CHAPTER XVII.

LA ROCHELLE.

La Rochelle is a quiet little town at the bottom of a small bay, the mouth of which is almost closed up by two islands. There is a sleepy, peaceful air about the place--a sort of drowsy languor pervades every thing and every body about it, that tells of a town whose days of busy prosperity have long since passed by, and which is dragging out life, like some retired tradesman--too poor for splendor, but rich enough to be idle. A long avenue of lime-trees incloses the harbor; and here the merchants conduct their bargains, while their wives, seated beneath the shade, discuss the gossip of the place over their work. All is patriarchal and primitive as Holland itself; the very courtesies of life exhibiting that ponderous stateliness which insensibly reminds one of the land of dykes and broad breeches. It is the least "French" of any town I have ever seen in France; none of that light merriment, that gay volatility of voice and air which form the usual atmosphere of a French town. All is still, orderly, and sombre; and yet on the night in which--something more than fifty years back--I first entered it, a very different scene was presented to my eyes.

It was about ten o'clock; and by a moon nearly full, the diligence rattled along the covered ways of the old fortress, and crossing many a moat and draw-bridge, the scenes of a once glorious struggle, entered the narrow streets, traversed a wide place, and drew up within the ample portals of "La Poste."

Before I could remove the wide capote which I wore, the waiter ushered me into a large salôn where a party of about forty persons were seated at supper. With a few exceptions they were all military officers, and sous-officiers of the expedition, whose noisy gayety and boisterous mirth sufficiently attested that the entertainment had begun a considerable time before.

A profusion of bottles, some empty, others in the way to become so, covered the table, amidst which lay the fragments of a common table-d'hôte supper--large dishes of segars and basins of tobacco figuring beside the omelettes and the salad.

The noise, the crash, the heat, the smoke, and the confusion--the clinking of glasses, the singing, and the speech-making, made a scene of such turmoil and uproar, that I would gladly have retired to some quieter atmosphere, when suddenly an accidental glimpse of my uniform caught some eyes among the revelers, and a shout was raised of "Holloa, comrades! here's one of the 'Gardes' among us." And at once the whole assembly rose up to greet me. For full ten minutes I had to submit to a series of salutations, which led to every form, from hand-shaking and embracing to kissing; while, perfectly unconscious of any cause for my popularity, I went through the ceremonies like one in a dream.

"Where's Kilmaine?" "What of Hardy?" "Is Grouchy coming?" "Can the Brest fleet sail?" "How many line-of-battle ships have they?" "What's the artillery force?" "Have you brought any money?" This last question, the most frequent of all, was suddenly poured in upon me, and with a fortunate degree of rapidity, that I had no time for a reply, had I even the means of making one.

"Let the lad have a seat and a glass of wine before he submits to this interrogatory," said a fine, jolly-looking old chef-d'escadron at the head of the table, while he made a place for me at his side. "Now, tell us, boy, what number of the Gardes are to be of our party?"

I looked a little blank at the question, for in truth I had not heard of the corps before, nor was I aware that it was their uniform I was then wearing.

"Come, come, be frank with us, lad," said he; "we are all comrades here. Confound secrecy, say I."

"Ay, ay!" cried the whole assembly together--"confound secrecy. We are not bandits nor highwaymen; we have no need of concealment."

"I'll be as frank as you can wish, comrades," said I; "and if I lose some importance in your eyes by owning that I am not the master of a single state secret, I prefer to tell you so, to attempting any unworthy disguise. I come here, by orders from General Kilmaine, to join your expedition; and except this letter for General Humbert, I have no claim to any consideration whatever."

The old chef took the letter from my hands and examined the seal and superscription carefully, and then passed the document down the table for the satisfaction of the rest.

While I continued to watch with anxious eyes the letter on which so much of my own fate depended, a low whispering conversation went on at my side, at the end of which the chef said:

"It's more than likely, lad, that your regiment is not coming; but our general is not to be balked for that. Go he will; and let the government look to themselves if he is not supported. At all events, you had better see General Humbert at once; there's no saying what that dispatch may contain. Santerre, conduct him up stairs."

A smart young fellow arose at the bidding, and beckoned me to follow him.

It was not without difficulty that we forced our way up stairs, down which porters, and sailors, and soldiers were now carrying a number of heavy trunks and packing-cases. At last we gained an ante-room, where confusion seemed at its highest, crowded as it was by soldiers, the greater number of them intoxicated, and all in a state of riotous and insolent insubordination. Among these were a number of the townspeople, eager to prefer complaints for outrage and robbery, but whose subdued voices were drowned amid the clamor of their oppressors. Meanwhile, clerks were writing away receipts for stolen and pillaged articles, and which, signed with the name of the general, were grasped at with eager avidity. Even personal injuries were requited in the same cheap fashion, orders on the national treasury being freely issued for damaged noses and smashed heads, and gratefully received by the confiding populace.

"If the wind draws a little more to the southward before morning, we'll pay our debts with the top-sail sheet, and it will be somewhat shorter, and to the full as honest," said a man in a naval uniform.

"Where's the officer of the 'Regiment des Guides,'" cried a soldier from the door at the further end of the room; and before I had time to think over the designation of rank given me, I was hurried into the general's presence.

General Humbert, whose age might have been thirty-eight or forty, was a tall, well-built, but somewhat over-corpulent man; his features frank and manly, but with a dash of coarseness in their expression, particularly about the mouth; a sabre-cut, which had divided the upper lip, and whose cicatrix was then seen through his mustache, heightening the effect of his sinister look; his carriage was singularly erect and soldierlike, but all his gestures betrayed the habits of one who had risen from the ranks, and was not unwilling to revive the recollection.

He was parading the room from end to end when I entered, stopping occasionally to look out from an open window upon the bay, where by the clear moonlight might be seen the ships of the fleet at anchor. Two officers of his staff were writing busily at a table, whence the materials of a supper had not been removed. They did not look up as I came forward, nor did he notice me in any way for several minutes. Suddenly he turned toward me, and snatching the letter I held in my hand, proceeded to read it. A burst of coarse laughter broke from him as he perused the lines; and then throwing down the paper on the table, he cried out,

"So much for Kilmaine's contingent. I asked for a company of engineers and a battalion of 'les Gardes,' and they send me a boy from the cavalry-school of Saumur. I tell them that I want some fellows conversant with the language and the people, able to treat with the peasantry, and acquainted with their habits, and here I have got a raw youth whose highest acquirement, in all likelihood, is to daub a map with water-colors, or take fortifications with a pair of compasses! I wish I had some of these learned gentlemen in the trenches for a few hours. Parbleu! I think I could teach them something they'd not learn from Citizen Carnot. Well, sir," said he, turning abruptly toward me, "how many battalions of the 'Guides' are completed?"

"I can not tell, general," was my timid answer.

"Where are they stationed?"

"Of that also I am ignorant, sir."

"Peste!" cried he, stamping his foot passionately; then suddenly checking his anger, he asked, "How many are there coming to join this expedition? Is there a regiment, a battalion, a company? Can you tell me with certainty that a sergeant's guard is on the way hither?"

"I can not, sir; I know nothing whatever about the regiment in question."

"You have never seen it?" cried he, vehemently.

"Never, sir."

"This exceeds all belief," exclaimed he, with a crash of his closed fist upon the table. "Three weeks letter-writing! Estafettes, orderlies, and special couriers to no end! And here we have an unfledged cur from a cavalry institute, when I asked for a strong reinforcement. Then what brought you here, boy?"

"To join your expedition, general."

"Have they told you it was a holiday-party that we had planned? Did they say it was a junketing we were bent upon?"

"If they had, sir, I would not have come."

"The greater fool _you_, then! that's all," cried he, laughing; "when I was your age, I'd not have hesitated twice between a merry-making and a bayonet-charge."

While he was thus speaking, he never ceased to sign his name to every paper placed before him by one or other of the secretaries.

"No, parbleu!" he went on, "La maitresse before the mitraille any day for me. But what's all this, Girard. Here I'm issuing orders upon the national treasury for hundreds of thousands without let or compunction."

The aid-de-camp whispered a word or two in a low tone.

"I know it, lad; I know it well," said the general, laughing heartily; "I only pray that all our requisitions may be as easily obtained in future. Well, Monsieur le Garde, what are we to do with you."

"Not refuse me, I hope, general," said I, diffidently.

"Not refuse you, certainly; but in what capacity to take you, lad, that's the question. If you had served--if you had even walked a campaign--"

"So I have, general--this will show you where I have been;" and I handed him the "livret" which every soldier carries of his conduct and career.

He took the book, and casting his eyes hastily over it, exclaimed,

"Why, what's this lad? You've been at Kehl, at Emenendingen, at Rorshach, at Huyningen, through all that Black Forest affair with Moreau! You _have_ seen smoke, then. Ay! I see honorable mention of you besides, for readiness in the field and zeal during action. What! more brandy! Girard. Why, our Irish friends must have been exceedingly thirsty. I've given them credit for something like ten thousand 'velts' already! No matter, the poor fellows may have to put up with short rations for all this yet--and there goes my signature once more. What does that blue light mean, Girard?" said he, pointing to a bright blue star that shone from a mast of one of the ships of war.

"That is the signal, general, that the embarkation of the artillery is complete."

"Parbleu!" said he, with a laugh, "it need not have taken long; they've given in two batteries of eights, and one of them has not a gun fit for service. There goes a rocket, now. Isn't that the signal to heave short on the anchors? Yes, to be sure. And now it is answered by the other! Ha! lads, this does look like business at last!"

The door opened as he spoke, and a naval officer entered.

"The wind is drawing round to the south, general; we can weigh with the ebb if you wish it."

"Wish it!--if I wish it! Yes, with my whole heart and soul I do! I am just as sick of La Rochelle as is La Rochelle of me. The salute that announces our departure will be a 'feu-de-joie' to both of us. Ay, sir, tell your captain that I need no further notice than that _he_ is ready. Girard, see to it that the marauders are sent on board in irons. The fellows must learn at once that discipline begins when we trip our anchors. As for you," said he, turning to me, "you shall act upon my staff with provisional rank as sous-lieutenant: time will show if the grade should be confirmed. And now hasten down to the quay, and put yourself under Colonel Lerrasin's orders."

Colonel Lerrasin, the second in command, was, in many respects, the very opposite of Humbert. Sharp, petulant, and irascible, he seemed quite to overlook the fact, that, in an expedition which was little better than a foray, there must necessarily be a great relaxation of the rules of discipline, and many irregularities at least winked at, which, in stricter seasons, would call for punishment. The consequence was, that a large proportion of our force went on board under arrest, and many actually in irons. The Irish were, without a single exception, all drunk; and the English soldiers, who had procured their liberation from imprisonment on condition of joining the expedition, had made sufficiently free with the brandy-bottle to forget their new alliance, and vent their hatred of France and Frenchmen in expressions whose only alleviation was, that they were nearly unintelligible.

Such a scene of uproar, discord, and insubordination never was seen. The relative conditions of guard and prisoner elicited national animosities that were scarcely even dormant, and many a bloody encounter took place between those whose instinct was too powerful to feel themselves any thing but enemies. A cry, too, was raised, that it was meant to betray the whole expedition to the English, whose fleet, it was asserted, had been seen off Oleron, that morning; and although there was not even the shadow of a foundation for the belief, it served to increase the alarm and confusion. Whether originating or not with the Irish, I can not say, but certainly they took advantage of it to avoid embarking; and now began a schism which threatened to wreck the whole expedition, even in the harbor.

The Irish, as indifferent to the call of discipline as they were ignorant of French, refused to obey orders save from officers of their own country; and, although Lerrasin ordered two companies to "load with ball and fire low," the similar note for preparation from the insurgents, induced him to rescind the command and try a compromise. In this crisis I was sent by Lerrasin to fetch what was called the "Committee," the three Irish deputies who accompanied the force. They had already gone aboard of the Dedalus, little foreseeing the difficulties that were to arise on shore.

Seated in a small cabin next the wardroom, I found these three gentlemen, whose names were Tone, Teeling, and Sullivan. Their attitudes were gloomy and despondent, and their looks anything but encouraging, as I entered. A paper on which a few words had been scrawled, and signed with their three names underneath, lay before them, and on this their eyes were bent with a sad and deep meaning. I knew not then what it meant, but I afterward learned that it was a compact formally entered into and drawn up, that if, by the chance of war, they should fall into the enemy's hands, they would anticipate their fate by suicide, but leave to the English government all the ignominy and disgrace of their death.

They seemed scarcely to notice me as I came forward, and even when I delivered my message they heard it with a half indifference.

"What do you want us to do, sir?" said Teeling, the eldest of the party. "We hold no command in the service. It was against our advice and counsel that you accepted these volunteers at all. We have no influence over them."

"Not the slightest," broke in Tone. "These fellows are bad soldiers and worse Irishmen. The expedition will do better without them."

"And _they_ better without the expedition," muttered Sullivan, drily.

"But you will come, gentlemen, and speak to them," said I. "You can at least assure them that their suspicions are unfounded."

"Very true, sir," replied Sullivan, "we can do so, but with what success? No, no. If you can't maintain discipline here on your own soil, you'll make a bad hand of doing it when you have your foot on Irish ground. And, after all, I for one am not surprised at the report gaining credence."

"How so, sir," asked I, indignantly.

"Simply that when a promise of fifteen thousand men dwindles down to a force of eight hundred; when a hundred thousand stand of arms come to be represented by a couple of thousand; when an expedition, pledged by a government, has fallen down to a marauding party; when Hoche or Kleber--But never mind, I always swore that if you sent but a corporal's guard, I'd go with them."

A musket-shot here was heard, followed by a sharp volley and a cheer, and, in an agony of anxiety, I rushed to the deck. Although above half a mile from the shore, we could see the movement of troops hither and thither, and hear the loud words of command. Whatever the struggle, it was over in a moment, and now we saw the troops descending the steps to the boats. With an inconceivable speed the men fell into their places, and, urged on by the long sweeps, the heavy launches swept across the calm water of the bay.

If a cautious reserve prevented any open questioning as to the late affray, the second boat which came alongside revealed some of its terrible consequences. Seven wounded soldiers were assisted up the side by their comrades, and in total silence conveyed to their station between decks.

"A bad augury this!" muttered Sullivan, as his eye followed them. "They might as well have left that work for the English!"

A swift six-oar boat, with the tricolor flag floating from a flag-staff at her stern, now skimmed along toward us, and as she came nearer, we could recognize the uniforms of the officers of Humbert's staff, while the burly figure of the general himself was soon distinguishable in the midst of them.

As he stepped up the ladder, not a trace of displeasure could be seen on his broad bold features. Greeting the assembled officers with a smile, he asked how the wind was?

"All fair, and freshening at every moment," was the answer.

"May it continue!" cried he, fervently. "Welcome a hurricane, if it only waft us westward!"

The foresail filled out as he spoke, the heavy mass heaved over to the wind, and we began our voyage.

(_To be continued._)

[From Colburn's Magazine.]

THE WAHR-WOLF; OR, THE LOVERS OF HUNDERSDORF.

There are few rambles that so well repay the summer wanderer who seeks for novelty, after the fatigues of a London season, as a voyage down the Danube from Ratisbon to Vienna. In the days when the charming "Lady Mary" passed along the swelling waters of the dark river in one of the "wooden houses" which she found so convenient, the romantic solitudes of the majestic Böhmer-wald had never been disturbed by the hissing of steam; and swiftly as her boat glided onward between the solemn banks of the then little frequented stream, the pace of the steamer which now bears the traveler to his destination, would shame the rowers of the enterprising embassadress, and leave her far behind.

The native boats, _Weitz-zille_, are not, however, altogether banished from the watery way which they traversed alone but a few years since; and very picturesque is it to meet them as they float lazily on, urged by their two rowers, and guided by primitive-looking paddles. Many are the long, deal, raft-shaped vessels which still convey goods from one town to another; and strange do they appear with their sides painted with broad black stripes, some of them upward of a hundred feet long.

From the deck of the narrow and elongated steamer the traveler can now with proud pity watch those relics of a simple period, and congratulate himself that his course is both swifter and surer.

A party of strangers from Ratisbon had taken their places on board the steam-packet, and were rapidly clearing the waters beneath the rock of Donaustauf, gazing with admiration on the evidence of two eras presented in the gray ruins of the formidable middle-age fortress which crowns one height, and the piled-up white marble blocks of the recently completed temple of Valhalla, which shines so gloriously on the other, fairly eclipsing its antique brother, and lording it over the spreading waters, in which the image of its snowy columns lies reflected.

There were travelers of many nations on board, and all, attracted by the sudden vision of this magnificent structure, fraternized to welcome it with exclamations of delight, uttered in various languages. Germans, French, and English were alike carried away with admiration; and those who had already beheld its wonders within became quite eloquent in describing to their neighbors the treasures with which this unapproachably splendid temple is filled to overflowing.

This incident, at the very beginning of the voyage, made most of the passengers acquainted, so that the usual coldness and reserve common to northern nations was at once swept away, and animated conversation ensued. Among the passengers were two young Englishmen, who had been pointed out to the party leaving Ratisbon, by the porter of the Goldene Kreutz--(the house in which it is said Don Juan of Austria, the famous son of Charles V., was born in secrecy)--as "milors," though their weather-worn costumes gave but little idea of the importance of their station; they had attached themselves to a stately but courteous Bohemian baron, who, with a train of servants and carriages more than commonly well-appointed, was on his way to his castle situated opposite Vilshofen on the left bank of the river.

The baron was well acquainted with every nook and corner in every valley of the winding Danube; and as he was full of good-humor, and described well, and, besides, was flattered at the interest his hearers took in his conversation, he enlivened the voyage by a continuous narration of circumstances which had fallen under his observation.

A legend seldom comes amiss to an Englishman, and enthusiasm is never wanting in his mind for magnificent scenery, such as abounds on this glorious river, which possesses much of the beauty of the Rhine, and superior grandeur and sublimity. Perhaps its waters are scarcely so abounding, or its bed so filled to the brim, as that of the Rhine throughout its course; but, at times, one is half inclined to give the palm, even in this respect, to the more majestic rival of the beautiful torrent now so familiar to tourists as to have become an unappreciated treasure of picturesque riches.

The baron directed the attention of his companions to all that was wild and striking in the scenes around them. As they passed Straubing he told the sad tale of poor Agnes Bernauer, the Agnes de Castro of the Danube, whose fate was even more terrible. The Englishmen shuddered as they looked on the spot where the old bridge stood, from whence the fair unfortunate was cast, and felt inclined to reproach the very waves which submitted to assist the crime of the cruel wretch whose hook dragged the shrieking beauty under water, and drowned her as she struggled to reach the shore.

He told stories of the dark Bogenberg, as they now approached, now lost it in the windings of the capricious river; and related how the Emperor Charlemagne had visited a holy hermit there, whom he beheld, after cutting down a tree, hang his ax upon a sunbeam, a feat frequently performed by saints, who, in days of yore, seemed to have no other pegs for their mantles, caps, &c.

His Satanic Majesty also figured as a conspicuous actor in the baron's legends, and the evidences of his prowess are sufficiently remarkable, it must be confessed, in these regions.

For instance, it would be absurd to imagine any influence but that of the foul fiend could have been exerted to place the perpendicular rock of Natternberg in the way of the steamer, rising up suddenly, as it does, several hundred feet above the waters, and exhibiting on its rugged summit the ruins of the famous castle of Bogen, to reach which must have required help from the bad spirit himself, perched thus high out of reach. The lords of this castle were, however, such zealous worshipers of his, that doubtless he was not niggardly to them in lending a helping hand when called upon.

It was while the steamer was gliding past the village of Hundersdorf, which lies at the embouchure of the stream of Kinzach, that the baron bethought himself of a circumstance which occasioned him to smile, as he exclaimed,

"There is nothing very striking, you will say, in that little place; but a story was once told me concerning it which gives it a sort of fearful interest. But I have already tired you with too many of my legends, and will spare you this."

"By no means," said one of the Englishmen. "We can not let you off so. Of course, in a place so close to the mysterious Bogenberg, there must be something more than common."

"Oh, if you really like to hear what attracts me toward this insignificant village," replied the baron, "I am ready to tell the story as it was told to me."

His auditors, grouping themselves round him as he spoke, he accordingly continued as follows:

After a gloomy cold day the evening set in chill and dreary, and in spite of all the efforts I had made to reach Vilshofen before dark, I found myself, owing to various vexatious delays, benighted in one of the desolate passes of the majestic mountain range which borders the left bank of the Danube. The gloom became every moment deeper and deeper, and to proceed appeared almost impracticable; however, as the prospect of passing the night in the woods held out but small temptation, I urged my people forward, and accordingly we drove rapidly on, hoping at least to reach some spot more sheltered than the spectral valley where we found ourselves. Our haste was of little avail; the spirits of the mountains seemed to laugh our efforts to scorn; and to prove how much travelers are in their power, they so contrived it that the wheels of my carriage coming in contact with a heap of rugged stones, a violent overturn took place, and our further progress was altogether stopped. We had no choice now but to kindle a fire under a huge tree, dispose our cloaks and baggage so as to afford us some protection from the night air, and wait for dawn before we attempted to trust ourselves again in the shattered vehicle.

Resolving to submit with a good grace to our misfortune, we produced our stock of provisions, which hunger made particularly palatable. The fire soon blazed cheerfully; and as masters and men drew round it, we began to think our adventure less woeful than we at first considered it. It was agreed that those of our party who were the most fatigued should endeavor to procure some sleep, while the watchful should nurse the useful flame which not only warmed but might protect us from the visits of wild animals, should any be attracted toward our neighborhood. We had with us a stout Bavarian, whose lively eyes told that he had little more inclination to sleep than myself: he and I therefore seated ourselves on the knotted roots of the ancient oak, and to beguile the time I asked him some particulars of the country, new at that time to me, but with which he seemed well acquainted. We are at this moment passing the places he named; and he said he had traversed these mountains during many years, indeed, had we followed his advice at Straubing, we had not then been sitting by the fire, benighted wanderers, listening to him as you now listen to me.

"It is unlucky," said the Bavarian, "that there is no moon, for these heights look well in her broad light and shade; I could otherwise point out to you many a remarkable spot hereabouts. On the summit of the highest of these mountains stand the ruins of the famous Stammschloss of Bogenberg, once belonging to the powerful counts of that race, who lorded it over all the country they could see from their strong-hold, far into Bohemia. But it is long since their revels are over, and all is silent enough in those walls, except on the festivals of the Wahr-wolves, and then indeed there is such a noise and riot that one might think the old knights and their vassals were once more engaged in contest with their ancient enemies of Ortenburg."

"What mean you," asked I, "by the Wahr-wolves?"

He stared with astonishment.

"Is it possible," said he, "that you have not heard of them? They are certainly more rare of late years, yet there are still too many in the country."

"Are they banditti?" said I, instinctively laying my hand on my pistol.

"Not so," he replied; "since you seem so surprised I will explain. A Wahr-wolf is a man who has entered into a compact with the Black Huntsman, which enables him to change his human shape for that of a wolf, and resume his own form at will. There are many men whom you would never suspect of such a thing who are known to be of the fraternity. They meet sometimes in bands and scour the country, doing more mischief than natural wolves, for when they get into a farm they make wild havoc, and are mighty beer-drinkers; sometimes, not content with drinking up all the beer they can find, they pile up the empty barrels in the middle of the cellar, and go off howling loud enough to scare the whole country. You smile, but I know a fact relating to one of them which many besides myself can vouch for as having occurred. A farmer from Straubing, with some of his people, was passing through these very mountains, and being overtaken by night, as we are, but not like us furnished with provisions, one of his men offered to procure some food, if they would all promise not to tell how he did it. Whereupon he went away, and in a short time they heard the howling of a wolf; presently one came in sight bearing a sheep which he had killed. They ran to hide themselves, but he quietly laid down his prey, and, turning about, ran off to the heights. Their companion returned not long after, quite out of breath and much fatigued. They proceeded to cut up and roast part of the slaughtered animal; but none of them would hold fellowship with the man afterward, because they knew him at once to be a Wahr-wolf."

"Do you really credit this?" said I; "and could you suspect a companion of so incredible a propensity?"

"When I tell you what was witnessed and recounted to me by my own father," said the Bavarian, with great gravity, "you will allow that I have reasons for my belief.

"Hundersdorf is the native place of our family, and there, when my father was quite young, lived a mother and her two daughters, Margaret and Agatha. The first was soon married to a worthy man, a farmer, who by ill-luck took into his service a young fellow named Augustin Schultes. No one, to look at him, would have thought his face boded aught but good, he was so handsome, so gay, and obliging.

"It was not long before he fell in love with the pretty Agatha, who was the general favorite of the village, though somewhat proud and shy. At first she looked down upon the servant of her brother-in-law, but by degrees was won by his insinuating behavior, for women seldom look beyond the outside. Her mother, however, would not listen to his or her entreaties, and nothing but weeping, scolding, and discontent was to be found in the cottage. All on a sudden every thing seemed altered; and whereas Augustin never dared to cross the threshold of their house, he was now a constant guest. By-and-by he left off service and bought a bit of land of his own and some sheep, having had, according to his own report, a legacy left him. This latter circumstance explained the change in the behavior of Agatha's mother, for a poor suitor and a rich one are widely different persons, and many who had never said a word in Augustin's favor, now came forward with offers of friendship. Heinrich Ziegler, however, an unsuccessful lover of Agatha's, was still heard on all occasions to speak slightingly of Augustin, throwing out hints that his money was not got in an honest way, so that his insinuations filled the minds of the neighbors with suspicions which they could not account for. Some thought he dealt in magic, or had found the Great Secret; but none imagined the truth, which at last came to light.

"It happened one evening that my father was returning from work, and had to pass through a small wood which leads to the village; and, as the shades began to fall, he hurried on, because there are many strange things happen in these places which no good Christian should care to look upon. Suddenly he heard voices not far off, and, as he thought he recognized them, he stopped to ascertain, when he clearly distinguished those of Heinrich and Augustin, at least so it seemed to him.

"'Augustin,' said the former, 'it is of no use; if you do not resign her I will tell the whole truth, and force you to give her up; for as soon as it is known what you are--'

"'Tush!' interrupted the other, 'what better are you yourself? Did we not take the oath together, and are not you as deeply implicated as I am. Our master provides us with all we want, and our duty is not so very hard.'

"'I tell you,' muttered Heinrich, sullenly, 'my duty is much worse than yours; the worst of yours is over, mine is but begun. Am I not obliged to scour the country in the darkest night _to bring sheep to your fold_?'

"My father shuddered, a fearful suspicion darkened his mind, which was soon confirmed by what followed. Heinrich continued:

"'You get the reward and I the pain; but I will no longer endure it; either give me up the gold you obtain through my means, or give me up Agatha.'

"They then spoke together, too low to be heard, but my father gathered enough to learn that Augustin promised to take from his comrade the hard duty he complained of being obliged to perform at night; and still muttering to each other words of import which my father could not comprehend, they passed on, and he, terrified and his hair bristling with horror, hurried through the wood and reached home he scarcely knew how.

"He resolved to watch the proceedings of the two comrades narrowly, and in a little time observed that Augustin's looks were much impaired; that he went about in the daytime fatigued and haggard, while Heinrich, who before was dull and heavy, assumed a more cheerful aspect. At length the time was fixed for the marriage of Agatha and Augustin, and as it approached he felt greatly disturbed, on considering the conversation he had overheard: he tried to persuade himself that he had mistaken the voices or the words, but he still could not divest himself of the conviction that the two men whose mysterious words he had listened to were no other than Augustin and Heinrich, and they were, beyond all possibility of doubt, Wahr-wolves!

"The day before the wedding was to take place, he directed his steps to the cottage, and there found Agatha's mother alone; she was sitting in the window, with a face of wonder and alarm, and held in her hand a small piece of paper, which, as he entered, she handed to him.

"'Read this,' said she; 'you are an old friend, advise me what to do to save my poor child.'

"On the paper was written, 'Let Agatha fly from the Wahr-wolf.'

"My father turned pale, and on the widow's earnest entreaties that he would assist her with his advice, he related all he knew. Great was her amazement and despair; the more so, as she felt certain that Agatha would never credit the fact, and must inevitably fall a sacrifice. While we were in this perplexity, we were startled by the sudden appearance of Heinrich. His face was very pale, and his eyes wild.

"'You doubtless wonder,' said he, 'to see me here, and the more so when I tell you that I come as a saviour to your daughter. I alone have the means of delivering her, and if you will confide in me, she shall escape the fate which hangs over her.'

"He then proceeded to relate that, won over by the deceitful persuasions of Augustin, he had consented to become his companion in his unhallowed proceedings; but, having repented, he now resolved to reveal the wicked practices of his late friend; and if the mother of Agatha would be guided by him, he would deliver her daughter from all harm. After much difficulty the mother, by my father's persuasions, at last agreed to trust him, as no better means offered; and accordingly, having obliged Heinrich to take a solemn oath of his sincerity, they resolved to assemble several neighbors, and to put themselves under the guidance of this new friend.

"It was night when the whole party met, not far from the gate of Augustin's cottage. Heinrich advanced first, and, at a signal from him, every man concealed himself till it was observed that Augustin came out of the house, and proceeded cautiously onward till he reached the cemetery just without the village; the watchful band still close on his track.

"He there began to undress himself, and having done so, hid his clothes under a grave-stone. Scarcely had he finished this arrangement, when the hoarse cry of a raven seemed to startle him, and the sound was presently answered by a low howl, when, to the inexpressible horror of all present, a hideous wolf rushed forth, as if from the tombs, and was lost in the surrounding gloom.

"No one could stir from the spot where each stood but Heinrich, who darted toward the place where the garments were hid, and drawing them forth, wrapped them in a heap, and calling to the petrified group who looked on, bade them follow. They did so, and having returned to the village, prepared to complete the directions of Heinrich, who ordered a large fire to be made, into which all the clothes were thrown; but, to the surprise of all, among them was discovered the hood and vail of a female. They were burned with the rest, and as the last spark of the fire died away, the face of Heinrich seemed to have caught its glow, so fierce was the expression of his eyes, as he exclaimed,

"'Now the work of vengeance is complete; now the Black Huntsman has his own!'

"He told the trembling lookers-on that on the destruction of these habiliments depended the Wahr-wolf's power of resuming his human shape, which had now become quite impossible.

"After all these ceremonies, each person returned to his respective dwelling; but my father was unable to obtain a moment's rest all night, for the continual shrieking of a raven close to his window. As day dawned the annoyance ceased, and he rose the next morning hoping all he had witnessed the preceding night was a dream. However, he hastened to the house of Agatha, and there he found all in confusion and dismay. She could be nowhere found, nor any trace of her discovered. Heinrich was in more consternation than any one, and hurried up and down almost distracted.

"My father now related how his rest had been disturbed by the hoarse cries of the raven, and said that such an omen boded no good. He then proposed seeking for the unfortunate girl in the cemetery, as perhaps, her mysterious lover had murdered and buried her in one of the tombs. At the mention of this suspicion, a new light seemed to burst on the awe-struck Heinrich. He suddenly called out in a piercing voice,

"'The hood--the vail!--it is too plain, I have betrayed him, and lost her forever. I burnt her garments, and doubtless, he had taught her his infernal art, so that she can never be restored to her human form. She will remain a raven, and he a Wahr-wolf, forever!'

"So saying, he gnashed his teeth with rage, and, with a wild look, rushed from the house. No one observed where he went, but, from that hour, neither he, nor Augustin, nor Agatha, were ever beheld in the village of Hundersdorf; though often, on a wintry night, the howling of wolves is heard not far off, and the ill-boding scream of the raven is sure to echo their horrid yells."

Such was the wild tale of the Bavarian; and when he had finished, I was so impressed with the earnestness of his manner, and the firm belief he attached to this strange relation, that I was not sorry to hear the voices of my awaking companions, nor unrelieved to observe that day was breaking. We soon resumed our journey, and it was with little regret I quitted the gloomy valley where I had listened to the fearful legend of the Wahr-wolf.

The superstition is scarcely even yet done away with in these parts, in spite of the march of civilization, which has sent steam-boats on the Danube to drive away such follies. I believe, however, there are few places now, except in the Böhmer-wald, where such monstrous fables are believed. Such a belief was once current all over France, and, indeed, wherever wolves existed; but as our robber chiefs end black bands are pretty well rooted out, no one has any interest in keeping up the credit of these imaginary culprits.

"But see," exclaimed the baron, "we are arrived at Vilshofen, and I am obliged to leave off my gossip, and allow you to pursue your way toward Vienna. Yonder are the walls of my domicile, and here I must bid you farewell."

A TRUE GHOST STORY.

"Did you ever hear," said a friend once to me, "a real true ghost story, one you might depend upon?"

"There are not many such to be heard," I replied, "and I am afraid it has never been my good fortune to meet with those who were really able to give me a genuine, well-authenticated story."

"Well, you shall never have cause to say so again; and as it was an adventure that happened to myself, you can scarcely think it other than well authenticated. I know you to be no coward, or I might hesitate before I told it to you. You need not stir the fire; there is plenty of light by which you can hear it. And now to begin. I had been riding hard one day in the autumn for nearly five or six hours, through some of the most tempestuous weather to which it had ever been my ill luck to be exposed. It was just about the time of the Equinox, and perfect hurricanes swept over the hills, as if every wind in heaven had broken loose, and had gone mad, and on every hill the rain and driving sleet poured down in one unbroken shower.

"When I reached the head of Wentford valley--you know the place, a narrow ravine with rocks on one side, and those rich full woods (not that they were very full then, for the winds had shaken them till there was scarcely a leaf on their bare rustling branches) on the other, with a clear little stream winding through the hollow dell--when I came to the entrance of this valley, weather-beaten veteran as I was, I scarcely knew how to hold on my way; the wind, as it were, held in between the two high banks, rushed like a river just broken loose into a new course, carrying with it a perfect sheet of rain, against which my poor horse and I struggled with considerable difficulty: still I went on, for the village lay at the other end, and I had a patient to see there, who had sent a very urgent message, entreating me to come to him as soon as possible. We are slaves to a message, we poor medical men, and I urged on my poor jaded brute with a keen relish for the warm fire and good dinner that awaited me as soon as I could see my unfortunate patient, and get back to a home doubly valued on such a day as that in which I was then out. It was indeed dreary riding in such weather; and the scene altogether, through which I passed, was certainly not the most conducive toward raising a man's spirits; but I positively half wished myself out in it all again, rather than sit the hour I was obliged to spend by the sick-bed of the wretched man I had been summoned to visit. He had met with an accident the day before, and as he had been drinking up to the time, and the people had delayed sending for me, I found him in a frightful state of fever; and it was really an awful thing either to look at or to hear him. He was delirious, and perfectly furious; and his face, swelled with passion, and crimson with the fever that was burning him up, was a sight to frighten children, and not one calculated to add to the tranquillity even of full-grown men. I dare say you think me very weak, and that I ought to have been inured to such things, minding his ravings no more than the dash of the rain against the window; but, during the whole of my practice, I had never seen man or woman, in health or in fever, in so frightful a state of furious frenzy, with the impress of every bad passion stamped so broadly and fearfully upon the face; and, in the miserable hovel that then held me with his old witch-like mother standing by, the babel of the wind and rain outside added to the ravings of the wretched creature within. I began to feel neither in a happy nor an enviable frame of mind. There is nothing so frightful as where the reasonable spirit seems to abandon man's body, and leave it to a fiend instead.

"After an hour or more waiting patiently by his bedside, not liking to leave the helpless old woman alone with so dangerous a companion (for I could not answer for any thing he might do in his frenzy), I thought that the remedies by which I hoped in some measure to subdue the fever, seemed beginning to take effect, and that I might leave him, promising to send all that was necessary, though fearing much that he had gone beyond all my power to restore him; and desiring that I might immediately be called back again, should he get worse instead of better, which I felt almost certain would be the case, I hastened homeward, glad enough to be leaving wretched huts and raving men, driving rain and windy hills, for a comfortable house, dry clothes, a warm fire, and a good dinner. I think I never saw such a fire in my life as the one that blazed up my chimney; it looked so wonderfully warm and bright, and there seemed an indescribable air of comfort about the room which I had never noticed before. One would have thought I should have enjoyed it all intensely after my wet ride, but throughout the whole evening, the scenes of the day would keep recurring to my mind with most uncomfortable distinctness, and it was in vain that I endeavored to forget it all in a book, one of my old favorites too; so at last I fairly gave up the attempt, as the hideous face would come continually between my eyes and an especially good passage; and I went off to bed heartily tired, and expecting sleep very readily to visit me. Nor was I disappointed: I was soon deep asleep, though my last thought was on the little valley I had left. How long this heavy and dreamless sleep continued, I can not tell, but gradually I felt consciousness returning, in the shape of the very thoughts with which I fell asleep, and at last I opened my eyes, thoroughly roused by a heavy blow at my window. I can not describe my horror, when, by the light of a moon struggling among the heavy surge-like clouds, I saw the very face, the face of _that_ man looking in at me through the casement, the eyes distended and the face pressed close to the glass. I started up in bed, to convince myself that I really was awake, and not suffering from some frightful dream; there it staid, perfectly moveless, its wide ghastly eyes fixed unwaveringly on mine, which, by a kind of fascination, became equally fixed and rigid, gazing upon the dreadful face, which alone without a body was visible at the window, unless an indefinable black shadow, that seemed to float beyond it, might be fancied into one. I can scarcely tell how long I so sat looking at it, but I remember something of a rushing sound, a feeling of relief, a falling exhausted back upon my pillow, and then I awoke in the morning ill and unrefreshed. I was ill at ease, and the first question I asked, on coming down stairs, was, whether any messenger had come to summon me to Wentford. A messenger had come, they told me, but it was to say I need trouble myself no further, as the man was already beyond all aid, having died about the middle of the night. I never felt so strangely in my life as when they told me this, and my brain almost reeled as the events of the previous day and night passed through my mind in rapid succession. That I had seen something supernatural in the darkness of the night, I had never doubted, but when the sun shone brightly into my room in the morning, through the same window, where I had seen so frightful and strange a sight by the spectral light of the moon, I began to believe more it was a dream, and endeavored to ridicule myself out of all uncomfortable feelings, which, nevertheless, I could not quite shake off. Haunted by what I considered a painful dream, I left my room, and the first thing I heard was a confirmation of what I had been for the last hour endeavoring to reason and ridicule myself out of believing. It was some hours before I could recover my ordinary tranquillity; and then it came back, not slowly as you might have expected, as the impression gradually wore off, and time wrought his usual changes in mind as in body, but suddenly--by the discovery that our large white owl had escaped during the night, and had honored my window with a visit before he became quite accustomed to his liberty."

