere in High Street, and the site of them Is now occapied by 
Beaumont Street, Devonshire Street, and Devonshire Place. 

B. — Bnt what were they? were they merely gardens like these? 

M, — Oh ! no. They were a celebrated place of amusement; they were in existence 
more than 100 years ago. They were very fashionable. Balls and evening con- 
certs were given in them. Some of the first singers were generally engaged 
there, and fireworks were frequently exhibited. Mr. Smith gives a cnrioos des- 
cription of an evening's entertainment, taken from a newspaper. I copied it to 
shew it to yon— here it is. ** On Toesday evening, Jnly 28th, 1776, Marylebone 
Gardens exhibited a scene equally novel and agreeable ; namely, a representa- 
tion of the Boulevards of Paris. The boxes fronting the ball-room which were 
converted into shops had a very pleasmg effisct, and were occupied by persons 
with the following supposititious names: — Crochetf a music seller; MedJ/ey 
a print shop; Neiwf angle and La Blonde^ Milliners; Pme^ a Fruiterer; 
Trmketf a Toyman; TVte, a Hair-dresser; Mr, Gimcrach^ the shop unoccu- 
pied and nothing in it but two pan: of kites." He then gives a description of 
the shop-keepers. The ball-room which was illuminated representing the 
Eaglish Co£Eee House at Paris, and at one end were women sellmg all sorts of 
** cooling liquors." 
K, — Whee were the gardens given up ' 

Jf.—- In 1778; they were suppressed by order of the magistrates, and the site let to 

•B.— By-the-bye, I have got some more conundrums for yon. Elderfiower gave me 
one this morning. It is this: — No. 1. " When is a young manlike the cork oC 
a champagne bottle ? " 

Jf. — Oh! we must have time to find them out. Have yon any more? Let us put 
them down, and give our answers next time we meet. 

A— Tes ; Egff-pkaa has also given me three or four. Here they are >-No. 2. ^ Why 
should we suppose the fire to be feminine? "—No. 8. ** When will the weather 
be like the Duke of Wellington?"— No. 4. ** Why did the church bells ring 
when the Queen Dowager died? "—No. 6. " What kind of tree is the tree of 

Jfp— Here is one more sent to me:— No. 6. " Why was the Emperor of Russia a little 
while ago like a school-boy at Christmas?" I have also had a poetical 
answer sent to me by i2ttd&eciE:ui to EscJuchoUekCs Rebus In last number. 
Hiie it is .'— ** Sdlotion of Rebus by J&«cA«cAo2feia, page 9. 

She certainly must be a muff 
Always to decline Amor, 
And must be made of queer rare stuff, 
A yard In length or Bomft moce. 


Jane is her name, she lives hard by. 

And comes not from afar. 
Talks of the courts, ana of nm, 

Eccentric without par. 

The first of these form Mary Jane, 

And Frederic the last. 
For such a pair you^ll search in ?ain, 
And so the die is cast" 
JiT.^Well, that is not so bad. What are those Arithmorems ? I do not quite under- 
stand thbUQ. 
Jf.~Nor I; but I have got the answers to them also, which may help us. Here 
they are: — Answers to Arithmorems, page 14. 

No. 1 — X Sprees, Express 
No. 2 — I Spar, Paris. 
No. 3— Ay, D hurts, Thursday 
No. 4— DVgrin, During. 
No. 6— M Ties, Times. 

No. 6— LI stops, Pistols. 
No. 7— £LI, 111. 
No. 8— In DGI tens, Incidents. 
No. 9 — D patches. Despatch. 
No. 10 — C routs. Courts. 


Here is also & Charade by the same: — 

" Of the body my first is a part. 
And my second's decidedly smart; 
My whole may be found in the mart." 
M. — Here comes a ThiaUe^ let us ask her what her opinion is of our last number. 

Ah, ThistUf how are you ? You seem to have a laxge bundle of papers in 

your hand— what are they all about? 
7%i8<2e.— Mostly contributions for that most wonderful of all "Bouquets," which 

according to the Post Magazine is quite a gem. 
jr.— Tes, indeed, our friend seems to have known what he was about when he 

wrote his critique upon the Bouquet. 
£.— What is the purport of all those papers ? The one in red ink what is it about ? 
T, — A suggestion from " Semi Demi Quaver.** That music might be introdneed into 

the Bouquet. What do you think of it? 
K. — ^I see no objection to it 
Jf.— I dow I detest music 
2\-.There is a poem, or rather an attempt at one, from quite a juvenile. I abouU 

think 1 must reject it, it is so trifling. Shall I read it ? 

A— Yes, do. 

T.—. " Come, my brother, come and play 

On this bright and sunny day. — &c 
Jf. — Oh, that is enough ! It will not do. I know who it is by — ^My Brother, only 

nine years of age. Well, what have you got besides? 
T.— A variety of flowers for the Bouquet Another from a party offering to become 
subscribers, but will not allow their names to appear. Are they to be ad- 


— — — — — - 

K. — ^Certainly not If tbej are ai^hamed to join snob company they are better away 

T. — ^Bat I mast take care what I am about I most not disclose any more. I am 
tbe Editor, and I must be secret My name must not become known to tbe 
world, or tbe Bouquet will lose balf its Talne— but I want a sub-Editor 
Mignionette, I shall appoint you. You shall be my Sub. 

M. — Your what? 

T. — My sub- Editor, if you please. You shall arrange all the poetry. 

B — Provided she admits no trash. 

M, — ^I hope you have a better opinion of my taste. I suppose if I am to be in your 
councils I may ask any questions I like. For instance; I am dying to know 
who wrote " Florence Shirley." Have you the whole tale in manuscript? 
Do, tell me what becomes of Florence ? 

T. — I should make a bad Editor were I to do any such thing. You must know that 
it is a most essential point in a first number of a work to excite the curiosity 
of the public, and you keep that curiosity on the tip-toe of expectation by 
bnaking off an interesting story exactly where it approaches a denouement. 
Fa* whoever has got the first number of the Bouquet wiU, I venture to pre- 
dio;, be sure to try and get the others. 

/T.— -But they can only be got from a subscriber. 

7". — In the Address to our Readers at the beginning of the last number, we promised 
to n)tice the Fashions amongst other things. Eschschoitzia has sent me the 
following: — " Fashions for July— Amongst the numerous extraordinary and 
unexpected results of the Great Exhibition, not tbe least surprising is the 
impetus it has given to the introduction of novelties in dress. We have already 
obsered many ladies who have adopted the admired and elegant nibe a la 
Squay IndAemne^ and we have heard it confidently stated, that one or two of 
oar more adventurous leaders of the heau monde have decided on appearing at 
the nest drawing-room with pencils dor au nezj it la Hottentot. This with 
lappetaformed of scalps, d la North American Indian, will, we have no doubt 
produce a sensation equally novel and startling; and, though it will of course, 
appear lather outr4 to the more staid folhwers of the modeSf we venture to 
predict br it a long and daily increasing vogue. A few unsuccessful attempts 
have bem made to introduce the Turkish veil, but its baneful effects on the 
oomplexon are too obvious to require us to give any reasons for its fiulure. 
We need hardly say that the gentlemen have not been more backward than 
the laduB in avaiUng themselves of the opportunities offiored them by tbe 
presence of the ^Ute of the world in London, We understand that the sale of 
Macassar CHI has received an immense impulse from the general desire to 
cultivati pigtails, which shall enable the hairy sex to meet their Celestial 
brothers without that painful feeling of inferiority which they must necessarily 
experieice at present Changes are also taking place in the mode of saluta- 
tioQ. .The old-fashioned shake of the hand is giving way to rubbing noses, 
knocking heads, kicking heels, striking elbows, and other modes for which. ^^ 
Uve not space, but we hope to recur to this s\i\>3«cir 




A simple Uy for floral May 

Most joyfully 111 siog, 
ThoB mnae away the liyelong day 

Throughout the cheerful spring. 

For well I know the heart will gbw 

In praise of God above— 
Who yearly greets with varying sweets 

The creatures of His love. 

The winds that ngh, in pasnng by, 

Sweet muttc to the soul, 
As lessons wise, they often rise 

Our passions to control 

Wing not away, but many a day 
Breathe thy soft strains around, 

And teach my heart to echo part 
Of that ethereal sound. 

Create in tune a lute triune 

To consecrate thy name. 
Until its strings full response brings, 

And magnifies thy &me. 


irf)e Capttbe. 

The twilight stars are shimng forth oVer every hill and dale, 
But leave them for a prison vault, a captive's fate bewail — 
Imprisoned, in that gloomy tower, their light but makes him ad ; 
His thoughts are with his Highland home wrapped in his Highand pihud— 
He thought upon his native locks, upon Glen Fylem's height. 
Where thundered forth the bittern's boom through the dark shides of night, 
And there the snow-capped mountain and frowning rocks areseen, 
And the dark majestic forests waved o'er the Highland green : 
The glad bird rushes to the sky in joyful happy glee, 
And loudly pours his gladsome song— no wonder— he is free ! 
Land of romantic beauty, the captive's thoughts are thine, 
Though no more in his mountain home he sees the pure moon shine, 
Bnnt forth the captive's wild lament—*^ 1 ifoiuld. \.Y»X. 1 "^^t^ itnu" 
"Of all the gifts that come from G^, tli« \»«&t *^ 1a\mk\>i r 



Oh ! spring, sweet spriog, I love it well ! 

All nature is so gay — 
The primrose, cowslip, and bloe-bell 

Seem &irer every day. 
In spring, sweet spring, I love to hear 

The wild birds' thnlling song— 
To see the insects in the air 

Skim merrily along. 
In spring, sweet spring, I lo?e to sit 

On brink of mnrmnring stream, 
And there absorbed in fancy's fit. 

Indulge in airy dream. 

Bat, oh ! in spring, I loye to gaze 

Into the clear blue-sky. 
And with all nature, join to praise 

Our God who reigns on high. Azalea. 

Co iat. 3£. /«.— Nabal (Tatiet, 

On his First Going to Sea, 
** Heave to," my boy, a word before you start 
Upon the sea of lifiB, to play your part — 
Your anchor's weigh'd, your topsail is aback, 
Waiting the word, ** brace up, on startx>ard tack." 
For Lisbon yon are bound, the ** Prince" to join 
With good sea kit, and some little coin. 
Beware of '* sharks," who think you ** jolly raw," 
Theyll try to do you those " sea limbs of law"— 
Sheer off, my boy, give them a good wide berth; 
Betum their jokes with jovial glee and mirth ; 
Be not cast down, three years will soon be gone, 
When you'll return to friends and happy home. 
To *' spin a yam" of what you've seen and had— 
** Splice the main brace" with your good jolly dad; 
But I must say '* avast," I quite forgot, 
Early in life his was the sailor's lot ; 
Take his advice and blessing — ^Tve no doubt 
Hell give you both, as part of your *' fit out"— 
A mother's kiss, your sisters' sweet embrace ; 
Oft you will think of, in their proper place, 
And of those friends at home,\)^ "tiYifliai^QQ^iftX^vfib^ 
Wbea yoUf on Sunday, OTetbaTil 'joTm 0[i«a\i. 
Good bye, mj boy, take cac« oi ^^ikTUC^x QiDnT— 
Soon mjijyou sport a " &ivi^;' aft «k «c«aX» ^jaxT 



€f)c Dratf) of ^9«hoclu«. 
Achilles going out to revenge his death. 
Prodit ad bellam repetens Aohillw 
Gloriffi fanuun veteris snperUun, 
£t noya in tergo Talidisqae membris 

CoUigat anna. 

Naroqne delectus jnyenis craento 
In solo csedis recnbat, mannmqne 
Hectoris sensit valido peremptos 

Ense Patrodos. 

Nempe Pelidis spoliavit arma, 
Filios victor Priami, at Ticissim 
Jacta Loricam penetrabit icta 

Pelias Hasta. — Ragged Robin. 


T hese wreathed gems, these flow'rets fresh and fair, 

H alcyons of graceful fancy and of love, 

I n sadder tiine~perchance of grief or oare, 

S hall wile thy sorrow, and thy woe remove. 

T hns double fragrance will they ever bear, 

L ending a charm to gladden and amxue, 

£ ach lapse of time, not lessens, bnt renews. 


H^n tl)e Hntbetfital in)eme» 
Peace reigns triumphant, and from every land 
Nations advance with olive branch in hand. 
When " Greek meets Greek," no "tug o' war " ensues, 
They quietly talk and question of the news. 
Chinaman, German, Russian; all are there; 
The braye, the gay, the lovely, and the £ur I 
Natives of ev'ry clime, and each degree, 
Within the Grystd Palace you may see. 
Hail, Albert I consort of our gracious Queen, 
(The greatest Monarch England e'er has seen,) 
This Palace shall perpetuate thy name, 
And Paxton*s genius shall be sung by Fame; 
Loud shall her Trumpet call, and £ur, and near, 
All nations of the Globe, the sound shall hear. 
Albert, the people's Prince, thy noble mind 
CaUed forth his talents to enrich maxik.v&!i\ 
To thee be honour shown, to \liQe ^« ^l 
The humble tribute of ihia faiMU^ ^7- 


^ ^entoo Song. 
Chinna Bopata 
Poeenedee Yata 
Yekada telyadoo 
Dorikce oondoo 
Shi^geram pondoo 
Tonkaln to noo noo. 


(©ttectiott.— C?)rtti. 
Mother, thou say'st tbere's a joyous land; 
How shall we join that happj band ? 
Can we follow the eagle's track on high ? 
Can we pierce with him the deep bine sky ? 
Can we fly with the lark when its joyons song 
Bears it on Zephyr's wings swiftly along ? 
Can we dash with the sea-bird thro' ocean's spray — 
And so, shall we reach that bright land of day ? 
Can we go with the butterflies, bright as the sky ? 
Or climb with the goats the monntains high ? 
Oh ! we never can reach that heavenly shore, 
For the waves they dash, and the billows roar I 
Oh I how shall I venture that fearful tide? 
I who 'm a weak and a timorous child ? 

$an»to ct.— iWoti&er , 
'Tis true, my sweet child, there's a river deep 

Before you can reach that quiet home-~ 
But, oh I it will be as the softest sleep, 

For Saviour shall bear thee thro' all the feam : 
And when He smiles on thee, oh I who shall frown ? 
And thou, too, shalt smile, my joyous one ! 
When thy Saviour shall clasp thee with arms of love, 
And bear thee away to those realms abov&— 
The eagle may mount, and the eagle may %, 
But ne'er can it pierce the deep blue-sky ; 
For though proud man with its might it defies. 
Yet it droops its wings ere it reaches the skies, 
For its Master has made its power lie low, 
And it ne'er can rise where man can go. 
The butterfly, too, sweet child, is gay, 
But its mom it is short, and it dies away I 
And tho' round the mountains the wl)itAciUraAftix%inx\^, 
Yet tbejr toach not, my child, thai wQiQte!a& '^ w\^>> 



Qa'entendsje I de ce bosquet consacr^ aoz muses one douce yoizs'^l^^e aiosi 
eontre le plus divin des arts: *' Musique, toi qui corromps Tame en 7 versantton 
doux poison, jamais tu n'auras de charmes pour moi I les anciens, plus sages que nous 
te bannirent de leurs republiques.** Mais les peuples qui refnserent de cultiver ce 
don du ciel, etaient cruels, sauyages inhumains, on cite surtout les barbares habitants 
de Gjtb^ne, ville de L'Arcadie, qui meprisaient I'art harmonieux, comme ayant com- 
mis plus de crimes que tons les autres peuple Grecs, chez qui la musique etait telle- 
ment en honneur qu^ en firent une partie essentielle de Tdducation capable de cal- 
mer les passions et d'ddoucir les moeurs. Socrate k un age ayanc^ se fit instruire 
dans I'art ; Epaminondas etait lon^ pour son talent musical, et on reprochait k T^mis 
tocle de ne pouyoir dans les festins jouer de la iyre. 

La musique plaintiye amollit I'&me il est yrai, mais Thomme est-il moins grand 
pour £tre susceptible d'emotions tendres? Cesar perd il de sa gloire pour ayoir yers^ 
deslarmes sur le sortde Pomp^e, ou Titus qui pleura J^rusaleme en mines? 

Mais La Lyre a d'antres accords qui exdtent k la gloire, i patriotisme. Le pre- 
mier Edouard tout guerrier qu'il fut redoutoit bien son influence sur les hardis mon- 
tagnards du pays de Galles, lorsqull fit massacrer leurs bardes, dont les chants 
rappelaient auz yaincus leur liberty perdue — Non, I'amour de la musique n'est pas 
incompatible ayec la brayoureet la grandeur d'&me; le magnanime Alfi:ed y diit sa 
consolation dans Tezil, et Coeur-de-lion sa deliyrance. Parfois rharmonie a une 
misfflon plus sublune encore, celle de ramener le pecheur i Dieu. Voyez le Suisse, 
appelft par I'ambition il se range sous le drapean de I'^tranger* D'ab(urd ses camara- 
des rient des moeurs s^v^res du paysan des montagnes, mais bientdt aupr^s d*euz il 
oublie les conseils de son yieuz pasteur et Tadien de sa m^re. Un soir, le hasard, on 
son bon ange conduit ses pas loin du bruit des camps— un air simple, plaintif, frappe 
son oreille, il tressaille . . . G'est le re&ain des chalets, c'est le Eaxa des yaches ! 
Eooutant eperdu il croit reyoir ses montagnes ch^ries . . . sa m&re lui sourit 
. . . sa blonde fianc^ lui tend les bras ... les larmes inondent les joues brunies du 
Boldat, et il se prosteme pour prior:— L'art deyrait toojours ayoir pour son but 
I'anoblissement de lliomme; i lui appartient le priyilege de lui £Eure entreyoir la per- 
fection et par cela m^me de le rapprocher du Crdateur et si il est souyent peryerti de 
ce grand dessein, malheur a Finsens^ qui en fait abus I Tart est toujours pur, toujouis 
inoormptible. Le Myrte est-il moins frais, moauB parfhrn^ poor ayoir souyent fonn^ 
les gnirlandes poor les disciples d'Epicure? 

Et yous, si un jour loin de la patrie, loin de tout ce qu'on lume, yons entendies 
le doox chant dont ydtre m^re bercat yotre enfiEmce, ou la s6r^nade dubien aim^. Oh ! 
Mlan^ sa &nd de Vime roas sentriez le pouyoir magique de rharmonie ! 


Part I. 

The shntten of a small hoose in the vicinity of the town of Basle were dosed, 
Ibr the night before there had been death^in the house. A thin vapoury smoke went 
np from <Hie of the chinmeys, and in a small room, by the fire, from which this pro- 
ceeded, satja yoang man poring over the pages of a manuscript In one comer of the 
tpartment stood* a bed, the curtains of which were closely drawn, at the foot and 
liead burned tapers, and a priest was on his knees before a crucifix, murmuring in a 
bw tone prayers(.for^the soul of the departed. By the feeble light of the tapers, and 
the fitful blaze of the fire the youth sat and read, and ever and anon he paused to 
wipe the odld perspiration from his brow, or, looking towards the bed, raised his 
denched hand in a menacing attitude and his lips moved though no sound escaped 
them, then be would look upward as invoking Heaven to grant the prayer he could 
not breathe, again he turned to the closely written manuscript: dark were the secrets 
it ooDtained. Reader, hast thou the courage to peruse them? 

Night covers the earth with her sombre mantle, welcome silent hours of dark- 

\; soon will the night of death surround me; peaceful rest to my weary frame. 
What should I care for life who have never known its joys? Hush! ungrateful 
memocy sleeps; ofice I was happy, then came a night to my day of joy, and for me 
the morrow's sxm rose not again. 

I dared not close my weary life, for what would await me, the mystery of the 
world beyond the tomb deterred me; and I had a friend, some spark of goodness was 
yet left in me to have a friend, yet in him I had no faith, for all my friends 
were false, this had been my curse, my belief in friendship was no more. 

Bernard to thee I bequeath my all, and this paper to poison thy enjoyment of 
it; for it is time now that thou shouldst know the man yon loved and trusted was a 
murderer. Aye and that thou hast been beloved by a man upon whose soul was the 
crime of murder^ whose hands have taken the life of a fellow creature. 

I see you shudder as you read the words; your dark eyes glisten ; your brow oon- 
tnusts, and the paper &lls from your hands with horror. Yes, you have shared the 
murderer's home, and lived for years beneath his roof and he blesses you for it, although 
you did it unknowingly. If a murderer's blessing is a curse may Heaven avert it 
power to harm you. 

Three-and-twenty years ago I did the deed, and for three-and-twenty years you 
have been a living reproach to me and I have bom it, for spite of the memories the 
sight of you awakened, I loved you. You think me your father, I am no relation to 
70a. Would to God I had any noble or honest man belonging to me, but I am an out- 
cast from the society of all good or honourable men. 

I am old and sorrow striken, I was once youcg and ys^<!R»^ \hs^ ^vrik. Nsssk^^o^ 
me and I M, so did our first parents. I Co\low«^ Cak^A «£Kck^ «sv<S.\^^V\s&.A.\#t!tt 
M cane of Hnna in my heart and on my brow. li\s\«si, wA \aS» -^^wsb:?.^ -^s^ 


history. Gnrb yonr hot and hasty temper when yon read the evil I was led into 
my unchecked passions. 

My Mother died when I was quite a child, of her I have no recollection. 
Father was a stern and crael man, who received me whenever I came before him v 
hard words and harder blows. I can recollect one day in particular, I had follow 
my father to his study, a room I was never permitted to enter, I saw him ope; 
chest which stood opposite the door, and strew in it a few fresh flowers which he 1 
just gathered, muttering as he did so some words I could not hear. He turned roi 
and saw me peeping through the half-opened door, with an oath he rushed upon 
but I eluded him and contrived to conceal myself from him the whole day. In 
evening I went into the village where I amused myself with some boys of my acqm 
tance ; as we were returning home I beheld my Either coming towards us with a ht 
ing whip in his hand. I could not have been more than seven at the time, but I ' 
see him as if it had happened yesterday. He approached me, for I stood parali: 
with fear at the sight of him, my companions fled in terror and left me alone to b 
the weight of his fury. 

** You young villain " he cried, his eyes flashing fire, Til teach you to carry 
secrets of my house to all the place, take this, and this, and this, I know you, ] 
devil's-imp. These words he accompanied with blows from the whip he carried, 
vain I protested my innocence that I knew of no secrets, he was unmoved, he beat 
until I sank senseless to the ground, then lifting me as though I had been a log 
carried me to the house and threw me into my room. 

The circumstances of that day have been deeply impressed on my mind, an 
cannot eSace the impression. The unjust accusation laid against me, and the blow 
had received sunk deep into my heart and filled it with hatred for the author of 
being. Why he thus disliked me I never could discover, unless it was that my 
semblance to my departed mother remmded him of his loss, it was not for my knc 
ledge of his secrets, for I knew them not, neither did I wish to discover them. Be 
reason what it may he hated me, and I most cordially returned the feeling. Had : 
mother lived this might have been otherwise, but I never had the blessing of a moth( 

I will pass over the years which succeeded this outbreak of passion from ; 
fiither. My hatred towards him grew with my growth, and strengthened w 
my strength. I loved ! Oh how warmly and truly only I can know, the deeper 
the blow which crushed my spirit and made me what I am. 

Alice Granville was seventeen, and lovely as the day, alas sofairandso deceivii 
Then were my days full of unmixed happiness : I loved her and obtained her afifectic 
We were to be united on my return from Vienna, where I went to settle some afii 
for my fiither. I had a friend whom I believed true to me, to him I confided the 
cret of my engagement with Alice. Neville was married at the time, he could ] 
ibenfore etnvy me, little I knew his designing nature; my father was wealthy, he y 
poor, snd lie envied me my riches, now be envoys "what ihould have been mine. Is 

he be bappjr? To him I had coo&dedmy YiaXara^ oi m^ IdfiiQsc, v^^>^^ ^ 


traalmeiit I had erer ezperienoed at his hands, and begged him to keep mj attach- 
meot secret firom him — ^he promised. I bade farewell to my adored Alice, we ex- 
changed TOWS of eternal constancy, and I tore myself away. I had a cousin, he had 
been my oompanion in early yonth, he was away from home when I left England, I 
Wfertold him of my engagement, bat I trusted in his friendship and the constancy 
of AUce— in both I was deceived. I had been more than a year at Vienna, and was 
duly expectiDg a recall home from my £Either. At length I received a letter short 
ind odd| telling me he had heard of oar attachment and would never consent to our 
mioa. How could he have heard it? I vfottld not doubt mj friend. What could 
be his objection to our union? Alfce was an orphan and wealthy. It must be the 
iMSon I foared, his hatred of women. But why should he care what I did, when he 
hated me. Ah ! it was for this reason he would prevent our union. I flew home, 
Neville met me within a mile of my father^s house. In soothing tones of afi^tionate 
eoodolenoe he told me that Alicewas faithless, and had married almost immediately 
OB my leaving England. I knocked him down in the first heat of my anger; then 
nised him and entreated him to forgive me. He graciously pardoned me and smiled 
hk forgiveness— the hypocrite ; as he bade me follow him and see whether his words 
were true or not. He took me to her house, I looked through the window, there she 
Hit, lovelier than I had ever seen her, a sweet smile was on her face as she looked up 
into the eyes of him, my cousin, as he stood gazing down upon her. I could have 
killed him as he stood, but the presence of Neville restrained me. A babe was on her 
hqi. Bernard, that babe was you. Now can you tell who Alice was? your mother: 
Oh seek not for revenge, when you learn this it will be too late, I shall be no more. 
Ai I turned from the spot I marked a smile of triumph on the face of Neville, while 
he asked me if I doubted him now. He knew my hot and hasty disposition, and 
guessed the thoughts I hardly knew myself. He left me. I wandered about the rest 
oftheday I knew not where, at night I went home and slept. Slept did I say? I 
ooold not sleep, my brain was all on fire, whenever I closed my eyes dark visions came 
bflfofe me of blood and murder, and a tempter whispered in my ear revenge I revenge ! 
The moniing dawn brought no relief. My father summoned me to his presence, a 
stormy interview took place between us. The name of Alice did not pass our lips. He 
asked me what I did at home. I said I would be subservient to his will no longer, I 
had retomed to claim my bride. He shuddered and I felt convinced he had arranged 
the phm for raining my happiness. He ordered me from the room, I refused to leave 
it, he stmck me, and. Heaven forgive me, I returned the blow. Neville entered as my 
hand was uplifted in the act; he begged me to be calm, I turned from him and left 
the apartment. Evening came slowly on as I sauntered in the direction of her house. 
What evil demon prompted me? I stood beside the window and looked in. She was 
akoe, I watched and saw a nurse bring in a child, she took it from her arms and was 
left alone with it, I saw her kiss the child and smile upon it. He came not, I could 
bear it no longer; I rushed into the house and stood before her. She started and 
uttered a faint shriek, then hastily laying down \,Yi& c\iM ^<^ <»xd.% \««^\<^ ^&.^« 
•♦A2/a^ &itbha8 bat ever loved/' I cried, Bhe liid\i« ^«fce\xi\i«t \asi^«>^'*^'^* ''^ 


an instant the thonght flashed across my mind to mnrder her; if [she could not be 
mine she should no lonf^r be another*s. I kissed her passionately, and {yet holdinfi; 
her to my heart I grasped her throat with one hand, and| held her firmly until I saw 
that life was extinct. She gave no cry, only one faint stmggle, and all was over. I 
was fearfully calm, I laid her upon the sofa as though she were asleep, and crossed her 
hands upon her breast; her face looked black and livid, but I kissed her, and taking 
the babe in my arms I left the house. That night I took my passage in a steamer to 
Scotland, Arrived there, I gave myself out as a jwidower travelling with his child. I 
remained there some days waiting for news from England, |it came. Imagine the 
horror I experienced on reading of the awful suicide committed by William Gerard, my 
cousin. I knew too well what prompted him to commit that act The paper also 
contained a full account of the mnrder of Alice Granville, and of the* escape! of the 
suspected murderer Bernard Langworth. But, Oh, horror! it contained news for 
which I was totally unprepared, atrocious paracide, my father had been found murdered 
the morning after I had left the country, and I was the suspected author of the bloody 
deed. Thank Heaven, that sin is not on my conscience. Not that I regretted my 
father, his death was rather a relief to me than otherwise, and one sinner less was in 
the world; but the awful nature of his death startled me, and the mysteiy attending 
it puzzled me. But I was not without my suspicions on seeing that Neville had been 
made his hnr and I was disinherited. Ihe witness against me was George Neville; 
were all my fnendsto fail me and be traitors to their friendship? He rekted the scene 
when I had lifted my hand against my father, also my expressed hatred for him ; all 
seemed clear as day, the police were after me, if I set foot in England I was a dead 
man. I threw the paper from me, I could see no more. Since that day I have never 
seen one. Alice, Alice, I loved you well and truly, to your pittilessness is owing all 
my misery. I could have murdered Am, whom I then hated as much as I had formerly 
loved, but that would not have been such certain revenge, for it would have pained, 
her. Therefore «Ae should die and he would find her murdered. What would be his 
agony, I gloried in the thought of the grief he would endure, robbed even of his child 
no hope left in life, he would pay the penalty of his falseness, while she would be 
sleeping peacefully in death. He had folt the wound I had inflicted and could not 
bear up against his sorrow ; he was dead. 

I envied him the blesring of joining her thus soon, but no, he would not join her. 
Is the same Heaven open to the innocent and guilty ? Had he not violated the strictest 
rights of friendship and added self-murder to his former sins ? Yet had I ever told 
him of my engagement with Alice, no, he had been away at the time, only Neville 
knew of it, yet surely he had told Gerard of her former engagement with me. 

Alice, the &ult is yours, I try in vain to excuse you to myself; you too wen 

gculty. But peace be with you, miner of my happiness, you can sin no more. Peace, 

peace, to my troubled soul; there is no peace for the;murderer even in the tomb, I 

shed no blood, I murdered her cahnly— coldly, would I could now feel cahn as I did 

tbm, yet it was a fearful calmness. 

'*Ber9ag9iMBmtifit'' I murmur to m^M\() ^«\. \ ^xvi^ \\.\»N.\«c. ^Wi «x« Ita 


fniiti? a troubled ooDfloieDce in life, and a death-bed witbonthope. Woe, woe^everlast- 
iqg woe. I trarblled with the child Bernard as I called it, yon bear a marderer^s name» 
oh! may yoa never bear bis weight of sin upon your conscience. My only joy was 
to look at yoa and watch yon in yonr innocence, knowing that she had loved you; 
fir great as was the evil she had wrought against me I could not cease to love her. 
I thought of heroold and dead sleeping in her grave, and her hnsband by her side. 
B» moft havo known he had my place. 

''Alioe, thon false yet loved one, sleep in peace,* and if 'tis true that the 
ipritt of the mnrdered haunt the murderer, blest spirit come to me." Bemorse deep 
nd bitter oloaves to me for the deed I committed, but I experience no sensations of 
honor when thinking of it; she looked so calm— she died so quietly ; yet it was mnrder 
UadE and fooL I became a Boman Catholic, and had you brought np in that creed. 
I wore sackdoth next iny skin, and confessed my sins to a priest: after mach £uting 
nd many prayers absolution was granted to me, but I must spend many weary years 
iniaittof? and prayer eer I shall feel the absolution perfect and recorded in Heaven 
Father Franob wished you to become a priest, but I refused all his entreaties and 
kft yoa fires. .Eaeh day I intended to confide this history to yon, but each day I put 
it ofl^ dreading yoa woold revenge yoar mother's murder. I loved yon too well, I 
voidd not asd you stain yonr hands with blood, and sn£Eer the mental torments I have 
doDs. When I am dead then shall you know the secret of my misery. Is not my 
r wiftefaed life revenge enough for you? Have I not ever loved you and treated yoa 
M a soo; and have yoa not returned my love ? Pity me then and pardon me. 

Neville; the name is like a dagger to my heart; oould he be my friend— he my 
loeaser who laid a fether's life to my charge, and revelled in that father's fortune I 
A stnuige suspicion at times crosses my mind, that he knew better than any one 
how that deed was done, better than I whom every one accused. Heaven forgive me if 
oj SDspicions are anjost. But enough, I had murdered the young and lovely, he (per- 
hi^} the old and guilty; each will meet the punishment of their crime, sooner or later. 
For many years I lived in daily dread of being discovered, I travelled from place 
to plaos^ I and the boy; when people saw us together and marked my devotion to yoa 
th^ woold gaze sadly on us and say, ** poor man, how he must have loved his wife. " 
Huo I woald weep, tears did me good and cooled the burning anguish of my heart 

For five years we have lived here, where soon I shall sleep in the graveyard I see 
fioni my window. My only hope is in the grave, but all is doubt and nnoertamty. 
I have repented— atonement I cannot make— all I could do I have done in loving and 
oariqg ftr thee, a firiendless orphan; and I have been rewarded in your love. 

Gorw not my memory: you are what once I was— young and hasty: let not my 
stoiy orgs yoa on to a bloody deed; rather let it be a warning to you. Think of 
the remorse of a whole life after^^think of a death withoot hope in the life to come. 
If there mercy fer such as I? Mercy, mercy: Lord have mercy upon me a sinner. 
The yotmg man rose firom his seat, and raising his clenched hands to Heaven, 
shouted in aooents which cansed the priest to start li\um»^3 \a\^Sm«!^ w[A>i^ 
ofaamber to t9-eobo the soond- " Bevenge! Revengiel 'B«t«n^V' aaii ^>(^ N^««!^ 
wmd^ Moda&ceof dettdlj /xaieness, he rasbed from iVia Viovmw. 

(To be Continued.) \.kn^t>^^ 


fSLinti Gratis '0 CDieitabUjeifiment. 

Let all the yoang Ladies, 

Who come to " Miss Grady V 
To learn the accomplishments hinted at here — 

To write and to read HI, 

And work at their needle, 
All pay to Miss Grady £200 a year. 

Each brings at beginning, 

Two changes of linen, 
For two pair of stockings are better than oiie^ 

For a young Lady can't dress 

Whenever her Lanndress 
Has all her clothes hanging out in the sun. 

Altho' it seems fanny. 

They mustn't bring money. 
Miss Grady will give 'em whatever's thought fit* 

If parents are willing. 

Each week they've a shilling, 
Or if they are naughty but sixpence they get 

Bring spoons and a towel. 

For aU must know how ill, 
A young Lady looks who don't keep herself nice : 

And none must fcnrsooth come 

Without a small toothcomb. 
Unless they're relations — ^then one will suffice. 

In French they address her, 

And then a Professor 
Will mesmerise any one (if they'll keep still.) 

He comes to Miss Grady's, 

And tells the young Ladies 
That ether and chloroform cure ev'ry ill— 

For ether and stupor, 

(So says Dr. Cooper,) 
t' Will quiet e'en Ladies — they would'nt stir a peg ; 

And it isn't uncommon 

To see an old woman 
At " Gu/s" even laugh while they cut off her leg. 

They rest on the floor too, 
An hour or more too. 
For fear they should happen to grow the wrong way: 
They each hold the backboard, 
And then Mr. Hacksword, 
The Drill- Saijeant calls for Iwo'VioTun 1^ ^7. 


Thej'ye no calethenics, 

Because the Misa Fenwicks 
Last winter were swinging, the hook oanght their clothes; 

The eldest} good lack ! 

Fell and injured her back, 
And took all the skin off the end of her nose. 

A master from France too 

Will teach them to dance too, 
Both polking and waltzing in elegant style; 

For Monsieur La Fadie 

Will waltz with each ladj, 
(Miss Grady herself in the room all the while.) 

Then let the yoong ladies 

Who come to Miss Grady's, 
To learn the accomplishments hmted at here— 

Bring, at the beginning, 

Two changes of linen. 
And pay to Miss Grady two hundred a-year. Ivr. 

" Oni, j*ai rompn mon esdayage, 

Je vais^former un. autre amour, 
Je me suis ^dis, elle est yolage." 

'^ Je serais yolage k mon tour." 
Je le yeuz, mius mon coeur rebelle, 

Refuse nn si p^nible effort, 
Je dis que je suis infid^le, 

Et cependant — Je Taime encore I 
J'ai yu une beauts dont les charmes, 

Deyraient m* arracher i ta loi, 
Elle aurait essny^ les larmes. 

Que je r^pands auprds de toL 
Sa touchante m^Iancolie, 

Ayec mes yosuz serait d*aocord, 
Elle est sensible, elle est jolie, 

Et cependant — Je I'amie encore I 
Pnisque telle est ma destine 

Sans murmurs il hnt la subir, 
Mon Anme i la tienne enchain^e, 

Ne oonnait plus d' autre d^sir. 
Suis ton humeur yiye et l^gec^, 

Je gardenia mon doox tcsa&'gKnt, 
Mt qtumd m^me je devrais \» diplvktQ, 
«/• te dirai, " Je faima enwoiter _ 



A Tale of the Seventeenth Century, 

[Continued Arom page 24.] 

When Florence visited her father in the morning with her good wishes, beamii 
smiles, and affeeUonate congratalations, she was rejoiced to find that her words 
the preceding night had taken effect, and Herbert's reqnest was granted. 

'* Yon shall be the bearer jonrself of a message that will give them so mm 
pleasure," said Mr. Shirlj; ''bat why joar cousin is in such a harry to be kill< 
I cannot imagine; it is absolate folly; yoa have made me yield to it, and on yo 
head be the conseqaences, miss.** 

Florence's joy was onboanded, and declaring she was mach more happy thi 
even her sister coald be, she iiew off to execute her happy mission. And Eveline w 
very happy, for although this fulfilment of his wishes comprised a separation fro 
her betrothed, and though she dreaded danger for him, she had imbibed enough 
his sentiments to make her prefer for him a life of glorious peril to one of inglorioi 
security. It was then decided that Herbert should join a regiment of Gavalie 
under a cousin of Mr. Shirly's, which, though seemingly disbanded in order to qui 
the suspicions of their enemies, held itself in readiness to assemble at the first oppo 
tonity of being of use to the king. But he was not to leave them till May, and '. 
looked forward to many happy clays in the interval, and his marriage was to tal 
place with Eveline before he left her. 

''Bemember, Charles,'* said the gentle Eveline, *'you are engaged to ride wi 
OS this afternoon." 

'* Oh, depend upon it," exclaimed Florence, *' he has got some other engagemeo 
he never keeps his promises, and when Harry Forster or George Gage require h 
company, his sisters are of very little consequence. Now confess, sir, have not y( 
got some other plan of your o?m for this afternoon ? " 

^ Exactly so, sweet sister ; I regret to say that I shall be obliged to deny mys( 
the pleasure of accompanying you, but as to having promised to do so, I confess 
have no recollection of it Herbert, I believe I may count upon you to form one 
our party." 

'*No, no, if yoa are engaged," siud Herbert; '*my cousins cannot certainly ri 
alone, and if they will accept me as an escort, I shall only be too glad." 

Florence looked dignified: "Indeed I Tm very much obliged to you. And i 
yoa really will condescend to ride with us; but for my part I mean to go with M 
Warren to the Downs. He shall ride Homeo, and 1 2^phyr, and well have a rac 
Mr. Warren, do yoa hear, will you be so kind ais to ride with as? Eveline can < 
as she likes, but I go with no one but you." 

^ You do me too much honour. Miss Florence. I would willingly accompai 

jou ; indeed, I may say I should feel much gratification from so doing ; but if 

m^bt be permitted to mount the brown steed which I have often essayed to manag 

laboald greatly prefer it, as on the other liaad, W \ mouTx\. \2ti« Vqi^ "jqu ^"d^i Eomt 

^igbt not an accident ensue ? " 


''Well, which steed 70a please; bat ride with 70a I most, and shall,'' she replied, 
iaaghing; ** the b<>78 can do ybtj well withoat 70a, and I should so eDJ07 it.* 

** I dare sa7 70a woold, Florence," whispered Charles, " bnt, remember, if the 
old fellow is reall7 thrown, something serioos might transpire, which woold not be 
quite pleasant for 70a." 

** It is Yer7 ridicoloas of 70a, Florence," added Herbert; *' wh7 can't 70a let me 
rids with 700." 

" What I is it possible," she asked mth mock gravit7, " 70a reall7 imagine for 
SQ iostaat, I am gdng to ride with him ? Oh dear, no ! I assure 70Q I haye no 
soch intention.'' 

Charles langhed, and offered to walk with her and Emil7, if the7 woold yentnre 
oat before Inncheon. The7 agreed, and the bo7s and Mr. Warren proceeding to the 
stables, Eyeline and Herbert gladl7 availed themselves of the librar7 and a good fire 
sllto themselyes; and the7 were not, I will venture to sa7, the least happ7 of the 
part7. As the conversation of these two is likel7 to be Ter7 uninteresting to an7 but 
themselTes, we will leave them, and follow the walking part7. Florence appeared 
to her brother's great discomfiture, with a large white jog in her hand, a tin-can on 
her arm, and a basket at her feet, which she had consideratel7 doomed him to carr7. 

** Florence, Florence, what now I Do 70U suppose I am going to be seen in 
eQ0ipan7 with that thing ? (pointing to the jug) Steam coming from it, I dechure ! 
Ma7 1 be allowed to ask what it is ? and what is its destination ? " 

** Oh, ifs onl7 a littie gruel for old Dame Meriton. Look, I have got the soup, 
sod I thought 70U would cany the basket Now don't be cross ; the poor old thing 
was 70iir nurse, and 70U ought to be kind to her. Come, lift up the basket, do." 

'' What! 70U don't mean to sa7 70U are going to take me to that old woman'^ 
again, who tells me ever7 time I see her what a good little bib7 1 was I And I'm to 
carrj that basket too. And pra7 what's in it? Cold fat, I presume; or something 
eqoally disgusting. Wh7, ma7 1 ask, cannot 70U send those charitable presents b7 
the servants ? Wh7, m7 dear girl, 70a will have a train of littie bo7S after 70a." 

Fkirence looked disconsolate. " I can't help it," she began, but Emil7 at that 
moment joining them, her entreaties were found more successful, and Charles being 
pTBvafled upon to take up the obnoxious basket, the trio set off. 

" How i hate this sort of da7," began Florence, slipping about in the mud to 
the imminent danger of nurse's gruel. " Give me the long, long summer da7s, when 
one can almost live out of doors under the free blue sky, listening to the songs of 
birds, inhaling the perfume of flowers, and reall7 eDJ07ing life as it should be, — as 
it was meant to be enjoyed I mean. Don't 70U agree with me, Emil7 ? " (Florence 
alwa7B became rather mist7 when she wished to be particularl7 eloquent.) 

^ 1 dare sa7 1 should, if I quite understood 70a ; do you mean that taking our 
pleasure out of doors is the true enjo7ment of life ? " 

** Inoonoeivable ! You do t^e things so hpied de la Uttre ; of course I know 
there are other wa7s of enjo7ing oneself besides tsk\n^«L'vi^\ '^xi\»^^\>'S?^«R>« 
I see yoo ure going to begin, so I shall go to Mr. VJwwti, Mi^iQS)3&a>CL\m ^rcj S5qs»» 
tinaoaumjogs. See, Oiere he ia, isn't it a good ^\axi^ '' «EL'^\iWJ3iS^x^^^>^'^^^ 


soon loading the unhappy tutor with her pot8 and cans, and then (perhaps she had a 
reason for it) continned with her brothers. Charles was thos left alone with Emily, 
an opportunity he was never known to neglect, bat which on the present occasion 
he began by hastening, perhaps because he had sometliing of more than nsnal im- 
portance to commonicate. 

" Florence does not seem to me to improve, he began; " she is just as wild and 
thoughtless as ever. I confess she disappoints me rather ; though, perhaps, it is my 
own fault, and I ought to be proud of her instead." 

** Would you have perfection ? " replied his companion. " Florence is so kind, so 
affisctionate, so thoroughly by nature imselfish, that to my idea she falls very little 
short of it Think, tiien, what this very morning she has done for Herbert They 
seem very happy those two." 

*'And they deserve to be; he is a noble boy, and will do honour to his cause; 
but I confess I tremble for him, he is so impetuous, and he would, I really 
believe rush into danger for its own sake. But enough of him; — if I could only 
share his danger and his glory I should be quite content" 

''Toul Why, Charles, it would be folly. Herbert is just fitted for it; but 
you ** 

''And why not I? But, Emily, forgive me, if I talk to you of yourself. Why 
are you not happy and gay as Florence is? Is there anything in which I could 
help yon? If there is, you know you may claim my utmost sympathy and aid as 
£ur as it can be of service to you.** 

*^ You are very very kind. I am not happy, it is true; but that I am not is my 
own fault I dare not wish to be more so than I am, for I will look forward only 
to happiness hereafter; it was never meant that we should be happy here." 

" Tet when it is placed withm our reach, is it not foolish, nay, ungrateful, to 
repine and pass it by ? You say you are in fault ; if you feel this, why not alter ? 
Forgive me, dearest, dearest Emily, that I venture to speak so to you ; but you make 
me anxious, and I cannot forget that we have been children together — (she looked up 
as if she thought they were so still) — and that once you did not scorn to ask and 
to follow my advice. Do we not all love you? Are we not all ready to make you 

She did not answer him directly, and when she did her eyes filled with tears, 
and her voice trembled. " Yes, I have owned it to be my own fault; it is because I 
am reserved and shy; I can have no sympathy with the others; the dreadful scenes 
of my childhood recur with such vivid reality tome at times; — I am ungrateful. 
I do, indeed, blame myself more than you can blame me. I am proud, I know it, 
but I cannot help it ; I am so weak ; only bear with me, for I have no mother — no 
father; and I had once a home so happy, oh I so happy; a very paradise of love. 
I cannot forget it: the day of horror that banished joy from that hornet 
Mod peace from my jbeart, is ever present with me. Oh ! Charles, had you seen 
Me me tboee raSSaas vioiating the sanctity oi lyout \wiinftv— ^'^ l^s^ \kR^\ nJba 


insoltB heaped npoa mj beaatiful, my idolized mother; and then, when saccoor 
came, had yoa seen her, who had so bravely borne np in the time of sorrow and 
peril, fiideaway before your eyes; gently, slowly fadeaway, nntil she died ! It is 
three years ago, bat the thought will never, never leave me. Had yon seen all this 
yoa would feel that my onhappiness, my reserve, if you will, was the inevitable 
coDieqnenoe of anch a childhood." 

He replied in words that soothed and comforted her. 

** My greatest happiness,* she went on, ** is when you are at home. Oh, you 
cannot think how heavily and wearily the days pass by when yon are away; no 
one seems to tmderstand me as yon do.** 

Conquering with difficolty the thrilling emotions which her artless speech had 
onooDsdonsly awakened, he replied by gently urging her to make an effort over 
faenelf, to mix more with the others, and in domg her duty steadily in every day 
life, to forget as far as possible the sorrows of her childhood. 

**! will try; indeed I will," she murmured in answer; and then, looking up 
enoe more into his fiuie with childlike earnestness, she said: " and you will help me, 
desr Charles, I have so many, many iaults; but you will help me to cure them, will 

My readers, I appeal to you; was not this more than mortal man could stand? 
And ffou will not be surprised as poor little Emily was, at the passionate declaration 
with which her innocent petition for guidance and assistance was received. The 
declaratioii that it had been for years his highest hope, and the only end of all 
his effiirts, to become one day worthy to be her guide and protector through life. 
Bat we will not proceed, for it is impossible to do justice to the scene which 
followed; suffice it to say, that though Emily was very much surprised, she could 
not be said to be displeased at this unlooked-for result of ^her morning walk; 
and as she was of a much too guileless and childlike nature to conceal her true 
sentiments at such an avowal, the hour which followed was one of purest delight 
to them both, and amply rewarded Charles for the innumerable doubts and fears 
with which he had tormented himself (as is the case with most young men in 
his predicament) for the last month. The happiest day however must come to 
a dose, and in due coarse of time they arrived at a turn in the road which brought 
anrse's cottage in view, the end of their expedition. Winter, though it was, the 
landscape before them, all silvered over with frost, was so picturesqae, that in spite 
of the engrossing nature of their conversation, Emily involuntarily exclaimed: 
** How beautiful I" and they both stood still to gaze. Suddenly the silence around 
them was interrupted by a piercing shriek. 

(^0 be conUnued in our nexl^ 


Mother ! the clouds have all floated away ! 
Let me go forth in the fields to play I 
Why shoald I tarry withm for hours, 
When the earth is bright with such beaatifol flowers? 
See how the glorions sun is ap ! 
Sipping the dew from the harebell's cnp ! 
Birds and insects are skimming away ! 
Let me go forth in the fields to play — 
And, mother ! Ill gather a ?rreath for thee 
Of flowers that shew what my thoughts may be ! 
Flowers of crimson, yellow, and bine, 
Lovely and bright as the rainbow's hue ! 
Flowers whose beantifal odoors rise 
Like incense offiarings to the skies ! 
Flowers which speak the language of love 
To my mother on earth, and God above ! 
The *' snowdrop" first in my wreath 111 place ; 
It is pure as my baby-brother's face ! 
How oft, when I've seen it in woodland wild. 
Have I thought it look'd Uke a litUe chUd ! 
And, oh ! I have pray'd I may ever be 
As that emblem of child-like purity ! 
The ** violet" next my wreath must grace, 
For it seems to breathe of my sister's face ! 
I have thought sometimes it has borne the hue 
Of my sister's downcast eye of blue ! 
And when its beautiful head I have seen 
Kestling among its leaves of green, 
I have prayed that my sister might ever be 
Thus sheltered frt)m all adversity I 
I'll gather a spray from the orange flower, 
Meet offering for the bridal bower ! 
Some day I shall deck vrith its blossoms' rare 
The golden curls of my cister's hair ! 
The clustering ** woodbine" that clings round the tree 
Shews how we cling, dear mother, to thee:— 
And long may our anna round thy neck be press'd 
In a home of peace by thy presence bless'd ! 
And then the last two flowers I cull, 
Oh ! are they not passing beautilril ?— 
The **BoBe,*' the emblem of love ah&Ll be •, 
Such loy§ u I bear, my mother^ to thne. 


The other shall shew thon art ne*er forgot. 
For the flower is named "Forget-me-not.'* 
And when that hour, mj mother I shall come 
That we meet no more in this happy home- 
When thy child shall have wandered far away, 
And yon gaze on the wreath I shall twine to-day, 
That Flower, my dearest mother I shall be 
The Token to shew how I think of thee ! 



Old as the world, or older still in birth, 

My many qoalities well known to all, 
I rise without an effort from the earth. 

Without an effort from the sky I fall! 
Who can describe my empire? who shall tell 

The nniversal homage to me paid? 
Where'er the land extends, or oceans swell. 

The nations call upon my mighty aid! 
The countless treasures of the vastly deep 

Within my grasp I hold, my sport and prey; 
Ko bounds restiain me, I no limits keep. 

Where'er I please I force my onward way! 
Of heat and cold, the attributes are mine, 

Silent am I, and loud, and swift, and slow; 
As hard and bright as polished steel I shine. 

Or meet the touch as soft as new fiUl'n snow ! 
Bitter and sweet, I Nature's wants relieve, 

They die in misery who have me not; 
Alike a hearty welcome I receive 

In gorgeous palaces, and lowliest oot I 
I kill, 1 cure, I yield, and I reust, 

Tho' prison'd close, and barr'd, yet still I can 
With force almost omnipotent, assist 

The energies of all-inventive man ! 
Once in obedience to divine conmiand 

Ood's instrument of wrath, on earth I came. 
Death in my train, unpeopling ev'ry land, 

Hurrying my victims to eternal flame! 
Since then a happier ofiSce on me fell. 

An office to mankind in mercy giv'n; 
And I who sent an erring world to HeU, 

Now abew a world redeem.'d the W&7 \.o YL«8i:<9«a\ 

NioBTSHADE re^ptesU an arwioer to iKe Joregowg* 



The Baron was seated in his stndj, the gloom which was habitual to him was 
partially dispelled from his conntenance. He was gazinf; on the portrait of his 
daughter which hnng opposite to him, and his eyes would ever and anon tnm 
towards the avenue, along which she was approaching the Castle. It was impossible 
for the Baron not to love that gentle being, to whom his every wish was law; bat even 
when in the midst of those caresses he so seldom lavished on her, his brow would 
darken, and he would turn away, for a son was all that he had wished for. But 
the soul of the Lady Blanche was calm and unruffled as a summer's eve, and the sha- 
dow which would then overcast her was soon dispersed, for there was one to whom she 
could open each thought and wish of her innocent heart She cared not if the blood 
which flowed in his veins was less noble than hers. His soul was noble and was 
sufficient. Not so the Baron : she knew that he would never consent to her union 
with any one of inferior birth, such as Bertram Glififord; from shame, with that 
delicacy of feeling which was natural to her, she had concealed her superior station. 
When, therefore, she was summoned before her father on her return from a meeting 
with her lover, her mind misgave her, and it was with difficulty that she could force 
her tremling limbs to fulfil their office. 

^Blanche," said her futher, as she entered, ''my child, come hither; I wish to 
speak with you." 

The unusually kind tone of his voice dispelled all the fear, and she advanced 

" Bead this letter," continued the Baron, '* it is the answer to one I wrote to the 
young Earl of Northumberland." 

It was a formal consent to his uiuon with Blanche, but from the style it was 
evident that he was as unwilling as herself to the marriage, and a reluctant consent 
had been wrung from him by a sense of honour, which alone prevented him from 
refusing to fulfil a treaty which had been made by his &ther without either his 
consent or knowledge. 

Tather,'* said the Lady Blanche when she had finished the letter, and her 
voice was firm, though her face was pale, " I cannot wed this man." 

« Cannot," furiously ejaculated the Baron. '' I say you shalL Why can you 

" Because I love another; and I will wed him or none. I forbore to mention it 
to you because I feared you would not consent to my marriage with one whose birth 
was not noble." 

''Not noble!" thundered the Baron, "and who is the low-bom churl who has 
dared to love my daughter?" 

" His name is Bertram Clifford, but if you knew how noble, how good he is, 
yon would not call him low-b(Hm. Oh I my fiither, forgive us, and make us both 
iuppy bf consenting to a union in which believe me I shall be a gainer." 
''Never," was the stem reply of the Barou^ as Yv« t^xxWXfiA. \>aa ^i.v^-tVsafttA.. 
TIuU aigbt Ui6 Lady Blanche quitted the liom& oi Vvoc «ai^«a.\At%) %.\A^%^V& v 


mnU chapel at the entrance of the yale. Here Bertram was awaiting her with a 
priest A few minutes sufficed to make them one. They )efb the place immediately 
and Bertram brought her to a small but beautiful dwelling about five days' journey 
firam her native home. 

Two years sped fast away. Blanche was a happy wife and mother, and 
nettung was wanting for the completion of her happiness but her father's forgiveness. 
The wars between the Bed and White Roses were raging with redoubled violence, 
ind Bertram received a summons to take up arms in behalf of his sovereign. It 
was the first time she had parted from her husband, and BUnce felt the separation 
keenly. Her time was entirely devoted to her boy; and as day after day he grew 
mora like Bertram she would sit listening to his innocent prattle, and hear him lisp 
forth the endearing name of father. But, alas ! This happiness was doomed to be 
of short duration, and while Blanche was absorbed by her domestic felicity, a doud, 
she could not foresee, was impending over her head. 

There was a beautiful arbour situated at the foot of the garden, and here 
Blanche was seated with her child on a lovely autumn evening, when she startled by 
bearing a deep voice before her pronounce — Beware, danger is at hand. Blanche 
toned and saw before her a tall woman, whose earnest gaze confused and terrified 

« Do not fear me, sweet Lady," continued the woman, as she marked Blanche's 
cheek turn pale. I would sooner die than injure ahair of your head. I am come to 
wam yon. Tour &ther has discovered yoor retreat, and is now not more than a 
qoarter of an hour from here." 

^My £ather," faltered Blanche, as she sank back on the saat she had justed 

"Tes, Lady, yeur father ; but you have not a minute to lose. Fly instantly.'* 

'^ It is too late," said a voice behind her, and the Baron stood beside them. 

Bhmohe's first impulse was a lend scream, but with a violent effort she con- 
trolled herself, for she knew that nothing but an undaunted appearance could save, 
lur. Cahnly calling her son, she lifted him up and bade him kiss his grandfather. 
Bat with terrific violence the Baron flung the helpless infont from him, and it would 
Ittve faUlen to the ground if the strange woman had not caught it in her arms, 

** Who are you that tries to defeat my projects, and gave this Lady warning of 
my approach," exclaimed the Baron as he saw her action. 

Proudly drawmg herself up, the woman flung back her hood, and demanded:— 
"Are yon content?" With the roar of a lion the Baron darted towards her, but 
before he could reach her she had glided firom the spot, and was lost in the sur- 
voonding shrubbery. 

The Baron called to his attendants, who were awaiting his summons outside the 
gardflQ. In a few minutes all were prepared to start, and Blanche was forced from 
that happy home, which she was never to see again. 

Out of pity for his youth, Blanche had been spax^^vw Og^^. '^x^ w«ek\i«» ' 
pnuBot coaM not soothe her fears nor calm her axoioviA \k»as\>. Ksl^^X^^"^^^^ 


reached the end of their journey, her strength fiiiled her, and she was carried almost 
nnoonscioiis to her apartment. 

For many days Blanche did not see her father; but when at hist he came, every 
trace of displeasure was banished from his countenance. 

'* Prepare to receive your future husband, Blanche," he commenced. '* I have 
written to request an interview with the Earl of Northumberland; but, therefore, he 
is as yet ignorant I have already applied to the Pope for a divorce. It will not be 
refused, and you shall then ^ 

But the unhappy wife heard no more ; with a low groan she sunk senseless at 
his feet. 

When Blanche returned to consciousness all her strength of mind was called 
into action, and she swore to put an end to her own life sooner than meet the EarL 
Drawing a dagger, which was her constant companion, from its sheath, she was 
about to plunge it into her heart, when her hand was suddenly arrested, and the 
stranger we have already mentioned presented herself to her view. 

** Why do you take such an interest in my fiite? I am nothing to you,' 
exclaimed BUnche, astonished to see an entire stranger assume the part of a 
guardian angeL 

''You are all to me," answered the woman; '' You are my daughter." 
*' Your daughter I" gasped Blanche. " For ^ty's sake tell me who and what 

« Do not shrink from me: you have nothing to reproachme mth, my child. For 
reasons yon shall one day know, I have made a vow never to enter my husband's 
dwelling, and for your sake 1 have broken my oath. But I must not delay here. 
Promise me before I go you will not take your own life." 

Blanche gave the required promise, and her mother left her. 

The terrible moment came at last. She was sent for by her father to appear 
in the presence of the EarL With a proud and haughty step she entered the hall, 
A well known voice exclaiming *' Blanche I" made her raise her eyes. Another 
minute and she was in her husband's arms. 

The Baron stood thunderstruck, and then, half comprehending the scene, be 
raised his daughter from the Earl's arms. But it was too late ; the spuit had fled 
to its eternal resting place. The beautiful, the gentle Lady Blanche was no more. 

The mystery which hung over the affiur was soon d^tared up. Each mistaking 
the other's true position had efifoctually concealed their vow; and the only secret 
they had ever kept from each other was the cause of everhisting misery. 

The Baron soon followed his daughter to the grave, and the Earl sought other 
lands, a broken-hearted man, to seek in the pursuit of true religion the comfort he 
-daymred of Ending elsewhere. 



** Schwore es, und Da bist fieL" 

**'^Bf wifldersetzte Badolph, nie will ioh meine Freiheit mit ihrem Untergang 
erkanfon, todte mich, zerachneide mich in kleine Stiicke, woUe lieber, dass mein 
diese nngHickliche Erde bis in Ewigkeit besuohti ich yerdiene es; doch sie 
imbernhrt blei ben, bd alien Tenfeln schwore ich." 

In diesem Angenblick erschienen hnndert Tenfelchen zn entsetzlich nnd 
aboohreckend mn sie zn beschreiben nnd begannen nm die Beiden hemm zn tanzen. 

Dieser entsetzliche Anblick ersohtitterte Sabioa nnd sie sank ohnmachtig znr 
Erde. Als sie wieder zn sich kam, fand sie sich in einem schonen, prachtwollen 
Zimmer, die Sonne strahlte glanzend dnrch das Fenster, nnd anf einem Tische 
stoindi viele frische nnd eingemachte Friichte sie wnsste nicht, wo sie war. Den 
gaoinn Tag lang sah sie niemand, doch als sie am Abend da sass nnd weinte, wnrde 
8M TOO einem lanten Klopfen an der Thnr erschrect ; sie offiiete sich, nnd eine kleine, 
hSasliehe, Tersehmmpte, alte Fran trat in die Stnbe hinein, nnd mit lanter, 
galknder Stimme sagte sie. 

"Bist Dn nicht Sabina, Bndolph Wertarold's Weib?" <<Ich bin es," antworteto 
die anne Sabina." 

"Sag mir, wo ist Dein Mann?** fnhr die Hexe fori." 

" Aeh, ich weiss es nicht, nnd wer Dn anch bist, sag, mir ich bitte Dich, wo 
nnd in wessen Gewalt ich bin ?" 

«Ich bin nicht hieher gekommen, nm Done nengierigen Fragen zn beant- 
worten, doch bore, was ich Dir erzahlen werden, es ist die sonderbare Geschichte 
Deines Mannes." 

** Ungefahr zwd Monate nach Deiner Hochzeit, als Dein Mann das Abends nach 
Hanse znmck ging, sah er eine junge, wnnderschone Dame tranrig anf einem 
Steine dtaen. So bald sie Baddph bemerkte, stand sie anf nnd sagte ihm." 

" Erbarmen ! edler Herr, mit der Betriibniss eincr verlassenen Jnngfran I " 

** Verlassen nnd so jnng and schon, rief Badolph ans, es kann nicht sein !** 

''Doch ist es so, wiedersetzte das Madchen, nnd wenn ich Eadi nicht znm 
Mitleid bew^en kann, so moss ich hier an diesem Schreckensort sterben." 

«lGh bin kein Barbar, sagte er, kommet mit mir nach Hanse, wo meine Fran 
mit Frenden fur Ench sorgen wird." 

''Mit Ench nach Enrem Hanse, rief sie erschhrocken ans, nnmoglich, das 
kann nimmer geschehen Allein miisst Ibr mich retten, miisst niemals von mir zn 
Eorer Fnui sprechen, thnt Alles, was ich Each sage, nnd Ihr werdet es nie 

" Doch zn erst, schone Fremde, sagte Badolph, sagt mir wer Ihr seid." 

" Meine Geschichte ist lang nnd tranrig, doch da Ihr mir znm Better geschickt 
sod, sollet Ihr dieselbe horen, Allein, ehe ich sie anfange, schworet mich zn 

"Ich Bohwon" sagte Badolph. 

Job biD die Tocbt«r des Grafen yon HobeiiBl^ii, loftvaft '^VoXVist ^Naa&a> ^^ ^^ 



noch klein war, imd mein Vater folgte ihrvor ange^hr Fier Jaghren ins Grab, 
fleitdetn stand ich anter der Fiihrong einer stolzen, hochmiithigen, gebieterischen 
Stiefmatter; Ich hatte mein achzehntes Jahr noch nicht erreicht, als sie mir be&hl, 
den Baronn Greitznach za heirathen. Er warein armer, hasslicher, alter Mann, 
doch mdne Stiefmntter liebte ihn wegen seines Adels. Viellmcht hatte ich ihn 
geheirathet, wenn ich nicht den jnngen Waldmann einen Stadenten, der keinen 
Heller hatte, geliebt, Meine Stiefmntter horte Ton onserer Liebe und sagte mir, dass 
wenn Waldmann wieder ins Schloss kame er sterben soUe. Basch nnd wild wie ich 
war, wagte ich es nnd fuhrte Waldmann vor ihren Angen ins Schloss hinein. Nie 
werde ich ihren Ansdmck yei^gessen, als sie sagte.'' 

"Madchen veraohtest Dn anf diese Weise meine Befehle? Deine schwerste 
Bestrafhng wird der Tod Deines Liebhabers sein. Ehe eine andere Sonne nntergeht, 
sollst Da Waldmann's zerrissenen Leichnam sehen." 

''Fliehe Waldmann, fliehe, rief ich ans, AUes soil gewagt werden, nm Dein 
Schicksal abzawenden, mein Bint soil fiir Dich fliessen, mein Leben soil Dich 

£r lachelte nnd ging leise fort 


Fortsetznng folgt 




iCatUmued/iwn Page 18,] 


Kerer did Grecian cblael trace 
A njmph, a naiad, or a grace, 
Of finer form, or lorlier face.— Scott. 

The door of Donna Inez' apartment was scarcely closed on the Marqnis de 
Villena, when it was re-opened to admit Don Boderigo. Faithfhl to his promise 
he had come to visit the heartless Inez, and to layish compliments on one who 
only langhed at his attentions. He was gracionsly reoeiyed; bnt Donna Inez' 
brow snddenlj donded over, when Boderigo informed her, that as he was on his 
waj to Court, where she donbtless was likewise going, he shonld be delighted 
to escort her thither. Inez however readily regained her self-possession, and 
with a placid smile said, that excessive fatigue would prevent her from prostrat- 
ing herself at the throne of their beautiful and youthful Queen. 

After showers of well-tumed compliments, which were lost on the proud 

Inei; Boderigo took his leave, and hastily bent his steps to the royal palace; he 

sotared the audience chamber, and having kissed the hands of Ferdinand and 

Jsabel/B, placed bimseif amidst the assemUed cfiQx\Asn\ Ya \^ t»3^ T«amsL«l 

Amff there when m bouquet of white roeea fell 1.1 ^ l«^> «& 'Va ^V»vn^ \(k Y^ 

ii apM son aUvmj voice said: "It Is mine." 


Thne was something so melodiooslj expressive in it, that Boderigo gazed 
inttutlj aroand in search of the speaker; he beheld a beaatifal blonde, her flaxen 
looks and bright blue eyes, shewed she was not one of Hispanla^s children ; this 
fingile maiden was far from ner nalaTe land: AUemania claimed her as her own; 
and though she had spent her childhood's smmy dajs, and was now verging on 
womanhood, in attending on the royal Isabella, the Donna Catalina had lost none 
of her northem charms, bnt was nniversally called "the Naiad of the Rhiney 
Boderigo presented her with the bonqaet, which she received with becoming grace 
and said in a hardly andible voice: 

''Don Boderigo, a danger which I see menacing yon causes me to overstep 
the boonds of maiden bashfolness, think not ill of me, bat come, after the Qneen 
has retired, to my apartments, of mnch that concerns yon nearly have I to speak." 

''Beantifiil Donna, year commands shall be obeyed,** replied Boderigo, as she 
tamed o£^ fearfiQ of being perceived. 

Boderigo was pondering over the words of the Donna Catalina, when a 
friendly grasp of the hand aronsed him from his reverie, and Don Ghristoval de 
VaDassa, to whom he had on the previous evening been introduced, stood before him* 

**The crowded audience chamber of a royal palace is, indeed, a fit place for 
neditation," exclaimed he; "but I suppose our newly arrived courtier is con- 
templating the charms of the Naiad Queen." 

"Noble Don, I seek not loveliness in the frigid zone: Spain's beauties for 
met This Catalina, instead of the Naiad of the Rhvne^ should be called the 
White Downa of the Arctic Regions. Say, does not Inez do Villena far surpass 
this walking icicle? what animation overspreads her countenance, her fiery eyes 
fight one's veiy souL Were I an artist and would paint a Madonna, Inez de 
Villena should be my modeL" 

"Don Boderigo, condemn ,not Catalina ere you know how to admire her; 
amongst all the Donnas who form a part of Isabella's Court, she is the mosi 
beantifuL I love not the maids of Spain, they see too deeply into every action; 
their haughty, overbearing manner might indeed well be changed for the simple 
grace of this northem flower. I am a Spaniard, and I say it, from the king 
€D the throne to his meanest subject, we are tossed and buffetted about at every 
new caprice or whim of these the mighty Donnas of our land. The Korth- 
landtfs are men compared to us; they carry the sceptre and the sword, and 
leave the tapestry-frame and spinning-wheel to their wives and daughters. I 
love to command, not to be conunanded.*' 

"When beauty commands, I obey." 

"Ton are, as yet, too great a novice in Court life, to know the diflicultiea 
attendant on obedience to a Spanish beauty's fanciful commands." 

"Don Christoval, are you a Spaniard, without a Spaniard's feelings? May 
the Holy Mary protect me from leaving my MimAasA, \l,\^<^l^^^^dftKt 
dims aboald freeze my souJ. Oh ! let CaatalWa \)n^\. wosflsi Tssasi^ «.^«.^^ ^xssa. 
joar btart tbeee cold hiondinas." 


'* Neyor, while it oootains Germaonia'a fiurest flower, the Donna Catalina. 
Upraid me not ?rith want of feeling, she ta the mistress of mj heart; belieye me, 
Boderigo, I haye traTelled in foreign dimes, have seen the maids of other lands, 
and have become an inmate of many a lordly hoose, but nerer did I see a proad, 
imperions beauty soothe the wouided warrioi^s pillow, or administer consolation to 
the Men statesman.*' 

** I sesy Don Christoral, that simpGeitj has taken magnificence's place in your 
heart ; bat be not too snre that the simple Catalina returns your affection, she is 
not so bashful as she seems; the maids of the Bhine are as well skilled in intrigue 
as oar Castillians. She seeks, I know it, a prifate intenriew with a courtier here." 

"She does, Boderigo, you are right: lam that courtier; on that intenriew I 
buoy all my hopes, to-night, at eight, in the palace garden, — but see, the Queen has 
already retired, we alone remain in the presence chamber." 

The two young men walked out together, but they parted in the court before 
the palace. Don Boderigo returned to seek Catalina in her department; and Don 
Christoyal wandered into the PaUcio de Vlllena, to inquire after his haughty cousin, 
and to gain fiurther particuhurs concerning the soon- to-be executed plot 

(7(9 be ConUtmatL) 

iFloral ^t<t^motem«. 

1 — 50 in ten ages. 

2 — 500 flowers leer. 

3— This Zoe has £200. 

4— We're for 500 ells. 

5-^1 hero-poets. 

6— Lai ne'er 505. 

7 — 1550 rays go. 

Sr-50 try me. 

9—1 hangs the 500. 
10—501 on Bragger. 
11— 'Tis the 50. 
12— They 1,000? 






Of the esBenoe of mind we know nothing; it is nntangible, mdivisible; yet bj 
a deee obsenraticm of the phenomena it presents we may arrive at some fair cal- 
enlatian of the mental powers and susceptibilities with which man is endowed. 

In re?iewing the history of the dark ages, we find that most of the absnrdities 
ad?aiioed, and the erroneous opinions promulgated, had their origin in inyestigations, 
laudahle perhaps as far as the desire for information was concerned, yet wholly 
unlikely to zeenlt in the establishment of sound prindples, simply for this reason, 
naearch was misdirected, seeing that while the so-called philosophers professed to 
deal with mind, they studied neither its nature nor its tendendes. Inasmuch as 
mind emanated in its purity from that Being Who is emphatically ''a Spirit"— 
imcrsBted, eternal, and self-supporting- in turmng upon itself, created intellect can 
only refer its origm to a higher and Omnipotent energy; nevertheless, as in chemistry 
sod other objects of science, by analysis, and on the principle of induction, indubitable 
&et8 an revealed and secured. By a similar process it is possible to obtain such a 
knowledge of mental physiology as shall materially aid us in moral government and 
inteUectoal improvement 

Education, or the training of the mental powers is successful only in proportion 
u these powers are rightly influenced, hence it is obvious that a knowledge of the 
▼ariouB capabilities and susceptibilities, and of the ever-varying states of thought 
and feeling which will be brought in contact is indispensably necessary if good is to 

For the most part we are our own teachers, at least were, and objects calculated 
to be oar instructors only in reality are such, according to the determinati(m of our 
will and pleasure. A good degree of self-knowledge is therefore essential to self- 
CQltors and self-improvement. 

There is an existing opmion that such knowledge should only embrace personal 
defects and propensities to evil, the advocates arguing \.ViA.\» ^^^ vj^Koiai^^ii^sgfisse^. ^ 
inteHectaa/ qualiUea and amiable di8pOBiUon& «av(miE o1 crkvs«iV>. ^tcksl v^^^ 
<fiffiB> bang inoUned to beh'cve that the mmd wbic\i \a M^Ji^e^ mwX wj5vsi».i \w^^^*^ '^ 


the mind which, through an intimate nnderstandin^ of itself in its best and worst 
conditions, has the most constantly watched its emotions; directed its energies; 
compared its reflections; and instituted for itself a healthy control. 

A knowledt;e of capability or even of superiority in a mind rightly governed 
will induce a sense of responsibility, and excite a desire for the lawful exercise of 
such endowments. A healthy stimulus will be promoted, anid by the judicious 
adiiptalion of the means of cultivation, the mental constitution will become invi- 
gorated and expanded. 

Self-knowledge is necesawrj to a wise selection (jf the means of improvement; 
for intellect misapplied is intellect wasted. 

It is considered that thought and feeling stand in the relation of cause and 
effr-ct. Impnl.-e is bat a phantom of the brain, whilst the general tenor of feeling 
takes its colouring from the cast of thought habitually indulged in. Reflection is 
necessary to steadiness of purpose and action, but an individual who is wholly 
ignorant of his meiltar and moral tendencies is ill fitted either to plan or act, for 
rnotability will mark his mental effort, and indecision his outward path. " Know 
thyseir is the firnt advance towards moral and intellectual greatness. 

An acquuntaoee with our own mental constitution is productive of influence over 
those with Whom we associate; for, though as to identity, no two minds are alike 
in all their phases, yet there are certain laws to which every mind yields, and 
certain emotions ta which all are equally subject ; thus wi^dom in this respect h 
power, and experience a treasure. The discovery of this power will tend to its 
augmentation; for ther mittd in its lawful restlessness and progressive movements 
will not rest natisfied with what it knows itself to be, hot must pttrstn the inquir]! 
as to what it majf be. 

Here lies the touchstone of all improvement, individual, soeittl, and national 
As man's physical frame is composed of collected atofM of dust, so are social an^ 
llational greatness to be traced to individual conception brought to bear collectively 

Self-investigation centres not in it«elf, it teaches its subject to live for others 
to give its discoveries to others, not in dry and barren detail — not in egotistica 
vanity, but in eflVtct as beheld in the working of high principles and the develop 
ment of powerful originalities. 

Knowledge is unfathomable as the ocean beneath us; expansive as the sky ahovt 
tis; consequently, the greater our consciousness of our real attainments, the deepei 
will be the sense of our deficiencies. 

Knowledge should be sought after — it is enriching, ennobling. 

Intellect should be prized— as a gift it raises man above the bmte creation, an( 
affords him happiness. 

Intellect improved raises man above his Mow-man. 

Intellect purified and sanctified raises man from earth to Heaven-^from th 
uncertain tenure of first principles to the possession of a glorious ultimate — ai 
nhimate which magnifies the highest purpose of his creation-eternal eftjnymeui 
A9 the glory of God, 



Quels doQz sentiments viennent de la m^moire ! Ne prodoit-elle pas les pins 
grandes charmes de la vie? Y a-t-il an de noos qui ne doit pas des henres 
de Ixmhenr i son souvenir? Les bons sentent avec d^iice la suaviU qu'elle 
repand dans leur cceurs; lea meuhaats ne sent pas exempts des cbannes de son 
pouvoir en les for^ant i se reporter an temps pr^oedant a Tempire de Satan 
sur euz! Voyez Tinfortunee autrefois innocents, maintenant malbeoreuse p^uh- 
eresse I ne ressent-elle pas (quoique de coarte dur^e) son coeur se soolever douce- 
ment par le souvenir des jours de sa jeunesse o\i son esprit ^tait encore exempt 
des accusations pesantes de see faiblessesi dans ce moment od sa memoirs la 
reporte aux lieux de sa naissance, pr&s d'une m^re oh^rie, dont les soins, les 
caresses, ^talent le prelude d'un avenir parfait, oii parcoorant les champs, les 
collines, aspirant la suavit^ de Tair, pur comme ce coeur qui n'avait alors aucun 
soup9on des maux et des mis^res qui devait un jour I'accabler en quittant son 
foyer natal; et elle n'enressent pas moius un besoin irresistible de s'^crier. "Oh! 
ool, terns auquel je voudrab revenir, souvenirs d^licieux de mon enfance, tu es 
le seul bien-Scre qu'on pent appeler bonheur" ! cette douce penb^e lui rests fixe, 
JQsqne transport's d'indignation centre elle-meme, elle retombe avec douleur dana 
le gooffire de perversity, d' o4 sans le secours de la ?ertu elle ne pourra se ratirer. 

Vojez ce vieillard exempt de remords ayec quel «ijouement il raoonte tons 
les jours de sa vie pass's I sa m'moire toujours fraiche le reporte au bonheur, 
quoique marchant i grands pas vers sa tombe, le monde d'aujoord'hui ne Tinteresse 
pas, tout pour lui, n*est que dans ses souvenirs. Le souffrant trouve anssi quelque 
calme dans le souvenir des jours pauubles, et en contemplant les heures nombreuses 
qu'il a pass' sans tourment, oil tout alors lui semblait un printemps etemel! 

Mais de toutes ces scenes de la vie les plus douces sont celles, a mes yeux, du sou- 
venir d'un ami que nous ne devons plus revoir qu'au Ciel I de sa conversation brillante 
qui ne fatiguait jamais, de ses vertus, de cette ang'lique sympathie qui nous unissait 
Ton i Tautre, cette indulgence, cette abnegation d'amour propre, cette attenuation de 
nos&utes involontaires rest^as sou vent inaper9ues par la candour de son &me, enfin la 
m'moire toujours pr'sente de Tami de notre jeunesse ces moments qui pr^cedaient 
le bonheur du retour; elle nous rappelle la voix, I'attente, la sincerite de senti- 
ments tendres, ceux secrets en accord avec ceux d'clar's. Oh I que ces jours de 
f'licit' procurent encore de d'iicieuses jouissances par la m'moire 1 Enfin conmie . 
il n'y a aucun de nous qui ne soit en cr'dit i notre m'moire, tachons de par- 
courir ce grand chemin de la vie, d'une mani^re que notre fin ne laisse pas der- 
riire nous, un souvenir qui puisse se soulever s'v^rement contre nous. 


The Smiies qf Childhood. 

Stay not the kogh of childhood, 
That rtngeth with snch glee, 

For, oh ! you cannot, cannot tell 
How soon it changed may be — 

How soon the tear may steep that cheek — 
That langh be changed to woe. 

And chlillMood's mirth to sullen grief. 
You cannot, cannot know ! 

Stay not the smiles of childhood, 
They're like the summer flowers 

That raise their heads to smile whene'er 
The son looks through the showers ; 

For, oh ! you cannot tell how soon 
The wintry storm may burst, 

And lay those smiling flow*ret8 low 
All rudely in the dost. 

Quench not the smiles of childhood 

But rather bid them stay, 
And bind them round those rosy lips 

That when a wmtry day— 

A wintry day of grief and care 

Bursts o'er that fair young brow; 

The echo of that merry laugh 
May bid them smile as now ! 

Stay not the laugh of childhood, 

Nor dim its early glee, 
f e who by sad experience know 

The cup of misery. 

But rather from the fount of bliss 
Into their young hearts pour, 

that when their grief has passed in this, 
They smUo to "weep no moTt\ 


Co iBigtiionette* 

£?er smiling, ever gay, 

Whiliog all the hours away ; 

lo thy laughter-dimpled &ce, 

Childhood's careless joy I trace. ; 

In thy trusting, ap-torned eye 

•Childhood's sweet simplicity, 

Mingled with the gentle flow 

•Of feelings childhood cannot know. 

Well I know thou lov'st to pore 

On the wondrous tales of yore, 

Where soft Armida's baneful charms 

Seduce some knight from deeds of arm^; 

In slothful bower hisname to blur, 

J'orgetting all but love and her; 

Or trace in history's varied page 

Redeeming traits of roughest age, 

Vicious of love, as fondly true 

As Sainted Heloisa knew : 

Now decked with almost kingly pride, 

J'loating o'er Brandon's royal bride: 

Now pleased, an instant, to subdue 

The sullen heart of false Anjou. 

In eager moment shouldst thou smile 

That thoughts like these can time beguiled 

.Yes— shouldst thou bbsh that trifles stir. 

And wrap thyself in stoic fur: 

(Forget not that the purest life 

Is not a scene with grandeur rife, 

But owes to trifles light as these 

Its holiness and power to please. 

For, in this mortal pilgrimage, 

A worthier contest shall he wage, 

Who still can childhood's weapons wield 

'Faith's mighty aims and silver shield. 

And led by fiEur.Bomance to war, 

Sees all things better than they are. 

Then shame not if sometimes a sigh 

Attest thy deep-felt sympathy, 

"For tears and smiles .are wisely given 

To erring men that hope for Heaven. 

So keep thy own peculiar gnyc»— 

Tbf changing look, yoi wmxrf idjez\ 
And ever be as now t3u>n a;r\^— 
' Woxnan in sense, but chM m Yi^axV. ^viitL. 


Co ms £nfant ISrotf)er asUrp. 

Little chubby, rosy darling, 

Fast sleeping on thy downy bed ; 
May good Angels, o*er thee guarding, 

Di£fa8e thmr blessings on thy head. 

Like a cherub art thou Dessie, 

Now resting innocently there; 
Drawing thy sweet breath so gently, 

Dear child, so lovely and so fair. 

Oh, when thy infant days are o'er — 

When thoa into a man are grown ; 
And prattling childhood's heard no more. 

Oh, may thy path with bliss be sown. 

Thoa pretty little budding rose, 

Soon a bright blooming fiow'r thon'lt be; 

Too soon, alas, thonlt taste life's woes- 
May Heay'n preserve them long from thee. 


The Village Maid was Wd by all. 
Her £Eune spread &r and wide ; 

Her dwelling was no costly hall. 
Her cottage was her pride. 

She lik'd to rove; from field to field. 
And worship nature's God ; 

She lik'd to see what fruits they yield, 
And for them thank her Lord. 

She was not rich bat was content, 

She liv'd withoat a care; 
Young Albrecht to that village went. 

And gaz'd on her so fair. 

He saw, admir'd, and Wd that maid, 

So simple and so true ; 
" Too lovely for this earth," he said, 

" Mast she pass from it too? 

« Why is it doom'd, those whom I love, 

" To fade like flow'rs away ? 
*'Sbe soon will gm the HeaVn above, 
** Too soon from earth aikio'W BUa^r 


'Tvras trae that Mima*ti cheek was pale, 

That often »he was sad — 
Her health, alas I began to fail, 

But beauty still she had — 

And sangaine still oft Albrecht said, 

That Mima would be his: 
ile'd gaze upon this Heav'uly Maid, 

And speak of years of bliss. 
" No, Albrecht, no ! the days speed o'er, 

" That I below must dwell — 
" Bright joyous sounds I'll hear no more, 

" You'U toll my fun'ral kaelL 

" In Heav'n alone we'll meet in peace-*- 

** We'll .meet to part no more; 
" Oh then will earthly sorrows cease — 

*' Eartb's nHiseries be o'er." 

Who sleeps below that willow tree ? 

There is a new-made grave — 
How many lovely flow'rs I see, 

The wind their petals waive. 

As they droop o'er tliat lowly tomb. 

And gently seem to sigh — 
A prayer breathing in the gloom 

For her who's fled on high. 

One kneels beside that garden bed, 
And prays the God of love, 

That he too may be like the dead, 
And rise to joys above. 

'Tis Mima slumbers there in peaoe-^ 
Her Bocd has taken flight. 

It rests where joys will never cease- 
In Heaven's «wn glorious light 

Days, years, pass on and Albrecht's gone — 
He^s fought the good fight here: 

No longer must he stay to mourn — 
Hell meet that lov'd one there. 

.Before the Throne of Grace they'll meet- 
Loud anthems there they'll sing: 

3ebold them at theur Saviour's feet — 
Tiiey praise the Mighty K.m^. 






IContmued flrom Page 64.] 

And yet being mortal still, have no repose 

But on the pillow of revenge— revenge.— iVopAecy 0/ Dante. 

'* Revenge! revenge! revenge! mj booI is thirsting for revenge!" cried a 
miserable-looking, careworn man, as he was loitering in a street composed of the 
durtiest hovels, sitnated at the back of the Palacio de Villena; his gaudy tattered 
clothes and dissipated appearance, mixed with a pompons declamatory style <^ lan- 
guage, led strangers to inquire who this angular-looking personage was. He was 
known to all by the name of Lopez, and was one of the principal actors in the royal 

" What has ofiended the always-gracious Lopez?'' asked a wretched decrepid 
little old woman. 

« Enough to make him swear deeply-rooted revenge," answered he; "Lopez 
shall no longer kill his enemies in sham light; a warrior's sword he soon shall plunge 
deeply, deeply into the heart of the deceiver Christoval " 

The high tones of Lopez' voice soon collected around him numbers of the dirty 
inhabitants of the street, surprised at hearing it raised in anger. He was soon placed 
in the midst of them, and requested, for the benefit of all, to relate the histoiy of his 

"My honoured father," began he, "was one of the trustiest attendants of 
Don Raymon de Valassa. I was bom and brought up till my sixteenth year on his 
estate; his son, Don Christoval, was about my own age, and there subsbted as much 
iatimaoy between us as there possibly can between a mighty Don and his attendant 
I always had a theatrical turn, and played so many pranks in Don Raymon's house, 
that my father resolved to let me gain my bread after my own wild fashion, and so 
sent me away. About the same time my young master departed to travel ; he was 
always enthusiastic and wild, and said the sight ot the Alps alone could make him 
happy. But ere his departure he called me into his apartment. * Lopez,' he said, 
'you are going to be launched into the world, and to become your own master. 
Remember, if ever you are in want Christoval de Yallassa will always stand by yoo 
as your friend, and protector. Your father has served mine fiuthfully for many 
years, and it would ill-requite his services were I to see his son in want and not lend 
him a helping hand.' This was all very fine, but as the young Don never intended 
fulfilling his promise, he had better have been silent He remained in another land 
till Don Raymon's death called him back to Castillo. He returned — ^not the gentle, 
generous Christoval of former years — ^he returned proud, domineering, hating his 
cooDtij, and apeakiDg of nought save Alpine beauties. He visited the estate of 
which he was low master, and cue of hi& tol tAlvauft "<<«& \d Nmtcl ^"S. \s£) ^<^ 


decrepit father, grown grey ia the service of hia family, and to fill his place by a 
cringing, mean, hypocritical favoorite. I heard of my father's discharge, and, 
infuriated, called to expostulate with my former patron. 1 found the mansion filled 
with haughty, overbeanng domestics, who refused me admittance, saying, that such 
a low dug should never enter their master's house. * Is Don Christoval de Vallassa, 
or are you the masteru here ? ' 1 loudly exclaimed, and knocked furiously for admit- 
Unce. The clamour that ensued brought the Don hinibelf to the gate. 1 represented 
to him my name, and earnestly entreated him to again receive my father under his 
protection. I told him that Don Raymon loved my father; and 1 reminded him of 
his promise to me. With a supercihoas smile he replied: *Gan you think an old, 
broken-down, crippled man fit for a place in my household ? as for yon, you have 
choeiea your own calling; you have made youiself the people's child, and the people 
may protect you ; rest assured, I never will.' So saying he entered the house and 
desired his domestics to close the gates. I declare it before you all, I once loved 
DonCristoval — I would have died to serve him; but the love I bore him is now 
turned into the bitterest hatred ; my poor unhappy father, too old to work, is dying 
of starvation, while this Don both could and ought to serve him. Friends and 
countrymen, do you love Spain? do you love Isabella of Castille? Say, is she not 
our rightful Queen? " 

'* Viva la Beina Isabella," was the universal answer. 

'* Hear me, beloved compatriots; this Christoval, aided by other powerful nobles 
is finrming a plot to overthrow your Queen, and to place Juana, the supposed 
danghter of the late embecile Enrico, on her throne. Arm, brothers, arm I your 
Queen expects it— your country demands it. First, let us drag forth this Christoval 
and trample him beneath our feet; this is no private quarrel. Spaniards, rally round 
the standard of royalty; spill your blood in your Sovereign's cause; proclaim aloud 
to the world that Isabella alone is the rightful Queen of Castille." 

^ Viva la Beina Isabella," again shoated the people. 

If I know how to manage these affaln. 
Thus thrust disorderly upon my hands, 
Never believe m&.— Richard II. 

Pepe de Castro havmg left Isabella's apartment eagerly sought King Ferdinpmi 
and presented him with the slip of paper given him by the Queen. He perused it, 
and after narrowly scrutinising Pepe for some moments, demanded if affiurs of great 
import required his attention at so late a period of the night. Pepe made him 
acquainted with as much as he knew of the plot, and besought him to allow him to 
search more deeply into the traitor's secrets. The King readily agreed, gave his 
consent to his plan, and promised to remain silent. Pepe then took his leave, but 
not to retire to rest. Immediately on quitting his royal master he assumed a 
peeuliar sort of gait, which all thought natiural to him, and sauntered Q\Lt<a£^^ 
palace, the guards knowing the idiot allovred Vmn \a 'v^^^ '^QC[m&>aK«i\\^^'«!s&B5^ ^^ 
tbnogt 4be city, hU was silent,— the plollero «\\mxi\«!W^ ^w\.^\3fti~^^»^^"^*^ 


that ? he sees a lamp pass rapidly throneh the corridors of the Pnlacio de Villena, 
held by a figare in white flowing garments; the thought instantly strikes hioL, 
mischief sleepeth not; it is Inez de Villena, her heprt is too cold and obdurate for 
ought to touch it, she tiierefore flies to listen to no lover's vows ; her businetts is of a 
darker, a more traitorous import. The lamp disappears to the interior of the 
building; but Pepe, resolving to see what is passing within, walks quickly on to a 
spot where a low wail will give access to the garden ^ he vaults over it, and soon 
anivee at the back part of the palace, he there again perceives the light, and the 
Donna Inez in deep conversation with a female attendant envetoped i& a lai^e cloak, 
Inez likewise having thrown a mantle over her so as entirely to conoeal her form, 
eztinguisfaeB the light, and Pepe perceives through the darkness the two figures 
glide noiselessly out at the back door. He follows them unseen ; they walk on very 
Uat for some time till they reach the entrance of a deep forest, when the attendant 
gives a peculiar low scream, and an armed man, mounted and le^ing two horses 
appears; they both mount without exchanging a word and ride quickly off. Pepe 
Imows that to foUow them on foot is impossible; he, therefore, takes up his quarters 
for the mght at the entrance of the forest, and resolves to await Inez' return. 

We will leave Pepe comfortably, or rather very uncomfortably, settled under a 
tree, and follow Inez on her nocturnal adventure. 

She rode on without stopping for upwards of an hour through the forest, of 
which she seemed to know every wmding, and at last arrived at a curions-lookmg 
dreary cavern. She dismounted, and giving her horse to her male follower, entered 
alone bearing a dark lantern; she touched.a portion of the rock, it sprung open, and 
exposed a flight of steps to her view; she descended them, and opening a rude door^ 
•entered a moderate-sized f^partmmt, a low fire was dying away on the stone hearth, and 
its shadowy light gave a dreary aspect to the whole room. At a table, arranging some 
murderous weapons, stood a man who had scarcely reached the prime of life. There was 
41 noble frankness in his countenance which ill became the situation in which he was 
^placed ; his dress, which combined that of the peasant and the soldier, shewed he was 
sof a warlike di^osition; his ^ery eyes kindled on beholding Inez, and he advanced 
with a degree of deference and respect, which weU auited kis noble demeanour, to 
^neet her. 

*< Inez de VHlena welcome to the bandit's cavern,' exclaimed he. 

** Peace, Jayme," replied Inez, hastily; "a few moments must arrange our 
husiness. I shall be missed from the city ; spend not the time in useless welcomes. 
Ton have sworn you loved, sworn to assist me when surrounded by difficulties — 
svfom. Bemember — ^now, Jayme, now is the time; collect your followers; let the 
city which with voices resound declare the bravery of Captain Jayme, the Bandit 
Chief. It is Inez de Villena bids you ; arm, it is to protect her friends, and place 
Joana on her throne. Speak, either do this for Inez' sake, or— «nd she seized a 
-weapon from the table— much as I love you, Jayme, I love my country better, yon 

The bandit started back before the exciUd In^z., W^. \m\&A^\aX^^ lB2X\tk^Q\kVs^ 
<kiiee8, swore to do all she required. 



** Oar plot Is on the eve d ezecntioo,'* said she, ** Joana will soun arrive at our 
palace; many nobles are there to place her on the throne. While the city is in con- 
fasioD, and Isabella's troops are oat, you, with a handful of your bravest followers 
most attack her palace; take her prisoner, and assist in installing Juana in her 
rights. Meet me to-morrow night at the Palacio de Toledo at the boor of twelve. 
La SatUa Fe is the pass-word." 

" I swear to do all this, not for my country's but for Inez' sake." 

" Hold ! that is not yet enough," exclaimed Inez ; " take this parchment, write 
joar promise down, and sign it." 

**It is done, bright Inez speak, when all receive rewards will Jayme, the 
Bandit Chief, alone have none." 

"The hand of Inez de Villena be your recompense," cried she, as she rushed 
out <^ the cavern, up the steps, and had mounted her horse ere Jayme had recovered 
from his surprise at {so suddenly receiving the promise he had so long in vain sought 
to elicit 

She continued her journey to the city, but by an entirely new road, and through 
a much deeper part of the forest, that none save one accustomed to its windings 
coold have found in total darkness. Day was beginning to dawn ere Inez reached 
her Uncle's palace. She entered unperceived, but still it was not to sleep. Patriotism 
and love had worked her up to the highest pitch of excitement Proud and domineer- 
ing SB Bhe seemed to all, Inez de Villena had still feelings; with a powerful e£fort 
thqr had been subdued, but drop by drop the goblet gradually filled, till in the depths 
of her own chamber the rushmg stream poured forth, the. goblet was overturned, her 
proud spirit was unbent; Inez, the cold, the mighty, haughty Inez — ^wept She 
entered her oratory, pUced tbe parchment before an image of the Madonna, and on 
her knees sought the protection and assistance of the holy Mother of God. A few 
hoars had passed, when a domestic informed her that Pepe, Isabella's fool, would 
speak with her. 

Pepe not having seen Inez return, thought that to ask at the palace for the 
absent one would lead to some discoveries ; what was then his surprise when Inez 
herself entered the apartment 

" Good morrow, fool ; how fares our gentle Queen ? " said the dissimulating Inez. 

** Well, Donna Inez; and begs your attendance at her Court But fool that I 
am, I am not so foolish though but that I see your cheek is blanched to-day; late 
watching suiteth not your tender constitution — so early sturring, too, 'tis marvellous !" 

** Good fool, say, do you know what 'tis to love ? " 

**To lovet oh yes; the Donna Inez is in love. Make me your confidant; say 
with whom?" 

« I wiU— with you, good fboL" 

**WithmeI rare sport, hal ha! the Donna Inez is in love with me," cried 
Pepe, as he left the hypoeritical Inez, full well knowing why she looked so careworn. 

{ToU Contuiucd.^ 


Scene from the Ear^^[uahe at Lisbon. 

Oo Lisbon's shore there stray'd a child, 

A boj of beauty rare; 
He Bat beside the surges wild, 

The breete played with his hair. 

He gased apon the bounding waves 

As they broke on the shore, 
And when his feet tiie ripple laves, 

His joy coald hold no more. 

^ Woold I were on the lovely seal" 
He eried, and clapp*d his hands: 

** In yonder boat HI quickly be, 
^ That's resting on the sandsl" 

He's gun*d the boat, he's scrambled in. 

And wuting for the tide — 
"What's that alarm? list to the din I 

The Earthquake I— what will betide? 

The boy, &tigned, has sojok to sleep, 

Nor dreams of danger nigh: 
Sitter tears will his mother weep, 

When she sees her child die. 

"She has miss'd him, and from a cliff 

She gazes off the shore, 
And sees a tiny, -floating skiff; 

Her boy she'll see no morel 

<^e sinks upon her husband's breast; 

His heart, with grief, is wild — 
He cries, '* oh Godi oh God, most blestr! 

I love both wife and child." 

The Earthquadce's shodc had nus'd the child, 

And carried him to sea; 
tStill slept he, though the sea was wild. 

In innooeoce Aefi he. 

Three weary hours the mother watch'd, 

When, joy to her sad mind, 
7he oaming Ude brings ba«^ ^« Vxm^ 

Urg'd by a favounag ^VaA. 


The child still slept, the tide came on,' 
The mother watch'd the while ; 

Like her, who troBted her dear son 
To the waters of the Nile. 

The boat at leofrth is cast on shore, 

With joy she hastens there ; 
The boy still slept — the danger's o'er. 

Innocence knows no care. 

" He's sav'd, he's sav'd !" she weeping cries. 

Her tears are tears of joy : 
^ow cradled in her arms he lies, 

Her own, her rescu'd boy. 

Second Part. 

Blest innocence, which all once had , 

But which none e'er retain ; 
(For, soon as youth's first years are past,. 

Gomes sin, and bitter pain.) 

Yomig in ffoodness, I know I am, 

A child in heart I'd be; 
Of Christ, rd be a Uttle hunb. 

My Maker's face to see. 

Except thoQ art as little child. 
In Heav'n, thou hast no place: 

Be meek in heart, in temper mild. 
So mayst thou win this grace. 

Innocence sleeps through dangers wild — 
Lofes God, and trusts in Him : 

It knows no fear — innocent child ! 
For it has known no sin. 

Innocence, bless'd childhood's grace ! 

Dove of Heav'n art thou ! 
Those whom thou know'st see Jesus' face — 

Thou'rt stamp'd on childhood's brow. 

Why shou^l we scorn to follow then 

This holy, sinless band 
Of children, when we know their course 

Leads to the Promised hixAX 



A Tale of the FiJleerUh Century, 

It was about the middle of the day, in the f^Ioomy month of November ; ia a 
small but comfortable sitting-room in a larf^e Baronial Castle, sat the heroine of oar 
tale. She was a beautifnl girl, apparently about sixteen years of age; her hur was 
dark, and her eyes jet black. As she now sat with her head on her hand, reading, or 
seeming to do so, there was a slight expression of melancholy in her face. Presently 
she heard a loud knocking at the outer gate, and starting up she ran to a balcony and 
exclaimed " My Father, and oh ! heavens, that detested man with him " ! So say- 
ing she caught up her book and departed from the room. 

We may here inform our readers as to the Castle, the owners, the time and the 
young lady of whom we have just been reading. The Castle was called *'Craigs HiU; 
it was large and every way well adapted for defence, its principal strength heang the 
four towers, one of which was at each corner of the outer wall with a covered comma- 
nication with the Castle. 

The time just before the breaking out of the fierce and sanguinary wars of York and 
Lancaster. The name of the owner was the Earl of Oxford, a aseatous Lancasterian, 
and distinguished by the hatred that he bore to the opposite faction. His wife wsg 
dead leaving an only daughter, the beautiful girl who is our heroine, Lady Ekanor 
De Vere, commonly called by her most intimate friends Nelly De Vere. 

It maiy also be as well to make our readers acquainted with the cause of Eleanoc^s 
exclamation. Her Father, the Earl of Oxford, had some time before made the ac- 
quaintance of a young man of the name of Beaufort, whom the Earl thought proper 
to conciliate, not only on account of private friendship, but also because this young 
gentleman was the eldest son of the Earl of Somerset and nephew of Cardinal Beau- 
fort of Winchester. Eleanor's father had in his own mind settled it very comfortably 
that his daughter was to be the wife of Lord Beaufort, the inheritor of all the landed 
possessions ot the Earl of Somerset. 

Lord Beaufort was violently in love with Nelly, and though he had not yet soli- 
cited her hand in marriage, he plainly shewed her that he meant ere long to do so. 
Eleanor however had determined if he did so to refuse him. The personal dislike was 
not the only reason for this step — ^no— she had another — she was already engaged, 
yes, even at that early age she was engaged, and without her Other's knowledge. 

The successful lover was a youth of the name of Morland,whom she met when 
on a visit to one of her aunts. He was possessed of a handsome and open countenance, 
and he like her was dark. When at Eleanor's aunt*s house, they made an engagement, 
a rash one perhaps, that neither of them should many any one but the other, and if 
either died, the one that was left should never marry, or listen to the address of any 
one else. They sealed this engagement by exchanging rings. Eleanor given on her 
pari one of the things she valued most in the world, the ring which her mother had 
g'/ren ber on her death- bed, wluch she gave with wnxi^ \ttKiVB.^<i»v. MicvcUnd on bis 
part gave one with a half-defaced crest upon ii. TVi« tVa^ \v^ *«A XsaA. \«fc\!L*^\^& 


family a longtime. This being their parting conversation, Eleanor was so absorbed 
by it that she did not particolarly notice the ring, and though she afterwards thought 
mach of it, as beiug a present from Morland, yet she thought nothing of the crest 
which was on it. 

It will not be surprising therefore that Eleanor regarded Beaufort with no very 
amicable feelings, ati he iiHerfered with her private schemes. 

It is aimottt needless to say that Beaufort was the '* detested man *' alluded to by 

But now to return to oitr story — The Earl and his visitor being let in they both 
went into one of the reception rooms. Oxford then rang tlie bell and asked a servant 
if Lady Eleanor h<i(1 returuod from Lady Mansfield's, and having received a reply in 
the affirmative toid Lord Beuufuj t he would conduct him to his chamber, and then go 
and prepare Eleanor for his reception. 

Oa the Earl entering his daughter's chamber she sprung up to receive him, he 
returned her embrace, and told her that Lord Beaufort had arrived, which she replied 
to with a cold " i» he papa " ? *' Yes" said the Ear), " and you must come down and re- 
ceive him." " Indet.d my dear father,*' said Nelly, " you must excuse me for I have a 
bad headache and desire to be alone." *' Oume, come, Nelly," said her father. *' I 
know yon, and I know you are very fond ot Lord Beao&rt." " Fond of Lord Beaufort "^ 
exclaimed Nelly, with so much emphasis that her father seemed surprised. *'No sir'' 
exclaimed she, '* far from it, I do not like him at all, and I think that the impertinent 
familiarity with which he addressed me the last time he was here^ when he plagued 
me till I wrote to my aunt to ask her to let me come and st^y with her for a short 
time, was quite enough to prevent my wishing to put myself in contact with him 
again, so I beseech you to allow me to remam in my room this evening." " Well, 
upon my word,*' said the Earl, glancing contemptuously at Nelly. " You are giving 
way to a very pretty burst of feelKng ! but I tell you Eleanor, this will not do, this 
young man is my friend, and very much attached to you and I mean yon to marry 
him, so no more about it, dress yourself and come down, and mind " added he " that 
you do not slight his addresses; on the contrary, you have my express commands to 
give them every encouragement possible." So saying he left the room, leaving Nelly 
thunderstruck with what he had said ; as for giving encouragement to a man whom 
she never meant to marry she thought it out of the questiim — she was horrified ; it 
bad never occurred to her that her father could mean to f(vce her into a marriage 
against her will, at last hhe de.ermined to disobey her father and remaui faithfid to 
Edward Morland. This, however, she knew was not so practicable, for when once her 
father had made a resolution he was always sore to keep it, whatever difficulties might 
arise. She was alone in the Castle, away from every (me who could and would help 
her. She whh completely in h -r father's power, which she knew he would use to the 
utmost rather than be th waited in his design. The Earl loved his daughter, but be 
was ambitious of iiifluence, and al:ove all of power, and he thought by tmiting her to 
fine of the most powerful families of the time, he should l^tomQ^AV3fC3^}(\.\!^^s«\l%^\V^«^sc. 
Welfare and hHppiDeati. ILmevtr^ &he thoug\it OaaXi \.\vw^ "«*a Tka\i'^'^"^«t >X «Q^ ^^ 
wuitt go down. She went accordijij;ly, '* yovx ate VaX« '5^«\\l'' «BJA>Jsi^^^«tV''^^^^ 


Beaufort, a yoong man about nineteen jears of age came forward with a tboosand 
compliments on his lips begging to be allowed the honour, and pleasure, and felicity 
of oondncting the charming Lady Eleanor to a seat. She returned his salute coldly 
bat civily at the same time taking a seat by her father, to whose remark she answered 
that she had not expected Lord Beaufort and he so soon, and that therefore she 
was not prepared to meet them. They then sat down to dinner but they had scarcely 
began when they heard the tramp of horses outside the gates, and a voice demanding 
admittance in the name of the King, and desiring the porter to let down the draw- 
bridge, but the cause of ihis interruption will appear in the next chapter. 


{To he continued in our nexL) 

€f)e <!^migtant. 

Why pass they on, umi^eding all. 

In rilence as they go. 
While the pale cheek and tears that &11, 

Their heart's deep anguish show ! 

They oome from many a cherished spot. 

In that lov'd Island home ; 
But they must leave the humble cot. 

O'er boundless seas to roam. 

Child of Erin, why must thou toil 

Still on a foreign shore ; 
The good thou seek'st in other soil, 

Has not thine own in store ? 

Yes, rich is thy Green Isle in all 

God's bounty can bestow; 
Loudly its varied beauties call 

For praise from all below. 

* Thy sons how brave ! and even now 
Heroes from distant climes are come. 

While laureb crown the veteran's brow. 
To seek their childhood's home. 

Then why this scene of constant woe. 

Where God displays such love? 
Oh soon may peace and mercy flow 

On Erin from above! 

Lilt of the Vaixbt. 

* X(Ord Gongh is now come to torVOl^ Vh lt^\«s^— 
the land of 1i\b YArlYi. 



^SSctmsk 9a|iali$ in Dritaitnkm. 

Imitaiedjrom Ovid, 
Qaam nnnqnam beUnm, seriesqne immenfla laborom 
Fregerit, hoio Sapena impoBaitae jngmn ? 
Flos qoam Napoleo SaineDS nooeL Dk pranendo 
Snstolit ; hio kumiU snb pede ooUa toittfe. 
BeBiHoe toriMtom Sapienfas ab aosUmB Qrbem: 
Implevit faotiB Solis utnunqne dooram. 
Tene ftnmt beUo pressiasey Britaonia, gentes, 
Cam digna in conis nomine Martis eras. 
Csptati meUus qnam deeiniB: ultima primis 
Oedont: tfc fictia AngUa Ticta cades. 
^Qnam non mible oarinoe^ qnam non CkmieislliOBtis 
rit, haso Tiota est jam Sapiente Vera. 



^lUftoet to Xisf)t0|)abe'0 ^isMf^ 
Water! that boon to man what can ezoel? 
Or half its blessiags, say, what tongue oonid tell? 
Exhaled in Tapoor from earth, trees, and flowecs, 
At e?e it &lls again in dewy show'rs, 
Wik yirtne soch, the alchymist of old, 
Sought m the magic drops his vision'd gold. 
When the fond mother views, with angnish wUd, 
The pallid featores of her darling child. 
All skill isyahi, she seeks the bitter springs. 
And home, with Uoom restored her treasore brings; 
Again, in sonunei^s heat, what health to lave 
The ezhansted frame beneath the briny wars! 
Bat when the Arab, funting in the ray 
Of Africa's snn, porsoes his sandy way, 
What raptore his, when glist'ning throngh the trees, 
The long despaired of rivnlet he 8ee»— 
Onward he pants, beside the streamlet sinks, 
Calls on his Prophet, blesses him and drinks! 

Only think in what a sad condition, 
We'd be withoot it at the Exhibition ; 
When nought to cool the heated air snffioes^ 
What mortal conld exist withont the ices? 
Then mthoat steam to torn those cnrioos wheels^ 
Th^d be as useless as so many reela; 
Ab ebryatal foont to charm the ^roiid?xiD|^ tsra<K!(> 
Not Soyer's art coold make ooe b(m\cl wa^ 



louble 9ctO0tic. 

In reply to " NightshadeJ' 

What can be older than the world ? Why water I 
A bkenng sent to yocmg and old. Ah! water I 

The oniTersal homage paid To water t 

Earth woold be poor withont thyud, E'en water! 
Rise from the earth— fiill from the Sky, Bare water t 
To yoor Emgma my reply is—Water. 

Ragged Bobin. 

iBats <^ueen of j^cots' iFateteell to prance* 

She stood npon the vessel's deck 

Which bore her from the shore, 
Which bore her from that mnch-Wd land. 

That she should see no more. 

And as she gazed in agony, 

Nor heeded those aromid, 
From her pale lips these words almost 

Inandibly resoond: — 

*' Farewell to thee, beloved France, 

** My dear, my happy home ; 
" The trifling joys Fve had on earth, 

" IVe felt in thee alone. 

''My Francis sleeps within thy bounder, 

" His sonl has peace and rest; 
" Ob, if I conld bnt be with him, 

" I should indeed be blest. 

** I speed to those who call me Queen-* 

" A Queen in nought save name; 
" I .ask not for those titles false, 

" I care not for such £une. 

" The few in life Fve had te love, 

''Heave them there behind; 
" And thus dissolve the only tie 

'* Which me below does bmd. 

"My only wish is to be there, 

"I know that wish is vain; 
" Oh I farewell France— beloved land ! 

" 111 see thee ne'er again.'' 


I dreamt a dream, and visions it is said, 
Ofdmes o'er the enraptured spirit spread — 
A yeil, in mellowed pencilKogs displaying, 
Pkrt scenes on which fond memoiy lores to dwell 
A veil, In dim and fleeting shades betraying 
Things which fhtnrity wonld £un conceal. 

I dreamt it was the evening hour, 
And stillness reigned in hall and bower, 
The merry birds to rest had gone, 
The peasant's portioned task was done, 
Not e'en a passing cloud let through 
A blemish on the heavens of blue ; 
No solitary evening breeze 
Whispered amid the forrest trees 
Its wild, low minstrelsy ! 
Or swept along the silent lake, 
With strength enow its calm to breaks 
Or set one watelet free! 
No sound was heard from fell or break. 
The evening silence to awake ^ 
The skies above, the earth below, 
No life, nor motion, seemed to know^ 
Sudden from oat a dewy vale 
A lovely form was seen to steal, 
With trembling step she trod the ground, 
And oftimes paused and gazed around. 
Shaded her brow with her white hand 
The distant prospect to command; 
And stnun'd her wild soul beaming ^ye^ 
Some wished for object to descry; 
The sky so blue-^tiie woodlands £ur, 
Seemed to be heeded none by her. 
The lake which mirrowed trees and sky, 
With careless glance she harried by, 
Plun t'was that not the scene so &ir 
Had brought the wandering maiden there? 

* * m • * m 

Tis sad to see two lovers part. 
The tearless eye— the heaving heart : 
The burning look— the trembling frame, 
The whispering of each oiheia n&me \ 
The droopjog brow— the lips cold cAxng, 


A Taie of ike Seveniemth Cmtmy, 
[Continaed from page 66.] 

"Good HeavnisI what ia that! What can bo the mattar?" azdaimed 
Charlea, as he threw down hia basket, and Taulted ofver the hedjce id the direetioo 
firom which the sound proceeded, and there he beheld the bojs and Mr. Wamo, with 
Florence in his arms, flying across a field before a boll which was tearing after them, 
eridently much enraged. ''Stay where yoa are, Emily, I conjnre yoot H«e 
Edward, Henry, quick this way I Brave Mr. Wanen, she is safe* he added, as he lifted 
his sister over, and pbced her beside Emily in the road. ** Now, ofver yourself and 
all's right! How did it happen? How did yoa contriTe to enn^ the animal? 
And what brooght yon there when I left yoa safe on theoommon?* 

'' If yon would be quiet, we oonid tell you," said Flocenoe. *'fiat ODly look at 
me! I don't see what reason Mr. Warren had to deluge me with Nurse's gruel in 
this way. No sooner did the bull begm to run than he began to pour it over me, 
and then caught me up in hia arms! It was enough to make me soream without 
the fright even. Oh, do get home as fast as we can! Gome along Henrf, it was all 
your fault He opened the gate to let in the cows, because I am afiraid of them. I 
had gone to gather some yellow holly berries, and Mr. Wanen chose to follow, in 
case, as he said, that anything should ' trantpSreP And something certainly has 
transpired, but only through^him. Toor Nurse ! how sony I am, the gruel was so 
nicely made, and I had tasted it myself. Now yon are laughing Charies, and I 
might have been killed ; tossed by that dreadful bull !" 

** You were more in danger of being drowned it appears,* he replied, and home 
they went talking and laughmg, though Florence was perhaps rather cross, and poor 
Warren kept carefully out of her way, nor did he show himself again until long after 
all the party had set out for thdr ride, when he mounted his hone and statioDed 
himselt at the door to wait for his fiiir companion, and after widting an immense 
time and not seeing anything of her, imagined she was oblivious, and set off I7 
himself. In the meantime Charles's meditated excursion with his firieods was 
changed for a long interview with lus fother whose free consent he obtained to his 
union with Emily on the only condition of waiting a year on account of their youth. 

To continue the description of the happy days that chased each other gaily 

round until the bright month of May wonld be no unwelcome task, but I may not 

undertake it. I must turn now to darker scenes— to scenes of sorrow that stir up 

the hidden feelings of the heart, and show what life really is; to darker pictures 

which may not be J^uched with the creative pendl of imaginatioo, or the bright 

tints of foncy. To no human being is it given to spend a life of uninterrupted 

happiness; if it were— but no, a truce to philosophical reflections, fbr which indeed my 

pen is every way unfitted. Florence had been happy; happier than often falls to the lot 

of mortalB even at her age, for childhood has its own deep sorrows, and if at seventeen 

oAe awoke to a perception of all that is good aud \)eaa!laS»!L^ exA\x>aA in. Ufe, so slso 

bIio awoke to a seaae oi sin and sorrow wbk\i vheVsnocai^i i^« ^ Odc^^^m)^ cassik 

Jtnows And jret Ahe was very happy, for to Vseaooft ^i»^ ^fiSa TsaaXNw^Nft^^a^ 


been gently taoght to her. Bnt her tame of trial was come— the dark storm of sor- 
iwr waa gathering eren now aronnd her yomig head* Bat to proceed with my tale. 

It was, though May, a stormy night; the wind howled fitfnlly in the 
Qhinmeya, andxomid tho gable ends of the old house a dri?ing sleet pattered against 
the windowflb and made the oocapants of the same room, in which the first scene of 
our ativy waa kid, draw nearer together aronnd the blazing hearth, and caused 
Btnogb and gloomy ftelings to arise in their minds. Theur conversation, too, was 
not clalwilated to inspire cheerfnhiess. Mr. Shirly had been absent on business for 
flonw tiaft and for more than a week after the day fixed for his retnm nothing had 
faeoi heard «f him. Eveline's marriage had been deferred by this absence, and 
HariMrtk who ought by this time to have joined his regiment, oonld not bring himself 
to laam liie glrk in snoh a state of nnoertamty. Thus day by day passed on, each 
eodeavDiiiiqg to oooaola the others while the presentiment of evil grew stronger and 
atroqger in bia own fanaat ''Papa is safe, I feel sore, he is only too bnsy to write, 
or a kttv may have missed the post, or a thousand things may account for his 
oleaoa. Eveline^ dear, give us a little music. Just one song to drive away these 
cBsmal tbooghtfr" And Fknenoe's eyes were full of tears as she spoke. Her sister^s 
re^pwat being eeoooded hj an appealing look from Herbert, Eveline went to the 
jiiaaoi. That night she could not sing, but the sweet and pkuntive melody she played 
went to the hearts of her hearers. 

Jnai aa the sounds oeased a violent ringmg at the door-bell caused them all to 
start up in alarm. Herbert^ foUowed by Charles, flew to the door; Eveline tried to 
fiiUow them, but her strength fiuled her, and anking into a duur, she breathlessly 
awaited their retnm. Need we say that Florence was at the door before any of 
tiienii, and though the ban and bolts defied her feeble strength, she was abeady busy 
about tbem when her cousin came to her assistance. Heavily the old door moved 
19011 ita hinges, opened, and th^ looked out upon the dai^ starless night beyond. 
The impatient ffxl vras on the step in a moment: a gust of wind driving the rain 
hto her fiuse, Umded her at first, but dashmg her hand across her eyes, she fimnd 
hnself &oe to hod with a perfsct stranger. What he was like could not be seen 
fitiier in face or figure, for he was enturely enveloped in a large doak, and hia 
ftatunseoDoealedby a hatslouched over his fiice. In his hand beheld a stout stick, 
sod his appearance was altogether so unprepossessing that Herbert put his arm round 
her waist and lifted her into the entrance. Sofas however firom having any hostile in- 
tentioiia the stranger only handed them a letter, and disappeared again in the darkness. 

The letter, which was addressed to Charles, oontuned only a few hnrriediinea 
firom Mr. Shkly, but those few were sufficient to confirm thdr fears and perplex them 
more than ever. He told them that he had been detained at Hazton (a small town 
about ft 'ooaple of miles from Encome Hall,) and he had there lount that on 
aeooont of aevetal skirmishes between the rival parties, and many demonstrations of 
Iftoniing loyalty among the people round, the Parliamentarians had resolved to 
CUiisonthe town, and all the gentlemen and&ixn£»&^ «s,^T»ju^\aui^^^ais^^s». 
tfaekiqg'. Tbey nugbt, he added, expect ttoo^ eStams ^Viafe\iSwa«^>s^SiQa T«Nsgp^ 
tahhmf Mt any moment, and he told torn Vo wsoft a^«t ^ laaa^jw^VsJ^s^l^ 
moitttav to aw9t tbem at the inn thae, and. \ft \»to^i3Q» ^gfi^Na ws» ^e»» 


fiafetj. The two little boys and Mr. Warren woald be quite safe where they were; 
and the letter concluded by saying that, should they need the messenger, he was to 
be trusted, being a gentleman in disguise, and true to the prince. 

The information contuned in that short note was a startling blow to them all, 
but Florence's alarm instead of rendering her useless, did not find vent in a single 
exclamation till theur few hasty preparations were completed. Eveline who had 
the addition^ pang of parting with Herbert, for he had resdved on Joining his 
regiment immediately, did little else but weep. 

It was, as we have said before a stormy night, and when Florence at last joined 
the sorrowful group, assembled in the court yard, the darkness prevented them from 
seeing her approach. The carriage was ahready there, and Emily and Eveline had 
taken their seats, bdt Herbert and Charles were conversing apart from the others in 
earnest whispers, and though they spoke low she heard each word distinctly, and 
could see, moreover, the faint outline of a figure retreating firom the house, which 
from its height and general appearance she knew to be that of the mysterious mes- 
senger. The first words that met her ears were from her brother. " Good Heavens ! 
my father !— But who told you?" 

** The fellow tiiat brought this letter. He sud the troops bad already taken 
possession of Bothbum manor, and made prisoners of all the royalists assembled there 
and your father was amongst them." 

An exclamation of terror frt)m Florence interrupted Charles's reply. He turned 
to her, and entreating her to be quiet, and not alarm the others, gave it as his 
opinion that Herbert should escort the girls to Haxton, and remain with them there 
until their father's fate could be ascertained. Girls, he said, would be perfectly safe, 
for even Puritans did not war with women, and here they would be in danger, for if 
the account of the strange messenger was to be believed, troops were already on the 
march towards Enpombe, and the house would, in all probability, be sacked and burnt. 

" And you ! you will come too," said the trembling girL 

**I must remain here, as my father's representative," he answered somewhat 
proudly. " You must feel he would never, except for your sakes, have wished this 
flight, and now also the case is altered ; we can no longer learn his wishes, and I 
Qiust stay to protect as Ceu: as I can the house and property, and as I said before to 
represent him. You cannot tiiink he would ever have run away I But I promise to 
join you as soon as possible." 

He waited for an answer, and his two companions gave at length a reluctant 

assent to his proposal. Herbert, divided between the wish of himself protecting 

Eveline, and sharing the post of danger and of honour with her brother, was very 

loth to go, but he could not dispute Cbaries's right to remain in his father's stead, 

and that decided his scruples. Florence, though she trembled for his porsonsal 

safety, did not dream of urging hio) to do anything worthy of the name of coward ; and 

after all poor Cbaries's own feelings were the ir.ost conflicting of the three; and when 

lie went to the carnage window, wished Emily good bye, and confided her to the care 

of Jus eoaain; hia siatera left oflF entreating bim to atcoxsv^wi^ V)![i«a\, lot >3ckfi3 ««?< \3aa 

^paration was bat too painful to him already wi\lio\]Aiai\^ a^^twaN^soa «v>a[i«a -^KtV 

MvdJjr had the Bound of wheels died a^iay in ou^ dix^cXimi, ^m Q.ViaV» <:.w^ 


Sillily see a train of figures slowly winding along the road, and approaching the 
honae on the other side. On thej came, and he stood on the steps to receive them. 
The oonrt yard filled gradually with the armed trained, and when all the men were 
ranged aiomd it their leader advanced to the house and started as he, for the first 
time, percrived the young man. 

"Stand,'' he exclaimed, presenting his sword. ** Are you one Frauds Siirly, 
who declared for Charles Stuart a few days ago ? If so, I bid yon yield." 

** I am not him you seek, but I am proud to call myself his son," was the firm 
rejoinder. ** What is your business here ?" 

** Our business here depends upon yo nrself. It may be to drink a cup of wine 
with you, in all good fellowship, or it may be to take you on in our company and 
treat you to a sight of Haxton jail ; or, again, it may be to turn your own cellar into 
a prison, (as has been the case with better than you,) and who can tell then when 
you will see day-light again !" 

** And what is to determine your business?" 

"A room, a light, ai|d something to eat, and you shall know. Lead on." 

Charles turned on his heel, and throwing open the door of the sakxm made signs 
for him to enter. 

" We will proceed to business first," said his companion, throwing himself 
onceremoniously into a chair, *' and then I ^1 trouble you for some refreshment 
for myself and my followers. Have you ever seen this?" and he produced a large 
parchment firom his pocket, with the resolution of the royalists to exert all their 
efforts to recall the king, signed by many names, amongst which was Mr. Shirly's. 

Charles shook his head. 

** And this," he continued, showing another paper containing a declaration of 
fidelity to the Protector, and signed in its turn by some of the most influential names 
in the country. 

He replied again in the negative. 

" You see them now then, and take your choice which you will adorn with your 
signature;" and the captain drew a pen and ink towards him and presented them to 
Charles, who, without a moment's hesitation, wrote his name below his father's. His 
companion, who had watdied him fixedly, laughted brutally as he returned him the 
paper, and summoning his followers, Charles was bound hand and foot, and secured in 
a comer of the room while the soldiers and their leader proceeded to refresh them- 
selves, makmg free with Mr; Shirly's choice old wines, the effects of which became 
quickly apparent, and before midnight they were, one and all, in a heavy slumber 
completely stupified by the liquor. Charles was thinking sorrowfully of his father 
and sisters, and trying to imagine what would be his own fate, when he was suddenly 
startled to see the man, who lay at his feet to guard him, arise quickly and softly, 
and after a cautious glance around the room, advance towards him and present his 
sword's point to his breast. He thonght his last moment was come, but scorning^ to 
give the slightest sign of fear he looked \>o\dVf Va \)ti<ft IbiSA q\\o& «s»»sk^. ^^&&S!«^ 
tbe weapon graze bia coat, and with one httsly l\tf«i^X. ^l ^vcSii ^^ \bk2^'^'S?^ 
pariog to die, when the man withdrew the bnvqi^ aoj^L eA^«sssA\i\^^sv^\^^ -^^ssiss^ 


^Toa an bmftti ffyoa wen oooe more free woald 70a do as^oii hare done? 
Would 70a sign again yoor own death warrant?* 


**And if Ton eaoape, to what poipose would 70a derote jfonr Kfe?* 

**Mj Bword and my life to my prinoe.* 

''Be free^ then, for yon deeerye it," and to Charles' infinite miiprise his 
bonds were cnt, and he stood at Uberty. "If yon wonld senre the King," eon- 
ttnoed the other, ** let yoorself carefoUy down from the wmdow, and yon will 
find one below who will tell yon all that Is reqtdred of yoa. Speak not a 
word— yonr lift depends on tilence." 