[From the London Critic.]

SKETCHES OF LIFE. BY A RADICAL.

It was an error to call this work[25] the autobiography of an individual. It is a picturing--faithful, minute, and eloquent--of the hardships, the sufferings, and the miseries endured by a large mass of our fellow men. It is an earnest and honest exposure of the hollowness that infests English society--an insight to the weakness of the substratum. It shows what education should have done, and what corruption really has done. ALTON LOCKE is also a personification of the failings, as well as of the sufferings, that make up the sum of existence of a large class.

The author has effectually carried out his design--we will not say altogether with artistic consistency, or with book-making propriety. We know it is deemed a great offense against taste to make a novel the medium of exposing social dangers, or political inequalities and wrongs. We know that those who stick up for "the model," would have a fiction all fiction, or at least that the philosophy be very subordinate and the social aim be hidden so completely as not to be discernible excepting to the professional reader. But _Alton Locke_ is an exception to all these objections. Spite of its defects, it is a perfect work--perfect, that it is invested with an air of the wildest romance, while it goes home to the heart and the judgment as a faithful picture--perfect, that it is eloquent and natural, and consistent with itself. It is one of those books which defy classification. We have not seen its like. And to those readers who accept our eulogy in earnest, _Alton Locke_ will ever remain a token of rich enjoyment, and a memento that 1850 did produce at least one cherishable book.

The story of the biography will not impress so much or so favorably as the style. The hero is a widow's only child: his mother is a stern Calvinist. Her teachings, and the teaching of the vipers in religious form who come to administer consolation and to drink the old lady's tea, are hateful to an intense degree to ALTON. He is of a poetic temperament, and a great admirer of nature. Opportunities of indulging his natural tastes are denied him. Born in a close London street, very rigidly watched and governed by his mother and the good men who come to visit her, his life is any thing but pleasant. But he subsequently becomes a tailor, reads largely, writes verses, turns Chartist, falls in love, and is imprisoned for spouting Chartism. The upshot of his rough life is, that he becomes a true Christian.

Several characters are hit off with great perfection. Such is the mother of ALTON; and such is SANDYE MACKAYE, a friend to whom the boy occasionally ran for sympathy, and to borrow books.

But we will now draw upon the pages of the work itself, merely repeating that it is a remarkable composition, and one which men in high places would do well to ponder. It is a growth from the defects of our time, and should be taken as a presage that change must come. The working-men of this country will be indebted to ALTON LOCKE for the manner in which he pleads their cause; all men should be gratified that the warning voice, which he will inevitably be deemed, is so moderate in tone and so philosophical in manner.

ALTON'S youth, we have said, was not happy. The following are his descriptions of his mother, and one of her associates:

ALTON'S MOTHER AND THE MISSIONARY.

"My mother moved by rule and method; by God's law, as she considered, and that only. She seldom smiled. Her word was absolute. She never commanded twice, without punishing. And yet there were abysses of unspoken tenderness in her, as well as clear, sound, womanly sense and insight. But she thought herself as much bound to keep down all tenderness as if she had been some ascetic of the middle ages--so do extremes meet! It was 'carnal,' she considered. She had as yet no right to have any 'spiritual affection' for us. We were still 'children of wrath and of the devil'--not yet 'convinced of sin,' 'converted, born again.' She had no more spiritual bond with us, she thought, than she had with a heathen or a papist. She dared not even pray for our conversion, earnestly as she prayed on every other subject. For though the majority of her sect would have done so, her clear, logical sense would yield to no such tender inconsistency. Had it not been decided from all eternity? We were elect, or we were reprobate. Could her prayers alter that? If He had chosen us, He would call us in His own good time: and, if not, ----. Only, again and again, as I afterward discovered from a journal of hers, she used to beseech God with agonized tears to set her mind at rest by revealing to her His will toward us. For that comfort she could at least rationally pray. But she received no answer. Poor, beloved mother! If thou couldst not read the answer, written in every flower and every sunbeam, written in the very fact of our existence here at all, what answer would have sufficed thee? And yet, with all this, she kept the strictest watch over our morality. Fear, of course, was the only motive she employed; for how could our still carnal understandings be affected with love to God? And love to herself was too paltry and temporary to be urged by one who knew that her life was uncertain, and who was always trying to go down to deepest eternal ground and reason of every thing, and take her stand upon that. So our god, or gods rather, till we were twelve years old, were hell, the rod, the Ten Commandments, and public opinion. Yet under them, not they, but something deeper far, both in her and us, preserved us pure. Call it natural character, conformation of the spirit--conformation of the brain, if you like, if you are a scientific man and a phrenologist. I never yet could dissect and map out my own being, or my neighbor's, as you analysts do.

* * * * *

"My heart was in my mouth as I opened the door to them, and sunk back again to the very lowest depths of my inner man when my eyes fell on the face and figure of the missionary--a squat, red-faced, pig-eyed, low-browed man, with great soft lips that opened back to his very ears; sensuality, conceit, and cunning marked on every feature--an innate vulgarity, from which the artisan and the child recoil with an instinct as true, perhaps truer, than that of the courtier, showing itself in every tone and motion--I shrunk into a corner, so crest-fallen that I could not even exert myself to hand round the bread-and-butter, for which I got duly scolded afterward. Oh! that man!--how he bawled and contradicted, and laid down the law, and spoke to my mother in a fondling, patronizing way, which made me, I knew not why, boil over with jealousy and indignation. How he filled his teacup half full of the white sugar to buy which my mother had curtailed her yesterday's dinner--how he drained the few remaining drops of the three-penny worth of cream, with which Susan was stealing off to keep it as an unexpected treat for my mother at breakfast next morning--how he talked of the natives, not as St. Paul might of his converts, but as a planter might of his slaves; overlaying all his unintentional confessions of his own greed and prosperity, with cant, flimsy enough for even a boy to see through, while his eyes were not blinded with the superstition that a man must be pious who sufficiently interlards his speech with a jumble of old English picked out of our translation of the New Testament. Such was the man I saw. I don't deny that all are not like him. I believe there are noble men of all denominations doing their best, according to their light, all over the world; but such was the one I saw--and the men who are sent home to plead the missionary cause, whatever the men may be like who stay behind and work, are, from my small experience, too often such. It appears to me to be the rule that many of those who go abroad as missionaries, go simply because they are men of such inferior powers and attainments that if they staid in England they would starve."

ALTON'S STUDY.

"I slept in a little lean-to garret at the back of the house, some ten feet long by six wide. I could just stand upright against the inner wall, while the roof on the other side ran down to the floor. There was no fire-place in it or any means of ventilation. No wonder I coughed all night accordingly, and woke about two every morning with choking throat and aching head. My mother often said that the room was 'too small for a Christian to sleep in, but where could she get a better?' Such was my only study. I could not use it as such, however, at night without discovery; for my mother carefully looked in every evening, to see that my candle was out. But when my kind cough woke me, I rose, and creeping like a mouse about the room--for my mother and sister slept in the next chamber, and every sound was audible through the narrow partition--I drew my darling books out from under a board in the floor one end of which I had gradually loosened at odd minutes, and with them a rushlight, earned by running on messages, or by taking bits of work home, and finishing them for my fellows. No wonder that with this scanty rest, and this complicated exertion of hands, eyes, and brain, followed by the long dreary day's work of the shop, my health began to fail; my eyes grew weaker and weaker; my cough became more acute; my appetite failed me daily. My mother noticed the change, and questioned me about it, affectionately enough. But I durst not, alas! tell the truth. It was not one offense, but the arrears of months of disobedience which I should have had to confess; and so arose infinite false excuses, and petty prevarications, which embittered and clogged still more my already overtasked spirit. Before starting forth to walk two miles to the shop at six o'clock in the morning, I sat some three or four hours shivering on my bed, putting myself into cramped and painful postures, not daring even to cough, lest my mother should fancy me unwell, and come in to see me, poor dear soul!--my eyes aching over the page, my feet wrapped up in the bed-clothes to keep them from the miserable pain of the cold; longing, watching, dawn after dawn, for the kind summer mornings, when I should need no candlelight. Look at the picture awhile, ye comfortable folks, who take down from your shelves what books you like best at the moment, and then lie back, amid prints and statuettes, to grow wise in an easy chair, with a blazing fire and a camphine lamp. The lower classes uneducated! Perhaps you would be so too, if learning cost you the privation which it costs some of them."

* * * * *

But ALTON read largely, notwithstanding his privations. What of his time was not spent on the tailor's board, was devoted to the writings of the great spirits of the age. On a holiday he visited the National Gallery, and learned to love and bless the painters. He studied narrowly MILTON and TENNYSON, and many other writers, and among them "that great prose poem, the single epic of modern days, THOMAS CARLYLE'S _French Revolution_." ALTON'S daydreams were more numerous than we should imagine are those of the majority of men who are steeped in poverty as he was; and he has described them well. When he did learn to walk into the fields, he truly enjoyed the liberty thus attained.

THE FIRST SIP OF FREEDOM.

"It was a glorious morning at the end of May; and when I escaped from the pall of smoke which hung over the city, I found the sky a sheet of cloudless blue. How I watched for the ending of the rows of houses, which lined the road for miles--the great roots of London, running far out into the country, up which poured past me an endless stream of food, and merchandise, and human beings--the sap of the huge metropolitan life-tree! How each turn of the road opened a fresh line of terraces or villas, till hope deferred made the heart sick, and the country seemed--like the place where the rainbow touches the ground, or the El Dorado of Raleigh's Guiana settlers--always a little farther off! How, between gaps in the houses right and left, I caught tantalizing glimpses of green fields, shut from me by dull lines of high-spiked palings! How I peeped through gates and over fences at trim lawns and gardens, and longed to stay, and admire, and speculate on the names of the strange plants and gaudy flowers; and then hurried on, always expecting to find something still finer ahead--something really worth stopping to look at--till the houses thickened again into a street, and I found myself, to my disappointment, in the midst of a town! And then more villas and palings; and then a village: when would they stop, those endless houses? At last they did stop. Gradually the people whom I passed began to look more and more rural, and more toil-worn and ill-fed. The houses ended, cattle yards and farm buildings appeared; and right and left, far away, spread the low rolling sheet of green meadows and corn-fields. Oh, the joy! The lawns with their high elms and firs, the green hedgerows, the delicate hue and scent of the fresh clover-fields, the steep clay banks where I stopped to pick nosegays of wild flowers, and became again a child--and then recollected my mother, and a walk with her on the river bank toward the Red House. I hurried on again, but could not be unhappy, while my eyes ranged free, for the first time in my life, over the checkered squares of cultivation, over glittering brooks, and hills quivering in the green haze, while above hung the skylarks, pouring out their souls in melody. And then, as the sun grew hot, and the larks dropped one by one into the growing corn, the new delight of the blessed silence! I listened to the stillness; for noise had been my native element; I had become in London quite unconscious of the ceaseless roar of the human sea, casting up mire and dirt. And now, for the first time in my life, the crashing, confusing hubbub had flowed away, and left my brain calm and free. How I felt at that moment a capability of clear, bright meditation, which was as new to me, as I believe it would have been to most Londoners in my position. I can not help fancying that our unnatural atmosphere of excitement, physical as well as moral, is to blame for very much of the working-men's restlessness and fierceness. As it was, I felt that every step forward, every breath of fresh air, gave me new life. I had gone fifteen miles before I recollected that, for the first time for many months, I had not coughed since I rose."

* * * * *

The following is the utterance in a more eloquent mode, of some startling facts revealed by the London Correspondent of _The Morning Chronicle_:

THE TERRORS OF THE COMPETITIVE SYSTEM.

"Well: one day our employer died. He had been one of the old sort of fashionable West-end tailors in the fast decreasing honorable trade; keeping a modest shop, hardly to be distinguished from a dwelling-house, except by his name on the window blinds. He paid good prices for work, though not as good, of course, as he had given twenty years before, and prided himself upon having all his work done at home. His work-rooms, as I have said, were no elysiums; but still, as good, alas! as those of three tailors out of four. He was proud, luxurious, foppish; but he was honest and kindly enough, and did many a generous thing by men who had been long in his employ. At all events, his journeymen could live on what he paid them.

"But his son, succeeding to the business, determined, like Rehoboam of old, to go ahead with the times. Fired with the great spirit of the nineteenth century--at least with that one which is vulgarly considered its especial glory--he resolved to make haste to be rich. His father had made money very slowly of late; while dozens, who had begun business long after him, had now retired to luxurious ease and suburban villas. Why should he remain in the minority? Why should he not get rich as fast as he could? Why should he stick to the old, slow-going, honorable trade? Out of some 450 West-end tailors, there were not one hundred left who were old-fashioned and stupid enough to go on keeping down their own profits by having all their work done at home and at first-hand. Ridiculous scruples! The government knew none such. Were not the army clothes, the post-office clothes, the policemen's clothes, furnished by contractors and sweaters, who hired the work at low prices, and let it out again to journeymen at still lower ones? Why should he pay his men two shillings where the government paid them one? Were there not cheap houses even at the West-end, which had saved several thousands a year merely by reducing their workmen's wages? And if the workmen chose to take lower wages, he was not bound actually to make them a present of more than they asked for. They would go to the cheapest market for any thing they wanted, and so must he. Besides, wages had really been quite exorbitant. Half his men threw each of them as much money away in gin and beer yearly, as would pay two workmen at a cheap house. Why was he to be robbing his family of comforts to pay for their extravagance? And charging his customers, too, unnecessarily high prices--it was really robbing the public!

"Such, I suppose, were some of the arguments which led to an official announcement, one Saturday night, that our young employer intended to enlarge his establishment, for the purpose of commencing business in the 'show trade;' and that, emulous of Messrs. Aaron, Levi, and the rest of that class, magnificent alterations were to take place in the premises, to make room for which our work-rooms were to be demolished, and that for that reason--for of course it was only for that reason--all work would in future be given out, to be made up at the men's own homes....

"'We were all bound to expect this. Every working tailor must come to this at last, on the present system; and we are only lucky in having been spared so long. You all know where this will end--in the same misery as fifteen thousand out of twenty thousand of our class are enduring now. We shall become the slaves, often the bodily prisoners, of Jews, middlemen, and sweaters, who draw their livelihood out of our starvation. We shall have to face, as the rest have, ever decreasing prices of labor, ever increasing profits made out of that labor by the contractors who will employ us--arbitrary fines, inflicted at the caprice of hirelings--the competition of women, and children, and starving Irish--our hours of work will increase one-third, our actual pay decrease to less than one-half; and in all this we shall have no hope, no chance of improvement in wages, but ever more penury, slavery, misery, as we are pressed on by those who are sucked by fifties--almost by hundreds--yearly, out of the honorable trade in which we were brought up, into the infernal system of contract work, which is devouring our trade and many others, body and soul. Our wives will be forced to sit up night and day to help us; our children must labor from the cradle without chance of going to school, hardly of breathing the fresh air of heaven; our boys, as they grow up, must turn beggars or paupers; our daughters, as thousands do, must eke out their miserable earnings by prostitution. And after all, a whole family will not gain what one of us had been doing, as yet, single-handed.'...

"'Government--government? You a tailor, and not know that government are the very authors of this system? Not to know that they first set the example, by getting the army and navy clothes made by contractors, and taking the lowest tenders? Not to know that the police clothes, the postmen's clothes, the convicts' clothes, are all contracted for on the same infernal plan, by sweaters, and sweaters' sweaters, and sweaters' sweaters' sweaters, till government work is just the very last, lowest resource to which a poor, starved-out wretch betakes himself to keep body and soul together? Why, the government prices, in almost every department, are half, and less than half, the very lowest living price. I tell you, the careless iniquity of government about these things will come out some day. It will be known, the whole abomination; and future generations will class it with the tyrannies of the Roman emperors and the Norman barons. Why, it's a fact, that the colonels of the regiments--noblemen, most of them--make their own vile profit out of us tailors--out of the pauperism of the men, the slavery of the children, the prostitution of the women. They get so much a uniform allowed them by government to clothe the men with; and then--then, they let out the jobs to the contractors at less than half what government give them, and pocket the difference. And then you talk of appealing to government!'"

* * * * *

Only DICKENS or THACKERAY could have rivaled the following sketch of a discussion on

THE REAL OFFICE OF POETRY.

"'What do you mean, Mr. Mackaye!' asked I, with a doleful and disappointed visage.

"'Mean--why, if God had meant ye to write about Pacifics, He'd ha put ye there--and because He means ye to write aboot London town, He's put ye there--and gien ye an unco sharp taste o' the ways o't; and I'll gie ye anither. Come along wi' me.'

"And he seized me by the arm, and hardly giving me time to put on my hat, marched me out into the streets, and away through Clare Market to St. Giles's.

"It was a foul, chilly, foggy Saturday night. From the butchers' and greengrocers' shops the gas-lights flared and flickered, wild and ghastly, over haggard groups of slip-shod, dirty women, bargaining for scraps of stale meat, and frost-bitten vegetables, wrangling about short weight and bad quality. Fish-stalls and fruit-stalls lined the edge of the greasy pavement, sending up odors as foul as the language of the sellers and buyers. Blood and sewer-water crawled from under doors and out of spouts, and reeked down the gutters among offal, animal and vegetable, in every stage of putrefaction. Foul vapors rose from cow-sheds and slaughter-houses, and the doorways of undrained alleys, where the inhabitants carried the filth out on their shoes from the back yard into the court, and from the court up into the main street; while above hanging like cliffs over the streets--those narrow, brawling torrents of filth, and poverty, and sin--the houses with their teeming load of life were piled up into the dingy choking night. A ghastly, deafening, sickening sight it was. Go, scented Belgravian! and see what London is! and then go to the library which God has given thee--one often fears in vain--and see what science says this London might be!

"'Ay,' he muttered to himself, as he strode along, 'sing awa; get yoursel' wi' child wi' pretty fancies and gran' words, like the rest of the poets, and gang to hell for it.'

"'To hell, Mr. Mackaye?'

"'Ay, to a verra real hell, Alton Locke, laddie--a warse ane than ony fiend's' kitchen, or subterranean Smithfield that ye'll hear o' in the pulpits--the hell on earth o' being a flunkey, and a humbug, and a useless peacock, wasting God's gifts on your ain lusts and pleasures--and kenning it--and not being able to get oot o' it, for the chains o' vanity and self-indulgence. I've warned ye. Now look there--'

"He stopped suddenly before the entrance of a miserable alley:

"'Look! there's not a soul down that yard, but's either beggar, drunkard, thief, or warse. Write aboot that! Say how ye saw the mouth o' hell, and the twa pillars thereof at the entry--the pawnbroker's shop o' one side and the gin palace at the other--twa monstrous deevils, eating up men and women, and bairns, body and soul. Look at the jaws o' the monsters, how they open and open, and swallow in anither victim and anither. Write aboot that.'

"'What jaws, Mr. Mackaye!'

"'Thae faulding-doors o' the gin shop, goose. Are na they a mair damnable man-devouring idol than ony red-hot statue o' Moloch, or wicker Gogmagog, wherein thae auld Britons burnt their prisoners? Look at _thae barefooted, barebacked hizzies, with their arms roun' the men's necks, and their mouths full o' vitriol and beastly words_! Look at that Irishwoman pouring the gin down the babbie's throat! Look at that raff o' a boy gaun out o' the pawnshop, where he's been pledging the handkerchief he stole the morning, into the ginshop, to buy beer poisoned wi' grains o' paradise, and cocculus indicus, and saut, and a' damnable, maddening, thirst-breeding, lust-breeding drugs! Look at that girl that went in wi' a shawl on her back and cam out wi'out ane! _Drunkards frae the breast!--harlots frae the cradle!--damned before they're born!_ John Calvin had an inkling o' the truth there, I'm a'most driven to think, wi' his reprobation deevil's doctrines!'

"'Well--but--Mr. Mackaye, I know nothing about these poor creatures.'

"'Then ye ought. What do ye ken aboot the Pacific? Which is maist to your business?--thae bare-backed hizzies that play the harlot o' the other side o' the warld, or these--these thousands o' barebacked hizzies that play the harlot o' your ain side--made out o' your ain flesh and blude? You a poet! True poetry, like true charity, my laddie, begins at hame. If ye'll be a poet at a', ye maun be a cockney poet; and while the cockneys be what they be, ye maun write, like Jeremiah of old, o' lamentation and mourning and woe, for the sins o' your people. Gin ye want to learn the spirit o' a people's poet, down wi' your Bible and read thae auld Hebrew prophets; gin ye wad learn the style, read your Burns frae morning till night; and gin ye'd learn the matter, just gang after your nose, and keep your eyes open, and ye'll no miss it.'"

* * * * *

One other extract, and we will have done with this original but captivating and convincing volume. ALTON speaks prophetically of

THE DANGERS THAT ARE LOOMING.

"Ay, respectable gentlemen and ladies, I will confess all to you--you shall have, if you enjoy it, a fresh opportunity for indulging that supreme pleasure which the press daily affords you of insulting the classes whose powers most of you know as little as you do their sufferings. Yes; the Chartist poet is vain, conceited, ambitious, uneducated, shallow, inexperienced, envious, ferocious, scurrilous, seditious, traitorous.--Is your charitable vocabulary exhausted? Then ask yourselves, how often have you yourself, honestly resisted and conquered the temptation to any one of these sins, when it has come across you just once in a way, and not as they came to me, as they come to thousands of the working-men, daily and hourly, 'till their torments do, by length of time, become their elements?' What, are we covetous, too? Yes? And if those who have, like you, still covet more what wonder if those who have nothing, covet something? Profligate too? Well, though that imputation as a generality is utterly calumnious, though your amount of respectable animal enjoyment per annum is a hundred times as great as that of the most self-indulgent artisan, yet, if you had ever felt what it is to want, not only every luxury of the senses, but even bread to eat, you would think more mercifully of the man who makes up by rare excesses, and those only of the limited kinds possible to him, for long intervals of dull privation, and says in his madness, 'Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die!' We have our sins, and you have yours. Ours may be the more gross and barbaric, but yours are none the less damnable; perhaps all the more so, for being the sleek, subtle, respectable, religious sins they are. You are frantic enough if our part of the press calls you hard names, but you can not see that your part of the press repays it back to us with interest. _We_ see those insults, and feel them bitterly enough; and do not forget them, alas! soon enough, while they pass unheeded by your delicate eyes as trivial truisms. Horrible, unprincipled, villainous, seditious, frantic, blasphemous, are epithets of course when applied to--to how large a portion of the English people, you will some day discover to your astonishment. When will that day come, and how? In thunder, and storm, and garments rolled in blood? Or like the dew on the mown grass, and the clear shining of the sunlight after April rain?"

FOOTNOTE:

[25] ALTON LOCKE, Tailor and Poet--An Autobiography. In the press of Messrs. Harper and Brothers.

BURKE AND THE PAINTER BARRY.

Burke delighted in lending a helping hand to genius struggling against adversity; and many who were wasting their powers in obscurity were led by his assistance to the paths of eminence. Barry, the painter, was among those to whom he had shown great kindness; he found pleasure in the society of that eccentric being. A long time had passed without his having seen him, when one day they met accidentally in the street. The greeting was cordial, and Barry invited his friend to dine with him the next day. Burke arrived at the appointed hour, and the door was opened by Dame Ursula, as she was called. She at first denied her master, but when Burke mentioned his name, Barry, who had overheard it, came running down stairs. He was in his usual attire; his thin gray hair was all disheveled; an old and soiled green shade and a pair of mounted spectacles assisted his sight; the color of his linen was rather equivocal, but was evidently not fresh from the bleach-green; his outward garment was a kind of careless _roquelaire_. He gave Burke a most hearty welcome, and led him into the apartment which served him for kitchen, parlor, studio, and gallery; it was, however, so filled with smoke that its contents remained a profound mystery, and Burke was almost blinded and nearly suffocated. Barry expressed the utmost surprise, and appeared utterly at a loss to account for the state of the atmosphere. Burke, however, without endeavoring to explain the mystery on philosophical principles, at once brought the whole blame of the annoyance home to Barry--as it came out that he had removed the stove from its wonted situation by the chimney-piece, and drawn it into the very middle of the room. He had mounted it on an old dripping-pan, to defend the carpet from the burning ashes; he had in vain called in the assistance of the bellows, no blaze would come--but volumes of smoke were puffed out ever and anon, as if to show that the fire could do something if it pleased. Burke persuaded Barry to reinstate the stove in its own locality, and helped him to replace it; this done and the windows opened, they got rid of the smoke, and the fire soon looked out cheerfully enough on them, as if nothing had happened. Barry invited Burke to the upper rooms to look at his pictures. As he went on from one to the other, he applied the sponge and water with which he was supplied, to wash away the dust which obscured them. Burke was delighted with them, and with Barry's history of each, and his dissertation as he pointed out its particular beauties. He then brought him to look at his bedroom; its walls were hung with unframed pictures, which had also to be freed from the thick covering of dust before they could be admired; these, like the others, were noble specimens of art. In a recess near the fire-place the rough stump-bedstead stood, with its coverlet of coarse rug.

"That is my bed," said the artist; "you see I use no curtains; they are most unwholesome, and I breathe as freely and sleep as soundly as if I lay upon down and snored under velvet. Look there," said he, as he pointed to a broad shelf high above the bed, "that I consider my _chef-d'oeuvre_; I think I have been more than a match for them; I have outdone them at last."

Mr. Burke asked of whom it was he spoke.

"The rats," replied he, "the nefarious rats, who robbed me of every thing in the larder. But now all is safe; I keep my food beyond their reach. I may now defy all the rats in the parish."

Barry had no clock, so depended on the cravings of his stomach to regulate his meals. By this unerring guide, which might have shamed the most correct regulator in a watchmaker's shop, he perceived that it was time for dinner; but forgot that he had invited Burke to partake of it, till reminded by a hint.

"I declare, my dear friend, I had totally forgotten, I beg your pardon--it quite escaped my memory; but if you'll just sit down here and blow the fire, I'll get a nice beef-steak in a minute."

Burke applied all his energies to the bellows, and had a nice clear fire when Barry returned with the steak rolled up in cabbage-leaves, which he drew from his pocket; from the same receptacle he produced a parcel of potatoes; a bottle of port was under each arm, and each hand held a fresh French-roll. A gridiron was placed on the fire, and Burke was deputed to act as cook while Barry performed the part of butler. While he laid the cloth the old woman boiled the potatoes, and at five o'clock, all being duly prepared, the friends sat down to their repast. Burke's first essay in cookery was miraculously successful, for the steak was done to admiration, and of course greatly relished by the cook. As soon as dinner was dispatched the friends chatted away over their two bottles of port till nine o'clock. Burke was often heard to say that this was one of the most amusing and delightful days he had ever spent.

[From Hogg's Instructor.]

THE IRON RING.

A TALE OF GERMAN ROBBERS AND GERMAN STUDENTS.

"I am inclined to side with our friend," said the venerable pastor, "and I would rather not see you so skeptical, Justus. I have known, in my own experience, several remarkable instances of presentiments; indeed, on one occasion, I and those who were with me, all save one, greatly profited by the strange prophetic apprehension of one of our party. Would we had listened to him sooner! But it was not so to be."

"Come, tell us the story, dear grandfather," said Justus; "it will doubtless edify our guest; and, as for me, I do not object to be mystified now and then."

"Justus, Justus, lay aside that scoffing mask. You put it on, I know, to look like another Mephistopheles, but you don't succeed."

"Don't I?" returned Justus, with a smile. "Well, grandfather, that ought to be a comfort to you."

"No, you don't, so you may as well give up trying. But come, if you would really like to hear the story" (the fact was, that the good man was anxious to tell it, and feared to lose the opportunity), "I shall be happy to please you. I think, however, we shall be better out of doors. Let us go and take our wine under the great plane-tree. You had as well bring your chair with you, my young friend" (this was addressed to me), "for the bench is somewhat hard. And Trinchen, my girl, put glasses on a tray, and some bottles of wine in a pail, and bring them out to us under the great plane-tree. And you, Justus, my boy, be kind enough to transport thither this big chair of mine, like a dutiful grandson and a stout, as you are."

We were soon established in the pleasant shade. The pastor took an easy posture in his chair, when, after many efforts, Justus had coaxed it into touching the ground with all its four legs at once; I straddled across the seat of mine, and, placing my arms on the back, reposed the bowl of my long pipe on the ground; and Justus, with his cigar in his mouth--the twentieth, or thereby, that day--threw himself down on the turf at a convenient distance from the wine-pail, prepared to replenish our glasses, as need might be. Noble glasses they were, tall and green, with stalks to be grasped, not fingered.

"It is now nearly sixty years ago," began the pastor, when our arrangements were complete, "a long time--a long time, indeed, to bear the staff of one's pilgrimage. I was then in my third year at the university, and was something like what you are now, Justus--a merry, idle, and thoughtless student, but not a very bad boy either."

"Thank you, grandfather," said Justus; "however, that accounts for your being the man you are at your years."

"No, it does not," said the old man, smiling; "but let me tell my story, my boy, without interrupting me--at least, unless you have something better to say than that. As I was saying, I was in my third year, and, of course, I had many acquaintances. I had, however, only two friends. One was a countryman of yours, young gentleman, and his name was Macdonald. The name of the other was Laurenberg."

"Why, that was my grandmother's name!" said Justus.

"Laurenberg was your grandmother's brother," continued the pastor, "and the event I am about to relate to you was the means of my becoming acquainted with her. But has any one ever told you his fate, Justus?"

"No," said Justus, "I never before even heard of him."

"That is not wonderful, my boy; for, since his sister was taken from me, there has been no one but me to remember my poor Laurenberg. But, as I was saying, these two were my only friends. That summer, when the vacation came, we three resolved to make a pedestrian tour together. (Fill our glasses, Justus.) So, after some discussion, we decided on visiting the great Thuringian Forest, and one fine morning off we set. Just as we got beyond the town, Macdonald said, 'My dear brothers, let us return; this expedition will bring us no good.' 'You would almost make one think you were a prophet,' said Laurenberg, with mock gravity. 'And what if I be?' cried the other, quickly. 'Why, then, don't be a prophet of evil--that is to say, unless you can not help it. Come, my dear fellow.' 'I tell you,' interrupted Macdonald, 'that, if we go on, one of us will never see Göttingen again--and Laurenberg, my beloved Laurenberg, it is you who will be that one. You will never return, unless you return now. I tell you this, for I know it.' 'Oh, nonsense,' said the other; 'pray, how do you know it?' It seemed to me that Macdonald slightly shuddered at the question, but he went on as if not heeding it: 'He of us three who first left the house, is destined never to enter it again, and that was the reason why I tried to get out before you. You, Laurenberg, in your folly, ran past me, and it is thus on you that the lot has fallen. Laugh if you will; if you had let me go before you, I would have said nothing; but as it is, I say, laugh if you will, and call me a dreamer, or what you please, only return, my friends, return. Let us go back.' 'Let us go on. Forward!' cried Laurenberg; 'I do not laugh at you, my brother, but I think you are scarcely reasonable; for either you have truly foreseen what is to happen, or you have not. If you have, then what is to happen _will_ happen, and we can not avoid it; if you have not, why, then it will not happen, and that is all. Either you foresee truly my destiny--' He was going on, but Macdonald interrupted him: 'It is with such reasoning that men lose themselves in this world--and in the next,' he added, after a pause. 'Oho! dear schoolfox,' returned the other, 'we have not undertaken our march to chop logic and wind metaphysics, but, on the contrary, to be merry and enjoy ourselves. So,' and he sung,

'There wander'd three Burschen along by the Rhine; At the door of a wine-house, they knocked and went in, Landlady, have you got good beer and wine?'

'Laurenberg, your gayety is oppressive,' interrupted Macdonald; 'why sing that song? You know there is death in it.' 'It is true,' replied Laurenberg, somewhat gravely, 'the poor little daughter of the landlady lies in her coffin. Another stave, then, if you like it better,

'Up, brothers! up! enjoy your life!'

and so on he went with that stupid song."

"Stupid!" cried Justus, rising suddenly on his elbow; "stupid, did you say, grandfather?"

"Well, my boy, I think it stupid now, though at your age, perhaps, I thought differently. But there," continued the pastor, "I was sure of it; I never can keep both my pipe and my story going at the same time. Give me a light, Justus. Thank you. Those matches are a great invention. In our time, it was all flint, and steel, and trouble. Now, fill our glasses, and then I shall go on again."

Justus obeyed, and his worthy relative thus proceeded:

"Notwithstanding all his singing, Laurenberg was evidently more impressed by our companion's words than he was willing to own; and, as for me, I was much struck with them, for your countryman, young stranger, was no common man. But all that soon wore off. Even Macdonald seemed to forget his own forebodings. We marched on right cheerfully. That night we stopped at Heiligenstadt, very tired, for it was a long way for lads so little used to walking as we were."

"Did you put up at the Post, grandfather?" asked Justus. "It is a capital inn, and the landlady is both pretty and civil. I staid there when I went from Cassel to Halle."

"I don't remember where we put up," replied the pastor, "but it is scarcely likely we put up at the Post. In those days, students preferred more modest hostelries. Don't interrupt me. The next night we slept at Dingelstadt; and I remember that at supper Laurenberg knocked over the salt-cellar, and that Macdonald said, 'See, I told you! every thing shows it!' Next night we were at Mülhausen, making short journeys, you see; for, after all, our object was to enjoy, not to tire ourselves. Mülhausen is a very prettily situated town, and, though I have never been there since, I remember it quite well. The next afternoon we got to a place whose name I forget at this moment. Stay--I think it was Langensalza; yes, it was Langensalza; and the following day we arrived in Gotha, and lodged at the sign of the Giant, in the market-place. Gotha is the chief town in the duchy, and--"

Here the worthy pastor diverged into a description of Gotha and its environs. This, however, I lost, for, the interest of the story ceasing, I went off into a sort of reverie, from which I was awakened only by the abrupt cessation of the tale, and the words, "Justus, my boy, you are not asleep, are you? Give me a cigar; my pipe is out again."

Justus complied, and the old man, leaning his long pipe, with the rich bowl, against the great plane-tree, received "fire" from his grandson, lit the Cuba, and, after admonishing the youth to fill our glasses, thus went on:

"Our new friends were students from Jena. They were each of a different country. One was a Frenchman; one a Pole; the third alone was a German. They were making a sort of pilgrimage to the different places remarkable for events in the life of Luther--had been at Erfurt, to see his cell in the orphan-house there, and were now going to Eisenach and the Castle of Wartburg, to visit the Patmos of 'Junker George.' However, on hearing that we proposed marching through the Thuringian Forest, they gave up their original plan, and agreed to join us, which pleased us much, for all three were fine fellows. That night we got to Ohrdruff, and the next day we set off for Suhl. But we were not destined ever to reach that town. About noon, Laurenberg said, 'Come, brothers, do you not find this road tiresome? This is the way every body goes. Suppose we strike off the road, and take this footpath through the wood. Is it not a pleasure to explore an unknown country, and go on without knowing where you will come to? For my part, I would not have come so far only to follow a beaten track, where you meet carts and carriages, and men and women, at every step. If all we wanted was to walk along a road, why, there are better roads near Göttingen. Into the wood, say I! Why, who knows but there may be an adventure before us? Follow me!' Macdonald would have remonstrated, but our new friends, and I also, I am sorry to say, felt much as Laurenberg did, so we took the footpath, and plunged into the forest. We soon thought ourselves repaid. The solitude seemed to deepen as we proceeded. Excepting the almost imperceptible footpath, every thing bespoke the purest state of nature. The enormous pines that towered over our heads seemed the growth of ages. Great red deer stared at us from a distance through the glades, as if they had never before seen such animals as we, and then bounded away in herds. High up we saw many bustards--"

Here my excellent host launched in a current of descriptive landscape, which, though doubtless very fine, was almost entirely lost to me, for my thoughts again wandered. From time to time, the words "valleys," "mountains," "crags," "streamlets," "gloom," "rocks," "Salvator Rosa," "legends," "wood-nymphs," and the like, fell on my ear, but failed to recall my attention. And this must have lasted no little time, for I was at length aroused by his asking for another cigar, the first being done.

"The glen gradually opened out into a plain," resumed the pastor, "and our progress became easier. We, however, had no idea where we were, or which way to turn in order to find a resting-place for the night; we were completely lost, in short. Nevertheless, we pressed on as fast as our tired limbs would admit of, and after half an hour's march across the wooded level, we were rewarded by coming on a sort of road. It was, indeed, nothing more than the tracks of hoofs upon the turf, but we were in ecstasies at its appearance. After some deliberation as to whether we should take to the right or to the left along it, we resolved on following it to the right. Half an hour more, and we saw before us a house among the trees. It was a cheerful sight to us, and we gave a shout of joy. 'I trust they will give us hospitality,' said Richter, the German from Jena. 'If not,' exclaimed his French friend, 'it is my opinion that we will take it.' 'What! turn robbers?' said the Pole, laughing. 'It is a likely looking place for robbers,' remarked Macdonald, looking rather uneasily round him. We soon reached the house. It was a long building, with low walls, but a very high thatched roof. At one end was a kind of round tower, which seemed much older than the rest of the structure. It might at one time have been much higher than it then was, but in its actual state it scarcely overtopped the gable built against it. Fill our glasses, Justus, if you please."

"Ready, grandfather," said Justus. "But, before you go on, tell us something of the personal appearance of Laurenberg and Macdonald. As for the Jena boys, I don't care about them."

"Laurenberg, Justus, was a tall and very handsome lad. His golden hair curled over his shoulders, for he wore it very long, and his blue eyes were like his sister's. Macdonald, again, was rather under the middle height; his features were dark, and his expression composed, or perhaps, I should rather say, melancholy. Laurenberg was always gay, vivacious, and even restless; Macdonald, on the contrary, was usually listless, almost indolent. But, as you will see, when the time of need came, he was a man of iron. But where was I? Yes, I remember. Well, we came up to the door, and knocked at it. It was opened, after a short delay, by a young girl. The evening shadows were closing in, but, even by the imperfect light we had, we could see she was very beautiful."

"Ha! grandfather, come, that is very interesting!" cried Justus.

"Don't interrupt me, my boy. We could see she was very beautiful. We asked if we could be accommodated for the night, and she answered very readily that we could, but that we should have to sleep all in one room, and that we must be content with a poor supper. 'You will give us the best you have, at all events,' said Richter; 'we are well able to pay for it;' and he jingled his money-pouch. 'Oh, that I do not doubt!' said she, her eyes glistening at the sound; 'but my old grandmother and I live alone here, so we have not much to offer.' 'You two live alone in this large house?' said Macdonald, rather harshly. The girl turned her eyes on him for the first time--Richter had been our spokesman--and she seemed somewhat confused at the scrutinizing glance she met. 'Yes,' said she, at last; 'my father, and his father before him, were foresters here--we were not always so poor--and since their death, we have been allowed still to occupy the place.' 'I beg your pardon,' said Macdonald, in a softer tone. 'But why,' resumed he, in a sharp, quick way--'why must we all sleep in one room?' The girl gave him a keen, inquiring look, as if to ask what he meant by his questions, and then answered, firmly, 'Because, sir, besides our own room, we have only one other furnished. But had you not better walk in? You seem tired, gentlemen; have you come far?' 'To be sure we have, my pretty girl,' said the Frenchman; 'and the fact is, we have lost our way. But why do we stand talking here? Let us go in, my lads.' 'Stay a moment, my friends,' interposed Macdonald. 'We should perhaps be burdensome to you,' said he, addressing the girl: 'how far is it to the nearest inn?' 'About two hours' good walking,' replied she. 'And which is the way?' he asked. 'This bridle-road,' said she, 'will bring you in an hour to a country-road. By turning to your left, you will then reach Arnstadt in another.' 'Good,' said Macdonald, 'many thanks. It is my advice, my friends, that we push on to Arnstadt.' 'What!' cried the Pole, 'two hours more walking! If we were on horseback it would be different; but on foot, I will not go another yard;' and, as he spoke, he entered the house. 'I beg you a thousand pardons, mademoiselle, for keeping you here so long, and a heavy dew falling, too. Come, let us in at once,' said the Frenchman, and he followed the Pole. 'It would certainly be far more comfortable to have good beds at Arnstadt,' said Richter, 'instead of sleeping six in a room; but I am too tired;' and he, too, went in. Macdonald cast an imploring look at Laurenberg, who seemed irresolute. But at the same moment the girl, who had already made a step to follow our Jena companions into the house, turned slowly round, and, throwing a bewitching glance at my poor friend, said, in a voice full of persuasion, 'And you, fair young sir?' At that moment, the moon, which had risen, passed from behind a cloud, and, throwing her light on the maiden's features, gave them an almost unearthly beauty. As for Macdonald, he remained in the shade; but his expressive eye flashed a look of stern warning such as I had never seen it assume before. I shall never forget that scene. Laurenberg was between his good and his evil angel. But so it is ever. Poor humanity is constantly called on to make the choice; and, alas! how much oftener is the evil preferred than the good! In this world--"

But here Justus, who seemed greatly to dread his grandfather's homilies, and to have an instinctive presentiment of their approach, rose on his knees to fill our glasses. This done, he exclaimed, "That's a bad cigar, grandfather. It does not burn even, and, besides, the ash is quite black: throw it away, and take another."

The interruption was successful. "Thank you, my boy," said the pastor. "Don't, however, break in so often on my story. Where was I?"

"Laurenberg was just about to go into the house with the beautiful maiden--at least, I suppose so," said Justus.

"Yes," resumed the old man. "After a moment's hesitation, he took her hand, which she yielded easily, and they entered together. 'Come,' said Macdonald to me, with a sigh, 'since it must be so, we must go with them.' He took my arm, and continued, 'We enter here according to our degrees of wisdom and folly--the Pole first, you and I last; but who is to pay for their blindness?' Give me a light, Justus. Is that the same wine? It seems to me a little hard."

"It is the same wine," said Justus. "Perhaps you find it hard, because it is cooler than the first."

"It may be so. Well, we went in, entering by a passage into a kind of hall. Here we heard the Frenchman's voice: 'Come along, my beauty, and show us your wonderful and enchanted chamber, where we are to sleep; for I suppose it is there we are to sup, too. I have been trying all the doors, and not one of them will open.' 'This way, gentlemen,' said the girl, disengaging herself from Laurenberg, and opening one of several doors which entered off the place we were in. 'That is your grandmother, I suppose?' said Macdonald, pointing to a figure bending over a small fire, which was expiring on the hearth. 'Good evening, my good woman; you seem to feel chilly;' and, as he addressed these latter words to the crouching creature, he made a step as if he would approach; but the girl, quickly grasping his arm, whispered in his ear, 'Do not disturb her. Since my father's death, she scarcely ever speaks to any one but me. She is very old and feeble. Pray, leave her alone.' Macdonald threw another of his penetrating glances at the girl, but said nothing, and he and I followed her along a passage, some twenty paces in length, and very narrow. At the end of it was another door, and this opened into the chamber we were to occupy. It was a round room, and we immediately guessed that it formed the under story of the tower we had remarked. The girl brought a lamp, and we found that the furniture consisted of a table and some stools, a large press, a heap of mattresses and bedding, a few mats of plaited straw, and a pile of fire-wood. The most curious thing about the place, however, was a strong pole, or rather mast, which stood in the very centre, and seemed to pass through the roof of the room. This roof, which was at a considerable distance from the floor, was formed--a thing I had never seen before--of furze-bushes, supported upon slender branches of pine, and appeared so rickety as to threaten every moment to come down about our heads. On questioning the girl, I was told that the mast supported the outer roof, which was possible enough. 'In the first place,' said Richter to the damsel, when we had seated ourselves, and she seemed to wait for our orders, 'is this an inn, or is it not?' 'You may see, gentlemen,' replied she, 'by the scantiness of the accommodation, that it is not exactly an inn. Nevertheless, you can make yourselves at home, as if it was, and welcome.' 'Good. Then, in the second place, have you any wine?' 'Plenty. We sell a good deal to the foresters, who pass here often, and so have always a supply.' 'Where is it?' asked Macdonald. 'Below, in the cellar.' 'Very well,' returned he. 'I and two more of us will go down and help you to bring up a dozen bottles or so, if you will show us the way.' 'Certainly,' said she. While Macdonald and two of the others were absent with her, I contrived to light a fire, and the Frenchman, on exploring the press, having found that it contained plates, knives, and forks, he and the Pole laid the table; so that when the others, laden with bottles, re-appeared, the place had somewhat of a more cheerful look. 'They have not had time to drug our wine, at least,' whispered Macdonald to me. 'Pooh, my friend,' returned I, 'you are far too suspicious. You will smile to-morrow at having had such ideas.' 'We shall see,' said he. Presently, the girl brought in some bacon, some eggs, and a piece of venison. These we cooked ourselves, staying our appetite, in the mean time, with bread and wine. Then we made a hearty supper, and became very merry. Richter and the Pole plied the bottle vigorously, while Laurenberg and the Frenchman vied with each other in somewhat equivocal gallantries to the damsel. As for Macdonald, he wore an expression of mingled resignation, vigilance, and resolution, which made me uncomfortable, I knew not why--"

"Come, grandfather, don't keep us so long in suspense. Tell us at once if Macdonald's suspicions were well-founded," exclaimed Justus. "Had you fallen into a den of thieves, or were you among honest people? Were you all robbed and murdered before morning, or were you not?"

"Justus, my boy, you must let me tell my story my own way," said the old pastor; "and pray don't interrupt me again. Where was I?"

"At supper grandfather."

"True. When we had supped, smoked a few pipes, and finished our wine, we began to make our beds. As we were so occupied, the girl came in and offered to help us. We readily consented, for we were tired enough. In a very short time, she had made six beds on the floor. 'Why do you lay them all with the head to the middle of the room?' asked Macdonald, observing that all the pillows were ranged round the mast in a circle, and as near it as possible.--'That is the way I always do,' said she, with a careless air. But she did not succeed in concealing a certain strange expression which her features assumed for a moment, and which both Macdonald and I remarked, without understanding it. We well understood afterward what it meant. As she was retiring, the Frenchman and Laurenberg assailed her with some rather too free jokes. She turned, and cast on them a look of ineffable indignation and scorn; then, without a word, she passed out at the door, and closed it behind her. We all admired her for her modesty and virtue. Fill our glasses, Justus. But appearances are deceitful; this world is but a vain show; all is not gold that glitters; and--"

But, a second time, Justus cut short the homily. He dextrously spilt some of the wine, as he performed his Ganymedian office, and so drew down on himself a mild sarcasm for his awkwardness.

Forgetting the sermon he had begun, the old man therefore thus went on: "All, except Macdonald, were soon in bed. We had, however, only half undressed. As for Macdonald, he drew a stool toward the fire, and, seating himself, buried his face in his hands, as if in thought. I almost immediately fell asleep, and must have slept for some time, for when I awoke the fire was out. But I did not awaken of myself; it was Macdonald who aroused me. He did the same to the others. He had thrown himself on his bed, and spoke in a whisper, which, however, as our heads were close together, was audible to all. 'Brothers,' said he, 'listen; but for your lives make no noise, and, above all, do not speak. From the first moment we arrived at this house, I feared that all was not right; now I am sure of it. It seemed odd to me that two solitary women should inhabit so large a house; that the girl should have been so ready, or rather so anxious to receive us; that she should have shown no fear of six young men, all strangers to her; and I said to myself, 'She and her grandmother do not live here alone; she depends upon aid, if aid be necessary, and that aid is not far off.' Again, I am used to read the character in the countenance, and, despite her beauty, if ever treachery was marked on the human face, it is on hers. Then why make us all sleep in one room? If the others are empty, our beds would be as well on the floor in them as in this one. However, all that was mere suspicion. But there is more. You saw me examine the windows during supper. I could then open the outside shutters; they have since been fastened; and, what is more, the door is locked or barred on us, and will not yield. But, what is most important, my ear, which is very quick, caught the sound of steps in the passage--heavy steps, though taken on tiptoe--steps, in short, of a man, or rather, I should say of men, for there were at least two. I stole to the door, and I distinctly heard whisperings. Now, what do you think of all that? Speak one at a time, and low.'--'Bah!' whispered the Frenchman, 'I think nothing of it. It is quite common to fasten the shutters outside; and, as for the door, your friend and I were rather free with the girl last night, and she may have locked us in for her own security, or she might be afraid of our decamping in the morning without paying the reckoning. As for the footsteps, I doubt if you can distinguish a man's from a woman's; and the whisperings were probably the girl and the old woman conversing. Their voices, coming along the passage, would sound like whisperings.' This explanation was so plausible, that all expressed themselves satisfied with it. But Macdonald resumed, and this time he spoke in a whisper so terrible--so full of mysterious power, that it went straight to every heart, and curdled all our blood. 'Brothers,' he said, 'be wise in time. If you will not listen to common sense, take warning of a supernatural sense. Have you never had a dim presentiment of approaching evil? I know you have. Now, mark. I have at this moment the sure certitude of coming evil. I know, I _know_, I KNOW, that if you continue to lie here, and will not listen to my words, neither you nor I will ever see another sun. I _know_ that we shall all certainly die before the morning. Will you be advised? If not, your blood be on your own heads! As for mine, I forgive it you. Decide!--resolve!'--These words, the tones in which they were uttered, and our knowledge of the speaker, produced a profound impression. As for me, I shuddered; but it was less at the idea of the threatened material danger, than at that of an occult influence hovering round us, inspiring Macdonald, and filling the place with its mysterious presence. Laurenberg was the first to speak, or rather to whisper. 'Macdonald,' said he, 'I yield myself to your guidance.' I immediately said, 'And I.' The others followed the example. Macdonald immediately took the command on himself. 'Rise,' said he, 'but make not the slightest noise. Collect yourselves and pay attention to the slightest thing. Leave your shoes; take your swords'--I should tell you, my young friend," said the pastor, addressing me, "that in those days students wore swords, especially when they traveled. And they were not such swords, Justus, as you fight your absurd duels with--not slim things, that you can bend double, and of which only a foot or so is sharp--not playthings to scratch each other's faces with; but good steel blades, meant for thrusting as well as cutting--blades not to be trifled with when wielded by a skillful and strong arm. But where was I? I remember. 'Take your swords,' said Macdonald. 'As it is so dark, there will probably be confusion. We must have watchwords, therefore. Let them be _Jena_ and _Göttingen_. Also, to avoid our blindly encountering each other, let each of us, if it comes to a fight, keep calling _Burschen! Burschen!_ I believe the attack I apprehend will come from the door. Let us range ourselves three on each side of it. We from Göttingen will take the right side, you from Jena the left. When they open the door, we rush into the passage. I will lead my file, and do you brother,' said he to the Frenchman, 'lead yours. When you hear me cry _Burschen!_ follow me, and, remember, you strike for your lives.' All this was said in the lowest whisper, but at the same time so distinctly and deliberately, that we did not lose a word. We took the places assigned us, grasping our bared swords. For a time--it seemed an interminable time--so we stood silent, and hearing nothing. Of course, we could not see each other, for the place was quite dark. At last our excited ears heard footsteps cautiously approaching. Some one came to the door, and was evidently listening. In about a minute, we heard the listener whisper to some one in the passage--'They must all be asleep now. Tell Hans to cut loose.' Our hearts beat quick. There was a pause of some minutes; then suddenly we heard overhead a cracking sound among the furze bushes which composed the roof of the room, and the next instant something fell to the ground with a crash so tremendous that the whole house seemed to shake. Then we heard a bolt withdrawn, then a key was turned. The door began to open. '_Burschen!_' cried Macdonald, as he dashed it wide ajar, and sprang into the passage. '_Burschen!_' cried the Frenchman, and the next moment he was by our comrade's side. '_Burschen!_' cried we all, as we made in after them."

"_Die Burschen sollen leben!_" (Students forever!) exclaimed Justus, in a state of no little excitement.

"The robbers retreated precipitately into the hall, where we had seen the old woman the previous night. It was brightly illuminated by a large fire which was blazing on the hearth. Here we fought. '_Burschen!_' thundered Macdonald, as he struck down a man armed with a hatchet. '_A bas les voleurs!_' cried the Frenchman, quitting German for his mother tongue, in the heat of the moment. '_Jena! Göttingen!_' shouted some of us, forgetting in our excitement that these names were our passwords and not our war-cry. '_Burschen!_' cried Laurenberg, as he drove into a corner one of the enemy armed with a dagger and a sword. '_Burschen!_' cried he again, as he passed his weapon twice through the robber's body. '_Jena!_' yelled Richter, as his left arm, which he interposed to defend his head, was broken by a blow with an iron bar. '_And Göttingen!_' added he with a roar, as he laid his assailant at his feet. Meanwhile the Pole and I had sustained a fierce attack from three robbers, who, on hearing the cries and the clashing of arms, had rushed out of one of the doors opening into the hall. The Pole was already slightly wounded, and it was going hard with us, when the others came to our assistance. This decided the fight, and we found ourselves victors."

"Bravo!" cried Justus, throwing his cap into the air. "That wasn't bad, grandfather!" and taking the old man's hand, he kissed his cheek.

"You are a good boy, Justus," said the pastor, "but don't interrupt me. Where was I? Oh, yes. We had gained the victory, and all the robbers lay about the floor, killed or wounded. We stood still a moment to take breath. At this moment, the girl of the previous evening rushed into the hall, and threw herself on the body of the man who had fallen by the hand of Laurenberg. She put her hand on his heart, then she approached her cheek to his mouth. 'He is dead!' cried she, starting to her feet. 'You have killed my Heinrich! my beloved Heinrich! you have killed my Heinrich! Dead! dead! dead!' Still speaking, she disappeared. But she returned almost instantly. She had a pistol in each hand. 'It was _you_, young sir,' said she, calmly and deliberately. 'I saw you,' and, as she spoke, she covered Laurenberg with her weapon, taking a cool aim. With a bound, Macdonald threw himself before the victim. But the generous movement was in vain. She fired; and the bullet, grazing Macdonald's shoulder, passed through poor Laurenberg's throat, and lodged in a door behind him. He staggered and fell."

"Oh, weh!" exclaimed Justus.

"We all stood thunderstruck. 'Your life for his--and mine,' said the girl. With these words, she discharged her other pistol into her bosom, and sank slowly upon the corpse of her lover."

"What a tragedy!" cried Justus.

"It was indeed a tragedy," resumed the pastor, in a low voice. "I knelt down beside my friend, and took his hand. Macdonald raised him up a little, supporting him in a sitting posture. He said, 'My pocket-book--the letter--my last wish.' Then he pressed my hand. Then he said, 'Farewell, comrades--farewell, my brothers. Remember me to my mother and Anna.' Then he pressed my hand again. And so he died."

Here the worthy pastor's voice faltered a little, and he paused. Justus and I were silent. At last the old man began again. "Many, many years have passed since then, but I have never forgotten my early friend, nor ceased to mourn him. We laid him gently on his back; I closed his blue eyes. Macdonald placed his sword upon his gallant breast, now still forever, and crossed his arms over it. Meanwhile the Frenchman and the Pole, finding the girl quite dead, had laid her decently by the side of the man she had called Heinrich. 'That is enough in the mean time,' then said Macdonald, 'the living before the dead. We must see to our own safety first, and attend to the wounded.' We accordingly went over the house, and satisfied ourselves that no one else was concealed in it; we examined the fastenings of all the doors and windows, to guard against an attack from any members of the gang who might be outside. We found a considerable quantity of arms and ammunition, and congratulated ourselves on having surprised our enemies, as otherwise we might have been shot down like dogs. Returning to the door where we had supped, we found that the thing which had fallen from the roof, with such a crash, was an enormous ring or circle of iron, bigger than a cart-wheel. It was lying on our beds, the mast being exactly in the centre of it, and serving, as we found, to sustain it when it was hoisted up. Had we not obeyed Macdonald's voice, we certainly should all have been crushed to death, as it was plain many a victim had already been, for the infernal thing was stained with blood, and in some places, patches of hair were still sticking to it."

"And the old woman? the old grandmother?" asked Justus.

"We found her clothes, but not herself. Hence, we guessed that some one of the gang had personated the character, and Macdonald reminded us how the girl had prevented his approaching her supposed relative, and how he had got no answer to his address, the man in disguise being probably afraid that his voice might betray him. On examining the field of battle, we found that the robbers were nine in number, and that two besides Heinrich were dead. We bound the wounds of the others as well as we could. They were all sturdy fellows, and, when we considered their superior strength and numbers, we wondered at our own success. It was to be attributed solely--of course, I mean humanly speaking--to our attack being so unexpected, sudden, and impetuous. Indeed the combat did not last five minutes, if nearly so long. On our side, there was the irreparable loss of Laurenberg. Richter's broken arm gave him much pain, and the Pole had lost a considerable quantity of blood; but, besides this, we had only a few scratches. 'Now, lie down and rest,' said Macdonald, 'for you have all need of it. As for me, I can not sleep, and so will keep watch till morning.' We did as he recommended, for in truth, now that the excitement was over, I could scarcely keep my eyes open, and the rest were like me. Even Richter slept. Give us some wine, Justus, my boy."

"He was a fine fellow that Macdonald," said Justus, as he obeyed.

"It was several hours before he awakened us," continued the pastor. "My first thoughts were of poor Laurenberg. I remembered what he said about a pocket-book. I searched his dress, and found it. What it contained, I shall tell you presently. We breakfasted on some bread and wine, and then Macdonald called a council of war. After putting a negative on the absurd proposal of the Pole, that we should set fire to the house, and to the stupid suggestion of Richter (he was in a state of fever from his hurt) that, before doing any thing else, we should empty the cellar, we unanimously agreed that our first step should be to give information to the proper authorities of all that had happened. The Frenchman and I were deputed to go and seek them out. 'You remember what the girl said about the way to Arnstadt?' said Macdonald. 'I think you may so far rely on it; but you must trust a good deal to your own judgment to find your way.' With this piece of advice, we started."

The journey to Arnstadt, the interview with the bürgermeister, the reference to the rural amptman, the expedition of that functionary to the scene of the tragedy, the imprisonment of the surviving robbers, their trial, confession, and punishment, were all minutely dwelt upon by the worthy but somewhat diffuse narrator; none of these circumstances, however, interested me, and I took little note of them. At last, the pastor returned to personages more attractive of attention.

"We buried Laurenberg by night," said he. "There chanced to be some students from other universities in the neighborhood of Arnstadt, and they joined us in paying him all due honor. We followed the coffin, on which lay his sword and cap, walking two-and-two, and each bearing a torch. When the body was lowered into the grave, we quenched the torches, and sung a Latin dirge. Such was the end of my friend."

"And the pocket-book?" asked Justus.

"It contained a letter to me, a very curious letter. It was dated Gotha, and bore, in substance, that Macdonald's presentiments were weighing on the mind of the writer, more than he was willing should be known until _after_ the anticipated catastrophe, if, indeed, any should take place. But, that such a thing being _possible_, he took that opportunity of recommending his mother and sister to my care, and of expressing his hope that I should find I could love Anna, and that so I would one day make her my wife. I need not relate to you how I performed the sad duty of bearing the news of his death to his two dear relatives. As you know, Justus, Anna in about three years afterward became mine. And here, in this house, young stranger, we lived very happily for thirty years. Here, too, she died. And yonder, in the church-yard, near the west porch, she awaits being rejoined by her own--by her children, and her husband."

We were all silent for some time. At length Justus, whose emotions were yet as summer clouds, inquired of his grandfather, "And your other comrades in the Thuringian Forest affair?"

"Of the Jena students I heard no more till many years afterward. It was in November, 1813; Napoleon was retreating from the nation-fight at Leipsic. The battle of Hanau, too, had been fought. A wounded French officer asked hospitality of me here. Of course, I granted it, and he remained more than two months with me; for, though not for several days after his arrival, I discovered that he was the French student who, with Richter and the Pole, had joined our party at Gotha. He had returned to France about a year after our fatal adventure, had entered the army, and had been fighting almost ever since. When he left me, he was sent to Mainz, a prisoner on parole; but, at the Restoration in his own country, he was allowed to return. On the return of Napoleon from Elba, he however once more took up arms for his old master, and, with the many other victims of one man's ambition, and the, alas! too prevalent thirst for military glory common among his countrymen, he was killed at Waterloo. When will such things cease? When--"

"And Richter?" asked Justus, nipping in the bud the dreaded moralizing.

"Richter was killed in a duel--"

"And Macdonald?"

"Don't interrupt me, my boy; fill our glasses instead. Richter was killed in a duel; so the Frenchman told me. I also heard of the fate of the Pole through him. It was a strange and melancholy one. He, too, had gone to France, and entered the army, serving zealously and with distinction. In 1807, being then with the division that was advancing on the Vistula, he obtained leave to visit his father, whom he had not seen for years, but whom he hoped to find in the paternal mansion, situated in a wild part of the country, but not very far from the route which his corps was taking. He was, however, surprised by the night, as he was still riding through a forest of firs which seemed interminable. He therefore put up at a small roadside inn, which presented itself just as he reached the limits of the wood. Here the Frenchman's account of the matter became rather obscure, indeed, his friend the Pole had never told him very exactly all the circumstances. Suffice it that there were two ladies in the inn--a mother and daughter--two Polish ladies, who were hurrying to meet the husband of one of them, a colonel in Jerome Bonaparte's army. They were in a great state of alarm, the conduct of the people about the place having roused their suspicions. At their request, the Pole took up his quarters in a room from which their chamber entered, so that no one could reach them without passing by him. The room he thus occupied was on the first floor, and at the top of a staircase, from which access was obtained by a trap-door. This trap the officer shut, and fastened by a wooden bolt belonging to it. Then, telling the ladies to fear nothing, he placed his sword and pistols on a table beside him, and resolved to keep good watch. About midnight, he heard steps on the staircase. No answer was returned to the challenge he immediately made; on the contrary, some one tried to force the trap. The officer observing a hole two or three inches square in it, passed the muzzle of one of his pistols through it, and fired. There was the sound of a body rolling down the staircase. But the attempt was soon after renewed; this time, however, differently. A hand appeared through the hole, and grasped the bolt. The bolt was even half withdrawn, when the Pole, at a single blow, severed the hand from the body it belonged to. There followed groans and horrid imprecations; but nothing more took place that night. In the morning, a squadron of French cavalry arrived, and the ladies were placed in safety. Not a single person was found in the inn. The officer continued his way to his father's house. One thing, however, had much struck him; the hand he had cut off was very small, delicate, and white; moreover, one of the fingers wore a ring of considerable value. This ring he took possession of, with a strange, uncomfortable feeling of coming evil, which increased as he went on. Arrived at his father's house, he was told that his parent was ill, and in bed. He was, however, soon introduced to his presence. The old man was evidently suffering great pain; but he conversed with his son for some time, with tolerable composure. Suddenly, however, by a convulsive movement, he threw off the bedclothes, and the officer, to his horror, saw that his father's right hand was wanting. 'It was then you! and this is your ring!' he cried, in an agony of conflicting passions, as, throwing the jewel on the floor, he rushed out of the house, mounted his horse, and rode off at full speed. A few weeks afterward, he sought and found his death amid the bloody snows of Prussian Eylau."

"Poor fellow!" said Justus. "And Macdonald?"

"Of Macdonald's fate," said the pastor, gravely, "I know nothing. When I returned to Göttingen, after visiting Anna and her mother, he was gone. He had left his rooms the previous day with a stranger, an elderly man, dressed in gray. And he never returned. I made every inquiry all round Göttingen, but could get no tidings of him, no one on any road had seen him or his companion pass. In short, I never saw or heard any thing more of him. His books and things were sold some two or three months after; I bought every thing I thought he cared for, in order some day to restore them to him. But he has never appeared to claim them, and so I have them still. His sword hangs between Laurenberg's and mine, in my study. But come, the dew is falling, let us go in. Justus, my boy, be kind enough to carry in my chair for me. Trinchen will come out for the rest of the things."

So ended the worthy pastor's story.

THE COUNTESS--A TALE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

BY PERCY B. ST. JOHN.

The Citizen Aristides Godard was the very beau ideal of a republican patriot during the early times of the Terror. During the day, the Citizen Godard sold cloth to his brother and sister democrats, and talked politics by the yard all the while. He was of the old school--hated an aristocrat and a poet with an intensity which degenerated into the comic, and never once missed a feast of reason, or any other solemnity of those days. Enter his shop to purchase a few yards of cloth, and he would eagerly ask you for the latest news, discuss the debate of the previous night in the Convention, and invite you to his club. His club! for it was here the Citoyen Godard was great. The worthy clothier could scarcely read, but he could talk, and better still, he could perorate with remarkable emphasis and power, knew by heart all the peculiar phrases of the day, and even descended to the slang of political life.

The Citoyen Godard was a widower, with an only son, who having inherited a small fortune from his mother, had abandoned trade, and given up his whole time to the affairs of the nation. Paul Godard was a young man, of handsome form and mien, of much talent, full of sincerity and enthusiasm; and with these characteristics was, though not more than four-and-twenty, president and captain of his section, where he was distinguished for his eloquence, energy, and civism. Sincerely attached to the new ideas of the hour, he, however, had none of the violence of a party man; and though some very exaggerated patriots considered him lukewarm, the majority were of a very different opinion.

It was eight o'clock on one gloomy evening in winter, when the Citizen Godard entered the old convent, where sat the Jacobin Club. The hall was, as usual, very full. The locality contained nearly fourteen hundred men, seated upon benches placed across the room, in all the strange and varied costumes of the time. Red caps covered many heads, while tricolored vests and pantaloons were common. The chief characteristic was poverty of garb, some of the richest present wearing wooden shoes, and using a bit of cord for strings and buttons. The worst dressed were, of course, the men who assumed the character of Jacobins as a disguise.

One of these was speaking when Godard entered, and though there was serious business before the club, was wasting its time in denouncing some fabulous aristocratic conspiracy. Godard, who was late, had to take his place in the corner, where the faint glimmer of the taller candles scarcely reached him. Still, from the profound silence which as usual prevailed, he could hear every word uttered by the orator. The Jacobins, except when there was a plot to stifle an unpopular speaker, listened attentively to all. The eloquent rhetorician, and the unlettered stammerer, were equally attended to--the matter, not the manner, being cared for.

The orator who occupied the tribune was young. His face was covered with a mass of beard, while his uncombed hair, coarse garments, dirty hands, and a club of vast dimensions, showed him to be a politician by profession. His language was choice and eloquent, though he strove to use the lowest slang of the day.

"Word of a patriot!" said the Citoyen Godard, after eying the speaker suspiciously for some time. "I know that voice. He is fitter for the _Piscine des Carmagnoles_[26] than for the tribune."

"Who is the particular?" asked a friend of the clothier, who stood by.

"It is the Citizen Gracchus Bastide," said a third, in a soft and shrill tone, preventing the reply of Godard; and then the speaker bent low, and added--"Citoyen Godard, you are a father and a good man. I am Helene de Clery; the orator is my cousin. Do not betray him!"

The Citoyen Godard looked wildly at the speaker, and then drew the young woman aside. Her garb was that of a man. A red cap confined her luxuriant hair; a full coat, loose tricolored pantaloons, and a sword and brace of pistols completed her attire.

"_Citoyenne!_" said the revolutionary clothier, drily, "thou art an aristocrat. I should denounce thee!"

"But thou wilt not?" replied the young woman, with a winning smile, "nor my cousin, though playing so foolish, so unworthy a part."

"Oh!" said Godard, "thou ownest this, then?"

"Papa Godard," answered the young countess, in a low, imploring tone, "my father was once thy best customer, and thou hadst never reason to complain of him. He was a good man. For his and for my sake, spare my cousin, led away by bad counsels and by fatal ambition."

"I will spare him," said the clothier, moving away, "but let him take the warning I shall give him."

The clothier had noticed that the Citoyen Gracchus Bastide was about to finish, and he hurried to ask a hearing, which was instantly granted him. The Citoyen Godard was not an orator, and, as is the case under such circumstances, his head, arms, and feet were more active than his tongue. Ascending the tribune, he struck the desk three times with his feet, while his eyes seemed ready to start out of his head, at the same time that his lips moved inarticulately. At length, however, he spoke:

"The truths spoken by the citizen who preceded me are truths of which every man is fully aware, and I am not here in consequence to reiterate them. The friends of the defunct Louis Capet are conspiring in the midst of us every day. But the citoyen _preopinant_ forgot to say, that they come to our very forum--that they dress like true patriots--that they take names which belong rightly only to the faithful--and denounce often true men to cheat us. Many a Gracchus hides a marquis--many a _bonnet rouge_ a powdered crown! I move the order of the day."

The citizen Gracchus Bastide had no sooner caught sight of Godard advancing toward the tribune, than he hurried toward the door, and ere the conclusion of the other's brief oration, had vanished. Godard's object gained, he descended from the forum, and gave way to a speaker big with one of those propositions which were orders to the Legislature, and which swayed the fate of millions at that eventful period.

Godard reassumed his former post, which he patiently kept until a late hour, when the sitting being terminated, after speeches from Danton, Robespierre, and Camille Desmoulins, he sallied forth into the open air.

It was eleven o'clock, and the streets of Paris were dark and gloomy. The order for none to be out after ten, without a _carte de civisme_, was in force, and few were inclined to disobey it. At that time, Paris went to bed almost at night-fall, with the exception of those who did the government business of the hour, and they never rested. Patriots, bands of armed men guarding prisoners, volunteers returning from festivals, the chiefs of different parties sitting in committees, the orators writing their speeches for next day, the sections organizing public demonstrations--such was the picture of this great town by night. Dawn was the most unwelcome of times, for then the statesman had to renew his struggle for existence, the accused had to defend himself, the suspected began again to watch the hours as they flew, and the terrific machine that depopulated the earth was at work--horrid relic of ignorance and barbarism, that killed instead of converting.

Father Godard had scarcely left the Jacobins, when from a narrow passage darted a slight figure, which he instantly recognized as that of Helene de Clery. The young girl caught hold of his arm and began speaking with extreme volubility, she said that her father had been dead six months, leaving her and a hot-headed cousin alone in the world. This young man embraced with fiery zeal the cause of the exiled royal family, and had already twice narrowly escaped--once on the occasion of the king's execution, and on that of the queen's. Every royalist conspiracy, every movement for insurrection against the Committee of Public Safety, found him mixed up in it. For some time they had been able to exist on what remained of her father's money, but now their resources were utterly exhausted. It was only by the charity of royalist friends that she starved not, and to obtain even this she had to disguise herself, and act with her party. But Helene said, that she had no political instinct. She loved her country, but she could not join with one party against another.

"Give me some work to do--show me how to earn a livelihood, with my fingers, Father Godard, and I will bless you."

"No person shall ask me how to be a good citizen in vain. Citoyenne Helene, thou art under my protection. My wife is dead: wilt thou be too proud to take charge of my household?"

"Surely too grateful."

"And thy cousin?"

"Heaven have mercy on him. He will hear no reason. I have begged and implored him to leave the dark road of conspiracy, and to seek to serve his country, but in vain. Nothing will move him."

"Let the wild colt have his course," replied Godard, adding rather coarsely, "he will end by sneezing in Samson's sack."

Helene shuddered, but made no reply, clinging firmly to the old _sans-culotte's_ arm as he led her through the deserted streets.

It was midnight when the residence of the clothier was reached. It was in a narrow street running out of the Rue St. Honore. There was no coach-door, and Godard opened with a huge key that hung suspended at his girdle. Scarcely had the old man inserted the key in the key-hole when a figure darted forth from a guard-house close at hand.

"I thought I should find the old Jacobin," said a merry, hearty voice; "he never misses his club. I am on duty to-night in the neighborhood, and, says I, let us see the father, and get a crust out of him."

"Paul, my boy, thou art a good son, and I am glad to see thee. Come in: I want to talk seriously to thee."

The clothier entered, Helene followed him closely, and Paul closed the door. A lantern burned in the passage, by which some candles were soon lit in the cosy back sitting-room of the old _sans-culotte_. Paul looked curiously at the stranger, and was about to let a very impertinent grin cross his face, when his father taking off his red cap, spoke with some emotion, laying aside, under the impression of deep feeling, all his slang.

"My son, you have heard me speak often of my benefactor and friend, the Count de Clery, who for some trifling service, rendered when a lad, gave me the means of starting in life. This is his daughter and only child. My boy, we know how terrible are the days. The daughter of the royalist Count de Clery is fated to die if discovered. We must save her."

Paul, who was tall, handsome, and intellectual in countenance, bowed low to the agitated girl. He said little, but what he said was warm and to the point. Helene thanked both with tears in her eyes, begging them also to look to her cousin. Paul turned to his father for an explanation, which Papa Godard gave.

"Let him beware," said Paul, drily. "He is a spy, and merits death. Ah! ah! what noise is that?"

"Captain," cried half a dozen voices in the street, "thou art wanted. We have caught a suspicious character."

"'Tis perhaps Albert, who has followed me," cried Helene. "He thinks I would betray him."

Paul rushed to the door. Half a dozen national guards were holding a man. It was Citizen Gracchus Bastide. Paul learned that no sooner had he entered the house, than this man crept up to the door, listened attentively, and stamped his feet as if in a passion. Looking on this as suspicious, the patriots had rushed out and seized him.

"Captain," cried the Citizen Gracchus, "what is the meaning of this? I am a Jacobin, and a known patriot."

"Hum!" said Paul, "let me look at thee. Ah! pardon, citizen, I recognize thee now; but why didst thou not knock? We wait supper for thee. Come in. Bravo, my lads, be always on the alert. I will join you soon."

And pushing the other into the passage, he led him without another word into the parlor. For an instant all remained silent. Paul then spoke:

"Thou art a spy and a traitor, and as such worthy of death. Not content with foreign armies and French traitors on the frontiers, we must have them here in Paris. Albert de Clery, thou hast thy choice--the guillotine, or a voluntary enrollment in the army. Go forth, without regard to party, and fight the enemies of thy country, and in one year thou shalt find a cousin, a friend, and, I suppose, a wife."

Godard, Helene, Paul, all spoke in turns. They joined in regretting the misery of Frenchmen fighting against Frenchmen. They pointed out that, no matter what was its form of government, France was still France. Albert resisted for some time, but at last the strong man yielded. The four men then supped in common, and the young royalist, as well as the republican, found that men may differ in politics, and yet not be obliged to cut each other's throats. They found ample subjects for agreement in other things. Before morning, Albert, led away by the eloquence of young Paul, voluntarily pledged himself not to fight against France. Next day he took service, and, after a tearful adieu, departed. He went with a ragged band of raw recruits to fight the battles of his country, a little bewildered at his new position; but not unconvinced that he was acting more wisely than in fomenting the evil passions of the hour.

Immediately after the leave-taking, Helene commenced her new existence in plain and ordinary garb, taking her post as the old clothier's housekeeper. An old woman was cook and housemaid, and with her aid Helene got on comfortably. The warm-hearted _sans-culotte_ found, in additional comfort, and in her society, ample compensation for his hospitality. Helene, by gentle violence, brought him to the use of clean linen, which, like Marat, and other semi-insane individuals, Godard had originally affected to reject, as a sign of inferior civism. He became, too, more humanely disposed in general to his enemies, and, ere three months, ardently longed for the end of the awful struggle which was desolating the land. Aristides Godard felt the humanizing influence of woman, the best attribute of civilization--an influence which, when men can not feel it, they at once stamp their own character.

Paul became an assiduous visitor at his father's house. He brought the fair countess news from the army, flowers, books, and sometimes letters from cousin Albert. They soon found much mutual pleasure in each other's society, but Paul never attempted to offer serious court to the affianced wife of the young Count de Clery. Paul was of a remarkably honorable character. Of an ardent and passionate temperament, he had imbibed from his mother a set of principles which were his guide through life. He saw this young girl, taken away from the class in which she was brought up, deprived of the pleasures of her age and rank, and compelled to earn her living, and he did his utmost to make her time pass pleasantly. Helene was but eighteen, and the heart at this age, knows how to bound away from sorrow, as from a precipice, when a better prospect offers; and Helene, deeply grateful at the attention paid her, both by father and son, soon became reconciled to her new mode of existence, and then quite happy. Paul devoted every spare hour to her, and as he had read, thought, and studied, the once spoiled child of fortune found much advantage in his society.