Cantioosly and sikntly Charles moved across the room, stepping orer the 
bo^es of the sleeping sdldiers, and hardly breathing In Ins fear of aroosing them. 
He aoddently toaehed one with his fbot; uttering a heavy moan the sleeper 
awoke}— started np, but before the half-formed exdamatkm eonld escape his fipe, 
the sword of Charles' companion was thmst throagh his body, and the wretched 
man, pinnsd to the earth, expired withont a groan. Unnsed to snch scenes of 
Uood Charles shuddered, bat the rongh soldier idiom eariy habit and long 
practice had nuide familiar with the horrors of war, only hngfaed softly as he 
withdrew his weapon, and made signs to him to proceed; and after >* panse, no 
other soand being made, he reached the window; it creaked as he opened it, and 
as If I7 some itrange fiitafity, one of the panes fell with a crash on the floor. 

(7b he CarOimied,) Eglabtine. 

SlHSl»et to Nisl|t0i)a^e'e Enigma. 

The vast expanse by footer first was fiDed, 

It reign'd triomphant, dashuig fer and wide; 
Bat earth to form the great Creator will'd. 

And nuide subservient to Us voice the tide. 
Within its bounds what mines of treasnre there— 

Within its grasp how many, many fall ; 
It onward speeds— restrain it none do dare— 

Water does e'en the greatest men appalL 
Miyestic Sol hath set; Luna does shed 

Her placid rays upon the silent sea; 
But, hark! load thunder roars above my head. 

Load, swift, and wild, will soon the wUers be. 
WeOer a bitter, hard, and bright, and sweet, 

Nor lugh nor low without it coald they live; 
Wher'ere it goes it everywhere does meet 

A welcome, such as prince to prince shoold giveu 
Omnipotent, 'twas toater bcilpeQL t\x« man 

WhoBnt to tnni h]SimQL\>y woAer V9Ek<a^V, 


Pflot up, wiCh mighty Btreogth it always oaa 

Bosh forth and derastate, although imwnmght. 
An instnunent of wrath, waier was aent 

To hurl poor victims to eternal flam»-i» 
To hony death a helping hand it lent, 

Bat to redeem them oooe a Sayionr oame. 
He sought again the aid nitoata'a power. 

To haptise dnners then tvras vfatet'a tot; 
It aaw daik om'noos doods on mortals tower. 

It took'd again ft HeaTen of fight th^d got. 



The bosy toils and fight of day 

Had left one half the world. 
And thenSthe necromancer Night 

^ raven wing nnfarl'd. 

At his approach the night-bird scream 

To greet their sable Idng; 
The eagle soared to his ^y^ high 

On bold nnfetter'd wing. 

And now the moilEy raven's croak 

Ib heard npoo the brae, 
As the glow-worm goides intb fliok'ring light 

A pilgrim on his way. 

Bat what is that shadowy form that gUdes 

Before the stranger's nght? 
He teDs his beads— with awe be views 

Tbis spirit of the night. 

The gobfin's hollow laogh be hears! 

He look'd agam— 'twas gone ! 
And shaking off delasioas vain, 

The.Falmer passeth on. 

Now all is still, and towards thdr hannts 
The night birds wing their flight; 

The morning grey is breaking forth 
And fioares ths datknuiQaai^l. 



BaptiBte Engaemiid was as daring a seaman as eyer ran oat of Cherbourg 
or St. Mais: few spots from Plymouth to the Land's End, where it was possible 
to land a cargo, were onknown to him. So snccessfol had he been in his perilons 
vocation that every speculator on the French side of the Channel was anxious to 
procnre his services, and the Preventive Service told many a wild story of his 
wonderfhl escapes. He had attained a reputation quite akin to that of the Flying 
Dutchman, and many a fruitless expedition and midnight watch had he caused 
the luckless revenue men to nidertake. 

Baptiste was a Jersey man, and the reputatioa which his fSaUow-islanden 
had obtained as "Freetraders," was safe enough in his hands. His vessel was 
a logger as fleet as the wind, and as buoyant as a cork. She wore as many 
disguises as any actress— indeed so extensive was her wardrobe that no Preventive 
Service man could have easily identified in her the vessel he had seen when a run 
had been efiected in her cruize. She was called Marie VolarUe. Baptiste himself 
was a frank-looking seaman enough, of middle size, light of limb, with a develop- 
ment of muscle that was not calculated to inspire much fear in any antagonist that 
might present himself. 

On the occasion of which we are about to speak, Baptiste was bound tat 
the Devonshire coast, with a cargo of value, and bis fr^ and careless air shewed 
how little his thoughts were occupied in speculating on the possible danger of his 
expedition. The eight or ten men who composed his crew were, with the exception 
of the helmsman and mate, (who were conning the vessel) strolling up and down, 
smoking and speculating on the result of the run. They all displayed the same 
confident ur as their commander, and one of them had taken his pipe from his 
mouth, and was trolling out some rude lines to the following effiwt:— 

When the gales are whitening 

The waves into foam. 
And the fork'd rays of lightning 

Pierce through their black dome; 
When the sea-bird is forced 

To fly to her nest, 
On the raging sea toss'd 

Her anger we breast. 
The shadows of light 

That flit o'er the sea 
Are not swifter of flight 

Than the wing'd " Marie." 
The shore's white with breaker 

And foemen stand round, 
JBat no man to take bet 

And her crew is iouud. 


The Tessel was now rapidly lessening the distance between her and the 
Devonshire coast, on some secluded part of which it was Baptiste^s intention to 
attempt to land his cargo, which consisted of goods of a light and portable kind. 
Many a London house was waiting for its consignment; and Baptiste was not 
tb6 man to disaj^int them, when jdaring or stratagem would avail. In the 
present case it was his intention to let his ve ssel lie off the shore, sheltered as 
much as possible hj the overhanging cliflEs, while he landed his goods in his jolly 
boat— which was the only boat she had — as it would require six men to man 
her and attend to the cargo. He foresaw the danger of leaving his vessel so 
weakly manned; but he trusted to his own inventive genius, and to the good 
fortune which had {uroved his ally ia many similar and apparently far more 
hazaidons extremities. As the night drew in, the vessel approached the shore 
as near as was deemed safe. Ko Coast-guard Station commanded the point which 
had been selected for the undertaking, and Baptiste gave directions to his boat's 
erew to buckle on their cutlasses, and to muffle the oars — j5re-arms were not to be 
carried, lest, being incautiously used, they might give the alarm: besides blood- 
shed was no part of Baptiste's creed, and he infinitely preferred to attain his 
ends hy ruse than by violence, which could not but be prejudicial to the ** Free- 
traders" eventually. Having concerted measures with his mate, a fit co-adjutor 
for his own bold spirit, he descended into his boat, which, impelled by four stout 
oaramen, soon shot amidst the white surf which lined the shore. The lugger 
was to shew a light at intervals, like that of a fishing boat, in order to mark 
her position. The caigo was cautiously landed, and secreted in phuses known to 
the parties who had contracted for it, and their undertaking being brought to a 
lucky ocmdusion, the party prepared to return to their boat. On arriving, the 
seaman who had charge of it pointed out to Baptiste two signal blue lights, which 
he had observed burning in the distance, and flickering up brightly at intervals 
through the misty and troubled night. Baptiste instantly jumped into the boatt 
and seizing the helm with his own hand, ordered the men to give way, while a 
man stationed at the bow was to give notice of any sound or sight that might 
attract his attention. As they proceeded, guided by the faint light hung out by 
their own vessel, their sentinel made a sign which caused the whole party to lie 
on their oars, and at the same instant a boat, swiftly propelled by several oars, 
shot past them, apparently in the same direction as themselves. Baptiste in- 
stantly recognised the eight-oared cutter of a Revenue Station; but not at all 
disconcerted by the pressure of the extremity, his native spirit rose to the danger, 
of which he had already foreseen the possibility. Again ordering his men to give 
way, he followed in the track of the cutter at some distance with great caution. 
The Revenue cutter had apparenUy neared the smugglers* vessel without exciting 
suspicion on board of her, bat as she shot up against her, the lanterns shewed 
her sides painted white, and her large complement of m«ii^ "^^^c^ ^^V^ Vsoi^ 
shouts apnng on the smugglers' deck. Bwt \]hQ xoaXj^ xiVi^ \!a^ x^kk*^^ N^ 
instraetaona from Baptiste, met the attack m\ii & sXwxX. T«aaa\»BR»^ «b^^ ^»& ^aeo. 
Mtaed with handspikes managed to keep tYie ?te^TO!CvN^ ^WR» ^«^% ^^^ "^"^"^ 


hindarad \tj the ooofouoo ud daTknwifl from seeing their nnmben, at bay. 
Baptiate, who had kept close on the track of the Beremie eatter, had peren^ 
that its crew had boarded his vessel, leaving no one in their own boat, and now 
polled ap, and directed his men to seize the oars of the Bevenne cutter and 
throw them overbosrd, where in the darkness thej wonld soon drift awaj nn- 
aeen. Then polling roond his own vessel, he and lus men spnmg on board, 
and fisigning to yield to his opponents, he seized a portfire, and crying alood 
to his crew to save themselves ere the vessel blew up, roshed into the cabin. 
The Revenue men, strock with terror, abandoned the fray, mshed to their best, 
■ad poshed q£ 

When the logger, obedient to the helm, wore roond, the Beveme men flaw 
the feint; bat it was too Ute. The logger was flying before the wind, and the 
imhicky Preventive men, onaUe from the loss <^ thdr oars to pome, and 
■caroely having the means of reaching the shore, heard the taunting laq^ of 
their dippery antagonists; and theur mishap added another to the snmecow 
kgenda that illoitrated the name of the **Bold Froetnder." 

Agido njpntty ladiea fiur, come listen to my tone. 

Another ** Booqoet " I have got, coll'd in the month of Jone; 

Here's ''Nightshade" dark, and daogeroos, and oft called "Bittecsweet," 

its berries pleasant to the eye, hot ftall of dark deceit: 

"Heartsease," is nezt^ dear little flower, of it no doobt yooVe booghti 

To tell to himyoo do admire, *' he oocopies yoor thooght," 

A sprig of ''Myrtle "it entwines, showing ''love" is its theme, 

" Eschscholtnasy" " Lavender," and "Thyme," and many I coold name ; 

"Sweet f;ghm1ane" and "Ba^Bob^" mean "poetry "and "wit," 

They hand in hand together go, whene're they may think fit, 

"Heliotrope" it may say no " devoted Tm to yoo," 

The " Pea " will tell them " where to meet " and may be what to do ; 

"Azalea" teaches "temperance"— "Jonquil" what we "derire," 

The "pendve beaoty " "Labomom," does all with fiuur enspire; 
"Camatians" here of varioos hoes, treat all with moch '' disdam"— 

The "Boss," type of England's Qoeeo, " gentle poetry " does daim; 

"Hyadnth" is fhU of " pky"— "Hawthorn " of sweet " hope^" 

This is my "Booqneti" come and boy, tot here I may not 8t(^ 

Bagged Bobdt. 
See " The Language ,ot Tlsiran"' 



Vor ohnrgefahr ewei hnodert Jahren war die Gegeod bei Hoimthal am Bhein 
n graaaer Verwimuijc* Vide Fremde die naoh Heimtbal gekomiiMQ waien, nm 
deran Scbooheiten za bewnndern, waren venohTimdea. AUe NaohfofBchnngea. 
waren ▼wKtbens; knne Spar war za finden. Die aUgemeine Aufiraganii; hatte die 
bochste Crisis errdcht, als ein jonger Mann, Namens Hermann Muiler, im Gaithofe 
anlaogte. Gr lachte iiber die Gesohichten, die man ibm erzahlte, and versicberte 
er aeif^ommen, am sich von allem zn iiberBaogen. 

Ihn. bat ibm sein tboriobtes Unternefamea aofisageben, aber feigebens: 
denn sogar den ersten Abend b^gab or siob nacb dem Qrte wo die Tormissteo 
BdseDdaazolstzt geseben waideo. 

Lfings der Granze eines kleinen Waldes seblaogelte ^b ein kluM Bacblein 
Ak Herrmaoa siob dem Stroma naherte, borte er eioe sUsBe voUe Stimme liogen, 
derat Laal er anwillkiirtiob folgte; and seine Scbritte fobrten ibm an emem grosaen 
Kastanienbaom, onter welcbem ein jnnges Madcben saas. Ibr knges goldenes Haar 
wekibes bis an ibran ibren Fiissen berabwallte, war mit einem Kranze von Wasser* 
lilien gseabmuekt. Za ibren Fiissen lag ein kleiner Fasanenband, and in der 
Hand bielt sie eine Gmttere, mit der sie ibr laed b^lmtete. Sie scbwieg: and earn 
ersten Male fiel ibr grosses blanes Aoge aof Herrmann der nnbemerkt nebeo ibr 
gestanden batte* Ein donkles Botb flog iiber ibr jqg^tlicheB Antlitzi and de fing 
an mit dem Hands za qpiden. 

*<Fiirditeii Sie deb niobt vormir, Fraaldn," fing er verlflgen ai^ ''Icb babe 
nicbt erwartet Jemand bier za finden : sonst ware iob nidit gekommen." 

'^Ob! iob fiitdite micb nicbt vor Ibnen, mdn Herri Sie baben vid mdir 
Ursadie sidi vor mir zn fiirobten " antwortete de freusdlicfa, and der Wind aog 
gerade ibr weisses Eldd zoriiok, and entbilllte einen Foss, so klem, das Herrmann 
kanm i^oben Icooate, er gehore ibr.** 

"Ja, Sie Bind wahrliob abechenliob," versetzte er laobdnd, indem er db gans 
rabig anf dem Basen neben iiir setzte." 

Im iwrtraaliehem Gespraoh verging die Zist ; in wenige Minaten ecbiea es als 
waren de Jabre lang mit einander bekannt, nar wagte Herrmann nicbt, so sebr er es 
aooh wiiDadlt^ de za fragen wer de set Die Dorfobr sdilog df— de sprang anf 
'* Icb mass gehen," sagte de eilig, 

'* Icb darf aber morgen wiederkommen ?'* bat Herrmann. 

*< Ja," war die kiirze Aatwort and ehe er Zeit batta mebr zn sagon war de 

Wis lang schien ibm die Zeit ehe eswiedei Abend wordet Er sagte Niemand 
etwas von sdner neaen Freandinn. Wenn mann ibm iibflr idoe gestrige Abvresen- 
bdt befiragte, verspraob er, sobdd ibm etwas forcbtbares b^g^gaete, es ibnen zn 
erzahlen; and obgldcb, die gaten Einwohner von Hdmtbal nicbt weni^Knu^ 
besassen, waren de za i^^ nm Herrmann naicii tonN« m «>a ^ 'M5J n w gv ^i^a^^Mga'^ 
za folgen. Bloe mussbd er SUba (denn so \iatt« »ft iJosa ?!a»lfi^ ^'^^^^^^"^'^'"^ 


66 dnmal sagte ate," bo hast Da mieh zom letzten Male geflehen," and Herrnuum 
fuhlte, and sagte ihr, dass er jezt ohne sie nicht leben konnte. 

An einem schonen Abend sassen die Beiden onter dem Baome, and aprachen 
▼on dem gltlcklichen Abend, als das Schicksal seine Schritte dem Stiome zofnhrte, 
von der schonen Zokonft hi welche ihre Ltebe Hoffining setzte. 

"Silba," sagte. .Hemnann, "Da hast mir nooh Nichts Ton Deine Verrandten 

Sie sah ihn wild'an aber sprach nicht 

** Hast Da denn kerne ?" fahr er theilnehmend fort. 

Silba sprang anf ; in eine Seconde schien ihre gioze Gestalt it r&idert, and 
aof jeder Lilie brannte ein rothes Licht. 

"Herrmann,** rief sie mit emer am anatorlicher Stunme: Ghmbest Da 
dennwirk lich das ich menschlich bin? 

"Silba,** rief der ersorockeQe Jiinglmg aos, "was willst Da damit sagen? " 

Ihre emzige Antwort war dn iibererdische Gelachter; and de aduen ohne; 
Bewegang von ihon wegzagleiten. 

Er ttieohte den Am aas am sie za ergreifen; aber sdn Hand hielt mdita. 

"Silba, theaerete Silba, verhiss mich micht; ich besohwore Dich sage wer Da 

Koch dnmal erscholl ihr Hohngelachter in sdn Ohr, and sie glitt wdter and 
wdter von ihm. Herrmann konnte es nicht laoger ertragen. Er sprang ihr naob; 
die Graoze war sohon iiberschritten, and die Gestalt von Silba verlor sioh seineQ 
Blioken Das Holzohen schien plotzlich gross za werden: er sah nichts am sich 

Umsonst snchte er seinen werderberin meder za finden: weder sie noch etwas 
menschliches war za sehen; and er wanderte Tage lang amher bis er eodlich darch 
Hanger and Mattigkeit amkam. 

Viele Jahre sind verflossen seitdem dieses geschehen ist, aber die Geschichte 
lebt nodi, and man sagt dass, wer es wagen wnrde sioh, am zehn Uhr Nadits 
dakin za begeben surd die Gestdt von Silba, die Ndde vom Bheine, sehen, aber 
ihr langes Haar ist jetzt kilrz and hat seinen Glaaz verloren; and anstatt 
die Wasserlilien, tragt sie, dnen Eranz von verwelzten MurtenUamen. 


Sttiutet on t^e £ea S^f^tt> 
I see the deep blae sky is tinged 

With Imes of gdden red; 
It is the san as he dnks to rest 

Into his ocean bed. 

Bat in the mom he will rise agam, 

And brightly gild the sky : 
Oh ! may my sool, when I d:d& m d«ath, 

Thus rise to Bealm& on BAgjtx. 




1. A tenn mdioating endeannent, a French coDjonction, and a beyerage omitt^ 

ing the last letter? 

2. A odour, and what few chnrches are without ? 

3. One who holds great anthoritj, and an article used for drinking out of? 

4. A species of conveyance, and a people ? 

5. A female name, and a metal ? 

6. An edible substance, leaving out the last letter, three-fourths of earth, 

two-thirds of to fosten, and a French adverb ? 

7. A French article, and a seller ? 

8. Three-fourths of a manufiictory, and a sort of weapon ? 

9. A beny, and a prickly substance? 

10. A word signing seniority, and one of the most beautiful of nature's works ? 

11. Uneven, and a bird ? 

12. The name of a man, omittiag the second letter, and four-fifbhs of a pen. 


Let Delos be praised,'BUiTOunded by sea; 
And mighty Apollo her guardian be— 
Let Crete its numberless cities display. 
Which Ida o'erhangs with its ridges so grey- 
Let Sicily ^boast of its great Syracuse, 
Kor a place for its hundred cities refuse : 
England yet claims a iu nobler name, 
For never have Britons been worthy of shame. 
Fortified castles defend not her shores, 
For around her the region of Neptxme roars ; 
There tyrants of cruelty never have been. 
And despots, a plague to the people, ne*er seen } 
But liberty stain'd by no shivery lives. 
And its kws, and its statutes, impartially gives. 
Oh, hmd, Wd by Britons, what glory's not thine. 
Thy name shall for ever in history sbmidf 
And blest by a race of brave heroes sball be, 
The victor of nations, and mistress of sea. 
French, Germans, and BussianB, to mskd ^rac T»ra tMSft^ 
And England now slumbers, enjoying sw«fi^>^s«8ifi^ 



JEnbitatCon to a QSSalit* 

Adirt889d to BJue-heU, Kingcup, and MtgnkmeUe, 

When the rising son with golden beams 

Thnmgh the half-opened caaement streama, 

When the green torf gliatena with ailfer dew, 

And Heayen'a bright Tanlt la of azure hne; 

Tell me, then, ia it not aweet to roam, 

To wander fax, fkt away from home. 

O'er field and foreat, o*er garden andtdell, 

Where grows hi profoaion the wild ** Bine-bell,*' 

Jnat raiaing its graoefol bead to the light. 

And peeping forth from its oonoh of the night 

Where glitfriqg "Kmgcnps * gafly shine 

Uke topaa from Braailian mine; 

Or like the Inatrons gold that poon 

Its wealth on GalifiDnua' ahores. 

Bnt of all rare gifta that Flora sends, 

Not one has snoh tme and constant friends. 

As the German^ ''liobling," the lYenchman's " pet" 

The Eglishman*8 ^^darlmg," sweet "Mignionette.'' 

Oh I then when the lark with ontstretch'd wings, 

Soaring on high, his blithe carol sings, 

Qoick rise from yonr pillow, and haste to behold 

Yonr gentle yoong sisters, tiieir beauties unfold. 



1— Eghmtines. 
2— Elder-flowers. 
3 — ^Esohscholtzia. 
4— Elder-flowers. 
5 — ^Heliotropes. 
6— Lavender. 

1— Les 2000 f^ 
2—0 2000 ehl 
3-^1000 iaoB. 
4^-00 bat 54. 




8— Myttlti 

9— Ni^tahade. 
10— Baggod Bobm. 
11— Thiatk^ 
12— Thjms. 


6— A 1000 nines. 
7—5 baa. 
8— A 400 toes. 







It most be gratifying to the admirers of the Bouquet, to find that the 
flowers of July and Aogost have certainly no reason to dread comparison with 
their elder sisters of Jane. Whether this arises from the fostering influence of 
the triad of yoathfol and superintending graces who, in encouraging the flowers^ 

"Lift their heads with their tender hands. 
And sustain them with rods and osier bands,*^ 
w whether it is owing to their talents in the culling department, or to the advance 
of summer, which usually gives a bolder set and a brighter hue to the gems of 
the partene, or to an occasional sly thrust by the stimulating Thistte, who seems 
to have peculiar talents " to rouse, to urge,*^ I shall not attempt to determine. 

At the oommencement of the July number we have a little preliminary con- 
Boltatkn, held in certain gardens, which are quite unobjectionable (except itl 
point of noise and dust) to decide on the best means of keeping brambles out of 
the bouquet >-^« very necessary precaution, for it appears that, in spite of the 
harmony (or joviality) for which the native gardens of the Bouquet were of old 
celebrated, some brambles of other days managed to intrude their u&weloomd 
offices, and to destroy, except in a figurative way, all future chance of a plentiful 
erop of blossoms. But the fair "powers of this sweet place** argue very justly 
that it would be hard indeed if flowers of the present day should be considered 
kis sweet, because the place in which they grew was possibly not in good odour 
a ooDtury ago. 

In the verses of Haidthom we have some pleasing religious sentiments^ and 
a snoceesfhl conquest over the difficulties of rhyme: but surely he must have 
been first glancing over Stemhold and Hopkins. His acrostic is, I think, very 

I should imagine Hgaeinth to be young. The versification of this writet 
shews coDsiderable fSusility; but there is a little want of connection, which time 
will improve. The thoughts of the captive in the July number, and the fears of 
the pilgrim in that for August, are very natural and introduced with effect. 

Axaka, without any pretence, has evidently a strong sympathy with what- 
evir is most beautiful and refining in Nature; and, what is even better^ she d^tectji 
the valuable moral lessons which Nature imparls. 

Joaqua and jaUfoU are wags who love to bsaotet ue. Tsi^ \aca«a \»^sscW^ 
a4oy§ tbe jpazMled air and the fit of laughtiw in\ii Nf\a02L\osk t«w^s» '^cC^ -vpa^^a^ 


bU comical tnuulation of ** Little Bo- peep"; and the latter ao entrenches him- 
aelf behind his homoroos marine missiles, that we are afraid to come near enough 
to discover whether he is not laughing in his sleeve at us. So we will prudently 
sheer off to Ragged Robin, whose name and armour buckled on his back, prove 
him more open to attack. His Latin versification is a proof of hia industry, and 
a prognostic that he will in his studies soon become " Vilidus." His English verse, 
evidently from his neglect of our domestic muse, is not quite equal to the Latin. 
In spite of the ingenuity of his double acrostic, we cannot admit world and cid 
as rhymes: in his "England,'' ''the region of Neptune roarg" is rather a harsh 
metaphor, though the thoughts are good. In his humourous collection of flowm 
from the Bouquet, he shews " a pleasant wit ** and much cleverness, in trottiDg 
over a stony road of hard names. 

Lavender, under the title of " The Universal Theme," gives ns a sketch of 
the harmony to arise from the Exhibition. It would be prudent perhaps to tnutf- 
pose the fifth and sixth verses, or we may take '' the brave, the gay, and lbs 
lovely," as respective attributes of the Chinaman, German, and Bussian. In 
other places we have, from the same pen, ** Revenge," a tale, and ** Inoooenoe," a 
poem. "Bevenge" is rather melo-dramatic, but I suppose this is an ezoeUenes 
in a composition with such a title: I think, moreover, that there is a littie too 
much of the ''fortiter in re" introduced, or perhaps I should call it '' argnmentam 
ad baculum." Of the poetry, I prefer the second part of " Innocence," which I 
take to be a general view of the subject of which the first part is a particolsr 
illustration. The sentiments are very sweet, bnt the Terse is not always elegant 
*<He*s" does not well stand for ''he has." 

The poetry of Rose exhibits, I think, true poetic feeling with a happy view 
of religion. The sentiments put into the mouth of the child are appropriately 
simple and natural The writer has chosen the subject of childhood again, in 
the number for August, and shews the same facility of versification, and the 
game sweet, impassioned feeling. If I might find a fault with what is so prstty 
— 4md critics are obliged to be ill-natured sometimes, or people think nothmg of 
them — it would be in the repetition of the same epithets, as "joyous," ."bright,'' 
&C. This defect, however, the poet exhibits in company with some great naoMS, 
as Mrs. Hemans. 

Lofitimtim has given to Myrtle a very proper answer. In estimating tfas 
Talue of any pursuit, we should argue from its use, not from its abnae. The 
same clever writer subsequently displays her ingenuity and humorons Tein in 
the answer to N^htshade^t "Enigma." 

Ivy is cruelly sarcastic The best proof of his talents would be to torn him 
o?er to Miss Grady, and if he escapes with his ears, he was bom under a lucky star. 

Moss Rose presents ns with a very successful endeavour to cope with the 
difficulties of composition in French verse. It appears they are more easily 
eoaquered than those of love. 

JSfflaiUine keeps up the livelmeaa and Vntera&V o( \i«c Ule. When ihs bat 
learned so to contrast the language ot' \ieT diaxM^xin^ «a \a «Bai^^ft V2b» iMiS^>ft 
Mttnbttto it at once to the right speaker, aad «wwswfti Va ^towrmit wk V» 


prodootioDf a little more of the tone of their age — (tor instance, I think a lady 
of the serenteenth oentory would have been puzzled at the very name of piano - 
fiirte)— she will become an accomplished writer. Eglantine appears to form her 
style oo Miss Bremer. 

The elegant lines by Camationt among which there are some particularly 
beautiful, exhibit the same ardent love of Nature as those by Azalea^ with the 
additional charm of strong and amiable domestic feelings. Though the wreath 
enlled with so much taste should wither, the sentiments associated with the 
flowers never can ; they will make the society of Carnation a blessing wherever 
■he may wander, and its loss a subject for r^rot, that will require no token to 
. keep alive. 

The '^ Enigma" of Nightshade is effective as a poetical production, inde- 
pendently of its ingenuity, which, however has not been sufScientiy deep to 
oliide "woman's wit." 

The ** Baron's daughter," by EeHotrapef shews dramatic skill in constructing 
a plot, in interweaving with it a little unexplained mystery, and in inventing 
eflbctive surprises j but the writer has evidently not seen much of the world. The 
verses, by the same writer, in the number for August, are plaintive and picturesque. 
The German romance is a proof of Heliotrope's industry and talent. 

Myrtle is an indefatigable writer, who seems determined to leave no part 
of literature unattempted. There is considerable repose in her tales, — ^an evidenco 
that the authoress is beginning to wield her powers with some control. Her 
eharaoters are well conceived and sustained, though their language is a little 
too sentimental and high-flown. It is hardly possible yet to form a Judg- 
ment of her talent for constructing a plot; but it appeara to be considerable. The 
** Village Maid," by the same writer, is an excellent specimen of the ballad, simple 
and tender. The answer to Nightshade's Enigma is also very good. In the 
*' Lines to an Infant Brother," a more difScult metre has been adopted, and tho 
4Riooess is less apparent 

The paper by jlnemone, at the commencement of the number for August, 
i^ as the name of the writer denotes, soaring in its subject. It shews considerable 
talent in an unusual department of science; but owing to the Latin- English 
diction adopted, the exact meaning is often difficult to reach. In treating on 
metaphysics, it is absolutely necessary to use simple and unequivocal language: 
the neglect of this misleads the reader, and has also misled some of our greatest 
Metaphysicians. For instance, we are told that ^thought and feeling stand ia 
relation of cause and e£foct." But feeling may mean either sensation or emotion. 
In the latter meaning only is the affirmation true. A little further on, the 
writer says^ ''knowledge is unfathomable as the ocean; consequentiy the greater 
our conscioasn e ss of our real attainments, the deeper will be the sense of our 
difioioooies.' If we take the apparent meaning of the words, we have a «o»- 
seqmiur. But the intended meaning doubtiesaly is, iShaiC ^2tua« Sii -qa '^qsboX Ni^^dD^ 
knowledl^ nuuitiad mA/ ia future aoqulxe; eooaeyMMi^A^^ M ^^^ «s^ ^RgfiwaKi^^ 
iffir Utth ia compmoa W9 kaow at preaont, 'wo i^bA^il Ya'v^ % ^ms^ ^"'^'^ ^ ^"^ 


Le Pois has obosen a sabject more easily handled, and it is treated with 
taste and feeling. Bat, if I am not in error, it is almost impossible to write on 
SQoh a sabject in French, withoat adopting a little French sentimentality. 

Sloe has not mastered the difficalties of versification; the "fatal facility" 
of the octosyllabic line is evident in the address to Mignionette. "Blar" is not 
a pretty word, and I am afraid the ** visions of love" are realities of nonsense. 

Caciua is evidently so yoang that a few faalts are apparent in his language. 
His tale is however one of promise. 

The lines by lAfy of the VaUey are tastefnlly and smoothly written, and 
shew maoh feeling. Through an oversight, one has two syllables in excess. 

The '* Fragment," by HeaiherbeJif nms on very sweetly. I prefer the latter 
part to the introdaotion. 

I admire mach the short tale by Elder. It possesses a great deal of character; 
the langoage is appropriate, the epithets and similitudes illustrative and bold, 
the incidents probable, and the tone healthy. I have heard that the fair writer 
18 yoang; the composition woold do credit to an adult. 

In the pretty and ingenious verses of Erica a little sly ho/dinage appears to lie 
concealed. They make agraoeful and appropriate termination to the volume for August. 
In looking over the foregoing clever poems and tales, it is impossible not to 
be struck with a similarity both of excellencies and faults pervading them. Among 
the former is to be reckoned their fresh, youthful, and sympathising spirit, which 
in itself is highly poetical ; among the latter, a tendency to build up words rather 
than thooghts — the great fault of even the best poets of the present day. What 
we look for in a writer is originality; and, where this exists, the simplest language 
is effective. Moreover, in writing, we should work from within, outwardly. The 
thought most be present first, and the words must be but an inadequate expression 
of the thoaght. If we look at any of our great writers, we find that the thought 
transcends the words; hence the deeper we study them, the more we find to admire: 
if we read inferior writers, we are often surprised by a striking expression, but 
when we search beneath it, we find nothing. Let us not then imitate Mrs. Hemans, 
Mrs. Tighe, or even Tennyson, Longfellow, or Macaulay; but, as the young sculptor 
studies the antique, and the painter the great masters, let us resort to Chaucer, 
and Spenser, and Shakspeare, and Milton: we shall find in their pages other poetical 
qualifications than that of mere emotion. In their pages we shall not find such 
general and unmeaning epithets as " beautiful, exquisite, bewitching," which 
express only indefinite sensations; nor such as " soft hope, soft music, soft light) 
soft downy couch, soft heart, soft whispers, soft thrilling voice, the lute's soft notes* 
soft securify, soft caress, soft repose, soft embrace, soft-breathed gales, soft and 
lovely finune "•— I quote firom what is nevertheless a very pretty poem, viz., Mrs. 
Tighe's " Psyche,"— because these cannot represent the exactness of their mental 
images: they are the expedients of a writer who builds up words, not of one who 
atudiea Nature. 

"I do not apply these observatiofns, \ii\)h»ii fuV\«x\»GLV ^A^>Vi«t«Blly talented 
yotmg wntera of the Boaquet; I wish mewiVy Xo ipo\Ti\. ouV, >iSQftT«aL«sci'^\!M3«vxMa£| 
^ffpinats for literary fiune have saffered B\i\^wc«i)K..-^^3«.T^^ ^\iQ,\rwK«R. 


* t 


** Sclmiu enlm mnsicen nostxls moribas abesse a prindpis penonA."— CorneZsta If^ipos. 

On a tellement ^pnis^ toates lea ressoarces da g^nie pour d^fendre la mnsique 
qall me faat da courage poor faire aae aatre attaqae ear cet art qae la foale admire 
mais je ne pais qae r^p^ter qae ses tons passion^s amoUssent Tesprit et empoisoDDent 
Fame et oes meme Grecs qa'on me cite comme ceaz parmi lesqaels la Mobique ^tait 
en honneor avaient aassi lears soapfons qa^elle prodaisut des maavais effets sar 
les moBors de lears compatriotes; on peat aassi dire que c^^tait la mosiqae qui lea 
mena en esclavage en assoopissant leurs esprits. 

'Ex/D^erai/ro avtij oi vaXa oi jcard rijv d^laVf ^trvep Kai toIq dXKoiQ 
ifriTtiHevfJLatn va<nv oi dk vvv rd. trtfivd airtjc irapaiTijffdfUpoi^ dvrl 
TfJQ dvdptadovQ eKtivtfg Kai Oiffiritfiag jcai OioiQ 0iXi}C Kareayviav 
Kai KfariXtfv elg rd Osarpa shdyovtri. — PbUarch Uepl MovvimjCt Sect, 15. 

Mais poarqaoi parler de ces Grecs? ne se yirent ils pas oblig^ a se soomettre- 
anx conqa^rants da monde i an peaple qai n^iimait pas la Masiqae. 

La Masiqae en amolissant T&me n*ezcite pas d'^motions nobles ni oes Amotions 
tendres qa*on ne peat qa*admirer dans les plas grands des hommes. H contribaa 
i la gloire de C^sar d'avoir plear^ le sort de son ami mais ce ne fdt pas I'effet bien- 
hearenx de la Masiqae. 

Cetartenchantear n'est pas divin fant-il s'ayancer vers r£temel aveo la Masiqae 
N'oxaacera-t-il pas nos pri^res sans que noas les accompagnions de oes sons eutrai- 
nants qui peavent tr^ bien sedaire les hommes mais qai n*impoeeront pas sar le 
Toat Paissant. Non la Masiqae ne peat pas Stre celeste les joaissanoes celestes 
n'ezcitent jamais des passions sensoelles; il est yrai qae la Masiqae est an des 
empbis des anges mais ce n'est pas ane Masiqae mondaine ni comme elle est 
connne de noos parce qa'elle est employee par ceaz qai ne sont pas sosoeptibles da 

Mais 11 me safiSt de donner denz ezemples. 

Une reine plong^e dans les yices les plus pemicienz se serrit de cet art magiqoe 
poars^aire le ooarage s^v^re et repalsif d'an g^n^ral Bomain. Le resaltat 
n*est qae trop bien connh, la mort n'^tait que le moin dre des maaz, I'honnear perdo, 
la patrie tzuhie, la famille abandonn^e deshonoreront toojonrs le nom d'Antoine. 

Qaelqaes ann^es plas tard dans ce*meaie empire parat aa tjran implacable 
moostre indigne de rbamanit^, receptacle de tons les crimes qai caasent la coodam- 
nation des ames perdaes, tranqaille et insoaciantil vit briilerlaca.^vtaSab^\s)5s&S^ 
pendant qtt*il cbaotait la destrocUon de Tiove a&»Qm'^^]c^^ ^^Naw\i^'cft« 


Ye tbonghfleM ooee amid joar revels wild, 

List to the eoond that falls npon yonr ear — 

The plaiutiye aooe&ts of a sorrowing child; 
A stranger is he, and all lonel j here. 

He is not one of England's fayonr*d sons- 
He has no boine nor onght to call his own, 

Saye the small instrument, whose wailing tones 
Seem bnt an echo of his heartfelt moan. 

Or if some livelier air he trembling plays, 

It seems to mock his moamfnl looks and ways; 

For abeent firom his own lov'd land the while. 

He has forgot his childhood's pleasant smile. 

Or if not jet forgotten quite the thought 

Of home and all the happiness it brooght : 

If that sweet lay within his heart awoke. 

The memorj of words and looks that spoke. 

Of words that spoke in love's endearing voice. 
And bade his young and artless heart rejoice; 
Brings back the smile where once 'twas wont to be, 
Tet the sad thought of her is misery. 

The thought of her whose heart is bow'd with grief, 
And jet amid her woe doth find relief 
In the proud thought that he, her much lov'd son, 
Back to her arms shall come with treasure won. 

Won, as they've whisper'd in her guileless heart. 
From London's trade and London's well fill'd mart; 
But all such visions they have faded now — 
From yon pale youth's sad heart and aching brow; 
Ixmg had he treasured them with transports high. 
Till the last vanish'd with its dirge and sigh. 

A sigh finesh bursting from his throbbing breast. 
He asks thee England but a place to rest; 
He came to seek a frail destroying store- 
England arise and give the stranger more. 

England — though hast God's message from above— 
Breathe in his soul of Jesus* dying love: 
Oh ! bid him weloome with thy favoured own— 
Oh ! bid him welcome to thy Saviour's throne I 
Approach, forlorn one I thy Saviour bids thee come— 

Come where immortal treasures ever spotless shine; 
Winn ebon didst seek a (rrave \)e\io\d tLYionA^ 

JLad nought but fading joU tt» ** T«w\ <A Ytv<»^ \% NNwa*. 


fTo intgnionette, 

I would not wish thee health, bat well 

I knew thon hadsi the eeote to nae it;-~ 

What eUe its worth let idlers tell, 
Who have it only to abase it 

I wonld not wish thee wealth, nnless 
Thy heart in boanty copied Heavei^ 

For riches, Lady, do not bless, 

If not as freely spread as giren. 

I woold not wisli thee friends, if soon 

Thoa conldst desert a proved and tme one; 

If fickle as the changing moon, 

Thy speech were kind bat to a new one. 

I wotild not wish thee length of days, 
If to no end those days were passing; 

If none coold know, none coold praise. 
While time his store was still amassing. 

Bot I do wish thee all of these— 

I wish thee years in ample measore— 

I wish thee health and mental ease. 

And friends, and what tkoa wooldst of treasnrt. 



Though she is gone, and love and pasnon's oVr, 

Her image haunts the heart where once it dwelt, 
Though all estranged, and parted ever more. 

How sad and sudden is the shock that's felt. 
Sending the life blood quick through every por^- 

When the time-healed wound, that Fate had dealt, 
Is touched by some chance meeting, look, or word. 

Still finding response in the broken chord. 


Ah love is fleeting ! fragile are all vows. 
Eternal seems it whilst the fever's on. 

Bat ere the autumn winds have stript the boughs, 

Some cheek has cooled us, and the day-dream's gone. 

Short space for tears and anguish Time allows. 
And for heart-breaking and d\%tnii&\as!^— 'Wsga\ 

SooD stem realities sucb woea «fiac^ 

And life goes on at lU accuittani^^ ^ma* 


— WT^—i ■ l l. i I . t J I ■' . . I . ■ . — . 

♦*J ICobc to izz tf)e ^un«»!)inc." 

<' I loye to see the sanshine," 

As it falls on all around; 
For e'en the hiding violets, 

The jojroas beam has found ; 
And every opening floweret is sparkling in its ray — 
Ob ! I love to see the sun shine through all the summer day. 

<(0h ! I love to see the sunshine**-^ 

Burst through dark*ning clouds above; 
For it fain would picture to mj heart, 

Tbj Father's Smile of love; 
And I know upon each lovely heart that Father's smile doth beam- 
Forgotten tho' by all around upon this earth it seems. 

'* I love to see the sunshine''-^ 

For it ever seems to say, 
IJpon the good and evil ones, 

I shed alike my ray ; 
And down npon my heart it sheds to off a gentle love-^ 
Oh ! I love to see the sunshine burst through gathering clouds above^ 

'( I love to see the sunshine"-^ 

It makes the world so bright ; 
And draws my heart to Him above. 

Whose words first made the light; 
And I love to think upon that time, and on that joyous day^- 
When I shall love that sunshine that ne'er shall pass away ! 


Co tf)e iSSoon. 

Bright mistress of the silver-spangled sky, 

O'er the azure vault celestial Qaeen; 
Fairest among the fair ones found on high — 

Tranquil delight I feel where thou art seen. 

I^una, bright Luna, shed thy rays around — 
Oh, let me gaze upon thy placid light; 

Dase for the troubled heart in thee is found— 

Bright Princess of the diamond-studded night. 

Astarte Queen of Heav'n listen to my pray'r, 
With mild effulgence tranquilise the night ; 

|>[ftise thy peaily rays lVutou^^Q\x\. \\i« tiivi > 

And reigi)^ ti;lwxv|)\iaBX o'u l^<&«.Vik'&coV3»»a^\i^\^\ 


$0110 of tf)e WLiVtf 3ao0e. 
I love the banks of the whisp'ring stream, 

And the copses green and lone, 
Where 'mid parted leaves a snnny gleam 

On the moss-grown stems is thrown. 

I love to creep in the snnnj hedge, 

Where the briar and hawthorn grow, 
Or look from the rocky mountain's ledge, 

On the foaming waves below. 

I twine mj wreaths in the woodland shades, 

Where the fiiys and fairies dwell, 
I charm the eye in the open glades. 

And down in the grassy dell. 

Oh, I envy not my kindred fair. 

Who in stately gardens bloom, 
Tho' my haes with thorns may not compare, 

And I lack their rich perfume. 

For I dwell 'mid all that is fair and gay, 

And free as the air am I; 
And I fear not Summer's scorching ray, 

Nor the frowning Winter's sky. 

*' Come ye whose hearts are filled with gloom. 
Come wander where wild roses bloom. 
Come read a tale in ev'iy flower, 
A lesson in each stream and bower. 
For e'en the torf on which yon tread 
Bears characters which, rightly read, 
* Will teach yon how with cheerfiil air 
All Life's allotted tasks to bear."— Wild Bos& 

Ct)e Mmic of tf)e <fBcean» 

I love to sit upon the shore. 

When all aronnd is peace 
The busy hum is heard no more. 

Discordant sounds do cease. . 
I hear the music of the wave. 

Which ripples at my feet; 
Which, passing o'er the seaman's grave. 

On other shores does beaL 
I think of those, who tho' unknown, 

Beneath the waters sleep; 
And fancy, that I bear tiie tone 

Of dirges from the deep. 



iForUetzung von Seite 62.) 

' Ich BtUrzt0 in mein Zimmer hinein nod iiberaagte, wie icb Waldmimn retten 
koonte der Tod meiner Stiefmntter war das eiozige Mittel nnd ich beschloss daas sie 
darch meine Hand sterben aoUte.' 

' Ja schandert nicht, eine Mordeiin steht tot EocIl' 

Des Abends als sie 8ehlief,f!^ngich leise in ihre Stnbe miteinem ▼erg;ifteten Dolch 
in der Hand. Indem ich mich iiber ihr Bett bengte, fiihlte ich Rene in meinem 
Henn, dodi ale ieh rie tot sich hinmnrmeln horte ** Jalie liebt Waldmann nnd 
dafnr soil er sterben." Rief ich ans, *£r soil nicht sterben** and stiees den Dolch 
meiner Stiefmntter ins Herz, sie gab einem tiefen Wehlent and ihre Seele entfloh.*' 

Rasch lief ich yon der Schreckens scene weg, Doroh den Wald zn Waldraaooi 
Hfltte, laat klopfte ich er selbst offnete die Thar. 

"Mein Grott, Jalie, was ist dann ge8ohehen**sagte er. 
'^Jetzt Waldmann bin ich Dain** seafzte ich athemloe. 

"Unglackliches Madchen was hast Da gemacht,** rief er erschrochen aos, als er 
meine weissen Eleider mit Bint befleckt sah. 

*'Ja Waldmann, antwortete ich. Da tanchest D'lch nicht es ist das Blat der 
Gr&fin ?on Hohenstein, am Dich za retten, bin ich eine Morderin geworden ?** 

'* Ach Jalie» wiedersetzte er, Deine Stiefmntter konnte mir nicht schaden, ich 
bin Wenzel, das Ge^nst Tom Rheinsberg.** 

"Schreoken anf Schrecken, Grosser Himmal was babe ich gethan, bin ich zar 
Morderin geworden, nm nnr in des Tenfels Macht zn fallen.** 

" Jalie, Da hast geschworen bei Allem was heilig ist. Die meine and meine 
allein zn werdea. Ich geh fort doch in acht Tage werde ich wiederkommen nnd ich 
erwarte Dich bereit zn finden mir iiberall bin za folgen.** 

Er machte gleich die Tbiire za, and liess mich am Mittemacht allem im- 
iurchterlichen Schwarzwald. Mehr todt als lebendig ging ich zam Schlosse znrack, 
aaf dem Weg traf ich nnsem alten Hofmeister. 

'^Fraalein Jalie, rief er entschnldiget meine Frage. Seid Ihr nicht yon Wald- 
manns Hiitte gekommen ?** " Ja,** fliisterte ich, ** Wisset Ihr dann, wer dieser Wald 
mann ist?** 

"Er ist Wenzel das Gespenst yom Rheinsberg.** 

"Oh, gnadiges Franlein ich bitte Each bei Allem, das Ihr liebet, bei Eare 
eelige Matter Die in Himmel mit gnten Engeln iiber die Woblfahrt ihres Kindes 
wacht, bei Dem Grafem Enrem gnadigen Vater, dessen letztes Wort Jnliens Name 
war, sehet den Teofel Wenzel nie wieder.** 

" Alter Gortz, es giebt noch einem Geist yon dem Ihr nichts wisset, Die Stimme 
meiner teafeliacben Stiefmatter erhebt sich aos dem Reiche der Sande and flacht 
loir ibrer Mdrderin," 

**UambgUoh Franleio Julie, die Toc\i\«t 3l«& laJgiUt* OnS«^'^wiYL<3oLW»N»SL 
^»aa keine Mocderin •ein." 


** Es ist dooh wahr, aber lasset mich, treaer Dieneri ich habe den Kelch der 
Sonde geeehmeckt and ich werde ihn anstrinken." 

"Fraolein aaget nioht so, Ihr wiaeet nicht was ein schanderhaftes Sohiksal. 
Ihr selbst erwahlt haben, dieser Wenzel wird Each todten in Pein nnd Seelenangst 
werdet Ihr sterben." 

** Ich sterbe nein, gnter Gortz saget nnr dass Ihr luget, nie kann ich glanben 
dasa mein Geliebter mein Morder sein wird. Ich kann nicht sterben. Hilf mir 
Himmel I Ich kann nicht sterben ! Ebenjetzt sehe ich die langen gesclirampften 
Finger meiner Stiefointter bereit, meine Angen ansanreissen." 

** Geliebtes Fraolein, es giebt ein Mittel Each zn reiten Gehet in den Schwarz- 
wild, sitzet Each anf einen Stein, nnd den ersten Mann der yorbei geht, nehmet 
BO Eorem Retter, nnd Wenzel kann Ench nicht anmhren. Mit Frende befolgte ich 
Gortzens Bath, ich ging in den Schwarzwald wohin er mir Kleidnng nnd Essen 
brachte, jetzt verUsset Ihr mich nicht, sine Morderin betet am Holfe, konnet Ihr 
sie sohntzen." 

" Ich habe es gesehworen and mein Wort werde ich halten sagte Radolph fest" 


Fortsetsang folgt. 

Uoffef Ipage 57. 

L'eaa e«t tonjoors one admirable chose dans nn point de yne: c'est i an paysage 
es qn'one glace est i an appartement; c'est hi pins anim^ des choses inanim^es; 
nuusane cascade Temporte snr toot; c*est y^ritablement de Tean viTante; on est 
tent6 de lia donner one &me. On s'int^resse anx efforts ^cnmaex qn'elle fait en se 
heortant centre les rochers; on ^conte sa voix brnjante qni se plamt qoand elle 
tombe; on g^mit de sa chiite dont ne la console pas le r^iaillissement brillante qoe 
loijetteen passant le soleil; pais enfin on la snit avec inter^t dans son conrs pins 
tranqnille aa miliea de la vall^ comme on snit dans le monde Tezistenoe paisible 
d'on ami dont le matin a iU agit^ par de violentes passions. 



(Page 96.) 

1— Mignionette. 
2— Bine-bell. 
4— Carnation. 
6— Marjgold. 

7 — ^Larender. 
8— MUfdl. 
9 — Hawthorn. 
10— Elderflower. 


IBate %ilia. 

{From the French of Victor HugoJ) 

Say have yon seen, beneath these azare skies, 
Her, with the high pore brow and gentle eyes, 
Gaiding a playfal gronp— four children fair, 
And watching o*er them with a mother's care. 
Upon their way, shonld they the blind man meet 
Toiling along the road with weary feet, 
Her alms she places in the yonngest's hand. 
And bids him love the poor — 'tis God's command. 
With venomed tooth, where scandal tears a name, 
While eagerly the thonghtless crowds defame — 
One woipan, silent long, at last will speak 
A few soft soothing words in accents meek — 
" My friends, in haste let us not judge another, 
*' Who has not faults claim pify from a brother? 
«How qoiokly snllied are the brightest things! 
Praise has no feet alas ! but blame has wings. 
If tender memory stirring in your breast, 
Or fell remorse, the enemy of rest; 
Or chance some day your wandering steps should lead 
To that still place, ^e city of the dead. 
Follow the braten path, 'twill lead to a grave, 
0*er whose cold stone the drooping willows wave 
Beside it, meekly kneeling on the ground, 
A moomer prays— four children stand aronnd. 
Heaven of her sorrow sure this saint beguiles. 
For, like the angels, though in tears she smiles. 
From the bruis'd heart flow grief and fervent praise, 
Like fragrant waters from a broken vase. 
On Heaven are fixed her chaste and holy eyes-~ 
Not on the grave from whence her sorrows rise; 
And when to earth she turns all bath'd in tears, 
Such deep regret in that sweet face appears, 
Yon*d think she cannot choose whom most to love— 
Her children here) or Kun^Ad mo^W 'd.Wi^. 



3fttlS» 1851. 

Cupid afloat 

In his golden boat, 
In a sea of snoshine sailing — 

The Morning Star, 

Now seen a&r, 
With his joyoos song is hailing-^ 

With a raj of light, 

For his arrow bright, 
And his mother o'er him bending: 

Yoa*ll see him dip, 

In beaafy's lip, 
The dart he is earthward sending. 

If Cnpid in ire, 

Blind beanty with fire, 
Why point then at my mistaking 

The glances which fly 

From your laughing eye 
For the shafts of the yoong god*8 making. 


^it %itht. 

Mein Herz ich will Dicb fragen, 
Was ist denn Liebe? sag ? 
** Zwei Seelen nnd ein g^danke 
Zwei Herzen wid ein Schlag,* 
Und sprich; woher kommt Liebe' 
" Sie kommt nicht, sie ist da," 
Und sprich, wenn schwindet Liebe? 
" Die war*s nicht der's geschah," 
Und wann ut Lieb em reinsten ? 
** Die ihrer selbet yergissi." 
Und wenn ist Lieb am tiefsten ? 
** Wenn sie am stilsten ist.** 
Und wenn ist Lieb am reichsten? 
*' Das ist sie wenn sie giebt 
Und sprich wenn redet Liebe 
**Sie redet nichti sie LiebC* 



PART n. 

[Contimied from Page 49.] 

Father Francis sat in the stady of the Presbjter^, at Z^^, before him Isj 
an open book, bnt he looked not in its pages, his head rested on his hand and 
his thonghts flew back to past events; he thonght of that evening three years 
back when he last saw Bernard Lang worth, since then he had neither seen him 
or heard of him. Again the kst words of the jonth seemed to ring in his ears, 
and the priest shuddered as he thonght of the deeds which in all probability had 
followed np these words. 

The Ullage church was situated on the side of a steep hill, a winding path 
led up to the humble edifice, and down this path the priest slowly wended his way, 
after the celebration of the evening mass. About half way down, and by the side 
of the pathway was a deep and seemingly bottomless pit, caused no doubt by Boaub 
oonvulsion of nature, but believed by the superstitious people of the village to be 
the entrance to the abode of Satan. A strong railing surrounded the aperture, 
which indeed looked deep and dark enough to merit the appellation of the ** Well 

of Perdition,'' bestowed on it by the rustic inhabitants of Z . It was a fearful 

phce, and none would pass it after dark, and as the Priest (who had been the bet 
to leave the church) passed it he made the sign of the cross, and uttered a short 
prayer. Hardly had he passed the pit, ere he felt something brush hastily by hinu 

''Bernard!" he cried, as by the moon's pale light he recognised the form and 
features of the youth. Bernard started and stopt short, then recognising the priest 
he approached him and presented to him a packet of letters tied with a blue ribbon. 
Silently the priest received them, and was about to question the youth as to his 
being at that dread spot alone at such an hour, when he was interrupted by these 
words: — 

''Father, I see you would question me, seek not now to learn my history; all 
yoa desire to learn you will find in these pages ; but my time is short, blessed be 
the hour in which I met thee. Father, pardon and bless thy son.** 

"What mean you, Bernard? Betum home with me; why should your tima 
be so short?" 

" The grave yawns to receive me ; the spirit of the injured Alice calls me, 
she holds to me a crown of blood-stained cypress: bless me ere I go." 

"Holy saints! what mean you, my son?" inquired the priest in trembling 

"Seek not to know my meaning if you would not have me die imbkat^ im- 
ahriven; I am in haste; the victims call me." 

" Confess your sins, my son, and the holy Church will grant you absolution.* 

" Father, the hour for confession is past; my sins are recorded there," and he 
pointed to the pspen the priest held, '^whea 'jtMi i&ttU. hasre tead my histocy, 
<Ad0 pmjr ior ih» soul of the Tinhappy Benttx^ ^eS^MS^ i^ vosmi «cist«k ^^«& 
^^^miHS," *nd b§ Jknelt before tho pcMSU 


In a firm tone bat with a trembliDg heart. Father Francis prononnoed these 
words: — ''Mary, Queen of Heaven, praj for thee; may all the blessed saints 
interoede for thee, and by their prayers may the pardon of God be sealed onto 
thee: bless thee, my BoaJ* 

The yoong man bowed his head, and mnrmoiBd a fiunt amen. Then slowly 
rising from his knees he reverently kissed the hand of the priest, and with his 
arms folded, and his head bowed upon his breast, he tamed in the direction of 
the chorch. The priest woald have followed him, but he waved him back, and 
soon a tarn in the path concealed him from view. Father Frauds awaited awhile 
nntil the figure of the youth should again appear in sight, but he saw him not» 
A horrible suspicion crossed his mind, as he thought of the words of the youth, 
and of the vicinity of the dreadful pit; he hastened in the direction Bernard had 
taken ; as a turn in the road brought the pit in view, the priest observed the figure 
of the yooth on his knees at the edge; suddenly he rose, and ere the father could 
leach the spot, with a wild cry and outspread arms, he leapt into the bottomless 
abyss. The body could not be found, and the priest kept the suicide a secret, as it 
woald have added additional horror to the already too-much dreaded spot. 

We will look again into the study of Father Francis; the priest sat with his 
Cms buried in his hands, tears were trickling fast between his fingers, and dropping 
oo the pages of a manuscript which lay upon his knees. Those papers had been 
phwed in his hands by the unhappy^outh, whose untimely £ste filled him with horror. 
Tet it is not for this he weeps ; no, he mourns over the consequences of unchecked 
passions, and the fearful nature of revenge. Now he wipes the unmanly drops from 
his eyes, and taking up the blotted pages again peruses them attentively. 