At the end of three months, Albert ceased to write, and his friend became anxious. Inquiries were made, which proved that he was alive and well, and then they ceased to hear of him. A year passed, two years, and calmer days came round, but no tidings reached of the absent one. Helene was deeply anxious--her cheeks grew pale--she became thin. Paul did all he could to rouse her. He took her out, he showed her all the amusements and gayeties of Paris, but nothing seemed to have any effect. The poor fellow was in despair, as he was deeply attached to the orphan girl. Once a week, at least, he pestered the war office with inquiries about Bastide, the name under which the cousin had enrolled himself.

Father Godard, when the days of the club were over, doubly grateful for the good deed he had done, and which had its full reward, retired from business, took a simple lodging in a more lively quarter, and found in Helene a dutiful and attached daughter. For a wonder, there was a garden attached to the house, and here the retired tradesman, on a summer's evening, would smoke his pipe and take his coffee, while Paul and Helene strolled about the alleys or chatted by his side.

One evening in June--one of those lovely evenings which makes Paris half Italian in look, when the boulevards are crowded with walkers, when thousands crowd open-air concerts, and all is warm, and balmy, and fragrant, despite a little dust--the trio were collected. Father Godard was smoking his second pipe, Helene was sipping some sugar and water, and Paul, seated close by her side, was thinking. The young man's face was pale, while his eyes were fixed on Helene with a half-melancholy, half-passionate expression. There was a world of meaning in that look, and Paul perhaps felt that he was yielding to an unjustifiable emotion, for he started.

"A flower for your thoughts, Paul," said Helene, quietly.

"My thoughts," replied Paul, with rather a forced laugh, "are not worth a flower."

Helene seemed struck by the tone, and she bowed her head and blushed.

"Helene," said Paul, in a low, hushed, and almost choking tone, "this has been too much; the cup has at last overflowed. I was wrong, I was very wrong to be near you so much, and it has ended as I should have expected. I love you, Helene! I feel it, and I must away and see you no more. I have acted unwisely--I have acted improperly."

"And why should you not love me, Paul?" replied Helene, with a great effort, but so faintly none else but a lover could have heard.

"Are you not Albert's affianced wife?" continued Paul, gravely.

"At last I can explain that which fear of being mistaken has made me never say before. I and Albert were never affianced, never could be, for I could not love him."

"Helene! Helene!" cried Paul, passionately, "why spoke you not two years ago? I said he should find his cousin, his friend, and his affianced wife when he came back, and I must keep my word."

"True, true--but Paul, he could not have heard you. But you are right--you are right."

"Let me know all," said the young man, moodily, "but for this unfortunate accident."

"Paul, you have been to me more than a brother and I will be just toward you. Influenced by this mistake you clearly did not care more for me than a friend, and what else has made me ill, and pale, and gloomy but shame, because--"

"Because what?" asked the young man, eagerly.

"Because, under the circumstances in which I was placed, I had let my heart lean where it could find no support."

No man could hear such a confession unmoved, and Paul was half wild with delight; but he soon checked himself, and, gravely rising, took Helene's hand respectfully.

"But I have been wrong to ask you this until Albert gives me back my word."

At this instant a heavy step was heard, the clanking of spurs and arms on the graveled way, and now a tall cavalry officer of rank, preceded by a woman-servant running, was seen coming toward them. Both trembled--old Godard was asleep--and stood up, for both recognized Albert de Clery.

"Ah! ah! my friend," cried the soldier, gayly; "I find you at last, Helene, my dear cousin. Let me embrace you! Eh! how is it? Still mademoiselle, or are you madam by this time? Paul, my good friend, give me your hand again. But come into the house. I have brought my wife to show you--an Italian, a beauty, and an heiress. How do you do, Papa Godard?"

"Hum--ah! I was asleep. Ah! Citizen Gracchus--Monsieur Albert, I mean--glad to see you."

"Guide me to the house," continued the soldier, "my wife is impatient to see you. Give me your arm, Papa Godard; follow, cousin, and let us talk of old times."

One look, one pressure of the hand, and arm-in-arm they followed, happy in reality for the first time for two years.

Madame de Clery was indeed a fascinating and beautiful Italian, and upon her Albert laid the blame of his not writing. He had distinguished himself greatly, and, remarked by his officers, had risen with surprising rapidity to the rank of lieutenant-colonel. On the Rhine, he was one day located in the house of a German baron, with two handsome daughters. An Italian girl, an heiress, a relation by marriage, was there, and an attachment sprung up between the young people. The difficulties in the way of marriage were many; but it is an old story, how love delights in vanquishing them. Antonia contrived to enter France under a safe conduct, and then was married. Albert had obtained a month's leave of absence. He thought at once of those who had paved the way for his success.

Godard, who had seen something of what had been going on, frankly explained why Helene was still unmarried. Albert turned round, and shook Paul by the hand.

"My dear friend, I scarcely heard your sentence. But you are a noble fellow. I shall not leave Paris until you are my cousin."

This sentence completed the general delight. The meeting became doubly interesting to all, and ere ten days the wedding took place, Albert carrying every thing with a high hand, as became a gallant soldier. He did more. He introduced Paul to influential members of the government, and obtained for him an excellent position, one that gave him an occupation, and the prospect of serving his country. Old Godard was delighted, but far more so when some years after, in a garden near Paris, he scrambled about with the children of Madame Paul and Madame de Clery, who resided with the first, her husband being generally on service. Paul and his wife were very happy. They had seen adversity, and been chastened by it. Helene doubly loved her husband, from his nobility of character in respecting her supposed affianced state; and never once did the descendant of the "ancient and noble" House of Clery regret that in finding that great and sterling treasure, a good husband, she had lost the vain and empty satisfaction of being called Madame "the Countess."

FOOTNOTE:

[26] Another slang word for the guillotine.

[From Bentley's Miscellany.]

A MIDNIGHT DRIVE.--A TALE OF TERROR.

I was sitting one night in the general coach-office in the town of ----, reflecting upon the mutability of human affairs, and taking a retrospective glance at those times when I held a very different position in the world, when one of the porters of the establishment entered the office, and informed the clerk that the coach, which had long been expected, was in sight, and would be at the inn in a few minutes. I believe it was the old Highflyer, but at this distance of time I can not speak with sufficient certainty. The strange story I am about to relate, occurred when stage-coaches were the usual mode of conveyance, and long before any more expeditious system of traveling had engaged the attention of mankind.

I continued to sit by the fire till the coach arrived, and then walked into the street to count the number of the passengers, and observe their appearance. I was particularly struck with the appearance of one gentleman, who had ridden as an inside passenger. He wore a large black cloak, deeply trimmed with crape; his head was covered with a black traveling-cap, surmounted with two or three crape rosettes, and from which depended a long black tassel. The cap was drawn so far over his eyes that he had some difficulty to see his way. A black scarf was wrapped round the lower part of his face, so that his countenance was completely concealed from my view. He appeared anxious to avoid observation, and hurried into the inn as fast as he could. I returned to the office and mentioned to the clerk the strange appearance of the gentlemen in question, but he was too busy to pay any attention to what I had said.

Presently afterward a porter brought a small carpet-bag into the office, and placed it upon the table.

"Whose bag is that, Timms?" inquired the clerk.

"I don't wish to be personal," replied the man, "but I think it belongs to ----," and the fellow pointed to the floor.

"You don't mean _him_, surely?" said the clerk.

"Yes, I do though; at any rate, if he is not the gentleman I take him for, he must be a second cousin of his, for he is the most unaccountable individual that ever I clapped my eyes on. There is not much good in him, I'll be bound."

I listened with breathless anxiety to these words. When the man had finished, I said to him,

"How was the gentleman dressed?"

"In black."

"Had he a cloak on?"

"Yes."

"A traveling-cap drawn over his eyes?"

"Yes."

"It's the man I saw descend from the coach," I said to the clerk.

"Where is he?" inquired that gentleman.

"In the inn," replied the porter.

"Is he going to stay all night?" I inquired.

"I don't know."

"It's very odd," observed the clerk, and he put his pen behind his ear, and placed himself in front of the fire; "very odd," he repeated.

"It don't look well," said the porter; "not at all."

Some further conversation ensued upon the subject, but as it did not tend to throw any light upon the personage in question, it is unnecessary for me to relate it.

Awhile afterward, the clerk went into the hotel to learn, if possible, something more relative to this singular visitor. He was not absent more than a few minutes, and when he returned his countenance, I fancied, was more sedate than usual. I asked him if he had gathered any further information.

"There is nobody knows any thing concerning him," he replied; "for when the servants enter the room, he always turns his back toward them. He has not spoken to a single individual since he arrived. There is a man who came by the same coach, who attends upon him, but he does not look like a servant."

"There is something extraordinary in his history, or I am much deceived."

"I am quite of your opinion," observed the clerk.

While we were conversing, some persons entered the office to take places by the mail, which was to leave early on the following morning. I hereupon departed, and entered the inn with the view of satisfying my curiosity, if possible, which was now raised to the utmost pitch. The servants, I remarked, moved about more silently than usual, and sometimes I saw two or three of them conversing together, _sotto voce_, as though they did not wish their conversation to be overheard by those around them. I knew the room that the gentleman occupied, and stealthily and unobserved stole up to it, hoping to hear or see something that might throw some light upon his character. I was not, however, gratified in either respect.

I hastened back to the office and resumed my seat by the fire. The clerk and I were still conversing upon the subject, when one of the girls came in, and informed me that I was to get a horse and gig ready immediately, to drive a gentleman a distance of fifteen or twenty miles.

"To-night!" I said in surprise.

"Immediately!"

"Why, it's already ten o'clock!"

"It's the master's orders; I can not alter them," tartly replied the girl.

This unwelcome intelligence caused me to commit a great deal of sin, for I made use of a number of imprecations and expressions which were quite superfluous and perfectly unavailing. It was not long before I was ready to commence the journey. I chose the fastest and strongest animal in the establishment, and one that had never failed me in an emergency. I lit the lamps, for the night was intensely dark, and I felt convinced that we should require them. The proprietor of the hotel gave me a paper, but told me not to read it till we had proceeded a few miles on the road, and informed me at the same time in what direction to drive. The paper, he added, would give me further instructions.

I was seated in the vehicle, busily engaged in fastening the leathern apron on the side on which I sat, in order to protect my limbs from the cold, when somebody seated himself beside me. I heard the landlord cry, "Drive on;" and, without looking round, I lashed the mare into a very fast trot. Even now, while I write, I feel in some degree the trepidation which stole over me when I discovered who my companion was. I had not gone far before I was made acquainted with this astounding fact. It was as though an electric shock had suddenly and unexpectedly been imparted to my frame, or as, in a moment of perfect happiness, I had been hastily plunged into the greatest danger and distress. A benumbing chilliness ran through me, and my mouth all at once became dry and parched. Whither was I to drive? I knew not. Who and what was my companion? I was equally ignorant. It was the man dressed so fantastically whom I had seen alight from the coach; whose appearance and inexplicable conduct had alarmed a whole establishment, whose character was a matter of speculation to every body with whom he had come in contact. This was the substance of my knowledge. For aught I knew, he might be--. But no matter. The question that most concerned me was, how was I to extricate myself from this dilemma? Which was the best course to adopt? To turn back, and declare I would not travel in such a night, with so strange a person, or to proceed on my journey? I greatly feared the consequences of the former step would be fatal to my own interests. Besides, I should be exposed to the sneers and laughter of all who knew me. No: I had started, and I would proceed, whatever might be the issue of the adventure.

In a few minutes we had emerged from the town. My courage was now put to the severest test. The cheerful aspect of the streets, and the light thrown from the lamps and a few shop-windows, had hitherto buoyed me up, but my energy and firmness, I felt, were beginning to desert me. The road on which we had entered was not a great thoroughfare at any time, but at that late hour of the night I did not expect to meet either horseman or pedestrian to enliven the long and solitary journey. I cast my eyes before me, but could not discern a single light burning in the distance. The night was thick and unwholesome, and not a star was to be seen in the heavens. There was another matter which caused me great uneasiness. I was quite unarmed, and unprepared for any attack, should my companion be disposed to take advantage of that circumstance. These things flashed across my mind, and made a more forcible impression than they might otherwise have done, from the fact of a murder having been committed in the district only a few weeks before, under the most aggravated circumstances. An hypothesis suggested itself. Was this man the perpetrator of that deed--the wretch who was endeavoring to escape from the officers of justice, and who was stigmatized with the foulest, the blackest crime that man could be guilty of? Appearances were against him. Why should he invest himself with such a mystery? Why conceal his face in so unaccountable a manner? What but a man conscious of great guilt, of the darkest crimes, would so furtively enter an inn, and afterward steal away under the darkness of the night, when no mortal eye could behold him? If he was sensible of innocence, he might have deferred his journey till the morning, and faced, with the fortitude of a man, the broad light of day, and the scrutiny of his fellow-men. I say, appearances were against him, and I felt more and more convinced, that whatever his character was--whatever his deeds might have been--that the present journey was instigated by fear and apprehension for his personal safety. But was I to be the instrument of his deliverance? Was I to be put to all this inconvenience in order to favor the escape of an assassin? The thought distracted me. I vowed that it should not be so. My heart chafed and fretted at the task that had been put upon me. My blood boiled with indignation at the bare idea of being made the tool of so unhallowed a purpose. I was resolved. I ground my teeth with rage. I grasped the reins with a tighter hold. I determined to be rid of the man--nay, even to attempt to destroy him rather than it should be said that I had assisted in his escape. At some distance further on there was a river suitable for that purpose. When off his guard, he could in a moment be pushed into the stream; in certain places it was sufficiently deep to drown him. One circumstance perplexed me. If he escaped, he could adduce evidence against me. No matter; it would be difficult to prove that I had any intention of taking away his life. But should he be the person I conceived, he would not dare to come forward.

Hitherto we had ridden without exchanging a word. Indeed, I had only once turned my eyes upon him since we started. The truth was, I was too busy with my own thoughts--too intent upon devising some plan to liberate myself from my unparalleled situation. I now cast my eyes furtively toward him. I shuddered as I contemplated his proximation to myself. I fancied I already felt his contaminating influence. The cap, as before, was drawn over his face; the scarf muffled closely round his chin, and only sufficient space allowed for the purpose of respiration. I was most desirous of knowing who he was; indeed, had he been "the Man with the Iron Mask," so many years incarcerated in the French Bastile, he could scarcely have excited a greater curiosity.

I deemed it prudent to endeavor to draw him into conversation, thinking that he might drop some expression that would, in some measure, tend to elucidate his history. Accordingly, I said,

"It's a very dark, unhealthy night, sir."

He made no reply. I thought he might not have heard me.

"A bad night for traveling!" I shouted, in a loud tone of voice.

The man remained immovable, without in the least deigning to notice my observation. He either did not wish to talk, or he was deaf. If he wished to be silent, I was contented to let him remain so.

It had not occurred to me till now that I had received a paper from the landlord which would inform me whither my extraordinary companion was to be conveyed. My heart suddenly received a new impulse--it beat with hope and expectation. This document might reveal to me something more than I was led to expect; it might unravel the labyrinth in which I was entangled, and extricate me from all further difficulty. But how was I to decipher the writing? There was no other means of doing so than by stopping the vehicle and alighting, and endeavoring to read it by the aid of the lamp, which, I feared, would afford but a very imperfect light, after all. Before I had recourse to this plan, I deemed it expedient to address once more my taciturn companion.

"Where am I to drive you to?" I inquired, in so loud a voice that the mare started off at a brisker pace, as though I had been speaking to her. I received no reply, and, without further hesitation, I drew in the reins, pulled the paper from my pocket, and alighted. I walked to the lamp, and held the paper as near to it as I could. The handwriting was not very legible, and the light afforded me so weak, that I had great difficulty to discover its meaning. The words were few and pointed. The reader will judge of my surprise when I read the following laconic sentence: "_Drive the gentleman to Grayburn Church-yard!_" I was more alarmed than ever; my limbs shook violently, and in an instant I felt the blood fly from my cheeks. What did my employer mean by imposing such a task upon me? My fortitude in some degree returned, and I walked up to the mare and patted her on the neck.

"Poor thing--poor thing!" I said; "you have a long journey before you, and it may be a dangerous one."

I looked at my companion, but he appeared to take no notice of my actions, and seemed as indifferent as if he were a corpse. I again resumed my seat, and in part consoled myself with the prospect of being speedily rid of him in some way or other, as the river I have already alluded to was now only two or three miles distant. My thoughts now turned to the extraordinary place to which I was to drive--Grayburn Church-yard! What could the man do there at that hour of the night? Had he somebody to meet? something to see or obtain? It was incomprehensible--beyond the possibility of human divination. Was he insane, or was he bent upon an errand perfectly rational, although for the present wrapped in the most impenetrable mystery? I am at a loss for language adequate to convey a proper notion of my feelings on that occasion. He shall never arrive, I internally ejaculated, at Grayburn Church-yard; he shall never pass beyond the stream, which even now I almost heard murmuring in the distance! Heaven forgive me for harboring such intentions! but when I reflected that I might be assisting an assassin to fly from justice, I conceived I was acting perfectly correct in adopting any means (no matter how bad) for the obviation of so horrid a consummation. For aught I knew, his present intention might be to visit the grave of his victim, for now I remembered that the person who had so lately been murdered was interred in this very church-yard.

We gradually drew nearer to the river. I heard its roaring with fear and trepidation. It smote my heart with awe when I pondered upon the deed I had in contemplation. I could discover, from its rushing sound, that it was much swollen, and this was owing to the recent heavy rains. The stream in fine weather was seldom more than a couple of feet deep, and could be crossed without danger or difficulty; there however were places where it was considerably deeper. On the occasion in question, it was more dangerous than I had ever known it. There was no bridge constructed across it at this place, and people were obliged to get through it as well as they could. Nearer and nearer we approached. The night was so dark that it was quite impossible to discern any thing. I could feel the beatings of my heart against my breast, a cold, clammy sweat settled upon my brow, and my mouth became so dry that I fancied I was choking. The moment was at hand that was to put my resolution to the test. A few yards only separated us from the spot that was to terminate my journey, and, perhaps, the mortal career of my incomprehensible companion. The light of the lamps threw a dull, lurid gleam upon the surface of the water. It rushed furiously past, surging and boiling as it leaped over the rocks that here and there intersected its channel. Without a moment's hesitation, I urged the mare forward, and in a minute we were in the midst of the stream. It was a case of life or death! The water came down like a torrent--its tide was irresistible. There was not a moment to be lost. My own life was at stake. With the instinctive feeling of self-preservation, I drove the animal swiftly through the dense body of water, and in a few seconds we had gained the opposite bank of the river. We were safe, but the opportunity of ridding myself of my companion was rendered, by the emergency of the case, unavailable.

I know not how it was, but I suddenly became actuated by a new impulse. Wretch though he was, he had intrusted his safety, his life, into my hands. There was, perhaps, still some good in the man; by enabling him to escape, I might be the instrument of his eternal salvation. He had done me no injury, and at some period of his life he might have rendered good offices to others. I pitied his situation, and determined to render him what assistance I could. I applied the whip to the mare. In a moment she seemed to be endowed with supernatural energy and swiftness. Though he was a murderer--though he was henceforth to be driven from society as an outcast, he should not be deserted in his present emergency. On, on we sped; hedges, trees, houses were passed in rapid succession. Nothing impeded our way. We had a task to perform--a duty to fulfill; dangers and difficulties fled before us. A human life depended upon our exertions, and every nerve required to be strained for its preservation. On, on we hurried. My enthusiasm assumed the appearance of madness. I shouted to the mare till I was hoarse, and broke the whip in several places. Although we comparatively flew over the ground, I fancied we did not go fast enough. My body was in constant motion, as though it would give an impetus to our movements. My companion appeared conscious of my intentions, and, for the first time, evinced an interest in our progress. He drew out his handkerchief, and used it incessantly as an incentive to swiftness. Onward we fled. We were all actuated by the same motive. This concentration of energy gave force and vitality to our actions.

The night had hitherto been calm, but the rain now began to descend in torrents, and at intervals we heard distant peals of thunder. Still we progressed; we were not to be baffled, not to be deterred; we would yet defy pursuit. Large tracts of country were passed over with amazing rapidity. Objects, that at one moment were at a great distance, in another were reached, and in the next left far behind. Thus we sped forward--thus we seemed to annihilate space altogether. We were endowed with superhuman energies--hurried on by an impulse, involuntary and irresistible. My companion became violent, and appeared to think we did not travel quick enough. He rose once or twice from his seat, and attempted to take the remnant of the whip from my hand, but I resisted, and prevailed upon him to remain quiet.

How long we were occupied in this mad and daring flight, I can not even conjecture. We reached, at length, our destination; but, alas! we had no sooner done so, than the invaluable animal that had conveyed us thither dropped down dead!

My companion and I alighted. I walked up to where the poor animal lay, and was busy deploring her fate, when I heard a struggle at a short distance. I turned quickly round, and beheld the mysterious being with whom I had ridden so fatal a journey, in the custody of two powerful looking men.

"Ha, ha! I thought he would make for this here place," said one of them. "He still has a hankering after his mother's grave. When he got away before, we nabbed him here."

The mystery was soon cleared up. The gentleman had escaped from a lunatic asylum, and was both deaf and dumb. The death of his mother, a few years before, had caused the mental aberration.

The horrors of the night are impressed as vividly upon my memory as though they had just occurred. The expenses of the journey were all defrayed, and I was presented with a handsome gratuity. I never ceased, however, to regret the loss of the favorite mare.

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

SPIDER'S SILK.

Urged by the increased demand for the threads which the silk-worm yields, many ingenious men have endeavored to turn the cocoons of other insects to account. In search of new fibres to weave into garments, men have dived to the bottom of the sea, to watch the operations of the pinna and the common mussel. Ingenious experimentalists have endeavored to adapt the threads which hold the mussel firmly to the rock, to the purposes of the loom; and the day will probably arrive when the minute thread of that diminutive insect, known as the money-spinner, will be reeled, thrown, and woven into fabrics fit for Titania and her court.

In the early part of last century, an enthusiastic French gentleman turned his attention to spiders' webs. He discovered that certain spiders not only erected their webs to trap unsuspecting flies, but that the females, when they had laid their eggs, forthwith wove a cocoon, of strong silken threads, about them. These cocoons are known more familiarly as spiders' bags. The common webs of spiders are too slight and fragile to be put to any use; but the French experimentalist in question, Monsieur Bon, was led to believe that the cocoons of the female spiders were more solidly built than the mere traps of the ferocious males. Various experiments led M. Bon to adopt the short-legged silk spider as the most productive kind. Of this species he made a large collection. He employed a number of persons to go in search of them; and, as the prisoners were brought to him, one by one, he inclosed them in separate paper cells, in which he pricked holes to admit the air. He kept them in close confinement, and he observed that their imprisonment did not appear to affect their health. None of them, so far as he could observe, sickened for want of exercise; and, as a jailer, he appears to have been indefatigable, occupying himself catching flies, and delivering them over to the tender mercies of his prisoners. After a protracted confinement in these miniature Bastiles, the grim M. Bon opened the doors, and found that the majority of his prisoners had beguiled their time in forming their bags. Spiders exude their threads from papillæ or nipples, placed at the hinder part of their body. The thread, when it leaves them, is a glutinous liquid, which hardens on exposure to the air. It has been found that, by squeezing a spider, and placing the finger against its papillæ, the liquid of which the thread or silk is made may be drawn out to a great length.

M. Reaumur, the rival experimentalist to M. Bon, discovered that the papillæ are formed of an immense number of smaller papillæ, from each of which a minute and distinct thread is spun. He asserted that, with a microscope, he counted as many as seventy distinct fibres proceeding from the papillæ of one spider, and that there were many more threads too minute and numerous to compute. He jumped to a result, however, that is sufficiently astonishing, namely, that a thousand distinct fibres proceed from each papillæ; and there being five large papillæ, that every thread of spider's silk is composed of at least five thousand fibres. In the heat of that enthusiasm, with which the microscope filled speculative minds in the beginning of last century, M. Leuwenhoek ventured to assert that a hundred of the threads of a full-grown spider were not equal to the diameter of one single hair of his beard. This assertion leads to the astounding arithmetical deduction, that if the spider's threads and the philosopher's hair be both round, ten thousand threads are not bigger than such a hair; and, computing the diameter of a thread spun by a young spider as compared with that of an adult spider, four millions of the fibres of a young spider's web do not equal a single hair of M. Leuwenhoek's beard. The enthusiastic experimentalist must have suffered horrible martyrdom under the razor, with such an exaggerated notion of his beard as these calculations must have given him. A clever writer, in Lardner's Cyclopædia notices these measurements, and shows that M. Leuwenhoek went far beyond the limits of reality in his calculation.

M. Bon's collection of spiders continued to thrive; and, in due season, he found that the greater number of them had completed their cocoons or bags. He then dislodged the bags from the paper boxes; threw them into warm water, and kept washing them until they were quite free from dirt of any kind. The next process was to make a preparation of soap, saltpetre, and gum-arabic dissolved in water. Into this preparation the bags were thrown, and set to boil over a gentle fire for the space of three hours. When they were taken out and the soap had been rinsed from them, they appeared to be composed of fine, strong, ash-colored silk. Before being carded on fine cards, they were set out for some days to dry thoroughly. The carding, according to M. Bon, was an easy matter: and he affirmed that the threads of the silk he obtained were stronger and finer than those of the silk-worm. M. Reaumur, however, who was dispatched to the scene of M. Bon's investigations by the Royal Academy of Paris, gave a different version of the matter. He found, that whereas the thread of the spider's bag will sustain only thirty-six grains, that of the silkworm will support a weight of two drachms and a half--or four times the weight sustained by the spider-thread. Though M. Bon was certainly an enthusiast on behalf of spiders, M. Reaumur as undoubtedly had a strong predilection in favor of the bombyx; and the result of these contending prejudices was, that M. Bon's investigations were overrated by a few, and utterly disregarded by the majority of his countrymen. He injured himself by rash assertions. He endeavored to make out that spiders were more prolific, and yielded a proportionably larger quantity of silk than silkworms. These assertions were disproved, but in no kindly spirit, by M. Reaumur. To do away with the impression that spiders and their webs were venomous, M. Bon not only asserted, with truth, that their bite was harmless, but he even went so far as to subject his favorite insect to a chemical analysis, and he succeeded in extracting from it a volatile salt which he christened Montpelier drops, and recommended strongly as an efficacious medicine in lethargic states.

M. Bon undoubtedly produced, from the silk of his spiders, a material that readily absorbed all kinds of dyes, and was capable of being worked in any loom. With his carded spider's silk the enthusiastic experimentalist wove gloves and stockings, which he presented to one or two learned societies. To these productions several eminent men took particular exceptions. They discovered that the fineness of the separate threads of the silk detracted from its lustre, and inevitably produced a fabric less refulgent than those woven from the silkworm. M. Reaumur's most conclusive fact against the adoption of spider's silk as an article of manufacture, was deduced from his observations on the combativeness of spiders. He discovered that they had not arrived at that state of civilization when communities find it most to the general advantage to live on terms of mutual amity and confidence; on the contrary, the spider-world, according to M. Reaumur (we are writing of a hundred and forty years ago), was in a continual state of warfare; nay, not a few spiders were habitual cannibals. Having collected about five thousand spiders (enough to scare the most courageous old lady), M. Reaumur shut them up in companies varying in number from fifty to one hundred. On opening the cells, after the lapse of a few days, "what was the horror of our hero," as the graphic novelist writes, "to behold the scene which met his gaze!" Where fifty spiders, happy and full of life, had a short time before existed, only about two bloated insects now remained--they had devoured their fellow spiders! This horrible custom of the spider-world accounts for the small proportion of spiders in comparison to the immense number of eggs which they produce. So formidable a difficulty could only be met by rearing each spider in a separate cage; whether this separation is practicable--that is to say, whether it can be made to repay the trouble it would require--is a matter yet to be decided.

Against M. Bon's treatise on behalf of spider's silk, M. Reaumur urged further objections. He asserted that, when compared with silkworm's silk, spider's silk was deficient both in quality and in quantity. His calculation went to show that the silk of twelve spiders did not more than equal that of one bombyx; and that no less than fifty-five thousand two hundred and ninety-six spiders must be reared to produce one pound of silk. This calculation is now held to be exaggerated; and the spirit of partisanship in which M. Reaumur's report was evidently concocted, favors the supposition that he made the most of any objections he could bring to bear against M. Bon.

M. Bon's experiments are valuable as far as they go; spider's silk may be safely set down as an untried raw material. The objections of M. Reaumur, reasonable in some respects, are not at all conclusive. It is of course undeniable that the silkworm produces a larger quantity of silk than any species of spider; but, on the other hand, the spider's silk may possess certain qualities adapted to particular fabrics, which would justify its cultivation. At the Great Industrial Show, we shall probably find some specimens of spider's silk; such contributions would be useful and suggestive. The idea of brushing down cobwebs to convert them into ball-room stockings, forces upon us the association of two most incongruous ideas; but that this transformation is not impossible, the Royal Society, who are the possessors of some of M. Bon's spider-fabric, can satisfactorily demonstrate.

[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

THE RAILWAY.

The silent glen, the sunless stream, To wandering boyhood dear, And treasur'd still in many a dream, They are no longer here; A huge red mound of earth is thrown Across the glen so wild and lone, The stream so cold and clear; And lightning speed, and thundering sound, Pass hourly o'er the unsightly mound.

Nor this alone--for many a mile Along that iron way, No verdant banks or hedgerows smile In summer's glory gay; Thro' chasms that yawn as though the earth Were rent in some strange mountain-birth, Whose depth excludes the day, We're born away at headlong pace, To win from time the wearying race!

The wayside inn, with homelike air, No longer tempts a guest To taste its unpretending fare, Or seek its welcome rest. The prancing team--the merry horn-- The cool fresh road at early morn-- The coachman's ready jest; All, all to distant dream-land gone, While shrieking trains are hurrying on.

Yet greet we them with thankful hearts, And eyes that own no tear, 'Tis nothing now, the space which parts The distant from the dear; The wing that to her cherish'd nest Bears home the bird's exulting breast, Has found its rival here. With speed like hers we too can haste, The bliss of meeting hearts to taste.

For me, I gaze along the line To watch the approaching train, And deem it still, 'twixt me and mine, A rude, but welcome chain To bind us in a world, whose ties Each passing hour to sever tries, But here may try in vain; To bring us near home many an art, Stern fate employs to keep apart.

[From Bentley's Miscellany.]

THE BLIND SISTER, OR CRIME AND ITS PUNISHMENT.

For real comfort, snugness, and often rural beauty, where are there in the wide world any dwellings that can equal the cottage homes of England's middle classes? Whether they be clad with ivy and woodbine, half hidden by forest-trees, and approached by silent, shady lanes, or, glaring with stucco and green paint, stand perched upon flights of steps, by the side of dusty suburban roads--whether they be cockney-christened with fine titles, and dignified as villas, halls, or lodges, or rejoice in such sweet names as Oak Cottage or Linden Grove--still within their humble walls, before all other places, are to be found content, and peace, and pure domestic love.

Upon the slope of a gentle hill, about a mile from a large town, where I was attending to the practice of an absent friend, there stood a neat and pretty residence, with slated roof and trellised porch. A light verandah shaded the narrow French windows, opening from the favorite drawing-room upon a trim, smooth lawn, studded with gay parterres, and bounded by a sweetbriar hedge; and here old Mrs. Reed, the widow of a clergyman, was busily employed, one lovely autumn afternoon, peering through her spectacles at the fast-fading flowers, or plucking from some favorite shrub the "sear and yellow leaf" that spoke of the summer passed away, and the dreary season hurrying on apace. Her daughter, a pale and delicate-looking girl, sat with her drooping head leant against the open window-frame, watching her mother sorrowfully as she felt her own declining health, and thought how her parent's waning years might pass away, uncared for, and unsolaced by a daughter's love. Within the room, a young man was reclining lazily upon a sofa; rather handsome, about the middle height, _but_ had it not been for a stubby mustache, very long hair, and his rather slovenly costume--peculiarities which he considered indispensable to his profession as an artist--there was nothing in his appearance to distinguish him from the generality of young English gentlemen of his age and station. Presently there fell upon his ear the notes of a beautiful symphony, played with most exquisite taste upon the harp, and gradually blending with a woman's voice, deep, soft and tremulous, every now and then, as if with intense feeling, in one of those elaborate yet enervating melodies that have their birth in sunny Italy. The performer was about twenty-five years of age, of haughty and dazzling beauty. Her dark wavy hair, gathered behind into a large glossy knot, was decked on one side with a bunch of pink rose buds. A full white robe, that covered, without hiding, the outline of her bust and arms, was bound at the waist with a thick cord and tassel of black silk and gold, adding all that dress could add to the elegance of her tall and splendid figure. Then, as she rose and stretched out her jeweled hand to tighten a loose string, the ineffable grace of the studied attitude in which she stood for some moments showed her to be well skilled in those fascinating arts that so often captivate the senses before the heart is touched.

This lady was the daughter of Mrs. Reed's only sister, who in her youth had run away with an Italian music master. Signor Arnatti, although a poor adventurer, was not quite devoid of honor, for, when first married, he really loved his English wife, and proudly introduced her to his friends at Florence, where her rank and fortune were made much of, and she was caressed and fêted until half wild with pleasure and excitement. But this was not to last. Her husband, a man of violent and ungovernable temper, was heard to utter certain obnoxious political opinions; and it being discovered that he was connected with a dangerous conspiracy against the existing government, a speedy flight alone saved him from the scaffold or perpetual imprisonment. They sought a temporary home in Paris, where, after dissipating much of their little fortune at the gambling-table, he met with a sudden and violent death in a night-brawl, just in time to save his wife and child from poverty. The young widow, who of late had thought more of her infant than its father, was not long inconsolable. Discarded by her own relations, who, with bitter and cruel taunts, had refused all communication with her, and now too proud to return to them again, she settled with her little girl in Italy, where a small income enabled her to lead a life of unrestrained gayety, that soon became almost necessary to her existence. Here young Catherine was reared and educated, flattered and spoiled by all about her; and encouraged by her vain mother to expect nothing less than an alliance with high rank and wealth, she refused many advantageous offers of marriage, and ere long gained the character of a heartless and unprincipled coquette, especially among the English visitors, who constituted a great part of the society in which she moved. Her mother corresponded occasionally with Mrs. Reed; and the sisters still cherished an affection for each other, which increased as they advanced in years; but their ideas, their views, even their religion was different, and the letters they exchanged once, or at most twice a year, afforded but little satisfaction to either. When the cholera visited Italy, Madame Arnatti was seized with a presentiment that fate had already numbered her among its victims, and, under the influence of this feeling, wrote a long and touching letter to her sister, freely confessing the sin and folly of her conduct in regard to her daughter's management, of whom she gave a long description, softened, it is true, by a mother's hand, yet containing many painful truths, that must have caused the doting parent infinite sorrow to utter. She concluded by repeating her conviction that her end was near, and consigning Catherine to her sister's care, with an entreaty that she would take her from the immoral and polluted atmosphere in which they lived, and try the effect of her piety, and kindness, and steady English habits on the young woman's violent and ungovernable passions. Months passed away; and then Mrs. Reed received a letter from Catherine herself, telling of her mother's death; also one from a lady, in whose company she was traveling homeward, in accordance with her mother's dying wish. Another long interval elapsed, and the good lady was preparing to visit London for the purpose of consulting an eminent physician on her daughter's state of health when news reached the cottage of Miss Arnatti's arrival in that city, which had been retarded thus long by tedious quarantine laws, illness, and other causes.

Her guardian was apparently glad enough to get rid of the charge she had undertaken, and within a week Catherine removed to her aunt's lodgings, where she was received and treated with every affectionate attention; but a constant yearning after gayety and amusements, indelicate and unfeeling as it appeared to her relatives, so soon after the loss of an only parent; the freedom and boldness of her manners when in company or in public, and her overbearing conduct to those about her, augured but little in favor of such an addition to their circle. However, the good aunt hoped for better things from the removal to her quiet country-home. Their stay in London was even shorter than they had intended, and, for some time after their return to the cottage, Miss Arnatti endeavored to adapt herself to the habits that must have been so strange and new to her; she even sought, and made herself agreeable in the very orderly but cheerful society where her aunt and cousin introduced her, although Annie Reed's increasing weakness prevented them from receiving much company at their own house.

Edwin Reed, Catherine's other cousin, was absent on a tour in Wales, and had only returned a few days previous to the afternoon on which we have described him as listening, enraptured, to the lady's native music. Seating herself at the piano, she followed this by a brilliant waltz, the merry, sparkling notes of which made the eye brighten and the brain whirl, from very sympathy; and then returning to her favorite instrument, she sang, to a low, plaintive accompaniment, a simple English ballad, telling of man's heartlessness, and woman's frailty and despair. The last verse ran:

So faith and hope her soul forsaking, Each day to heavier sorrow waking This cruel love her heart was breaking Yet, ere her breath Was hushed in death, She breathed a prayer For her betrayer-- Angels to heaven her poor soul taking.

Scarcely had she finished, when, as if in thorough contempt of the maiden's weakness, she drew her hand violently across the strings with a discordant crash, that startled poor little Annie painfully, and pushing the harp from her with an impatient gesture, abruptly quitted the room.

The old lady had gone in to enjoy a gossip with her next-door neighbor, and so the brother and sister were alone. The signs of tears were on the latter's cheek as Edwin approached and sat down by her side; attributing this to her extreme sensibility wrought upon by what they had just heard, he spoke some kind and cheering words, and then began to talk enthusiastically of their cousin's beauty and accomplishments. She listened to him quietly for some time, and then,

"Dear brother," she said, timidly, "you must forgive me for what I am about to say, when it is to warn and caution you against those very charms that have already made such an impression on you. I am not one, Edwin, as you know, to speak ill, even of my enemies, if such there be; and to any other but yourself would hide her faults, and try to think of some pleasing trait on which to dwell, when her name was mentioned. Nay, do not interrupt me, for rest assured, I am only prompted by a sister's love. I have seen much of Catherine, and heard more; I fear her dreadful temper--her different faith; although, indeed, she seems to neglect all religious duties, even those of her own church. Then I think of her rudeness and inattention to our dear mother, who is so kind and gentle to her. Had you been in London when we first met, you would not wonder at our being shocked and pained at all we witnessed there."

"But, Annie, dear," said her brother, "why should you talk thus earnestly to me? Surely I may admire and praise a handsome woman, without falling hopelessly in love."

"You may, or you may not," continued Annie, warmly. "But this I know and feel, that, unless she were to change in every manner, thought, and action, she is the last person in the world that I would see possess a hold upon my brother's heart. Why, do you know, she makes a boast of the many lovers she has encouraged and discarded; and even shows, with ill-timed jests, letters from her admirers, containing protestations of affection, and sentiments that any woman of common feeling would at least consider sacred."

"And have you nothing, then, to say in her favor?" said young Reed, quietly. "Can you make no allowance for the manner in which she has been brought up? or, may she never change from what you represent her?"

"She may, perhaps; but let me beg of you, Edwin, to pause, and think, and not be infatuated and led away, against your better judgment, as so many have already been."

"Why, my dear sister," he replied, "if we were on the point of running off together, you could not be more earnest in the matter; but I have really never entertained such thoughts as you suggest, and if I did, should consider myself quite at liberty to act as I pleased, whether I were guided by your counsel or not."

"Well, Edwin, be not angry with me; perhaps I have spoken too strongly on the subject. You know how much I have your happiness at heart, and this it is that makes me say so much. I often think I have not long to live, but while I am here would have you promise me--"

A chilly breeze swept over the lawn, and the invalid was seized with a violent fit of coughing; her brother shut the casement, and wrapped the shawl closer round her slight figure. Mrs. Reed entered the room at the same instant, and their conversation ended.

Catherine Arnatti was in her own chamber, the open window of which was within a few yards of where her cousins had been talking. Attracted thither by the sound, she listened intently, and leaning out, apparently employed in training the branches of a creeping plant, she had heard every word they uttered.

The winter passed away pleasantly enough, for two at least of the party at the cottage.

Catherine and Edwin were of necessity much thrown together; she sat to him as a model, accompanied him in his walks, and flattered him by innumerable little attentions, that were unnoticed by the others; but still her conduct to his mother and sister, although seemingly more kind of late, was insincere, and marked by a want of sympathy and affection, that often grieved him deeply. Her temper she managed to control, but sometimes not without efforts on her part that were more painful to witness than her previous outbreaks of passion. Six months had elapsed since Miss Arnatti had overheard, with feelings of hatred toward one, and thorough contempt of both speakers, the dialogue in which her faults had been so freely exposed. Yet she fully expected that young Reed would soon be at her feet, a humble follower, as other men had been; but although polite, attentive, and ever seeking her society, he still forbore to speak of love, and then, piqued and angry at his conduct, she used every means to gain his affection, without at first any real motive for so doing; soon, however, this wayward lady began to fancy that the passion she would only feign was really felt--and being so unexpectedly thwarted gave strength to this idea--and in proportion also grew her hatred toward Miss Reed, to whose influence she attributed her own failure. Before long she resolved that Edwin _should_ be her husband, by which means her revenge on Annie would be gratified, and a tolerable position in the world obtained for herself, for she had ascertained that the young man's fortune, although at present moderate, was yet sufficient to commence with, and that his prospects and expectations were nearly all that could be desired.

Neither was Edwin altogether proof against her matchless beauty. At times he felt an almost irresistible impulse to kneel before her, and avow himself a slave forever, and as often would some hasty word or uncongenial sentiment turn his thoughts into another channel; and then they carried him away to an old country seat in Wales, where he had spent the summer of last year on a visit to some friends of his family. A young lady, of good birth and education, resided there as governess to some half-dozen wild and turbulent children. Her kind and unobtrusive manners and gentle voice first attracted his attention toward her; and although perhaps not handsome, her pale sweet face and dark blue eye made an impression that deepened each day as he discovered fresh beauties in her intellectual and superior mind. After an acquaintance of some months he made an offer of his hand, and her conduct on this occasion only confirmed the ardent affection he entertained for her. Candidly admitting that she could joyfully unite her lot with his, she told her previous history, and begged the young man to test his feelings well before allying himself to a poor and portionless girl, and for this purpose prayed that twelve months might elapse before the subject of their marriage were renewed. She would not doubt him then; still he might see others, who would seem more worthy of his regard: but if, in that time, his sentiments were unchanged, all that she had to give was his forever. In vain he tried to alter this resolution; her arguments were stronger than his own, and so at last, with renewed vows of fidelity, he reluctantly bade her farewell. For various reasons he had kept this attachment a secret from his family, not altogether sure of the light in which they might view it; and the position of the young governess would have been rendered doubly painful, had those under whose roof she dwelt been made acquainted with the circumstances. Although fully aware in cooler moments that, even had he known no other, his cousin Catherine was a person with whom, as a companion for life, he could never hope for real happiness, still he knew the danger of his situation, and resolved not without a struggle, to tear himself away from the sphere of her attractions; and so, one evening, Edwin announced his intention of setting off next day on a walking excursion through Scotland, proposing to visit Wales on his return. Different were the feelings with which each of the ladies received this intelligence. Catherine, who had but the day before refused a pressing invitation to join a gay party, assembled at the London mansion of one of her old acquaintances, turned away and bit her lip with rage and chagrin, as Miss Reed repeated to her mother, who had grown deaf of late, over and over again to make her understand, that Edwin was about to leave them for a time--was going to Scotland, and purposed leaving by the mail on the morrow night. She had of course no objection to offer, being but too glad to believe that nothing more than friendship existed between her son and sister's child; yet wondered much what had led to such a sudden resolution.

Catherine Arnatti never closed her eyes that night; one instant fancying that Edwin loved her, and only paused to own it for fear of a refusal, and flattering herself that he would not leave without. These thoughts gave way to bitter disappointment, hatred, and vows of revenge against him, and all connected with him, more particularly his sister, whose words she now recalled, torturing herself with the idea that Annie had extorted a promise from her brother never to wed his cousin while she lived; and the sickly girl had improved much since then, and might, after all, be restored to perfect health; then, the first time for years, she wept--cried bitterly at the thought of being separated from one against whom she had but just before been breathing threats and imprecations, and yet imagined was the only man she had ever really loved. A calmer mood succeeded, and she lay down, resolving and discarding schemes to gain her wishes, that occupied her mind till daylight.

The next day passed in busy preparations; Edwin avoiding, as he dreaded, the result of a private interview with his cousin. Toward the afternoon Miss Reed and her mother happened to be engaged with their medical attendant, who opportunely called that day, and often paid longer visits than were absolutely necessary; and Catherine, who with difficulty had restrained her emotions, seizing on the opportunity, and scarcely waiting to knock at the door, entered Edwin's apartment. He was engaged in packing a small portmanteau, and looking up, beheld her standing there, pale and agitated, more beautiful he thought than ever, and yet a combination of the angel and the fiend. Some moments passed in silence; then, advancing quickly, holding out her hand, she spoke in a husky voice:

"Edwin, I have come to bid you a farewell--if, indeed, you go to-night, in this world we shall never meet again; neither hereafter, if half that you believe is true. It sets one thinking, does it not? a parting that we feel to be for ever, from those with whom we have been in daily intercourse, even for a few short months."

"And pray, Catherine," he asked, trying to talk calmly, "why should we not meet again? Even if I were about to visit the antipodes I should look forward to return some day; indeed it would grieve me much to think that I should never enjoy again your company, where I have spent so many pleasant hours, and of which, believe me, I shall ever cherish a grateful recollection. Be kind to poor Annie and my mother when I am gone, and if you think it not too great a task, I shall be very glad sometimes to hear the news from you, and in return will write you of my wanderings in the Highlands."

"Well, good-by, Edwin," she repeated; "for all you say, my words may yet prove true."

"But I do not go yet for some hours, and we shall meet again below before I leave; why not defer good-by till then?"

There was another pause before she answered, with passionate energy, and grasping his arm tightly:

"And is this all you have to say? Now listen to me, Edwin: know that I love you, and judge of its intensity by my thus owning it. I am no bashful English girl, to die a victim to concealment or suspense, but _must_ and _will_ know all at once. Now, tell me, sir, have I misplaced my love? Tell me, I say, and quickly; for, by the powers above, you little know how much depends upon your answer."

She felt his hand, cold and trembling; his face was even paler than her own, as, overwhelmed with confusion, Edwin stammered out,

"Really, Miss Arnatti--Catherine--I was not aware; at least, I am so taken by surprise. Give me time to think, for--"

"What, then, you hesitate," she said, stamping her foot; and then, with desperate calmness, added, in a softer tone, "Well, be it so; body and soul I offer, and you reject the gift." A violent struggle was racking the young man's breast, and, by the working of his countenance she saw it, and paused. But still he never raised his eyes to hers, that were so fixed on him; and she continued, "You ask for time to think, oh! heaven and hell, that I should come to this! But take it, and think well; it is four hours before you quit this roof; I will be there to say adieu. Or better, perhaps, if you will write, and give at leisure the result of your deliberations."

She spoke the last words with a bitter sneer; yet Edwin caught at the suggestion, and replied,

"Yes, I will write, I promise you, within a month. Forgive my apparent coldness; forgive--"

"Hush!" interrupted Catherine; "your sister calls; why does she come here now? You will not mention what has passed, I know; remember, within a month I am to hear. Think of me kindly, and believe that I might make you love me even as I love you. Now, go to her, go before she finds you here."

Edwin pressed her hand in parting, and she bent down her forehead, but the kiss imprinted there was cold and passionless. He met his sister at the door, and led her back affectionately to the drawing-room she had just quitted.

The old gardener had deposited a portmanteau and knapsack on the very edge of the footpath by the side of the high road, and had been watching for the mail, with a great horn lantern, some half-hour or so before it was expected; while the housemaid was stationed inside the gate, upon the gravel-walk, ready to convey the intelligence, as soon as the lights were visible coming up the hill; and cook stood at the front-door, gnawing her white apron. The family were assembled in that very unpleasant state of expectation, that generally precedes the departure of a friend or relative; Edwin walking about the room, wrapped up for traveling, impatient and anxious to be off. At last, the gardener halloed out lustily; Betty ran toward the house, as if pursued by a wild beast, and screaming, "It's a-coming;" and cook, who had been standing still all the time, rushed in, quite out of breath, begging Mr. Edwin to make haste, for the coach never waited a minute for nobody; so he embraced his mother and sister; and then, taking Catherine's hand, raised it hastily, but respectfully to his lips. Miss Reed watched the movement, and saw how he avoided the piercing gaze her cousin fixed upon him, not so intently though, but that she noted the faint gleam of satisfaction that passed over Annie's pale face; and cursed her for it. Strange, that the idea of any other rival had never haunted her.

"Good-by, once more," said Edwin. "I may return before you expect me; God bless you all!"

And, in another five minutes, he was seated by the side of the frosty old gentleman who drove the mail, puffing away vigorously at his meerschaum.

The ladies passed a dismal evening; more so, indeed, than the circumstances would seem to warrant. Annie commenced a large piece of embroidery, that, judging from its size and the slow progress made, seemed likely to afford her occupation and amusement until she became an old woman; while Mrs. Reed called to mind all the burglaries and murders that had been committed in the neighborhood during the last twenty years; deploring their unprotected situation, discussing the propriety of having an alarm-bell hung between two of the chimney-pots, and making arrangements for the gardener to sleep on the premises for the future. Miss Arnatti never raised her eyes from the book over which she bent. Supper, generally their most cheerful meal, remained untouched, and, earlier than usual, they retired to their respective chambers.

For several hours, Catherine sat at her open window, looking out into the close, hazy night. The soft wind, that every now and then had rustled through the trees, or shaken dewdrops from the thick ivy clustered beneath the overhanging eaves, had died away. As the mist settled down, and a few stars peeped out just over head, a black curtain of clouds seemed to rise up from the horizon, hiding the nearest objects in impenetrable darkness. The only sounds now heard were those that told of man's vicinity, and his restlessness: the occasional rumble of a distant vehicle; the chime of bells; sometimes the echo of a human voice, in the direction of the town; the ticking of a watch, or the hard breathing of those that slept; and these fell on the ear with strange distinctness, amid the awful stillness of nature. Presently, the clouds, that hung over a valley far away, opened horizontally for an instant, while a faint flash of lightning flickered behind, showing their cumbrous outline. In a few minutes a brighter flash in another quarter was followed by the low roll of distant thunder; and so the storm worked round, nearer and nearer, until it burst in all its fury over the hill on which the cottage stood.

Miss Reed, who from her childhood had always felt an agonizing and unconquerable fear during a thunder-storm, roused from her light slumber, lay huddled up, and trembling, with her face buried in the pillow. She did not hear the door open or the footstep that approached so stealthily, before a hand was laid upon her shoulder; and starting up she recognized her cousin.

"Oh, Catherine!" she faltered, covering her eyes, "do stay with me awhile; I am so terrified--and think of Edwin, too, exposed as he must be to it."

"I _have_ been thinking of him, Annie."

"But you are frightened, also, a little, are you not--with all your courage, or what made you shake so then?" said the poor girl, trying to draw her cousin nearer as flash after flash glared before her eyelids, and louder claps of thunder followed each other at shorter intervals.

"I frightened?" replied the dauntless woman, "I frightened; and what at? Not at the thunder, surely; and as for lightning, if it strikes, they say, it brings a sudden and painless death, leaving but seldom even a mark upon the corpse. Who would not prefer this, to lingering on a bed of sickness."

"Do not say so, Catherine, pray do not; only think if--O God, have mercy on us! Was not _that_ awful?"

"Was it not grand? Magnificent--awful if you will. Think of its raging and reveling uncontrolled, and striking where and what it will, without a bound or limit to its fury. And fancy such a storm pent up in the narrow compass of a human breast, and yet not bursting its frail prison. What can the torments that they tell us of, hereafter, be to this?"

"And what reason can you have, dear cousin, for talking thus. Kneel down by me, for once, and pray; for surely, at such a time as this, if at no other, you must feel there is a God."

"No; you pray, Annie Reed, if it will comfort you; pray for us both. There, now, lie down again, and hide your face. I will stand by your side and listen to you."

She drew the slender figure gently back. Then, with a sudden movement, seizing a large pillow dashed it over Annie's face, pressing thereon with all her strength. The long, half-smothered, piteous cry that followed, was almost unheard in the roaring of the storm that now was at its height. By the vivid light that every instant played around, she saw the violent efforts of her victim, whose limbs were moving up and down, convulsively, under the white bed-clothes. Then, throwing the whole weight of her body across the bed, she clutched and strained upon the frame, to press more heavily. Suddenly all movement ceased, and the murderess felt a short and thrilling shudder underneath her. Still, her hold never relaxed; untouched by pity or remorse, exulting in the thought that the cruel deed was nearly done, so easily, and under circumstances where no suspicion of the truth was likely to arise; dreading to look upon the dead girl's face too soon, lest the mild eyes should still be open, and beaming on her with reproach and horror. But what was it she felt then, so warm and sticky, trickling down her arm? She knew it to be blood, even before the next flash showed the crimson stain, spreading slowly over the pillow. Again the electric fluid darted from the clouds, but this time charged with its special mission from on high. The murderess was struck! and springing up, she fell back with one shrill, wild, piercing shriek, that reached the ears of those below, before it was drowned in the din of falling masonry, and the tremendous crash that shook the house to its foundation, until the walls quivered, like the timbers of a ship beating on a rocky shore.

That night I had been to visit a patient at some distance, and finding no shelter near when returning, had ridden on through the storm. Just entering the town, I overtook a man, pressing on quickly in the same direction. Making some passing remark upon the weather, I was recognized by the old gardener, who begged me for God's sake to hurry back; the cottage, he said, was struck by lightning, and two of the ladies either dying or dead from the injuries they had received. In a few minutes my horse was at the gate. I had just time to observe that two of the chimneys were thrown down, and some mischief done to the roof. On entering the house, I was guided, by the low, wailing sound of intense grief, to an upper room, where I beheld one of those scenes that, in an instant, stamp themselves upon the memory, leaving their transfer there forever.

Day was just breaking; a cold gray light slowly gaining strength over the yellow glare of some unsnuffed candles, while the occasional boom of distant thunder told that the storm was not yet exhausted. Extended on a low couch, and held by the terrified servants, was the wreck of the once beautiful Catherine Arnatti; at short intervals her features became horribly distorted by an epileptic spasm, that seized one side of the body, while the other half appeared to be completely paralyzed; and the unmeaning glare of the eye, when the lid was raised, told that the organ of vision was seriously injured, if not entirely destroyed. Close by, the mother bent sobbing over the helpless form of her own child, blanched and inanimate, with a streak of blood just oozing from her pallid lips. I found afterward, that Miss Reed, in her fearful struggle, had ruptured a vessel, and, fainting from the loss of blood, had lain for some time to all appearance dead. Shortly, however, a slight fluttering over the region of the heart, and a quiver of the nostril, told that the principle of life still lingered in the shattered tenement. With the aid of gentle stimulants, she recovered sufficiently to recognize her mother; but as her gaze wandered vacantly around, it fell on the wretched and blasted creature, from whose grasp she had been so wonderfully rescued. As if some magnetic power was in that glance, Catherine rose up suddenly, despair and horror in the glassy stare she fixed on the corpse-like form before her, as, with another yell, such as burst forth when first struck by the hand of God, she relapsed into one of the most dreadful and violent paroxysms I have ever witnessed. Annie clung tightly to her mother, crying, in a faint, imploring voice, "Oh, save me--save me from her!" ere, with a heavy sigh, she once more sank into insensibility. It was not until late in the afternoon, and then only with great difficulty, that she was able to make those around her understand what had taken place, and account for the intense horror that seized upon her, when at times a groan or cry was heard from the adjoining chamber, in which Miss Arnatti lay. It became, therefore, necessary that this person should be removed, and accordingly, the same night she was taken to lodgings in the town. Her conduct there was such as to induce a belief that she might be insane, and steps were taken toward placing her in a private asylum. Once only, a few days after her removal, she asked, suddenly, if Miss Reed were not dead; but appeared to betray no emotion on being informed, that although still alive, her cousin was in most imminent danger, and, turning away, from that time maintained a determined silence, which nothing could induce her to break, obstinately refusing all medical aid.

I visited her in company with the physician in attendance, about six weeks afterward, when she appeared to have recovered, in a great measure, the use of her limbs; but every lineament of the face was altered; the sight of one eye quite destroyed, and drawn outward, until little could be seen but a discolored ball, over which the lid hung down flabby and powerless; while a permanent distortion of the mouth added to the frightful appearance this occasioned. The beautiful hair was gone, and the unsightly bristles that remained were only partly concealed by the close-fitting cap she wore. It was indeed a sight to move the sternest heart. That proud and stately woman who had so cruelly abused the power her personal beauty alone had given her; trifling alike with youth's ardent and pure first love, as with the deeper and more lasting affection of manhood, and glorying in the misery and wretchedness she caused! Stopped in her full career, her punishment began already. Yet was there no index on that stolid face to tell how the dark spirit worked within; whether it felt remorse or sorrow for the crime, and pity for its victim, fearing a further punishment in this world or the next; whether the heart was torn by baffled rage and hatred still, scheming and plotting, even now that all hope was gone. Or was the strong intellect really clouded?

That night her attendant slept long and heavily; she might have been drugged, for Miss Arnatti had access to her desk and jewel case, in the secret drawers of which were afterward found several deadly and carefully prepared poisons.

In a room below was a large chimney-glass, and here Catherine first saw the full extent of the awful judgment that had befallen her. A cry of rage and despair, and the loud crash of broken glass, aroused the inmates early in the morning: they found the mirror shivered into a thousand fragments, but their charge was gone. We learned that day, that a person answering to her description, wearing a thick vail, and walking with pain and difficulty, had been one of the passengers on board a steam-packet that left the town at daylight.

For a long time Annie Reed lay in the shadow of death. She lived, however, many years, a suffering and patient invalid. Edwin married his betrothed and brought her home, where his fond mother and sister soon loved her as they loved him; and Annie played aunt to the first-born, and shared their happiness awhile; and when her gentle spirit passed away, her mother bent to the heavy blow, living resigned and peacefully with her remaining children to a good old age.

All efforts to trace the unhappy fugitive proved unavailing, and much anxiety was felt on her account; but about ten months after her disappearance, Mrs. Reed received a letter relative to the transfer of what little property her niece had possessed to a convent in Tuscany. The lady-abbess, a distant relative of Miss Arnatti's, had also written much concerning her, from which the following is extracted:

"When a child, Catherine was for two years a boarder in this very house. Fifteen years passed since then, and she came to us travel-worn, and weak, and ill. Her history is known only to her confessor and myself; and she has drawn from us a promise that the name of England should never more be mentioned to her; and whatever tidings we may hear, in consequence of this communication, from those she had so cruelly injured, whether of life and health, or death--of forgiveness, or hatred and disgust at her ingratitude--that no allusion to it should be ever made to her. She follows rigidly the most severe rules of the establishment, but avoids all intercourse with the sisters. Much of her time is spent at the organ, and often, in the dead of night, we are startled or soothed by the low melancholy strains that come from the dark chapel. Her horror always on the approach of thunder-storms is a thing fearful to witness, and we think she can not long survive the dreadful shocks she suffers from this cause. They leave her, too, in total darkness many days. A mystery to all, we only speak of her as the BLIND SISTER."

[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

FORTUNES OF THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER.

Between Passy and Auteuil were still to be seen, some few years ago, the remains of what had been a gentleman's residence. The residence and the family to whom it had belonged had both fallen during the first Revolution. The bole of a once magnificent tree, stag-headed, owing to the neighboring buildings having hurt the roots, was all the evidence that remained of a park; but bits of old moss-grown wall--broken steps that led to nothing--heads and headless trunks of statues that once adorned the edges of what, now a marsh, had formerly been a piece of ornamental water--little thickets of stunted trees stopped in their growth by want of care--all hinted of what had been, although they could give no idea of the beauty which had once made Bouloinvilliers the pride of the neighborhood and its possessor. Such was the aspect of the place recently; but when the following anecdote begins, France was to external appearance prosperous, and Bouloinvilliers was still in its bloom.

At a cottage within the gate which entered the grounds lived the gardener and his wife. They had been long married, had lost all their children, and were considered by every body a staid, elderly couple, when, to the astonishment of all, a girl was born. This precious plant, the child of their old age, was the delight especially of Pierre's life: he breathed but in little Marie, and tended her with the utmost care. Although attired in the costume appropriate to her station, her clothes were of fine materials; every indulgence in their power was lavished upon her, and every wish gratified, except the very natural one of going outside the grounds--_that_ was never permitted to her whom they had dedicated to the blessed Virgin, and determined to keep "unspotted from the world." Pierre himself taught her to read very well, and to write a little; Cécilon to knit, sew, and prepare the _pot-au-feu_; and amusement she easily found for herself. She lived among green leaves and blossoms: she loved them as sisters: all her thoughts turned toward the flowers that surrounded her on every side; they were her sole companions, and she never wearied playing with them. An old lime, the branches of which drooped round like a tent, and where the bees sought honey as long as there was any lingering on its sweetly-odorous branches, was her house, as she termed it; a large acorn formed a coffee-pot; its cups her cups, plates, porringers, and saucers, according to their size and flatness; and bits of broken porcelain, rubbed bright, enlivened the knotted stump, which served for shelves, chimney, and all; a water-lily was her _marmite_; fir-cones her cows; a large mushroom her table, when mushrooms were in season, at other times a bit of wood covered with green moss or wild sorrel. Her dolls even were made of flowers--bunches of lilies and roses formed the faces, a bundle of long beech-sprigs the bodies; and for hours would she sit rocking them, her low song chiming in with the drowsy hum of the insects.

When grown older, and become more adventurous, she used to weave little boats from rushes upon bits of cork, and freight them with flowers. These she launched on the lake, where the fresh air and fresh water kept them sometimes longer from fading than would have otherwise been their fate, during the hot dry days of July and August, on their native beds. Thus passed her happy childhood: often and often she dreamed over it in after-life, pleasing herself with the fancy, that perhaps as God, when he made sinless man in his own image, gave him a garden as his home, so for those who entered into "the joy of our Lord" a garden might be prepared in heaven, sweeter far than even that of Bouloinvilliers--one where sun never scorched, cold never pinched, flowers never faded, birds never died. The death of a bird was the greatest grief she had known, a cat the most ferocious animal she had as yet encountered. She attended the private chapel on Sundays and saints' days. The day she made her first communion was the first of her entry into the world, and much distraction of mind did the unwonted sight of houses, shops, and crowds of people, cause to our little recluse, which served for reflection, conversation, and curious questioning for many a day after. On a white-painted table with a drawer there stood a plaster-cast of the Virgin Mary, much admired by its innocent namesake, and associated in her mind with praises and sugar-plums--for whenever she had been particularly good she found some there for her. It was her office to dust it with a feather brush, supply water to the flowers amid which the little figure stood, and replace them with fresh ones when faded. Whenever she was petulant a black screen was placed before the table, and Marie was not suffered to approach it. This was her only punishment; indeed the only one she required, for she heard and saw nothing wrong; her parents never disputed, and they were so gentle and indulgent to her, that she never felt tempted to disguise the truth. The old priest often represented to the father that unless he intended his child for the cloister, this mode of bringing her up in such total seclusion and ignorance was almost cruel; but Pierre answered that he could give her a good fortune, and would take care to secure a good husband for her; and her perfect purity and innocence were so beautiful, that the kind-hearted but unwise ecclesiastic did not insist farther.

In the mean time she grew apace; and her mother being dead, Marie lived on as before with her father, whose affection only increased with his years, both of them apparently thinking that the world went on as they did themselves, unchanged in a single idea. Alas! "we know not what a day may bring forth," even when we have an opportunity of seeing and hearing all that passes around us. Pierre and Marie were scarcely aware of the commencement of the Revolution until it was at its height--the marquis, his son, and the good priest massacred--madame escaped to England--and the property divided, and in the possession of others of a very different stamp from his late kind patron, a model of suavity and grace of manner even in that capital which gave laws of politeness to the rest of Europe. All this came like a clap of thunder upon the astonished Pierre; and although he continued to live in his old cottage, he never more held up his head. Finally he became quite childish, and one day died sitting in his chair, his last words being "Marie," his last action pointing to the little figure of the Virgin. When his death, however, became known, the new propriétaire desired that the cottage should be vacated, and came himself to look after its capabilities. He was astonished at the innocent beauty of the youthful Marie, but not softened by it; for his bold, coarse admiration, and loud, insolent manner, so terrified the gentle recluse, that as soon as it was dark she made a bundle of her clothes, and taking the cherished little earthern image in her hand, went forth, like Eve from paradise, though, alas! not into a world without inhabitants. Terrified to a degree which no one not brought up as she had been can form the least idea of, but resolved to dare any thing rather than meet that bold, bad man again, she plunged into the increasing gloom, and wandered, wearied and heart broken, she knew not whither, until, hungry and tired, she could go no farther. She lay down, therefore, at the foot of a tree, with her head on her bundle, and the Virgin in her hand, and soon fell sound asleep.

She was awakened from a dream of former days by rough hands, and upon regaining her recollection, found that some one had snatched the bundle from beneath her head, and that nothing remained to her but the little image, associated in her mind with that happy childhood to which her present destitute and friendless condition formed so terrible a contrast. The sneers, and in some cases the insults of the passers-by, terrified her to such a degree, that, regardless of consequences, she penetrated further into the Bois de Boulogne, when at length weak, and indeed quite exhausted, from want of food, she sank down, praying to God to let her die, and take her to heaven. She waited patiently for some time, hoping, and more than half expecting, that what she asked so earnestly would be granted to her. About an hour passed, and Marie, wondering in her simple faith that she was still alive, repeated her supplications, uttering them in her distraction in a loud tone of voice. Suddenly she fancied she heard sounds of branches breaking, and the approach of footsteps, and filled with the utmost alarm lest it might be some of those much-dreaded men who had derided and insulted her, she attempted to rise and fly; but her weakness was so great, that after a few steps she fell.

"My poor girl," said a kind voice, "are you ill? What do you here, so far from your home and friends?"

"I have no home, no friend but God, and I want to go to Him. Oh, my God, let me die! let me die!"

"You are too young to die yet: you have many happy days in store, I hope. Come, come; eat something, or you _will_ die."

"But eating will make me live, and I want to die, and go to my father and mother."

"But that would be to kill yourself, and then you would never see either God or your parents, you know. Come, eat a morsel, and take a mouthful of wine."

"But when _you_ go, there is no one to give me any more, so I shall only be longer in dying."

"Self-destruction, you ought to know, if you have been properly brought up, is the only sin for which there _can_ be no pardon, for that is the only sin we _can not_ repent."

Marie looked timidly up at the manly, sensible, kind face which bent over her, and accepted the food he offered. He was dressed as a workman, and had on his shoulders a hod of glass: in fact, he was an itinerant glazier. His look was compassionate, but his voice, although soft, was authoritative. Refreshed by what she had taken, Marie sat up, and very soon was able to walk. She told her little history, one word of which he never doubted.

"But what do you mean to do?" asked the young man.

"To stay with you always, for you are kind and good, and no one else is so to me."

"But that can not be: it would not be right, you know."

"And why would it not be right? Oh, _do_ let me! don't send me away! I will be so good!" answered she, her entire ignorance and innocence preventing her feeling what any girl, brought up among her fellow-creatures, however carefully, would at once have done.

Auguste was a Belgian, without any relations at Paris, and with little means of supporting a wife; but young, romantic, and kind-hearted, he resolved at once to marry his innocent protégée, as soon at least as he could find a priest to perform the ceremony--no easy task at that time, and in the eyes of the then world of Paris no necessary one, for profligacy was at its height, and the streets were yet red with the blood of the virtuous and noble. They began life, then, with his load of glass and her gold cross and gold ear-rings, heir-looms of considerable value, which providentially the robbers had not thought of taking from her. With the produce of the ear-rings they hired a garret and some humble furniture, where they lived from hand to mouth, Marie taking in coarse sewing, and her husband sometimes picking up a few sous at his trade. Often, however, they had but one meal a day, seldom any fire; and when their first child was born, their troubles of course materially increased, and Auguste often returned from a weary ramble all over Paris just as he had set out--without having even gained a solitary sou. The cross soon followed the ear-rings, and they had now nothing left that they could part with except the little plaster figure so often alluded to, which would not bring a franc, and which was loved and cherished by Marie as the sole remaining object connected with Bouloinvilliers, and the last thing her father had looked at on earth. The idea of parting with this gave her grief which is better imagined than described; for, although the furniture of the cottage undoubtedly belonged to Marie, her husband knew too well that at a time when might was right, any steps taken toward recovering its value would be not only fruitless, but dangerous: he, therefore, never even attempted to assert their rights.

One day, however, they had been without food or firing for nearly twenty-four hours, and the little Cécile was fractious with hunger, incessantly crying, "Du pain! du pain!" Marie rose, and approaching the Virgin, said, "It is wicked to hesitate longer: go, Auguste, and sell it for what you can get."

She seized it hastily, as though afraid of changing her resolution, and with such trepidation, that it slipped through her fingers, and broke in two. Poor Marie sank upon her face at this sight, with a superstitious feeling that she had meditated wrong, and was thus punished. She was weeping bitterly, when her husband almost roughly raised her up, exclaiming in joyful accents, "Marie, Marie, give thanks to God! Now I know why your father pointed when he could not speak! Sorrow no more: we are rich!"

In the body of the statuette were found bills to the amount of fifteen hundred francs--Marie's fortune, in fact, which her father had told the chaplain he had amassed for her. We need not dwell upon the happiness of this excellent couple, or the rapture, mingled with gratitude, in which the remainder of this day was passed. Those who disapprove of castle-building may perhaps blame them; for several castles they constructed, on better foundations, however, than most of those who spend their time in this pleasing but unprofitable occupation. Next day they took a glazier's shop, stocked it, provided themselves with decent clothing and furniture, and commenced their new life with equal frugality and comfort--Marie doing her own work, and serving in the shop when her husband was out engaged in business. But in time he was able to hire an assistant, and she a young girl, to look after the children while she pursued the avocation of a _couturière_, in which she soon became very expert. The little image was fastened together again, placed upon a white table, similar to that which used to stand in her childhood's home, surrounded with flowers, and made, as of old, the abode of sugar-plums and rewards of good conduct. But alas! there are not many Maries in the world. In spite of her good example and good teaching, her children would at times be naughty. They sometimes quarreled, sometimes were greedy; and what vexed their simple-minded mother more than all the rest, sometimes told stories of one another. Still they were good children, as children go; and when the black screen was superseded by punishments a little more severe, did credit to their training. They were not permitted to play in the street, or to go to or from school alone, or remain there after school-hours. Their father took pains with their deportment, corrected false grammar, and recommended the cultivation of habits more refined than people in his humble although respectable position deem necessary. As their prosperity increased, Marie was surprised to observe her husband devote all his spare time to reading, and not only picture-cleaning and repairing, but painting, in which he was such an adept, that he was employed to paint several signs.

"How did you learn so much?" she said one day. "Did your father teach you?"

"No; I went to school."

"Then he was not so _very_ poor?"

"He was very poor, but he lived in hopes that I might one day possess a fortune."

"It would seem as if he had a foreknowledge of what my little statue contained?"

"No, my love; he looked to it from another source; for a title without a fortune is a misfortune."

"A title! Nay, now you are playing with my simplicity."

"No, Marie; I am the nephew of the Vicomte de ----, and for aught I know, may be the possessor of that name at this moment--the legal heir to his estate. My father, ruined by his extravagance, and, I grieve to add, by his crimes, had caused himself to be disowned by all his relations. He fled with me to Paris, where he soon after died, leaving me nothing but his seal and his papers. I wrote to my uncle for assistance; but although being then quite a boy, and incapable of having personally given him offense, he refused it in the most cruel manner; and I was left to my own resources at a time when my name and education were rather a hindrance than a help, and I found no opening for entering into any employment suited to my birth. My uncle had then two fine, healthy, handsome boys; the youngest is dead; and the eldest, I heard accidentally, in such a state of health that recovery is not looked for by the most sanguine of his friends. I never breathed a word of all this to you, because I never expected to survive my cousins, and resolved to make an independent position for myself sooner or later. Do you remember the other day an old gentleman stopping and asking some questions about the coat of arms I was painting?"

"Yes; he asked who had employed you to paint those arms, but I was unable to inform him."

"Well, my dear, he came again this morning to repeat the question to myself; and I am now going to satisfy him, when I expect to bring you some news."

Marie was in a dream. Unlike gardeners' daughters of the present day, she had read no novels or romances, and it appeared to her as impossible that such an event should happen as that the cap on her head should turn into a crown. It _did_ happen, however. The old gentleman, a distant relation and intimate friend of the uncle of Auguste, had come to Paris, at his dying request, to endeavor to find out his nephew and heir; and the proofs Auguste produced were so plain, that he found no difficulty in persuading M. B----de that he was the person he represented himself to be. He very soon after went to Belgium, took legal possession of all his rights, and returned to hail the gentle and long-suffering Marie as Vicomtesse de ----, and conduct her and the children to a handsome apartment in the Rue ----, dressed in habiliments suitable to her present station, and looking as lady-like as if she had been born to fill it. She lived long and happily, and continued the same pure, humble-minded being she had ever been, whether blooming among the flowers at Bouloinvilliers, or pining for want in a garret in the Faubourg St. Antoine. Two of her daughters are alive now. Her son, after succeeding to his father, died, without children, of the cholera, in 1832; and the son of his eldest sister has taken up the _title_, under a different name, these matters not being very strictly looked after in France.

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.

Many travelers know the "Rutland Arms" at Bakewell, in the Peak of Derbyshire. It is a fine large inn, belonging to his Grace of Rutland, standing in an airy little market-place of that clean-looking little town, and commanding from its windows pleasant peeps of the green hills and the great Wicksop Woods, which shut out the view of Chatsworth, the Palace of the Peak, which lies behind them. Many travelers who used to traverse this road from the south to Manchester, in the days of long coaches and long wintry drives, know well the "Rutland Arms," and will recall the sound of the guard's bugle, as they whirled up to the door, amid a throng of grooms, waiters, and village idlers, the ladder already taken from its stand by the wall, and placed by the officious Boots in towering position, ready, at the instant of the coach stopping, to clap it under your feet, and facilitate your descent. Many travelers will recall one feature of that accommodating inn, which, uniting aristocratic with commercial entertainment, has two doors; one lordly and large in front, to which all carriages of nobility, prelacy, and gentility naturally draw up; and one at the end, to which all gigs, coaches, mails, and still less dignified conveyances, as naturally are driven. Our travelers will as vividly remember the passage which received them at this entrance, and the room to the left, the Travelers'-room, into which they were ushered. To that corner room, having windows to the market-place in front, and one small peeping window at the side, commanding the turn of the north road, and the interesting arrivals at the secondary entrance, we now introduce our readers.

Here sat a solitary gentleman. He was a man apparently of five-and-thirty; tall, considerably handsome; a face of the oval character, nose a little aquiline, hair dark, eyebrows dark and strong, and a light, clear, self-possessed look, that showed plainly enough that he was a man of active mind, and well to do in the world. You would have thought, from his gentlemanly air, and by no means commercial manner, that he would have found his way in at the great front door, and into one of the private rooms; but he came over night by the mail, and, on being asked, on entering the house, by the waiter, to what sort of room he would be shown, answered, carelessly and abruptly, "any where."

Here he was, seated in the back left-hand corner of the room, a large screen between himself and the door, and before him a table spread with a goodly breakfast apparatus--coffee, eggs, fresh broiled trout from the neighboring Weye, and a large round of corned beef, as a _dernier ressort_.

It was a morning as desperately and delugingly rainy as any that showery region can send down. In the phrase of the country, it _siled_ down, or run, as if through a sieve. Straight down streamed the plenteous element, thick, incessant, and looking as if it would hold on the whole day through. It thundered on the roof, beat a sonorous tune on porches and projections of door and window, splashed in torrents on window-sills, and streaming panes, and rushed along the streets in rivers. The hills were hidden, the very fowls driven to roost--and not a soul was to be seen out of doors.