" I am weary of life, but there is one task left me ere I die. Know that I am 
revenged: bat how? Can I, dare I, relate the manner in which I accomplished my 
design ? Yet this task is left me ere I die; to none but you, ray father, could I tell 
my secret, bat you shall know all. You m\X ask, on whom I could be revenged when 
htf the murderer, was dead ? On the deceiving villain Neville! the author oi all the 
misery ol his life who was as a father to me, whose memory I cursed when I read his 
confessions; but when I knew all I cursed him no longer, I pitied, I excused him, and 
the love I had formerly felt for him returned to my heart. I have tried to reconcile 
myself to the life of a priest, hot even in the silent shade of the cloister there would 
be no peace for me. I cannot, as he did, drag on a weary life of remorse and angaish 
for years ; no resource is left me but in the grave. I ask not for pity, but I crave 
yoor prayers; I leave my all to the church where my adopted &ther lies buried; I 
have £uth enough left to believe in the efficacy of prayer, let it be expended in mnmioff 
for his soul and mine. The day I left Z— , — day never to be forgotten, dark spot 
on the tablet of my memory, when first awoke in my mind the dark thoughts after- 
wards carried into action, — ^that day I left my home, vowing never to return nntil I 
had well revenged (in the only way left me) the murder of my mother. My mothet t 
often as I had sighed for the soft and gentle tonoft ell ibisi<siC[k!e£%'<«^^^^!!st^^\«s&&sK. 
oBiwMs JsMW bestowed on happier Glnldx«n\ i«\i«ii, m ^« tiVft ^ ^gsyss9L%si^^»w;^ 
Awsf whieh Mt tinm setsed upon my sdog^bBQi tUCbwA^*^^^'*'?^^** ^^ 


and f^ntle friend to torn to, into whose faithfal heart I could poar out mj cbUdtsh 
sorrows, or repose mj aching head upon her gentle breast; how, then, have I not 
wept, with a grief to which time only added poignancy over my unspeakable depriva- 
tion ; and then, when he died, to know that but for him I might have enjoyed that 
priceless blessing, a mother's lovoj tell me, was it not enough to change the gentlest 
Mature into that of a demon? Perhaps I am too violent, but it was thus I felt, as I 
saw the being who had done me this foul wrong, lying peaceful and dead, beyond 
the reach of my violence. Revenge I was bent on, and though the perpetrator of the 
crime was beyond reach of my fury, yet the murderer of his father, the false-heated 
Keville, was, I trusted, still in my power. This thought flashed across my mind aSj 
three years ago, I left this spot Father, your face I shall no more dare to see, my 
determination is sealed. I will place these papers where you shall find them; seardl 
for the writer will be in vain. Still, shotUd I meet you, you will not refuse your 
blessing to your fallen child. At times gentle thoughts come into my mind, and I 
fancy I hear a voice which whispers faintly there is hope even for me, and I shall not 
perish eternally: it is a deceiving voice, I try to stifle it, for my sins are too deep to 
be washed out Hope still whispers to me not to despair; even when premeditating 
the awful plunge into eternity hope is still in my heart: and, &ther, my hope is in 
yoor prayers. Pray for me, for myself I cannot, dare not, pray. More than a yesr 
had passed away, and I had gained no tidings of Neville, but my feelings towards 
him had nndergooe no change. One night I had returned from my nnsnceessfal 
search in the neighbourhood of B , when I heard a knock at my door, and the 
next instant a num enveloped in a dark cloak stood before me. I inqouned what he 
wanted. He said he had heard I was inquiring for a gentleman of the name of 
Neville, that he oonid tell me where he was to be found; he told me that Neville 
lived the life of a solitaiy, and was duU and morose, he agreed to conduct me to his 
abode if I paid him well for his trouble; I bribed him, and he undertook to guide me 
to the residenoe of the object of my hatred. He lived with his only child (a daughter) 
in a large mansion bequeathed to him by a friend; too well / knew what friend, and 
how he had repaid his friendship. I took lodgings in the neighbourhood of the Manor 
hoose, under the name of Winton. It was during my wanderings throogh the 
deserted grounds of this mansion that I first saw Leila Neville, she was seated in a 
bosquet, and unobserved I gazed upon her beauty. She was just dghteen, and lovely 
as an angd, her eyes were of heaven's own blue^ and her fiur hair fell in a shower of 
glossy ringlets over her snowy shoulders. I followed her when she left the spot, I 
felt drawn towards her by an irresistible impulse. After a short acquaintance | 
oonfossed my passion, and she frankly acknowleged that she returned my love; and 
we were happy. Then was my dream of bliss, why was I ever aroused from it ? At 
length one memorable day, we were seated in our favourite bosquet at the end of one 
of the deserted alleys of the garden, when we heard steps approaching, and ere we 
could oonoeal ourselves, her £fither stood before us. My deshre for revenge which had 
slept daring my interooorBe with Leila, but which had never been eztingnishedi 
Mwake with redoabled fhry , as I obwrved t\ie cAaxt loft ^v^^ Qiv\)^^j^i&Di!|^\aA« 'He 
M rasembUuKe to mj departed mothw, ^YulOi caS^ \AaX «c«Q!i&\f&\s&TSGDnQx*^ 


bnmoo^' I thought; I looked fixedly apon him, he qaailed heneath my gaze. Leila 
had riaeo, and stood by my side gazing imploringly at her father ; he moved not, 
spoke not, bat after an instant^s mote stare of astonishment and terror, sank lifeless 
to the groond. I assisted Leila to conrey him to the honse; eagerly and anzioasly 
I Wtttehed for his recovery; the demon within me bade me fear that he should escape 
my lersoge, that he woold never awake from this death-like sleep. Bat he re- 
eofwed, I was not to go innocently to my grave. Leila had retired to her oratory on 
tbt first signs of retaming animation. I may here toll of one good deed, atonement 
for my meditated crime; Leila had embraced the Bomish faith, thas far my inflnence 
onr her had been of good effiwt, and the eight monttis' of stolen interviews we had 
passed t<^g«thtf had added a convert to an holy charch. The old man, we believed, 
was still in the darkness of nnbelief. When he recovered from the swoon into which 
he had fidleo, / was by his side, and 1 was the first person on whom he opened his 
eyw; hs dosed them again quickly, and with a frown motioned me from him. I left 
hbn and walked oat into the park, the scene of my adopted father's boyish days; 
htn hs had passed his innocent, but, alas! unhappy youth; I knew every glade, 
ahnoat cifwy tree, I had seen the house where my sainted mother was murdered, I 
had trafsned again and again the path from the manor to the village, trod by him 
OD that eventful night. Since I had known lioila, in endeavouring to conceal my 
thoughts fitim her, the deuie of my heart had lost its intenseness, and the longing 
for rawDge had ceased to be the mainspring of all my actions. I felt drawn towards 
ths old man, there was a fascination in his gaze the little time I had beheld him, 
whifih attnMSted me; I could not hate him now so bitterly as I wished to; was my 
hatnd, then, dying in sight of its object? Or was it for his daughter's sake, I 
aiksd inyaelf, that 1 softened towards him? But my object must be accomplished. 
It was mon than a month smoe I had seen Leila, and my loneliness became insup- 
portable; I resolved to obtain speech of her in spite of all opposition. I went to the 
hooae; I knocked; no one opened tome; after vainly striving for admittance, I 
tomed wray and walked towards the bosquet where we had last been together, it 
had been oar favourite haunt, she might be there. As I approached the spot a sound of 
wetping arrested my attention, I hastened on, and beheld Leila seated on a bench, 
weeping Intteriy. I knelt beside her and begged her to be cahn, and confide her 
sorrows to me; at length she told me, interrupted by her tears, that her father had 
fivbiddan her to have any further intercourse with me; that he felt a strange and 
nnfoonded hatred towards me. She had fainted on hearing this, and on recovering 
from her swoon had been confined to her bed by a violent fever ; she had only just 
b^gan to noover her strength, and had stolen out to weep in secret over her love. 
* Leila,' I cried, 'if you really love me now is your tune to prove it, fiy with me far 
bejoid the reach of your father's tyranny; and in the devotion of your Bernard 
strive to forget the cruel parent who would deprive you of all happiness.' She 
started to her feet, and said, with a look I sludl never foiget, 'Is it, can it, be 
Benard Wmton who thus addresses me, who asks mA tA ^aabssQSSQ:t \£c^;qi^^ 'vsS^ 
bnog my SatbM'B gny head with sorrow to tbe gCKW^ ^Q, ^-^1 «^ \^s«^ ^'w^-k 
4kit I (mn mrv pnfB iU Whore would Vw your a«^^\i«i, l<sw>a'^^^l's« *^^ 


vaifr^ who, without a scrnplei saerifioed her duty to her inclination ; no, were I ikM to 
prove my love, the corse of a jnstlj-ofiended God would fall npon me. Can it be Ber- 
nard Winton who asks me to do this ? ' * No, Leila, no; one as far bebw yon in virtue 
and goodness, as is this dull earth below the blue and cloudless sky. / am Bernard 
Langworth, an orphan, the adopted child of a murderer now gone to his last account; 
I am here for revenge on the murderer of his father, but love for you has stayed my 
hand ;now is the feeling strong upon me; in your power it lies to decide jam fatiitn'i 
fate ; be mine, and he is saved ; forsake me, and he dies ! Leila, I have sworn it ; and I 
shrink not from the fulfilment of my vow.' She looked upon me, and her cheek grew 
paler as she gazed; I approached her, she sank upon my breast, mnnnoring, 'I 
am thine, but spare my fother.' I pressed her to my heart, she sought not to relesse 
herself from my embrace; long did she thus remam clasped in my arms, at length 
wondering at her immobility I gently raised her head, it fell back again on my 
shoulder, I looked upon her pale features, I pressed my lips to hers, no answering 
pressure was returned ; unwilling to believe my cruel fate I placed my band upon 
her heart, it had ceased to beat; the transient joy of my life had passed away; my 
Leila was dead, and I had killed her by my rashness. I will pass over the days 
which succeeded this calamity. I had carried the lifeless form of my only love to 
the house and left her, for I found the doors open, and I heard steps passing and 
vdoes calling, th^ were in search of her, I met one of the servants, he asked me if 
I had seen his mistress, I replied she had returned to the house; I concealed my 
emotion and passed on. I had taken the ribbon from her waist; with it I shall con- 
fine these papers, if it is fit that so innocent a tie be bound around so guilty a confes- 
sion. A look of her fair hair, her gift to me, is next my heart, and there shall it 
ever remain, in death as in life my ever-loved Leila, where I placed it the day thou 
gavest it to me as a token of thy requital of my love. There was a calculating cool- 
ness in my revenge, I fixed the very day and hour for the execution of it; the day 
of Leila's funeraL I watched the melancholy cortege as it slowly wound throagh 
the avenue, now appearing and again lost to sight between the trees. I had provided 
myself with a dagger which I concealed about me, and I mingled with the crowd 
I saw the coffin which contained all that made life of any value to me, lowered into 
its last resting place ; I saw that man, the object of all my hatred, gaaing, with aa 
agony to which tears denied relief, into the grave, and the unutterable woe plainly 
depicted on his countenance was a source of savage joy to me. The time approached 
when he too must lie low in the dust with her who slumbered at his feet She was 
pure and innocent, I had broken her heart. She had embraced the true faith, and 
was safe; but for him eternal punishment was certain, yet not for his rdigion but 
for his crimes, for I believe not in the eternal condemnation of those who do not profess 
the Bomish faith, there is mercy for all and of every religion, if faithfully professed 
and lived after. They were filling up the grave, the father waited to the kst^ I 
approached, he did not turn his head, t scattered a few spring flowers into the grave^ 
all bent forward to see what had fallen, I was near him, I reached out my hand and 
stabbed him deeply in the heart ; be Btagg^ToA, «xi^ Nvoiii^ VvH«^a!^«&^ Vra^t I caught 
Ma IB my Mrma, and io a low tone 1 bade bM tXlQoi^BnXft t.^iV'^^'^^^^^^^^'^i^ 


iagf the emotion was too much for him. * Take me home— I am dying/ he feeblj 
mnmnired. I aeoompanied them to the house; the jm-geon pronoanced the wonnd 
mortal, he had not an hour to live ; I rejoiced when I heard this. ' Who conld have 
done it? ' was asked on every side; I was a stranger, and they eyed me with sospi- 
doD, bat it ooold not be me, I had supported him and accompanied him home. A 
few minutes more ehipsed, and he desired to see a priestf the clergyman was there 
hot he would not admit him ; I offered to go in search of one. I went to my lodgings, 
the vestments I had boaght for a disguise were qoickly on, and I retnmed. With a 
low and altered voice, I desired them to conduct me to the penitent; without question 
they obeyed; my ezistence appeared forgotten; every face was filled with horror at 
the catastrophe, and at the strange wish of the dying man. Propped up in a chair 
with pillows, his face of ghastly paleness contrasting with the red life blood ebbing slowly 
fifom a deep wound in his nde, sat my victim. Hia glazed eyes turned slowly to- 
wards the door as it opened and I advanced towards him, my hat down over my eyes 
amrmoring the words, 'Benedicte, my son.' In a feeble voice, interrupted from 
time to time by the groans he conld not repress, he confessed what follows : I will not 
give the eonfessioo in his own words, but state the awful facts he communicated to 


(7b he continued in our next) 



* * * As Sophia entered the drawing-room, on the 22ad of July, (being her 
birthday, she had received many presents) she was surprised to see, as she approached 
the table, a beautiful basket of sflver wire with her initials, which were S. C. F., and 
fiOed with many magnificent flowers; there were roses of all colours and kinds, sweet 
briar, geraniums, hearts-ease, laburnum, lilies, evergreen, narcissus, pinks, laurel, 
carnations, lilao, mignionette, lilies of the valley, myrtle, sweet peas, violets, and in 
the middle, on a beauUfhl white rose, she found a small paper, bearing the following 
insoripUon :— A trifling remembrance from your beloved sister. Sophia was astonished 
and delighted; but her admiration increased when suddenly looking into the adjoining 
rocnn she saw a beautiful German tree illuminated, the gift of her dear parents. She 
threw herself in the arms of her friends, and tenderly embracing them, thanked them 
with great sincerity for their continued kindnesses. Her kisses were liberally re- 
turned, and whilst she was pressed by turns in the arms of her relations, her mother 
laid— Cootiniie to be kind and amiable, for believe me, my child, to be deservedly 
knred is the greatset pleature of this world. 

* Under twelve y«ax«rot84i^« 


C|)Otts16t0 on mattimons. 

What is life withoat marriage ? — a tame sort of things 

Just as if, at a partj, when oall'd on to sing, 

Ton'd oommence with " A FlaJt^ and, withoat rise or &1], 

Go on for an hour in monotonous drawl t — 

Or, as if, when the weather is mnggy and cool, 

Yon should stand a whole day on the edge of a pool, 

Saryeying a cork at the end of a line! 

Or cat<\hing some fish on which no one fcan dine!^ 

Or, as if, in a coach, with the springs partly broken, 

Along a bad road, and from side to side nx^ing. 

While the snow drifting deeply the wheel-tracks doth hide, 

For some sixty long miles yon had all mght to ride !^ 

In sach supposed cases, who, in lus right mind. 

Could mnsio, or pleasure, or comfort, e'er find ? 

Just so is the hnmdram disconsolate Kfe 

Of the ^ht who ne'er courted nor won a good wife! 

In Paradise, marriage recdyed its blest name, 

And forth from the garden of hapjnness came. 

To decorate life, and to charm every scene. 

Where natore, and art, and beanty, are seen I 

O woman ! what magical influence lies 

In thy form, and thy featnres, and love-speaking eyes ? 

A soft fascination illumes all thy ways, 

And malis early victor in woman displays I 

In our childhood, and youth, and onward to age, 

Thy voice and thy virtues most sweetly assuage 

The turbulent passions that ruflie man's soul, 

And hush them to peace by thy mystic contrdf 

How pleas'd is the child, and how free from all fear. 

When he finds that his nursing fond mother is near I 

No troubles then firet or perplex his poor heart I 

The voice of a mother makes all troubles depart ! 

And in lifis's primrosed spring, or summer^s soft eve. 

When the dreams of our fiuooy so often decave ! — 

How delightful to wander wiUi her whom we love. 

Where edio so pUuntivdy mimics the dove 

In the andent beech-wood, or down the green hill. 

Where the moss-covered roeks seem to envy the rill 

That irinds near the cot where the dear one resides, 

And from the gay world her sweet modesty hides t — 

What tongae can explain tb« B«ina\ioii ^StioXi vv^^ 

The heart of the yoath, 'wben'^troAVj^^VAV^^ 

Toherheadorasl m tb«y eaie\AN^i l^x«l^ 


Forgetful of time, and oft loeiiig their waj!— 

Olove! bkeeed mystery!— who can rereal 

The fiury enchantments thy votaries feel ? 

Lo?e leads ns to wedlock, and points to the shrine 

Inscribed with the mandate of Wisdom Divine ! 

Ko compact dififnses more sacred delight 

Than when lovers their ** troth to each other plights 

At the altar of Troth; and devotedly pray 

That the blessing of Heaven may sanction the day ! 

Pore^mionof all that enamoors the heart! 

What matoal happiness dost thoa impart 

To the fiuthfol betrothed ones! united for life! 

Now known by the expletives ** husband and wife^ I 

In timers varied changes, no change can impair 

The happy attachment of that happy pair. 

Whom love of the Soul and the blessing of Heaven 

Have to each other^s hopes fond accomplishment given! 

There's hap^ness— believe not thoae 

Who say 'tis but a nam»— 
A vision this world sometfrnes shows. 

Perchance to soothe our pain. 

True, if sought amidst earthly toys. 

It never can be found; 
So transient are earth's brightest joys. 

And fleeting as sweet sound. 

Bright dreams oft causmg those that wake 

To feel the darkness more^ 
Unless a light then shine to make 

Them see a happier shore. 

But if to do the Saviour's will 

With childlike love, we seek 
A joy Hell give our hearts to fill, 

Like his love, true and deep. 

This ''Lamp of Life," if once we find. 

True happiness we'll know: 
It spreads, like sunshme, o'er the mind, 

And brightens all below. 

Tho' cares arise, as still thej may. 

To Jesus, if we come— 
Zbl/ toach ns then, likA Hun^toBK]— 
" The world I've ovetcomA." 





* * « And cdnatanojr Hres in realms abort. 

And life Ifl tborny ; and youth is vain ; 
And to be wrath with one we lore 

Doth worli like nudness on the brain.— Combiiw. 

My childhood passed as most others do, without any erent of note. I was an 
only child; richsttd pretty, all of which I was unfortunately aware of, and had 
accordingly at an early age ooncei?ed s. rery high opinion of myself. Haying read 
some norels, I had imbibed s few very romantic notions, and whui I reached the age 
of fifteen, 1 considered it quite necessary that I shonld fall in love, and in oonsistenoe 
with these principles I began to seek amongst my acquaintance for some lucky 
individual on whom to lavish my a£bctions. My choice fell on Charles Selby, and I 
instantly imagined that I was over head and ears in love. I pictured myself the in- 
terestmg subject of a youthful passion, which, after a long string of adventures, termi- 
nated most happily. 

But this delightful illusion was soon dispelled, fbr one wet Sunday, while I was 
under the porch of the church, during the rain, I heard him tell s firiend that— ** that 
confounded bore, Ida Denham, had taken a fancy to him, and was always wanting 
him to go oat walking with her." In the height of my vittuous indignation, I 
declared I would never be, or rather think, myself in love again: but, alas I I had 
yet to learn that the heart will not be restrained, and that sooner or later, its unoon- 
trollable emotions must vent themselves in happiness or misery. 

At this time we were visited by s severe domestic affliotiao. The death of my 
mother, by a paralytic stroke, pknged m ail into the most profound grief, and drofe 
all nonsense out of my head. There are few girls who possess a more indulgent father 
than mine was, but my poor gentle mother was the only being to whom I oonld open 
my heart without reserve. The first few months after her death I was inconsolable. 
I would steal up to what had been her room, and sit for hours gaang on her portrait, 
while I recalled each word she had spoken, each injunction she had given. It was 
the Brat sorrow I had ever known, and how bitter it appeared to me at the time, but 
iotr triSing wbea compared to what 1 waa \o enSSw «&«r««x^^ ^rau^t down on 
myaeifhy mj own evil passions, ftut why diouV^ 1 t^«c taska ^QMa^'>a Tjfiu aMia p | Nft 
iiMt period oiamorj ? It is paat, Ukft a^wryVinB^ cmoMctodk iri>^ *^^ vd^ ^aaok -uk^ 


SpriDfi; oame again, bringing comfort with it. I began to resome my former 
habits, and to mix a little with the world. At first I did so for mj father^s sake. I 
saw that grief woald soon bring him to the grare ; and to distract him from the 
inelancholj which was &8t settling on him, I led him once more throogh those gaj 
scenes which I som loved again to mingle with. 

Time passed on. It was near the completion of my eighteenth year when we 
reoeiTed information that a family of the name of Vivian was coming to reside in the 
town. The party consisted of a widow lady, her son, and two daughters. Montagae 
Vivian waa twenty-three years of age, Gertrude twenty, and Fanny*8 eighteenth birth- 
day was in the same month as mine. Sweet, artless little Fanny. Who could resist 
her? Even Gertrude, the proud, and to say the truth, somewhat unamiable, Crertrude, 
bent in homage before the little fairy, for such indeed she seemed. But before long I 
became aware that a warmer feeling than friendship for Montague had found pUce 
in my heart; and I soon discovered that I did not love unretumed. I treasure up 
the thoughts of that happy period. The remembrances of it are sacred to me, short 
lived as it was. 

The time for the great annual ball was fast approaching, and in a country town 
like onrs it waa an event of no small importance. On the day before the ball, having 
Mmpleted all my arrangements, I was seated at the open window awaiting Montague, 
which, by the bye, was the most imprudent place I could have chosen, for having 
hardly raoovered from a severe attack of influenza, I had until that very day been in 
an agcoy of fear lest my father should deem me too unwell to make my appearance 
there. Nevertheless, there I sat, like Juliet awaiting my Bomeo. I heard his well- 
known rap at the door, and a moment afterwards he entered the apartment. 

'* Ida," he conmienced, ** 1 have s favour to ask of you. It is a great sacrifice." 

"It can hardly be too great for you, Montague," I answered, smiling, *' so you 
may look upon it as aheady granted." 

" I am not quite so sure of that I am afraid when you have heard it you will 
not be quite so willing. Can you consent to renounce to-morrow's ball for me." 

I was dismayed. Grive up the ball I had been looking forward to for weeks, 
for monthfl, with such delight? Impossible I It was unreasonable, ridiculous to ex- 
pect it. 

*' Mcotague," I exoUimed, ** you are not serious. What reason can you give for 
ioeh a caprice." 

« It 18 no caprice, Ida, but your own seose must tell you that you are not fit to 


" Nonsense," I returned, '* I am quite well I never was better in my life." 
"Quite well! and at this moment you are coughing so that you can hardly 

ipeak. Oh Ida." 

"Beally, Montague, you are veiy tiresome. I cannot understand why you are 

ho anzioos that I should remain at home. I have no intention of so doing." 

" Nay, Ida, indeed you must not go. I insist upon your remaining «.t hj^t&i^r 

** What light bMVB yoa to insist," I ezcilaaniQd, wn^^^ i^t \ ^«& \tf^«^\il ^^ 

maumrofspmking. « J will go whether you ^^ Vt «t \»V \TtfWst ifiQa&k\ft\i»g«n 
ifUtjmi, ifjrmangQcb a tjnut." 


"Then we had better part; for I love 70a too dearly to interfere with joar 
happiiiess in any way," said he sadly. 

** Be it 80," I answered coldly. 

Bat Montague had not expected such a reply to what had been his first impulse, 
OB hearing my angry ejacalation. 

*' Ida, are yon, can yon, be in earnest ?" 

** Perfectly so, Mr. Vivian," I replied. 

" If SQch really is your wish. Miss DeDham,"said he, rather haughtily, " of conrBO 
I shall not longer intrude upon you. Allow me to wish you good morning." 

I shall see you to-morrow at my feet, thought I, as he quitted the room; and I 
was right The next morning he came again imploring forgiveness, as tender and 
loving as ever. But I was too proud of the influence I had over him to relinquish it 
immediately ; and never doubting for a second the extent of my power, I told him at 
last that I despised him. One mmute, and his entire aspect was changed. The look 
of ardent affection was replaced by one of the greatest indifference, and rising from his 
seat, he said, with all imaginable iong froid—** Indeed ! What a pity you did not 
inform me of that sooner. It would have saved us both much annoyance." I was 
terrified. I had expected anything but this, for I saw instantly that he was serious, 
and at that moment I would have given anything to unsay my foolish words. I 
longed to recal them, but the demon pride was at work within me, and I sufifored him 
to depart Yet as the door closed upon him a vague feeling of uneasiness, I 
could in nowise account for, crossed my mind ; and I felt a choking sensation in my 
throat as I turned firom the window after seeing him mount his horse and gallop from 
the spot. 

I was awakened next morning from a troubled sleep, by my maid entering the 
room with a letter in her hand. I recognised Fanny's writing, and hastily tore it 
open. My forebodings were too true — Montague was no more Not returning the 
night before, they bad early that morning dispatched a messenger to our house to 
ask if he was there, and in his way the boy had found Montague lying lifeless on the 
ground, the horse standing beside the body. There was no mark of violence, and the 
doctors had declared that death had been caused by the rupture of a blood-vessel 
When I had finished the letter, I darted towards the door; but before I could reach 
it, I fell insensible to the ground. For two days I was kept by force to my bed, but 
on the third day I seized the moment, when believing me to be asleep, my attendant 
had quitted the room, to dress myself hastily and leave the house. I rushed wildly 
through the streets until I reached the Vivians. But once there, I knew not how to 
act I feared to meet those whose misery I felt too well had been caused by me, me 
alone. Summoning op all my courage, I turned the handle of the door, and stood 
face to face with the only beings on earth I dreaded. But the sight of his aged 
mother, bowed down by grief at the loss of her only son, was too much. I knew thej 
were ignorant of what had passed between Montague and myself; still my conscience 
made me Gmcy thej would assul me wiUi uvVit«vi\i\g&. Bat instead of the reproaches 
J expected, my ear was met by sweet, comiotVAn^'notdAx «xA «2L>^<Q»\^\ut^SL ^\«H&r 
scloaa, I could distinguish Fanny's lovely iotm, Vwodia^ ^* %SL%a^^ ^1 Y»*»%^ 
t/iesofa oa which I had fallen. 


« Come with me, my daugkkr^ my darling Ida," whispered Mrs. Yivian, taking 
my cold damp hand in here. I rose and followed her, my heart told me whither. She 
led me to the room where Montague lay. How calm, how peaoefol, he lay there, 
free from all earthly cares and ills, never more to experience any of the troables or 
sorrows of this world. ** He is not dead, bat sleepeth,** said the sorrowing mother, 
sofUy; and as I gazed on his placid countenance, I felt almost inclined to take the 
illustration literally. I dropped one hot tear on his cheek, and it seemed to me that 
the dead smiled on the tardy symbol of penitence and lore. I severed one of the 
beautiful chestnut locks that clustered round his brow, and, silently as I enteredi 
I quitted the room. 

From that time I was an altered being. It was indeed a bitter, though a salutary 
lesson. Many, many yeare have flown since that period; still the remembrance ii 
my firat^ my only love, thrills my heart with youthful ardour. On my Other's death, 
I removed to Mrs. Vivian's, and endeavoured by every means in my power to fill the 
pUce of her daughtera (both having long ago married). She, too, now sleeps with 
the rest, and I remain alone on earth, ready to receive my Maker^s snnmions, when- 
ever He shall think fit to call me to that happy knd ''where the wicked cease from 
troubling, and the weary are at rest" 

But, gentle reader, forgive me if I have detained you somewhat long with myself. 
I know that there are other pages which you are amdous to turn to; so I shall con- 
clude. And I shall think myself well repaid for the trifling grief which the nanstioa 
of past events may have occasioned me, if I know that amongst the many into whose 
hands this may M, there are a few who will feel interested while perusing the lifo 
of Ida Denham. 


<!^botum Saculatote0. 
Plebe d(Niium nuper redeunte s cureibus amjdis, 
Militibus queisdam satius quam ludere plebem 
Nil visum est Emptis ergo ovis atque faring, 
Quadrijugo curru pro castris, vespere sero. 
His telis hominesque petunt, tenerasque puellas: 
Non alitor quam fit cum orator non popularis 
Alloquitur turbam, invisus legiturve senator. 
Marticolas tandem sed plebs accensa fngabat, 
Gum forti occurrit mercator, nomine Poetus,* 
Qai, fidei confidens, sponsor fiujtus eorum, 
Liberat mfesto popnlo, cunctisque perlclis. 
At nimis hens! est promissis oonfisns eorum: 
Ifartis xuunqiie fides eat ^ viiHiot o^o. 

* Ml. T«a.\.. . 


%x OVb jbong to an American fTune. 

MedoM dnud iatT; Anglici 111 do yoa. 

Jaaoo WIS s iiaaghty bay, 

Too fond of sagar candj, 
H« lored to sack the sweets of life, 

Whenerer they came handy. 

So oat he figged himself one day, 

Like any modem dandy, 
And on his pony went his way 

As hot as British brandy. 

For thotigh he had a wife at home 

An meek as Bess or Boney, 
And two small ''samples** of himself— 

He didnt love her only. 

For not far off a lady dwelt— 

A lady who had mo-ney, 
So off he went — ^the naughty boy^ 

Upon his little pooy. 

** Will yoa be mine" ? the traitor cried, 

** I love yoa' to distraction ; 
" Oh ! don't refose, or elBe— or else 

** 111 do some foolish action !" 

" Oh, say not so,** the lady sighed, 

** It were a sad transaction, 
" That each a man shonld dash himself— 

'* Heigho ! — ^into a fraction.** 

Slowly apoo his pony's back 

Now homeward goes the sinner; 

" I feel,** said he, " a nnking, bat 
''Tis only before dinner." 

** 1 thmk Pre managed pretty well, 

" And made a good beg^mer ; 
* A woman% soeh a doating fool, 

" A word iA sore to win her.** 

He little dreamt, while chuckling thos, 

What rod there was in pickle; 
His lady meek had Watched, and at 

A trifle would not^stickle. 

fihe called her ooach^lmfisiihies dxa^. 

To which was yokfi^L a dxagon*, 
SIm called the "^eamplea,** «xid,llRAz, 
SoBorted to tfaa ftafi^ 


Then talubg from her chitteiiuhd 

A skewer that came handy, 
She htuhed the Bamplea with th« Wiordk— 

** I'll teach him to play dandy." 

Neit up she packed a handsome gown^ 

In aqoafortis soaked it ; 
The rich ladye did pat it on — 

Poor sonl t she should hare sinoked it. 

Then, toming to her spouse, she spoke — 

** Youll marry, eh ? for money ! 
" I shall go home to Sol, my Pa — 

** You're done, I think, my honey." 


CQe Sootf)0asev. 
I seethe Soothsayer dark and giim 

Before his cabin door. 
Beyond the world, in twilight di^ 

His lofty thOQghts did tuMlt. 

The thicket wild and heather bine 

Enclosed the woody glen, 
Where rose the Soothsayer's small abode. 

Hid from the eyes of nien. 

The ptarmigan and corlew flew. 

To seek the shady wood; 
The badger and wild cat alone 

Did break his solitude. 

There was a time when Queens to thee 

Hare kndt to learn tfaeb fiite. 
But prophet this no more can be. 

And thou hast lired too Ute. 

There was a time when Prinecfs did 

Thy power and knowledge own, 
But now that darkened age is pAst, 

The Soothsayer lives alone. 

When from the Boyal realm of Franca 

The Oracle did fly, 
He thought that leaving £une behind 

He'd nought left but to die. 

But still he lived and wtftdM^^i^itt^ 

Tbodgh in Miother cfimie, 
Until at kogth he bowed YNSwaJCIx 

The great magidaa Tin». U^ kssort^ 


Antmen to Names of Flowers Enigmatieailjf Expressed 
tfi No. 3 of the "^BouqueLT 

Great as iby charmB, sweet MignUmeUe, 
Thy qoalities surpass them yet; 
In Bhie-heUf too, well placed with thes, 
Do we not see simplicity? 
While JSTtin^ct^, guileless as a child, 
Seeks with thee, too, a contest mild- 
Woman's love now asks attention, 
Tis pictnr'd in the choice CamatUm; 
Yet in its train, what do we see? 
Bat chagrin, pain and cruelty. 
Will yon beUere me these are told 
By the bright yellow Marigoldt 
From such an one lot's turn away. 
And list to what the next may say. 
Tis EgkaUinef who will deohure 
The gentler virtues of the £ur; 
Whose motto doth to us reveal 
These soothing words—*' I wound to heal." 
This Lavender will much distrust- 
Wage war against it MUfoU must; 
But Hawthorn hopes it may be trua^ 
And I with him will think so too. 
Compassion taught by Elder-JhweTf 
Well hope the good when in our power. 
But Ragged Robing what says he ? 
Nimporte for he will witty be: 
JonquU 'tis left to thee to say 
Whether the thing be yea or nay. 


Htbertatus SItibot. 
iSUghUg aUeredfrom Ovid.) 

Popule, vive preoor, qua ccmsita maigine ripe, 

Hoc in mgoso cortice carmen habes^— 
Cum levitate Pabis poterU spkrare reliet&, 

Adfontem versis Seguana curret aqms. 
Sequana, jam propera retro; aqusBque reourrite vens; 

Spirat enim positi nunc levitate Pasis, 
Et caput ease BeipublkoB, noxabVlift, tEQ&dssii 

Volt, qucm olim vohut, l^«<gti^iMinsBi t^ ij^^qa* 



Poh/xeita*B addreu to her mother, HeoubOf when in- 
jormed that she it to be eaorificed at the funenUpUe 
of AchiUe8.-^Tnm$lated from £urip%det^ Greek 
tragedy^ Hecuba, 

& Ziivii fraOovt^f & 9ravrXi|/cwi' 
Oh thou that hast borne afflictkui— 

Oh, mj mother, evil-starred 
Woes, bejond the powers of diction, 

Fall on thee without regard. 

Mother, I am thine no longer. 

And no longer shall I share, 
With mj Toothfhl spirits stronger, 

SlaTerj with silyer hair. 

As the heifer of the forest, 

From its mother stolen away: 
As the wolf withoat its suckling, 

Mother wilt thou be to-day. 
I, in subterranean regions, 

Bound in misery with the dead. 
And with thee the Grrecian legions 


Agamemnon! king and leader, 

And Ulysses wise and brave, 
Wni ye thus reject a pleader?— 

Will ye turn and slay a sUve t 

Tis for thee, oh, wretched mother, 

That in strains like these I mourn 
For my wrongs I well could smother. 

And my sorrows might be borne. 

But for thee, the wife of princes. 

Thou to be a slaye at last, 
WhUe thy silver hair evinces 

That thy days are waning hst. 

But for me ye need not sorrow. 
Nor lament my fate as hard; 

Mourn what thine will be to-morrow«- 
Oh my mother evil-starred t 
^ Tuup Tmb. 

Mon premier i ton digt se met*, 
Ifonjsecond c'eat le aecrelt (^u« lu '^QttVi^«a\ 
UouUmt ta le SMinuile Imx^ 





{Founded on Fac<9.) 

He marks some YeBael's dnsky form, 
And hears amidst fbe howling storm 
The mlante gun at i 

It was s dirk and feaifnl night, in the month of Norember, earlj in tbs prant 
eentnry; the winds howled, the sea roared, and ran moonlains high, lashing the 
rocky shore. A lonelj fisherman was bending his steps along the cliff, not fiur from 
Fast Castle, the scene of the fiur-fiuned " Wolfs Crag " of the Bride of Lammennoor, 
hastening home, to appease the anxietj of his wife, who not knowing whether hs 
was at sea, or not, was anzioosly waiting his return at their oottsge door. When yet 
some distance from the village h^ saw a flash, and inunediately afterwards heard the 
report of a gnn, in the direction pf one of the most dangeroDS rqefs of rooks in the 
nelghboarhood. The fisherman, snspeeting (com whenqs it came, as the gnn was st 
ioterrals repeated, qoickened his tpaoe and entered the village footing ^ a ship 
ashore." At this akrm the ii^babitants qnioUj left thsir cottages, and gnided bj 
the fisherman, went towards the point from whenee he had sesfi. the flashes, which 
had now ceased. 

On their arrival they fonnd a man vpop the rocky bsach, qnite exhausted; he 
had managed to swhn from the wreck» notwithstandtog the heavy snrf, bat oonld 
proceed no fiuther. After some little time he recovered hipiselfsafiur as to tell than 
that the vessel was the brig Gpod Iwtentt bonnd finom Ektftldj to Newcastle; end 
begged of them to Unnch a boat, to endeavonr to save the crew, and partienlarly his 
brother and sister, whom he hsd left clinging to the rigging; the one, a bcj about 
foorteen, and the other, a girl aboat sixteen, whp had been entmsted to his csra 
The flshermen knowing the danger, indeed, the ntter impossibility, of reaching the 
wreck in sneh a night, did all they conld to padfy him; and to cheer the poor fellows 
on board, they made a large fire of wood and straw, and placed the lifo-boat, which 
had been brought to the beach, between it and the direction the ship lay, to shew the 
erew that help was at hand. They soon had the satisfaotioa to know that their 
signal was'nnderstood by hearing a £unt cheer from the direction of the vessel 

As soon as day dawned the fishermen lanncbed their boat, i^scompanied by the 
seaman belonging to the vessel, who had recovered his exhausted strength. The tide 
having gone out a good deal the sea was not so rongh, nor the distanoe so great be- 
tween the shore and the brig. After some diflScnlty they got near enongh to the wreck 
to get hold of a vope, bnt they conld not get alongside, as they found her jammed 
between two rocks, with her stem towards the sea, and her bow towards the land, 
and the waves washing over her at intervals with great videnoe; thej managed, 
lufwew, to imp the boat under the boiwsipnt, from whenoe one of the men on board 
dropped aBotbae rope Into the boat Tha easxmsx 'w\»» Yiad. ««vbi w^dcim^ wi^.'^Vsk 
WMBtbeaukteci the brig, unmediately lgi^^c&!i<^ \V>is^\K^Qa^^!^afia^«^^>^ 


assist his brother and sister; hot, alas ! thej were no where to be found; he aeafched 
in vain, during that fearfii) night one dread wave burst thnndering on tiie deck* and 
sent them shrieking to the depths below. The agony of their disconsolate brother 
is easier imagined than described, wringing his hands and franticly saying he was 
their murderer, he rnshed to the side of the brig wildly calling them by name, a 
last he plonged into the sea, exclaiming that as he ooold not save them, he woold 
not sorviTe them, he sank to rise no more. The ciew with much diffionlty soooeeded 
in lowering into the boat the wife of the captain, who was qtute inaeusible, they also 
assisted each other, and five men got in in safety, bat the captfun, who was the lasfe 
to leave the wreck, having no one to assist in lowering him m, attempted to slid 
down the rope, but being much exhausted, he was not able to hold on, and the rop9 
slipping through his fingers at the moment when a wave had caused the boat too. 
swerve firam under him he foil into the deep, another sea having at that aomeDt: 
stmok the boat caused the rope by which it was hanging to the wreck to break aod 
drove her from it towards the land, the tide which was runamg strong to the east- 
ward, carried the poor man away from the boat and the shore, for about ten minutev 
he was seen battling with the waves, at last he disappeared in the pnsenoQ o£ all 
who oould render hun no assistance. 

A cry of anguish rose firom aU who saw the captainV fote; one only, saved bat 
an instant previously from a watery grave, viewed- him with ood con^posnre laanchad 
into eternity. It was his wife; a malicious smile of satis&ction played upon the. ex- 
hausted woman's foce, as he sank beneath the waves. Gold, shnddering honor filled 
each of the crew, to see the widow of their galhmt mnch-belofsd oaptam, kwk with, 
flint-hearted coolness on his ontunely end, they felt inclined to cast her ibrth within 
the ocean's grasp, but foared to let a being so void of ev^ feeling meet, witboot «b. 
instant's warning, her Maker foce to face. 

The boat got in safety to the beach, and landed the remaindet oCthe ems, im 
all d:f9 men and a woman, six had met with a watery grave: the captain, mat^ tw* 
men, washed overboard, with the boy and girl, daring the night They said them, 
was also another passenger, an old man, whom they left apparently dead by the wind>- 
lasB. The fishermen were asked to go again and bring him on shora^ dead or aliiii^ 
but Bothwithstanding the prayers and entreaties of the people they would not risk 
their lives for a lifeless corpse, but a noble little boy, about twelve years of age, came 
forward and urged them to go, saying, that he would give them twenty pounds if 
they would bring him on ahive, ''at least," he added, <* \ cannot give it to yoa^ 
myself, but I know my father will." This had the desued effect; such aantimento. 
from one so young were not to be withstood; again they launched the beat, and 
mcoeeded in bringing on shore the apparently lifeless body of a respeotablfr-looki^g 
old man. 

The noble boy was Basfl HaU, the son of Sir James HaH, Bart, of DnnghM, 
i|{^^«ard# 1^ captain in the navy« af4 well known ia the li|eijai7 world i^ tjbe i^^thor 
<)CseFeral I^t^^cal works. 

WJukt tb^ bofit was awigr pn i^ B«>Qiia\x>p, caa d^OwjkWrww^'^^^^^*^ 
i^pan. tjfi tfP |h^ bow the brig vras vfwckad. Bi^ «JUJuw^. >sJmi3u ^Qmsi ,»iaA.'«*s 


Kirfctldy some days before, the crew of the brig oonasting of the captain, mate, and 
aeren men, with four paeeengera; the old mao, who appeared to be a clergyman, as 
be waa always reading the bible, bnt no one knew anything of him. '* The captains 
wife and the mate's brother and sifter last night," he continued, " jost after the 
first watch, had gone below, we were under close reefed topsails, rounding St. Abb's 
Head, as we thought, the wind being about N.N.E., the man on the look-out thought 
he heard the sound of breakers, and called out to that efiect, but the words were 
hardly out of his mouth before the brig struck Tiolently on the rocks, and we soon 
found she waa filling fiuit with water, and hard and hat upon the roeka, as the 
sea broke right over us. We fired guns at intervals, as long as the powder was diy 
and the mate, a bold asd hardy young man, volunteered to swim ashore, leaving 
his brother and sister clinging to the rigging. What befell him on reaching the 
shore, and his melancholy fate, is known to you all When your beacon first attracted 
cor attention the boy and gnrl, in turning round to look at the fire, loosened their 
hold, and a wave sweeping over the vessel at that instant they were washed overiMsrd 
and seen no more. The survivors with difficulty dung to the wreck, with the excep- 
tion of two men who were also washed overboard. The captain's miserable death 
you have just witnessed, and you will not be surprised at his wife's want of feding 
on witnessing hia end, when you hear that from morning till night she did naught 
bnt abuse, fight, and snarl at her husband, and was continually in a state of 

But now let us see how the noble boy was rewarded for his anxiety for the old 
man. The moment he waa knded he waa wrapt in blankets and put into a eait 
amongst straw, and taken to the village, where a medical man was in attendance, 
and was, upon applying proper remedies, soon restored to consdousness. The first 
question he asked was whether his pocket-book was safe, as it contained a con- 
siderable sum of money. Search was made for it everywhere, amongst the artides 
which were brought on shore, and afterwards in the wreck, for the yessd did not go 
to pieces, but it could not be found. The old man was inconsolable, as he said it 
contained his all. To replace it a subscription was raised for him, and a oonsiderabls 
amount collected. When he recdved it he immediatdy took his departure firam 
Dunglas, where he had been staying. He had not been gone many days, when his 
liberd friends, who had not only saved his life but had filled his purse, heard that on 
reaching Newcastie he had been taken up as a sirindler and impostor, who was 
making his escape firom justice in this ill-fated vessel, and that the pocket-bode was 
found upon him containing nothing but waste paper. 

How awful to condder, a man making a hdr-breadth escape from bdng dashed 
unprepared into the presence of his God, instead of thinking with fear and trembling 
on the day of judgment, his first words on returning to consdousness pertain to 
earth, and worse than earth, to the employment given to men by a powerfol fiend. 

On meeting Captain Badl Hall many years afterwards, and reminding him of 
£be fot^j^ouig Boeae, he said, "Yes, I reooWecl \t w(3\\ W\. loa mil be m(»e surprised 
wiea I tellj<m (bat it waa from seeing tbilt f^Vgimon^ ^Se^ \ ^^toraastt^ \i;k\i^%. 





Nino JinOnMuHated from the ancient Greek Treatise of AuxenUua, a venerable 
mariyr, toio perished during the persecution o/JAocksian, 

IN the proyinoe of the lower Thebais, 
in Egypt, li?ed one Seraplon, and 
his wife Mercnria. 

2 Now Serapion was a great possessor 
of knd in those parts, and had jorisdic- 
tioo ofer the tenth of the province. 

8 And his daughter Ammonarion was 
mwried unto one Angendos, a rich man, 
and PanI, his only son, was not yet 
fifteen years of age. 

4 And in those days, Origen, the holy 
bishop of Alexandria, had travelled np 
the inie to Thebes, and the fame of his 
doctrine had spread over the coontry 

5 And Mercnria rose np and said nnto 
Sarapiony I also will hear this mighty 
teacher, and will inform myself in what 
the prqodices of these Christians . do 

6 But Serapion sud, they are a wicked 
people, who refuse to worship Jupiter and 
his most divine daughter Osiris; and if 
thoa hearest them, by sorcery they will 
ooovert thee. 

7 Then Mercuria answered and said 
vnto him, if I seek truth, and strive to 
do that which my inner soul doth teach 
ma la the right, there is no power on 
earth which shall previul against me. 

S Then Mercuria rose up, and taking 
her son Paul, she journeyed to Thebes, 
to hear the fiunons christian Origen. 

9 But when Serapion heard that she 
was gone, he was exceeding wrath, 
and fowed that if she sbonid retom a 
ekMam,b» waaJd not let her oome into 

10 And it came to pass, that when 
Mercuria heard the words preached by 
Origen, that she believed, and was bap- 
tized, and her son with her. 

11 And Paul having been educated 
after the learning of the Greeks studied 
the Holy Scriptures without ceasing, and 
became steadfast in the faith. 

12 And Paul and Mercnria abode 
many months at Thebes, perfecting 
themselves in the faith nnto which they 
had been baptised. 

13 % Then Mercuria rose up, and 
with her son Paul journeyed through 
the Upper Thebais, to where Serapion 
her husband dwelt. 

14 And Serapion coming forward to 
meet her, enquired of her, Art thou a 
christian? And Mercuria answered and 
said. Yea, my husband, and my son 
with me. 

15 Then Serapion was wroth, and he 
spumed Mercuria and her son ih>m the 
threshold, and they wandered about in 
Thebais, supported by the other 

16 And after many months, Mercuria 
died, and was buried, and Paul returned 
to where his father dwelt in Thebais. 

17 And Serapion was ill of a fever, 
and nigh unto death, and Paul came to 
him, and he knew him not, 

18 And Paul attended on him night 
and day, for the fever was sore npon him, 
and he lay asleep for massj ^%. 

memory ^c^iA\«&x\asEu 



20 Then Paul infonned him that 
Mercoria was dead, and he cried aloud 
(for he remembered): 

21 Mercoria, I acted ill to thee. I go 
to-day where thoa wilt be— would that 
I knew thy God. And Paul looked 
down upon his face, and he was &llen 

22 And Ammonarion and Paul mourned 
for Serapion, and buried him, and Paul 
removed to the house of Ammonarion, 
and dwelt there. 

23 But all the Und Serapion had left 
was his by law. And Paul dwelt eight 
years in the house of Angendus, his 


IN those days was the Emperor Dedus 
wrath against the Christians, and 
he sent forth his edicts into Africa 
commanding the governors and pro-con- 
suls to root out the name of Christianity 
from the land. 

2 And many suffered martyrdom for 
the name of Christ, and some were 
thrown to the wild beasts, and many 
were stoned to death ; nevertheless, few 
fell from the truth. 

3 Then Augendus rose up, and, for 
the sake of Paul*s estate, declared unto 
the pro-consul that Paul was a Christian. 

4 Then the pro-consul sent soldiers 
who sought round about the country to 
seize him, that they might slay him be- 
cause he was a Christian. 

» 5. Bat his senrants brought knowledge 
of this to Paul, who hid himself two 
days, while that which he ordered was 
prepared for him. 

6 For he said unto his servants, make 
ready a camel, laden with food for seventy 

daja, and an axe, and many changes ot 

7 And biB sexrants made ready. And 

Paul went into the house of Augendus, 
and felling on his sister's neck wept, sod 
sud unto her: 

8 Ammonarion, thou didst not seek to 
do thb evil unto me to deliver me to the 
Judges because I am a Christian, and I 
blame thee not; 

9 Therefore, when I am gone away, 
sorrow not, but rather rejoice that I am 
taken from many temptations. Submit 
thyself to those in authority, and strive 
ever to do that which thoa thinkest 

10 The sun will rise up in heaven fbr 
both of us to-morrow, but I shall be 
away where thou wilt never see me. 

11 For I am going from thee because 
of the deceitfiilness of men ; but rest thou 
here, and do the will of God, and thoa 
shalt live for ever. 

12 And Paul saw Augendos conuog 
into the honse, and he questioned him, 
saying: My brother, if thou hadst de- 
manded of me my land, I would have 
given it thee, even unto the uttermost 
fields of the province; or, if thou hadst 
declared to me, I love thee not, I would 
have wept and left thee : 

13 Seek now to act rightly to Ammo- 
narion, and that which thou hast done 
to me I will forgive the, that thou mayst 
not have a load upon thy soul, when thou 
art following the shadovrs to the night 
that never ends. 

14 And Paul departed from his bro- 
ther's house, and joumied away alone 
towards the far mountains of the East. 

15 And Ammonarion wept, but Au- 
gendus possessed the land and wealth of 



k "^Y) \\. <»xcA \a ^gasa that after Psal. 



2 And thfire lived neither man nor 
beast in those moantains, bat the fowls 
of the air sojonmed in the forest of pines. 

3 And Paul hewed for himself a caye 
in the side of the moantain, and dwelt 
there, eating roots and yegetables, and 
drinking of the deep spring in the valley. 

4 And he took the mnzzel and goad 
from the month of the camel, and it 
ranged free on the breast of the moantain. 

5 And Paol had brought with him 
the Gospeb of the Holy Apostles, and 
he studied them day and night, and 
strove to follow the laws that are written 

6 But oft-times he felt wrathful to- 
ward Augendus, and sorrowed that he 
could not live in Thebias among his 

7 Then he remembered what Mercuria 
had said unto Serapion, for he had graven 
it above the ardiway of his cave, and on 
the headstone of the fountain in the 

8 And these are the words: 

9 If I seek truth, and strive to do 
that which my inner soul doth teach me 

is the right, the powers of earth shall 
xiot prevail against me. 

10 And it came to pass at the end of 
fonrsoore and ten years, that the eyes of 
Paul waxed dim, and his feet were weary, 
and he felt that he was gomg to fall 

11 And he cried with a loud voice 
onto the mountains, saying: 

12 Oh hills, behold how long I have 
dwelt among you here, seemg the trees, 
and all the grass and flowers, that Ctod 
has given even nnto you. 

13 For fourscore years and ten have I 
hebeSd foa, ob mowittunaf rising above 

the mist of the marmng, pointing to 

14 And ye clouds that m passmg 
for ever across the horizon have given an 
expression to the countenance of nature: 

15 I am going beyond you, oh hills, 
and above you, oh clouds, to where no 
setting sun will cast shadows that darken 
the footsteps of morning : 

16 Augendus, Augendus, in all the 
duration of four score and ten years I 
have prayed for thee morning and eve- 
ning and nightly, following the habit of 

17 Would, Lord, that my{BinA were 
forgiven as perfectly as I do forgive thee 

18 AU the days of my life have I 
studied the laws and the precepts that 
thou gavest to a smful and perverse 

19 But forgive me, Lord, if I have 
sinfully murmured against thy most 
wise dispensations. 

20 And this is the truth I have learnt 
in the years of my sojourn among you 
oh bills. 

21 This world is most £ur and most 
joyful, and I have lived longer than most 

22 But men in this world, 'till they 
die, should be ever repeating, 

23 I am living to learn I 


AND Paul died when he was fonrsoore 
and thirteen years of age. 

2 And his histocy was found gravea 
in the cave on the side of the mountain. 

3 And the memory of Paul feded 
away from the mountains like the sunset, 

4 Nevertheless, many followed his 
manner of living who had performed 
bettex thsAX ^\i\>^ wns$iv<^ ts^ssglx ^^ksos^^^psl* 

I am Uwfvg V> "Uom^. 



iri)e %siica0tsrian'0 Hetum, 

"Beside the winding Lune* 
Twas here io infaocy I play'd — 

Here childhood's April flew away; 
Toath*8 idle toils I here essay'd, 

Chased o'er yon fell the eager day, 
And wandered homeward by the moon, 
Lilting breaks of some border tone— 

Beside the winding Lnne. 

Then fiz'd with tales of bygone years, 

Acted in fight some old bard's dream , 
Or lent to catch, with throbbing ears, 

The witohe's chant glide down the stream. 
And fled with fisar, bnt shame bold soon 
Tnm'd back to Tiew the moontain's bmne— 

And winding light of Lnne. 

Here, oft I mns'd on (sane and power. 

As the parting snn's angry light; 
In splendour mail'd* Gannt's war-tried tower, 

And roos'd with flame the beacon's hdght ; 
Bnt care and grief that pride decay'd, 
Eren hope hath spnm'd me since I stray'd — 

Beside the winding Lone. 

Here, loy'd, lost, long-monmed Ayeline, 

In shade nnseen, I stroird with thee; 
Watch'd thy still gaze, thy changing mien. 

When summer storms swoop'd on the lea, 
And bless'd the smile thy glad eyes gave, 
As the last drops chim'd on the wave 

Of swiftly- winding Lnne. 

Ah me ! what step flew softly by, 

What voice with hope enchants oune ear. 

My Aveline, then, thon art nigh, 

To guide, to guard, and bless me here. 

Or can the breeze, the murmuring stream, 

Cheat mine age with so dear a dream 

Beside the winding Lone. 

With fluttering wing and sinking crest, 

The wounded heath-bird whirls her flight, 
To stoop and die upon her nest — 

Thos, here I return; may death's night 
Here seal min« eyes; 'neath ^join W^l fSloa^ 
Mj bones to their last rest ^ \BAii 

• OMnnVs T<met is the CaeUe of LimcasleT, oiVstotiaVs ^s^^^^stilios«»^^lst. 




Ainsi la myrte est notre maae tragiqne t 

S^v^re et i part elle se tient m^prisant le sacrifice dn sena a celoi dn boo. 

Le front s^v^re et montrant da doigt les vers da p>.^ " Remarqaes dit elle les 
malheoreox efifets da pooToir de la mosiqae.'* 

D'abord " La pear est frapp^ de chagrins ^tranges jamais avant sentiSi'* 

Pais ** La colore aax yeoz de fea sent des remorda redoabl^" 

Pais ', Yient le d^sespoir pooss^ i la folic qaelqaefois triste et ensoite f&roce." 

Et pais *^ La .yengeance non toach^e par la reqaete de la piti^ poorsoiyaat 
tonjoorB son chemin inflexible. 

EoGoro plos triste la pale m^ancholie son chant en marmars soords s'^vente. 

Ceci dit la mose est Teflfet de la mosiqoe " Les passions vioUntes devienneBt 
encore pluz f^roces, les faibles encore plos imb^iles. 

Le bean temple de la raison est d^traiti son empire perdn et i sa place r^e Is 
chaos. Attendez on pen doace myrte aveo la forme si belle, I'esprit si pare, Teaten- 
dement si jaste, ne voos h&tez pas de rejeter Taide qae ces dons enchdrissent 

Minerve est divine poor la myrte, Apollon est aassi dim et dans TOlympe a?eo 
Pallas s'assied en doaces entretiens. La mosiqae engine d*ApolloQ et aassi 1« 
po^e sa soeor jamelle. Hom^ chante, et Virgil chante, Milton chante, et la myrte 
chante, sor "Le temps." 

Qae les sons sans bon sens pasaent comme Tair mais qoe la mose de la myrte 
ch^risse tonjoars la chaste simplicity de Taiicienne Gr^oe. 


Cf)e f(^xiit*» i9epattttre. 

Oh land of my fathers, alas I mast I quit thee? 

D^raded and fettered, in exile for years; 
The mists are all gone that so fatally boand me, 

The galph of my angaish now only appears. 
Most I leave the dear land of my kindred and race, 

In the warmth of my heart, oh what madness is there ? 
Most I crosh ev'ry hope, ev'ry feeling erase 

That baoys ap my soal from the depth of despair^ 
Yes I we mast part, broken-hearted I leave thee, 

To drag oat existence in bondage and toil, 
And bary those griefis which now si^ly oppress me. 

'Neath the dime of the stranger, the ahea's soiL 
The ocean is calm, for the harricane's blast 

Has left the wild waters and foam-ridden sand; 
From the ether of heav'n, to my soal it has past, 

Tbas blighting all hope with a merciless hand. 
Fatherland! fathenand! oh coald I bat weep; 

No tear yields relief, for the foantain is dry, 
The torrent of passion has stricken too deep. 

The deptns of my soal in its fierce agony. 
The twilight decading now circles thy shiuc^. 

Aias7 when the davm shaiX &^ak«si\si Vk,\^V^ 
The land of the exile will gladden no mos^ 
An ocean of waters ma/6 bft Vii VAgJdV 



(Continaed from page 80.) 

To arms I to horse I the dog, the foe. 
Is at our gates — blow, trmnpets Uow. 

The knocking at the gate, mentioned at the condosion of the last chapter, having 
ceased, a senrant entered the room to ask whether the drawbridge sboold be let down. 
Lord Oxford enquired if he said he came in the king's name. 

''He did, my lord,** replied the servant. 

** Then admit him instantly.*' 

The servant went ont, and soon returned, bringing in a despatch sealed with the 
king's seaL The earl took it, and read it, and exclaimed — ^ To horse, to horse I ooUe 
Beaufort, the traitorons dnke of York is in arms against the king, and declares he is 
himself Uie rightfol heir to the throne. Oswald, ho I" 

The steward entered — ^''Oswald," said the earl, ''gather my tenants together, 
and go to the armooiy and arm them all, famish them with horses, to be ready to 
start at a minnte's notice." 

" I will, my lord," said Oswald, and hnrried away. Soon all was in ooofosioD, 
tbe castle guns were fired, the yeomanry of St. Alban's were ordered oat In half an 
hoar a gallant band of the earl's tenants, armed and mounted, rode into the coort 

Bot now the painfol moment arrived when Nelly had to bid her brave fiither 
adieu. Jhst before starting; he rushed into the room completely armed, and em- 
bracing her tenderly, said — ^"My sweet Nelly, it is with pain I leave you, even to 
fight against the traitor York; bat console yourself with the reflection that I shall soon 
retom with the wreath of victory— 4idieu, my darling child.' Nelly's eyes were 
swimming with tears, but she found voice to utter the words " Good bye, dear, dear 
finther." At this instant they heard Beaufort's voice calling loudly for the earl, and 
soon afterwards he rushed into the room, exclaiming—" Come, come, my lord of Ox- 
ford, not ready yet?" Then checking himself he sud — ^" Oh, I see," at the same time 
approaching Nelly with an ahr of gallantry, continued—" Permit me, beautiful Nelly, 
if I may call you so, to kiss the foir hand I see extended towards me, and to say a 
moorafol adieu for a time to the captivator of my heart" So saying he pressed 
her hand to his lips, and turning to the earl, said—" My lord, I hear the army, 
of York and the traitor Warwick, who has joined him with Salisbury, Montague 
Norfolk, and the two sons of York, Edward and the crooked Bichard, with their army, 
are marching southward to St. Alban's, and the king's troops are marching with queen 
Margaret and my father Somerset, Northumberland, Clifibrd, Westmoreland, Exeter, 
and young prince Edward at their head. What say you, my lord, shall we march to 
meet the enemy without waiting for the queen and my father— or shall we march to 
meet our firiends, and then attack them with our whole force." 

^ We will join the queen first," said the eail, " it would be madness to fight with 
coif two tboaaand men; when the enemy \ua twemtj \^QiQaaaA.^ 

"Bat mj dear lord," said Beaufort,^' itYm^\& VaXmwiba <& >m^1 ^S2«M»ft 'I'Oafc 


The earl looked ratiier grim at this possibility, but Eleanor broke in npon them 
by saying — ** and if it is, why should I not fight m defence of the castle, I should like 
extremely to hear the noise and din of a battle, and should feel proud to fight against 
the rebels." 

Her father laughed and said—" one good thing is, that this castle is strong, and 
we shall be up with them before they have tried it on here long." 

'* Well, then, to horse and away," said Beaufort, and he left the room, followed 
by the earL 

They mounted their horses, and the earl giving the word of *^ double quick 
march," the whole of the small army marched away. 

Nelly sighed, and as she did so, she turned from the window and suddenly ex- 
daimed — ** Gracious heavens I Morland," and as if exhausted with saying these words 
she sank into a chair; she did not faint, she was too hardily brought up for that, but 
the idea of seeing her lover at a time when least she expected him, had for a moment 
completely overpowered her. 

Morland had got into the castle thus: when the news first came of the revolt, 
messengers were instantly sent to all the lords of the Lancastrian fitction, to sunmioa 
them to take up arms on behalf of thdr sovereign, and Morland in his eagerness to 
see £leanor, got himself to be the messenger to Craigshall castle, and had on purpose 
debyed starting with the earl, whom he thought he could easily overtake by half an 
hour's hard ridmg. 

But now Eleanor started up, exdauning— " My dearest Morland, how did you 

''I am the messenger firom the king, my sweet Nelly, and I have remained behind 
your &ther that I might see you; does your fSnther still object to our union ?" 

** I have not yet dared to tell him of our engagement," replied Nelly; ** why it 
was bat yesterday that he was very angty with me for not giving more encourage 
ment to thai Beaufort he is so fond of, and who he declares I shall marry, though he 
knows I hate the man." 

** Was it he who was here with your &ther ?" said MorUmd. 

*< It was," replied NeUy. 

« But, my lovely Nelly," said Morland, after about five minutest more earnest 
OQQversatioD— "I fear we must now part, as it would indeed be mean of me if I were 
to avoid the coming fight, so I must now say £Effewell to my dearest Nelly— your ring 
is here " added he, and then left the room. " Just where yours is," thought Nelly, and 
theu oveijoyed at having seen her lover, she followed him to see him o£ 

The remainder of that day seemed long and weary to Nelly — she was eagerly 
erpecting the battle, which was likely to take place so near to the castle. She was 
anxious as to what might be the f&te of her fother and Morland. She heard that the 
Yorkists were more numerous than the king's party, which served to increase her 
anxiety not a little— bat the day passed, and the sun set without her anxiety bras^s^ 

iTo he continued,^ C.kc^^^ 


irf)e 2nbaltly0. 

Upon a friend I calTd one day in ywj rainy weather, 

A lady and a gentleman were sitting there together. 

They had a chat Iwat this and that, and talk'd of news the latest, 

And tried to prove to each which was of invalids the greatest. 

GM.— Dear ma'am it's tme, 

I'm worse than yoo. 

Zodj^.— Tho' I my feelings smother, 

Ifeelso weak 

I soaree oonld speak 

This morning to my mother; 

I fell down stairs eihansted quite. 

t?efi<.r-Well, rd a dreadful fiOl, ma'am. 
Lady,-^! hardly slept a wink last night. 

OenL-^I dMt $U^ at aUf ma'am ! 

Lady. — ^I've hurt my eye. 

Gtwt. — Well, so have /. 

Lady,'^ViQ shocking indigestion, 

I can't touch meat. 
Gent. — I nsoer eati 

Just answer me this question : 

Pray what did Brodie say to you ? 
Ladjf.-^RB said I might recover. 

Did he not give you something ? 
CrenL-^Pooh I He only gaive me over I 
Lady J— 'I never shall be well again, 

And thus away my life glides ; 

All down one side I've such a pain. 
Gent. — Well, I've a pain down both sides, 
XoJy.— Fve got the gout in one leg too, 

My fingers feel like clothes pegs. 
Gent, — ^Dear ma'am, it's true, 

Tm worse than you, 

For Tve the gout in both legs, 
jLa(^.<— Such indigastiou when I dine, 

I can't touc^ aSifi oc ^skaXkc, 

I only dxiok. a'^\X2^ 'wtna. 


Lmkf.—Tm going into a dedine, 

A doctor now no use Ib ; 
Fve Buch a oongh. 

{Qmgking violeiUlsf.) 
GmiI.— Well, jofll hear mine. 

It'a ten times worae than jonr's is t 
Upon a firitnd I oall'd one day, in yeiy rainj weather, 
And there I found these innJids comparing notes together. 


et)Ott att (ainotf)ec'0 note. 

And do I gaze on eyes that onoe 

On me beamed fondly true? 
ThiSy are not changed at aJl since then 

In brightness, fire, or hue. 
Bat now 1 read in them, too well, 

A tale that tells me how 
I may regard them— not with love— ^ 

They are another^ now ! 

And do I see agam that form 

That 80 ensUved my heart; 
That held my evVy sense enthrall'd, 

As though we ne^er shoold part $ 
I see it^-aye, it is the same, 

To which I used to bow ; 
When love devoted hoped it minn 

It is another's now! 

And do I hear again that voioe. 

By which my pulse is thrill'd ; 
Whidi oalls me back to scenes long past— 

By memVy's treasures filled ! 
Alas ! 'tis madness to repine. 

Most idle to avow, 
A passion that can never die— 

Thou art another's now ! 

Bat as I see thee once again, 

Oh ! let my off'ring be 
Of hopes the warmest and the best, 

For happiness to thee I 
May ev'ry blessing now be thme, 

And peace adorn thy \mnpn\ 
Mayat thoa be loved with. Vi^re \^ tc^sfr— 

Thoa art aaothor^s ixo>ii \ _ 


A Tak qfihe Seventeenth Century, 
(Continued from page.88.) 

All seemed over now, and he now gave himself np for lost, bat at that momeot 
a man rnshed into the room, exclaiming in piteoos accents, *^ Oh the youths I the 
youths! they were entrusted to my care, and they have been abstracted from the 
Bleeping apartment! If yon have pity in year hearts give me back the boys!" 
Need we say that the new comer was Mr. Warren, and a happy idea striking 
Charles he tossed his cloak with a few hasty words to his guide, and leapt from the 
window. The confusion now became general, but aided by the still half-stnpified 
state of his comrades, the man had time to envelope the tutor's tall form in the 
cloak, and bid him fly in a contrary directiou to that in which he knew Charles had 
gone, whispering to him at the same time that the children were safe. Mr. Waneu 
did not neglect the opportunity of escape, and was out of sight before the real 
prisoner was missed. 

In the meantime Charles, who had found his fothei^s messenger beneatii the 
window, was following him through fields and woods until he began to be fiitigued 
with the rapidity of their pace, but still his guide strode on, nor paused till in a 
dark tangled glade of a wood,.8ome half way between Hacton and Encombe Hall, he 
tapped bMj at the door of a wretched hut. Charles entered with him, and there 
learnt the service which he was called upon to perform for his king, and in a 
few moments more he was kneeling before the Prince, whom to see and to serve had 
ever been one ofthe brightest of his day dreams, and in a very short time the neoessaxy 
preparations were made, and the royal fugitive set out once more on his lonely wayi 
whUe Charles remained in his place to deceive, if possible, his sharp-sighted purBuers. 

The grey dawn was just breaking over the littie town of Hacton, when Floienoe 
rose from her uneasy slumbers, and after a hasty toilet, hurried down stairs. The 
cause of her haste was a note firom her brother telling her that tiie bearer, a kyyal 
gentieman and true to the prince, prayed her aid, which he well deserved, to guide 
him to Elton Fells, where a strong party of Cavaliers expected him. 

Fearlessly, nay, even merrily, did the young girl perform her task, little know- 

Ag how important a one it rttdly was; indeed, as she afterwards declared, she 

enjoyed it very much, it had something of an adventure about it which charmed her, 

but more adventures were to follow which even Florence's romantic imagination 

could not invest with charms. The end of her expedition accomplished, she 

wandered slowly back examining a costiy ring, the gift of the prince at parting, 

which on her hesitating to accept he had promised to receive again when he should 

In some way have paid the deep debt he owed her; and shadowing forth a happy 

future for herself and all she loved. But her reveries were rudely put an end to 

when she arrived at the inn. The street before the house was filled with soldiers 

and the tamvlt throughout the whole towu ^v«a ^ie»dM« Hoc first emotion was 

one of anmingled terror, which was oeorUAsi^ Lfiil 'VwBRiDni i(^^ ^oft Vsoaoii ^^ 

exdtemeat redouble on her approach. 



'' Here she is ! here she is I she was seen with him at dawn ! " resounded on all 
ffides, and our poor little heroine found herself suddenly a person of great importance. 
The inn-keeper was, of course, only too glad to throw all the blame upon her, and 
took great pains to prove to the people that had he had the least idea who his \-. 
morning's guest was he would have delivered him up without hesitation. Bewildered 
by the confusion around her; utterly unconscious of her offence, or, at least, of its 
extent, for she could not believe " the loyal gentleman," reconunended to her by her 
brother, was the sole cause of the disturbance, and in no little danger of being msulted 
by the lawless soldiery, she did, perhaps what it was best to do, she sought out him 
who appeared to be the leader of the band, and claimed his protection. Sir Henry 
Maitland was.a veiy gentlemanlike old man, and would on no account see a young lady 
alarmed, whatever were her politics; it was, therefore, with the utmost politeness 
that he requested her to return with him to Bothbum Manor, and accoxmt for the 
escape of the prince. This was the first time Florence was aware of what she had 
done, and delighted at having been of use to the prince, and the hopes of seeing her 
fiUher, made her almost anxious to set off. A carriage was soon provided, and in a 
few more minutes she found herself seated in it alone, and escorted by a band of 
sdldierB, riding slowly out of the town. Despite the novelty of her position and her 
own courage and love of adventure, she began to be really alanned, and a few 
natuzal tears forced their way down her cheeks. Everywhere along the road she 
passed bands of soldiers, and &om all she heard of the state of the country she 
dreaded some decided engagement would shortly take place. She thought anxiously 
of her brother, of her father, of the prince, and, though kst not least, ot herself and 
how her own adventures would terminate, and her thoughts became each moment 
more and more dreamy, until at last she fell asleep. 

She was aroused by the momentary stopping of the carriage, and a voice asking 
at the window : '* May I come in ? I am sorry to disturb you, but if yon would allow 
me—?" and as he spoke a very handsome youth set his foot upon the step and 
hesi t ated, as if waiting her permission to enter 

He was so unlike a puritan with his hair curling over his shoulders, his open 
brow and courteous manner, that Florence's first idea was that he was a fellow- 
prisoner, but one glance at his uniform dispelled it, and she answered, as she made 
room for him : ** It is useless for me to bid you enter, who am your prisoner." 

"Oh, believe me," he sud, as he took his place beside her, *'if it were for me 
to decide you should not be much longer a prisoner; and I would not intrude upon 
you now unless I was obliged to, but my uncle's will is law in the regiment, and I 
was fivced to obey it. You will pardon me I hope? " 

« Oh yes ; but what did he send yon for? Did he think I should try to eecapOi 
I shoold hardly imagine that was possible." 

" Ton mistake indeed, the only reason I am obliged to ride is an ugly wound I 
got this morning, which makes me feel at times as fiunt as a girl," and he pointed to 
his arm which hung powerless by his side. 

** Ob, Fm vaj aorry, " she said kindly, " li \^^ la ^0[At«nw!Gl ^ l^fox ^»s&is&^>^ 
tbiot I can abids yon. Bat how did you gal "jwi 'wswA^\fla^^M«A'^'*Ka.'ws^ 


'^ I am prood of it, finr it was given me bj a brave man," he then went on to tell 
ber in gbwing tenns of the conduct of a yonng royalist who defended the hnt whse 
the king had sooght shelter, nndl he fell covered with wounds. ** This delay not 
only lead us," he continued, *'to believe the prince was really there, but gave him 
time to reach Hacton in safety, which he could hardly have done without it My 
wound I received from this brave fellow." 

" So you can honour courage even in a foe. You're not a bit like a pniitin, 
either m words or looks." 

''I am of neither party, strictly speaking," he answered; ^ all my friends are 
CD the side of the Protector, and I follow my uncle's fortunes, and fight the enemitf 
whom &te brings me in contact with, without troubling my head about any pofitical 
question whatever.*' 

« And can you, dan you think thus on such a subjectt" she ezolaimed, htf 
eyes flashing and the odionr mounting in her cheeks. '* How can yon be indifienntl 
Yonr king wanders a fugitive over his own; country, and you do not gtwB you- 
self the trouble to decide whether it is right or wrong to pursue him as though he 
were a thie^ I thought at least your Puritans imagined it was yonr dbi^ to be 
traitors: but you are mean, dishonourable cowards after all I" 

She paused, and he was too much struck by her beauty to feel hurt by br 

'^ If Prince Charles had many like you to plead for him his cause would prosper,* 
he said. *'I doubt not, but that bright eyes would then prove sharper andmoie 
deadly weapons than our poor swords. But here we are, and I must leaye yon, but 
do not be afraid, yon will only have to answer Cromwell a few questiooA— th^ an 
sure to treat you welL" 

He handed her from the carriage, and she found herself on the steps of tbat 
mansion she had so often visited as a guest but was now entering as a prisoner. But 
her courage did not forsake her; and even before that stem proud man, of whom she 
had heard so much, her spirit did not qaaiL She knew the prince was beyond the 
reach of his pursuers, and answered all questions put to her boldly and ezpGoitiy. 
Her examination being over, she beckoned her new found friend, and entreated him 
to conduct her to her fother. He soon obtained permission, and she followed him 
with trembling steps. One after the other he tried the keys which had been given 
him, and when at last he succeeded in opening the door she bounded in, but hardly 
had he turned away when, with a faint scream, she fell senseless to the ground. A 
dim light came into the room from a tall, old-fashioned window, and fell upon the 
figure of Mr. Shirly stretched upon the floor, the blood pouring fipom a wound in his 
temple, and his features fixed in death. 

When first Florence opened her eyes on awakening from that death-like swoon, 

she was conscious only of confused sounds which seemed to proceed fipom without, 

and every moment increased. She raised herself and looked round. She was in a 

itfom she bad never seen before; the shutloia 'weie doeni^ b^ii & fiunt gleam of light 

straggled in through the cracks, and disoQivQceii \bl[i« ^oroi ^ ^ ^qA csRso^sttj^^a^^ 

comer close to the door, and biding hwc iaioe *vn\»« \»JQ^ Uw»\afc ^Qb»\kse!^ 

yritbout was so violent as to leave her no Yon^a m ^xkXi^ %aNftV\aiataB», wA.M»« 


ig to the window she poshed open the shatters. It was as she had sospected. 
he h«ni8e was sorroonded by soldiers, and amongst those who appeared most 
Bjdoas to effect an entrance she recognized many of her faihei^s tenantry. Eager 
) see more she was endeavonring to move the msty bars which secured the window, 
'hen the poor girl who had been left to attend to her came to her side m an agony of 
irror, imploring her to desist and withdraw from the dangerons vicinity. Florence 
ielded so fiEur as to leave the window unopened, bat persisted in taking her station 
eside it to watch the fray while she qnestioned the seryant as to its cause. 

'* Dear roe Miss I it's little enough as I knows of the cause. All was quiet, but 
ivo hours gone, when young Mr. Maitland came, and called me to see after you in 
oar front. Mercy on us, what a shout ! I declare I'm all of a shiver I** 

*'Two hours* said Florence, "surely Tve not been insensible so long as that?" 

** La, yes Miss ; Mr. Maitland told us how you fell down like a shot when yoa 
eed the poor old gentleman down there, and then he called me, and wasn't he in a 
ray about you t He looked a'most as bad as yourself; and a fine lookmg young 
nan he is to be sure I" 

The poor girl burst into teaia at the memory of her loss, and her loqoacioas 
iompanion went on. 

** Don't take on so. Miss; now, pray, don't And sure it wasn't only for the 
)Oor gentleman as he seemed to feel so much: he was thinking more about you, I'll 
le bound, when he was holding your poor cold hand, and bending over you so kindly 
ike. Why, if he'd been your own brother he couldn't have behaved more lovin'." 

''Will it frighten you to have the window open now?" said Florence abruptly 
mt the girl's reply was drowned in a tremendous shout and the soxmd of a heavy 
trash: she burst open the casement and leaned out as far as she could, regardless 
low of the screams of her terrified companion. She saw they had burst open the 
loor, and were pouring into the house. The wounded, the dymg, and the dead lay 
n oonfused heaps upon the ground, a sight which made her turn pale with horror; 
mt as she looked some large body was hurled with violence from a window below 
ur, another, then another followed with fearfril rapidity, and Florence beheld no 
nore; she turned away half fainting. They were the bodies of the Puritans dashed 
lownby the enraged tenantry who were fearfriUy revenging their master's death I 
rhe courtyard of the principal inn in Oxford was crowded with cavaliers; it was 
yalj a few days before the restoration, and they were talking over the return of the 
dng, and congratulating each other on the bright prospect dawning at length for 
their unhappy country. Amongst a knot of gentlemen conversing on the all- 
important topic was Charles Shirly, but he appeared far less interested than his 
PomrBnio"<?, for his eyes were fixed upon the entrance, and he anxiously watched the 
throng ever passing and repassing there. He seemed, however, disappointed, for his 
brow was clouded, and he grew each moment more and more impatient. While he 
is thns waiting we will return to Florence who, since last we saw her had, with the 
other two girls and the children, sought refuge with an aunt of Mc. ShasV^V"^^^!*^ 
Ii?ed far bom the borron which devastated ber miVi^^ co^>xi\rs<t>QK^v&!^ NsiisLss^ ^s^X^sss. 
itodS? ia the Bweet solitude of Interlacben. It 'waa T«va^^i»^^^'^s^^''^'» ^^^^*^ "•^^^'*^ 
sr Our nieoes't arrivkl Lady Moreton's retreat ^la tm^ eo w3«s^^*^'*»^^^^'**^ 


and that a oerbun Mr. Mutland frequently found time to visit there, besides which 
her Ladyship's only son passed much more of his time with her than was his geoenl 
custom ; attracted (so people said) by the charms of the fair Emily Stanley. Charles 
since his return to England had not met his cousin but they were both en^^aged in 
the same cause, and both looked forward to the happy day when, peace being 
restored, they could lay down their arms and claim their promised brides. That 
happy day had nearly arrived, but ere it came Charles heard that Emily was un- 
faithful, and but too well could he guess the reason, for he knew that the wealth and 
high station offered her by his rival would have more weight than the simple love of 
the companion of her youth. He tried to persuade himself that her happiness was 
all he sought, and if that could be obtained by her union with another he was ready 
to yield her up without a sigh. But, poor boy, he fatally deceived himadf. 


{To he CotObmed,) 




It was autumn, and many were the trees that already began to assume a wintiy 
aspect, the wide-spreading beech, the stately elm, and graceful sycamore were already 
shedding around them these leaves of many colours that had so long formed their chief 
ornament; those of the delicate ash had disappeared, while the sturdy oak still rs- 
XDuned clothed with that thick and luxuriant foliage that rendered him the king and 
pride of the forest, in which the scene of my history is laid. The shades of evening 
were drawing in, and the shadows of the lofby trees lengthened on the ground beneath, 
as their forms disappeared from the view, in the gradually fading light of the setting 
sun. Time wore on ; and twilight was quickly succeeded by night from the thickness 
of the branches that entwined their giant arms, alone admitting but little of the scanty 
light that yet remained. At such an hour a party of gipsies were just entering the 
forest, having determined to finish their day's labour by a hearty supper, and undis- 
turbed slumber, amid its welcome gloom. It did not take long for the young urchins 
whose accustomed office it was to collect and heap together for the fire to cook thdr 
evening repast, all the dry brushwood and underwood, to which was added a few 
ferns, with which the forest abounded, theur movements being not a little accelerated 
by the keen appetite they had acquired in their day's work. A good fire was soon 
blazing, and the smoking cauldron sent forth an odour that promised well as to its 
contents, which were ever and anon supplied by the care of two old crones, who pre- 
sided over its mysteries. Not far from this important point were arranged, in dif- 
ferent groups, the gipsy band; here might be seen an aged father, assisted by the 
^/nd o&ces of a jouog, and perhaps a beautiful maiden. While at some distance he 
vras eyed with some degree of envy by a youu^; ^^^ \eas»xi^«j^vmsi(i ^ '&s»2ig[^wsQiNi'^ 
tree, who bad but too lately been Tmsuccea»£u\ *m ^wJ^aivQ%.V3Qft \«^«t\vw ^oaxnA^aL 
twakeaed in bia breast. At some dialance ftom toefc ax^\.'wo,^>M»^^x«ni\X»«s»^ 


expression of their faces, and the frequent gestures that accompanied their Tehement 
disooorse, appear to be engaged upon some matter of deep importance. A little lower 
down, a more interesting scene seems to be taking place ; bat as the pair keep close 
together, and speak in a low whisper, it is evident that their communications do not 
(xmcem 08 any more than the company around them ; so we will leare them to take a 
look at one who retired from the rest of the party, remains alone, hidden by the thick 
foliage of a large tree, under whose shade her forms lies in a half-crouching attitude. 
She was young, for scarcely had eighteen summers passed oyer her ; but she was lone 
and desolate, and had none to commune with but her own heart; habitual solitude had 
lent a look of sadness to a brow which, but for that might have been less douded, and 
the light of those dark eyes might have oftener shone forth with its natural brilliancy 
had there been ought to meet theur gaze, and that half-curled lip have oftener 
softened to a smile had there been ought to call it there. Many were the meny 
shouts oi the noisy children as they chased each other round and round in their 
gambols, or hid themselves amid the thick bushes and trees that afforded them 
an easy hiding-place. While others whirled themselves round and round in strange 
evolutions, as if delighted with the rustling of the showers of dry leaves they raised 
around them, which flew after them as if in chase of the young gambollers, others 
flmging handfuls of them over their young companions, occasioned a merry shout, 
and endeavour to escape on the part of the yoimger ones, while the elder remained to 
return the shower with good interest upon the offender. But their merry forms seemed 
hidden firom Mona's eyes and the lengthened shout and wild clear laugh fell un- 
heeded on her ear. She remained in the posture we first found her, apparently wrapt 
in deep meditation, with her hands clasped convulsively over her breast '' Sainted 
mother," she murmured, as if half unconscious the words were escaping her lips, 
** Sainted mother, the only form of goodness and of light that ever visited these 
wearied eyes, that ever claimed a part in this desolate heart, why didst thou leave 
me? Was not thy voice the only one that ever warned and cheered me? Why then 
did you not remain to be my guide, my comforter? Ever since that dark hour that 
took thee from me, have not thine eyes still seemed to beam upon me with their 
accustomed fondness? Oh they are the only looks that ever gazed with fondness upon 
Mona. Has not thy silvery voice sounded in mine ears in the dark night, and still 
more lonely day, and ever and anon when tempted to some deed of evil has it not 
whispered— * Mona, forbear, my child — the first step is easy;' and oh, how swift you 
will repeat ' My child, forbear.' And so it has been, mother; but the spell is broken; 
and Mona raised her proud head, and as she threw back the long clustering raven 
locks, she pressed her burning hands upon her brow — '^'Tis broken! I will be free; 
No longer shall the taunting lip and scornful brow be uplifted when I approach. No 
longer shall thy brother, yes my mother, thy brother, call me coward, idle, and grudge 
the very bread I eat from his board. Long have I borne all in silence. Mona was 
too proud to answer, but they knew not of the burning rage within that devoured my 
every heart-string: but the spell is broken,! go. Yes sainted mother, though those yea^ 
whose light have been my only solace, my oq\^ ys^, i^<av:i^\ ^^as^ 'Q;^\SL^&&\s«!^^ 
in anger, tboagb that voice should change lla «ag<6Ya usq^as^ *\si\o NBCossi ^ x«^Ts»^a. 
to Bting mx mj heart, I go. I will aeek my o^m l«t\.\H»-AX^^\s^^»^ ^ ^»^ ^fia3^^* 


iBjown. Mooa GnjBludl be indebted to none." The paeiioii into wliieh her MBogi 
bad wofked tbeouehree, roaied her firom her reverie; forttmato for her it did m, or 
■he had soaroelj heard the call that had summoned ?the others to their efenini; repast 
round which the whole gipqr camp had eagerlj gathered. The sapper was nothing 
to Mona, her feelings were too highly wrought and of too deep a natore to kt her 
peroMve eren the pangs of hanger, though she had £uted all that liTO-long^ day, bot 
■he rose up hastily when she heard the call, as she would not for the world haye beoi 
absent, as it might excite some suspicion among the company. ^ So she^ seated herself 
with the rest, though taking no interest in what passed around her. She remained 
silent and thoughtful, and quickly retired when the meal was over. Mona Gray was 
as may have been already perceiyed, an orphan. She was early left to the eare of an 
uncle, who, cruel and wicked himself, cared little whether the seeds of good or evil 
were implanted in her young heart But to proceed with our tale. It was night 
The dark clouds that had so long overshadowed the forest, floated away, and a mw 
moon had arisen, and was sailing silently along; and as it shone upon that forest, 
lighting it up with that strange wild glare, the remaining leares Bparkled like 
brilliant gems, and the branches of those giant trees cast a thousand fimtastie shapes 
upon the dark ground. The deepest silence*pre?ailed,for the whole gipsy eamp, after 
the revels they had kept up to a late hour, had sunk into a deep sleep. Out of ooe 
small tent was seen advancing, a slight figure, wrapped in a'dark doak; lightly mA 
lootstep fell upon the dead leaves that lay thickly 8tre?m along the path, fearful of 
causing even the slightest rustling among them, but yet swiftly they passed along, ibr 
the night was far sped, and the task was not accomplished. " Sainted mother,' mur- 
mured Mona, in a half stifled voice, for it was she, " I go— I go, and your love, yoor 
oare, must they be no longer mine? Will those eyes never gaze upon me but in anger 
— 4ihat vmce sound nothing but reproach?" She drew her cloak closer around her, 
and pressed it with her trembling hand to her traitor lips, and suppresang the words 
tiiat rose to them, though unable to still the tumult at her heart, she pressed^oowardsL 
She reached the outskirts of the forest — a small light was shimng in the window of 
the cottage she was approaching ; the door was open — ^Mbna entered — in a small 
cradle lay a beautiful babe asleep, the necklace on its neck was of precious stones^ and 
the lace upon its clothes was costly — ^there] was no one in the room. Mona seiaed 
the child, and half stifling it in her grasp, she hastened towards a lonely spot she 
had selected in the forest, quickly she stripped the tender in&nt of the vain bauUes 
that had tempted her to so dark a deed, and left it there— to die. The little child 
ogeaed ito soft eyes, and gazed upon her. She never foigot that look— it uttered one 
■harp, piercing cry as it fslt the cold damp earth ; that cry rang through her ears, 
although she stopped them with all her might, and fled. She could not ahut it out— 
It thrOled through eveiy vein of her aching heart 


{To be cofuliniued.^ 





No. v.— OCTOBER. 


Scene — Portland Gardkns. 
Kingcups and Migmonette meeting, 

f M^ctp— Ah ! my dear Mignionette, how are jou? I have not seen yon Binoo oor 

retom firom the conntiy. 
MigmonetU — ^Flonrishing— bnt overwhelmingly tired of this empty, dirty pUuM. 

Where have yon been? In Northamptonshire, I think. How I envy yon! I 

have been nnder the painfhl obligation of remaining in town to iday the femalo 

escort to some mral friends come to see the *' Nation's Fair. 
King. — ^Yes, we have been in Northamptonshire, and are going in a few days into 

Kent. Bnt what do you mean by empty place? I do not think I ever saw 

Iiondon more crowded. 
ifii^.— Yes, with things that are men, bnt might be monkeys, with immense hairy 

pendants, commonly called beards; wearing head coverings and body gear of 

divers shapes and colours. Bat do yon not observe that as the people tToutre 

finer have come in at the door, the aristocratic islanders have eloped by the 

window^ and as Lord John Russell says, even — 
*< The wealthy tailor on the Suasez shore 
Displays and drives his blae baroache and four. 
The peer, who made him rich, with dog and gnn 
Toils o'er the Scottish moor, and braves a scorching son.** 
King.r^Wh!«n is Blue-bell? have yon heard from her lately? 
jf,(^....When I last heard from her, she said she had been rusticating all day nnder 

a hay- rick on the banks of the Shannon. '* Heigh ho! carrion crow." I 

would give kingdoms, did I possess them, but for one drop of unpolluted air 

unmixed with the fumes of those hairy bipeds cigarettes. 
King. — But, tell me, how does the Bouquet go on ? 

Mig^ — Oh ! you must ask A Thistle, whom you wVI\ &tA r^'CEAmbSos^ ^s^ ^s&a ^ ^^^^ 
gentB at tbs other end of the garden. 


King. — Come, let us go together. Bat here comes A Thistle, everlaatingly with her 
hands fiill of papers. Well, Thistle, what haye 70a got there? 

7%wt2e.— The proof of No. 4, which I have been endeavouring to correct ; it sur- 
prises me how the Compositors can read it so well, for I cannot, the writing it 
80 indistinct Now here is a word which none of them can make oat: they 
read it ** claim," yet I do not think it can be that, for the line would read— 

" Who has not fttoltB claim pitj from a brother? ** 
joa trj and make it oaL I wish contributors weald recollect thej camnt be 
at the Compositors elbow all the time, to prompt him. Thtj ought to be most 
particular in forming their letters in writing in a fbrrign language, for it is not 
every Compositor who understands them; he, therefore, only follows what is 
written. If some of the contributors do not improve in their writing, I shall be 
under the very disagreeable necessity of returning their compodtions to be re- 
written, or getting them to correct the proofs themselves. 

King. — ^I cannot make it out But what have we here? Some German poetry, I7 
Elder. Who is Elder? This is not original— why do you admit it? It is psrt 
of an old song in Halms' play "Der sohn der Wildniss," or I am mnoh 

Thitiie^'lt was given to me as original, for I asked the question when I received ft. 
I am sorry I did not know this before, for the first sheet is now pristed off, I 
should have rejected it But now I have met you together, I want your opfaioB 
on one point I have been asked, why the Bouquet is not illostratad? My 
answer is, want of funds. But it has been suggested that any contributor who 
wishes to illustrate their writings may do so if they will find the drawing, and 
perhi^ps they could get some friend even to cut the block, or lithograph it 
themselves, these might be admitted under certain limits j or, perhaps^ tbey 
would not object to pay part of the expense of cutting the blocks, or working 
them on stone, the Bouquet bearing the other; this might enooorage dnwipg si 
well as writing. What do you think of it ? 

Ztfi^w— It requires consideration. I will tell you in a few days. 

Mig,-^1 like the idea — ^but can it be carried out ? 

Thistle — I intend to submit the proposal to the Supporters, in the same way I did 
about the prizes, and take their opinion, tor I should not do it till the first of 
January next, when the second volume will oommenoe. By-the-bye, I hope all 
'* continued* stories will be finished in the first volume. Our first prize has not 
started many competitors, as you will see, and these are not all the proper lengtii^ 
but as they are nearly the same length, I have admitted them. The next priis 
I intend to ofier is for a Tale in French, during the reigns of Henry IV, or 
Lonis ZVI, of France, founded on an event in history. Have you any Ejection 
to this? 

J/^.-^None, if you will admit love and murder. 

T^tie, — A French tale would be wortVi notbin^ VvVS[k<sa\.. 'VxEinsX»>cAsi^>^iiB^\i^^ 
&nt 0/ December, 10 m they may ap^QWC 'uxOqa JimojKrs ^^oss^mt. 



IPrize Paper, JVb./.] 

I dare say raj fair readers recollect in their childhood, and perhaps in later years, 
the homage they ha^s paid to the gallantry of Sir Walter Btddgh, the favoorite of 
the*^' Maiden Qoeen." Tes, my yonng friends, he was high in favonr then, bat how 
•«o6a he fell. However, oar tale has nothing to do with his fall, bat rather with those 
times when be nused himself high in the &voar of the qneen and people by his 
voyages to America. In one of these he discovered Virginia, and named it after his 
" liiyal mbtresa" From this place, it is said, he brought home several curioos cus- 
toms, one of which, if it did not cost him bis life, cost him the loss of a handsome 
doublet and hose. The custom I allude to is that odious habit which the young 
gtttlemen of the present dsy (thinking, I suppose, that no such dangers as befel my 
hero awaits them), are so fond of practising in defiance of the ardent protestations of 
mothers, sisters, maiden aunts, and wives. 

In his parlour sat Sir Walter Raleigh, at his ease, in a large arm-chair. I will not 
attempt to describe bis posture, as that must be too well known to those of my readers 
who occasionally indulge in what is &miliarly called " taking it easy," waiting for the 
aifpeanmoe of his breakfast My young friends must not have before theur eyes, at the 
mentioa of this word, the usual paraphernalia of the modem repast of that name, for s 
gdlant cavalier of that day would have scorned the idea of making his breakfast off 
** bread and batter, tea and cofiee," (perhaps he could not get them,) the meal which our 
hero was expecting was doubtless of a more substantial nature, at least one article was 
udispensable— it consisted of a huge tankard of ale! The servant upon entering the 
room was astonished to see his master enveloped in a cloud of smoke, and, alarmed 
for his safety, threw the whole contents of the tankard befbre>mentioned, over him 
and hastily ran from the apartment in search of further assistance. Sir Walter, 
astonished at the unexpected salutation, sprang to his feet — ** GaAzooka" he exclaimed , 
^ What does the fellow mean?** The alarmed servant rushed back, attended by the 
ether domestics, with sundry buckets of water, and was astonished to find his master, 
to an appearance uninjured; but instead of rewarding his faithfulness with kind 
words, he seemed more inclined to chastise him for his untimely interruption. " Be- 
covered, your honour?" said the man, out of breath, with haste and alarm. "Becovered, 
aihrah? WhatfiromP "From your ducking?"* Why, your honour, you were on fir« 
when I left yon.** "Fire, fool! I was smoking.** 


From the foregoing tale my readers may draw a two-fold moral; for as on tha 
OQfl hand it teaches us not to be too hasty in formlu)^ cods^^qsassa^v^^^'^ ^^ ^jQoMt "^ 
abowa the oMetaitj oi&amiDg cor words and nctio&A) VS;^ \)Dftl liosi^^ vk >s^ ^^ 



[iVtse Paper No. //.] 

What I Napoleon at leap-frog, yon are ready to exclaim ! Imagine him standing 

in his favoorite posture, his arms folded across his breast, his shoulders raised, hii 

head bent on one side, his conntenance expressive of the deepest meditation. What 

wonld be his thoughts at such a moment Not those of ordinary man, 


The 4th of November, 17 — , was clear and bright, here and there fleecy clouds 
floated over the sky, and the moon shone forth with unusual brilliancy over the 
gardens of Versailles. On one side was the palace , brilliantly illuminated, from which 
issued ever and anon merry sounds, forming a strong contrast with the silent gloom, 
of the opposite side, which presented nothing but the dark shadows of the lofty tress 
with occasionally a gleam of moonshine, making the darkness still more apparent 

It was morning; the first dawn of the early day. The festivities of the palace 
were at an end — the illuminations had become dim — the moon also had nearly finished 
her course, and the gardens, which a few hours before had rang with merry sounds 
were silent and deserted. Two young men in the prime of life vrare seen coming out 
of the large door, in the centre of the palace. One was a young officer, in full unifimn, 
and the numerous orders with which he was adorned showed he was neither of humble 
rank, nor entirely devoid of merit The other was in a plain court dress, but the 
richness of the material proved him{to«be equal to his companion, in point of con- 
sequence. In his hand was a gold- headed cane. Ajrm-in-arm they walked along the 
broad gravel walk, from whence they turned aside into one surrounded by shrubs and 
bushes. " Now,** said the latter, to bb^military companion, *' can you say the Em- 
peror shows you no more attention than any one else? Did he not introduce you to 
the belle of the evening, and place you on his right hand, while I was as far away as 
two or three on his left? Lost his confidence indeed ! You are more than ever in his 
good graces." And whirling his stick round in his enthusiasm, it slipped from his 


"Very true," returned the other, while his companion stooped down in search of 

bis stick, '* but do I^not deserve it more than you? What have you ever don e 

'* Just help me to find my cane," interrupted the other, forgetting the late sub- 
ject of conversation in his anxiety to recover the lost article. Both set to wcMrk, and 
after groping about a few minutes, the officer exclaimed—" Here's your stick." 

** Come, let us have a game at leap-frog"— <«nd suiting the action to the word, 

he sprwg over his still stooping companion. The other immediately joined in the 

game, which was kept up with great spirit At last, the young courtier espied a 

figure at a little distance, and thinking him well placed for a leap, slipped aside 

leaving him to act as post to the officer. Perhaps he thought of the mirth it might 

c/Bate, or perhaps that the other might — but no matter * * * The officer easily 

mistook the stooping figure for his Vrietid, au^ W^m\^ Q^«t 1\vdb.^ quickly cried-* 

"bold hMPif** bat the stranger, not pTe^^edi lot «ac^i «A.ut«s.\MXK^ ^«!q^ ^^^ 

iOifwa upon hia kneet, which caused tVie o\i»i V) l^n wmsA i&ax^i ,wAiiQs»& w»r- 


^^■— ^^— "^li^^^^i^— ^^^^^— — »^^^— ^^^-^^p^— ^-^~"^-~ ■ — —— — ^ 

" Now then stapid, have 70a hart joorself ?" Jost then the moon shone ont from behind a 
ekmd, and the astonished favourite beheld the Emperor Napoleon, in the act of rising 
fr(Hn the mad, into which he had fallen— his hands and coat were soiled, his hat had 
flown to some distance, and tbere he stood a deplorable figure; bat the favourite was 
tbo frightened when he found what he had done, to laugh, though you, my fair 
readers, may indulge in one at the Emperor's expense without dreading in what light 
yoar merriment may be taken ; but not so with the officer, he clasped Napoleon's knees 
•zolaiming— " Pardon me, pardon me." 

'* What means this. Count? " said Napoleon sternly. 

The Coant explained the whole story, and his companion coming forth from his 
hiding place, confirmed the tale. 

" Foigiven, forgiven,** said the Emperor frankly, " but my young friend, take my 
advice, for the future, and look before you leap." 


Yes, Emperor I your advice to your young friend is good, but may we not also 
draw another moral from my tale ? What were your thoughts at the moment of that 
nnlocky leap ? Were you thinking of your union with the House of Austria, and thus 
devising the subjugation of Russia ? If so , how ominous that M. 

And now my pretty flowers of the Bouquet, may I not speak a friendly word to 
yoa at parting? Beware lest any bitterness be mixed with your sweet scent, or ta 
■peak more plainly, however laudable may be your object in writing, inasmuch as it 
opens your minds and teaches you to think, still beware lest any bad feeling or 
Jealousy be found in these your endeavours to overleap each other. 


IPrize Paper, No, III.'] 

Sounds of revehj and mirth vibrated through the imperial pakoe at St; 
Petersbnig, the Czar, Paul I, unconscious of the terrible &te which was soon to- 
bring his capricious reign to a close, was presidmg at a gorgeous banquet surroonded 
by the flower of the Russian nobility. Compliments which all courtiers know too well, 
alas, how to invent were bdng paid to the weak Cisar and the Czarina Sophia of 
Whiembnrgh, his wiie. Among the numerous flatterers who cringed obsequiously 
befora the Busdan throne was the Comte de Vassy, a young French nobleman, fled 
from his own country, now the seat of bloodshed, to se^ protection on a foreign soil, 
he thought to gam the fiivour of the royal Russian, by using all his art as a flatterer, 
and, therefore, finished a succession of speeches tainted with ialse, venal praise, by 
^\unng that the great Peter, the father of Buana, and the maker of his country, 
was as no one compared to his more mighty snooosMiC^^^ VoansfiNaik.'^v^ K\scs&« 
mnr oi diupprobatioa passed around at thia daxvn^ tt^(««3ki,\wS5. Vi»ti^^«^^««^^*^ 
Csar's angpr too moch to allow thmr feoilingii \A V« V^KMcn^ 


The emperor himself pleased at rooeiTiDg so decided a compliment fiom » 
Btranger, torned smillog to one who sat near his person and said*^ 
" i>o you hear they rob Peter to pay Paul ?" 

But Frog^ a French actor, to whom these words were addressed, waa to Paiil 
of Russia what Beau Brummell was to England's Fourth Gegrge; he, too, would haie 
dared to say ** George, ring the bell," and nothing daunted at the saiiafaction of the : 
Czar, exclaimed with the utmost nonchalance, 

" Yes, I hear, but I am certain of one thing, they never can rob Paul to pay 

In an instant the expresnon of the emperor's hco changed; he darted a look of 
intense malignity at the daring favourite, and after whispering a fow words to the 
Czarina suddenly broke up the feast. 

As Frog^re quitted the palace, he was joined by Igor Bielski, likewise a £avoupt* . 
of Paul, but who was more fearful lest he should over-step the bounds of lua 

" What say you to Siberia," exclaimed Bielski, tapping Frog^re on the shoulder^ 
* the emperor is capricious, and has sent nobler men than you to end their days in 
its bleak regions for less than to-night*s daring." 

'*Fear not, Bielski, a gipsy told me, when a child in France, that I should die 
in a large city, and those who reach Siberia never return they say: I am not a&aid . 
its lleak regions will ever see me." 

'* Well, Frog^, be not too certiun of your fate," said Bielski, as they parted. 
Frogire entered his house, and was about to retire for the night, when a Ipod . 
knocking startled him. '* Who is there ?" he exclaimed. 

'* We demand admittance in the name of the Czar," was the answer. 
Frog&re admitted his nocturnal visitants without further parley. They prcved 
to be soldiers. 

**Weare here by order of his Imperial Majesty,* said they, ^'and are com- 
manded to conduct you into Siberia." 

Frog^re started and grew pole, but he saw resistance was in vun, so quietly 
allowed himself to be bound, hisses to be bandaged, and himself to ibe led away by 
tt^ soldiers; they placed him in a qwn%ge, brought for the purpxye, and instant^ 
sifarted ou the ro^^ to Siberia; the whole n^ht they continued without stopping, bnt 
at br^ of day, i^ halted at a little cabin at the entrasce of a wood. f\rog^ 
depcended, his eyes were unbandaged, and he was permitted to make a frugal repast^ 
which conaistilBd of aft(5Ae«, when ^ey again started; during the whole day no one 
spoke, the clanking of the soldiecs' steeds alone told Frog^ be was guarded: even- 
ing catpor-tbe same stoppage— the same repast— they start anew. Fcr three daya 
thj0.ii[)iserabl0 suspense continue; on the fourth day a gruff voioe oommfmds fing^ 
to. prepare for death; they lead him from the casriage, and placing him on a eeat, 
deiMse him to pcay, for the last time, to the holy virgin $ he implores loi^eBc^u, and • 
MaJv Jiia £miH, M all is in twuj the ai^ecs are obdurate, he murmurs forth in a 
me», ffbqlffi^ hj fpghlt^ a PaterrXUwtAr, an^ «& k«ftU«Mi\ «i8tt&\A\M^VK >b:>& Vfik 
bat ia vtan; the joker with hit priinfie mua^ wxfipK ivst \aa XttmsssDesis ^\«ink "^ 


soldien load their earbines— be falls od his knees — ^unheeded — ^he hoars the leader 
§dYViOb~^readjf — be trembles more and more— ;>resen^ — ^he screams alond— ;/!!r^— 
he fidls to the groondi and feels his heart to see if it have ceased to beat; load 
laughter grates upon his ear; this is no time for mirth, he thinks, if not dead, I am 
at the least mortally womided; the bandage is removed from his eyes — ^he gazes aronnd 
^-surprise is depicted on his £EU!e; instead of the barren wilds of Siberia, he is in the 
banqoeting-room of the Emperor's palace. He shakes his arms and legs to see if each 
member be perfect^he essays to walk — astonishment— behold he can, he looks 
again, his Emperor stands before him, surrounded by a crowd of laughing courtierB. 

** Frqg^re," exdaims the Czar, " is this sufBcient punishment for your offence — 
will you again depreciate your Prince ?" 

" Never, most mighty Czar," cries the now humiliated Frog^re, sinking on his 
knees before Paul Petrowitz. 

But all is not yet passed— the taunts, the jeers of the courUers have yet to be 

** How does the courageous Frog&re like Siberia?" ezoUims malidously, Igor 

Frog^ shudders at the thought. 

" Ahl** cries an old soldier, whose office it had been to convey many a poor 
wretch to perpetual banishment, "the day may come when you will find Siberia 
slightly diffiarent to three days* ride round St Petersburg, accompanied by his Im « 
perial Highness." 

The unhappy actor had received a salutary and never-to-be-ibrgotten lesson 
during his stay at the Bussian Court; never again did he attempt to make too free 
with the changeable Paul. Let those who, like Frogire, are the favourites of the 
great, remember his punishment, and not confide too much in the good humour of 
their patron. 

" Nolite eoofidere in principibus, in filiis hominum in quibus non est salu8«** 

[iV&e Paper, No, /F.] 

It was a dear and firosty day in January, in the year 1649, the sun was shining 
brightly on tree and lawn, and its bright beams were glancing through the windows 
ef a humble cottage into a small room, and lighting up, with their brightness, the 
dying ftatures of a venerable old man, who was seated in an arm chair, (the only 
•rtiole of luxury which the room possessed) gazing dreamily upon the embers in the 
small grate, firom which the sun was gradnaUy extinguishing every spark. The door 
opened, and a smUe passed over his features as his daughter entered; she held 
an open letter in her hand, and as she bent over him and gently kissed his forehead^ 
she monunnd — " to-morrow, dear fiither, to-morrow, Arthur mU. b^ bso^ 

To-moRoirl oh, vain delusion; when oomea \t? 'fik«««t. \q\>^^<&\&ssct^%^s»^ 
m baU tthdaif. Utinb wanderer comes but with \;hQ tq«ro^ , \L^^^ ^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^'^^ 
tUdBtttHOL « ro-morroir is the to-day o! y^^tacda^C %^x%5^^^ \sqS» ^"^^^ ^^""^ 


baya these reflectioDS here? Forgive me, reader, if I bare wearied thee, thej were 
called ap by hearing the words of the fair girl as she bent over her father. And who 
is he? In his handsome, thoogh feded features, are all the signs of noble birth; and 
yet his hamble abode is not fitting one of high rank and staticm. He was once in the 
enjoyment of all the riches and happiness this world can give; his present misery wis 
brought on by hie devotion to his king, for which he incurred the enmity of CromwdL 
Cromwell, whose name brings before me all the terrors of the civil war, and 
recals a stain upon the nation, never to be effaced, the murder of a king, to your 
ambition may be traced this conclusion to the dreadful drama. How, I will not now 
attempt to prove, let who will search for the truth of this assertion for themselves. 
His son had joined the royal army, and fought bravely in defence of his king; he had 
been severely wounded at the fatal battle of Naseby, and the last accounts received 
by his sorrowing parent were that his wound was mortal. This last sorrow filled the 
cup of the father*s grief to overflowing — ^he sunk beneath the blow. Now came the 
news of the murder of the king; that king for whom he had lost all, been reduced to 
the greatest poverty, and now lived in a humble cottage. He sorrowed most for her, 
his daughter, she who had been brought up in the greatest luxury; but with him she 
cared for nothing, she did not see how soon she would be bereft even of him, and left 
alone in the world; she would not believe he was dying; it were cruel to make her 
think it, yet charity to prepare her for the worst Imagine their joy in this state of 
things to receive a letter from the long-lost Arthur; but how did the old man bear 
the news ? He told her he must die ; this was his reply to the joyous intelligenoe she 
brought him that her brother was safe, and would be with them on the marrow. 

^ My child, these eyes will no more behold him— these arms will then be power- 
less to dasp him to this heart, which is overflowing with a ftther^s love; but tell him 
that with my latest breath I prayed heaven to bless him, and thanked my God that 
he had nobly done his duty to his king and country." 

And Amelia wept, for when she looked upon the old man's face, she believed that 
his words were true. Now it is night, and Amelia kneels beside the death-bed of her 
father; no sound is heard, but at intervals the silence is broken by the sappretsad 
Bobs of the broken-hearted girl Ere rose the morrow's sun the spirit oi the old man 
bad fled; and through that long day the orphan sat and wept, bat her brother came 

Now the scene is changed — it is the banqueting-house at Whitehall. The odd 

rays of a winter's moon are glancing through the narrow windows, serving by their 

faint light to render the parts of the hall where they cannot penetrate only the more 

obscure. In the oentre of the hall stood a dark object, covered with a black doth, 

and near one of the windows stood two men engaged in low but earnest oonversatioo. 

jSOowly the hours passed on — it is between one and two, and the stars are fadmg 

slowly MWMjf hvLt the moon still sheds a faiotW^t^ aTQXiiSL«^\!MBA w hjMurd on the 

Btmir, the frieada retire deeper into the wiYffasTura <£ \h» IbsOmb^. ^woAcm «]& "Ooi^ ^siet 

^ir//opflnfjmd«iiianent«rB,M8forman^i«fcVaie(a cfia^^ *» ^«'*' ^«*^'^ 


which he is enveloped. Slovlj he approached the oofiBn, and lifted the doth which 
OQfvered it ; long he gazed upon the fonn of the martyr king, then slowly shaking his 
bead, sighed oat the words — ** cruel necessity ;** and replacing the doth, slowly with- 
drew from the apartment. 

'^Arthur," said Lord Soathampton to his friend, as Cromwell*s footsteps died 
-away, ** it has been a cruel necessity to keep thee here, but tmly I ooold hardly have 
borne the watch alone, and I thank thee my friend for thy company; but now I have 
somewhat else I woold demand of thee.** 

** Speak on, my lord," replied Arthur, " there is nothing I would not do for 


** To-morrow, at midnight, they will inter the body— take my place there— see 

that all is as it should be— I mast away — ^if I am found here to>morrow, my head is 
not safe: and for this kindness thou shalt demand any boon which it shall lay in my 
poor power to grant thee." 

Arthur kiased the hand the earl extended towards him, and silence reigned un- 
broken until the morning's light shone in and rdeased them from their watch. And 
thus was he employed, while, in the lowly cottage, Amelia wept beside their fitther'a 

dying bed. 


It was midnight, and the bdl of the royal chapel sounded solemnly through the 
ttUl night air, as a mournful train slowly entered the yenerable Abbey of Westminster ; 
they bore the martyr king to his last resting place. 

Amongst the few who followed the coiEn, and stood around as it was lowered to 

the tomb, was seen, as the torches' light fell on his &ce, Amdia's brother. Thus 

was he employed, while she sat in her londy home, and wept for the parent she had 



Now they have met, and she breaks to him the sad news, and he rentes what 

has passed since last they met, and points out to her that princes share the same fats 

as other men ; the king, too, had his reverses, and, as their fitther, he had lost alt— te 

the silent grave they are both committed. What matters it| though oie be laid beneath 

the gnen sod in a humble churchyard, and the other in a royal chapd, surrounded 

by the marble effigies of kings and princes, both will be judged alike. ** See, nster, 

though in this world there are dignities and powers to whom we must submit, stIU 

are we their equals in having the same Father in heaven, and the same hope after 



Now the scene is changed — ^it is summer, in the year 1660, two persons are 
waUdng U^ther on the banks of the Thames. They are brother and sister, to judgs 
by the likeness they bear to each other. Some one approaches them^ but they are 
conversing too earnestly to observe him ; they are settling plans for the future— their 
grief is past— and they are happy. He approaches and^touches the young man's 
shoulder—'' Arthur, have you forgotten your dd friend^ and Qiax ^os&o&l'^r^^^^c^ 


"-Stoft nofc-I am he 5 your sister, 1 prewmftr l^ii\» vJ^Jufifij VasnA^'^MCtflB^ 
Antlm extended to her brother's friend. 


*<DottraooU0ct, Artbor/'MntmiMd tbe EvI, ''that I btde thee Mk a booD fi«i 
ne, in ntwii for thfl Benriot thoa iwderedst me that nights-all joa nqiuBted was 
tiM loan of a hw oroima-«-biit 'twas all I could do for thoo, I wish it bad bo«i man; 
but now that I haye returned from mj exile, I have diseorered a mj to baiMfit thte 
trolj ; bat eome, thj pretence is reqnired at the palace.'' 

Lord Soathampton bailed a boat, and assisted Amelia to entar; ttej had iMt 
proceeded far before they came in sight of the royal barge; and on its nearer approach 
they rose to salnte the monarch. Owing to some oarelessnoss of the boatmen, just 
as Amelia was in the act of returning the salutation of the king, the boat oame in 
contact with the stem of the barge, and our foir heroine was precipitated into the 
water. It was Charles' pleasure to reward all who had befriended his father, or hii 
fiither's friends; and he had sent for Arthor to reward him in any way he sbooli 
deem best, and to install his sister as maid of honour to the queen. This was his 
first sight of those he thus intended to favour. Pardon the "Meny Mooarch" if hs 
smiled as he beheld Amelia floundering in the water, and Arthur forcibly held bick 
from plunging in after her, by Lord Southampton ; as one of the king's honsehoM 
had abeady leapt into the water to save her. 


PABT n. 

(Oontimied from page 144.) 

It was m the small town of I , that at the last assizes, a band of gipmas had 

been tried and coounitted to the county jail, charged with the many robberies that 
had been lately practised upon travellerB. 

** Are they all confined together ?" asked Mr. Afinten, the dergynum who visited 
ihe prison daily, of the jailor, as he stood at the iron gate, which tha latter was in the 
act of opening. 

** Why, yes Sir," he replied, ** all but one, and she, poor creatora, begged so hard 
to be alone, and none of the rest seemed to want hw company, that I was erdeied ts 
^t her into one of the back cells that are empty, now the Fenton affiur is oter." 

** Then I will see her first," said the young man, and he followed the jailor down 

the long stone pa^^sage that led to the cell they were in search oil The great kejs 

aeon unfastened the door, and they stood within. It was a high but narrow apart' 

ment, with scarcely light enough admitted to discover the dark figure of a woman that 

lay crouched in one comer, and yet sufficient to show the bareness and ruggedness of 

the stone walls and floor. But the clergyman was too much taken iy> with the 

object before him, and too much accustomed to such rade scenes to pay any attentica 

to the desolate appearance of the cell he had entered. He approached the unhappy 

CMftive, and was about to address bet m aocaii\a of kmd enquiry, when he started 

back, appalled by the figure wMch \bua axouMi^ eXakA \»Sst« \iviEi. ^« \ai^. ^svmqi. 

tenelfto bee /hH height, which from hat tx\TOn»l\&M«» w«o«^»^^ 


and throwing back her gipsy hood, hw long rayoB looki frttmind in wild profosion, 
diBplayiiig a set of gannt features, and a pair of dark sparkling ^es, the wild ex- 
pression of whioh stmok terror into the beholders. She^spoke inTa calm and deter- 
mined toM.of Toice, though now and^^then it was .almost nused to a shriek, and 
partook of the agitation that seemed to. shake her whole firame. She accompanied 
her speech with wild gestures, and brandished her^naked arms.fiercelj in the air,, as 
if half angrj at the words that escaped her lips, and yet she went on in a kind of wild 
determination to tell the whole tale. 

** YoB*re'come," she said, ** Yoa*re come,''and didn*t I know yon*d.|come and talk 
to me of comfort, and peace, and the like — and I tell ye it's of no nae, I can't abide it. 
Wasn't it my own fault then, and why did I go then and wander out on that cursed 
. night, and do the black deed that my very soul hated 2 Hasn't it^dared me on then tiU 
my heart ia hard, and many is the dark thought and wild deed that has blotted and 
torn it. Ay ! it's wretched enough now I warrant ye. Hasn't it followed me, that bitter 
cry ? Has it not haunted me night and day?; Has it^ot mingled with my dreams?' 
Haa it not startled me from my sleep ? Hslk it not embittered every moment, drowned 
e?ery thought, sounded like a death-knell to all peace, joy, happiness? Happiness t 
away with the name — it is a phantom. My.breast never knew it. Did »I not feel 
his soft arms on my bosom ? Was not his sweet breath upon my cheek ' Did I not - 
tee his soft eyes open ? Did not his lips smile ? And that bitter cry" 

** Yon rave, my good woman,' said the cIei|;ymao, who, recovered from his sur- 
prise, endeavoured to stop the wild words that seemed to him but the transports of 

** I rave not," she said calmly, and pointing to the ^bright sun of which she 
caught a glimpse through the small grated window, ''as sure as yon glorious sun is- 
shining in the heavens, I left him there— that gentle babe — ^to die." 

A light burst upon the clergyman during this last i^MCoh. He had heard that 
there had been a history connected with him of havix^ been stolen by a gipsy, when 
a child, and being left in the forest to die. He gently laid his hand upon the arm of 
the prisoner — "Yes," he said, "but a Frovidenos, when you least thought it, was 
watching over yon and that in&nt. He was saved, and it is Ae that now stands befor»^ 
yoD, that brings yon a message of peace, pardon, and joy ; oh I receive it before it be 
too late." 

He hastily ceased, for the gipsy had fallen to the ground; ihe jailor ran forward 
to assist her, the olergyman^bent over her, the form that had so lately stood erect in 
its pride, lay stretched upon the cold, damp earrh — ^that eye had loet its brilliancy-* 
that tongue its power--and Mowa Gkat was dead. 


With f[&1Umt train and Imjing honnd, 
To bunt the wild red deer — 

The Lord of Ettrick's bogles loasd 
Their eool inspiring cheer. 

The monntains echo to their cries, 
On speeds the panting chase, 

0*er rock, o*er heath, heswifUj flies— 
E'en swifter in the chase. 

The daf hath seen the wild red deer 

Oatstrip the galUint train- 
One hound alone still followed here, 
Lofd Ettrick drew not rein ; 

Thej reach at length, at dose of day, 

A stream by moontain side, 
There sank the steed, sore-wonnded lay, 

Lord Ettrick by his side. 

The wild red deer, with deep-drawn breath, 
Fell panting to the ground- 

When dose beside, in pangs of death, 
Lay stretched the stalwart hound. 

Lord Ettrick woke from balmy dream 

Of huntsmen in fall cry- 
He wildly gazed beside the stream ; 

Some ^on canght his eye. 

Oh hnnter bold awhile be still, 
Thy wound may bleed again; 

My father speeds from yonder mill, 
With him, a sturdy train. 

Thus whisp'ring spoke a gentle maid, 
To calm the hunter^s mind; 

Whose wand'ring thoughts in Tision stny*d 
'Midst scenes he'd left behind. 

She watch'd his couch by night, by day- 
Untiring ever there; 

Betuming health soon shed a ray- 
To bless her for her care. 

The chief got well, he daim'd her heart 

To cheer his future life; 
The miUfiK^a dii\d.Viiy ua9»n<S«'w«rasA. 

BecaiDA Lord ^\JOrv!(k'% ^«. 


iri)e Kenvtoeafie, 

I love that gentle flow'r whose sunny raj, 

Tho' dress'd in hnmble garb yet plays its part. 

Where modest worth upholds the mral sway, 

And sweet contentment lolls the peasant's heart 

Tis round the lowly cot, where pasnoos sleep- 
Where rustic labor calmly leads to rest, 

* Midst soft repose, and tranquil scenes that keep 
An even tenor m the human breast. 

Ob, yes, 'tis here the placid Heartsease grows, 
Uonurtur'd by ambition's worldly strain; 

Its leaf expands, its flow'r serenely blows 
Amidst the compeers of its humble train. 

Then curs'd be he who dares with ruthless hand, 
Uproot and trample on thy native worth; 

Implanting thorns with griefs erading brand. 
That darkens all that once was fur on earth. 


S^lot to ti)e Critic of ti)e l^umher for 

Mr. Critic , I write in a fright, 

Tou have fallen so foul of my verse, 

With more mercy-sure might you indite. 

Though my feeble attempt had been wont. 

You make such a stir at my ** blur," 
Though Shakspeare uses the word. 

In your place, if I were, I'd refer 

To my books before drawing the sword. 

At my " vinofuT you say ** lack-a-day !" 

Yet 'tis you that have changed them to vidont! 

Yes ! this is your way with foul play. 

To make faults, and then call them pemidoos. 

If my errors encumber with lumber 

Your book ; such reproof only hardens— 
UoBt elegant Squirting Cttcmniber 

Zd Bouguet of Maryhimt Gardeiu! 


tri)e Spint of tf)e l!S[iffi)U 
Twilight's graf nuntie wrapt the «?eDing hoar, 
MoluB held the winda within his power, 
The rippling waves were pleanng to the ear, 
The night bird's song was echo*d &r and near: 
I wander*d forth to gaze npon the scene. 
To think of all that was, and what had been, 
Lost in imagination's dreamy ways. 
Forgetting earth onward to Heaven I gaze ; 
But Btay— what vision yonder meets my eye 
Above the tow'ring oaks it mounts on high. 
Suspended in the air a seraph soars. 
And as the moon her soft light gently poors, 
1 view the form of that fair nymph of air— 
A wreath of poppies deck her streaming hair; 
In one hand see she holds a silver lyre: 
They sleep who listen as she moves each wire ; 
The nightingale, it aids her with its song, 
As throngh the air she quickly floats along*- 
Her garments black are pierced by many a star. 
The planets meet around her silver car ; 
Wise Aziola joins her onward course. 
And bats they serve this spangled queen for horse. 
The veil of darkness she o'er earth doth cast — 
She flies through air — a thought and she is past 
Twilight is gone, night— night it hurries on; 
The weary rest— the toils of day are done. 
But who was she who through the air took flight? 
She was — she was — ^the Spirit of the Night, 

^ Mtbtle. 

My first, tho' but a colour bright. 

Is as my friends can tell, 
The emblem of that quality, 

In which I most exceL 

And when at eve the sun has set. 

From yonder convent tower. 
My second summons all to prayer, 

At the appointed hour. 

My whole's a flow'ret fitir and sweet, 

" That decks the dingle wild," 

Which roving ihroug|h tJiia^^Vda "«« meat 

" On day BeraoA aasi uM."^ 



An idea mtggested by teein§ a Flower Girl atUep 

upon a door-stqt* 
And art th<ni sleeping, lonely one, 

Ihy flowers npon thy knee. 
And beedest not the bney ham 
Of paa8er»-by that go and come 
Withoat one thooght of thee. 

And tboa art sleeping calmly there, 

On the cold, grey stone thy brow; 
K thy yoong heart knows ought of care, 
Or sorrow presses hardly there. 

They cannot touch thee now. 

Too soon those gentle eyes that close 

In that sweet sleep of peace; 
That brow so calm in its repose. 
That heart forgetful of its woes. 

Too soon their dream shall cease. 

Perchance some harsh and angry tone 

May wake thee with a thrill; 
Boused to the world's sad cares alone. 
Wilt thou not wish, thou lonely one. 

That thou wast slumbering still. 

'Tis thus with the sweet sleep of youth 

That dream of sunny light; 
When we awake to manhood's truth- 
Its cares, its griefs, its trials ruth. 

We long for childhood bright. 

And if e'en here 'tis sad to wake 

From gentle sleep to pain. 
How dread the trumpet that shall shake. 
And all the world's deep slumber break; 

They ne*er shall sleep again. 

Then slumberer, if thou hast not heard 
Of Him who doth thee keep. 

Thine ear is deaf unto His Word, 

Thine eyes have never seen the Lord- 
Wake from thy deadly sleep. 

Wake ere the Summons make thee start— 

Ere the dread Word be given; 
Let His Blest Blood redeem \kx^ VivkI'— 
6e9k in thy Graoioos Lord a i^axVi— 

£tenutl Best in Hmoi. ^^^ 


A Tale of the Seventeenth Century. 
(Concluded from page 142.) 

After watching the entrance for some time, the person he sought made hii 
appearance. He was habited in the most extravagant dress of that most eztraYagast 
age, and his bearing was that of a gay and conrtlj cavalier, bnt his face won a look 
of care and canning, and his expression was dark and moody, seeming to tell that 
ev'd passions were not strangers to his heart Charles beckoned him aside, and whM 
they were oat of hearing a short bat eager conversation ensaed, and he had now the 
promise of proo/Sf if more were wanting, of Emily's infidelity — for Lord Montoa 
promised to send him a ring, her gift, and a letter in her own hand — and at the same 
time the anfortnnate boy, carried away by the heat of the moment, had challenged 
his rival, and it was with a heavy heart he sat down to write to Emily a letter to be 
delivered only in the event of his falling in the combat. 

While he wrote, two gentlemen were standing in the window of the coflfee-room 
and having nothing better to do at this moment, we will hsten to their oonversatioo. 

** Did yoa see that fellow who crossed the yard with yoang Shirly, just now?" 
began one of them, "prodigioasly like the Earl of Moreton, I shoald say; bat h$ hai 
not shown his hoe in England this dozen years, at least, so says report* 

''And report, as nsoal, lies," answered his companion; ** he has been in England, 
though in disgaise I grant yoa, daring the whole war. There are dark storiii 
attached to his name, and I happen to know he has half broken his mother's heart by 
his bad condact." 

''Where on earth did Shirly pick him np?" 

" Well, it is strange to me to see them each good friends. Did yoa ever hear of 
the fend there was between that headstrong yoang man and Shirly 's latber? " 

" Yes, bat nothing to his disadvantage. Old Shirlj did lum oat of some estates, 
I heard." 

" The wrong end of the story, my good fellow. Moreton was disinherited (and 
•erved him right) by a rich old ancle, and all the property, prodigioas fine estate it 
was too, was left to Mr. Shirly in charge for oar yoang friend here, bat on his death, 
or rather murder^ the papers attesting it had all disappeared, and Mr. Charley's no 
better off than his father before him." 

" And in politics, how is his lordship? A bit of a weather-cock, Fve heard say." 

" Trne for once, he was first on one side, then on the other, so he went aboat in 
disgaise, for they both owed him a gradge." 

" Yoa seem well informed." 

" I'd need to be, for many's the trick he's played me, the rascal ! Yet, bad as he 
is, Fve a sort of Uking for the boy. By-the-bye, a fearfal story that of old Shirley' • 

"jHorribie!" and both speakers dropped their voices to a whisper as they 
giMDced towMrda the table, and oontlnaed, ^^ waa \.Ya mTit^«t«t ^^«c ^asovieced? " 
"Ab, «/i meana wer« Ukea to &nd \i\m, aad %\\ W^'A^ 


'* How long ago did it happen ? " 

** Oolj last May. All the family went abroad durectly after." 

At this moment a page entered with a note for Charles, and the two sauntered 

ont into the town where in the gay and busy scene around them they soon forgot the 

momentary interest excited by their comrade's affairs. 

Charles found he knew the ring, it was the same he had given as the first pledge 
of his a£foction to Emily. It was an involuntary impulse to draw from his finger the 
one she had given him in return, and push both from him. And the letter was her's 
also, her own fairy handwriting. What a crowd of recollections rushed through his 
bnun as he looked on it addressed to another. Could there be truth on earth nqw 
she had failed ! Oh ! who can tell how bitter a thing it is to be disappointed m one 
we love ; to find a life-long dream of happiness vanish in a moment ; one we have 
trusted till we knew not what it was to doubt prove false ! 

It was past seven o'clock in the evening, and the twilight, now fast drawing its 
dusky veil over the fair landscape, scarce permitted the figure of a man walking 
briskly to and firo before the park gates of Hepford Castle to be seen. He was seen 
however by Lord Moreton, as he slowly Ji)oand his way homewards, the bridle hanging 
on Ids horse's neck, and his thoughts far away, and the sight caused him to clap spurs 
to his steed and huny on. His object was to pass through the open gates without 
being stopped, but when the man, stepping into the road, caught the rein as he 
passed, he exclaimed, with well-feigned surprise, " You here, Anderson I By my 
faith, you looked so like a ghost in the dark with that long tace of yours, I didn't 
know you ! What's the matter, man ? Can't you speak ? I must hurry on though, 
for I've much to do to-night, and in the morning a little business which won't wait— 
a little affaire d^honneur; you understand." 