Presently there was a sound of hurrying wheels, a spring-cart came up to the side door, with two men in it, in thick great coats, and with sacks over their shoulders; one huge umbrella held over their heads, and they and their horse yet looking three parts drowned. They lost no time in pitching their umbrella to the hostler, who issued from the passage, descending and rushing into the inn. In the next moment the two countrymen, divested of their sacks and great coats, were ushered into this room, the waiter, making a sort of apology, because there was a fire there--it was in the middle of July. The two men, who appeared Peak farmers, with hard hands, which they rubbed at the fire, and tanned and weather-beaten complexions, ordered breakfast--of coffee and broiled ham--which speedily made its appearance, on a table placed directly in front of the before solitary stranger, between the side look-out window and the front one.

They looked, and were soon perceived by our stranger to be, father and son. The old man, of apparently upward of sixty, was a middle-sized man, of no Herculean mould, but well knit together, and with a face thin and wrinkled as with a life-long acquaintance with care and struggle. His complexion was more like brown leather than any thing else, and his hair, which was thin and grizzled, was combed backward from his face, and hung in masses about his ears. The son was much taller than the father, a stooping figure, with flaxen hair, a large nose, light blue eyes, and altogether a very gawky look.

The old man seemed to eat with little appetite, and to be sunk into himself, as if he was oppressed by some heavy trouble. Yet he every now and then roused himself, cast an anxious look at his son, and said, "Joe, lad, thou eats nothing."

"No, fayther," was the constant reply; "I towd you I shouldn't. This reen's enough te tak any body's appetite--and these t'other things," casting a glance at the stranger.

The stranger had, indeed, his eyes fixed curiously upon the two, for he had been watching the consumptive tendency of the son; not in any cough or hectic flush, or peculiar paleness, for he had a positively sunburnt complexion of his own, but by the extraordinary power he possessed of tossing down coffee and ham, with enormous pieces of toast and butter. Under his operations, a large dish of broiled ham rapidly disappeared, and the contents of the coffee-pot were in as active demand. Yet the old man, ever and anon, looked up from his reverie, and repeated his paternal observation:

"Joe, lad, thou eats nothing!"

"No, fayther," was still the reply; "I towd you I shouldn't. It's this reen, and these t'other things"--again glancing at the stranger.

Presently the broiled ham had totally vanished--there had been enough for six ordinary men. And while the son was in the act of holding the coffee-pot upside down, and draining the last drop from it, the old man once more repeated his anxious admonition: "Joe, lad, thou eats nothing!"--and the reply was still, "No, fayther, I towd you I shouldn't. It's this reen, and these t'other things."

This was accompanied by another glance at the stranger, who began to feel himself very much in the way, but was no little relieved by the son rising with his plate in his hand, and coming across the room, saying, "You've a prime round of beef there, sir; might I trouble you for some?"

"By all means," said the stranger, and carved off a slice of thickness and diameter proportioned to what appeared to him the appetite of this native of the Peak. This speedily disappeared; and as the son threw down the knife and fork, the sound once more roused the old man, who added, with an air of increased anxiety, "Joe, lad, thou eats nothing."

"No, fayther," for the last time responded the son. "I towd you I shouldn't. It's this reen, and this t'other matter--but I've done, and so let's go."

The father and son arose and went out. The stranger who had witnessed this extraordinary scene, but without betraying any amusement at it, arose, too, the moment they closed the door after them, and, advancing to the window, gazed fixedly into the street. Presently the father and son, in their great coats, and with their huge drab umbrella hoisted over them, were seen proceeding down the market-place in the midst of the still pouring rain, and the stranger's eyes followed them intently till they disappeared in the winding of the street. He still stood for some time, as if in deep thought, and then turning, rung the bell, ordered the breakfast-things from his table, and producing a writing-case, sat down to write letters. He continued writing, pausing at intervals, and looking steadily before him as in deep thought, for about an hour, when the door opened, and the Peak farmer and his son again entered. They were in their wet and steaming greatcoats. The old man appeared pale and agitated; bade the son see that the horse was put in the cart, rung the bell, and asked what he had to pay. Having discharged his bill, he continued to pace the room, as if unconscious of the stranger, who had suspended his writing, and was gazing earnestly at him. The old man frequently paused, shook his head despairingly, and muttered to himself, "Hard man!--no fellow feeling!--all over! all over!" With a suppressed groan, he again continued his pacing to and fro.

The stranger arose, approached the old man, and said, with a peculiarly sympathizing tone,

"Excuse me, sir, but you seem to have some heavy trouble on your mind; I should be glad if it were any thing that were in my power to alleviate."

The old man stopped suddenly--looked sternly at the stranger--seemed to recollect, himself, and said rather sharply, as if feeling an unauthorized freedom--"Sir!"

"I beg pardon," said the stranger. "I am aware that it must seem strange in me to address you thus; but I can not but perceive that something distresses you, and it might possibly happen that I might be of use to you."

The old man looked at him for some time in silence, and then said,

"I forgot any one was here; but you can be of no manner of use to me. I thank you."

"I am truly sorry for it; pray excuse my freedom," said the stranger with a slight flush; "but I am an American, and we are more accustomed to ask and communicate matters than is consistent with English reserve. I beg you will pardon me."

"You are an American?" asked the old man, looking at him. "You are quite a stranger here?"

"Quite so, sir," replied the stranger, with some little embarrassment. "I was once in this country before, but many years ago."

The old man still looked at him, was silent awhile, and then said, "You can not help me, sir; but I thank you all the same, and heartily. You seem really a very feeling man, and so I don't mind opening my mind to you--I am a ruined man, sir."

"I was sure you were in very deep trouble, sir," replied the stranger. "I will not seek to peer into your affairs; but I deeply feel for you, and would say that many troubles are not so deep as they seem. I would hope yours are not."

"Sir," replied the old man--the tears starting into his eyes, "I tell you I am a ruined man. I am heavily behind with my rent, all my stock will not suffice to pay it; and this morning we have been to entreat the steward to be lenient, but he will not hear us; he vows to sell us up next week."

"That is hard," said the stranger. "But you are hale, your son is young; you can begin the world anew."

"Begin the world anew!" exclaimed the old man, with a distracted air. "Where?--how? when? No, no! sir, there is no beginning anew in this country. Those days are past. That time is past with me. And as for my son: Oh, God! Oh, God! what shall become of him, for he has a wife and family, and knows nothing but about a farm."

"And there are farms still," said the stranger.

"Yes; but at what rentals? and, then, where is the capital?"

The old man grew deadly pale, and groaned.

"In this country," said the stranger, after a deep silence, "I believe these things are hard, but in mine they are not so. Go there, worthy old man; go there, and a new life yet may open to you."

The stranger took the old man's hand tenderly; who, on feeling the stranger's grasp, suddenly, convulsively, caught the hand in both his own, and shedding plentiful tears, exclaimed, "God bless you, sir; God bless you for your kindness! Ah! such kindness is banished from this country, but I feel that it lives in yours--but there!--no, no!--there I shall never go. There are no means."

"The means required," said the stranger, tears, too, glittering in his eyes, "are very small. Your friends would, no doubt--"

"No, no!" interrupted him the old man, deeply agitated; "there are no friends--not here."

"Then why should I not be a friend so far?" said the stranger. "I have means--I know the country. I have somehow conceived a deep interest in your misfortunes."

"You!" said the old man, as if bewildered with astonishment; "you!--but come along with us, sir. Your words, your kindness, comfort me; at least you can counsel with us--and I feel it does me good."

"I will go with all my heart," said the stranger. "You can not live far from here. I will hence to Manchester, and I can, doubtless, make it in my way."

"Exactly in the way!" said the old man, in a tone of deep pleasure, and of much more cheerfulness, "at least, not out of it to signify--though not in the great highway. We can find you plenty of room, if you do not disdain our humble vehicle."

"I have heavy luggage," replied the stranger, ringing the bell. "I will have a post-chaise, and you shall go in it with me. It will suit you better this wet day."

"Oh no! I can not think of it, sir," said the farmer. "I fear no rain. I am used to it, and I am neither sugar nor salt. I shall not melt."

The old man's son approached simultaneously with the waiter, to say that the cart was ready. The stranger ordered a post-chaise to accompany the farmer, at which the son stood with an open-mouthed astonished stare, which would have excited the laughter of most people, but did not move a muscle of the stranger's grave and kindly face.

"This good gentleman will go with us," said the old man.

"Oh, thank you, sir!" said the son, taking off his hat and making a low bow, "you are heartily welcome; but it's a poor place, sir."

"Never mind that," said the old man. "Let us be off and tell Millicent to get some dinner for the gentleman."

But the stranger insisted that the old man should stay and accompany him in the chaise, and so the son walked off to prepare for their coming. Soon the stranger's trunks were placed on the top of the chaise, and the old man and he drove off.

Their way was for some time along the great high-road; then they turned off to the left, and continued their course up a valley till they ascended a very stony road, which wound far over the swell of the hill, and then approached a large gray stone house, backed by a wood that screened it from the north and east. Far around, lay an immense view, chiefly of green, naked, and undulating fields, intersected by stone walls. No other house was near; and villages lying at several miles distant, naked and gray on the uplands, were the only evidences of human life.

The house was large enough for a gentleman's abode, but there were no neatly kept walks; no carefully cultivated shrubberies; no garden lying in exquisite richness around it. There was no use made of the barns and offices. There were no servants about. A troop of little children who were in the field in front, ran into the house and disappeared.

On entering the house, the stranger observed that its ample rooms were very naked and filled only by a visible presence of stern indigence. The woodwork was unpainted. The stone floors were worn, and merely sanded. The room into which he was conducted, and where the table was already laid for dinner, differed only in having the uncarpeted floor marked in figures of alternating ochre and pipe-clay, and was furnished with a meagre amount of humblest chairs and heavy oak tables, a little shelf of books and almanacs, and a yellow-faced clock. A shabby and tired-looking maid-servant was all the domestics seen within or without.

Joe, the simple-looking son, received them, and the only object which seemed to give a cheering impression to the stranger, was Joe's wife, who presented herself with a deep courtesy. The guest was surprised to see in her a very comely, fresh colored, and modestly sensible woman, who received him with a kindly cordiality and native grace, which made him wonder how such a woman could have allied herself to such a man. There were four or five children about her, all evidently washed and put into their best for his arrival, and who were pictures of health and shyness.

Mrs. Warilow took off the old man's great coat with an affectionate attention, and drew his plain elbow chair, with a cushion covered with a large-patterned check on its rush bottom, toward the fire; for there was a fire, and that quite acceptable in this cold region after the heavy rain. Dinner was then hastily brought in; Mrs. Warilow apologizing for its simplicity, from the short notice she had received, and she might have added from the painful news which Joe brought with him; for it was very evident, though she had sought to efface the trace of it, by copious washing, that she had been weeping.

The old man was obviously oppressed by the ill result of his morning's journey to the steward, and the position of his affairs. His daughter-in-law cast occasional looks of affectionate anxiety at him, and endeavored to help him in such a manner as to induce him to eat; but appetite he had little. Joe played his part as valiantly as in the morning; and the old man occasionally rousing from his reverie, again renewed the observation of the breakfast-table.

"Joe, lad, thou eats nothing;" adding too now, "Milly, my dear, thou eats nothing. You eat nothing, sir. None of you have any appetite, and I have none myself. God help me!"

An ordinary stranger would scarcely have resisted a smile--none appeared on the face of the guest.

After dinner they drew to the fire, which consisted of large lumps of coal burning under a huge beamed chimney. There a little table was set with spirits and home-made wine, and the old man and Joe lit their pipes, inviting the stranger to join them, which he did with right good-will. There was little conversation, however; Joe soon said that he must go over the lands to see that the cattle was all right; he did more, and even slept in his chair, and the stranger proposed to Mrs. Warilow a walk in the garden, where the afternoon sun was now shining warmly. In his drive hither in the chaise, he had learned the exact position of the old farmer. He was, as he had observed, so heavily in arrear of rent, that his whole stock would not discharge it. When they had seated themselves in the old arbor, he communicated his proposal to her father-in-law to remove to America; observing, that he had conceived so great a sympathy for him, that he would readily advance him the means of conveying over the whole family.

Mrs. Warilow was naturally much surprised at the disclosure. Such an offer from a casual stranger, when all friends and family connections had turned a deaf ear to all solicitations for aid, was something so improbable that she could not realize it. "How can you, sir, a stranger to us, volunteer so large a sum, which we may never be in a position to repay?"

The stranger assured her that the sum was by no means large. That to him it was of little consequence, and that such was the scope for industry and agricultural skill in America, that in a few years they could readily refund the money. Here, from what the old gentleman had told him of the new augmented rate of rental, there was no chance of recovering a condition of ease and comfort.

Mrs. Warilow seemed to think deeply on the new idea presented to her, and then said, "Surely God has sent Mr. Vandeleur (so the stranger had given his name), for their deliverance. Oh, sir!" added she, "what shall we not owe you if by your means we can ever arrive at freedom from the wretched trouble that now weighs us down. And oh! if my poor father should ever, in that country, meet again his lost son!"

"He has lost a son?" said the stranger, in a tone of deep feeling.

"Ah, it is a sad thing, sir," continued Mrs. Warilow, "but it is that which preys on father's mind. He thinks he did wrong in it, and he believes that the blessing of Heaven has deserted him ever since. Sure enough, nothing has prospered with him, and yet he feels that if the young man lives he has not been blameless. He had not felt and forgiven as a son should. But he can not be living--no, he can not for all these years have borne resentment, and sent no part of his love or his fortune to his family. It is not in the heart of a child to do that, except in a very evil nature, and such was not that of this son."

"Pray go on," said the stranger, "you interest me deeply."

"This thing occurred twenty years ago. Mr. Warilow had two sons. The eldest, Samuel, was a fine active youth, but always with a turn for travel and adventure, which was very trying to his father's mind, who would have his sons settle down in this their native neighborhood, and pursue farming as their ancestors had always done. But his eldest son wished to go to sea, or to America. He read a vast deal about that country, of winter nights, and was always talking of the fine life that might be led there. This was very annoying to his father, and made him very angry, the more so that Joseph, the younger son, was a weakly lad, and had something left upon him by a severe fever, as a boy, that seemed to weaken his limbs and his mind. People thought he would be an idiot, and his father thought that his eldest brother should stay and take care of him, for it was believed that he would never be able to take care of himself. But this did not seem to weigh with Samuel. Youths full of life and spirit don't sufficiently consider such things. And then it was thought that Samuel imagined that his father cared nothing for him, and cared only for the poor weakly son. He might be a little jealous of this, and that feeling once getting into people, makes them see things different to what they otherwise would, and do things that else they would not.

"True enough, the father was always particularly wrapped up in Joseph. He seemed to feel that he needed especial care, and he appeared to watch over him and never have him out of his mind, and he does so to this day. You have no doubt remarked, sir, that my husband is peculiar. He never got over that attack in his boyhood, and he afterward grew very rapidly, and it was thought he would have gone off in a consumption. It is generally believed that he is not quite sharp in all things. I speak freely to you, sir, and as long habit, and knowing before I married Joseph what was thought of him, only could enable me to speak to one who feels so kindly toward us. But it is not so--Joseph is more simple in appearance than in reality. No, sir, he has a deal of sense, and he has a very good heart; and it was because I perceived this that I was willing to marry him, and to be a true help to him, and, sir, though we have been very unfortunate, I have never repented it, and I never shall."

The stranger took Mrs. Warilow's hand, pressed it fervently, and said, "I honor you, Madam--deeply, truly--pray go on. The eldest son left, you say."

"Oh yes, sir! Their mother died when the boys were about fifteen and seventeen. Samuel had always been strongly attached to his mother, and that, no doubt, kept him at home; but after that he was more restless than ever, and begged the father to give him money to carry himself to America. The father refused. They grew mutually angry; and one day, when they had had high words, the father thought Samuel was disrespectful, and struck him. The young man had a proud spirit. That was more than he could bear. He did not utter a word in reply, but turning, walked out of the house, and from that hour has never once been heard of.

"His father was very angry with him, and for many years never spoke of him but with great bitterness and resentment, calling him an unnatural and ungrateful son. But of late years he has softened very much, and I can see that it preys on his mind, and as things have gone against him, he has come to think that it is a judgment on him for his hardness and unreasonableness in not letting the poor boy try his fortune as he so yearned to do.

"Since I have been in the family, I have led him by degrees to talk on this subject, and have endeavored to comfort him, telling him he had meant well, and since, he had seen the thing in a different light. Ah, sir! how differently we see things when our heat of mind is gone over, and the old home heart begins to stir in us again. But, since he has done this, and repented of it, God can not continue his anger, and so that can not be the cause of his misfortunes. No, sir, I don't think that--but things have altered very much of late years in this country. The farms up in this Peak country used to be let very low, very low indeed; and now they have been three several times valued and raised since I can remember. People can not live on them now, they really can not. Then the old gentleman, as farming grew bad, speculated in lead mines, and that was much worse; he did not understand it, and was sorely imposed on, and lost a power of money; oh! so much that it is a misery to think of. Then, as troubles, they say, fly like crows in companies, there came a very wet summer, and all the corn was spoiled. That put a finish to father's hopes. He was obliged to quit the old farm where the Warilows had been for ages, and that hurt him cruelly--it is like shifting old trees, shifting old people is--they never take to the new soil.

"But as Joseph was extremely knowing in cattle, father took this farm--it's a great grazing farm, sir, seven hundred acres, and we feeden cattle. You would not believe it, sir, but we have only one man on this farm besides Joseph and father."

"It is very solitary," said the stranger.

"Ah, sir, very, but that we don't mind--but it is a great burden, it does not pay. Well, but as to the lost son. I came to perceive how sorely this sat on father's mind, by noticing that whenever I used to read in the old Bible, on the shelf in the house-place, there, that it opened of itself at the Prodigal Son. A thought struck me, and so I watched, and I saw that whenever the old gentleman read in it on Sundays, he was always looking there. It was some time before I ventured to speak about it; but, one day when father was wondering what could have been Samuel's fate, I said, 'Perhaps, father, he will still come home like the Prodigal Son in the Scripture, and if he does we'll kill the fatted calf for him, and no one will rejoice in it more truly than Joseph will.'

"When I had said it, I wished I had not said it--for father seemed struck as with a stake. He went as pale as death, and I thought he would fall down in a fit; but, at last, he burst into a torrent of tears, and, stretching out his arms, said, 'And if he does come, he'll find a father's arms open to receive him.'

"Ah, sir! it was hard work to comfort him again. I thought he would never have got over it again; but, after that, he began at times to speak of Samuel to me of himself, and we've had a deal of talk together about him. Sometimes father thinks he is dead, and sometimes he thinks he is not; and, true enough, of late years, there have come flying rumors from America, from people who have gone out there, who have said they have seen him there--and that he was a very great gentleman--they were sure it was him. But then there was always something uncertain in the account, and, above all, father said he never could believe that Samuel was a great gentleman, and yet never could forgive an angry blow, and write home through all these years. These things, sir, pull the old man down, and, what with his other troubles, make me tremble to look forward."

Mrs. Warilow stopped, for she was surprised to hear a deep suppressed sob from the stranger; and, turning, she saw him sitting with his handkerchief before his face. Strange ideas shot across her mind. But at this moment the old farmer, having finished his after-dinner nap, was coming out to seek them. Mr. Vandeleur rose, wiped some tears from his face, and thanked Mrs. Warilow for her communication. "You can not imagine," he said, with much feeling, "how deeply you have touched me. You can not believe how much what you have said resembles incidents in my own life. Depend upon it, madam, your brother will turn up. I feel strongly incited to help in it. We will have a search after him, if it be from the St. Lawrence to the Red River. If he lives, he will be found; and I feel a persuasion that he will be."

They now met the old man, and all walked into the house. After tea, there was much talk of America. Mr. Vandeleur related many things in his own history. He drew such pictures of American life, and farming, and hunting in the woods; of the growth of new families, and the prosperous abundance in which the people lived; that all were extremely interested in his account. Joe sate devouring the story with wonder, luxuriating especially in the idea of those immense herds of cattle in the prairies; and the old man even declared that there he should like to go and lay his bones. "Perhaps," added he, "there I should, some day, find again my Sam. But no, he must be dead, or he would have written: Many die in the swamps and from fever, don't they, sir?"

"Oh! many, many," said Mr. Vandeleur, "and yet there are often as miraculous recoveries. For many years I was a government surveyor. It was my business to survey new tracts for sale. I was the solitary pioneer of the population; with a single man to carry my chain, and to assist me in cutting a path through the dense woods. I lived in the woods for years, for months seeing no soul but a few wandering Indians. Sometimes we were in peril from jealous and savage squatters; sometimes were compelled to flee before the monster grisly bear. I have a strange fascinating feeling now of those days, and of our living for weeks in the great caves in the White Mountains, since become the resort of summer tourists, with the glorious 'Notch' glittering opposite, far above us, and above the ancient woods. These were days of real hardship, and we often saw sights of sad sorrow. Families making their way to distant and wild localities, plundered by the inhuman squatters, or by the Indians, and others seized by the still more merciless swamp fever, perishing without help, and often all alone in the wilderness.

"Ah! I remember now one case--it is nearly twenty years ago, but I never can forget it. It was a young, thin man--he could scarcely be twenty. He had been left by his party in the last stage of fever. They had raised a slight booth of green bushes over him, and placed a pumpkin-shell of water by his side, and a broken tea-cup to help himself with; but he was too weak, and was fast sinking there all alone in that vast wilderness. The paleness of death appeared in his sunken features, the feebleness of death in his wasted limbs. He was a youth who, like many others, had left his friends in Europe, and now longed to let them know his end. He summoned his failing powers to give me a sacred message. He mentioned the place whence he last came."

"Where was it?" exclaimed the old man, in a tone of wild excitement. "Where--what was it? It must be my Sam!"

"No, that could not be," said the stranger, startled by the old man's emotion; "it was not this place--it was--I remember it--it was another name--Well--Well--Welland was the place."

The old man gave a cry, and would have fallen from his chair, but the stranger sprung forward and caught him in his arms. There was a moment's silence, broken only by a deep groan from the old man, and a low murmur from his lips, "Yes! I knew it--he is dead!"

"No, no! he is not dead!" cried the stranger; "he lives--he recovered!"

"Where is he, then? Where is my Sam? Let me know!" cried the old man, recovering and standing wildly up--"I must see him!--I must to him!"

"Father! father! it is Sam!" cried his son Joe; "I know him!--I know him!--this is he!"

"Where?--who?" exclaimed the father, looking round bewildered.

"Here!" said the stranger, kneeling before the old man, and clasping his hand and bathing it with tears. "Here, father, is your lost and unworthy son. Father!--I return like the Prodigal Son. 'I have sinned before Heaven and in thy sight; make me as one of thy hired servants.'"

The old man clasped his son in his arms, and they wept in silence.

But Joe was impatient to embrace his recovered brother, and he gave him a hug as vigorous as one of those grisly bears that Sam had mentioned. "Ah! Sam!" he said, "how I have wanted thee; but I always saw thee a slim chap, such as thou went away, and now thou art twice as big, and twice as old, and yet I knew thee by thy eyes."

The two brothers cordially embraced, and the returned wanderer also embraced his comely sister affectionately, and said, "You had nearly found me out in the garden."

"Ah, what a startle you gave me!" she replied, wiping away her tears; "but this is so unexpected--so heavenly." She ran off, and returning with the whole troop of her children, said, "There, there is your dear, lost uncle!"

The uncle caught them up, one after another, and kissed them rapturously.

"Do you know," said the mother, laying her hand on the head of the eldest boy, a fine, rosy-looking fellow, "what name this has? It is Samuel Warilow! We did not forget the one that was away."

"He will find another Samuel in America," said his uncle, again snatching him up, "and a Joe, and a Thomas, the grandfather's name. My blessed mother there lives again in a lovely blue-eyed girl; and should God send me another daughter, there shall be a Millicent, too!"

Meantime, the old man stood gazing insatiably on his son. "Ah, Sam!" said he, as his son again turned, and took his hand, "I was very hard to thee, and yet thou hast been hard to us, too. Thou art married, too, and, with all our names grafted on new stems, thou never wrote to us. It was not well."

"No, father, it was not well. I acknowledge my fault--my great fault; but let me justify myself. I never forgot you; but for many years I was a wanderer, and an unsuccessful man. My pride would not let me send, under these circumstances, to those who had always said that I should come to beggary and shame. Excuse me, that I mention these hard words. My pride was always great; and those words haunted me.

"But at length, when Providence had blessed me greatly, I could endure it no longer. I determined to come and seek forgiveness and reconciliation; and, God be praised! I have found both. We will away home together, father. I have wealth beyond all my wants and wishes; my greatest joy will be to bestow some of it on you. My early profession of a surveyor gave me great opportunities of perceiving where the tide of population would direct itself, and property consequently rise rapidly in value. I therefore purchased vast tracts for small sums, which are now thickly peopled, and my possessions are immense. I am a member of Congress."

The next day, the two brothers drove over to Bakewell, where Joe had the satisfaction to see the whole arrears paid down to the astonished steward, on condition that he gave an instant release from the farm; and Joe ordered, at the auctioneer's, large posters to be placarded in all the towns and villages of the Peak, and advertisements to be inserted in all the principal papers of the Midland counties, of the sale of his stock that day fortnight.

We have only to record that it sold well, and that the Warilows of Welland, and more recently of Scarthin Farm, are now flourishing on another and more pleasant Welland on the Hudson. There is a certain tall, town-like house which the traveler sees high on a hill among the woods, on the left bank of the river, as the steamer approaches the Catskill Mountains. There live the Warilows; and, far back on the rich slopes that lie behind the mountains, and in richer meadows, surrounded by forests and other hills, rove the flocks and herds of Joe; and there comes Squire Sam, when the session at Washington is over, and, surrounded by sons and nephews, ranges the old woods, and shoots the hill-turkey and the roe. There is another comely and somewhat matronly lady sitting with the comely and sunny-spirited Millicent, the happy mistress of the new Welland; and a little Millicent tumbles on the carpet at their feet. The Warilows of Welland all bless the Prodigal Son, who, unlike the one of old, came back rich to an indigent father, and made the old man's heart grow young again with joy.

[From Sharpe's Magazine.]

THE LIGHT OF HOME.

It was years ago when we first became acquainted with Lieutenant Heathcote, an old half-pay officer who resided with his young grand-daughter in a tiny cottage. It was a very humble place, for they were poor; but it was extremely pretty, and there were many comforts, even elegances, to be found in the small rooms. The old gentleman delighted in cultivating the garden; the window of the sitting-room opened on it, and beneath this window, grew the choicest roses and pinks, so that the atmosphere of the apartment was in summer laden with their fragrance. The furniture was poor enough. Mrs. ---- of ---- Square would have said with a genteel sneer, that "all the room contained was not worth five sovereigns." To her--no! but to the simple hearted inmates of the cottage every chair and table was dear from long association, and they would not have exchanged them for all the grandeur of Mrs. ----'s drawing-room suite, albeit her chairs were of inlaid rosewood, and cost six guineas apiece.

If you went into that little humbly-furnished parlor about four o'clock on a summer's afternoon, you would find Lieutenant Heathcote seated in his easy chair (wheeled by careful hands to the precise angle of the window that he liked), his spectacles on, and the broad sheet of the newspaper spread before him. Occasionally he puts down the newspaper for awhile, and then his eyes rove restlessly about the room, till at length they light on the figure of his unconscious grand-daughter. Once there, they stay a good while, and when they turn to the newspaper again, there is a serene light in them, as though what they had seen had blessed them.

Yet an ordinary gazer would have found little or nothing attractive in the appearance of Rose Heathcote, for she was but a homely, innocent-looking girl, such as we meet with every day of our lives. Her eyes were neither "darkly blue," nor "densely black," her tresses neither golden, nor redundant. She had, to be sure, a sufficient quantity of dark brown hair, which was very soft and pleasant to touch, her grandfather thought, when he placed his hand caressingly on her head, as he loved to do: and this hair was always prettily arranged--braided over her forehead in front, and twisted into a thick knot behind--a fashion which certainly showed to advantage the graceful form of her head, the solitary beauty, speaking critically, which the young girl possessed. However, Lieutenant Heathcote thought his little Rose the prettiest girl in the world. Eyes that look with love, lend beauty to what they gaze on. And no one who knew Rose as she was in her home, could fail to love her.

She was always up with the lark, and busied in various employments till her grandfather came down to breakfast. Then she poured out the tea, cut the bread-and-butter, or made the toast, talking and laughing the while, in the spontaneous gayety of her heart. To eke out their little income, she had pupils who came to her every morning, and whom she taught all she knew, with a patient earnest zeal that amply compensated for her deficiency in the showy accomplishments of the day. So, after breakfast, the room was put in order, the flowers were watered, the birds were tended, grandpapa was made comfortable in his little study, and then the school books, the slates and copy-books were placed in readiness for the little girls: and then they came, and the weary business began, of English history, geography, arithmetic, and French verbs. The children were not very clever--sometimes, indeed, they were absolutely stupid, and obstinate, moreover; they must have tried her patience very often; but a harsh rebuke never issued from her lips: it was a species of selfishness in her not to chide them, for if she did so, though ever so mildly, the remembrance of it pained her gentle heart all day, and she was not quite happy until the little one was kissed and forgiven again.

The children loved her very much and her pupils gradually increased in number. Dazzling visions danced before her eyes, visions of wealth resulting from her labors; yes, wealth! for, poor innocent, the four or five golden sovereigns she had already put by, _her first earnings_, multiplied themselves wonderfully in her sanguine dreams. She had magnificent schemes floating in her little brain of luxuries to be obtained with this money--luxuries for her grandfather; a new easy chair, cushioned sumptuously, and a new pair of spectacles, gold mounted, and placed in a case of her own embroidery. Thoughts of possible purchases for her own peculiar enjoyment sometimes intruded. There was a beautiful geranium she would like, and a new cage for her bird--a new bonnet, even for herself; for Rose was not free from a little spice of womanly vanity, which is excusable, nay, lovable, because it is so womanly, and she was quite susceptible of the pleasure most young girls feel in seeing themselves prettily dressed.

That these dreams might be realized, Rose worked hard. She sat up late at night, arranging the exercises and lessons of her pupils, and rose early in the morning, in order that none of her household duties should be neglected. And in the course of time, this unceasing exertion began to injure her health, for she was not strong, although, hitherto, she had been but little prone to ailments. One morning she arose languid, feverish, and weak; she was compelled to give herself a holiday, and all day she lay on the sofa in the sitting-room, in a kind of dreamy yet restless languor she had never felt before. Her grandfather sat beside her, watching and tending her with all the care of a mother, reading aloud from her favorite books, ransacking his memory for anecdotes to amuse her, and smiling cheerfully when she raised her heavy eyes to his. But when she fell into a fitful doze, the old man's countenance changed; an indefinable look of agony and doubt came over his features; and involuntarily, as it seemed, he clasped his hands, while his lips moved as if in prayer. He was terrified by this strange illness; for the first time, the idea occurred to him that his darling might be taken away from him. The young sometimes left the world before the old, unnatural as it seemed; what if she should die? We always magnify peril when it comes near our beloved, and the old man gradually worked himself into a frenzy of anxiety respecting his child. The next day she was not better--a doctor was sent for, who prescribed rest and change of air if possible, assuring Lieutenant Heathcote that it was no serious disorder--she had overworked herself, that was all.

It was the summer time, and some of Rose's pupils were about to proceed to the sea-side. Hearing of their dear Miss Heathcote's illness, they came to invite her to go with them, and the grandfather eagerly and joyfully accepted the offer for her, although she demurred a little. She did not like to leave him alone; she could not be happy, she said, knowing he would be dull and lonely without her; but her objections were overruled, and she went with her friends, the Wilsons.

It was pleasant to see the old man when he received her daily epistles. How daintily he broke the envelope, so as not to injure the little seal, and how fondly he regarded the delicate handwriting. The letters brought happier tidings every day; she was better, she was much better, she was well, she was stronger and rosier than ever, and enjoying herself much. Those letters--long, beautiful letters they were--afforded the old man his chief pleasure now. His home was very desolate while she was away; the house looked changed, the birds sang less joyously, and the flowers were not so fragrant. Every morning he attended to her pets, himself, and then he wandered about the rooms, taking up her books, her papers, and her various little possessions, and examining the contents of her work-basket with childish curiosity. In the twilight he would lean back in his chair, and try to fancy she was in the room with him. Among the shadows, it was easy to imagine her figure, sitting as she used to sit, with drooped head and clasped hands, thinking. At these times, her letter received that morning, was taken from his bosom and kissed, and then the simple, loving old man would go to bed and dream of his grandchild.

At length she came home. She rushed into her grandfather's arms with a strange eagerness: it was as if she sought there a refuge from peril; as if she fled to him for succor and comfort in some deep trouble. Poor Rose! she wept so long and so passionately; it could scarce have been all for joy.

"Darling! you are not sorry to come home, are you?"

"Oh no! so glad, so very, very glad!" and then she sobbed again, so convulsively, that the old man grew alarmed, and as he tried to soothe her into calmness, he gazed distrustfully in her face. Alas! there was a look of deep suffering on her pale features that he had never seen there before; there was an expression of hopeless woe in her eyes, which it wrung his loving heart to behold.

"Rose!" he cried, in anguish, "what has happened? you are changed!"

She kissed him tenderly, and strove to satisfy him by saying, that it was only the excitement of her return home that made her weep; she would be better the next morning, she said. But she was not better then. From the day of her return she faded away visibly. It was evident, and _he_ soon saw it, that some grief had come to her, which her already weakened frame was unable to bear. He remembered, only too well, that her mother had died of consumption, and when he saw her gradually grow weaker day by day, the hectic on her cheek deepen, and her hands become thin till they were almost transparent, all hope died in his heart, and he could only pray that heaven would teach him resignation, or take him too, when _she_ went.

For a little while, Rose attempted to resume her teaching, but she was soon compelled to give up. Only, till the last she flitted about the cottage, performing her household duties as she had ever done, and being as she had ever been, the presiding spirit of the home that was so dear to her grandfather. In the winter evenings, too, they sat together, she in her olden seat at his feet, looking into the fire, and listening to the howling wind without, neither speaking, except at rare intervals, and then in a low and dreamy tone that harmonized with the time. One evening they had sat thus for a long time, the old man clasping her hands, while her head rested on his knee. The fire burned low and gave scarcely any light; the night was stormy, and the wind blew a hurricane. At every blast he felt her tremble.

"God help those at sea," he cried, with a sudden impulse.

"Amen, Amen!" said Rose, solemnly, and though she started and shivered when he spoke, she kissed his hands afterward, almost as if in gratitude.

There was a long pause; then she lifted her head, and said in a very low voice: "Remember, dear grandpapa, if at any time, by-and-by, you should feel inclined to be angry, vexed, with--any one--because of me; you are to forgive them, for my sake: for my sake, my own grandpapa.--Promise!"

He did so, and she wound her arms lovingly round his neck, and kissed his brows, as of old she had done every night before retiring to rest. And then her head sunk on his shoulder, and she wept. In those tears how much was expressed that could find no other utterance! the lingering regret to die that the young must ever feel, even when life is most desolate; the tender gratitude for the deep love her grandfather had ever borne her; sorrow for him, and for herself! And he, silent and tearless as he sat, understood it all, and blessed her in his heart.

The next day she died quietly, lying on her little bed, with her pale hands meekly folded on her breast; for her last breath exhaled in prayer for her grandfather--and one other. It happened that the Wilsons and some other acquaintances came in the evening to inquire how she was. For sole reply, Lieutenant Heathcote, whose tearless eyes and rigid lips half frightened them, led them where she lay. They retired, weeping, subdued, and sad, and as they were leaving the cottage, he heard Mrs. Wilson say to her friend, while she dried her eyes: "Poor girl, poor girl! She was very amiable, we all liked her exceedingly. I am afraid though, on one occasion, I was rather harsh to her, and, poor child, she seemed to take it a good deal to heart. But the fact was, that our Edward, I half fancied"--there followed a whispering, and then, in a louder tone--"but his father, thinking with me, sent him off to sea, and there was an end of the matter."

An end of the matter! Alas! think of the bereaved old man, wandering about his desolate abode, _home_ to him no longer; with the sad, wistful look on his face of one who continually seeks something that is not there. The cottage, too, was very different now to what it had been; the _home_ that was so beautiful was gone with her. He set her little bird at liberty the day she died; he could not bear to hear it singing, joyously as when _she_ had been there to listen. But for this, the parlor always remained in the same state it was in on that last evening. The empty cage in the window, a bunch of withered flowers on a chair where they had fallen from her bosom, and the book she had been reading, open at the very page she had left off. Every morning the old man stole into the room to gaze around on these mute memorials of his lost darling. This was the only solace of his life now, and we may imagine what it cost him to leave it. But when they came and told him he must give up possession of his cottage, that it was to be razed to the ground shortly, he only remonstrated feebly, and finally submitted. He was old, and he hoped to die soon, but death does not always come to those longing for it. He may be living yet, for aught we know; but he has never been heard of in his old neighborhood for years, and we may hope that he is happier, that he has at length gone home to _her_.

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

HOW WE WENT WHALING OFF THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE.

At Algoa Bay, in the eastern provinces of the Cape Colony, there is, and has been for thirty years, a whaling establishment. By what instinct these monsters of the deep ascertain the settlement of man on the shores they frequent, it would be difficult to say. But that they do so, and that they then comparatively desert such coasts is undoubted. Where one whale is now seen off the southeastern coast of Africa, twenty were seen in former times, when the inhabitants of the country were few. It is the same in New Zealand, and every other whale-frequented coast. Nevertheless, the whaling establishment I have mentioned is still kept up in Algoa Bay--and with good reason. _One_ whale per annum will pay all the expenses and outgoings of its maintenance; every other whale taken in the course of a year is a clear profit.

The value of a whale depends, of course, upon its size--the average is from three hundred pounds to six hundred pounds. The establishment in Algoa Bay consists of a stone-built house for the residence of the foreman, with the coppers and boiling-houses attached; a wooden boat-house, in which are kept three whale-boats, with all the lines and tackle belonging to them; and a set of javelins, harpoons, and implements for cutting up the whales' carcases. Then, there are a boat's crew of picked men, six in number, besides the coxswain and the harpooner. There are seldom above two or three whales taken in the course of a year; occasionally not one.