^ I know, my lord; and since you're in such a hurry I'll walk beude you through 
the park." 

^' You know, do you ? And, pray, how do yon know ? " 

The other made no immediate answer, but be dropped the rein, and the two 
proceeded side by side. At length he said, sternly, ** And you dare to meet his son. 
Is it not enough that you ^" 

Lord Moreton interupted him with a fearful oath, " I see ho^ it is, — you are 
come for more money to keep that hellish secret. Take it, and may it be a curse to 
yonl And now begone I By heaven, you tempt me to add one more to the list of 
crimes with which you have helped to load my soul. Think you, the hand that stayed 

not for the prayers and tears of an old man the memory haunts me, it is fearful ! 

And you urged me to it ! you have brought me to this ! Yes, you^ you, have made 
me what I am ! " 

Wb voice rose almost to a scream, and his fury was terrible, but his companion 
neither moved nor spoke. 

"Begone!" he shouted; ^begone I say I — ox die!^^ «[A\v!b ^^oaauiSQs^ ^^^^^ 
from Ida belt, and levelled it, still the other did not mt$^«)\^'QX\A «^^\csbl^^kc^- 
" Yoa dare not, Lord of Moreton ; you knoiv ^ou ^ax« x^^ 


The Earrs whole frame trembled with pasaioo, his ejes shot fin, he ood»d the 
pistol, and Dut a single movement of his finger was wanting to stretch his enemj dead 
at his feet Bat that strange man seemed to possess so oomjdete and mTsterions 
an influence over him, that his hand refused to obey the impolse'of his will; and jet 
he stood without a word, only fixing his piercing eyes upon him, and as he lowered 
the pistol with a bewildered stare, as though his senses were forsaking him, he burst 
into a diabolical laugh of triumph and contempt " Take it I " exclaimed the Eirl, 
wildly, *' lest you tempt me too far while revenge is within my reach ! " He flnqg 
the pistol towards him, it struck him on the temple, he fell lifeless to the gromid. 

It was early morning when Charles found himself at the a{^Qinted pbes ef 
meeting with his rival, he was first on the spot, but had not waited loog when a maai 
entirely enveloped in a great cloak, and his hat slouched over his face, appeared be&n 
him. It was the exact dress and figure of his father's messenger, who had so 
unaccountably come to his assistance in his escape firom Encombe Hall, reoocded vl 
the preceding pages of our story; and even when the cloak was thrown oS, and the 
hat removed, displaying the well-known features of his rival, he ooold not divest 
himself of the idea, improbable as it was, that the dark messenger and the Earl ti 
Moretou were one and the same person. And his suspicions were indeed oorrect, ftr 
in the short conversation which ensued, the Earl allowed, that being in disguise fir 
some purpose of bis own, he had had formerly the opportunity of serving his rivd. 
And now, sword in hand, they stood opposite each other, when an unlooked-for inter- 
ruption took place. The man whom Lord Moreton believed he had killed thefaight 
before suddenly made his appearance, and separating .the combatants, himself on- 
fronted the Earl, apparently much excited. 

" Yes, young man,'' he said to Charles, " it is your father's murder yoa would 
revenge, and it were but just that his murderer should perish by your hand, but I 
owe him too deep a debt to allow that to be; none but my hand must pay it Lord 
Moreton," he continued, ** 1 charge you here in the presence of his son with the 
murder of Francis Shirly. Yes, for fifteen months I have kept your secret, and would 
have kept it longer, but a blow," and he lifted his cap as he spoke, and pushuig 
aside the clus^ng hair, shewed a deep scar on his forehead: ''a Mow, my lord, 
sometimes will sink deeper than the 8urfa(;e it enters the (heart, and there nnkks, 
and leads to revenge; you struck me last night, this morning I am revenged. When 
is your boasted courage now ? Before the only man on earth who knovB his IobI 
secret the noble Earl of Moreton turns coward I But I have done with yon now; 
farewell, my friend," his lip curled with ine&ble disdain as he repeated, **mjjiimi! 
— ^here is a parting token from Hugh Anderson," as he spoke he codly levelled fais 
pistol, and Lord Moreton, who had stood as if paralyzed with horrer wifthoot 000 
attempt to escape the fatal aim of his betrayer, fell to the ground as the report -eBhoid 
through the wood. '* Here," continued the assassin with perfect composure, h^niiiflg 
the aatomBiifid joung man a packet, ^^\iqx« «i« «am&^-^nE%\\a:^\Mtsisk.^^g^»ij^^iJBg 
to secan, take them, regain yo\it pto^gect^, «(A ^Q\iiQ)\> 'us:^»> l^ySo]^ Vs^^^^a^\hii«b 


oonld commit mtuder would not hesitate to deceive, Morder,** he repeated fllowly, 
gasing on the dead bod j of the Earl, ** I suppose they would call that murder, / caU 
it justice; but I must flj for it," and turning into the thicket he was soon out of 

It was the 29th of May, 1666, and all England was gaiety and mirth; but a far 
diflforent scene claims our attention. Through the open windows of a small but 
elegantly furnished room in Lady Moreton's house, at Interlachen, the same sun which 
lighted up the festive scene in merry England was streaming its dusty beams on a 
mournful group, kneeling round the dying-bed of a young and lovely girl. How 
beautiful she was, though the light of her eyes was unnatural, and the colour in her 
cheeks but as the radiance of the setting sun; and o'er her too surely bung the angel 
of death restrained only from inflicting his dart— oh, tell me not it was impossible— 
by the mighty strength of her love, for Emily would not die till she had seen Ofaarlai, 
and all her prayer was to see once more him she had loved so welL Oh, how he had 
wronged her ; or, rather, how cruelly had he been deceived. In what way it is hardly 
needful to tell our intelligent readers; the colouring tricks of love are too well known 
to render It necessary to explain how Lord Moreton had intercepted a letter addressed 
to his rival, and by a little skilful forgery adapted it to his own villainous parposoi 
or how he had by aceideut obtained possession of her rmg; suffice it to say, she had 
never been false to him even in a thought, and that this had been explained to him 
by the indefatigable Florence, who, touched to the heart by her friend's distress, had 
succeeded in finding him out, and bade him come and repair his error ere it was yet 

"See how the sun shines,'* whispered Eveline to her sister; "Is it not like the 
«old smile of the world as gay when we are in joy as in grief/ 

The invalid's eyes were closed but she heard the words, and a heavenly 8m3e 
illumined her palid features as she murmured, " Or, rather, darling, is it not like the 
pure light of faith which should shine ever brightly in the darkest night of our souls.** 

And now fiiintly, and still more faintly she drew her breath, her eyes closed 
elowly, the brilliant colour fiided from her cheeks, and lefb them white as marble, her 
long dark hair fell stiff and lank over her shoulders, contrasting with the snowy 
drapery of the bed; the dew of death was already on her brow, the watchers thought 
that all was over — they listened, but her gentle breathing was no longer heard. 
Suddenly she started up, her eyes unclosed, the life-blood rushed back once more, her 
eheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled, she sat upright and listened eagerly. " It is hie 
etep ! One moment more of life I Ob, God, I pray but for one little moment more 1" 
With dasped hands and streaming eyes she sent up her passionate appeal to Heaven. 
JSer quick ear had detected the sound of footsteps, unheard by the others, but they 
now became audible to all. They ascended the stairs — ^paused for a moment at 
the door, it opened— and he entered. " My God, 1 \}[i»xi&L >i3ii«^]^ tssosxosqbe^^^e)^ ^c$vfi% 
^ri, aB bar bead bud on that loved breast, Vvec YveiA c^iejBi^ Y[i\nft^^te^M^^**^^ ^i^ 
M^ebSd iato bar but sleep. 


When first he came and looked on the wreck his distrust had made he had fallen 
on his knees beside her, and whispered the simple words: ** Forgive me; * he knelt 
there still, bat he spoke not agun, the grief that bowed his heart was too mighty 
for words. Now all was over ; she was at peace; bat h o l et us draw a veil o?er 
his feelings; sorrow, snch as his, is too sacred for description. 

And thoa, proad Earl of Moreton I Will this utter desolation of the heart of a 
fellow-being—this utter ruin of his happiness, be the least of the crimes laid to thy 

• * * •« **0* 

A Mr. Henry Maitland had been imprisoned during the late war, and the last 
news I could obtain of Florence Shirly was, that a certain " true and loyal gentleman" 
had redeemed his pledge to her by a free pardon of the same, but it appears that he 
■did not sufficiently appreciate the blessing of liberty, for no sooner was he free from 
the bolts and bars of a dungeon than he hastened to fetter himself with the still 
stronger bonds of matrimony. 




The sun was just setting as a party of gipsies approached the small Tillage of 
Wycherley. They had been travelling all day, and therefore pitched their camp at 
rather an earlier hour than usual. They consisted of the chief of the tribe, by name 
lUlph Stanley, his wife, their son Jeffrey, and a little girl of six years old. Afler 
partaking of their evening meal, they all retired to rest, with the ezception of Bal]^ 
and his son, who remained talking over their intended proceedings, and it was late be- 
fore their long and animated discourse allowed them to betake themselTes to rest* 
They had determined to stay where they were the whole of the ensuing day, to take 
advantage of any windfall that might occur. 

It happened that the next day was one of peculiar rejoicing at Wycherley Park, 
it being the anniversary of the day on which the only daughter of the Lord of the 
Manor, Sir Henry Eveleyn, had been bom five years before. There was also to be a 
general merry-making amongst the yillagers, and a dinner at which Isabella Eveleyn 
was to preside. As the heat of the day subsided, it was proposed that the company 
should go out and ramble through the pleasure grounds and woods, and this pro- 
posal being readily agreed to, in a short time they were all dispersed in different 
directions. Isabella, being a very thoughtful child, tor whom solitude had more 
cbaims tban it nsaally has for chWdren oi Viet a|.«^ \«B>.\id«c«d. on alone, till her atten- 
tioa was attracisd by a woman who was 8mgvTi?,^«r^ s^^SiVj. Ka «&^\i^ \vts««9«t^^ 
Mheobaened tb$ child, ahe ceased singing, aa^^V^^^^^'^*'^**^^ '"^^ 


said, ^good moming fje, mj little lady." Isabella acknowledged the greetiiig, and 
asked her to show her the waj to the Grange » as she knew it very imperfectly. This 
the gipsy promised to do, and taking her by the hand, which Isabella, with the un- 
suspecting frankness of her age, had offered her guide, she led her away by a paUi 
which, overgrown with brushwood, and darkly shaded by the overhanging oaks, 
seemed as though it was rarely frequented by anything but the badger or the prowl- 
ing fox. 

After continuing this route, which appeared familiar to the gipsy, for some time, 
they suddenly emerged &om the wood, and came upon the spot, where were pitched 
the two or three tents which formed the gipsies' camp. Ralph was smoking, 
Jeffrey was feeding the fire, and the child playing on the grass; but no sooner had 
Balph perceived his wife and her young companion, than he started up hastily, and 
commenced speaking to her in the jargon of their tribe, apparently questioning her as 
to the child who accompanied her, and receiving her replies with great attention. 
The result of their conversation was to change all their previous plans, and Balph 
immediately began to strike the tents and to make preparations for instantly leaving 
the place on which they had fixed as their resting place, and in less than half-an-hour 
they did so. 

As it grew late the party at the park became anxious for Isabella's safety. Sir 
Heniy sent about servants in every direction, and all the visitors proffered their 
services, as she was much beloved by all. The search was continued the whole of the 
day, and great was the grief of the unhappy parent. Years passed over, and Isabella 
was now only spoken of as a child, who had been taken away from a world of misery 
to one of everlasting happiness, by the mysterious workings of Providence. 

Twelve years after this, Edward Eveleyn, who was just twenty, and had grown 
a handsome young man, was invited by a great friend of his father, to spend the 
shooting season at his seat in Warwickshire. Being a great lover of this very sen- 
sible amusement, he accepted the invitation with pleasure, and many were the pleasant 
days he spent with his hospitable firiend. Betuming alone one evening with his gun 
in his hand, he observed a very pretty girl leaning against a tree, so lost in thought 
that she did not perceive him approaching. The reader will not be surprised, con- 
sidering our hero's susceptible age, to hear that he gazed at the sylvan beauty for a 
long time in silent admiration, not wishing to disturb her reverie, or that afterwards, 
under the pretence of asking the way to the neighbouring village, he found an 
opportunity of addressing her — " 1 say, lassie, how far is the village from here? " 
Starting at his words, she answered in a hesitating manner that she was a stranger 
and had lost her way in endeavouring to escape firom some people who had ill-used, 
her. ** Where are they? " eagerly inquired Edward, for the idea of a woman bdng 
ill-treated always excited his anger. *' I can't tell — I left them this moming : but ah ! 
I have made poor Jeffrey unhappy — still, I think, he cannot be sorry that I am out of 
reach of these cruel people. He would not foUow that wicked sort of life, if he could 
have his own way." A sudden thought struck. EiA:^«x^«ni\i«Kra^H^^«ft^^^ '^'^ 
knew that when bia sister had so myBtfldouB\y dAB«^v»un!\> «* '^m!^ ^ 5g^j»sR/^M*^ 
bem ia tbeimm»d2atamgltj[^ ^ 



decamped. Now the few words the girl had nttered led him to the oonchisioa that 
her late companions were of the same class, and might thej not be the same partf , 
and might not the fiur stranger be his own sister ? With this idea, he asked her 
whether they were gipsies from whom she had escaped? ** Yes, kind sir, they were 
They tried to make me believe I was one of their children, bat Jeffiney remembers 
when they stole me." ** Who are yon, and whence did they steal yoa?" inquired 
Edward with agitation. ** I cannot recollect, it is so long ago. Oh ! I wish Jeffirey 
was here, he knows mnoh more abont it than I do,** ''Never mind, my pretty girli 
yoa shall come home with me for to-night, and by to-morrow yoa will have had tiine 
to collect yoor thoughts, and then yoa most tell me all yoa know abont yoorsetf." 

Edward's onrioeity was raised to the highest pitch, and immediately on arriving 
at the Hall he communicated her story to Lord Camworth, at the same time hinting 
at the poedbility that it might be his lost sister, and even if it shoald prove not to be 
80, they ooaM inquire into the case, and possibly be of some service to her. Em krd- 
ahip left it for Edward and his own daughter, Geraldine, to settle where she shoold 
be put. Edward was very absent the whole of the evening, and not even GeraMinelft 
presence, whidi at other times had soch a charm for him, could bring him to him- 
self. He retired early to his room, and as soon as he could next morning he proceeded, 
accompanied by Geraldine, to the cottage in which the gipsy girl had been placed. 
They found she had already gone out, with a person who to all appearance waft a 
gipsy, (Edward immediately conjectured it was JefiErey), bat that she had promised 
to return in time to tell the young gentleman all she knew of herself. Having been 
shewn the direction in which they were gone, Edward and Geraldine turned their 
steps that way, and shortly afterwards observed two figures seated on the grass under 
the shade of a wide-spreading oak. Edward proposed that they should approach 
them near enough to be able to overhear their conversation, but still not so near as to 
interrupt it Geraldine agreed to this, and having found a conveident place, they 
heard a long discourse respectmg the evente of their former life. At length the gipsy 
proposed that they should return to the cottage, adding, that she must be there when 
the young gentleman called, and that Jeffrey must accompany her, as he must gtvi 
all the information he could about her. 

Edward thought it advisable not to let them know that they had not been akm 
and arrived by a different path at the cottage before Jeffrey and his companion made 
their appearance. 

After many general questions, Jeffrey was called apon to oommomcato all ha 
ayuld remember about the girl, which he did in such a manner as not to leave a donbt 
in Edward's mind that the pretty gir] who had interested him so mooh waa his 

Daring this time Lord Camworth, who had been sent for, stood watching evwr 

Ijestnre of Uie girl, and listening to her detached sentences, imagined he saw a 

JSkeoflss to Sir Henry, and some resembUmce to the Isabella who had been the idol 

ofher&tber^B heart In a short time thew^vAe m7«.\«t^^«& «olved^ and by tin 

noited ezotioos of Geraldine and bet bwAJiwc, Tiaai»\\k wjwxWiN, «5^\» ^\!S9ba^ 


him of the nooTeiy of his lost daughter, bnt merely telling him that an affiur of 
great importance required his immediate presence at the HalL As the estates of 
these gentlemen were in the same county, it was not long before Sir Henry arrived, 
particularly as he set off the instant he received the letter. He much wished his host 
to tell him the pressing business for which he had been summoned, but his lordship 
nfused to comply. In the course of the evening, as was generally the case, the 
oonvvraation turned upon Isabella, when suddenly, with a gesture of surprise. Sir 
Henry drew Geraldine aside, and sud in a low voice: '^For Heaven's sake, tell me 
that young lady's name ! " 

An explanation ensued, which ended in the mutual recognition of fiither and 
daughter. They spent the happiest week in their lives at Camworth Hall, and from 
thence returned to Wycherley Park. 

J^&ey, whose natural good sense soon made him aware of the imposubility of 
any of his former hopes being realised, returned to his wandering mode: but the 
warmth with which he was always greeted by Isabella, when his erratory habits 
brought him into the vicinity of the Grange, never failed to call up a gleam of 
pleasure into his tanned features; and it is not unlikely that the consciousness of 
the terms on which he had so long lived with the heiress, gave him a rude sense of 
gratificatioa which acted as a sort of flattering unction to his subsequent disappoint- 



There was a face at the Sunday school that fixed itself i^ponmy memofy. It was 
not regularly beautiful (though the fisatures were by no means bad) but it was pecu- 
liarly expressive. 

Sarah Jacob's path home was the same as mine, and the lane was quite quiet, 
and some way from the village, so I asked her to sit down and tell me what made 
ker always lode so careworn ; she told me the following history :— 

" It will maybe not interest you, nui'm, to hear qi the trouble of us poor folks, 
we live, and work, and sigh, mlently ; you hear nothing of it Why should yon ? How 
aonld 700 help us all, and we all want help— alL This is my twenty-ninth birthday, 
but I have sot been to school more than every Sunday for the last six months, and I 
can hardly read yet The first thing I can remember distinctly was my mother'a 
death. I was the eldest of four. There was a baby only a week old, and my mother 
vnabie to rise from her bed. My father was much given to liquor, and spent his 
earnings almost always as soon as they were paid. I need not say we were badly 13S, 
but my grandmother helped us, and when my mother was well we managsad to ^^ 
not for oor miserable cottage. My graadm.Q^3Moe ina \«^<&djs^ tssS \&si^s»^ ^^ioss^^^^ 
0Mai0 m 0B§ night Udking loudly, and very muicSiikm\0»!»i(Adu '^^ft ^taco^ 'vb^ '^^"^ 
iwtf,«nfjD«uJ/0taiuiedjaiej butitwMii(Aiux^ VwaB*^**^** 


oonld help me, but I and my little brothers hid ourselves behind the bed in my mother^ 
room. She was verj ill ; as I croached down I coold hear her groaning pitifollyi 
and praying at ereiy breath. 

Presently my grandmother went into the kitchen, and reproached my &ther fior 
making sach a noise, when he knew my mother was so ilL He was too drank to 
listen, and my grandmother began then to abuse his companion, who, tdling my fiither 
he would not stay in his house to be bullied by a woman, got up and went away. At 
this my £Either, loading my grandmother with abuse, swore he would pmiish her, and 
seizing the poker in his drunken rage, beat her sererely. 

She ran screaming to my mother^s room, and sat down beside her, crying as he 

valued my jnother's life, not to strike her agun. My £Either took no notice, and went 

on beating her unmercifully. Some of the ill-umed blows reached my mother. I 

crept upon the bed with an oppressive feeling of terror, which I recollect to this 

moment. My mother raised herself to an upright position, she seized my waist and 

grasped it convulsively — her eyes staring wildly. At that moment my father strode 

my grandmother with such violence upon her head that she fell soiseless on th« 

ground, and the drunken man reeled staggering from the room, and left the hooN 

My mother sank bac& heavily. All this was the work of a moment, and as frah 

upon my memory, as if it were yesterday, though I was then only seven years old. 

My mother's grasp became painful to me after the immediate excitement was over. 

I begged her to let me go. I tried to loosen her fingers — they were as firm as iron. 

I screamed — it made no impression; at last I found she was dead. Her dead haod 

held me firmly, and I must have screamed for some hours before my little brothen 

could have courage enough to run to the nearest cottage and ask one of the neighboon 

to come. My grandmother recovered slowly from the ill-usage she had received, and 

when my father returned sober, he was very much overcome by the sight of what he 

had done. He had not much time to grieve, however, for the police had been UM of 

the afiEair. So he took me and my two brothers, of five and six years old, to tramp 

about the country with him selling tapes and thread, in reality begging, while the 

baby was left with my grandmother by her particular request From my seventh 

year, until I was thirteen, we travelled about the country. By begging, selling small 

wares, and stealing, my &ther contrived to get enough money together to buy a cart 

and donkey, with which we joined a company of gipsies. We were then very happy. 

The women were very kind to us, they gave us enough to eat, and I had not then any 

trouble with my brothers. My brother John learned to break open hen-roosts, and 

became very expert and useful to the gipsies. One day my father helped to rob a 

house. They stole a good deal of money and plate, and we immediately decamped 

from the neighbourhood. We were traced, however, and my father and several others 

were taken up and sentenced to be transported. He had given me several pounds to 

keep for him, with which I and my brothers, being now left to our own resources, 

began onr journey to where my grandmotVLeT \vie^. Qti qmt ^ra:j ^« fell in with some 

cf oar gang, wiioperauaded John to go witii \\icai,\wiX. ^Q&«^«si^\ loosi^ ^sw -m^i 


could earn a Uitle moDoy by doing errands with the donkey and cart, and I had a 
little money that my father gave me. My sister was then six years old, and had 
thriven well with my grandmother, who was very kind to all of ns. 

When I was nineteen, I took a place at a farmer's near, as maid of all work. I 
had a hard life of it, and was treated as if I was not of the same make as my mistress. 
I was ap early and down late. Bat I had borne mnch more than this, and I knew 
I mnst learn here before I took a better place. So I worked on, firom day to day, 
and year to year, for five long years, saving whatever I conld. 

Then well I may as well tell ye, for its over now and gone, and I remember 

it as if it was written in a book, and the book closed and laid away for ever. Then 
came Charles, my master's son, and was comely and well spoken, bat God knows no 
one had less idea than I that he liked me; bat I fonnd it ont one day^ and told him 
that it was not for him to marry each a one as me, his father's servant; bat he told 
me there was no one that he liked so well, and begged me to marry him. 

So I said I would, and we fixed the time for the wedding to be the next spring. 

My sister was now old enough to go out to place, and a lady in the neighbourhood 
had promised to take her, and as it was a good place, my grandmother made her take 
it, and sent for me to come and stay the winter with her, as she was very rheumatic. 

So I left my place and came to live with her. Charles often came to see me 
and he used to tell me how sad he was without me, and how he never could love any 
other than me ; and I believed him, for I was very fond of him.; 

My sister did not know I was going to be married, for she was away, and I was 
no scholar, and could not write to her ; and she one day wrote to say her mistress 
was very unkind to her, and the next she came with her box, for her mistress had 
sent her away. 

Charles had come to see me that day, and when she came in looking so bonny^ 
and told her story so sadly, he siud he thought he'd never seen so pretty a girL It 
pleased me to hear him say so, for I thought so too. 

Charles came oftener now, and he talked much to me and much to her, bat he 
did not talk to me as he used to do. But I loved him too much to doubt of him for 
a moment, and the day went by and I was very happy. 

One day on coming down the stairs I heard Susan and Charles talking belowy 
and I thought I would even listen to what they said, just for a bit of fun. Charles 
0iud— .<' Susan, I was once in love with an old and ugly woman, and now I cannot see 
what I ever liked in her; however, I promised to marry her. Now I see a young 
girl and all that makes me love her. What shall I do ?** 

Susan never thought for a moment it was me, she did not think me old and ugly 
ipaybe I was not then — and she sud laughing — " Why, tell her you have changed 
your mind, or show her so by your manner, and she'll not wiah tA xaacc^ i^ N^ite:»c-^ 
trust her.** 

**And will you marry me t^en, Susaa?** 


I only waited to hmr Sana's snrprifled aoqnieeoflooa, and tiiea I went to my 
fDom. I did not erj — I did not fiunt ; bat &om that moment to this I fait no mors 
affection for Charles than as if, as I said before, his whole ooortship had been a stoiy 
written in a book, and laid aside for ever. My manner showed him how ba stood. I 
said no more to him on the subject 

Charles and Sosan have that high fium npon the hill, they are well to do in the 
world, and I often go to see Sosan. Sometimes I think she is nnhappy, bat she does 
not wish me to know it, and I never ask. 

I took a situation as dairy-maid, with good wages, for three years after, and with 
my former savings have a little money of my own. 

My grandmother sent for me last year to live with her, as Joseidi was aboot to 
leave her to marry and work on my old master^s fium as chief laboorer. He was 
always a good lad and kind to me, and will make a good husband. I shall not go 
ever to service again, for my grandmother is too old to be left, and I hope at sone 
fdtnre time to be able to keep a school fiur young girls, before they go oat to servios. 
I can teadi sewing, and I hope sometnnes to be able to teach reading and wiitbg. 
The village wants a day school very mnch, and anything that will keep girls oat of 
misehief and teach a moral principle early, is of untold use^ as I know by ezparienos.* 

There poor Sarah ended her story , still intent after soofa a disappointed Ills as 
being useful to others. I quite agree with her that a day school is very mnch wanted 
in our village, and will aid her to the utmost in establishing snch a one as ahe wt» 
has had the best opportunity of knowing, judges to be the most nsefuL Entirety 
ignorant of moral restraints, girls are sent at a very early age, and entirely defines- 
less to be the drudge of a hard mistress, who consider them generally in no othff 
light than that of a machine for executing a certain dafly routine of work. Can we 
wonder then that when their abilities ruse them above ihatf they become dishonest, 
or disrespectable? Do not mistake the class of hard mistresses of whom I give this 
description. It is to fiirmers' wives that I particularly allude. Women who^ aspiring 
to the title of ''a lady,** uDConsciously degrade themselves below tha very servants 
whom they abuse. Far be it from me to accuse a real *' lady," fbr I know tliat wilk 
their rank comes a better education, and with their education mora humanity. 

No village ought to be without its school for instilling daily, and from the sariiat 
ages, a moral principle, which, unless inculcated then, is never inonleated at all, 


l-r£ra 1101— a Continent. 
2— Deer rob 500 fish— a County. 
3— Ay, Bob, 1000— a City. 
4—100 Come— a County. 
5^1000 ranked— a Comity. 


7— Eh, 1001 harpa-A Coontgr. 

8— Hers be 501— Islands. 

9— Oh, 500 refer— a Coonfy. 
10—5 tiaras — a County. 
W— ^^A. Wa uear her— « Goonty. 

^—^i don't hjuig—« Goonty. \ 1^— 1&aft\^V'B8^fr-«.^wste\. 



FART in, 
[Ckmtinaed from Page 115.] 

Be related his acquaintance with my adopted £fither, and said they had been 
gnat friends until within a few years of his marriage, when he saw Bernard in the 
enjoyment of a large fortune and he was too poor to accomplish his union with 
£dith Winton, then he envied and hated him; at length Keville married. This 
event took place about a twelvemonth before Bernard's departure for Vienna. 

As Bernard's friend, Keville had frequently visited at the manor, but whilst 
appearing the confidant of the young man, was, in a reality, a spy upon all his 
aotioos, which he reported to his father. 

Shortly after Bernard's departure Neville became a father. How strange that 
the right of that innocent being should have suggested the guilty plan he carried out 
only too well. Keville had attended old Langworth during a short illness, which 
had seized him during his son's absence, and then he had discovered the secret of 
the ohest, which my adopted father had mentioned in his manuscript: a paper found 
b it had greatly excited his curiosity, but he kept the knowledge he had thus 
obtained secret until he could turn it to his own advantage. 

WiBiam Gerard, young Bernard's cousin, was also a friend of NeviUe's, but on 
Us fekoni to the country he concealed from him the engagement between Bernard 
tod Alice, as he knew that Gerard was deeply in love with the latter, and he wished 
ts iiMNase tiie passion, as he envied Bernard the increase of fortune he would obtain 
tm kis udon with Ahce. Gerard went often to see her, and as Bernard's ooiuin she 
neeived him kindly. At length he declared his love, and then confiding in his 
lionoor, she told him of her secret engagement with Bernard. He left her, and 
nsolved to see her no more since he could not conquer his love; but he ooold not 
tear himself frem the spot where she dwelt, and night after night he would pace 
Mate her window, keeping lonely watch over her he loved. 

About this time the wife of Keville being seiaed with a dangeroos illness, ohai^ 
tf air was reoommended for her recovery, and she went to spend a few weeks with 
her frieDds m a distant ooantry* Her husband persuaded her to leave her child 
with Alice, who with joy undertook the care of it; with many tears the mother 
sonsented, for her husband's will was law. After leaving his wifo with her friends 
Nevyje returned, pleading urgent business. And what was it?— To tyrannize over 
•a old man, and rob a child of his inheritance ! Neville, by eonfessing his know- 
ledge ef the mysterious chest, irightened the old man into signing a new will 
Baking him his heir and disinheriting Bernard. Neville then wrote a letter te the 
jouth in his father's name, forbidding his union with Alice, as their aqgagement 
bad come te his knowledge. In reality the father looked on their union with pleMura^ 
as the Isige ftrtune Aliee was possessed of would insJL«u'^\a>^l«iQi^Vst \si&\RMk 
MsnUs mad9 the old man believe that Bernard waa ^Q^iVai(^\iia&. «a^ ^mi^)^s^ 
mhuMOuaHYmoM, 6bI ho could xiotpuaio«uaA^umV»t«Mi2^>K^ 


was painful to him, and it was no lon^r hit property that the youth was bjnring; 
therefore, the old man was much astonished when Bernard appeared before him. 
Bat the traitor had not yet accomplished his vile porpoee. He told William Gerard 
that Alice wonla see him at a certain hour; (the hoar in which Neville knew thik 
Bernard would arrive.) 

/ knew what followed, with a violent efibrt I restrained myself until I should 
have heard all, for the truth was breaking upon me, and I felt my brain must ton. 
He continued and told how, the next morning, his child and Bernard had disappeared, 
and Alice was found murdered, and the act of Gerard on findmg her he loved thai | 
taken from him. Oh I that Bernard had looked one moment more on the paper I 
which contained the account of his father's murder, then had he seen whoae child 
he had taken to his heart, and / had not been, what now I am, a murderer! 

Neville went on, he described the agony of his wife in thus being deprived of 
her child: and how after wearing on a heart-sick, hopeless life for six long yoHS, 
without finding balm for her sorrows in the smiles of another babe, or that repose In 
the grave, for which in her first grief she prayed — she was at length released firom 
her sorrows, but left in the cold world all that would have made life again sweet to 
her; Leila whose entrance into life was the signal for her mother's departoretoa 
happier world. 

The night after Bernard's return, Neville introduced into the manor a man of 
the name of Johnson, whom he had bribed to murder old Langworth, that he might 
the sooner enter into the enjoyment of his inheritance. That night was Langworth's 
last The discoveries of the following morning pointed at Bernard as the author 
of the dreadful deed, and all tended to make his guilt evident; but he was inaoomL 

Neville related his meeting with a young man in the arbour with Leila, and tin 
strange feelings which overpowered him on beholding him; ha said Leila called hhn 
" Bernard Winton," why were those names together? He asked if / had seen him. 
I answered not; I would hear all before I spoke. He also continued silent "The 
chest" I murmured, ^* what of that ?" The silence broken, he went on. " It oontaised 
some human bones enveloped in a cloth of crimson velvet, with a packet ci letters, 
and a paper stating that they were the mortal remains of Helen WinUm, wile of 
Bernard Langworth." It was the name of Winton which had struck Neville on 
seeing this, as it had been the maiden name of his wife, Edith Winton, of whom 
Helen was the elder sister. She had married early, and on the birth of her ohDd 
travelled with her husband ; she never returned to England ; he murdered her &r 
her attachment to Edward Granville^ to whom she had been engaged before hir 
marriage with Langworth. He had discovered some letters from him, which she 
still had kept, and his jealousy was too great to be borne in vain. She had not 
eorresponded with hun, or seen him, since her marriage. He believed her not, and, 
with his own hands murdered, her, he too deeply loved. On his retam to TgngiMui, 
he said she bad died, and been bnnod t^TQa^— exAYA "wvaV^^^Uvr^d. The chest was 
bj bJB deair0f (expressed on my first me^viit^ ^cD&wtL tsc^ ^ijuwxsnsq ^ ifiia «csK&tB^£\ 
Imded with imn. " And Gnawitter 1 aiiisftd, ** ^^a^X. \w»aaa ^XsanV ^^Vb««. 


not ; Langworth knew he neyer had her heartf but that she was the most Cuthfol of 
wives is beyond a doobt. Her child, Bernard, had his mother's smile and yoioe, his 
vnrj word fell as a corse on his Other's heart ; he hated the boy for the recollections 
the sight of him awakened: yet at the same time he felt a strange affection for him 
as I baoiDf although he never showed it. But my boy," continned Neville, his voice, 
growing fainter, ** my boy, how he should have been loved and cherished, I feel my 
life ebbing fast away; thongh it is hard to die alone, and among strangers, without a 
child to receive my dying breath. Yet, I deserve my fate ; and Heaven have mercy 
OD my murderer. Tell me, is there absolution for such as I ?" 

Oh I agony — oh! remorse— oh! grief too heavy to be endured— he died! but 
not e^er I had confessed myself his murderer; and, oh I God— <!ould it be true? — his 
Bon! Life was ebbing fast — ^he tried to utter a few words, but could not speak, were 
they of pardon? I could not tell; his gestures were violent as if one dying in 
agony— and this was my revenge ! 

Father! could I exist longer after this? To every roof that sheltered me I 
should bring a curse. 

My cries were heard as I accused myself of the murder, and called on my 

faiOier too late for pardon. I will not stay to relate how they passed a verdict of 

insanity upon me, and sent me to bedlam, where, in my keeper, I recognised 

Johnson, the murderer of old Langworth and my guide to the manor; neither vrill 

I panse to relate the particuhirs of my escape from that den of horrors. 

I write this on the grave of my adopted father; no one approaches this lonely 
q[N>t; all aroimd me is peaceful; I am the only unquiet spuit here. I will live Uq 
longer— why have I lived so long ? Why was I bom ? what is my place in this world ? 
1 go to another. Is it a better, (a worse it cannot be,) in which I shall next open 
my eyes? Father, farewell, pray for the repose of the guilty soul of thy unhappy 

Geoboe Neyille. 

When the morning's light streamed through the stained glass windows of the 
church upon the hill, it revealed the kneeling figure of a priest before the altar, and 
when at evening the red beams of the setting sun shone once more through those 
same windows, they looked still upon that immoveable and Ufeless fonn. For 
Edward GnmviUe has leamt the fiite of his early love, and they are now re-united 
in Heaven. 



Cf)e )3o9*0 ICament tot ti|e ^loteets, 

MThj f^TMres mj son ?" the mother oriad, 
For the bloomiog chorab bj her ride 
Had cast awaj hie favoarite toy, 
And oare had eeized the merry bqjr. 

" Mother, r?e been to that garden fair, 
'Mid the flow're to 1^7 in the immy air, 
But alaa ! I feel eo sad and lone. 
For the flow're, oh, mother, the flowers are gone ! 
Vainlj I Bought, in each well-known place, 
Those forms rich in beaatj, perfume and grace I 
Then to the breeze their sweet names I aigh'd, 
Sad echo in accents of grief replied. 

The bee flew in anger firom nect'rine to peach, 
And sipped of each frait his frail wing could reach, 
Bat loodlj his mormurs complained to the wind. 
That each nectar as theirs he coold nowhere find ! 
A bntterfly bright, was wont to repooe 
At eve on the breast of a damask rose; 
That beantifnl creature I saw to-day. 
Lifeless and dim on the cold wet clay ! 

I fear Fm a cruel and heartless boy! 
Often have I, in a moment of joy, 
Plucked from the garden the bud most sweet, 
tSoon to lie withered and dead at my foet ! 
Oh, I weep to think what Fd give to-day 
For the blossoms thus idly thrown away !" 

The pitying mother fondly pressed 

The youthful mourner to her breast: 

** Weep not,** she cried, '* for soon sweet spring 

All fiur things in her train wiU bring; 

Then you may bind each drooping form. 

And shidd the frail ones from the storm. 

But never, oh, my child, forget 

The cause of this first, deep regret! 

Remorse to tear the heart has pow'r 

For cruelty, e*en to a flowV I 

But when departed friends we mourn, 

Kever, oh never, to return ! 

Could yon a peacetuV momea^ ^sxiow^ 

If you had cauaed VbaVt learo \« ^^^"^ 

Oh, let tlus inftuenoe loiox Tmix^^ 


To be to every creatare kind I 
For oft a look, a soornfal word, 
Can pierce the aool, like two edg'd sword. 
Distmst, the constant heart offond— > 
Neglect, the fiuthfiil bosom rend : 
What woe a lost one to deplore, 
Whose worth was never felt befcml 
To wring the hands, and vainly pray— 
Woold he were here, but for a day ! 



Figlia, la madre disss, 
Gnardati dair Amore; 

£ cmdo, h traditore, — 
Che vnoi saper di p\^ ? 
Kon fargli mai sperare 

D'entrare nel tno petto; 

Cb^ chi gli di^ ricetto 
Sempre tradito fa. 

CoUa Boa benda al ciglio 

£ nn bel fancinllo, k vero: 
Ma sempre i menzognero ; 
Ma sempre tmdiii. 
Semplice ta se fidi 
Ta perderai la pace, 
K^ mai ritomeri. 

Ma vedo: gii sei stanoa 
Del mio parlar pradente; 
Gii volgi nella mente 
U qoando, il come, e il chL 

Odimi: i detti miei 
Gii sai se son sinoeri ; 

£ se son fills! o veri 



While musing one morning in May, 

On faces so sweetly divine, 
I was roused by a Heavenly lay, 

In accents so pore and sublime : 
The little birds start firom their bow'rs — 

On high the lark lists to the song, 
And then irresistably low'ra 

To the rest of the feathery throng. 

The hollow day echoed aroand. 

The notes of that beautiful strain. 
And startled &wns gracefully bound. 

To fly to their deep glens again: 
Then even the sweetest of flowers— 

The lilies and soft damask rose. 
All droopingly slumbering for hours, 

Are roused from their floral repose. 

No ripple the silver lake moves — 

The rivulets cease in their course, 
While breathless the wondering groves 

Enchantingly echo the verse: 
Oh steal not sweet music away— > 

Tis harmony's self that I hear. 
Let me dream that bright blushing May 

Breathes on me the whole of the year. 


A mother sat beside her boy, 

And watched his troubled sleep; 
Alas ! he was her only joy. 

She had known sorrows deep. 
Oh ! mother see what music rare 

Is sounding round my bed? 
Tell me what are those forms 

Which flutter past my head ? 

I hear no sounds, my darling child, 
I see no figures bright ; 

Thy sickness makes thy fancy wild- 
Brings visions to thy sight 

Oh ! listen now, they bid me come. 
And softly me they tell— 

My coarse o^er ear\ii Vo-da^ \ib& ros^, 
Ob, mother, hsz l\i«a i^«W\ 











English Verse. 

Shipwrw!h-^Thd hero, or heroine, landed on a desolate island or coast, and to 

meet with some adventure. 

A Thistle. 

******* ^ ^^ » ^ ^ ^ » ^ ^ ^ .^^ ^ ^y. , ^,^— ^ ^-^ ^ -^j-^-^j-^-^j^j^^^^^^^,^^. ^ ^ ^ 

®f)e ¥f)antom Sb¥v* 
Prize Paper, No, V, 

The ugnal's given, the anchor's weighed,. 

The last adiens to all were made, 

With load hnrrahs and jovial shoat, 

The vessel was from port ^annch'd oat, 

Boand for the sonnj land of Spain. 

Bat &ted ne'er to see again 

Its myrtle groves and danghters fair, 

For whom the crew woald peril dare 

Bat for a glance of their bright eyes; 

Incentive strong to high emprise ! 

They're off! the land recedes from view^ 

Above them is the heav'n of bine, 

Reminding, by its frunter hne. 

Of thehr own skies of aznre tme. 

The sea all round, the sky above, 

Gonzalvo dreams of nought save love^ 

He sits upon the open deck. 

His arm around his Wd one's neck. 

Who watches them with jealous eye^ 

They're ev'ry actkn to descry? 

Tis Bodrigue Nsrvez, the first mate, 

Victim fitxm youth <^ adveiM bte, 

Bat noir grown ealloas, banh, 3«l ivfi^ \ft i2^ 


Amelia holds, alas, his heatt in thraU. 

Alas, for GoozalTe's peace, be loves, 

And er'ry act his passion proves. 

In Bodrigne has Gooaalye a rival found, 

And in his heart these words have made a woond. 

Amelia's love he does not donbt. 

Bat restless tnms his thooghts aboat, 

To find a waj to keep him off; 

And ever when he's near doth scoff, 

And tell him -of the happj lot 

Of him who has no mistress got. 

To keep him ohain'd in dnranoe vile, 

At mercy of her frown or smile. 

Bodrigo hears, bat little heeds. 

His heart with hidden angoish bleeds. 

Again his hopes are cross'd by Fate, 

For now be finds, alas I too late. 

That she he sooght to woo and win, 

Is now anothers, and within 

His heart there boms a fierce desire 

For dark revenge, to drown the fire 

Of love Amelia lighted there. 

He tries to hate the happy pair, 

Bat for one only can this passion feel. 

The woond his rival gave can never heel ; 

He 'gainst Gonzalvo ev'iy passion steals, 

Bat, for Amelia, only hve he feels. 

The vessel makes no way, the tide 's imfair, 

Ko gentle breeze e'br cods the heated air. 

It is the third day from theur settfaig oat, 

The captain sickens, and withoat a doabt 

Will die, anle8»a change of weather come 

With firesh'ning gales to speed them towards their home. 

It is the fifth day, and he breathes no more. 

Above the ship on languid wings there soar 

Dark birds of prey, as to the briny deep 

They lower him who sleepeUi his last sleep. 

The breeze now freshens, on the seventh day 

The sails are filled ; the streamers floating gay. 

Which lately pendant from the mast-head hung. 

" All hands aloft ! " is now right loadly song. 

"Fnrlev'ry sail, a storm will soon be here;" 

'^ See to ihe larboard. Ibaraa^^mn^ <^q\A% vv'^«aV 

Soon thondm'a row ia Yi«ttd, tsA w«t\«»^. 


The clouds in folds of inky blackness spread; 
Gonzalvo hastens to Amelia*s side. 
In danger he will not desert his bride. 
Bodrigo nears, and whispers in his ear — 
" Amid this peril mj confession hear : 
I hate yon, yon have cross'd me in my love : 

And now my hatred ev'ry act shall prove. 
Amelia still — aye, frown not — shall be mine, 
And happiness shall yet aronnd me shine. 
When sinks the vessel (for a leak I 've made), 
Amelia sav'd shall be, and by my aid; 
For like a shark I swim, and by my arm 
1 11 save her from the waves, and evVy harm. 
Then yon shall perish, mark me, then yoa'll die, 
Bnt live to see me gain the victory ! " 
He spoke and left him. Gonzalve was prepared 
To save himself and her, for nought he cared 
That Bodrigue threaten'd, vain his idle boast, 
Gonzalve will save her, or himself be lost. 
The wind now rises to a hurricane. 
Land hove in sight, the shore they may not gain. 
Fast pours the rain, the sea runs mountains high. 
Must they then perish, and with land so nigh? 
A wave sweeps o'er the deck, and in its course 
Sweeps many to the grave, and with its hoarse 
And loud discordant murmur drowns the cry 
Of their last anguish and death agony. 
Now see approach a wave of greater force, 
Bearing along in fearfnl rapid course 
The splinter'd timbers of the wreck, 
And hurls them fiercely on the deck. 
Gronzalvo seized the scattered planks around, 
And with thick ropes the timbers strongly bonnd. 
To the frail raft thus form'd he must confide, 
What most he loves in life, his promised bride ; 
With ropes he binds her to the raft. 
" What, dare the deep in such a craft ! ^ 
The seamen cry, ** Oh ! rash and daring man. 
Try not the venture; save her ne'er you can I" 
He heeds them not; Amelia safely bound, 
Gonzalvo casts one anxious glance around — 
Then by her side he lays, and waits a wave 
To wash them from the deck, and \kQ& \o «vi« 
Tbem from the peril which they iMm »s%m- 


Trembling, the crew stand round, wet to the skin, 

Yet will remain on board. Narrez is tbere. 

No captain's left them in their dark dt«pair. 

Bodrigae has order'd them to keep with him, 
And when the vessel sinks to shore to swim. 
A crash is heard. " She sinks ! She sinks !" they cry, 

The raft, borne by a crested wave, on high, 

Is lifted, Gonzalvo holds himself for lost. 

But is at length on shore, with fury toss'd. 

With a most thankful heart on shore he stands, 

Then kneels, and lifting up his clasped hands, 

Pours forth his heart in thankful praise to Heaven, 

Who thus to him hath life and safety given; 

Then tum*d he to Amelia at his side, 
Bender'd quite senseless by the beating tide- 
She lay as dead. But when Gonzalvo took 
Some water in his hands, from a clear brook, 
And o'er her springled, soon she op'd her eyes. 
And gaz'd above, and round, in strange surprise — 
She sees Gonzalvo, vanished is her feat, 
Glasp*d to the heart of him she holds so dear. 
Amelia, idol of my heart, and can 
You still be &ithful to me ? ** he began. 
And pressing her to his fond, loving heart,* 
He swore that never from her would he part 
'* Oh ! Gonzalve, little know'st thou woman's love; 
'Tis the pure spirit fresh from God above. 
If I loved you in weal, much mora in woe, 
Oh, love but strengthens by misfortune's blow ; 
My life preserved by thee, 'tis surely thine. 
And I am blest in feeling thou art mine." 
In silence they embrac'd, then towards the main 
They turned their eyes, hoping to see again 
Some inmates of the ship swim to the shore- 
But, with the wreck, they'd sunk to rise no mxxtt. 
Then tum'd they wond'ring to survey the Isle. 
Past was the storm, all nature round did smile ; 
Green trees they saw, high towering to the skies^ 
And birds with plumage gay, of varied dyes, 
Who never hmnan form had learnt to dread, 
So heard, unheeding, all their passmg tread. 
Monkeys swung high from bnach^ and threw 
Upon liie pasBer fmits, wYnidi ou Vhftm ^wk. 
A miming Inrook ol cleaxtBlt ivt^Ai t«a 


Throngh ajgreen ralley, meet abode for man; 
Ev*rj convenience, ev'ry beanty near. 
**^h ! Gronzalve, can we not ^ peace^live^ere ? 
There can we build a bnt of mshy sbeayes, 
And roof it well with branchesl'and.dry leayes." 
Thnit talked they on, new beanties.ever finding, 
Them of their distant^home reminding. 
(* Bnt what*8 a desert isle when tkou art here ? 
Each spot is Paradise, when thou art near. 
Woold that we had been married, then indeed 
A life of sweetest^peace we here coold lead. 
In books I oft^ve read of shipwreck'd men, 
Cast, like os, on a desert isle, bat then, 
The story ended not, as oars will do, 
Withoat adventore of ;some sort Bat tnie, 
I think that now with some one we shall meet. 
For to mine ear there^oomes the soand of feet.. 
Ah ! see approach a priest, orjhermit grave, 
He as firom oar perplexity will save. 
Will aiake thee miye. Gonzalve, salate him thoa, 
I have not words— traly I know not how." 
Nearer he draws. Gonzalvo nears him now— 
Kisses the hem of his black sweeping gown. 
And, lowly ^tooping, niarketh not the frown 
Which is bent on him from the hermit's eyes, 
But which quick £itdes away as he replies — 
** My children, long a hermit here I dwell ; 
Approach, to you invites my humble ceil. 
Ko costly delicacies there youll find, 
Bnt simple herbs, and fruit of ev'ry kind." 
** Oh ! £ftther, welcome in our hour of need. 
The boon we ask, to us you 11 surely cede— 
Unite OS in the bonds of holy love — 
For this high Heav'n will bless you from above. 
Betrothed long, our onion all arranged. 
Our fate was, by a direful Shiptoreck, chang'd ; 
The vessel wreck'd, the crew ail drowii'd, and dead, 
Ko priest remained to bless our bridal bed. 
Father, this grace accord. When once we gain 
Our own dear home across the briny mi|i>^ 
We will reward thee for this kindnoos shown 
To us in our distress." *< Euou^h, m^ «iyii^ 
Comef follow me, my cell is noai aX Wii<dL, 
Then joa I 'U join in wisdlock'ii YioV^ )awx^'' 


Now in a grotto, hewn from out the rock, 
Or form*d bj nature in an eartbqoake shock, 
They stand together, and the holy man 
Took firom a niche his book, and thus began : 
<* My son, wilt thon this woman take to wife, 
To lo?e, to cherish, and protect for life?" 
" I will ! " resounded throngh the rocky cave. 
" And thon, wilt thon this man for hnsband have. 
To honoor, lore, and always to obey ?** 
" I will I " she answered. On her arm he lay 
His hand, and to the gronnd his hood 
From o'er him fell, and plain he stood 
Before them Eodrigne, treach'rons foe- 
He 'd come to work them further woe. 
With a Cunt cry she fell on GonzalTo's breast, 
To his fond heart her fiunting form he prest. 
" Oh ! fiend, in human form, is't you I see ? " 
^ None other." ** Rodrigue Narrez ? " *' I am he ; 
SaT'd firom the waves, I'm here to injure thee. 
My work is ended, traitor, feel my hate. 
And, unresisting, bear the blow of fiite 1 " 
So spake he, while in mute surprise 
Gonzalvo gaz'd with wond'ring eyes. 
So sudden was the change that o'er him came, 
He felt the same man, and yet not the same. 
The wreck, the island, diffVent to him seem; 
Amelia, life, his love itself 's a dream. 
But rouses firom his death-like trance, 
When he observes base Rodrigue glance 
With savage eye to where Amelia lay. 
Then wakes, and, like a tiger set at bay, 
He grinds his teeth, fire flashes from his eye. 
He draws his sword, and waves the blade on high. 
" Traitor, approach, thy purpose well I know, 
But never shall Amelia wed my foe ! " 
' Oh I boasting enemy ! " Rodrigo cried, 
' Think ye I seek Amelia for my bride? 
No, but she shall be mine in all save name. 
When I consign thee to eternal flame." 
So spake he, and e'er Gonzalve was prepared, 
Rodrigue had firom its sheath its weapon bared. 
And plunged it in bis nval'a toi^^. 
With one kiss to biA \ove\y bn^Q, 


And thonght to bring his rival bw. 

Bat yet sgfun it was retnrned; 

With foiy now their eje-balls burned, 

In desp'rate bloody fight they close. 

Will then Gonzalvo his lifio lose, 

And leave in Bodrigne's hands his bride, 

Whom to save from bun he died ? 

No, swift the thonght has cro6s*d his brain, 

With her heart's blood his blade to stain. 

*' She's mine m death! " he loodly cries — 

Then plunges with her 'neath the wave. 

Bodrigo stood in mute surprise; 

He knows 'twere vain to try to save 

His victims from thor wat'ry grave. 

Then sinks he £unting on the shore, 

Cunes his foe, and breathes no more. 

« « « * * 

A vessel oft, at eve, they say, 

Passing along that mournful way. 

Will descry, floating on the sea, 

Two human forms; with gestures free 

They float upon the blood-stained wave. 

And in its foams thmr arms they lave. 

For from the breast of each a stream 

Of blood fast pours; and oft they scream, 

And point a finger, red with gore. 

In mocking action towards the shore, 

Whence wanders, casting looks of hate 

And terror, Bodrigue, the first mate 

Of yonder floating batter'd wreck, 

Where, on the fire Ulumin'd deck, 

The passer sees an airy crew 

Of phantom spirits; and the hue 

Of fiery red which illumines the hull 

Is from a torch set in a human sculL 

Then fiist fill they the sails, and haste 

Away from this dreadful haunted waste 

Of hmd and waters. As they go 

They hear a shriek of pain and woe. 

And see a gulf open in the deep main. 

The wreck and the phantoms are swallow'd again ! 

In the deep abyss where at first thej slept 

A sound is heard as of 8{iinte libo ii«^ 
Or, iaittbeud wind wbkh nraxmnn^fj , 
Aad mouu o'er (he grato nbflM \biKj luoxdM^ ^^ ^ 


Prize Paper, No. VI. 

Fab in the north, in Scotia's nohle land, 

An ancient caatle etande, in rnina now; 

Its rock-girt coast, the scene of many wrecks 

And poor eonls swept therefrom, to rise no mon. 

To speak of all were mnoh bejood mj task, 

Yet, as is ask'd of one, 1 11 tell the tale :— 

The moon had reach*d her midnight watch in heay'n, 

And yeil'd her pensiye face, afraid to yiew 

The gathering tempest, while upon my coach, 

Listening the hollow cadence of the stonn, 

I oonnt the lazy hoars, and meditate 

Upon the sailor's dark and dismal lot 

Oh ! 'twas a fesrfal night for those whose friends 

Bock'd on the stormy wave— winds howl'd, seas roar*d. 

In soch an hoar, then, mnsing fimcy strays 

To some drear mansion, tottering near the beach, 

Where the wind howling through the gaping chinks, 

Startles the babe upon his mother's breast 

The mother wakes, and cloeer clasps her hosband, 

Then lisps a prayer of silent thankfhiness 

That he is not a sailor. Hark ! loud shoats 

Come echdngthroagh the stonn; andnowlhssr 

The distant gon boom long the ragged shore. 

List! was the soond decutfol? fimcy, fbrm'd 

To agonize the ear ? Oh, gracioas God! 

Again the gan is heard — again— again — 

A ship's ashore, each hoarse load voice prodaims, 

The lights and rockets show now how die bears. 

Bat, hark ! another gan, more distant off, 

A signal shews that she is not alone. 

On, rnshing to the beach, see that dense crowd. 

Intent to save the crew, the life-boat fast 

Along the strand they drag; her gallant crew 

Prepared to brave the deep when day appears. 

For noaght as yet they see, bat flash on flash. 

And gun on gan, they hear, with distant shoat 

Of many voices. Oh I what 's that nishing sonnd— 

That dismal crash— amongst the rocks so near. 

Which makes the splinters fly in dread dismay ? 

" The gons are shotted" is Mm gen'ral cry; 

•* A rocket fire, to akiow lYiem\»\^N& tsv^ 

Tis done and now an\u)r7«K«2Lc^W3X 


ComeB echoing midst the fierce howling Btorm— 
The beacon lights— now all around is seen. 
Another shout, still loader than the first, 
ProcUums the crew the wish'd-for boat deacrj. 
The cannons cease, and both on sea and land 
The gallant men await th' approaching day. 
At last the east proclaims the long'd for dawn. 
But when the rising son lights np the sea, 
The scene that to the eye presents itself 
Is fearfnl. The once noble ship now lay. 
Her keel torn from her— now a total wreck. 
And the sea mocked her with its fury. 
Her once tall masts now crackled with the weight 
Of those to whom she used to be the pride. 
Poor thing ! her pride was gone; she held on long, 
And warred against the anger of the sea, 
But at last gave way and split asonder. 
Twelve hours elaps'd before the gallant crew 
Could bring the life-boat near unto the ship. 
But now they reach her; one by one they drop 
From off her sides, in all a hundred men. 
Who land in safety, loudly cheered by all 
From shore and frigate. See again she comes— 
Again succeeds. But now the scene is chaag'd— 
Three times she gains the ship. Oh, fiital chance! 
The brave commander leaves th* important post 
Of steersman, to help the noble captain. 
Who senseless into the boat had Men. 
At this fell moment a furious wave 
Game roaring from the deep, upset the boat 
Amongst the rocks, with all her gallant crew, 
Save one, the hero of this direful tale, 
Who seized a rope, and tried to gain the ship; 
As thus he swung, suspended from the shrouds, 
A drowning man caught him and dragged him down, 
Till forced by fearful death to loose his hold. 
Huzza ! he gains the deck, and there he stands, 
Giving his orders like an ancient hero. 
" The life-boat's sunk," resounded from the shore; 
But soon a fishing-boat supplies its place, 
And beats the chafiSng surf, like some tall swan. 
The frigates gain it, the boat, it takes its load, 
The men are landed, and the \k»\i u;lTkrD&. 
Again they reach the abipi \>u\. one tvma^oA 


On board the frigate— he oar hero is — 

When one hafi^e wave came roaring on the deck, 

And waah'd him, horror etnick, overboard. 

Vfith brawnj arm he for the shore strikes out, 

Bat now the treach'roos waves see sack him back. 

Now wash him, hoping, to the wiahed-for shore; 

The landsmen, holding bj each other's hands^ 

00 all thej can to save him. Hark, a sfaootF— 

Hazza, he 's saved I they 've got his hand— bat, (di t 

A cmel wave has washed him back again. 

Bat now,amid8t the roaring of the sea, 

A female voice is shrieking heard to cry, 

" Oh, save him I save him ! if yoa are s^ men," 

And roahing to the beech with fearfol yells. 

She headlong planged amongst the foaming waves. 

At this heart-rendmg scene fbnr noble yoaths 

Broke from the crowd, and dashed into the deep, 

Bronght both on shore, amidst the cheers of aU. 

Of this sfaip^s fiited crew twelve men were dfown'd 
Oat of five handred, prisoners and crew. 
For when she ttnick, many there were in chains^ 
Sons of Franoe, who captives had been taken. 
The signal gans came from another ship. 
Which, scndding in the gale, stack hard and £sst 
At the same moment, fimr miles to the coast 
Sag's ships both were ; knew not each others fate, 
Till morning dawned, when their mistake they saw. 
Readers, this is no fiction, all is tni»— 
Two noble firigates fimm a crnize retam'd, 
On this dread night mistook some lights ashore 
For those of the Bell Book and Isle of May. 
The one, the Pallas, is before described — 
The Nymph, more fertanate, lost not a man. 
Her masts, on striking, soon went by the board, 
Towards the shore, Ixmg which the aaamen landed 


irf)e Slobet. 

Prize Paper J No. VII. 

" 'Twas In the good ship Rover, 
I sailed the world around. 
And for three years and over 
I ne'er toach*d British groand.*'«« 


A PIRATE gallej ihrcNigh the water flies, 
The night is calm, the wind but gently sighs, 
Rev'lling the men oaroase the long night through, 
None dream that danger's near — ^that merry crew 
As morning dawns, to rest each bends his way. 
Nor thinks it dawns npon his latest day. 
Bat lightnings glare, load thunders burst aroond. 
The mast is stnick, the lightning's round it wound; 
Heated with wine, the watch ha?e dropt asleep. 
They can no longer night's strict yigils keep. 
Neptune and Vulcan fight—the bark's on fire^ 
The buccaneers are under Heayen's ire. 
These men of valour in an earthly strife, 
Struggling with death, are grai^ling hard for life, 
Some stampings— swearing— curse their luckless star; 
Some kneeling— praying— think on firiends afar; 
Some are still offsring songs at Bacchus' shrine ; 
Some to save life, wild schemes in vain devine— 
A thund'ring crash— the dying shriek in vain— 
The billows roar — the vessels split in twain. 
Those warlike chiefe have sunk beneath the wafes, 
Of all the bark but ore youth hayoc saTes. 
Unto the wreck the purate Selim dings. 
He sees an island, firom the ship he springs. 
With brawny arm, the frothy waves he fights, 
The haven's won, but it the youth affing^ta^ 
Tis huge, but desolation TOondVonv^M^ 
•No trees, no shmbe, no fiLoifieto,m«^YAft«3«a\ 


He views above his head a monntain soar, 
Smoke it emitSi th' inteetine flames thej roar; 
Bat Morpheas o*er Selim oasts his wand, 
And holds him £ut in slamber's golden band. 
Stay now, he wakes, ** Where, where am I ? " he cries; 
The island moves, and throagh the sea he flies; 
Above his head there soars the feathered king, 
Its long shrill sdireams throoghoat the air thej ring; 
He fears and shadders 'tis a cold drear night. 
The lightning's ttnped^ stars reign in spangled might ; 
'Midst other islands now he floats along— 
Tobaooo, cocoa, rice, he looks npon— 
BrazUt La Pioto, both now had he past, 
Toached at Cape Homy now oat to sea is cast- 
He qoickly o'er the vast Atlantic sails ; 
All food, save shell fish, oar poor hero fiuls. 
Bat now the land of convicts he does greet. 
Its homelj prodnce now his eye does meet, 
Rattans and bamboos in the isUnds east 
He sees. 'Mong wondroos things these are the least 
See now I He floats among the arctic frost. 
And now in Chinese porcelain is lost — 
A howdah now the rover's fimcy strikes— 
In India an iv'ry throne he likee — 
He sees great Rimjeet Singh and nobles foor— 
Who hold aloft the brilliant Kooh-i-Noor. 
Bat scared by Thngs, the island joameys on, 
It hears a bell. Ah I no, it is a gong. 
Cofieeat Mocha^ now brave Selim sees, 
Bat weariless his island onward flees. 
Among the Kaffirs soon be will be lost — 
Ko, roving Selim on Good Hope is cast. 
What sees he there ? Not mach that's rich, I ween— 
Hottentots f Bushmen^ there alone are seen. 
The Gold Coast now does Selim leave behind ; 
He jonmeys on, Madeirds wines to find. 
Now qaickly rocky CaLpe he sails past, 
To Twm£ battlements he comes at last 
Bich horse caparisons, an Arab tent, 
He views, as now towards ifaZto he is bent. 
A stalagmitic Arraf^onite 
Does Selim see on r^6<£*8 asicleat eite. 
He now to Greece and Turkey ou'vtwa «aSA^ 


In their bright olimeB 'tis gorgeous pomp he hails; 
Bat now ItdlkCa sonny ports are won, 
He sighs for rest, his htboor 's not yet done. 
He passes Ita^^ as though 't were nought : 
He sees far off bright Cagliarfs port. 
In dreamy France he hopes that he may land — 
Ah ! no, his isle 's nigh toached a Spanish strand. 
PiUars of Hercules! behold once more, 
Oar Selim views thy mighty columns soar; 
Four priests a dazzling cloth to view display. 
It 's the custodia lares frail men astray. 
In Biscay's Bay^ fiir, far renowned in song, 
A bird across the sea it skims along. 
Another eagle does our Selim fear— 
No, 'tis a yacht he sees as it comes near. 
A thought — ^he gazes — but the ship is past, 
Satan it is, or 'twould not go so (asX, 
But now La Mancke the gallant Selim greets, 
Britannia f goddess of the waves, he meets. 
See England's lion by her side does lie, 
Her car of gold does through the waters fly. 
Mighty Britannia ruleth o'er the waves, 
Triumphant now the pirate chief she saves. 
The isle she pierces with her trident Ipng — 
It sinks— 'tis England's oar he springs upon. 
Voices resound, " God save our gracious Queen." 
He gazes round — What can, what does this mean ? 
He sees Victoria seated on her throne. 
Of silv'iy voices now he hears the tone- 
But anxiously he wonders where he is— 
The closing of the Crystal Palace 't is. 
" How came he there," I hear each reader ask. 
I think myselt we may now raise the mask. 
Oar wand'ring pirate to John BuU is changed, 
Fatigued, as through the great World's Fair he ranged. 
He sank him down to slumber for awhUe; 
He dreamt that he was floating on an isle. 
" Do islands float, I wonder— it is strange ! " 
Stay, gentle reader, I 'U your wonder change. 
A floating isle the great sea serpent is, 
And 'twas on this our Selim sailed, I wis. 


QlSaUet Xtnli^ap. 

Prize Paper, No. VIIL 


On ! on t good ship, nor heed the wave, 

Nor heed the oceaD's roar, 
For other crews, with hearts less hrafe, 

Hare conquered them before. 
What, if the lightning gUres around, 

And flashes through the gloom ? 
It shows the spot whence came that soond, 

That help-imploring boom. 
Bat oh, alas ! no help is near, 

An answering sound to send, 
They're far from all they hold most dear. 

Far from both foe and firiend. 
" Breakers I " the careful watch now cries; 

And far above that shot 
Fierce oaths and piercing shrieks arise, 

Thrill through that lonely spot. 
Before the echo of that word 

Had ceased around to &U, 
A grating, grovelling sound is heard, 

Death*s warning unto all. 
" She*s struck I she's struck,* from every lip, 

Despairing burst the shout 
Of hopelessness and agony, 

Of terror and of doubt. 
That shock has sent twioe twenty souls 

Before the Throne of Grace, 
To meet there as before in life, 

Each other face to face. 
PART n. 
The morning sheds its pale grey light 

O'er that calm, quiet scenS; 
Where on the but just finished night. 

The tempest rage has been. 
The falling waves are dashing o'er. 

As if to sweep away 
The boy that on the barren shore 

Lifeless extended lay. 
Lifeless — ah no, he moves his arm, 

He rises and he stands — 
He gaies Tound Yum in «\a.m\^ 

And then he c\BApa\)A&Yi«si^. 


His yoathfol, and yet noble fbnn, 

Unused to oare and woe, 
The troth of what he round him yiews, 

Seems scaroelj yet to know. 
He bends his ?ray towards the hill. 

That to him seems to smile-^ 

There's hope within his bosom still, 

That it 's no desert isle. 
Along its steep, though verdant brow, 

Without a single stop, 
With anxious hasty steps he strides 

Until he's reached the top. 
For miles around on every side. 

Far as the eye could reach, > 
The white foam on the billows ride 

Until they touch the beach. 
Upon the island shrobs and trees. 

Of various species grow; 
And far beneatii the hill he sees 

A streamlet, murmuring low. 
He turns, goes down the hill again. 

Deep anguish in his heart- 
Must he for ever there remain. 

From fellow men apart? 
So young, and from his native home 

So many miles away, 
Is he, forsaken and alone, 

Doomed ever there to stay ? 
For Time's reyend all-working hand 

Gould hardly yet have spread 
The joys and griefis of eighteen years 

On Walter Lindsay's head. 
Until the eve he roams about 

His prison to survey ; 
Herbs and fruit wero his food throughout 

That dismal, lonely day. 
When night its gloom sheds o'er the earth 

He lies, down at his head 
A stone the pillow's place supplies. 

The relvet turf his bed. 
It was the solemn hour of night, 

When all around was still, 
The stars above were ftVunVn^Wx^V^ 

The sool with joy to &\\, 


ToQDg Lindsaj Uj then itratchad in atoep, 

Bat not the sleep of rest- 
It seemed as if forebodings deep 

Were rising in his breast, 
A thnnd'ring noise finim fiur, now on 

His troabled slnmben broke— 
Those gloomj dreams were qnicklj flown, 

He started and awoke. 
The corling smoke was rising from 

That hill no longer green; 
And from the midst bright flashing flames 

Of fire ooold be seen. 
He stood to gaze— surprise and awe 

Were mingling in his sonl, 
As down the side he wond'ring saw 

The bnming htva rolL 
** Awaj ! there is no safot j herei 

Oh, whither most I fij ; 
Was I bat spared a watery death, 

B7 torments worse to die? " 
A fow steps farther on he stops, 

And climbs the tallest tree, 
Besolved to wait there nntil all 

Danger should over be. 
Bat hoars fly, and tho' he knows 

That now he must not fear. 
He clings there, for he still must dread 

That danger might be near. 
And as he sat there gazing forth. 

Far o*er the deep blue sea, 
The sun was shining brightly o'er 

He waves the noble Union Jack, 

A remnant of the wreck — 
Oh I joy, the sign it wafted back 

From off that tiny speck. 
And soon they lower down a boat. 

And send it to the shore. 
To bear him from that desert isle, 

Thence to retain no more. 


' ' ' ■' ' V 

Gn tl^e Dittt) of a ISausijtev. 

The Sim shone brightly on that fair morning, 

And cheered the hearts of many by his rays. 

Can sing their thoaghts to rise up heavenward ! 

Bat there was one to whom earth seemed aknost 

A fairy land, so fall of yisions new, 

And anezpected. For her had dawned 

The day that had been looked and hoped for long— 

A day on which she well might feel preferred— 

Distinguished, to call her own — a daughter ! 

Oh, how her heart did beat with joy and pride, 

To know that to her care was now consigned 

That which, by her attentive watchfulness, 

She yet might see become a gem on the earth. 

An angel spirit ministring to grief, 

G)ad in the robes of virtue, truth, and love. 

Twas true this child was formed in Nature^s mould, 

And subject to her numerous frailties — 

Yet this knowledge cast no shade upon her, 
For the mother knew how many links would 
Bind her and her child in tbnd affection; 
She, therefore, trusted to the power and strength 
Of that encircling chain, and felt that idach— 
Aye, much indeed — ^must try it, ere it snapped. 
New life, new energies, new hopes, came fresh 
To aid her in the anxious task imposed 
Of rearing the sweet flow'r with jealous care. 
How proudly did she gaze that day upon 
The star that henceforth should irradiate 
The pathway of her life, and cheer her on 
To pass the darkened valley t)f the tomb ! 
She thought not of the many ills that might 
Arise to interpose and disappoint 
Her in her work of love; or that from hence 
Herself might be removed — perhaps too soon ! 
Or that the Mighty One, from whom this gift 
Had been received, might deem it better 
That this blossom should wither upon earth, 
To flourish only on the tree of life. 
Adorning e'en the Paradise of Heaven. 
Ah, no; the present only filled her mind, 
Leaving no vacancy for fear or dou\A. 
Oh I may she long enjoy Ui more V)hKEL ^Oqqi, 
Berhop§g becoming «fQitx«ia\>y\ 



A great many jean ago there etood near the sea, in the ooontj of ^*|M 
old place called Kilmarnock Castle. It belonged to the Earl do Laooej; he had as 
only son, and, as his wife had died at its birth, the child was pat out to Dnntiaal 
being of a sickly constitotknii he did not retnm to his fiither's booae until he hid 
attained his foorth year. Befiore he was seyenteen he became Earl de Lanocji by ^ 
death of hia &ther. 

His appointed goardian was hia fiither's brother, a dark and gkxBny man, wte 
had never been seen to smile. The yoong Eari disliked and fearad him, and kstod 
forward with great earnestness to his twenty-first birth-daj, when he woaU befiM 
from the galling dominioa of his stem nnde, 

The important day came; there was a great banqnet held in hoooar of it lb 
Earl was in high spirits, bat suddenly, after drinking some wine that was en tin 
table, hia whole ooontenanoe changed, and he droj^ied from hia oiiair. Tlie gnuto 
sprang to his assistance, bat it was too hte, the yoong Earl de Lanoey waa do non* 
Terror and dismay sat on e?ery brow— on none more than the anele hot a daik bm- 
pidon was felt by many that he— now Earl de Lancey— was not qoite innooflBt rf 
the ominons death of his onfortonate nephew. 

The body was examined, and, as was generally expected, focmd to be poiMorii 
Strict search was made for the morderer; he was nowhere to be foond; and thom|i 
every one believed the ande to be the cnlprit, he ooald not be accosed jxpaa mmgUk!^ 

The affidr finally was dropped, and the Earl took possession, bat notpeaoeftiPyf 
for every night, as the castle dock tolled twdve, a masked fignra, bearing lOM 
resemblance to his murdered nephew, glided through the wall to his apartONnt, asi 
reproached him with his guilt This, with his own bad oonsdence, naade EjhnanMMk 
Castle unendurable to the Earl de Lancey; he left it in haste one day, and ttdmii 
that it should be add; but rumours had spread of the mysterioos fignie, sad tin 
** Haunted Tower," as it was now universally called, remained five years ^f^hi'f**^i 
but at the end of that period it was taken by a gentleman of the name of VWBfKk 
He had an only daughter, and at this time Edith Villiers was a handsome^ Mf 
girl of sixteen. Aboat ayear after they had been there, she acddentally changed bv 
room to the one in which the Earl de Lancey used to sleep. There was a large psriy 
of visitors in the castle, and it was late when Edith went to bed, and either thi 
exdtement of the day, or the change of rooms, kept her longer awake than usod. 
She was just dropping adeep, when she was aroused by the i^pearanoe of a Bgjtt 
under the door, the next minute the lock was turned, and a man entered the rooo, 
started, paused a moment, then advanced cautiously to the bed. 

The whde had passed so quiddy, that Edith had but just time for ooe thrill of 
bomar, when she heard Vus fooVatova V; \»k \m^. Nfrv>^ >^ ^^gnancRi^ <£ amid of 


hntem fall npoa her fiwe, bat not a featare moving, he ooDdadad that ahe was 
asleep, and waJked across the room. Edith caatiooslj opened her eyes jast in time 
to see her mysterioas yimtor disappear throagh the opposite wall! She gazed in 
mate astonishment, almost thinking it was a dream, for nothing bat a ghost coald 
have got throagh a wall withoat any opening. Her first feeling of terror was sae- 
eeeded by strong cariosity; she was almost tempted to jamp ont of bed and araminA 
fhe place, bat no— she was not qoite eqaal to this, it woald do jost as well in the 
morning; there woald be more light then. So reasoned Edith, and as she reasoned, 
die again M asleep. 

ShB told her story the next morning, and after some diseosiidon about it, one of 
the gentlemen txSbred to sleep there that night, bat bagged that it might be kept 
Moret^ in case it shoald deter the figoie fimn again appearing. This was agreed to; 
hoA upon Edith's entering the room a short time after, to fetch something sho 
wanted, her eye caoght a slip of paper pinned to the pinooshioD, and what was her 
•maaement on readhig these words >— 

« If the yoong lady 1^0 dept in this room last night will sleep here again to- 
s^ht, I pledge my honoor that she shall be onhnrt I^ on the oontrazy, any gentle- 
inan deeps here, bkKKlshed and morder will be the oonseqoence. Show this to no 
doe, bat rest here to-night." 

B cm be no bnigbtf , thought Edith, or he woald not want to oome agun. It 
must be either a coiner or a smnggler^— that is what it mast be. Seyeral smagglmg 
HBseln had landed on the coast, and had been chased by the revenne officers. This 
ieemed the most likely idea, and haying settled that, she b^gan to consider how sho 

She was certain not to be hart— «ny one else wonld be mnrdered. Her resolntioa 
was soon taken. She went to the gentleman who was to change rooms with her, 
nd told him that, npon consideration, she woald sleepagain in the same room; it 
would be cowardly to fissr what was perhaps only her fimcy ; it was not likely to 
SBtam; In short, she was determmed. The gentleman remonstnted in vain, and 
ntlier 8arprised,gaye np the point 

Bat as night approached, Edith rather repented of her decision, and her fiuth hi 
lbs honoar of the writer proportionably decreased. Hie time came, and the dock 
atmok twelfe; the smuggler was ponotnal; he first glanced at the bed, to satisfy 
Idmself that it was a woman, and then passed throagh the wall in the same mamMr 
m before. He was a strong bailt man, with a profosion of raren hair dnsteriqg ont 
Ids head. He was dressed in a white fimsk, reaching a fittle beknr his waist, and hii 
head was covered by a red capw Edith had only time to obserre this bifcrs he diaa^ 
pteed. He never came agam. 

Two years have paned away, and the soinn <jhaB|;A\A%>Mitti^^K^^^i^^Ki^i>^^ee^ 
cf «3is27mr Forast Edith Villien, now nlni^bMQ,\a Iteit. ^u^ Vk^%x«^M^^B^' 
snf J£i» A/aMMl, t9 ipiiom tbo hooM beVnig^ 


It was a beaatifiil calm aotamn evening that Edith aet oat for a aolitarj walk 
into the forest She had rambled sometimei and the son was just setting in a bath 
of golden light behind the dark forest trees, when she began to think of xetomiiig; < 
bat after walking a long time, she foand herself getting deeper and deeper in 
the wood. She retraced her stepe, bat still the trees grew thicker and thicker, and 
darker and darker, till she was completely lost. A few pale stars were twinkling 
in the clear vaalt above, bat the moon was concealed by a veil of marky cloods which 
hang before it. 

£dith*s sitaatlon was not pleasant; she had wandered aboat till she was tired, 
and the romantic beanty of the forest did not compensate for the inconTenienoe of 
passing a night in it, besides, it was infested with bandittL Bot she was too tired to 
walk or stand, so drawing her shawl closer roand her, she sat down on the tronk of 
an aged oak, hoping that Mr. Raymond won Id send servants in every direction to 
look for her, and that she might be foand by some of them. Bat she bad not xestad 
long, when she perceived the shadows of three men gliding among the trees; th^ 
glanced round; one of them made a shrill whistle, and the moon at thattootaat 
borsting throagh its covering, shed a broad silver light over the spot jost in time far 
Edith to see the groand open, and the men sinking gradaally throagh the apertnrai 
Edith thought this was something like the " Open sessame** of " AlU Baba and thi 
Forty Thieves," bat she had no time to moralise, for the ouacreants soddenfy po^- 
ceiving her, rose again, seized her, boand her eyes, and in another minato she finod 
herself travelling down in what appeared a brobdingnag basket throogh the ntj 
recess in the earth that so amazed her. Her first impnlse was a load scream^ bat 
this was nipped in the bad by a handkerchief throat into her month; another momofit 
the motion ceased, her eyes were anboand, and she foand herself seated in a spacioQS 
cavern andergroand. 

Assembled round a huge fire were about thirty ferocioas looking men smokiqg 
and drinking. The three who had taken Edith prisoner conversed some time with 
the chief of the party, and from what she could overhear, she anderstood that her 
&te was to be decided on the retam of the leader. She sat half an hoar hi sas^enn, 
when the whistle was again heard, responded to from below, the trap-dow opoied. 
and letting himself down by a rope, the leader of the banditti appeared. He was a 
tall, strong man with even an expression of nobleness on his high forehead, shadowed 
by his night-black hair; bat no sooner did Edith perceive him, than she uttered a 
half-suppressed shriek, as she recognised in t e " Captain of the Banditti the 
*^ Smuggler of the Haunted Tower" The recognition was matnaL The smnggkr 
started, almost gasped for breath, as he exclaimed in harried accents to his lieata- 
nant, " How came she here ?" 

The fellow, surprised by the qaesiion, explained. The leader took him aside. 
After a long conversation they retamed, and sweeping firom his lofty brow the dark 
masses of his raven hair, the bandit chief thus addressed our heroine:— 

"Lady I you kept my secret oace \>y ^otvc ^\aa^^ whea it was most necessary 
tomfi- I will not disguise from yoa. iVia.lltsAxa^xnsso.'^^e^wssa^H^^v '^^\s.^ 
^ur Stores in Kilmarnock C»8Ue,ltom '?i\s\c\k\2Daw '^a^^^'wspwj^ 


When the Earl de Lancej lived there, and slept in that room, I appeared eyery 
night in the clothes of his nephew, hoping to terrify him from the tower, that wo 
might live unmolested. He most hare been gnilty of the mnrder, or he would not 
have fled ; bat that was nothing to me. Your room was the onlj passage to the spot 
where we kept oar stores; when 70a inhabited it, we were obliged to remove them. 
We ooald not do it in one night; therefore, upon hearing that a gentleman was to 
sleep there, I wrote that paper, for if a man had been there, he woald have attempted 
to seize me^ and in self defence I shoald have killed hun. Toar intrepidity saved 
him. We removed all [oar goods that night. Now, Madam, if 70a wiU give yoor 
honoar not to betray what you have seen to-night, at grey of morning yoa shall ba 

''I will promise on my honoar, " said Edith, stmck with the generosity of tht 
Captain, and enchanted with the hope of escape. 

The leader then condncted her into a smaller cavern, where he left her, reiter- 
ating his promise that she shoald depart the next day. 

Early in the morning the bandit reappeared, and sud, in a low voice, ** Follow 

She did so, and he led her through a passage, dark as a wolf 'a month, np some 
rode steps, toached a spring, and she again foand henelf nnder the same tree where 
•ho was seated the night before. 

** My men," said her gaide, as they advanced rapidly, " objected tftroogly to your 
departnre ; they fiaared that yoa woald betray oar concealment Even my anthoritj 
ooald not have saved yoa, bat I trasted to year honoar, rose early this morning before 
they were awake, and released yoa from the cave. Now yoa are free." 

He strock into a winding path, and soon bronght her to the edge of the fivest 

" I dare not go farther," said he. " Lady, farewell ! * 

"A thonsand thanks for yoar generosity," said Edith. ** Your secret is saft." 

''I believe it," said the bandit; and raising his plamed cap from his head, hi 
dittFpeaied in the thicket, and Edith soon after reached home in safety. 


{To he conUmted,) 


Charade,— page 38.— Nosegay. 
Page 125.— Deplaiie. 
Page 158.— Blm-btlL 




(Conttnued flrom page 7ft.) 


There Is a tide In the ttttain of men. 

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to ibrtmet 

Omitted, aU the royage of their life 

Is boood in shaUowi, aad In nil8etlas.~-^8!lkatqMarf. 

Don Rodflrigo, as we haTs bafort said, laft Chrittorilda VftllMift to iiak CilifiDi} 
on his entariiig her apartment, abe aroae graoefolly to meat him. 

<'DoD Roderigo " she began, ** I most again beseech of 70a to r^pud witii Mtj 
my bddiMBa in seeking an interriew with jon, but let ma ask joa, did joa oiwkiw 

** Enow Julian of Seoken I my best, my early friend," enhdmad Bodsrilgs. 

" That friend was my brother; Idlled by an nnknown hand, he was idppid tf 
in the first bloom of manhood, leafing me nnproteoted and alone; and 00 his dtath- 
bed he fiuntly whispered Roderigo^s name. I, than, Don Roderigo, as hia Bister, wan 
yon of an impending danger. Ton hafe been led away by a sapsrb baaalj , bst 
beliefe not the assnrances, list not to the promises of Inea de Villanm; aha lofMyM 
not; malidoos, wily, and deoeitfol, she hates oar sorereign qoeen.** 

Roderigo gazed in astonishment npon his £ur companion. 

^'Nay, Don Roderigo," she continued, ''do not distmst; bdiofa me I am Mt 
jealoos of your lofe for Inez, nor do I wish to depreolate the merits of Villena^ niM, 
bat, mark me, what I say is trae: Inez will nse yoa to assist her deeply-laid aaheniBif 
bat when yoa know too mach, she will find a pretext to imprison yoa, or, pumhant^ 
death may be yoar fate." 

•< Donna Catalina,** cried the exdted lover, '' prove to me that Doona Inea Is dl 
yoa say, for never can I believe that deceit so base could find a pbuM within the hssrt 
of one so beantifal, so fair." 

''IhaveUved," said Catalma,'' from childhood at the Court of CastiUe, and I 
liSFS marked the character of every ooortier. I. know Inez de VHkoa well, bnt I 
irsFs waniedyoa of yonr peril, cioix\AX«ie Va ^<w\ aXlon^ IwX^ vDi^TBaatu>3Bi^dnaBi thst 
Mwaita jrott." 


So saymg, Catalina retired to an inner chamber, and left the astonished Boderigo 
to ponder over her words. 

<«Bat no" he marmDred to himself as he left the palaee, ** this Alpine beanty 
is jealoos, and thinks by declaring Inez to be base that I shall lavish all my love on 
her; bat I will phiy the man, and act a part too deep for this cold calculating icicle 
to understand." 

Inez de Villena had so taken possession of the heart of this ardent lover that he 
iMeded not the cool admonishing voice of reason, bat rnshed franticly on to meet his 
fate; he forgot the proad step, the hanghty mien, the searching fiery eye of her he 
deemed so pore, he looked npon a lovely face, bat he coald not read the depths within | 
the portals of Inez* sonl were closed even to her very self. 

Bat we mast retam to Catalina: the hoar of eight had scarcely strack, when 
Catalina and Don Christoval met in the palace gardens. The fiery ebnlHtions of 
feeling manifested by the Don, were answered with cool dignity on the part of 
Catalina. They wandered on for some tune, i^en, nnperceived by the enraptnred 
Christoval, his fair companion gradually approached that portion of the palace idlotted 
to Pepe de Castro. They entered, the Don started. 

" Lovely Catalina," exclaimed he, " it is pleasing to follow in your footsteps, bat 
itay, let me ask where do yon guide me." 

'^ It is bat a mission from the Qaeen— a mandate for Pepe, her fool," replied she^ 
DoD Christoval shrank back from following her. 

** What!" cried the astonished fair one, "can a Spaniard who has travelled ia 
aj loved fatherland be so wanting in the gentle art of gallantly as to decline esoort- 
iog a Donoa on an embassy to a fool ?" 

Christoval saw that his honour, as a courtier, was at stake; but brave soldier 
tlumgh he was, he liked not to thrust himself into the lion's den, by entering any part 
of the usurpress* paUoe, accompanied by a lady of her court; and though he was no6 
aware^ that ought of the approaching revolt was known, yet his conscience forbade 
liim to speak fineely to Isabella's friends, and he seemed to think that every guard 
was prepared to take him prisoner; he however proceeded, Pepe was in readiness to 
noeive them, Catalina presented him with a sealed packet, supposed to have been 
■ant by the Qaeen, as an excuse for visiting him; and, complaining of fotigue, threw 
herself into a chair. Pepe then sought his guitar, on which he played for the amuse« 
ment of his visitors; after which, he desired refreshment to be brought; whilst they 
were partaking of it, Catalina, unpractised in deceit, looked hesitatingly around her 
Pepe attracted Christoval's attention, and she with a trembling hand pUiced, nnper-, 
oeived, the contents of a small box into the goblet of wine Christoval was drinking. 
The powder which the box contained, had the effect of lulling off into a state of 
iBsensibility whoever drank the liquid with which it might be mixed. 

A few moments sufficed to show its power on Christoval; he sank hito a deep 
deep, and was conveyed by order of Pepe Uito amothftc %v>s\xu(iofi^^ ^^i^D^t^ ^^&^ ^»». 



she, whom once the semblance of a lear 

Appalled, an owlet's laram chill'd with dread. 

Now views the column — scattering bay'net Jar, 

The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 

Stalks with Minerra's step where Mars might quake to tread. 

It was midnight Pepe de Castro was slowly approaching the Palado d« ^ 
ToledOi but none coold know him in his disguise, the limping, gaping idiot was 
transformed into a yoathfhl, graceful Don. One low door alone gate aoeess to thi 
conspirators; it was guarded by two men masked, mufiSed in doaks, with their hsti 
Blenched over their faces, he gave the password, and entered nnqueetioDed. lo a 
Tast saloon, in the very interior of the building, were assembled the flower of tbs 
Spanish nobility, dispersed m groups about the room; some were oQQTersing tqgetbor 
in low whispers, others more fiery and impetuous, spoke loudly, and with ezdtad 
gestures, while here and there fear might be seen painted on the pallid ooontenanoai 
of some who would be royalists, but trembled before the overwhelmmgttre^gUisf 
Toledo's faction. 

The Archbishop seated himself at the head of the table, and laid before hii 
fellow plotters the plan of the intrigue ; he had scarcely concluded when Pepe railed 
his eyes and beheld the same form enter the room that he bad seen the night 
previously leave Villena's palace; twice he could not be deoeived^iio. Inside 
Villena threw back her hood; an expression of delight borst from the lips of tbA 
plotters; she advanced slowly. 

" I bring you help," she cried, " a body of the bravest men in Spam have upon 
to place Jnana on her ancestral throne.'* 

^^ Stay ! can they be trusted, Donna Inez ? * exclaimed the wary Toledo. 

" They shall answer in their leader," said Inez; and taking asihrerhomfireai tilt 
folds of her dress, she blew a gentle bUst The brigand, and the lover entersd the 

"Captain Jayme, the bandit chief!" cried nnanimonsly the whde asstoiblj* 
He fell on his knees and swore to place Juana on the throne of Castille, or die. 

Pepe was totally unprepared to learn that the intrigue he expected to have cut 
off in its infancy, had already reached maturity. The following night was fixed §ot 
an attack to be maae on Isabella's palace by Jayme's men, and troops of insmgenti 
collected from all the towns and villages in Castillo, were to arrive and aid time 
wily conspirators. 

'* This must be stopped at once," thought Pepe. ** Let the rebels meet, and 
take us by surprise, and we shall be overthrown." 

He discovered the rendezvous of Juana's followers; it was some leagues fitn 

the city, and the road lay through a thick woody country, he therefore resolved to 

make known his observations to Isabella, and to advise her to convey secretly some 
oi her staunchest friends to the neighbourhood of the locality arranged for the 

meeting, and to place them \n axxvbTu^Yi \aV\ «^ \^ vnecc^X^^ wA thsoinMhisg upaii 

tbem, prevent them from ^oinmg; XYieVt qx^sacXaxXXscq^qc ^^sicws^. 


Morning was far advanced ere these zealous advocates in a wrong cause parted. 
Pepe returned to the palace, and the favourite on the plea of stateafiairs guned access 
to the Qaeen ere break ot day. With finnness she entered into all his schemes, and 
before the bell had rung for morning mass, troops headed hj some of her most valiant 
warriors had left the city to protect their Queen and thdr countiy's rights. It was 
well for Isabella's cause, that their march was sudden or Boderigo as a subaltern in 
her army, aud therefore unaware of the details of the plot would have bade Inez 
farewell and make her acquainted with the secret, but the Juanist fiu^n were totally 
ignorant that an enemy had been present at their midnight meeting,«and become 
acquainted with their weighty secrets. Inez felt assured of success, and again wound 
her steps to the bandit's cavern to view his men, and by her presence to encourage 
their leader. 

" Jayme," were her parting words 'ere she returned to the city, " Jayme, I repeat 
it once more, the heart, hand, and possessicms of Inez de Villena are yours so soon 
as I can say, without rebuke, *' Long live Juana, Queen of Castillo," — fight well — and 
remember she you seek to win loves not a cowardly traitor, Jayme victorious, but 
dead would be better loved by me, than Jayme vanquished and alive. Be bold, 
eourageous, and fight gallantly," she added, turning to his men, " and if your leader 
fidl in this glorious cause, in Inez de Villena behold his successor." 

The shouts of applause, raised by the brigands, added considerably to the 
excitement of this extraordinary scene. Could they resist her influence ? Could 
they help fightmg, urged on as they were by this strongly minded, this beautiful 
Donna? She knew her amount of power, and resolved in the thickest of the fight to 
appear amidst her chosen band, and excite them on to victory or death. Amidst the 
cheering of the men she waved a farewell, and in an instant disappeared in the 
forest Jayme, during her presence, remained firmly rooted to the spot, he now 
started. '^ Angel or friend, which art thou ? " he cried. " Human thou canst not be ; 
Dost thou urge me on to heaven or hell ? My gallant followers," he said, turning to 
the robbers, ' * listen to that voice ; obey its mandates ; follow wher'ere it leads. Glory 
awaits you." 

Tempestuons applause was the banditti's only answer. 


(7b be continued.^ 


Quoa mare, quoe fermm Galloe divisit ab Anglii, 
Nunc fermm jungit, none mare Joogit idem. 




[ContinDed from Page 136.] 

^'Tbe qnalitj of meroy la notstraln'd; 
It dr^peth, M the gentle rain flrom HeaTOi 
Upon the place beneath." — SHAKispxAmB. 

The Lad J Eleaoor passed an almost sleepless night Towards mociiiiig she was 
aroosed hj the soond of dmms and other warlike iDstmments. She sprang firam 
her bod and mshed towards a balcony, where she saw at a distance a doid of dut 
bat as yet she ooold disoem nothing more than some banners waving in the air; and 
from these she soon learned, that the approaching hosts was the Duke of YoHl's army. 
Directly she found this be the case, she ordered the drawbridge to be drawn np^ and 
assisted by Oswald, the steward, began to make yigorons preparattops of defence, 
fimoying that if the King's army did not come np, the castle woaM be attacked. 

While Oswald was giring directions to the men-at-arms. Lady Eleanor again went 
to the baUxmy, firam whence she saw the King's army coming np from the oppssili 
direction. In aboot half an hoar she perceiyed a movement on the King^ side^ and 
immediately she heard the report of cannon, and she soon beheld the greater part ti 
the field of St Alban's covered with smoke, bearing evidence that the homn of av3 
war had began. 

The right wing of the King's army, conmianded by the Duke of QmMmii, ww 
ioon desperately engaged with the Eari of Warwick and his troepa-^while the Dahi 
of York charged the left wing, commanded by Lord Cliflbrd— «nd the Eariof ObeIM 
attacked the Doke of Korf(^ They were not long engaged, for soon Laij EliaMr 
beheld to her dismay the Laooasterians retreating, in spite of the vmoea of the Qmm 
and her generals, who in Tarn nrged them to chaige onoe m o re th e wholaan^y was 
aoon seen flying in all directions. Poor Oswald was longing to send ancooar to tha 
retreating army, yet afraid of his yoong mistress' safety by doing so. Howviar. with 
the consent of Lady Eleanor, the whole remaining ibree was sent to the QaeHiV 
assistance, bat it was far too small either to repress the foe, or strengthen the anay, 
and Eleanor had to behold with agony the only remaining men belonging to her 
father cat to pieces by the yictorious army, who were now engaged in the parsnit 

While the Lady Eleanor was considering what she shoold now do, she heard a 
horn soonded genUy at the gate, and immediately after she was told that a yonog 
genUeman in armonr, covered with blood, demanded admittance. She ordered them 
to admit him instantly. Can it be Morland ? she thought She had not time to 
think much however, for the door opened, and Morland, bloody and woonded, entsrsd 
the room. 

<' AU is lost," exclumcd he, *' the Qoesn is defeated, the Dake of Somerset Is 

slain by Richard, the son of York, and many of the noblemen are left dead on the 

field. I have come here to help yon to fly from this castle, for fiy yon mnst^ nnkv 

jraa have moagh men to defend it." 

Ladjr Elesaor told him what she \aii OLona, anii >^i& >^«% fivc^^l ^d»Mb\BMi kft 

ia the csutle. 


'* I am 80117 70^ ^id bo," he said; "the battle was irretrieTably lost, and the 
poor fellows lost their lives for nothing, when they might have been of moch use to 
US now ; but 70a did it for the best. Bat we most now think of escape, for so soon 
as the King's troops return from the pnisnit, they will attack this castle, which 
mostsorrender, as it is now impoesible to defend it; therefore, my dearest Nelly, take 
what is absolately necessaryandlet as fly. I have horses saddled and ready below." 

Bot Eleanor suddenly exclaimed, ** Morland, where is my father? Where is 
the Earl of Oxford?" 

*'Safe,* said Morland; *'he is safe enoogh by this time. The gaUant Earl 
attempted to rally the troops, till he saw that the battle was otterly lost, and then 
fied with the others. Bat why do yon still hesitate to follow me ? " 

** What is to become of all the women in this castle, Moiiand ? " said Eleanor. 

'* Leave them," said Morland. '* For though York is a trsitor and a rascal, yet 
he woald not hort nnproteeted women. Bat now we most hasten, for I hear the 
enemy's trompets soonding a retreat from parsoing." 

There was not time to say more, as the enemy's troops were now seen in faQ 
inarch against the castle, so they told the women that, should the Dnke of York 
attack the castle, they were to open the gates to him, and beg for mercy. They 
then moonted their horses and galloped away southward, attended by the three men. 

They rode sharply on for aboat two hours, whenNelly said, " our horses will not 
be able to keep on at this pace much longer; had we not better pull up, Morland? ** 
** True," said Morland, ** but we have now arrived at our destinatkia," and he 
tuned his horse's head into a splendid avenue of ehn trees. 
** Where are we? " asked Lady Eleanor. 

"At one of the residences of the Lord Montague," said he quietly. But whea he 
saw the expression of horror on Lady Eleanor's &oe, on hearing that they were goin^ 
to the seat of one of the most notorious Yorkists of the day, he added, ** Lord Mon- 
tague is absent now, and his wife fevours the Lancastrians secretly-HM we are quite 

They had now gained the house, and rang for admittsnoe. The gate was opened 
by a grey-headed menial. 

^* Can we find shelter in this house?" said Moriand. ** We have been attacked 
by thieves, and our horses cannot proceed much ferther." 

** No, no," said the man, ** yon need not think to stuff me with your stony of 
tlueves. I be too old for that But admittance yoa shall have^ if it be my lady's 

He retired, and shortly after returned, and desired them to follow him. They 
did so, and, after passing through many large halls and magnificent apartments 
their guide threw open two folding-doors, and they found themselves in the praeenoe 
of Lady Montague. She rose to receive them, and having welcomed them to her 
mansion, and Morland having answered those questions she put to him, they were 
oooducted to baths, and then to apartments. 

The next day Morland expreesed his intenUoa <£ VeKlna%\AjS:)^%^allB»t^^' 
under the protection ofLndy Moataf^, and oC fj»n%\cKEAKSiSL V^V^^^^^^^^ 
he hedrd the Qaeen had again levied. ^fcsst^s^ 

(To be Continued.^ 



No. II, 

" To hone ! to hone I the ftandard fllei» 
The buRlet soand the call. 
The gallic Navy, stems the sea. 
The voice of battle's on the breeie 
▲rouse ye one and alL** 

Mo8t of 70a are perhaps too joaog to recollect the period I am about to nftrto^ 
between the years 1785 and 1800, bnt it was dorinfi; those stormj tunes, wliflo tbs 
whole continent was in a state of war£tre, and oar own shores in perpetual lear of a& 
inrasion bj the French— Every man who could carry arms, was in these dsfs a 
soldier. Volonteer corps were raised on every part of the coontry, and batttties o( 
eight, twelve, and sixteen guns, were erected at di£Eerent points, to protect our sbons. 
Aboat that time, I had the command of one of these batteries, with about fife and* 
twenty artillery-men, volunteers, and all belonging to the town. 

No doabt yon haye read and heard of the rebellion which took plaoe in 1745 
and which was ended by the battle of GoUoden : bat long after this, and indeed at tbs 
time I am now speaking aboat, there existed secret gradges, betwixt the Saxoo ani 
the Gael ; the former felt his saperiority of nambers, and the latter the pangp df 
woanded pride, in the fallen fortunes of his prince; henoe a Higlili^n^, and a& 
English regiment, seldom came in contact without a scnffle. On one ocoaaion part of 
a Highland regiment, and a body of English dragoons, coming into bUlefc qoarteiB ii 
the town, accidently met in the street, and the Highlanders, exasperated at tba 
taunts of the English, rushed on them with fixed bayonets, and a desperate affiif 
took place, in which three Englishmen were seyerely, and two Highlanders sUghtlf 
wounded; and the consequences might haye been still more serious, had not the High- 
landers been withdrawn to a neighbouring Tillage. Officers and men took part in tba 
a£fray , and to such a height was the ill feeling kept up, that it was fhlly expected tint 
the highlanders would march into the town from the village to attack the diagoooi^ 
who, to guard against surprise, sent out men to patrol the road daring the mglit 
towards the village, so as to be able to gallop in and give notice of their approach. 

One night, I had not been long retired to rest, when I was aroosed bj a load 
kaoddng at the door, and a voice calling out that the trumpets of the dia^^wns w«t 
Bounding to arms; my first impression was, that the Frendi had attempted to kad, 
but the night was so dismally dark I could see nothing. I however hastened to the 
batteiy, and mustered the artillerymen at their guns, to be in readiness ftr an attadc 
of any kind. All along the coast everything was quiet, no beacons lighted, nor ^g- 
nals of any kind, to indicate the approach of the enemy, yet towards the nuun itrBat 
was to be heard the trumpets of the dragoons, and the shoating of the word of eon- 
mand; I therefore resolved to go in that direction, to ascertain what was the matter, 
but, bj WMj of precautdon, I took m\k me tsu ol m^ m«ii,«stGA&'tr^^hnr mnsksti. 
WJ^ we amved, w heard, for ne coiiiaL ieauo\ii:m\E,,Vi».\ ^a»^*««»^«w%^»Bf». 


up in front of their headquarters, but for what purpose I could not ascertain 
Whilst I was considering what steps I should take, a servant girl happened to pass 
with a lantern, the light of which glanced upon the arms and brass plates of mj 
men, evidently showing us to the dragoons, for we immediately distinctly heard the 
word given to wheel, followed by " charge,*' leaving me just time to fix bayonets 
and draw up my men, with their backs against the housesj in double line, myself in the 
centre, the front rank kneeling, and both with their muskets in a position to repulse 
cavalry. I preferred double file, so as to show as little front as possible. They tried, in 
every way they could, to cut us in pieces; but from the position I had taken, and the 
darkness of the night, they could not touch us, though I certainly felt we were in 
" an awkward fix.** i called out to the commanding o£5cer, as loud as I could, telling 
him who we were; but he, from the noise and confusion, either could not, or would 
not hear me. 

Fortunately, the mul coach, which passed through the town, came in with 
lights, and stopped close to us, to change horses, the dragoons then saw theur mistake 
and withdrew, but not soon enough to save one of my men firom being severely 
wounded. The officer made many apologies to me ; bat what would that have signified 
had any of my men been killed. 

The cause of this extraordinary affair was afterwards explained. It would 
appear that two of the patrol had been out about three miles towards the village 
when they heard some one behind a hedge conversing earnestly in Gaelic They 
immediately fancied it was the Highlanders coming, and rushed off to give the alarm, 
and the scene just described took place; whereas the real cause of this was only two 
Highland tailors innocently walking towards their homes in a viUage close by. 

Ragoes Robin. 


{Related hf Herself.') 

It is now some years since the marvellous Adventures of a Drop of Water, of a 
Stone, excited our childish wonder; but we trust that the adventures, fiselings, 
thoughts, and observations (we are sorry we cannot add, the sayings and doings') of 
an artificial rose may promote hilarity, and serve to wile away a few moments in the 
somewhat more mature years of the generality of our young readers. We will 
therefore, allow the rose to speak for herself in the following narrative: — 

" I first saw the light in a Magnsin de NouveauteSy in Begent-street, under the 
auspices of the fair ouvriere, whose early years having been devoted to learning the 
art of imitating nature, her best energies were now called forth in the delicate 
arrangement of my slightly obstinate petals, and the wiry grace of the ingenious 
stem from which I was to derive that necessary support which the simpler contriv- 
ance of Dame Nature had granted to my horticultural sisters. As in the performanca 
of this pleasing office she turned me round, I cau(;lxt «i ^&cci\M ^ItscyvSiSIv^ v\sscn»c^ 
mnd, for vanitj ia not confined to regional \M\xig|s, 1 \|.t«•^Cl3 %jtosa«^ ^^'^ ^«ijcsfiw 
etm^r ofmj aUpe, the gracefol UiUesaneu mlb. nYaOok \,>aiA «^ >^xa2tt.v^^^««a^!l 



drooped isoaog tho emerald-cokmred Imtbs which formed eo oharming ft oontnot to 
the tender pink hae of mj oomplexioiL Thej aaj there Is no onallojed pleeente 
under the bright blue skj, and I soon felt the troth of this auom, when, plseed in 
the window (donbtlees, that / might attract costomen) bj the side of ft htmeh of 
likes and a boaqnet of snow-white lilies, I was doomed to hear the senseleM noails 
of the gaping passers bj, who sometimes— -aUui, for thdr want of taste actniHf 
preferred the fade beanties of mj companions to the lofdj tint of the Qdeaa cf 
Flowers. In a word, I was racked with jealonsy. Fortonatelj, this state of tidqp 
was not to kst long, for one daj, from mj commanding position in the window, t 
peroeiTed a showily and yonthfollj dressed hulj alight, with consideraUe affltty, 
from a splendid chariot, and trip lightly, with a &shionable ran, into oor shop. 1^ 
heart beat! Oh, that she might haye noticed me. Now is the time^ thoii|^ I, to 
be freed from my impertinent competitors. I felt in a flatter of anxietj; thenAn 
my joy was proportionably great when one of oar "yoong ladies,** with the wazmeik 
eakgies, placed me before the arbiter of my fitte, my fatare poss ess o r , as I lbod|y 
hoped. I had now a foil view of her hce, Ccmoeive my dismay, iHien mj gbuMO 
ie?ealed a mass of red and white paint, fidse caris, darkened eje4itowB, and the 
nsnal abominations of which a ci-devant beaaty makes nse, **pour ripttrer det tmt 
TirrSparable outraged* Was it possible that I was to andergo the hmniliation df 
being placed in the heavy, and often smgnUu'Iy obtainable tresses of a wig? Or, wsi 
I to pass my existence in nnobserved retirement among interminaUo maifli of toOi . 
and blonde? The thought was too dreadfol to be endnred. I ftit qiiito m/k sk I 
heart My nnhappy stoto most have had an eflfoet npon myoQinpleKiaii,becBaM 
when the lady looked again at me, she dedaied that I was finr too pole to sut her, sni 
little better than a blaidi rose. At theee words I heard a sappressed titter from tto 
window, which, though inandible to mortal ears, / was perfectly aware proteeded 
from my trinmphant rivals; and if the troth be told, althoagh I was heartily glid 
not to have been chosen by the object of my dread, I yet fidt, with all the inooosiflt- 
enoy ofjloral natare, somewhat oflbnded at the slight pat apon me, and the sarosstie 
jeering of my adversaries stang me to the qnick. However, I magnanimoosly coo- 
soled myself by remembering that they were beneath my notice I ! Yet, with all aqr 
philosophy, I conld not help wincing a little at the idea of enooontering their tanntiiC 
glances, when I returned, rejected, to my fonner station in the window. I was to to 
spared this additional mortification, for when at length the lady departed, aft« 
choosing a bonch of scariet poppies, which, she said, woold show off her Mumfi M ^ 
(or, rather, coald stand a comparison with her rouge'), her place was taken liy two 
other ladies, who entered the shop as she went away, and I was left on the ooonler. 

They came to order a wreath for the yoangest of the twou As mj reoent snflbr- 
ings had rendered me more sensible to the fato.of others, I anzioosly ^^mmSnmA the 
fhtareowner of the wreath. Skewaa really yooag, and so pretty withal, that, tony 
shame be it spoken, a sorotiny b^gon in a kindly feeling to the hapless wrsath, ended 
in the InttueBteayy. I figured to my-wl£ tine eBEtot I shoald make in those nm 
Socke; bo murine mj sonsftUoiiB whoi toxmni^V) 'Vues iuq^Qdmc^i^ woft^ ^\tai2\^^^ 
HunkfttuuDom, hj-the^bye, tliati mo^ WBBMMban^ «sk^ ^ Xmb^*^ 


ha^e become Tery second-rate." She bad hardlj finisbed speakiDg when sbe per- 
ceived me, and anticipating the shopwoman, she took me np, and prooonnced me, to 
mj infinite jof , the yeiy thing she wanted. Her mother assented. Accordinglj 
thej took me home with them. I onlj regretted that the silver paper in which I 
was enveloped prevented mj seeing the (no doubt) crest-&Ilen) coontenanoes of mj 
nnmannerlj rivals. Now, then, I was finally launched on the wide world. All bvelj 
feelings, however, were chased away by the high-bred and refined, bat merry societj 
of the boaqoets, wreaths, &c &c, of my mistress. Many were the tales they told me 
of the strange things they had witnessed, and informed me of the canons scenes to 
which I shoald in all probability, sooner or later, in the coarse of a London season, 
become a party. Bat to retom to the memorable evening of my inaogoration. I 
can never describe the proad happiness of then seeing myself treated ^owrding to 
my merits, without a thrill of plessore pervading my now wom-oat frame. 

(7b be OnUbmed.) 

ibaiuBCtit Song. 

Eakam dadarsfaa dhavalam, poshpavantam Udflmbaram 
Margamdadarsha vetaja matsyacam-ta payonidheh 
Tad vachanam pr ayty e t a hi parashSoam asamsayam, 
Strlnam sadftkapatTnam niyamSa api sanksta 


I 'vB seen the *Udlimbara in flower, 

White plamage on the crow, 
And fishes* footsteps in the deep 

Have trsoked throogh ebb and flow. 

If man it is who tiras asserts. 

His word yoa may believe^ 
Bat an that woman says, distrostp— 

She speaks but to deceive. 

* A plant which wlAom, \t «nK,fL«ii«E%. 


{To the Editor.) 

Madam,— The aathor of Prize Paper, No. IL, called " Napoleon at Leap Fro^," 
18 rather fikulty in his or her chronology. The date given, is *< 4th Norember, 17—.'* 
Daonaparte was only First Consul in 1799, and not proclaimed Emperor till the 
18th May, 1804, nor was he called Napoleon till that date. 

The avowed prefect of the Bouquet being to prove of inatmetive benefit to 
jonth; the sight of so glaringly wrong a date prompts me to point it oat to the 
yonthfol writer. 

Yours obediently, 

9th October, 1851. Jusncii. 

{To the Editor,) 

Madam, — As one who takes great interest in yoDr sweetly scented 
Bouquet, may I be allowed to propose that reviews of new works should be admitted 
into its pages, for whilst it will assist in making them known to the nnmerous 
supporters of the " Bouquet,'* it will, at the same time, teach youth to read with cri- 
tical feelings, and by so doing, will aid considerably in forming their own style. Not 
having presented any works of my own to the world, pray do not suppose that it is 
selfishness which actuates me. Trusting you will take this into your favorable con- 
sideration and submit it to the flowers. 

Ever yours, 
Oct. 11, 1851. Passion Flowbb. 

[There can be no objection to this, provided the works are written by Supporters 

or their friends.] 



All letters intended for insertion must be authaUicated with the nam* and 
address of the supporter. Nothing anonymous wiU be inserted. 

Page 156 — Eighth line. For cAom— read race. 
Eleventh line. For Jiere — read near. 
Nineteenlli UnA% Tot wKenr— t««A >DK«re. 
Last Une but oue. ¥« wwunA— w»ft». art. 
Page 157— Fifteenth Unc. Yot eroding— t«aa. wodvR^, 







A raJe.— The majority of Toten have decided, that Prise Paper, No. IH, 
^ The Court FaTonrite," U the moot deaerying of the priae oflfored; and that Priae 
Paper, No. IV, *' Friendship Rewarded,*' ranks second. 

A Thistlb. 

Gan the Sommer son's beam ever fade from the day f 
Can the dear Winter moon e'er relinquish her ray ? 
Can the ocean in storms cease toseatter its spray? 

Then may I cease to cherish, 

With memoy's relish, 
The name of " that dear one" now far, far away! 

Though her kind pleasant features no kmger are seen, 
As I wander alone where we both oft have been, 
In love's happy converse admiring the scene I 

Yet her name still is here! 

It enamoors the ear, 
As sweet music from Heaven, soft, sad, and serenet 

'* Maria ! "—that name has a magical spell ! 
No heart but my own can its influoMe tell I 
Its sound can aU sorrow and anguish dispell ! 

And yet grief arises. 

And often surprises 
The mind, when it thioks on ta \M0bitqcdL.^^i9E«<ii^V* 




I was seated at the npper window of a small bat rheerfol ion, in the Tieiiiity d 
Naples, flying on one of those glorioos Italian snnaets which nature seems 0DI7 to 
have fonned to call ferth the better feelinfrs of the sooL Mj thoughts had wandered fir 
back to other days. I thon^^ht oyer how numj different scenes and ages that ma 
had set — how many had gazed on it before ns ! — ^bow many would do so aftv it 
were gone ! 

The sonnd of a merry roice, beneath my window, ronsed me from my waking 
dream. I leant oat to see from whence it proceeded, and saw on the baloooy beknr 
two girls seated, beside the window that opened oat on it. One bad the black 
glossy hair, the white skin and pink cheeks, the coral lips, which oonstitate a dark 
beaaty. The other was qnite the reverse ; she was not handsome: one might almoit 
say plun, at first sight. Her paleface and regular features would ha?e been entirdj 
devoid of expression, if it had not been for a pair of blue eyes, which had sometfaiog 
singnlarly attractive about them. The former had evidently been the speakor, sad 
it was she who, in a merry voice, continued : — 

"Now, Madeleine, confess the trath. Were you not thmking of BtgiasU 

I leant still further out of the window to hear the answer, for Beginald Mortal 
was no other than my godson. It was a sweet, low voice that returned— 

**I was thinking of last night altogether; not of one thing fai partieakr 

** I might have guessed yon would deny it As if we didn*t all know yon was 
in love with each other. But don't be ashamed of it, for, as the Marohesa said iMt 
night, " He's a very fascinating, agreeable young man." 

Madeleine bad blushed before, but her colour was pale in comparison to thst 
which rushed to her cheeks as, on raiKing her eyes, she saw Beginald Morton befim 
her. Caroline burst into a merry laugh, while Madeleine endeavoured to make the 
usual salutations as if nothing was the matter; but at each word her embarrassmNit 
increased, till at last, in despair, she turned away and walked to the othor end of tbs 
balcony. Beginald was too well bred to notice this, and immediately addiessed 
himself to Caroline, but she cut him short, with — 

'* I must go and tell my aunt that you are come," leaTing her ooodn alone with 
my godson. 

Madeldne was leaning over the railing, and did not remark his approach till 
he laid his hand on her arm, and pronounced her name. She started, and tonsd to 
him. His back was turned towards me, and, although I could not hear what he said, 
I occasionally caught the sound of his voice, and saw her lip quiver. They both 
bent over the balcony, and the low sweet murmur of her answer fell, like music, on 
my ear. After a little time they entered the house; and as, in walking to the win- 
dow, her face met my view, I saw h«t beautifol blua eyes turned towtrds her lover 


with an expression which seemed to betray every feeling of her son], I wonder how I 
ooold have thought her plain. At that moment she was beantifol. 

Aa my readers may very well suppose, I did not let the afiEkir stop here. 
iThrongh young Morton I easily made their acquaintance; and on our return to 
England a warm friendship was established between our two famUies; the conse- 
quence of which was, that Madeleine's marriage was deferred for a short time, to 
enable the friends to share each others joy together; and Caroline became my niece 
on the same day that her cousin became Mrs. Reginald Morton. 



I am a shy man. What do not these words imply? Blushes, struggles, 
Awkwardness, and rude answers to civil questions. Are not these a few of many 
outward and visible signs of shyness? and are not forgetfnlness, mental confusions, 
and numberless^ ill-defined longings to sink into the earth and become annihilated 
the inward tokens of that most unaccountable of maladies ? 

Win any one inform me why, when addressed by any one, except my bosom 
fiiend, I turn the brightest vermillion? Or can they tell me, for what reason I am 
unable to answer a simple question, when it is addressed to me unexpectedly ? Why 
do I repeat it to myself, thus : — 

" Have you just arrived, Mr. D ? " 

**Have I just arrived, eh? Arrived I Have I just arrived, did you say, Mr. 

C ? Tee, sir, I said so. {Aside— I know I am bright scarlet) I — I— really, 

Mr. C 1 don't recollect." 

" How so, sir ? I mean, have you never been here before ? and have you only juit 
Qome?*' inquires my friend, much surprised. 

''Oh, no, no, I have only just come, and I never was here in my life before." 
iAside—Whj do I turn so red ?) 

"Have you seen the gardens, sir ? " 

** Seen the gardens I What I Seen the gardens ? Yes, I dare siy so, sur." 

''What? only jtM^ arrived ; never been here before I and seen the gardens! you 
dare say! Beally, Mr. D 1 " 

" What have I said ! What shall I do t Excuse me, sur, I have just zecoUeoted 
an engagement" And I retreat in consternation, merely because I was introdnoed 
by my friend to a man who asked me if I had seen the gardens t 

Have I been very rude, I ask myself? Will he call me out? He may, I philo- 
sophically remark. He may call me out ; but I will write to say that I had raHher 
not go. What do I care if the world calls me pusillanunous ? What is the world te 
me? I am tired of it. I will be a hermit at Cape Matapau. ISa^^ "oss^^ ^i»^!!^ 
travel so far by mjaeit I have a friend fitartang iot lYi'a Tiat>^ ^l ^jRRjOasi^ 'V\ks2^ 
go with Mm. I will 


I mut first take lea^e of my axmt, kind erattara. She BjmpathiBeB with mj 
infirmitj, and adriMi ma to aee mora of tba world. So oooaidonte. But aha oaaasC 
dayina what I faaL 

'^ I am going into Scotland shortlj, aunt, and am coma to wiah yoa goodbfi 
before starting, aa I may — perhapa^ — (fall atop)— 

** Well, what perhapa may yoa do next; atay there for aver? " 

" Exactly ao, annt Yoa have nnintentiflnaHy diaaovared iny intwti o n , las 
going to remain there for ever." 

I thoaght this declaration waa very impresaive, and waited a few moBMOliiB 
idlenoe, expecting to see a face of woe, bathed in teara I My aant waa grinniog torn 
ear to ear. She signed to me to ait down, while ahe delivered the foUowiagontiaifr— ■ 

** I have long expected this, and can tell what haa paaaad in your brain as mI 
or better, than yoorsalf. From an early and intimate knowledga of yoqr ubaraBtr 
I have long known the martyrdom yoa aaffsr. Tou call it ahyneaa; /oall ifc vanilj*'' 

** Vanity I Me vain ? Why I am poaitively prood of my homilitj.'' 

" Year vanity," said my annt, "and vexation of apirit" 

** TVae, qoite trae; great vexation of spirit," I thonght. 

" Yoa may not believe me. No vain person believes himaalf to be lo^ or, I tnit 
he woald altar. I will give yon, if yoa wiah, three gdden rnlea to prwvant sl^aafc 
Follow them implicitly, and yoa will need no hermitage. The first it: Nevtr fitf 
offfourself; the aeoond. Fix pour attention on what ia aaid to joa; tiia tloi, 
BecoOect that yomr troiMet wiU he effaoedfrom the earth m a hmmifi ml fmt 
or lets,** 

I thanked her, and left, determined to have one straggle mora. I finnd ei ay 
xetom an invitation to a gay party, which I onhesitatingly aooeptad. I eotsnd|lki 
room, and shook hands with my hostess. All the overpowering fa^iingB of 
came npon me. I was on the point of making an attempt to retreat. 

All at once I started at an immense crash. A table with many 
fallen. Providential accident I I ran to raiae it; and whan I had raatorad il tain 
normal condition, I began an easy conversation with my noghbonra on the solgsst d 
the accident, at the conclosion of which I fonnd that I had been foUowiaig two g^^ 
annt's mles. I was not thinking of myself, and waa absorbed by my entsrtaidL 
neighboor's account Towards the close of the evening, however, I maide a mislsti 
which overwhelmed me again in the terrors of shyness, and seamed as if it woaU hnv 
driven me. Aristides-like, into exile, self condemned. 

Like that great man, my condemnation was written in an oyster abaU, wUeh, ii 
awkwardly handling a plate fall, fell npon the delicate attire of my hnataaa Bat 1 
consoled myself by the reflection, that certainly before a hnndrad yean that iB 
dress woold be a dress no more, and that my hostess, her gnoata^ and owtsiil^ 
myself woald be dead and forgotten. 

The idea strnck me. I felt poetically inspired, and taking a hasfy ksve, wsi 
home to write an epitaph on my departed shyness. 





I am now an old man, and many are the soenes of sorrow and of joj to which I 
htere been witness, and manj are the strange li£9 histories I oonid relate, far exceeding 
&i «xtrafaganoe the wildest romances. They have imprinted, too, deep, stem lessons 
an my heart, snch as are only learnt in the hard school of experience. 

Bat none are so indelibly written on my memory as the short tale I am about to 

^ ftl>tc, partly, perhaps, because the actors in it it were near and dear to me, and 

^. pirllj because it first led my thoughts to serious things. Edward Ne?ille had been 

^ ftmn boyhood my greatest friend, and his commanding intellect and strong will ruled 

[*. completely my less powerful mind, while my a£foction and esteem fbr him led me to 

unbrace his ideas and opinions. Honourable, generous, good-tempered, endowed with 

ttwtrj high and noble quality, there yet lay a canker-worm within which destroyed 

tfM beautiful flower— this was Infidelity. His fiOher was an Atheist, and the son had 

inbibed the same firightful doctrines, and I, too, had learnt to scoff with him at 

i . t i wi| th ing holy or di?ine. At the time I mention we had just entered on the busy 

^ SMDesofBfe, and Edward was to go abroad in a month's time, 80 he came to pay me 

^ A ftrewell Tisit at my father's house in the country. There liyed near us a fiunily of 

\. tfM name of Rivers, with whom we had always liyed on the most intimate footing^ 

and it was with no littie pride I introduced to them my friend, in whom I expected 

Hm worid would, like me, see perfection; their praises of him were as ardent and 

^ ainoen as I could have wished, and scarcely a day passed without our meeting. I 

g}^ ison discovered there was an object of attraction above all others which brought my 

j^ iHend so often within the walls of Thomcliflfo House; and the magnet was Agatha 

I BfvcfS, apparentiy the least striking of the whole fiuniJIy. There were numy daughters 

'f-* ^ that house, all remarkable for thdr brilliant beauty and striking talents, excepting 

^gatiiMj who was a complets contrast; with no pretensions to heanty beride her more 

iliowy sistsrs, hers was yet a fiice one loved to gaze on from ito gentle, sweet expies- 

iioOi and ey^ so full of tenderness and sympathy. Her asters all loved and petted 

bar, perhape because she was the youngest^ and, probably, these mixed with thmr 

iflbction a knowledge she could not stand in competition with thdr greater atfarao« 

twos. It was one evening shortiy before the time fixed for Edward's departure, wtt 

irers dining at Mr. Biver^s, and at dmner, my firiend broached some of his atheisdoal 

£ epfaiioBs; they all looked rather diocked, bnt were soon lost in admiration of his elo- 

^pMDoe and force of language— «11, excepting Agatha. Never shall I finget hsr 

expression, the horror, the pain, ahnost anguish, depicted on her connteoanoe^ whila 

her £Mie lost the fiuntest tinge of colour. Edward, too deeply eogrossed in his snbjeott 

did not notice the change ; after dmner I told him of it with some anxiety, but he 

merely laughed at what he termed my fimcy. The day before his departure he went 

to bid the Rivers good bye; and at a late hour that evening he told me in hunM(d.«&&w 

broken accento that Agatha had refosed bim, unit tran. ^vdN. tjL %SMiQ«sc^>s^' 

aoaaaatufbia Mtbmtml cpinions. A yesx oc \mQ ^imm^ ^u— \^nB&BE»i^^^«>i^ 


from Edward Kerille, and his letters wore a shade of melaiicholj I nerer saw beToiei 
Circumstances also called me for some time from mj home, and I heard no more oC 
the Rivers fiunily. At last I aj^ain visited mj &ther^8 house, and on enqturing after 
the neighbourhood I heard AgathA had been in a declining state of health for a kog 
while, and it was feared her life coold last bat a very short time. I went next dajto 
see them ; they all looked sad and serious, and on inquiring after the invalid, they 
said Agatha had expressed a wish to see me. On entering her room I was shocked at 
the change sickness had made in her appearanoe— she was so thin, and her eyessboM 
with painful brilliancy, and seemed twice thehr natoial size, while her cfaedci glowed 
with a brighter oolonr than they ever were in her days of health and happiness; bat 
her smile was sweeter than ever as she welcomed me; and each an eapieeeinn d 
patient meUmoholy ripened in her countenance, I could soaroe repcess my lefts fios 
falling. Her sister left us, and we were alone. A pause ensued, for I knew the sob- 
ject wluch must be nearest her heart as well as mme, and yet I did not Teotore ts 
begin. At last she spoke, and asked me if I had heard from Mr. NeviUe ktelj? I 
replied I had— that he was well ; but to judge from the melancholy tone of his Mn, 
far from happy. Another silence ensued, at last she again spoke, " I had hoped to 
have seen him once again before my days were ended, or at leaet heard of a efaanga 
in his opinions. I feel sure his eyes will at last be opened to see the Troth, botitii 
a happiness I shall not see. But tell him, Arthur, that from the time he kft us till 
my latest breaOi, I have never ceased to pray for him. I shall not live to witness tbe 
fruit of my prayers, but you, my dear Arthur, will, and I hope^ nay, I foel son^ wt 
shall all meet in a happier world." The next day I went again to oaU, and wasshovs 
into her room; she was just recovering from a fiunting fit, and was too 111 to speak; 
another and another succeeded, and at last from one deep swoon she never awQkB--her 
gentle spirit had passed away. I was leaving the house, now fhU of mooming asd 
sorrow, when I heard carriage wheels, and soon after a man's vwoe, whidi I recog- 
nised as Edward's; immediately after he brushed past me, rushed up stairs, and ibm% 
still lying on the sofa, there met his eyes the inanimate form of his beloved; but tin 
scene rises up in all its vividness — ^I cannot bear to dwell <m it. It anfifoss tsei^ 
that my friend, convinced of his errors, had embraced Christiaiuty, and was ntaaatg 
to see if Agatha's heart was still his own, when, hearing in the neighhonring town of 
her alarming illness, he had quickened his speed, but in vain, and only arrived to bh 
his fears verified. He survived Agatha a year, and met his death in endeavouiiq; to 
save a drowning man. Mysterious and inscrutable ways of Providence 1 Why obbio 
good and holy was not permitted to see the answer to her prayers, we cannot tall; 
and when musing on these things the words of the Poet are recalled to mj mind^ 

" Oh, though oft depressed and lonely. 
All mj fears are laid aside 
If I but remember only 
Such as these have lived and died.** 





(After Lambnnaib.) 
God guide thee, desolate child ! — God guide thee, helpless orphan ! 