The appearance of a whale in the bay is known immediately, and great is the excitement caused thereby in the little town of Port Elizabeth, close to which the whaling establishment is situated. It is like a sudden and unexpected gala, got up for the entertainment of the inhabitants, with nothing to pay.

A treat of this sort is suddenly got up by the first appearance of a whale in those parts. Tackle-boats and men are got ready in a twinkling. We jump into the stern-sheets of the boat. Six weather-beaten, muscular tars are at work at the oars, and there, in the bows, stands the harpooner, preparing his tackle; a boy is by his side. Coils of line lie at their feet, with harpoons attached to them, and two or three spears or javelins.

"Pull away, boys; there she blows again!" cries the coxswain, and at each stroke the strong men almost lift the little craft out of the water. The harpooner says nothing; he is a very silent fellow; but woe to the unlucky whale that comes within the whirl of his unerring harpoon!

Meantime, our fat friend of the ocean is rolling himself about, as if such things as harpoons never existed; as if he were an infidel in javelins. We are approaching him, a dozen more strokes and we shall be within aim. Yet the harpooner seems cool and unmoved as ever; he holds the harpoon it is true, but he seems to grasp it no tighter, nor to make any preparation for a strike. He knows the whale better than we do--better than his crew. He has been a harpooner for thirty years, and once harpooned twenty-six whales in one year with his own hand. He was right not to hurry himself, you see, for the whale has at last caught sight of us, and has plunged below the surface.

Now, however, the harpooner makes an imperceptible sign to the coxswain. The coxswain says, "Give way, boys," scarcely above his breath, and the boat skims faster than ever over the waves. The harpooner's hand clutches more tightly the harpoon, and he slowly raises his arm; his mouth is compressed, but his face is as calm as ever. A few yards ahead of us a wave seems to swell above the others--"Whiz"--at the very moment you catch sight of the whale's back again above the water, the harpoon is in it eighteen inches deep, hurled by the unerring arm of the silent harpooner.

The red blood of the monster gushes forth, "incarnadining" (as Macbeth says) the waves. "Back water," shouts the harpooner, as the whale writhes with the pain, and flings his huge body about with force enough to submerge twenty of our little crafts at one blow. But he has plunged down again below the surface, and the pace at which he dives you may judge of, by the wonderful rapidity with which the line attached to the harpoon runs over the bows of the boat. Now, too, you see the use of the boy who is bailing water from the sea in a small bucket, and pouring it incessantly over the edge of the boat where the line runs, or in two minutes the friction would set fire to it.

You begin to think the whale is never coming back; but the crew know better. See too, the line is running out more slowly every instant; it ceases altogether now, and hangs slackly over the boat's side. He is coming up exhausted to breathe again. There are a few moments of suspense, during which the harpooner is getting ready and poising one of the javelins. It is longer, lighter, and sharper than the harpoon, but it has no line attached to it. The harpoon is to catch--the javelin to kill. Slowly the whale rises again, but he is not within aim. "Pull again boys"--while the boy is hauling in the line as fast as he can. We are near enough now. Again a whiz--again another--and the harpooner has sent two javelins deep into the creature's body; while the blood flows fast. Suddenly, the whale dashes forward. No need of pulling at the oars now; we are giving him fresh line as fast as we can, yet he is taking us through the water at the rate of twenty miles an hour at least. One would fancy that the harpoons and the javelins have only irritated him, and that the blood he has lost has diminished nothing of his strength. Not so, however; the pace slackens now: we are scarcely moving through the water.

"Pull again, boys," and we approach; while another deadly javelin pierces him. This time he seems to seek revenge. He dashes toward us--what can save us?

"Back water," cries the harpooner, while the coxswain taking the hint at the same moment, with a sweep of his oar the little boat performs a kind of curvet backward, and the monster has shot past us unharming, but not unharmed; the harpooner, cool as ever, has hurled another javelin deep into him, and smiles half pityingly at this impotent rage, which, he knows full well, bodes a termination of the contest. The red blood is spouting forth from four wounds, "neither as deep as a well, nor as wide as a church-door," but _enough_ to kill--even a whale. He rolls over heavily and slowly; a few convulsive movements shake his mighty frame; then he floats motionless on the water--and the whale is dead!

Ropes are now made fast round him, and he is slowly towed away to shore, opposite the whaling establishment. A crowd is collected to see his huge body hauled up on to the beach, and to speculate on his size and value. In two days all his blubber is cut away and melting in the coppers. Vultures are feeding on his flesh, and men are cleansing his bones. In two months, barrels of his oil are waiting for shipment to England. The fringe-work which lined his mouth, and which we call whalebone, is ready for the uses to which ladies apply it. His teeth, which are beautiful ivory, are being fashioned into ornaments by the turner; and his immense ribs are serving as landmarks on the different farms about the country, for which purpose they are admirably adapted. Meanwhile our friend the harpooner and his crew are reposing on their laurels, and looking out for fresh luck; while the proprietor of the establishment is five hundred pounds the richer from this "catching a whale."

HYDROPHOBIA.

M. Buisson has written to the Paris Academy of Sciences, to claim as his, a small treatise on hydrophobia, addressed to the academy so far back as 1835, and signed with a single initial. The case referred to in that treatise was his own. The particulars, and the mode of cure adopted, were as follows:--He had been called to visit a woman who, for three days, was said to be suffering under this disease. She had the usual symptoms--constriction of the throat, inability to swallow, abundant secretion of saliva, and foaming at the mouth. Her neighbors said that she had been bitten by a mad dog about forty days before. At her own urgent entreaties, she was bled, and died a few hours after, as was expected.

M. Buisson, who had his hands covered with blood, incautiously cleansed them with a towel which had been used to wipe the mouth of the patient. He then had an ulceration upon one of his fingers, yet thought it sufficient to wipe off the saliva that adhered, with a little water. The ninth day after, being in his cabriolet, he was suddenly seized with a pain in his throat, and one, still greater, in his eyes. The saliva was continually pouring into his mouth; the impression of a current of air, the sight of brilliant bodies, gave him a painful sensation; his body appeared to him so light that he felt as though he could leap to a prodigious height. He experienced, he said, a wish to run and bite, not men, but animals and inanimate bodies. Finally, he drank with difficulty, and the sight of water was still more distressing to him than the pain in his throat. These symptoms recurred every five minutes, and it appeared to him as though the pain commenced in the affected finger, and extended thence to the shoulder.

From the whole of the symptoms, he judged himself afflicted with hydrophobia, and resolved to terminate his life by stifling himself in a vapor bath. Having entered one for this purpose, he caused the heat to be raised to 107° 36" Fahr., when he was equally surprised and delighted to find himself free of all complaint. He left the bathing-room well, dined heartily, and drank more than usual. Since that time, he says, he has treated in the same manner more than eighty persons bitten, in four of whom the symptoms had declared themselves; and in no case has he failed, except in that of one child, seven years old, who died in the bath. The mode of treatment he recommends is, that the person bit should take a certain number of vapor baths (commonly called Russian), and should induce every night a violent perspiration, by wrapping himself in flannels, and covering himself with a feather-bed; the perspiration is favored by drinking freely of a warm decoction of sarsaparilla. He declares, so convinced is he of the efficacy of his mode of treatment, that he will suffer himself to be inoculated with the disease. As a proof of the utility of copious and continual perspiration, he relates the following anecdote: A relative of the musician Gretry was bitten by a mad dog, at the same time with many other persons, who all died of hydrophobia. For his part, feeling the first symptoms of the disease, he took to dancing, night and day, saying that he wished to die gayly. He recovered. M. Buisson also cites the old stories of dancing being a remedy for the bite of a tarantula; and draws attention to the fact, that the animals in whom this madness is most frequently found to develop itself spontaneously, are dogs, wolves, and foxes, which never perspire.

THE DOOM OF THE SLAVER.

AN ENGLISH STORY OF THE AFRICAN BLOCKADE.

On a glorious day, with a bright sun and a light breeze, Her Majesty's brig Semiramis stood along under easy sail, on a N.W. course up the Channel of Mozambique. Save the man at the wheel and the "look-outs" in the tops, every one seemed taking it easy. And indeed there was no inducement to exertion; for the sky was cloudless, and the temperature of that balmy warmth that makes mere existence a luxury. The men, therefore, continued their "yarns" as they lounged in little groups about the deck; the middies invented new mischief, or teased the cook; the surgeon divided his time between watching the flying-fish and reading a new work on anatomy (though he never turned a fresh page); while the lieutenant of the watch built "châteux-en-Espagne," or occasionally examined, with his telescope, the blue hills of Madagascar in the distance.

"Sail ho!" shouted the look-out in the foretop.

"Where away?" cried the lieutenant, springing to his feet, while at the same moment every man seemed to have lost his listlessness, and to be eager for action of any kind.

"Over the starboard quarter, making sou' west."

The captain hastened on deck, while the second lieutenant ran aloft to have a look at the strange craft.

"What do you make her out, Mr. Saunders?" asked the captain.

"A fore-and-aft schooner, hull down."

"'Bout ship," cried the captain; and in an instant every man was at his post.

"Helm's a lee--raise tacks and sheets"--"mainsail haul," &c.; and in five minutes the Semiramis was standing in pursuit of the stranger, while the men were employed in "cracking on" all sail to aid in the chase.

What is it that makes a chase of any kind so exciting? The indescribable eagerness which impels human nature to hunt any thing huntable is not exaggerated in "Vathek," in which the population of a whole city is described as following in the chase of a black genie, who rolled himself up into a ball and trundled away before them, attracting even the halt and the blind to the pursuit. But who shall describe the excitement of a chase at sea? How eagerly is every eye strained toward the retreating sails! how anxiously is the result of each successive heaving of the log listened for! how many are the conjectures as to what the stranger ahead may prove to be! and how ardent are the hopes that she may turn out a prize worth taking! For be it remembered that, unlike the chase of a fox on land, where no one cares for the object pursued, cupidity is enlisted to add to the excitement of a chase at sea. Visions of prize-money float before the eyes of every one of the pursuers, from the captain to the cabin-boy.

The Semiramis, being on the tack she had now taken, considerably to the windward of the stranger, there was every chance of her soon overtaking her, provided the latter held the course she was now steering. But who could hope that she would do that! Indeed, all on board the brig expected every moment to hear that she was lying off and running away. If she did not do so, it would be almost a proof that she was engaged in lawful commerce, and not what they had expected, and, in truth, hoped.

An hour had passed; and the Semiramis had visibly gained on the schooner; so much so, that the hull of the latter, which was long, low, black, and rakish-looking, could now be seen from the brig's tops.

"Surely they must see us," said the captain.

"She's just the build of the Don Pedro we took off this coast," said the second lieutenant, from the maintop.

"I hope she will turn out a better prize," replied the captain.

The truth is, they had captured that same Don Pedro, condemned her, and broken her up. The captain and owners of her had appealed; proved to the satisfaction of the Admiralty that she was _not_ engaged in the slave trade; and, consequently, every man on board the Semiramis who had assisted at her capture, was obliged to cash up his quota of "damages" instead of pocketing prize-money. The Don Pedro, therefore, was a sore subject on board the Semiramis.

Another hour elapsed: the hull of the schooner began to be visible from the deck of the cruiser. She was a wicked-looking craft; and Jack slapped his pockets in anticipation of the cash she would bring into them.

"Well, it's odd she don't alter course, anyhow," said the boatswain on the forecastle; "may be she wants to throw us off the scent, by pretending to be all right and proper, and not to have a notion that we can be coming after her."

"Show the colors," cried the captain on the quarter-deck; "let's see what flag she sports."

The British ensign was soon floating from the Semiramis; but the schooner at first showed no colors in reply.

Presently the first lieutenant, who was watching her through the glass, cried out, "Brazilian by Jove!"

There was a short pause. Every sort of spy-glass in the ship was in requisition. Every eye was strained to its utmost visual tension. The captain broke the silence with "Holloa! She's easing off; going to run for it at last."

"She's a _leetle_ too late," said the lieutenant. "Before the wind these fore-and-aft schooners are tubs, though _on_ the wind they're clippers."

However, it was clear that the schooner had at last resolved to run for her life. By going off with the wind she got a good start of the brig; and, although it was her worst point of sailing, still the breeze was so light that, while it suited her, it was insufficient to make the heavier brig sail well.

For three hours the chase continued, and neither vessel seemed to gain on the other; but the breeze was now freshening, and the Semiramis at length began to diminish the distance between herself and the Brazilian. Right ahead, in the course they were pursuing, lay a point of land projecting far into the sea, and the chart showed a tremendous reef of rocks extending some three miles beyond it. It was certain that neither vessels could clear the reef, if they held the course they were then steering.

"Keep her a little more to windward," cried the captain. "We shall have her; she will be obliged to haul up in about an hour's time, and then she can't escape, as we shall be well to windward."

The hour went by; and still the schooner showed no signs of altering her course. The captain of the Semiramis again examined his charts; but the reef was clearly laid down, and it seemed utterly impossible that the schooner could weather it by the course she was then steering. Yet, either from ignorance of the danger, or from the determination to brave it, she tried; knowing that if she escaped it and cleared the point, she would have gained an immense advantage over her pursuers.

It would be impossible to describe the anxiety with which all on board the Semiramis now watched the little Brazilian. She was literally rushing into the jaws of destruction; and, as she rose over each successive wave, it seemed as if she must be dashed on the treacherous reef at the next dip. Still she stood bravely on; and, though doubtless the lips of those on board her might be quivering at that moment in the agony of suspense, the little craft looked so beautiful, and sailed so gayly, her white sails and slender spars flashing in the sunlight that even her pursuers mentally prayed for her safety, quite irrespective of the prize-money they would lose by her destruction on the rocks. Jack does not like to see a pretty craft run ashore, at any price.

They began almost to think the schooner "bore a charmed life;" for she seemed to be floating over the very reef itself, and the white foam of the breakers could be seen all round her.

"Blessed, if I don't think she's the Flying Dutchman," said one blue jacket to another.

"Gammon, Bill--ain't we round the Cape? and don't you know that's just where the Flying Dutchman never could get to?" replied his messmate.

The little schooner bounded onward merrily--suddenly she staggers, and every spar shivers.

"She has struck!" cried twenty voices at once.

Now she rises with a coming wave, and now she settles down again with a violence that brings her topmasts on the deck.

"Out with the boats," is the order on board the Semiramis, and the men fly to execute it.

Another wave lifts the schooner--another fearful crash--she rolls over--her decks are rent asunder--her crew are struggling in the water--and with them (every man shudders at the sight) hundreds of negroes, manacled to each other and fettered to the lower deck, are shot out into the foam.

Bravely pulled the seamen in the boats of the Semiramis; but two strong swimmers, who had fought their way through the boiling surf were all they saved. So slight was the build of the little schooner that she had gone to pieces instantly on striking; and, within sight of the Semiramis, within hearing of the death-shrieks that rent the air from _six hundred and thirty human beings_, who, shackled together with heavy irons, were dashed among the waters, and perished a slow and helpless death, two only of their jailers survived to tell of the number that had sunk!

Surely this sad tale may at least be added to the catalogue of ills produced by England's "good intentions" in striving to suppress the slave trade.

INDUSTRY OF THE INSANE.

The change that has taken place of late years in the treatment of insane patients, presents one of the finest features in the civilization of the age; but the boon of wholesome labor is, perhaps, the greatest benefit that has yet been conferred upon this class of sufferers. The fact is strikingly illustrated in the annual report for the last year of the Royal Edinburgh Asylum. The number of patients treated was 738, and at the close of the year there remained as inmates 476. Of this latter number, upward of 380 were employed daily, and sometimes as many as 100 working in the open air in the extensive grounds of the asylum. "Among these," says Dr. Skae, "may be daily seen many of the most violent and destructive of the inmates busily engaged in wheeling earth, manure, or stones, who for years have done little else than destroy their clothing, or spend their days and nights in restless agitation, or incoherent raving. The strong necessity which appears to exist, in many cases, for continual movement, or incessant noise, seems to find vent as naturally in active manual labor, if it can with any propriety be substituted and regulated." And a curious illustration of this is given in the case of "one of the most violent, restless, and unmanageable inmates of the asylum during the past year," whose calling was that of a miner. He was "tall and muscular, and occupied himself, if permitted to mix with others, in pursuing his fellow-patients, and fighting with them; if left alone in the airing courts, in running round and knocking his elbows violently on the stone walls; and if secluded, in continual vociferations and incessant knocking on the wall. I directed him to be sent to the grounds, and employed with the wheelbarrow--a special attendant being intrusted with him on his _début_. Hard work seemed to be all he required. He spent his superfluous energies in wheeling stones; he soon proved himself to be one of the most useful and able-bodied of the awkward squad, and ere long was restored to his natural condition--that of a weak-minded but industrious coal-miner."

Oakum-picking proves a useful occupation not only for imbeciles capable of no higher industry, but for malingerers and idlers, who are soon anxious to escape from it into the shoemaker's, tailor's, blacksmith's, or carpenter's shops. "In the same manner the females have been gradually broken into habits of industry to a degree hitherto unprecedented. Those who have done nothing for many years but mutter to themselves, or crouch in corners, now sew or knit from morning till night. Knitting, sewing, straw-bonnet making, and other occupations, are carried on throughout the house to such an extent that, I fear, in a very short time, unless some outlet is obtained for exportations, we shall be at a loss to know what to do." In addition to the usual handicraft employments, which are all practiced in the establishment, it is interesting to observe that some patients occupy themselves in engraving, drawing, and land-surveying. A considerable portion of one of the houses has been elegantly painted, and in part refurnished, by the patients.--_Chambers._

MONTHLY RECORD OF CURRENT EVENTS.

Congress adjourned on the 30th of September, in accordance with the resolution noticed in the last number of the Magazine. Very little business of general interest was transacted in addition to that of which a record has already been made. The appropriation bills were passed, and in one of them was inserted a prohibition of flogging in the navy and aboard merchant vessels of the United States, which received the sanction of both houses and became a law. A provision was also inserted, granting land bounties to soldiers in the war of 1812, and in any of the previous wars of the United States. The passage of the bill involving, directly or indirectly, the slavery issue, of which we have already given a full account, restored a greater degree of harmony and of calmness to both branches of Congress than had hitherto prevailed, and the same influence has had an important effect, though to a less extent, upon the country at large.

The political incidents of the month have not been without interest. A State Convention, representing the Whigs of New York, assembled at Syracuse, on the 27th of September, for the nomination of State officers. Hon. Francis Granger was chosen President, and a committee was appointed to report resolutions expressing the sentiments of the Convention,--Hon. William Duer, member of Congress from the Oswego district, being Chairman. The resolutions were at once reported. They expressed confidence in the national administration, approved the measures recently adopted by Congress connected with slavery, and declared the respect of the Convention for the motives which had animated the Whig Senator from New York, and the majority of the New York Congressional delegation in the course they had taken upon them. By a vote of the majority, the Convention proceeded to the nomination of State officers--the minority refusing to participate in the current business until the resolutions should have been acted on. Hon. Washington Hunt was nominated for Governor, George J. Cornell, of New York City, for Lieutenant Governor, Ebenezer Blakely, for Canal Commissioner, Abner Baker, for State Prison Inspector, and Wessel S. Smith, for Clerk of the Court of Appeals. After the nominations had been made, the resolutions were taken up. A substitute for part of them was offered by Hon. George W. Cornwell of Cayuga County, expressing confidence in the ability, patriotism, and statesmanship of President Fillmore, and approving of the course pursued by Mr. Seward in the Senate of the United States. The latter resolution passed by a vote of 76 to 40; and the minority immediately withdrew from the Convention, the President, Mr. Granger, leaving the chair, and organized anew elsewhere. One of the Vice Presidents took the chair thus vacated, and the Convention, after completing its business, and appointing a State Whig Central Committee, adjourned. The seceders appointed a committee to issue an address, and adjourned. The Address soon after appeared, and after reciting the history of the Syracuse Convention, aiming to show that its approval of the course of Senator Seward deprived its doings of all binding force, concluded by calling a convention of delegates, representing those Whigs who disapproved of the action at Syracuse, to be held at Utica, on the 17th of October. Delegates were accordingly elected in nearly all the counties of the state, and the Convention met on the day appointed. Hon. Francis Granger was elected President. Resolutions, setting forth the position and principles of those represented, were passed, and the candidates nominated at Syracuse were adopted. The Convention appointed another State Central Committee, and then adjourned. It will be observed that the only point in which the two conventions came into collision, so far as future political movements are concerned, is in the appointment of those two committees. Each will, undoubtedly, endeavor to exercise the ordinary functions of such committees, in calling state conventions, &c., and thus will arise a direct conflict of claims which may lead to a permanent division of the party.----Hon. WASHINGTON HUNT has written a letter in reply to inquiries from Mr. GRANGER, in which he declines to express any opinion as to the differences which arose at Syracuse. So far as that difference relates to the merits of individuals, he considers it unworthy the attention of a great party, each individual of which must be left entirely at liberty to entertain his own opinion and preferences. He considers the Whigs of the North pledged to oppose the extension of slavery into free territory, and refers to their previous declarations upon the subject, to show that the South must not ask or expect them to abandon that position. He says that the terms on which the Texas boundary dispute was settled, were not altogether satisfactory to him, but he nevertheless cheerfully acquiesces in them since they have become the law of the land. He expresses dissatisfaction with the provisions of the Fugitive Slave bill, thinking it far more likely to increase agitation than allay it, and says that it will require essential modifications. He very earnestly urges union and harmony in the councils of the Whig party.----The Anti-Renters held a convention at Albany, and made up a ticket for state offices, selected from the nominations of the two political parties. Hon. Washington Hunt was adopted as their candidate for Governor, and Ebenezer Blakely for Canal Commissioner--both being the Whig nominees for the same offices: the others were taken from the Democratic ticket.----Considerable excitement prevails in some of the Southern States in consequence of the admission of California at the late session of Congress. Governor Quitman of Mississippi has called an extra session of the Legislature, to commence on the 23d of November, to consider what measures of resistance and redress are proper. In South Carolina a similar sentiment prevails, though the Governor has decided, for prudential reasons, not to convene the Legislature in extra session. In Georgia a state convention, provided for in certain contingencies at the late session of the Legislature, is soon to meet, and a very active popular canvass is going on for the election of delegates--the character of the measures to be adopted forming the dividing line. Some are for open resistance and practical secession from the Union, while others oppose such a course as unwarranted by any thing experienced thus far, and as certain to entail ruin upon the Southern States. Hon. C.J. JENKINS, who declined a seat in the Cabinet, tendered to him by President FILLMORE, has taken very high ground against the disunionists, saying that no action hostile to the South has been had by Congress, but that all her demands have been conceded. In every Southern State a party exists warmly in favor of preserving the Union, and in most of them it will probably be successful.----The Legislature of Vermont commenced its annual session on the 13th ult. Hon. SOLOMON FOOTE has been elected U.S. Senator to succeed Hon. S.S. PHELPS whose term expires in March next.----GEORGE N. BRIGGS has been nominated by the Whigs for re-election as Governor of Massachusetts.----The _Arctic_, the third of the American line of mail steamers, between New York and Liverpool, is completed, and will very soon take her place; the _Baltic_ will soon be ready.----The assessed value of real and personal property in the City of New York, according to a late report of the Board of Supervisors, is set at 286 millions; the tax on which is $339,697. This property is all taxed to about 6,000 persons. The increase for the year is thirty millions, nearly 10 per cent. The value of the real and personal estate of the State of New York, according to the last report of the Comptroller, was $536,161,901. The State tax of 1849 amounted to $278,843.10; of which $130,000, or nearly one half, was paid by the city.----Some years since a colony of Swedes settled in the northwestern part of Illinois, in Henry county, near the Mississippi. They are represented as an industrious and thriving people, supporting themselves chiefly by the manufacture of table-cloths, napkins, sheets, and other linens. Last year they suffered much from the cholera; but their numbers will soon be increased by a new colony of about 300 members who are now on their way from Sweden, and are expected soon to arrive with a considerable amount of capital, the fruits of the sale of their own property, and the property of their brethren already here.----A good deal of excitement prevails in some of the Northern States in regard to the execution of the new law for the recovery of fugitive slaves. The first instance in which it was carried into effect occurred in New York city, where a fugitive named James Hamlet, who had lived in Williamsburgh for some two years with his family, was apprehended, taken to Baltimore, and restored to his owner. The process was so summary that no resistance was offered or excitement created: but after the whole was over a great deal of feeling was elicited, and money enough was speedily raised by subscription to purchase the slave, who was returned to his family amidst great public demonstrations of rejoicing among the colored population. In Detroit an attempt to arrest a fugitive excited a popular resistance to suppress which it was found necessary to call out troops of the United States; the negro was seized, but purchased by voluntary subscriptions. Large public meetings have been held in various cities and towns, to protest against the law, and to devise measures for defeating its operation. One of the largest was held at Boston on the 4th ult., at which Hon. Josiah Quincy presided. The tone of the address and resolutions was less inflammatory than in many other places, as obedience to the law while it stands upon the statute book was enjoined; but its spirit was warmly reprobated, and the necessity of agitating for its immediate repeal was strongly urged. Fugitives from service at the South are very numerous in portions of the Northern States. Many of them, since the passage of the law, have taken refuge in Canada, while others depend on the sympathy of the community in which they live for immunity from the operation of the law. The law undoubtedly requires modification in some of its details, but the main object it is designed to secure is so clearly within the provisions of the Federal Constitution that its enforcement is universally felt to be a public duty.----JENNY LIND, whose arrival and public reception in New York were mentioned in our last number, has been giving concerts in that city, Boston, Providence, and Philadelphia. In each place there has been a strong competition in the purchase of the first ticket for the first concert. In New York it was sold for $250; in Boston for $625; in Providence $650; and in Philadelphia $625. The evident object of the purchaser in each case was notoriety. Her concerts have been densely crowded, and the public excitement in regard to her continues unabated.----Intelligence has been received from Rome, that the Pope, at the request of the late council assembled in Baltimore, has erected the See of New York into an Arch-episcopal See, with the Sees of Boston, Hartford, Albany, and Buffalo, as Suffragan Sees. The Right Rev. Bishop HUGHES is, of course, elevated to the dignity of Archbishop. The brief of the Pope is signed by Cardinal Lambruschini, and is dated on the 19th of July last.----Public sentiment in Texas seems to be decidedly in favor of accepting the terms offered in the Boundary Bill. No official action has yet been had upon the subject, but it is believed that the Legislature will either accept the proposition at once or submit it to a popular vote. Mr. KAUFMAN, one of the Members of Congress from that State, has addressed a circular to his constituents, refuting many of the objections that have been urged against the bill. The area of Texas, with the boundary now established, is 237,321 miles, which is more than five times that of New-York.----An interesting official correspondence between our Government and that of Central America, has recently been published, mainly relating to the subject of canals and railroads across the Isthmus. Mr. CLAYTON'S plan appears to have been to encourage, by every constitutional means, every railroad company, as well as every canal company, that sought to shorten the transit between the American States on both oceans. For this purpose he endeavored to extend the protection of this Government to the railroads at Panama and Tehuantepec. It was not his purpose to exclude other nations from the right of passage, but to admit them all on the same terms; that is, provided they would all agree equally to protect the routes--a principle adopted originally by President JACKSON, in pursuance of a resolution of the Senate, of which Mr. CLAYTON was the author, while a member of that body, on the 3d of March, 1835. The principles of this resolution were fully sustained by General JACKSON, who sent Mr. BIDDLE to Central America and New Grenada for the purpose, and were afterward fully adopted by President POLK, as appears by his message transmitting to the Senate the treaty for the Panama railroad. General TAYLOR followed in the same train with his predecessors, as appears by his message of December last, thus fully sustaining the views of the Senate resolution of the 3d of March, 1835, the principles of which may now be considered as illustrating the policy of the American Government on this subject.----In accordance with the provisions of the treaty recently concluded with the United States, the British Government has withdrawn all its demands for port and other dues from the harbor of San Juan de Nicaragua, and the navigation of that noble river and the lakes connected with it are fully open to American enterprise.----A shock of an earthquake was felt at Cleveland, Ohio, on the 1st of October. The shock lasted about two seconds, and was so violent as to produce a jarring and rattling of windows and furniture, and was accompanied by a rumbling sound, like distant thunder, which lasted three or four seconds. On the same night a very brilliant meteor was observed in the Eastern States, and a very remarkable aurora at sea.----The General Convention of the Episcopal Church has been in session at Cincinnati. The House of Bishops, to which the subject had been referred by the Diocese of New York, has decided against the restoration of Bishop Onderdonk, by a vote of two to one, and the General Convention has provided for the election of an Assistant Bishop in such cases.----Conventions in Virginia and Indiana are in session for the revision of the Constitutions of those States.----The U.S. Consul at Valparaiso has written a letter concerning the establishment of a line of monthly steamers between that port and Panama. Since the discovery of the gold mines in California, he says, the travel and trade upon that coast has increased fivefold. For the last ten years there has been in successful operation a line of English steamers plying between Panama, in New Grenada, and Valparaiso, in Chili, with a grant from the British Government of _one hundred thousand dollars per annum_, for the purpose of carrying the English mail; which, together with the immense amount of travel, in the last four years, renders it a most lucrative monopoly. The charter, originally granted to the company for ten years, has lately expired, and the liberal Republics of Chili, Peru, Ecuador, and Bolivia have peremptorily refused to renew the monopoly, and have generously opened their ports to the competition of American steamers. Between Valparaiso and Panama there are twenty-one different ports at which these steamers stop, in performing their monthly trips to and fro, for freight and passengers, leaving Panama on the 27th and Valparaiso on the 30th of each month. The voyage is punctually performed in twenty-four days. The feasibility of establishing an American line of steamers upon that coast is strongly urged. The wealth of the silver mines of Copiapo is so great that every English steamer at Panama transmits hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth to England in solid bars.

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From CALIFORNIA we have intelligence to the 15th of September. The disturbances at Sacramento City, growing out of resistance to the land claims, have entirely subsided, the squatters having been dispersed. Three or four persons were killed upon each side in the riots of which we have already given an account. A gentleman had arrived in California deputed by Mr. LETCHER, U.S. Minister in Mexico, to attend to the settlement of land titles. He had expressed the belief that most of the grants made by the Governors before the acquisition of California by the United States will be confirmed by our Government, on the evidence Mr. Letcher is prepared to furnish from the official records in the city of Mexico, as to the invariable practice of the Mexican Government in this particular. His assurances upon the subject had given general satisfaction.----Early in September there was a complete panic in the money market at San Francisco, and several of the most prominent houses had failed. Confidence, however, had been fully restored at the date of our latest advices. The losses by the three great fires which had visited the city were supposed to have occasioned the monetary difficulties.----Fears were entertained that the overland emigrants would suffer greatly during the present season. It was believed that ten thousand were on the way who had not crossed the Great Desert, one half of whom would be destitute of subsistence and teams on reaching Carson River. They had been deceived into taking a longer and more difficult route, and had lost most of their animals, and not unfrequently men, women, and children had sunk under the hardships of the road, and perished of hunger or thirst.----Indian difficulties still continued in different parts of California, the troops and citizens were making some progress in breaking up the bands which caused them the most difficulty.----The accounts from the mines continue to be highly encouraging. It is unnecessary to give in detail the reports from the various localities; they were all yielding abundant returns. It was believed that much larger quantities of gold will be taken from the mines this season than ever before.----From the 1st of August to Sept. 13th, there arrived at San Francisco by sea 5940 persons, and 4672 had left.----The tax upon foreign miners does not succeed as a revenue measure.----The expedition which sailed in July last to the Klamath and Umpqua rivers, has returned to San Francisco. It has been ascertained that the Klamath and Trinity unite, and form the river which discharges its waters into the sea, in latitude 41° 34´ north, and that there is no river answering to the description of the Klamath, in 42° 26´, as laid down in the charts of Frémont and Wilkes. From this river, the expedition visited the Umpqua, which they found to have an opening into the sea, of nearly one mile in width, with some three or four fathoms of water on the bar, and navigable about thirty miles up, when it opens into a rich agricultural district.

* * * * *

From OREGON our advices are to Sept. 2. There is no news of general interest. The country seems to be steadily prosperous. New towns are springing up at every accessible point, and a commercial interest being awakened that is highly commendable. The frequency of communication by steam between California and Oregon strongly identifies their interests.

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From ENGLAND there is no intelligence of much interest. The reception of Baron Haynau by the brewers of London has engaged the attention, and excited the discussion of all the organs of opinion in Europe. Most of the English journals condemn in the most earnest language the conduct of the mob, as disgraceful to the country, while only a few of them express any special sympathy with the victim of it. The London _Times_ is more zealous in his defense than any other paper. It not only denounces the treatment he received at the hands of the English populace, but endeavors to vindicate him from the crimes laid to his charge, and assails the Hungarian officers and soldiers in turn with great bitterness. In its anxiety to apologize for Haynau, it asserts that English officers, and among them the Duke of Wellington and General Sir Lacy Evans, committed acts during their campaigns quite as severe as those with which he is charged. This line of defense, however, avails but little with the English people. The public sentiment is unanimous in branding Haynau as one of the most ruthless monsters of modern times, and the verdict is abundantly sustained by the incidents and deeds of his late campaigns. After his expulsion from England he returned to Austria, being received with execrations and indignities at several cities on his route.----Further advices have been received from the Arctic Expedition sent in search of Sir John Franklin, but they contain no satisfactory intelligence. A report, derived from an Esquimaux Indian whom Sir John Ross met near the northern extremity of Baffin's Bay, states that in the winter of 1846 two ships were broken by the ice a good way off from that place, and destroyed by the natives, and that the officers and crews, being without ammunition, were killed by the Indians. The story is very loosely stated, and is generally discredited in England. The vessel, Prince Albert, attached to the Expedition, has arrived at Aberdeen, and announced the discovery, at Cape Reilley and Beechy Island, at the entrance of the Wellington Channel, of traces of five places where tents had been fixed, of great quantities of beef, pork, and birds' bones, and of a piece of rope with the Woolwich mark upon it. These were considered, with slight grounds, however, undoubted traces of Sir John Franklin's expedition. The exploring vessels were pushing boldly up Wellington Channel.----The preparations for the great Industrial Exhibition of 1851, are going on rapidly and satisfactorily. In nearly every country of Europe, extensive arrangements are in progress for taking part in it, while in London the erection of the necessary buildings is steadily going forward.----A curious and interesting correspondence with respect to the cultivation of cotton in Liberia has taken place between President Roberts, of Liberia, Lord Palmerston, the Board of Trade, and the Chamber of Commerce at Manchester, tending to show that cotton may be made a most important article of cultivation in the African republic.----Lord Clarendon has been making the tour of Ireland, and has been received in a very friendly manner by the people of every part of the island. He took every opportunity of encouraging the people to rely upon their own industry and character for prosperity, and pledged the cordial co-operation of the country in all measures that seemed likely to afford them substantial aid or relief.----The statutes constituting the Queen's University in Ireland have received the sanction of the Queen, and gone into effect.----A Captain Mogg has been tried and fined for endangering lives by setting the wheels of his steamboat in operation while a number of skiffs and other light boats were in his immediate vicinity.----The ship Indian, a fine East Indiaman, was wrecked on the 4th of April, near the Mauritius. She struck upon a reef and almost immediately went to pieces. The utmost consternation prevailed among the officers and crew. The captain seized and lowered the boat, and with eight seamen left the ship: they were never heard of again. Those who remained succeeded in constructing a rude raft, on which they lived fourteen days, suffering greatly from hunger and thirst, and were finally rescued by a passing ship.----Two steamers, the Superb and Polka, were lost, the former on the 16th, and the latter on the 24th, between the island of Jersey and St. Malo. No lives were lost by the Superb, but ten persons perished in the wreck of the Polka.----The Queen has been visiting Scotland.----Some of the Irish papers have been telling astounding stories of apparitions of the _Great Sea Serpent_. A Mr. T. Buckley, writing from Kinsale on the 11th instant, informs the Cork Reporter that he was induced by some friends to go to sea, in the hope of falling in with the interesting stranger, and that he was not long kept in suspense, for "a little to the west of the Old Head the monster appeared." Its size, he truly avers, is beyond all description, and the head, he adds, very like a (bottle-nose) whale. One of the party fired the usual number of shots, but, of course, without effect.