I HAVE wandered through aifferent 
lands, and many strange faces have 
returned mj gaze; they passed — I was 
onlmown. The orphan is eyerywhere alone. 

I have seen the village children, merrily 
singing, trip down the vale to meet their 
father. I have seen him retam their 
caresses, and I whispered to myself, " Ah, 
happy are those who, loving and beloved, 
can sit round a cheerfol hearth with a 
father^B arm to saccoar them, and a 
mother's smile to cheer them." The 
orphan is everywhere alone. 

I see the leaves fallen from the tower- 
ing oak, blown and scattered by the 
wind. I, too, am tossed about, but what 
matter ? The orphan is everywhere alone. 

I hear the children's joyful laugh, as 
during the long summer evening they 
play on the green sward, and making 
garlands of the wild flowers, twine them 
in their mother's hair. Alas ! I have no 
mother! The orphan is everywhere 

The young swallows, chirping in their 
nest, await the return of the parent bird; 
but the orphan is everywhere alone. 

As the Petrel follows the sailing bark 
on the stormy main, so is the orphan on 
life's sea. The orphan is everywhere 

Yon fair-haired girl, whose arm en- 
circles another's waist, calls her by the 
endearing name of Sister. I have no 
sister. The orphan is everywhere alone. 

Some passing ask, " Child, why weepest 
thou?" I reply because I am alone on 
earth ; the most compassionate ezclum, 
''Poor child," and continue their way. 
The orphan is eve r ywhere alone. 

I sigh in vain for a being to love. Sym- 
pathy ! compassion I pity ! have ye faded 
as roses in the summer's scorching sun ! 
I am solitary in this vast world full of 
souls. The orphan is everywhere alone. 

They tell me orphans are the Virgin's 
own peculiar care. Sainted Mary, re-assure 
me I No one cares for me. The orphan 
is everywhere alone. 

, The beasts that co^ld roam in the 
forests, and the birds that would be happy 
in the air, are petted by the wealthy and 
the great; but the orphan is everywhere 

Oh! cease thy wailing, fragile chUd --believe thou hast a Father; the orphan is 
not alone. Life is but a winding path of thorns. Behold far off thy wished-for home ! 
See angels hold a crown of roses to place on thy fair brow. Orphan ! arise — take up 
thy lute, and sing a song of praise. Thy Father will not abandon thee; his love 
has secrets^ thou canst not reveal. Believe, hope, continue thy pilgrimage in peace. 

God guides the helpless or\|baa« 




On tf|e Beatf) of Xa'JBut%tti»t ^' ^njB^onlemt • 

Mabde Thebbsb of France has braftthsd h«r lasi|; 
A Wtci pietj and grief is past. 
This an^^ daoghter of a martyr king, 
In heaTen new with ooantleBS saints does mn^ 
She died a Christian and in lore with aDf 
She hless'd her fbes, e'en those who cansed her fiill* 
In Frsnoey oh! what din changes has she seen, 
Toss^dat caprice of ftrtone has she been; 
Bnt through them all she liTed a saintly life, 
Nor raised a mnnnnr at those scenes of striib 
Which robbed her of a home in her own land, 
A mothor's love, a father's guiding hand. 
La Dochesse d' AngoolSme has gone to meefc 
Her martjr fiunily at the mighty seat 
Of him, who to himself the weary takes. 
She now from out the world her exit makes^ 
Borne np on high npoo seraphic wings, 
The hallelnjah kiad 'm heaven she sings. 
There all her earthly griefs are tnmed to joy— 
Of heav^ pleasares she tastes witheot alloy; 
She who in life to Christ's dear Cross did ding, 
In death she lives with the celestial King. 
Sons of bright France t 'tis justice bids yon wake: 
Up! np! arouse ye, one and al), and make 
Henri Cinq monnt the Boorbon's lofty throne f 
Snspend yonr arms, let peace's joyfhl tone 
FrocUim thronghont the world that Henri's king: 
Men win rejoice, the mutjv"^ cms vriU sing. 


Xr" incoflnits* 

Nobil rosa anoor non orebbe 

Senza spine in snUo stek): 
Se Ti fosse aUor sarebbe 

Atta immagine di to. 
£ la Inna in mezzo al cide 
BeUa d Tcr, ma passeggiera: 
Passa ancor la PiimaTera: 
Ahl Vimmagyatoado?'^? 



In antipftthies we all resemble each oUier, 

For some dislike one thing and some dislike t'other* 

Thoogh in antipathies all don't agree, 

111 tell yon some things that I don't like to see: 

An orergrown dray-hoose as thin as a rat, 

A beggar withont any rim to his hat, 

A wife and her hosband who never agree, 

Are things, I oonfess, that I don't like to see. 


I can't bear a hat that^s without any nap^ 

And a little black baby withont any cap. 

Or a child with its hands all coTered with dirt, 

Keep mbbing its fingers all o?er yonr shirt. 

Antipathy strong I confess that I feel 

At the sight of boil'd motton and nnderdone real, 

Or oranges sack'd by a child at a play, 

Or a num bnttoo'd np on a very hot day. 


I hate to see animals palling thmr meat» 
Or a girl that is pretty with reiy large feet 
I hate to rise early before it is light, 
Or to see a black woman all drest np in whiteti 
I don't like to see a man shabby inelined, 
With his haur hanging orer his collar behind, 
An old woman's bonnet with flowen beneath, 
Or a man laughing hearty without anj teeth. 


I hate to see girls who are reokon'd genteel, 
With stockings all wrinkled and shoes down aft heel. 
I hate to see collars without any starch, 
Or to go for a month down to Brighton in Marehf 
Or an iil-temper'd hnaband who's seolding his wift^ 
Or a man eating peas with the end of his knife^ 
Or attempting to Bing m^^ou^Viuswa^^v^'osiKft-t 
Or an orergrown bo? Va iLT«n \Ai(^V^oiX« 



I hate an old fool who is witfy inoHned, 

And a man with a hat that's all tom'd up behind; 

I hate to eat sausages Tery near raw, 

Or to hare a child tickle one's nose with a straw ; 

A prosy old fellow with frolic and whim, 

Telling you an old stoiy jon ttnce told to him. 

Or ngly old^women without anj caps, 

Or a man npoo horseback withoat any straps. 


I hate to see people abnsing each other, 

And a man running one ?ra7 and looking the other, 

Or to see (when it's cold as you well can desire) 

A rery large man with his back to the fire; 

An old man of serenty flying a kite, 

In a pair of drab trousers wash'd yery near white. 

I hate to see any one ride with a stick. 

Or a man with his nails bitten down to the quick. 


I saw an infimt-^health, and joy, and light 

Bloomed on its cheek, and sparkled in its eye; 

And its fond mother stood delighted by 

To see its mom of being dawn so bright, 

Again I saw it, when the withering blight 

Of pale disease had fallen, moaning lie 

On that sad mother's breast— stem Death was nigh. 

And life's yoxmg wings were fluttering for their flight. 

Last I beheld it stretched upon the bier. 

Like a £fur flower untimely snatched away. 

Calm and unconscious of its mother's tear, 

Which on its placid cheek unheeded lay; 

But on its lip the unearthly smile ezpress'd, 

** Oh ! happy child ! untried and early blest." 


in t^e iAannet of p^tvtitii. 

Cool and fresh from mossy dell 
Scented with the sweet hare-bell, 
Softly breathes the morning air 
Drooping with the fragrance rare: — 
Cool and fresh from mossy dell, 
Morning air I I love yoa well ; 
Bat I know, though sweet and fair, 
Sweeter breath beyond compare. 

Beautions sinks the son to rest 
Blushing on the ocean's breast 
Tinging with love's ruddy beam 
Cloud and mountain, grove and stream :- 
Blushing sun I I love thee best, 
When thy glories gild the west, 
But I know a cheek whose hue 
Far more beauteous is than thou. 

Calmly floating in the sky, 
Bathed in liquid brilliancy. 
What can purer radiance give 
Than the dewy star of eve ?— > 
Star of eve I you brightly lie 
With your sisters in the sky ; 
But I know where beams by far 
Brighter eye than any star. 

Deep beneath the ocean's flow, 
Columns of red coral grow; 
Twisted coral, jewel rare. 
Fit to deck a mermaid's hau':^ 
Gem of ocean ! though you glow 
Buddy from your depths below, 
Lips there are that would not £ul 
Soon to turn your lustre pale. 

Dear to Switaer's homenBiok eyes. 
Snowy white the Alps arise. 
And the brightest scene he knows, 
Ice-bound rock and winter shows:— 
Snowy Alps! the breast I prize 
With thy own in whiteness vies, 
And alas I Us \iQaxl i^l &\i(SQ!& 
Js as ohUUng aa XYivcA q^xl. 


Whjabore all nature blatt, 

Cruel beaatiee ! break mj rest? 

Balmj breath that love ioapiree, 

Cheek that glows with capid*s fires, 

Lips so waiting to be prest, 

Eye so pore and snowy brsast— 

Add a heart to ease mj pain. 

Or resome yonr gifts again* Sloe. 

Faib child, while gazing oo thj seraph iaos, 
Methinks thy fatore destinj I trace; 
lis written oo that high and thonghtfiil brow. 
And shining in these dai^ ejes efen now. 
No sporti?e nurth, no type of ea^ yonth, 
Discern we there, safe hinooeDoe and tnith! 
Thy &TVite bud lies tranquil oo thy breast, 
Calm, as within her own soft, happy nest. 
Well hast thoa chosen for playmate meet the dofe, 
Emblem of parity, constancy, and lore I 
Thy love will be a fiuth no power can change, 
Nor fortune's frowns or smiles one hour estrange. 
To shed o*er happiness a glorious light. 
But shining in advernty most bright. 
Welcome and beantiftd it will then appear 
lake winter flowers, when all around is drear. 
And when lifo's pilgrimage is nearly o*er. 
When soon the foeUe pulse shall beat no more. 
Not to be Tanquished, stronger still in death, 
Twin mmgle blessings with the parting breath ! 
And, when the heart it warmed lies cold and dead, 
Oh think not that its influence has fled! 
For when it is recalled from earth to hesTeo, 
A holier, purer power to it is giyeo 
To soothe the anguish of the breaking heart, 
And bid despur and murmuring depart 
And when, at night, m silence flows the tear. 
It whispers, ** Comfort thee, for I am near; 
An angel now, IVe power to guard thee stOl, 
Then bow thee, loved ooe^ to our Father's wilL 
Wish me not back from scenes of constant bhss, 
To share again in sorrow such as this! 
A little while, and ui the reahns above^ 

WoU aiiig, nxutod, iraae tn^YuMinnXi Vn^V 




[Continaed from Page I97J 

After parting with Edith, the smuggler strode with rapid steps through ths 
angled boshes in the direction of the cavern. It maj be as well here to state that 
after his flight from the " Haunted Tower,** he and his followers had taken a trip to 
Holland, partly to escape pnrsnit, shonld any be made, and partly to obtain more con- 
traband goods. On his retnm he discovered the sabterraneons cavern. Overjoyed 
with the discovery, the smngglers took possession of it, and there eflbotoally con- 
cealed themselves and their stores. Bat the nndaonted leader not finding their trado 
sofficiently profitable, became also a highwayman, and every night led a chosen por- 
tion of the band, mounted on blood horses, to the high road, where they demanded 
*' Their money or their lifs " of the inmates of any carriage that passed. 

Snch was the life of the robber whom Edith had twice enooontered, and whom 
we left returning to his subterraneous habitation. He was ahready in the thickest 
part of the wood, dark with oak and holly, when, oo an opening in the ghule a monk 
of the monastery of — stood suddenly before him. Undecided whether to seize 
him or escape, the robber stood for a moment irresolute, but in that moment the 
priest had advanced and said in a low tone, ** If thou wonldst ever again see thy 
mother, foUow me; she is dying." There was a start; the robber leant against a tree, 
and repeated again, *' My mother." There was not much in these two words, but 
what a depth of agonised feeling did it disclose. 

Twelve years ago Bory 0*Shannon had run away from his home, and his mother, 
a poor Irish woman, who lived in Connanght, she it was who had nursed the unfor- 
tunate Earl de Lancey, and Bory 0*Sbannon was his foster brother. He had always 
been a wild lad, and at seventeen he had privately joined a gang of smugglers, with 
whom he had become intimate; he had remained with them ever since, and the lasl 
six years as their captain. These few words of the monk brought viridly before him 
the home of his boyhood — ^his six brothers — above all, his mother— his mother, whom 
he had deserted in her poverty, could he but see once again; and, turning impetu- 
ously to the monk, he desired him to lead on, if it was to the gates of the grave ! 

Father Ambrose cjossed himself, and walked on, but soon found it impossible to 
keep in advance, for the rapid strides of the impatient Irishman continually out- 
stripped him; and finding himself surrounded by a perfiM^ mase of paths, formed by 
the deer, the monk paused to reconnoitre, very much puzzled to know whieh way 
to go. 

" Where is she," asked the bandit, " in the forest, or beyond it?" 

" In a small cottage about a mile out of it, by the village of . " 

** I know it well," returned the other. ** I will guide you myself," and, seizing 
the priest, who was old and feeble, by the arm, he struck into one of the ^ath&^«9s^ 
by a succession of windings arrived at Ui« boic^wt <^l ^^ Sssrai^ '^\&(^'Vi^'^ <»> VsScni^ 
oi' distrust bad come over him, the tobW sviM«aVj ^^^^oaw^^vsA^sw^ \x5sssi>Mk'SF^ 


a loaded pistol, as he taid in a low stern Toice, " Old man, I think 70a dare not de- 
ceive me; if this storj merely an invention to allore me to mj destmction? If so 
(and he cocked his pistoO^fyoa know year fate. Lead on.** 

" I swear it is the truth/' said Father Ambrose, ** bnt dress yonrself in this 
(hancUng him a bundle, in which was a laboarer*s smock frock and oil-skin hat), or 
yoo may be suspected." 

The robber doffisd his cap and waving plume, donned the peasant's attire, and in 
ten minutes more they were at the door of a rude hut, where, on a truckle bed, lay 
the dying woman. She did not appear to observe their entrance, until tha bandit 
threw himself before her, beseeching her to forgive her son. 

Then she started np in her bed, and with a shudder of horror exdaimed, " Call 
me not mother; I deserve it not ; I have abandoned my sod. Holy Father, hear my 

^ Nearly thuly yesrs ago the Earl de Lanoey, then an in&nt, was brooght to 
me to nurse; he remained with me four years; then he was sent for. A thought 
crossed my mind*— others had done so before. I sent my otim boy Bory to be brought 
up as the earl; he would then be rich, instead of starving in a cabin, and I kept you. 
Earl de Lancey, and brought yon up as my son. A heavy punishment I have en- 
dmud — my poor boy was murdered, and I was deserted by my foster child. Oh, my 
Bory, your blood is on my hands— your mother's hands; 7 have murdered you. 
Yes, when you Harold de Lancey deserted me, and four of my boys were dead, I 
begged my way to England to see my son again. I brought with me some poison for 
rats, which I sold to get my bread. One day, Mr. Belmont, as the present earl thai 
was, came to me, and bought some of me — I little knew what for. That very day my 
poor Boderick was poisoned.** She covered her face with her hands, and remained 
some time silent, during which a number of villagers had assembled round the hut; 
then, starting up, she exdaimed, '* Bevenge, revenge, I will have it — ^I will betray the 
aflflnnnin. Bear witness all around — Mr. Belmont murdered my boy, and I add the 
p(nson. I swear before you all, this man is Harold Earlde Lancey. Can you fivgive 
me, my lord ? " continued she, turning to the young man. 

" From the bottom of my heart." 

" Then, revenge, my poor Bory," said the dying woman, and, sinking back in the 
bed with her son's name on her lips, Kathleen O'Shannon breathed her last 

For more than an hour Harold the earl sat in the chamber of death, his thooghts 
wandering back to his childhood from his father, whom he had never seen, to his lying 
concealed, a lawless smuggler, in the Tower that should have been his own— to his 
unde, Mr. Belmont, who, when at dead of night he had entered his room, thought the 
image of his living nephew the spirit of a murdered one. Long, long, he sat; and as 
he gazed upon the icy features of his dead nurse, it was with deep feeling of thank- 
fulness that she was not a deserted mother. 

The priest was praying over the dead women, so his meditations were undis- 
torbed. Suddenly he started up, and throwing one last glance upon the corpse, he 
datied from the cottage, and was booh i^\\mg^ m \]ki<^ "nvAi da^tha of the New 


Then the shrill whistle of the leader of the band echoed through the vault, the 
trap-door flew open, and with a shoot of joj the smugglers welcomed their captain, 
who, from his long absence, they feared had been taken prisoner; but waving his 
hand to impose silence, he told his tale in these words:— 

*' My friends and companions, I am now going to leave yon; yon have all heard 
my history as far as I know it myself, but I have this day learnt from her whom I 
supposed my mother, that /, not my unfortunate foster brother, am the Earl de 
Lancey. He^ not I, was the true Roderick O'Shannon. She changed me for her own 
son ; he was poisoned by my uncle, Mr. Belmont I have sworn to avenge him; I 
will keep my oath. Twelve years of my life I have lived with yon— six as your 
leader; and now I leave you for ever, but never shall you be molested by ' Harold the 
Earl,* who will remember the time when he was ' Bory the smuggler.* I shall never 
forget you, my brave fellows, though I may not see yon agun." 

He paused, a deep silence followed ; a faint cheer was raised, but died away on 
their lips — all felt the parting from their brave and noble leader. He held out his 
hand, they crowded to press it; he then begged them to appoint his lieutenant as 
their future captain, which they promised. Next moment he was gone. 

De Lancey after wrote to his uncle, relating the circnmstances, and teUing him 
that he was aware of his guilt. 

His servant carried this letter to his room; and on coming in an hoar after, found 
the murderer of his supposed nephew stretched lifeless on the floor, with an unloaded 
pistol lying near him — he had fallen by his own hand. 

I will here account for Father Ambrose so quickly finding the robber in the 
forest. The poor Irish nurse, E^athleen O'Shannon, finding herself dying, sent for the 
priest to confess her sins; and with that unaccountable second sight which sometimes 
appears in such cases, she had directed Father Ambrose to the very spot where her 
foster son would be. As we have said, the monk found him, and he heard the fiital 
secret from her lips. He had her remains honourably buried in the churchyard of 
the village of C , and 

'* Thej made her a grave where the sonbeams rest. 
When they promise a glorioos morrow ; 
They'll shine o'er her sleep. like a smile from the west, 
From her own loved Island of sorrow."— Mooix. 

Scarce a year has passed away, and a grand fete is taking place at EUmamoek 
Castle in honour of the marriage of Harold Earl de Lancy with Edith Villiers. By 
some extraordinary chance he has fallen in with her again in rather a more respect- 
able character than before. A short time after he was an accepted lover. It was ths 
anniversary of that day three years before that he had passed through her room a 
hunted and lawless smuggler during his sojourn in the '* Haunted Tower." 





(Contiiitted fttnn page 201.) 

** Her lover dnks ; ahe ahedi no iU-timed tear ; 
Her chief is aUin— ahe fllla hia yacaat poat--CBXLi>B Habouk 

On Don ChriatovaTs retam to oonsdoiunflaB on the morning feUowini; tbei 
able meeting at Toledo's palaoe, bis Texation knew no boonds; he foUj belieived himself 
betrayed, and cnraed the hoar that he had been led by the fasoinatiiig Catalina; nor 
could Pepe sacceed in oon^cing him that it was kindness akme, he bong in a state 
of inebriation, that prevented him from allowing him to depart. ChristOTal, howevery 
saw argument was madness, and resolved to awut a more fitting season for his n- 
yenge. ** Could I expect ought elae," he cried, '' from a Donna tatored in the deap 
artfulness of Isabella's court ? " But other events reUting more nearly to Chrisfeo- 
vaTs safety now took up his attention. The very night fixed by the Joaoist fiutioB 
for the execution of their dark plot was likewise chosen by a rabble band, headed by 
the actor Lopes, to attack Don Christoval's mansion. The load yells and awfal 
shrieks of the populace were more frightful than the war-cry of the savage Indiana. 
Christoval's house was surroundedf and three murderous-looking wretches had under- 
taken to drag him forth, and deliver him over to the infuriated crowd. Though fillad 
with domestics, his house was unprotected; none loved thnr master— none would 
have cared had be been torn to atoms by wild beasts. He calmly listened to the 
people's shouts— 

'* They dare not touch a child of Spain," said he. 

" Christoval de Vallassa will know that anon," said one of the raflkns, who thai 
entered the apartments, as he seised the Don. Christoval, who was no coward, re* 
solved to make a vigorous resistance; but three strong villains, bought each night to 
do deeds of blood, and, therefore, well practised in their art, overcame the anfortunate 
Christoval, and led him forth to their blood-thirsty companions. The city now 
resounded with the most awful calls; the night was dark, and well adapted to deeds 
of horror. The bandits had just entered the city, and the cry of Abajo la Rema 
was mixed with the yells of the populace; the torches carried by the mob threw eat 
a glaring light, and exposed to view the ruffian-like countenances and savage expres 
sions of the murderers of Christoval, while in the distance might be seen akwiy ad- 
rancwg the troop of robbers, tbeir plumea af!^ta.\»i Vj tha wind; and at the same 
tdme the bright armoar of lBabe\W& wA.d\«n ^\aii«^ \fiK& «0k^ ^^MK^v^^^^^a^^ 


the torches fell on the forms of those who guarded her palace. To complete the 
scene, the wind howled fearfully, peals of thunder shook the foundation of the citj — 
forked lightning aided the torch light to show the three warlike bands. A storm 
arose to shake the earth with fury — a storm arose to shake the Spanish throne. The 
Juanists and the Royalists both thought it a great omen, both £uicied in it to see the 
otbers downfall. The unfortunate Ghristoval was condemned to undergo the worst 
of deaths— delivered over to the clamorous mob; they tore him limb from limb — they 
shivered his skull to atoms; and mothers with their infants sleeping in their arms 
dashed through the crowd to aim a blovratthe unlucky man, and returned bespattered 
with his blood. Don Ghristoval de Vallassa was launched into eternity, unconfessed 
without a prayer — ^no tears were shed for him — no priest was found to offer masses for 
his soul. These bloodthirsty wretches were not yet satisfied ; they had tasted bloody 
and would drink more of it. The bandits had attacked the palace of then: Queen ; 
they rushed to aid her — to protect her cause. The shrieks increased in fury. 
'* Abajo la reina" was drowned by " Viva IsabellaJ" The conspirators are con- 
founded. Where are their country friends ? The bandits alone were at their post. 
Toledo and Villena wait in vain. Death's awful hand is on the foes. The insur- 
gents, met that day by Isabella's soldiers, were cut to pieces — ^not a man was left to 
tell the tale. Hark ! afar off the conquering army comes ; it unites its war-cry to the 
others, and flies to protect its country and its Queen. Slaughter, too awful to 
describe, is committed in the streets. The lightning glares on pools of blood ; and on 
the ghastly countenances of the dying. The Virgin and the Saints are each implored in 
turn. All think the judgment- day has come. One only is steadfast, and shrinks 
not, Inez de Villena, fearless, urges on the men; she holds aloft a naked sword, 
steeped deep in gore, on which the lightning plays. Murders are perpetrated far and 
wide— brothers kill brothers— friends kill friends — they know not each other in the 
darkness. " Victoria -^Victoria" the Royalists now shout; a fearful howl bursts 
from the lips of the banditti. Jayme, their chief, the noblest of his race, beloved by 
all, has fallen a victim to Juana's cause. For an instant the contest is suspended. 
Inez bends, tearless, over the dying man. For one second conflicting feelings agitate 
her frame. 

** Mother of mercy! receive his spirit," she faintly whispers, and all again is 
calm. *' Ver^amaf ver^anza" she shrieks now aloud. " Bandits, behold brave 
Jayme's bride ; receive in her your chiefs successor. Vengeance, patriotism, justice, 
urge you on to glory or to death." 


** Mom slowly rolls the cloads away I 
Few trophies of the fight a<% there ; 
The shouts that shook the midnight bay 
Are silent." « « * « _thb Bride of Abtbos. 

As morning dawned the fury of the contest abated, and ere the sun displayed its 
richest beams, nought was seen of the midnight combat, save here and there the 
mangled corpse of one of its victims. The ^ain,^\i^RkY«ii\^«a^^^^K«»B^^^s^' 
carried awajr all Bangmnarj remuns*, tne ttUKCtsX) Vm^'k^a ^^^V-^'^*a»^»e^ ^aasss^ 


FerdiDaod and Isabella were the declared monarcha of Spain. The Marquis d 
Yiileoa saw his cause was lost, and fl<)d to a distant land. The Archbishop o 
Toledo shot himself np in his own palace, and there awiuted the tanw when their yui 
effort to place Jnana on Enrico's throne should be forgotten, and he might agaii 
mingle with the world nnmarked. 

Some days later two proetrate forms were seen before the altar of the Virgin ii 
the convent of La Santa Bfaria; a lai^ black veil was thrown over them, while tb 
De ProftmdU was slowly chaunted by the assembled priests. One of the kneeler 
was the Donna Jaana; the other she, who, faithfol to the caose she fonght for, wa 
fearless in all dangers; she who saw her lover sink without a groan, without a teai>- 
it was Inez de Villena, the proud, the beautiful, the noble, who, now that all patriotisn 
and love had urged her to gain, was lost; now life had no more charms for her, sh 
followed the royal Princess still; she entered the same convent, and became the brid 
of Heaven. Inez de Villena's name was known no more, but the mster Ursula ws 
still odd, proud, and beautiful. 

But to return to some who, in the windings of our history, have beso htel; 
neglected. Don Boderigo fought bravely in Isabella's cause; he saw at last that h 
had been used as a toy to deceive the world, by an intriguing beauty ; he remembow 
Christoval*s words — ^he forgot the bandit's bride, and for the first time ponoeivBi 
charms in the iVJuMK^ q/* Me iSfttne. Boderigo, who was of an easy, placid dbpositioB 
was not likely to be long pleased with the fiery nobleness of soul, the impetoositjr c 
character, and the masculine firmness of the heroine of our tale. The soft graoift 
cafanness of the Donna Gatalina made a for more lasting impression on the mind o 
one who was a soldier but by name, and a courtier by profession. This carpet knigfa 
had neither the elevation of soul, nor the intrepid counge which marked the robbe 
chie£. He hastened to forget that he had ever loved Villena's nieoe, and ere ]ao{ 
knelt before the Spanish throne, and asked from Isabella her fovourite's hand in mar 
riage; it was granted, and amidst universal rejoicing they were united — Isabstt 
herself presiding at the ceremony. 

But one more actor on the stage of discord has still to be named, now harmoo 
reigns agun. Pepe de Oastro, the ex-idiot, becomes the Marquis d'Orcana — Isi 
bella's favourite still. He died at a good old age in affluence and ease ; his children fii 
many generations remained as loyal as their ancestor, and as faithful to the'royi 
family of Spain. 

Some of my readers may ask what became of the actor Lopez ? As he sowed, > 
he reaped ; he fell a bloody victim in the riot of which he was himself the instigator 




No. HI. 
Thb Hbbrino D&ave.* 

Cummer, go ye before, Cummers go ye ; 
It* ya will not go before, Cummer let me ! 
The child fed on milk, like a flowret on dew. 
In the dread hoar of irial its purpose may rue ; 
While through the red levin we wrestle the storm, 
And gire the lost drave to the fish and the worm I 

Thb Witchm Soro. 

The stories I have told yoa as yet have all come under my owd observation ; 
bat there are many which have been handed down from bygone times, aboat witches 
and warlocks, bat whether they are trae or not, I mast leave yoa to jodge tor 

It is, however, troe, that in the beginning of the eighteenth centory, the name 
of witch was regarded in Scotland with abhorrence and dread, and many poor old 
women were pablicly tried, and bnmt, on the sapposition, or rather beUef, that they 
were witches. The ages are, however, now passed when a convent of pretty nuos 
ran the risk oi being changed into a bevy of squirrels. 

Perhaps the finest apology on record, and that which is most applicable to 
modem times, is that of Fvrius CresinuSf who, when accaaed of magic because he 
had better crops than his neighbours, brought before them for his defence his heavy 
ploughs and spades, and san-borot daughters, and said, ** These were the charms he 
made use of." 

Many of the dreadful scenes which took place in the story I am about to tell 
yoa have been attributed, by some, to witches, and so handed down to ns ; but others, 
who are better disposed, consider that in them they see the hand of the Almighty 
chastising the breakers of the Sabbath. 

One Sunday morning, in July, 1712, whilst the church bell of a small fishing 
town, on the east of Scotland, called the people together, the ungodly fi.^her- 
men were seen launching their boats, to set their nets for herrings. It was said 
there were a thousand boats assembled from all parts of Scotland, and many from 

• The manner in which this fishery Is carried oti \a i&x!dS&»x \ft "Qafc ^S^aLWoX^^^ossrj ^ 
which renden It extrenmly beueflcial to the country. TYie \>oqX& \>«i\wv\^ ^«s«s^ N» ^^'^^^ 
and partly to landsmen, who build and equdp them Vxi the "woj ^ «As«DX?a2K«». »3x 
ture of this kind is called a Drave, 


Holland ; and that as they pushed off the beach, the deryiTnuui was heard to rebuke 
them; at which they only sneered and laaghed. The day was fine, with a g&DKi» 
breeze from the westward; bnt after it was dark, when the boatmen had again gone 
off to draw their nets, unexpectedly a gale came (m from the north-east, with a 
heavy sea, shivering the sails and masts of the boats, and driving them, as they 
attempted to reach the harbour, one against the other, sinking each other in dreadfnl 
confusion. Chief amid the demons of the storm, it was said, was to be seen the 
Witch of Keith, seen by her lightnings as she strode the quivering masts. 

It was a sad sight to see those of nearest kin doomed to perish— fiithers 
brothers, each pushing the other down, to catch a piece of wreck. Some gained the 
rocks, bnt only to be dashed headlong on them. 

Twas said the thunder startled the deer, which, bounding firom the neighbonr- 
ing park, roused a gang of witches in their flight, and that one dd hag, out of 
revenge, assumed the form of a greyhound, and chased them over hill and glen. 

It was also said, that one of the witches, younger than the rest, to whom a half- 
crazed fisherman had done some injury, was seen to light upon the boat, seize the 
helm, and steer her against the rocks, where she was dashed to pieces. 

When daylight dawned, the scene along the shore was dreadfiod— children 
sought their &thers, wives their husbands, and &thers their sons. But the angel of 
destruction had been abroad that night, and thousands were bnried in a watery 

Still some had out-lived the storm. A boat was seen drawing mgh the 
harbour, with only two men on board — ^the rest were dead. They had nearly got 
under shelter of the pier, when, with voracious fury, a wave shivered the skiff agaimt 
the rocks, in presence of all : they were seen to sink, to rise no more. 

A Dutch galliot was seen on the rocks below the town, a wreck, the waves wash- 
ing over her with deafening roar. On the deck appeared a gallant youth, who, lashing 
a rope around his waist, plunged into the surf, and struck out for the shore; kng he 
buffeted the waves, sinking and rising; at last he reached the shore, amidst the glad 
shouts of all who saw him. Unlashing the rope from round his waist, and hanfing, 
with the assistance of the people on shore, a thicker and stronger one frtnn the shipi 
one end of which was well secured on board, they fastened it, when tanght, to the 
rocks, and thus it formed a declining angle from the vessel. On board they slnog a 
cot to it, which was piloted to the shore by a hardy seaman, who swung from the 
rope behind it. On its arrival, amidst the deafening shouts of all from ont the silvery 
foam, leaped forth a lady into the arms of the gallant youth. None ever knew from 
whence these sea-boat wanderers came; they went away in mystery, and Qatar seerek 
went with them. Yet tradition tells a tale which I shall relate to yon on some fatan 

Pale desolation sat upon the beach on that fatal mom, weeping o'er the gloomy 
picture. Boats lay keel up amongj&t \»\i« xq^^la^vs^^ ^^Uy oorpees drifted to th« 
shore; and many, both men wid ^omsR, '^w^ \ft\» «ma. >Kss(Kf\w^'S^^^'^i»iMC' 


gazing in silent horror lest the next wave should waft a friend on shore. There stood 
an old man mourning o*er his onlj son, his sole support A boxom dame had six 
gallant sons in this sad enterprise— one by one mto her cottage their death-cold forms 
were brooght; her senses fled, and evermore she wandered forth a broken-hearted 
woman, singing as she went. 

From the Orkneys to the Northumbrian shore echoed on that sad occasion the 
ydce of woe ; and it is recorded by the worthy minister at the time, in his exposition 
of the 32d Psahn, that— 

** A fearful judgment of God fell forth about the year of God 1712, of which I 
was an eye-witness. When g(ung to church I saw a thousand boats setting their nets 
on the Sabbath ; I weeped, and feared that God would not sufier such contempt* It 
being a most calm day as ever was seen at that season — at midnight when they went 
forth to draw their nets, the wind rose so fearfully that it drovmed eight score and 
ten boats, so that there was reckoned in the coast side^/burfeen score of widows* 

Ragged BoBiir« 


(Continued from page 307.) 

We went, of course, very late to Lady C/s early conversaeione; and I havo 
every reason to believe that my mistress amused herself very well, for being placed 
so near her brain, I saw all the workings of her mind. I renoarked with surprise 
the delight with which she hailed the approach of old Lord B., the pedantic traveller. 
The mystery was soon solved. He left her more than ever impressed with the trans- 
cendent brightness of his unparalleled genius, and the importance of his arduous 
researches in Egypt and the north of Africa, after which he published his fiunous 
book in sixteen volumes; " Ancient Traditions and Modem Materials; or, the relativo 
purifying qualities of Classical Saboon and Cockney brown Windsor soap." 

Numbers of talented young authors of die-away songs, sentimental novels, 
thickly interlarded with impossibly-terrific coups de ihiatre, royal runaway riflemen 
marches, profoundly metaphjrsical treatises ''On the ideality of something, and the 
reality of nothing," &c. &&, kept fluttering round her all night, and I was charmed 
at the ready and merciless wit with which she occasionally annihilated and diovs 
away some of the more obnoxious of these **pttpiUons aux aHes depUmby This 
amusement was interrupted by the entrance of Hadje Eiock Abbas, a celebrated 
Persian grandee^ before whose well-known &me (it stood him in, at Jeastf three 
dinners weekly, besides balls and soirees innumerable) the vulgar minded crowds 
prostrated themselves, eager to catch one of the wacnlar pishes, under which, like 
the Chinese prime minister in the French story of the xui^^s&sig&s^'^ ^K\^s»j^>^Bi. 
shallow learning, onintfllligible French, tnd ^otob l^oi^i^^ 


I lived in a whirl of pleasare, frequenting the opera, and even going to one or 
two balls, besides dinner parties. But I shall pass over these bright scenes, which 
have been so often and so ably described, and revert at (mce to the tturning pomtof 
mj life, the period from which all my misfortunes and hnmiliatioos dated. I mean 
the day in which my mis-guided owner cut short my happmess, and deprived me, kt 
ever, of the stmshine of her presence, by consigning me to her maid, with a strict 
injunction ** never to see me again." I was in despair. Instead of my former eligtUe 
apartments in the neatly kept flower-drawer, I was thrown mto a box, fall of odds 
and ends, bits of ribbon, soiled gloves, dirty blonde, and the oeoal perqaintes of an 
Abigail. There I lay negleoted for what appeared to me neariy a whoi» lifefeime, 
ruminating on the ingratitude of the great — ^being one moment ezdted to fmatj ^ 
the agonizing remembrance of the delightful evenings I had spent, the next endea- 
vouring to console myself by the thought that I was not alone in my fata-— that that 
it was, and ever will be in this world; oar best days devoted to serfing a eapridoM 
mistress, be the pleasure, &c &c., left in the lurch at last. 

But enough of my sorrows. I will describe the last hiint gleams of Jiappinees 
that Ut up momentarily the darkness of my existence. Broken down as I now am, 
they are dear to me. 1 shall have to record new disappointments, fresh troables— 
indeed I wonder that the unusually chequered life I have led has not long ere this 
forced me to become outwardly the emblem of peace in the blended colon of Uie rival 
houses of York and Lancaster. 

One day I was withdrawn from my retirement, my leaves trimmed, my p^jds 
dusted, &c. &c., in fact, unusual care bestowed upon my personal appearanoe. I 
began to hope, bnt, alas ! I was too soon aroused from my newlj-ceoceived dream of 
future bliss, by coming in contact with the detestable folds of a black lace e^ This 
was an indignity for which I was not prepared. Then I was to grace the pMisn 
head of a sonbrette; I, who had been aocostomed to the society of rank and 
beauty ! It was a dreadful thought — a true one however, hke many otiisr odkni 

I was placed in a drawer, near a flaming colored silk dress, a pair of mittens, 
some false jewellery; all preparations for a gay meeting, in which a "agahu^of 
beauty 9n^ fashion" might be expected to shine. Accordingly, Mrs. Standi and Ur. 
Ciarnt (our lady's maid and butler) set out together to ** honour with their company** 
the ball given by Monsieur Gauache, chef de cuisine to Lord S., on the occasion of 
his retirement from " the profession." He received us with all the politeness of his 
nation, and entered into conversation with Mrs. Starch. After paying a thoosand 
compliments to her on the eclat of her complexion, the good taste of her dress, and all 
the pretty things a Frenchman kcows better than any other to string together in a 
given space of time. (Mrs. Starch was old and ugly, fi' importe he sud, changing 
the subject, " When I did tell S. I must pain myself to quit him, U pawfre homnet 
be did cry, and he did say, " Ah^ cher amiy whar shall I find one Monsieor of yoa 
ftofi^o^^ again; and," continued he, turning his eyes pathetically np, **dat did 
ataae me one grand emotion. Mou&\«ux ^aa QM\\«d. v««.^ Ctom. his grand emotioiis by 


the arriral of Mr. Tr.^taway, the most exclosiye "gentleman of the body** to the ez* 
cinsive Colonel F. Mister Trotaway, did I say ? I beg his pardon ; when not in 
attendance npon " that vnlgar fellow, F, Henry Angnstos Charles Boorbon Trotaway 
Esquire. He came simpering npto Mrs. Starch: they were old acquaintances. 

** How da do? I am sa glad to see yon looking sa well; vary genteel quoiffoure 
that of yonrs. Are yon engaged for this kaydreel ? " 

Mrs. Starch bloshed and giggled, and it ended in her accepting his arm. 

I shall ncYer get to the end if I describe the heterogeneous company, the inter- 
minable hopping and skipping for dancing, the struggles between prinmess and vol- 
garity in the ladies^ and the borlesqae gallantry of the deouiB— (that's the word, I 

Of course this assembly of UUk people mimicked those of the great; and there' 
were among the fair sez, young and old ladies, of a light or serious, scientific, flirting} 
philosophical blue-stocking genre; while .sporting men, literati politicians, &c. &c. 
were to be counted among the rougher sez. By the bye, I never hear the fair sez 
named, but instantly a provoking vision of some wizen, parchment-faced, hideous old 
witch presents itself to my mind, and curdling the milk of human, or rather ./Sora/ 
kindness, ahnost dispels the charm produced by the bare mention of the enchanting 
creatures. But I am again wandering from my subject. If I had been a mortal it 
would not have been surprising. I must hasten the conclusion of these Memoin»~ 
sad foreboding tells me I have not long to live. I knew I could not survive the loss 
of all that was most dear to me — admiration and amusement. 

I have again passed into other bands; my late owner parted with me the day 
after the ball to a " respectable dealer in old dothee and frippery.** I had lingered 
out my ezistence for some time in his shop, sometimes witnessing scenes of misery 
and vice, that would shock or disgust the most callous, hard-hearted denizens of the 
world, but now I am once more to return to the society for which alone I was 
intended. Yes, to-night shall I view, no doubt, many of my old associates assembled 
round the table of my former owner. Imagine, then, my feeUngs, when I perceived 
my acquaintance, Mr. Claret, enter the shop, and inquire whether they had any 
roses in good preservation for sale, nr he wanted one to place in a bouquet, which, not 
being a new one, he did not wish for a better rose than they could o£for him. I was 
set before him with some others, but I obtained his approbation. Instead of my onoe 
honourable position, I was put on high in the ^pergne^ that decorated the centre of 
the dimng table; but, bad as the change was, it was infinitely preferable to the 
servant's ball or the clothes-shop. 

Header, have you ever watched the conntenanoes of a party at dinner eatmg ' 
icef I have, and can assure you it is most ludicrous. The various ozpressions of 
the nnfortunate people, some heroically avoiding grimaces, while an attentive 
observer can easily discover the tingling sensations they are undergoing; others, less 
proud, or more subject to the tooth-ache, twisting their features into every possible* 
or at any other time impossible, oontortioD, form a laoghable ^tn3Cft\«9^'V'''&ai»!^ 
often wished for the pencil of a Hogattki tAi^i\xa^ ^^ «iq«ia« 


I shall not say much about this dinner-partj, becaoM I was left behind when 
they retired to the drawinf;-room, and the clatter of plates and knives, the talk* 
Ing and lanj;hter were dinning, so that I conld not possibly distingmsh the ooo- 
Tersation of any particular persons. I hope, howerer, soon to be able to giro a 
more detuled aocoant on some other occasion. 

• •••*« « 

[Note of the Editor of these Memoirs: — Alas ! these intsntioos of the poor rose 
were never fnlfiUed, for, on the evening of the party, a footman, who, I 8appose,had 
done ample justice to the good cheer below stairs, in removing the ^pergne from the 
table, approached it too near to a candelabrum, that the bouquet caught fire, and 
before it was extinguished, our poor companion had been reduced to ashes. Alas !] 


{Translated from the English of ShakespearJ) 
! scbone Damen 8eufz*t nicht mehr 
Die Manner betriigen immer. 
Den Fuss auf s Land, jenen in*8 Meer, 
Zn Etwas standhaft, nimmer! 
01 seufz't nicht so, 
Sei lustig und froh, 
Und schickt die Maarer fort. 
Anstadt so traurig spricht Ihr dann 
So frendig jedes Wort 


Sing nieht betriibende Lieder 
Warum schwermiithig doch ? 
Die Manner betriigen wieder. 
Said Ihr so traurig noch. 
! senfzet nicht so, 
Sey'd lustig und frah 
Und schickt die Manner fort, 
Anstadt so traurig sprecht Ihr dann 
So frendig jedes Wart. 



At my Queen and country's call I did depart 
From Hastings with a very woful heart 
iV'twiporte, on my return 111 be most grateful, 
If my dear Aim 4w& WV-woMSav—k. ¥«lthJ&LL 


^ Cablet tn melton Cl)ui:c1^, (i^wtx, 


Me taa mors vidaam fecit, Ta jam viduatos 

Connubinm Cbrlsti (non ▼idoaDdos) habes — 
At Jaoctam hoc tumnlo, Me sponsam rorsns habebii 

Sic tua semper cro. Qnoa tua naper eram. 



Thy death hath widowed me, — a widower thou 

Hast Ghrist^s indissoluble wedlock now 

Joined in this tomb again thj spoose with thee, 

So lately thine, shall thine for erer be. 


93eim ^nbliclt ties ^ontves. 


Welch eine Lost 

Empfindet meine Brost 

Wenn deine Macht 

Sich zeigt in Mondes Pracht. 

Wenn er erscheint, 
Hat Tag sich ansgeweint 
Sein Glanz yerleiht. 
Dem Wanderer Sicherheit. 


Das liebend Herz 

Gedenkt mit sanftens schmen 

Des Herzens fern, 

Und nennt ihn sdnenStem. 


Die Sarge wacht 

Anch wohl in stiller Nacht 
Sein Strahl oft hemmt 
Die Thranen die er kennt. 


Der Seemann blickt 

AnPs Meer vom Glanz entziickt 

Der Zweifler schweigt 

Wenn ihm das Licht sich zeigt 


Der glaub*ge Christ 

Erkennt, dass da es bist 

Das seineu Traam 

Gott achnf imNV«\tBfix«am* 


Co INTature. 

Poetic Nature, 
To sing thy ctuurms exoeeda the power of man ; 

Th J varying haes, 

The breathless beaaty of thy endless scenes, 

No painter's pencil can portray. 

Poesy herself e'en fails, 

Thoa'rt more poetic than a thoosand poets. 

Inspiring scene I 

Where Nature all triomphaot reigns, 

The tempest borsti. 

Is Nature not snblime? 

Lightnings flash, fierce thnnder echoes in Her train ; 

Bat in her gloom 

It's awfal grandenr fills the sonl of man^ 

Or does Sol shed 

His brilliant sonbeams o'er the parent earth ? 

Nature! thoa'rt lovely then— 

In radiance 

All thy beauties glisten forth^ 

The birds are warbling in thdr native glades ; 

The flowers are bright, 

And rear their gentle heads 

To meet the sun. 

Who I can range 

Amidst these fauy scenes, 

And say there is no God? 

When at the ev'ning hoor 

The torch of night 

Her silv'ry calm emits — 

Trees, flowers, and shrubs are then in pensive beaaty dad 

Rife with inspiration. 

Nature ! thou art unto the poet's sonl^ 

The streams that ripple o'er their shallow beds 

Breathe harmony. 

The wrapt soul swells with passionate delight 

Under the influence of so calm a scene— 

The haunts of art. 

When will they gain 

A rapturous tear? 

When will the gaaer stand. 

In speechless awe, 


Before tho snghty \iBsvdL ol ^ QtsiXxs') 


Ko, it is Nature makes the heart to glow, 
And fills it with a fervent homage 

For Him, 
Who did bat speak, 

And chaos 
Became a world. 
Natore ! I lore thee — 
Thoa*rt the poet's home, 
Wild are thy beanliee, 
And ey'ry thonght.tbat thoa mspir'st is free^^ 

Resign thee? 
Not for all the art. that man can givB 

While worlds remain, 
Varied and ever pleasing wilt thoa be. 
The poet's goddess, and the painter's idol, 

Yet Nature still. JAgsfms. 

%me0 on tt)e iBulte of ilflatllioroug!^. 

{From Addison's " Campaign,"^ 
Ut primnm Zephyri^vemom tepidi oethera mulcent, 
Incipiant levibus volitare Britannioa in atiris 
Signs, Sagax dnotor jam domm mente virili 
Coepit iter, Tenas quas ipse sobegerat omnes 
Trajiciens, donee Germanics Ijmpha Moeellot 
Protenas apparens, bellnm ezitiale moratnr. 
flavins dolcis ! jossissiet correre pmdeos 
Si natnra solo vario, Gallisqne remote 
Peijaris. Sed nunc invictce monera restat 
Virtutis dominis segetes oriuntur opimce 
Incertis, dabio et crescnnt vineta magistro 
Omnia, victoriqne floit vindemia qnceqne, 
Occisomm olim jam spectra horrenda vironim, 
Ulomm manes qui littorain ada solebant , 
Palari semper, qunm tela Britannica primnm 
Aspexere, snas nltnras ire put abant 
Moz ccedes. Jnstns dox at transivit amoBnmn 
Amnem, opernm ventnromm pradentia versat 
Consilia, interea componens mente qnod instat 
Fortia qninetiam fervebant pectora bellis 
Non decertatis; primo Jam himine Instrat 
Longnm iter, et sabito velocem perveuit Istmm; 
Inter aqnas cojas nemora ardqa talia crescnnt, 
Tanti consnrgnnt montes, tot flamina Qann&t, 



(FortMtznng von seite 107.) 

*'Jetzt, Fraa Wtrtrold, weisst Da wo Dein Mann jeden Abend hi ngefrangtn 
iit,** fohr die Hexe fort. 

«Deine Geschichte warde mich erfireonen;" antwortate Sabina," wann die Erin- 
nerong der forchterlichen Scene im Schwarzwald mich nicht mil Schreoken erfollte, 
Sage mir, wann Dn bannherzig sein kannst, wo bin ich? wo iat main Mann?** 

** Dn biat im Schloaae von Hohenstein." 

^ Im Schloeae von Hohenstein ? wie !" 

** Ja," sagte die Hexe indem aie ihre alten Lnmpen wegwirf nnd ala on woo- 
derschonea Madchen vor Sabina stand. *'Ich bins, bin Jolie von flohensteui die 
Entfnhrerin deines Mannes, die Morderin meiner Stiefmetter, kannat I>a mir vsr- 
zeihen? Dieaen Abend anf den Glocken SchUg zwolf losche alle Deine Lichter ani 
Dein Slann wird wiederkommen. So bald Da ihn horst, stehe anf nnd wirf Dich in 
geine Anne, nnd alles wird wieder gnt Mein Better iat er, in meiner forchterlioheo, 
Noth hat er mir Hiilfe geleistet and Da Sabina ich kenne Deine Gtite, Da wirst mir 
nicht von Dir wegschicken." 

<<Die denn mein Bndolph liebt, liebe anch ich, Jolie von Hohenstein ich will 
Dich schiitzen, wende Dich nor zn Gott nnd bereoe Dein schwerea Verprechen." 

** Alles werde ich than am meine Sonde abzowaschen and wenn Deine Freond 
achaft nnd Dein Bath mich trdsten wird es mir viel Idchter werden." 

" Meine Freondschaft hast Do, mein Bath ist, Do sollst Deine Tage im Eloster 
beachliessen, geh, armes schwaches Sand, der Herr sei Dir gnadig and verzeihe Dir.** 

Indem Sabina diese Worte sagte omarmte aie Jolie mit Innigkeit and diese ver- 

liess die Stabe weinend. 

Sabina hatte noch vier Stonden bis Mittemacht zn warten, and lang entsetzlieb 

lang, schien ihr die Zeit Zoletzt schlog ea— mit zittemde Hand loschte siedia 

Lichter an»— alles war donkel — athemlos stand ue da— plotzlich hdrte sie ein fhich. 

terliches Geraosch and das Geklirr von Ketten. Sie vemeigte sich vor dnem Gmcifiz 

and betete zo dem Herre om Schotz and Hiilfe— 4>ald horte sie die Fosstritte ihrei 

Mannes, sie sprang ihm entgegen and warf sich wie Jnlie es ihr befohlen hatte in 

seine Arme — aber? EntsetzenI was empfand sie als sie sieh in der festen Umar- 

mong eines Skeletts ^fiihlte. Ein grassliohes riesenmassigeB TJngeheoer. 

Seine Enochen rattelten wenn er sich bewegte and er zog lange Ketten hinter sich her 

**Badolph, Hnlfe, Badolph, ich will meinen Badolph, Ihr seid nicht mein 
Bodolph !" rief Sabina ganz aosser sich. 

** Dein Bodolph war ich'* sagte das Ungeheoer mit donnemder Stimme am einer 
Morderin einer Betriigerin Hnlfe zn leisten, habedch mich dem Teafel iibergebea 
inder Holle — Holle— Holle in drei £ush Gloth nnd Hitz mass ich die Ewigkdt za 
bringen,'* Sabina schrie immer fort de wiirde nicht glanben dass dieser ihr Badolph 
ware, Ihr forchtbares Geachrei brachte Jolie in die Stabe mit einen Licht 

''Da hast mir.ge8agt, daaa, \c^ m«njsn^\i^'c^^, ^liSbsoL-w^Ssda,'* sa^ Sabina. 



angenommen. Jedes Jahr muss der Wenzel jemand opfem^ oder selbst sterben er ha 
mich gewahlt aber Wertrold bat meioen Platz ein genommen." 

Sabina kehrte sich plotzlich am riss einen Dolch tod der Wand. 

*' Betriigedn, doppelte Morderin, Julie von Hohenstein stirb den Tod den Da so 
wohl verdienst'* rief sie aus. 

Als Jalie todt za Erde fiel, trat Wenzel in die Stnbe herein. 

'* Den Tod von Jalie, der Morderin allein woUte ich" sagte er " jetzt ist dieses 
^choae aber snndhafte Madchen todt and mein, unglackliche Sabina Ihr seid engelrein 
Surer Mann soUt Ihr wieder haben! — In einer furchterlichen Flamme verschwand 
das Ungeheuer und Radolph Wertrold trat in seiner eigenen Gestalt in die Stube ein 
^abina warf sich in seine Arme erfreut and glucklich ibren Mann wieder za habeot. 
Wenzel wickelte Jaliens Leichnam in seinen grossen Mantel and trag ihn weg. Wer- 
fold and Sabina kehrten in ihre eignen Hiittez uruck and wohnten glucklich zusammen 
aber sie sprachen nie von der furchterlichen Scene im Schwarzwalde. 


9,a, itosa, 

Va, va, bel fiore 
Dono del Core 
Va dove poea 
'U mio sol ben, 

Co' miei sospiri, 

Co* miei deliri, 

Va, bella rosa 
Sovra il suo sen, 
£ qaesta stilla 

D'acquoso umore, 

Dille, calata 

Dii ciel non k 

Ma una pupilla 

Plena d* amore 

Qui Tha versata 

Pensando a te. 



Page 170. 

7 — Hampshire. 

1 — America. 
2 — Bedfordshire. 
8 — Bombay. 


6 — ^Denmark. 
6 — Haddington. 

8 — Hebrides Islands. 

9 — Hereford. 
10 — Austria. 
1 1 — Aberdeenshire 
12 — ^Caithness. 



Prize Papebs— Na L — The Fate of a Smoker ia not withoat point; but it is 
less elaborate and effBCtive than Nos. II. and IIL 

Na IV. — Friendihip Rewarded-^ a oarefnlly writtso paper, bat bean ma/kt 
of, as yet, an nnformed style. 

No. II. — Napoleon eU Leap Frog^ and No. IIL TTie C&urt Fawmte, are both 
told in a lively and easy manner; the latter shews, I think, more gnphic desoriptiTe 
power than the former, which excellent as it is, is a little indistinct and sketchy. 

No. V. — The Phantom Ship. — ^Whate?er its merits in other respects, ui, I 
think, exclnded by the writer's miztnre of eight and ten syllable verpes an on- 
heard-of and yery nnpleasant eccentricity. 

No. VI. —The Two Frigates is in blank yerse; and as the writer has chosen to 
ayoid the difficnlties of rhyme, it is bnt fair to expect very superior poetry. Bat the 
lines were not all good, as — 

"^ Aod the sea mocked her with its fhry." 
neither is there sufficient power of imagination displayed to rank the poem first 
or second. 

No, VIII. — Walter Lindlsay.— Thongh it falls off towards the end, shows the 
most fluent and correct versification, and the most successful endeavour to tell the 
story in an intelligible and graphic way. Whether it exhibits most promise or not, is 
another question, with which, as I conceive, a voter has nothing to do. His business 
is to judge of what appears before him. 

No. VIL — The Rover is less perfoot as a poem, but it shows ingenuity and 

The papers are all far above mediocrity. 

Squirting Gucuubeb. 

Prize Paper, No. III. — In comparing the merits of the four prize papen, all of 
which deserve great praise ; No. Ill, was, in my opinion, entitled to the prize, because 
I thought the writer, in the construction of the tale, had shewn greater tact than the 
others in meeting the two points presented by the Editor. The placing the Hero in 
a ludicrous or awkward position and conveying a moral. 


The Christian Life. A Manual of Sacred Verse: by Bobbbt Montoombbt, 
M.A., author of " The Omnipresence of the Deity," " God and Man," &c, &c 
Fourth Edition. — 

We bdve now before bb a maTma\ o^ "vewfe, 'w\i\Oti'w%'^i^'<«Dteaftt((j say should 
be found in the library of every mem\)ct ol \.\i«» C\i\«<i\i^^t^^asA. ^ v«^«s.\^«sJi^ 
of m Apostolic Church is laid oefote ua, m \m^vl^ ^^ Y«i«l > m\«^«e.^\S^V 


most work upon the feelings oi every reader, and lure him finom cootemplating the 
dross of this world of matter, to look upwards for real beauty. 

That Mr. Montgomery's nnmerons poems, which have been presented to the 
world, bearing yisible marks as they do of the hand of genias, will render his name 
immortal, his bitterest foes most be conyjnced of; bat it is " The Christian Life " 
that will be received warmly by Churchmen, because of the purity and profundity of 
its lyrics, its religious idealism, and its spiritual intensity, because it breathes 
forth the verities of the Catholic Church : throughout the whole work she is spoken 
of as the bride of Christ, and the mother of mortals, she to whom we should cling as 
the satisiier of our wants, the comforter in our afflictions. 

In these mercenary and money-loving times, the growing popularity of this 
work, even beyond the circles of the literati, shows the spirit of poetry sleeps but to 
be awakened by soul-sturring genius. 

The limited pages of our Bouquet, will prevent us from entering fully on the 
merits of this collection of gems: we must however pause, to quote a few of the 
passages which struck us as beii^ replete with beauty, feeling and truth. 

How strikingly original is that poem entitled " The First Soul in Heaven I " It 
commences thus— 

**/n husKd eternity aloney 

Before all creatures wore, 
Jehovah held His awful throne, 

Unworshipp*d by a prayer. 

There was no space, nor scene, nor time. 

Nor aught by names we caU; 

But, c&fUer'd in ^tm^e/jT sublime. 

Was God, the AU in AW 

How simply and elegantly he impresses upon our minds the debt we owe to that 
heavenly host, who surrounds the throne of the Almighty King! 

'* Oh I never till the clouds of time 

Be rent by awful death from man, 
And he from yonder heaven sublime 

Shall look back where dark life began. 
Will gathered saints in glory know 
What blessings men to angels owe.** 

*' This earth Is but a thorny wild, 

A tangled maze where grie£s abound, 
By sorrow vex'd, by sin defiled, 

Where foes and fiends our walk surround-^ 
But does not dread JehovaVi say, 
Angelic goardians lone lYie Nva^ T 


How pare and delicate ia the '^ Hymn to the Bleaeed VuKin," from which we 
qaote,the|,followiog lines— 

** The purest iai%^ saintly thoas^ht can see 

Of maiden calm, with motherhood combined. 
Becomes too earthbom when compared with thee^ 

Nursing the Babe whose blood redeemed mankind.** 
*' Well may the poet's harp, and pamter's hae, 

With all that Scnlptore's marble dreams express, 
Become ethereal, when they bring to view 

Oatlines which hint thy female lofeliness." 
** Yet, can chaste minds beyond all yisnal show. 

By thought create what reverence demands, 
Aye Maria! when onr hearts overflow 

To see the God Babe in thy vestal hands.** 
** Feeling and Faith, with poesy and prayer, 

Mingle their charms to make one beanteons spell ; 
And what no melodies, nor hues declare 

Oar hushed emotions nnto godhead tell." 
With what pathos are described the dying moments of the yictim of con- 
samption I 

" She die8,^4S beaoty ever dies 

When sad consumption finds a tomb ; 
With brilliance in her deep set eyes. 

And on her face a health less bloom; 
No harsh transition, but a soft decay. 
Like dream bom tones qfnightf that melt by dawn away,** 

Again, how eloquently are we implored to aid those who attacked by the fatal 
disease, die unattended and alone I 

*' The Saviour in the poor man lives 

Reflected through his pain and grief; 
Ai d he who to the wretched gives. 

To Christ himself imparts relief: 
And therefore. Shrine of Hope ! we hail thy walls, 
Where true compassion works what God on earth recals.** 
We must now conclude our remarks, trosting that this little Albnmof true poetry 
will spread throughout the whole kingdom , we recommend it particularly to the 
Flowers of the Bouquet, as we know they would not be insensible to the merits of a 
work so foil of poetic beauty, deep truth, and lofty sentiments. — Oranok Flowsb. 

Prize Papers No, i, //, ///, and IV, — All the Prize Papers, four in number, 
merit awards of commendation. — They all shew talent for composition; and the 
inddents are arranged with judicious attention to effect Gucumbbb. 

Prize Papers— Eisgubh Vebse.— J. Shipwreck, — This prize has been 
nwtarded to No, VIll, " Walter Lmdaa^r a&\»va^>iJs» \BRfe\.\«i»scT«a%Q.€ it. 
15tb November , 1851. W^^aastxa.