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Of LITERARY INTELLIGENCE there is but little in any quarter. A good deal of interest has been excited by a discreditable attack made by the Whig Review upon the distinguished author Mr. G.P.R. JAMES. The Review discovered in an old number of the Dublin University Magazine some verses written by Mr. JAMES for a friend who without his knowledge sent them for publication. They were upon the clamor that was then afloat about war between England and the United States: Mr. James, alluding to the threats from America against England, had said that "bankrupt states were blustering high;" and had also spoken of Slavery in the United States as a "living lie," which British hands in the event of a war, would wipe out and let their bondmen free. The Review denounces Mr. James, in very coarse and abusive terms for the poem, and seeks to excite against him the hostility of the American people. The matter was commented upon in several of the journals, and Mr. James wrote a manly letter to his legal adviser Mr. M.B. FIELD, which is published in the _Courier and Enquirer_, in which he avows himself the author of the verses in question, explains the circumstances under which they were written, and urges the injustice of making them the ground of censure or complaint. His letter has been received with favor by the press generally, which condemns the unjust and unwarrantable assault of the Review upon the character of this distinguished author. It is stated that Mr. James intends to become an American citizen, and that he has already taken the preliminary legal steps.----The principal publishers are engaged in preparing gift-books for the coming holidays. The APPLETONS have issued a very elegant and attractive work, entitled "Our Saviour with Prophets and Apostles," containing eighteen highly finished steel engravings, with descriptions by leading American divines. It is edited by Rev. Dr. WAINWRIGHT and forms one of the most splendid volumes ever issued in this country. They have also issued a very interesting volume of Tales by Miss MARIA J. McINTOSH, entitled "Evenings at Donaldson Manor," which will be popular beyond the circle for which it is immediately designed.----Other works have been issued of which notices will more appropriately be found in another department of this Magazine.----The English market for the month is entirely destitute of literary novelties.----A series of interesting experiments has been undertaken by order of Government, for the purpose of testing the value of iron as a material for the construction of war-steamers. When the vessels are comparatively slight, it is found that a shot going through the side exposed, makes a clean hole of its own size, which might be readily stopped; but on the opposite side of the vessel the effect is terrific, tearing off large sheets; and even when the shot goes through, the rough edges being on the outside, it is almost impossible to stop the hole. If the vessels are more substantially constructed the principal injury takes place on the side exposed; and this is so great that two or three shot, or even a single one, striking below water line, would endanger the ship. As the result of the whole series of experiments, the opinion is expressed that iron, whether used alone or in combination with wood, can not be beneficially used for the construction of vessels of war.----The wires of the submarine telegraph having been found too weak to withstand the force of the waves, it has been determined to incase the wires in a ten-inch cable, composed of what is called "whipped plait," with wire rope, all of it chemically prepared so as to protect it from rot, and bituminized. A wire thus prepared is calculated to last for twenty years.----In the allotment of space in the Industrial Exhibition, 85,000 square feet have been assigned to the United States; 60,000 to India; 47,050 to the remaining British colonies and possessions; 5000 to China. Hamburg asked for 28,800, and France for 100,000 feet. Commissions have been formed in Austria, Spain, and Turkey.----A correspondent of the Chronicle says that the great beauty of the leaves of some American trees and plants renders them an appropriate article of ornament, and suggests that specimens preserved be sent to the Exhibition; and that a large demand for them would ensue.----An edition of the Works of JOHN OWEN, to be comprised in sixteen volumes, under the editorial charge of Rev. William H. Goold, has been commenced. The doctrinal works will occupy five volumes, the practical treatises four, and the polemical seven. The first volume contains a life of Owen, by Rev. Andrew Thomson of Edinburgh. This edition is edited with remarkable fidelity and care, and will prove a valuable accession to theological literature.----Washington Irving has received from Mr. Murray £9767 for copyrights and £2500 from Mr. Bentley, who has paid nearly £16,000 to Cooper, Prescott, and Herman Melville.----The Principal Theological Faculties in Germany are those of Berlin and Halle. The subjoined list will show that almost all the Professors have attained a wide reputation in the department of sacred letters. At Berlin the Professors are: NITZSCH, Theology, Dogmatic, and Practical; HENGSTENBERG and VATKE, Exegesis of the Old and New Testaments, and Introduction; TWESTEN, Exegesis of the New Testament, Dogmatic Theology; F. STRAUSS, Homiletics; JACOBI, Ecclesiastical History; UBBMANN, Oriental Languages. The Professors at Halle are: JULIUS MULLER, Theology, Dogmatic, and Practical; THOLUCK, Exegesis and Moral Philosophy; HUPFELD, Hebrew and Oriental Languages; GUERICKE, Ecclesiastical History, Introduction; HERZOG, MAYER, and THILO, Ecclesiastical History.----A new apparatus for the production of heat has been invented by Mr. D.O. Edwards. It is named the "atmopyre," or solid gas fire. A small cylinder of pipe clay, varying in length from two to four inches, perforated with holes the fiftieth of an inch in diameter, in imitation of Davy's safety lamp, is employed. The cylinder has a circular hole at one end, which fits upon a "fish-tail" burner; gas is introduced into the interior of the cylinder, with the air of which it becomes mixed, forming a kind of artificial fire-damp. This mixture is ignited on the outside of the vessel, and burns entirely on the exterior of the earthenware, which is enveloped in a coat of pale blue flame. The clay cylinder which Mr. Edwards calls a "hood," soon becomes red hot, and presents the appearance of a solid red flame. All the heat of combustion is thus accumulated on the clay, and is thence radiated. One of these cylinders is heated to dull redness in a minute or two; but an aggregate of these "hoods" placed in a circle or cluster, and inclosed in an argillaceous case, are heated to an orange color, and the case itself becomes bright red. By surrounding this "solid gas fire" with a series of cases, one within another, Mr. Edwards has obtained a great intensity of heat, and succeeded in melting gold, silver, copper, and even iron. Mr. Palmer, the engineer of the Western Gas-light Company, by burning two feet of gas in an atmopyre of twelve "hoods," raised the temperature of a room measuring 8551 cubic feet, five degrees of Fahrenheit in seventeen minutes. The heat generated by burning gas in this way is 100 per cent. greater than that engendered by the ordinary gas flame when tested by the evaporation of water. 25 feet of gas burnt in an atmopyre per hour, produces steam sufficient for one-horse power. Hence the applicability of the invention to baths, brewing, &c.----At the late meeting of the British Association, Major Rawlinson, after enumerating many interesting particulars of the progress of Assyrian discoveries, stated that Mr. Layard, in excavating part of the palace at Nineveh had found a large room filled with what appeared to be the archives of the empire, ranged in successive tables of terra cotta, the writings being as perfect as when the tablets were first stamped. They were piled in huge heaps, from the floor to the ceiling, and he had already filled five large cases for dispatch to England, but had only cleared out one corner of the apartment. From the progress already made in reading the inscriptions, he believed we should be able pretty well to understand the contents of these tables--at all events, we should ascertain their general purport, and thus gain much valuable information. A passage might be remembered in the Book of Ezra, where the Jews having been disturbed in building the Temple, prayed that search might be made in the house of records for the edict of Cyrus permitting them to return to Jerusalem. The chamber recently found might be presumed to be the House of Records of the Assyrian Kings, where copies of the Royal edicts were duly deposited. When these tablets had been examined and deciphered, he believed that we should have a better acquaintance with the history, the religion, the philosophy, and the jurisprudence of Assyria 1500 years before the Christian era, than we had of Greece or Rome during any period of their respective histories.----M. Guillen y Calomarde has just discovered a new telescopic star between the polar star and Cynosure, near to the rise of the tail of the Little Bear--a star at least that certainly did not exist in October last. According to the observations of M. Calomarde, the new star should have an increasing brilliancy, and it is likely that in less than a month this star, which now is visible only through a telescope, may be seen with the naked eye.----The Senate of the University of Padua is at present preparing for publication two curious works, of which the manuscripts are in the library of that establishment. One is a translation in Hebrew verse of the "Divina Commedia," of Dante, by Samuel Rieti, Grand Rabbi of Padua, in the 16th century. The second is a translation of Ovid's "Metamorphoses," likewise in Hebrew, in stanzas of 18 verses of a very complicated metre, from the pen of the Rabbi.----ELIOT WARBURTON is engaged in collecting materials for a History of the Poor, which is to appear in the spring.

The captain and second mate of the steamer Orion, which was wrecked in June, have been sentenced, the former to eighteen months' imprisonment, the latter to ten years' transportation, for gross and culpable negligence of duty.----Lieutenant Gale, somewhat celebrated as an aeronaut, lost his life while making an ascent on horseback at Bordeaux. He had descended in safety, and the horse was removed; the diminution of the weight caused the balloon to ascend rapidly, with the aeronaut, who was somewhat intoxicated, clinging to it. He of course soon fell, and, a day or two after, his body was found, with the limbs all broken, and mutilated by dogs.----Mr. Mongredien, a London corn-factor, has published a pamphlet, in which he endeavors to estimate the probable amount of home-grown food upon which Ireland can calculate the coming year. As the result of extensive inquiries, he is of the opinion that the potato crop will suffice as food for the masses only until January; and that the wheat-crop amounts to but three-fourths of last year's amount.----The Postmaster General has directed that all letters addressed to the United States, shall be forwarded by the first mail packet that sails, whether British or American, unless specially directed otherwise.----Viscount Fielding, who occupied the chair at the great Church Meeting in Free-Mason's Hall, on the 23d of July, has abandoned the English Church for that of Rome.----A number of the Catholic bishops of Ireland were appointed by government as official visitors of the New College, to which they were known to be bitterly opposed. The appointments have been scornfully rejected by the bishops.----The Britannia Bridge, one of the greatest triumphs of modern engineering, was completed on the 13th of September, by the lowering of the last of the tubes to its permanent resting-place. Some curious acoustic effects have been observed in connection with this work. Pistol shots, or any sonorous noises, are echoed within the tube half a dozen times. The cells at the top and bottom, are used by the engineers as speaking tubes, and they can carry on conversation through them in whispers; by elevating the voice persons may converse through the length of the bridge--nearly a quarter of a mile. The total cost of the entire structure has been £601,865. The total weight of each of the wrought iron roadways now completed, represents 12,000 tons, supported on a total mass of masonry of a million and a half cubic feet, erected at the rate of three feet in a minute.----Mount Blanc was ascended on the 29th of September, to its top-most peak, by two gentlemen from Ireland, Mr. Gratton, late of the army, and Mr. Richards, with a party of the brave mountaineers of Chamouni. The enterprise was considered so dangerous, that the guides left their watches and little valuables behind, and the two gentlemen made their wills, and prepared for the worst. The ascent is always accompanied with great peril, as steps have to be cut up the sloping banks of the ice; one of the largest glaciers has to be passed, where one false step entails certain death, as the unfortunate falls into a crevice of almost unknown depth, from which no human hand could extricate him. A night has to be passed on the cold rock amidst the thunders of the avalanche, and spots have to be passed where, it is said, no word can be spoken lest thousands of tons of snow should be set in motion, and thus hurl the party into eternity, as was the case some years back when a similar attempt was made. This latter impression, however, as to the effect of the voice upon masses of snow, is unquestionably absurd. An avalanche may have occurred simultaneously with a conversation; but that the latter caused the former is incredible.----The Turkish government has manifested its intention to set Kossuth and his companions at liberty in September, the end of the year stipulated in the Convention. Austria, however, remonstrates, contending that the year did not commence till the moment of incarceration. The prisoners are to be sent in a government vessel either to England or America, and are to be furnished with 500 piastres each, to meet their immediate wants on landing.----The two American vessels, Advance and Rescue, sent in search of Sir John Franklin, had been seen by an English whale-ship west of Devil's Thumb, in Greenland, having advanced 500 miles since last heard from.----The new Cunard Steamer Africa, of the same dimensions with the Asia, is nearly ready to take her place in the line, and the Company are about to commence another ship of still larger size and power.----Disastrous inundations have destroyed all the crops in the province of Brescia, in Lombardy. Subscriptions were opened in Milan, the aggregate amount of which (about 50,000 francs) was sent to the relief of the unfortunate inhabitants.----There are in the prisons at Naples at present no less than 40,000 political prisoners; and the opinion is that, from the crowded state of the jails, the greater number will go mad, become idiots, or die.----Lines of electric telegraph are extending rapidly over Central Europe. Within four months, 1000 miles have been opened in Austria, making 2000 in that empire, of which 500 are under ground. Another 1000 miles will be ready next year. The telegraph now works from Cracow to Trieste, 700 miles.----On the 1st of October, the new telegraph union between Austria, Prussia, Saxony, and Bavaria, was to come into operation, under a uniform tariff, which is one-half of the former charges.----The Hungarian musicians accustomed to perform their national airs in the streets of Vienna, have been ordered to quit the city. It is said they will go through Europe, in order to excite popular sympathy in behalf of their unfortunate country, by means of their music, the great characteristic of which is a strange mixture of wild passion and deep melancholy.----After eight years' labor, the gigantic statue of the King of Bavaria has been finished, and is now placed on the hill of Saint Theresa, near Munich. The bronze of the statue cost 92,600 florins, or £11,800.----The will of Sir Robert Peel prohibits his executors investing any of his real or personal property on securities in Ireland.----From a late parliamentary return, it appears there are thirty-two iron steamers in Her Majesty's Navy.----Recent letters from the East speak of very valuable and expensive sulphur mines just discovered upon the borders of the Red Sea, in Upper Egypt. The products of these mines are said to be so abundant, that a material fall in the prices of Sicilian sulphur must inevitably soon take place. The working of the newly-discovered mine and its productiveness are greatly facilitated by its proximity to the sea. The Egyptian Government, which at first leased the mines to a private company, is now about to resume possession and work them on its own account.

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From FRANCE the only intelligence of interest relates to political movements, concerning which, moreover, there is nothing but partisan and unreliable rumors. The President, in his various letters, addresses, &c., insists uniformly on the necessity of maintaining the existing order of things, and speaks confidently of an appeal to the people. Contradictory rumors prevail as to his intentions--some believing that he meditates a _coup-d'état_, but most regarding his movements as aimed to secure the popular vote. The Assembly is to meet on the 11th of November, and his opponents intend then to force him to some ultra-constitutional act which will afford them ground for an appeal. A series of military reviews has engaged public attention; they have been closely watched for incidents indicative of the President's purposes: it is remarked that those who salute him as Emperor are always rewarded for it by some preference over others.----The Councils-general of France have closed their annual session. The chief topic of their deliberations has been the revision of the Constitution, and the result is of interest as indicating the state of public opinion upon that subject. It seems that twenty-one councils separated without taking the subject into consideration; ten rejected propositions for revision; two declared that the constitution ought to be respected; thirty-three departments, therefore, refused, more or less formally, to aid the revision. On the other hand, forty-nine councils came to decisions which the revisionist party claim for themselves. But a very great diversity is to be perceived in these decisions. Thirty-two pronounced in favor of revision only "so far as it should take place under legal conditions," or "so far as legality should be observed;" two of those called attention to the forty-fifth article of the constitution, which makes Louis Napoleon incapable of being immediately rechosen; but another demanded that his powers should be prolonged. One council voted for revision, and also desired to prolong the President's power; ten simply voted for revision; five pronounced for immediate revision, but by very small majorities; one went further, and proposed to give the present Assembly--which is legislative and not constituent--authority to effect the revision. Three councils express merely a desire for a remedy to the present situation. Thirty-three departments have not pronounced for the revision, or have pronounced against it; thirty-three are in favor of a legal revision; thirteen demand the revision without explaining on what conditions they desire to see it effected; and six demand it immediately; making the total of eighty-five.

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From GERMANY the most important intelligence relates to the Electorate of Hesse Cassel, a state containing less than a million of inhabitants, and having a revenue of less than two and a half millions of dollars. By the Constitution the Chamber has the exclusive right of voting taxes. The Elector, acting probably under the advice of Austria, resolved to get rid of the Constitution; and as the first step toward it, he appointed as his minister Hassenpflug, a man wholly without character, and who had been convicted of forgery in another State, and with him was associated Haynau, brother of the infamous Austrian General. Months past away without the Chamber being summoned, but at the time when the session usually closed, the Parliament was called together, and an immediate demand made for money and for powers to raise the taxes, without specific votes of the Chamber. The Parliament replied by an unanimous vote, that however little the ministers possessed the confidence of Parliament, they would not go the length of refusing the supplies, but requested to have a regular budget laid before them, which they promised to examine, discuss, and vote. To so fair and constitutional a resolution the minister replied by dissolving the Parliament, and proceeding to levy the taxes in spite of the Parliament and the Constitution. The cabinet went to the extremity of proclaiming the whole Electorate in a state of siege, and investing the commander-in-chief with dictatorial powers against the press, personal liberty, and property. The town council unanimously protested against these arbitrary acts; and such a spirit of resistance was excited that the Elector and his minister were constrained to seek safety in flight. The Elector left Cassel on the morning of the 13th, and arrived the same evening at Hanover, where he was afterward joined by Hassenpflug. Some of the accounts state that M. Hassenpflug was agitated by terror in his flight. On the 16th, the Elector and his ministers were at Frankfort. The government of the Electorate had been assumed by the Permanent Committee of the Assembly.----In Mecklenberg-Schwerin a similar revolution seems likely to take place. In October, 1849, a new Constitution was formed by the deputies of this Duchy, which received the assent of the Duke. This Constitution was quite democratic in character. The Duke now feeling himself strong enough coolly pronounces the Constitution invalid, absolves his subjects from all allegiance to it, and restores the old Constitution, which was formed in 1755. It is supposed that the Diet will adopt the Hesse Cassel system of stopping the supplies, and so starving out their sovereign.

LITERARY NOTICES.

A new work by Rev. WILLIAM R. WILLIAMS, the eminent Baptist clergyman in New York, has just been issued by Gould, Kendall, and Lincoln, entitled _Religious Progress_, consisting of a series of Lectures on the development of the Christian character, founded on the beautiful gradation of religious excellencies described by St. Peter in his second Epistle. The subjects, which succeed each other in the order of the text, are, Religion a Principle of Growth, Faith its Root, Virtue, Knowledge, Temperance, Patience, Godliness, Brotherly Kindness, Charity. No one who has read any of the former productions of the author can fall into the error of supposing that these topics are treated according to any prescribed, stereotyped routine of the pulpit, or that they labor under the dullness and formality which are often deemed inseparable from moral disquisitions. On the contrary, this volume may be regarded as a profound, stringent, and lively commentary on the aspects of the present age, showing a remarkable keenness of observation, and a massive strength of expression. The author, although one of the most studious and erudite men of the day, is by no means a mere isolated scholar. His vision is not confined by the walls of his library. Watching the progress of affairs, from the quiet "loop-holes of his retreat," he subjects the pictured phantasmagoria before him to a rigorous and searching criticism. He is not apt to be deluded by the dazzling shows of things. With a firm and healthy wisdom, acquired by vigilant experience, he delights to separate the genuine from the plausible, the true gold from the sounding brass, and to bring the most fair-seeming pretenses before the tribunal of universal principles. The religious tone of this volume is lofty and severe. Its sternness occasionally reminds us of the sombre, passionate, half despairing melancholy of John Foster. The modern latitudinarian finds in it little either of sympathy or tolerance. It clothes in a secular costume the vast religious ideas which have been sanctioned by ages, but makes no attempt to mellow their austerity, or reduce their solemn grandeur to the level of superficial thought and worldly aspirations. The train of remark pursued in any one of these Lectures can never be inferred from its title. The suggestive mind of the writer is kindled by the theme, and luxuriates in a singular wealth of analogies, which lead him, it is true, from the beaten track, but only to open upon us an unexpected prospect, crowned with original and enchanting beauties. His power of apt and forcible illustration is almost without a parallel among recent writers. The mute page springs into life beneath the magic of his radiant imagination. But this is never at the expense of solidity of thought or strength of argument. It is seldom indeed that a mind of so much poetical invention yields such a willing homage to the logical element. He employs his brilliant fancies for the elucidation and ornament of truth, but never for its discovery. On this account, he inspires a feeling of trust in the sanity of his genius, although its conclusions may not be implicitly adopted. Still, with the deep respect with which we regard the intellectual position of Dr. Williams, we do not think his writings are destined to obtain a wide popularity. Their condensation of thought, the elaborate and often antique structure of their sentences, the profoundly meditative cast of sentiment with which they are pervaded, and even their Oriental profusion of imagery, to say nothing of the adamantine rigor of their religious views, are not suited to the great mass of modern readers, whose tastes have been formed on models less distinguished for their austerity than for their airiness and grace.

Gould, Kendall, and Lincoln, Boston, have recently issued neat reprints of _The Poetry of Science_, by ROBERT HUNT, a popular English work, exhibiting the great facts of science, in their most attractive aspects, and as leading the mind to the contemplation of the Universe; _The Footprints of the Creator_, by HUGH MILLER, with a memoir of the author, by Professor AGASSIZ, who characterizes his geological productions as possessing "a freshness of conception, a power of argumentation, a depth of thought, a purity of feeling, rarely met with in works of that character, which are well calculated to call forth sympathy, and to increase the popularity of a science which has already done so much to expand our views of the plan of Creation;" and a third edition of _The Pre-Adamite Earth_, by JOHN HARRIS, whose valuable contributions to theological science have won for him a high reputation both in England and our own country.

Harper and Brothers have published Nos. 7 and 8 of LOSSING'S _Pictorial Field Book of the American Revolution_. The character of this popular serial may be perceived from the extracts at the commencement of the present number of our Magazine. With each successive issue, Mr. Lossing's picturesque narrative gains fresh interest; he throws a charm over the most familiar details by his quiet enthusiasm and winning naïveté; and under the direction of such an intelligent and genial guide it is delightful to wander over the battle-fields of American history, and dwell on the exploits of the heroes by whose valor our national Independence was achieved. Among the embellishments in these numbers, we observe a striking likeness of the venerable Timothy Pickering, of Massachusetts, portraits of Gen. Stark, Joel Barlow, Gen. Wooster, and William Livingston, and exquisite sketches of Baron Steuben's Headquarters, View near Toby's Eddy, The Susquehanna at Monocasy Island, The Livingston Mansion, The Bennington Battle-Ground, and other beautiful and interesting scenes in the history of the Revolution.

_Household Surgery; or Hints on Emergencies_, by JOHN F. SOUTH (H.C. Baird, Philadelphia), is a reprint of a popular and amusing work by an eminent London surgeon, designed for non-professional readers, and pointing out the course to be pursued in case of an accident, when no surgical aid is at hand. The author puts in a caveat against misapprehending the purpose of his book, which he wishes should be judged solely on its merits. No one is to expect in it a whole body of surgery, nor to obtain materials for setting up as an amateur surgeon, to practice on every unfortunate individual who may fall within his grasp; but directions are given which may be of good service on a pinch, when the case is urgent, and no doctor is to be had. In the opinion of the author, whoever doctors himself when he can be doctored, is in much the same case with the man who conducted his own cause, and had a fool for his client. With this explanation, Dr. South's volume may be consulted to great advantage; and although no one would recommend a treatise on bruises and broken bones for light reading, it must be confessed, that many popular fictions are less fertile in entertainment.

An exquisite edition of _Gray's Poetical Works_ has been issued by H.C. Baird, with an original memoir and notes, by the American Editor, Prof. HENRY REED, of Philadelphia. It was the intention of the Editor to make this the most complete collection of Gray's Poems which has yet appeared, and he seems to have met with admirable success in the accomplishment of his plan. The illustrations of Radclyffe, engraved in a superior style of art, by A.W. Graham, form the embellishments of this edition. We have rarely, if ever, seen them surpassed in the most costly American gift-books. The volume is appropriately dedicated to JAMES T. FIELDS, the poet-publisher of Boston.

The second volume of the _Memoirs of Dr. Chalmers_, by his son-in-law, WILLIAM HANNA, is issued by Harper and Brothers, comprising a most interesting account of his labors during his residence at Glasgow, and bringing his biography down to the forty-third year of his age. The whole career of this robust and sinewy divine is full of instruction, but no part of it more abounds with important events than the period devoted to efforts in bringing the destitute classes of Glasgow under the influence of Christian ministrations. Whether in the pulpit, in the discharge of his parochial duties, in the construction of his noble schemes for social melioration, or in the bosom of his family, Dr. Chalmers always appears the same whole-hearted, frank, generous, energetic man, commanding our admiration by the splendor of his intellect, and winning our esteem by the loveliness of his character. Some interesting reminiscences of the powerful but erratic preacher, Edward Irving, who was at one time the assistant of Dr. Chalmers in the Tron Church, are presented in this volume.

_History of Propellers and Steam Navigation_, by ROBERT MACFARLANE (G.P. Putnam), is the title of a useful work, describing most of the propelling methods that have been invented, which may prevent ingenious men from wasting their time, talents, and money on visionary projects. It also gives a history of the attempts of the early inventors in this department of practical mechanics, including copious notices of Fitch, Rumsey, Fulton, Symington, and Bell. A separate chapter, devoted to Marine Navigation, presents a good deal of information on the subject rarely met with in this country.

_The Country Year-Book; or, The Field, The Forest, and The Fireside_ (Harper and Brothers), is the title of a new rural volume by the bluff, burly, egotistic, but good-natured and humane Quaker, WILLIAM HOWITT, filled with charming descriptions of English country life, redolent of the perfume of bean-fields and hedge-rows, overflowing with the affluent treasures of the four seasons, rich in quaint, expressive sketches of old-fashioned manners, and pervaded by a generous zeal in the cause of popular improvement. A more genial and agreeable companion for an autumn afternoon or a winter's evening could scarcely be selected in the shape of a book.

_Success in Life. The Mechanic_, by Mrs. L.C. TUTHILL, published by G.P. Putnam, is a little volume belonging to a series, intended to illustrate the importance of sound principles and virtuous conduct to the attainment of worldly prosperity. Without believing in the necessary connection between good character and success in business, we may say, that the examples brought forward by Mrs. Tuthill are of a striking nature, and adapted to produce a deep and wholesome impression. In the present work, she avails herself of incidents in the history of John Fitch, Dr. Franklin, Robert Fulton, and Eli Whitney, showing the obstacles which they were compelled to encounter, and the energy with which they struggled with difficulties. She writes in a lively and pleasing manner; her productions are distinguished for their elevated moral tone; and they can scarcely fail to become favorites with the public.

_Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet; An Autobiography_, is the quaint title of a political and religious novel, understood to be written by a clergyman of the Church of England, which is said to have fallen like a bomb-shell on the old-fashioned schools of political economy in that country. It purports to be the history of a youth of genius, doomed to struggle with the most abject poverty, and forced by the necessity of his position to become a Chartist and a Radical. Brought up in the sternest school of ultra-Calvinism, he passes by natural transitions from a state of hopeless and desperate infidelity, to a milder and more cheerful religious faith, and having taken an active part in schemes for the melioration of society by political action, he learns by experience the necessity of spiritual influences for the emancipation of the people. The tone of the narrative is vehement, austere, and often indignant; never vindictive; and softened at intervals by a genuine gush of poetic sentiment. With great skill in depicting the social evils which are preying on the aged heart of England, the author is vague and fragmentary in his statement of remedies, and leads us to doubt whether he has discovered the true "Balm of Gilead" for the healing of nations. The book abounds with weighty suggestions, urgent appeals, vivid pictures of popular wretchedness, deep sympathy with suffering, and a pure devotion to the finer and nobler instincts of humanity. With all its outpouring of fiery radicalisms, it is intended to exert a reconciling influence, to bring the different classes of society into a nearer acquaintanceship, and to oppose the progress of licentious and destructive tendencies, by enforcing the principles of thorough reform. Such a work can not but be read with general interest. Its strong humanitary spirit will recommend it to a large class of readers, while its acknowledged merits as a work of fiction will attract the literary amateur.--Published by Harper and Brothers.

_The Builder's Companion_, and _The Cabinetmaker and Upholsterer's Companion_, are two recent volumes of the _Practical Series_, published by H.C. Baird, Philadelphia, reprinted from English works of standard excellence. They present a mass of valuable scientific information, with succinct descriptions of various mechanical processes, and are well suited to promote an intelligent interest in industrial pursuits.

_Lessons from the History of Medical Delusions_ (Baker and Scribner), is a Prize Essay by Dr. WORTHINGTON HOOKER, whose former work on a similar subject has given him considerable reputation as a writer in the department of medical literature. He is a devoted adherent to the old system of practice, and spares no pains to expose what he deems the quackeries of modern times. His volume is less positive than critical, and contains but a small amount of practical instruction. There are many of his suggestions, however, which can not be perused without exciting profound reflection.

RUSCHENBERGER'S _Lexicon of Terms used in Natural History_, a valuable manual for the common use of the student, is published by Lippincott, Grambo, and Co., Philadelphia.

Another volume of LAMARTINE'S _Confidences_, translated from the French, under the title of _Additional Memoirs of My Youth_, is published by Harper and Brothers, and can not fail to excite the same interest which has been called forth by the previous autobiographical disclosures of the author. It is written in the rich, glowing, poetical style in which LAMARTINE delights to clothe his early recollections, and with a naïve frankness of communication equal to that of Rousseau, is pervaded with a tone of tender, elevated, and religious sentiment. The description of a troop of family friends gives a lively tableau of the old school of French gentlemen, and furnishes the occasion for the picturesque delineation of manners, in which LAMARTINE commands such an admirable pen. The Confessions would not be complete without one or two love episodes, which are accordingly presented in a sufficiently romantic environment.

Harper and Brothers have published a cheap edition of _Genevieve_, translated from the French of LAMARTINE, by A.R. SCOBLE. This novel, intended to illustrate the condition of humble life in France, and to furnish popular, moral reading for the masses, is written with more simplicity than we usually find in the productions of Lamartine, and contains many scenes of deep, pathetic interest. The incidents are not without a considerable tincture of French exaggeration, and are hardly suited, one would suppose, to exert a strong or salutary influence in the sphere of common, prosaic, unromantic duties. As a specimen of the kind of reading which LAMARTINE deems adapted to the moral improvement of his countrymen, _Genevieve_ is a literary curiosity.

Little and Brown, Boston, have published a handsome edition of Prof. ROSE's _Chemical Tables for the Calculation of Quantitative Analyses_, recalculated and improved, by the American Editor, W.P. DEXTER.

Harper and Brothers have issued _The History of Pendennis_, No. 7, which, to say the least, is of equal interest with any of the preceding numbers, showing the same felicitous skill in portraying the every-day aspects of our common life, which has given Thackeray such a brilliant eminence as a painter of manners. The unconscious case with which he hits off a trait of weakness or eccentricity, his truthfulness to nature, his rare common sense, and his subdued, but most effective satire, make him one of the most readable English writers now before the public.

STOCKHARDT'S _Principles of Chemistry_, translated from the German, by C.H. PEIRCE, is published by John Bartlett, Cambridge. This work is accompanied with a high recommendation from Prof. Horsford of Harvard University, which, with its excellent reputation as a textbook in Germany, will cause it to be sought for with eagerness by students of chemistry in our own country.

_Petticoat Government_, by Mrs. TROLLOPE, is the one hundred and forty-eighth number of Harper's _Library of Select Novels_, and in spite of the ill odor attached to the name of the authoress, will be found to exhibit a very considerable degree of talent, great insight into the more vulgar elements of English society, a vein of bitter and caustic satire, and a truly feminine minuteness in the delineation of character. The story is interspersed with dashes of broad humor, and with its piquant, rapid, and not overscrupulous style, will reward the enterprise of perusal.

George P. Putnam has published _A Series of Etchings_, by J.W. EHNINGER, illustrative of Hood's "Bridge of Sighs." The plates, which are eight in number, are executed with a good deal of spirit and taste, representing the principal scenes suggested to the imagination by Hood's exquisitely pathetic poem.

A.S. Barnes and Co. have published _The Elements of Natural Philosophy_, by W.H.C. BARTLETT, being the first of three volumes intended to present a complete system of the science in all its divisions. The present volume is devoted to the subject of Mechanics.

G.P. Putnam has issued a new and improved edition of Prof. CHURCH's _Elements of the Differential and Integral Calculus_.

_Lonz Powers, or the Regulators_, by JAMES WEIR, Esq. (Philadelphia, Lippincott, Grambo, and Co.), is a genuine American romance, written in defiance of all literary precedents, and a vigorous expression of the individuality of the author, as acted on by the wild, exuberant frontier life in the infancy of Western Society. The scenes and characters which are evidently drawn from nature, are portrayed with a bold, dramatic freedom, giving a perpetual vitality and freshness to the narrative, and sustaining the interest of the reader through a succession of adventures, which in the hands of a less skillful chronicler, would have become repulsive by their extravagance and terrible intensity. In addition to the regular progress of the story, the author leads us through a labyrinth of episodes, most of them savoring of the jovial forest life, in which he is so perfectly at home, though dashed with occasional touches of deep pathos. The reflections and criticisms, in which he often indulges to excess, though considerately printed in a different type to show that they may be skipped without damage, are too characteristic to be neglected, and on the whole, we are glad that he had enough verdant frankness to present them to his readers just as they sprung up in his mercurial brain. We imagine that the fame of Milton will survive his attacks, in spite of the mean opinion which he cherishes of the Paradise Lost. With all its exaggerations and eccentricities, Lonz Powers has many of the elements of a superior novel--glowing imagination, truthfulness of description, lively humor, spicy satire, and an acute perception of the fleeting lights and shades of character. If it had ten times its present faults, it would be redeemed from a severe judgment, by its magnetic sympathies, and the fascinating naturalness with which it pours forth its flushed and joyous consciousness of life.

_The History of Xerxes_, by JACOB ABBOTT (Harper and Brothers), is intended for juvenile reading and study, but its freshness and simplicity of manner give it a charm for all ages, making it a delightful refreshment to those who wish to recall the remembrance of youthful studies.

_Universal Dictionary of Weights and Measures_, by J.H. ALEXANDER, published by Wm. Minifie and Co., Baltimore, is a work of remarkable labor and research, presenting a comparative view of the weights and measures of all countries, ancient and modern, reduced to the standards of the United States of America. It is executed in a manner highly creditable to the learning and accuracy of the author, and will be found to possess great practical utility for the man of business as well as the historical student.

_America Discovered_ (New York, J.F. Trow), is the title of an anonymous poem in twelve books, founded on a supposed convention of the heavenly hierarchs among the mountains of Chili in the year 1450, to deliberate on the best mode of making known the American continent to Europeans. Two of their number are elected delegates to present the subject before the Court of Heaven. In the course of their journey, after meeting with various adventures, they fall in with two different worlds, one of which has retained its pristine innocence, while the other has yielded to temptation, and become subject to sin. Their embassy is crowned with success, and one of them is deputed to break the matter to Columbus, whose subsequent history is related at length, from his first longings to discover a new world till the final consummation of his enterprise. The poet, it will be seen, soars into the highest supernal spheres, but, in our opinion, displays more ambition than discretion. He does not often come down safe from his lofty flights to solid ground.

_Christianity Revived in the East_, by H.G.O. DWIGHT (Baker and Scribner), is a modest narrative of missionary operations among the Armenians of Turkey, in which the author was personally engaged for a series of several years. The volume describes many interesting features of Oriental life, and presents a vivid picture of the toils and sacrifices by which a new impulse was given to the progress of Christianity in the East. The suggestions of the author with regard to the prosecution of the missionary enterprise are characterized by earnestness and good sense, but they are sometimes protracted to so great an extent as to become tedious to the general reader.

_Grahame; or, Youth and Manhood_ (Baker and Scribner), is the title of a new romance by the author of _Talbot and Vernon_, displaying a natural facility for picturesque writing in numerous isolated passages, but destitute of the sustained vigor and inventive skill which would place it in the highest rank of fictitious composition. The scene, which is frequently shifted, without sufficient regard to the locomotive faculties of the reader, betrays occasional inaccuracies and anachronisms, showing the hand of a writer who has not gained a perfect mastery of his materials. Like the previous work of the same author, the novel is intended to support a certain didactic principle, but for the accomplishment of this purpose, recourse is had to an awkward and improbable plot, many of the details of which are, in a high degree, unnatural, and often grossly revolting. The pure intentions of the writer redeem his work from the charge of immorality, but do not set aside the objections, in an artistic point of view, which arise from the primary incidents on which the story is founded. Still, we are bound to confess, that the novel, as a whole, indicates a freshness and fervor of feeling, a ready perception of the multifarious aspects of character and society, a lively appreciation of natural beauty, and a racy vigor of expression, which produce a strong conviction of the ability of the author, and awaken the hope that the more mature offerings of his genius may be contributions of sterling value to our native literature.

_George Castriot, surnamed Scandeberg, King of Albania_, by CLEMENT C. MOORE (D. Appleton and Co.), is an agreeable piece of biography, which owes its interest no less to the simplicity and excellent taste of the narrative, than to the romantic adventures of its subject. Castriot was a hero of the fifteenth century, who gained a wide renown for his exploits in the warfare of the Christians against the Turks, as well as for the noble and attractive qualities of his private character. Dr. Moore has made free use of one of the early chronicles, in the construction of his narrative, and exhibits rare skill in clothing the events in a modern costume, while he retains certain quaint and expressive touches of the antique.

George P. Putnam has issued the second volume of _The Leather Stocking Tales_, by J. FENIMORE COOPER, in the author's revised edition, containing _The Last of the Mohicans_, to which characteristic and powerful work Mr. Cooper is so largely indebted for his world-wide reputation. He will lose nothing by the reprint of these masterly Tales, as they will introduce him to a new circle of younger readers, while the enthusiasm of his old admirers can not fail to be increased with every fresh perusal of the experiences of the inimitable Leather Stocking.

C.M. Saxton has published a neat edition of Professor JOHNSTON'S _Lectures on the Relations of Science and Agriculture_, which produced a very favorable impression when delivered before the New York State Agricultural Society, and the Members of the Legislature, in the month of January last. Among the subjects discussed in this volume, are the relations of physical geography, of geology, and mineralogy, of botany, vegetable physiology, and zoology to practical agriculture; the connection of chemistry with the practical improvement of the soil, and with the principles of vegetable and animal growth; and the influence of scientific knowledge on the general elevation of the agricultural classes. These lectures present a lucid exposition of the latest discoveries in agricultural chemistry, and it is stated by competent judges, that their practical adaptation to the business of the farmer will gain the confidence of every cultivator of the soil by whom they are perused.

An elaborate work from the pen of a native Jew, entitled _A Descriptive Geography of Palestine_, by RABBI JOSEPH SCHWARTZ, has been translated from the Hebrew by ISAAC LEESER, and published by A. Hart, Philadelphia. The author, who resided for sixteen years in the Holy Land, claims to have possessed peculiar advantages for the preparation of a work on this subject, in his knowledge of the languages necessary for successful discovery, and in the results of personal observations continued for several years with uncommon zeal and assiduity. The volume is handsomely embellished with maps and pictorial illustrations, the latter from the hand of a Jewish artist, and appears, in all respects, to be well adapted to the race, for whose use it is especially intended.

_The Life of Commodore Talbot_, by HENRY T. TUCKERMAN (New York, J.C. Riker), was originally intended for the series of American Biography, edited by President Sparks, but on the suspension of that work, was prepared for publication in a separate volume. Commodore Talbot was born in Bristol county, Massachusetts, and at an early age commenced a seafaring life in the coasting trade, between Rhode Island and the Southern States. Soon after the breaking out of the Revolution--having been present at the siege of Boston as a volunteer--he offered his services to General Washington, and was at once employed in the discharge of arduous and responsible duties. At a subsequent period, after having distinguished himself by various exploits of almost reckless valor, he received a commission as Captain in the Navy of the United States. His death took place in 1813, in the city of New York, and his remains were interred under Trinity Church. Mr. Tuckerman has gathered up, with commendable industry, the facts in his career, which had almost faded from the memory, and rescued from oblivion the name of a brave commander and devoted patriot. The biography abounds with interesting incidents, which, as presented in the flowing and graceful narrative of the author, richly reward perusal, as well as present the character of the subject in a very attractive light. Several pleasing episodes are introduced in the course of the volume, which relieve it from all tendency to dryness and monotony.

_The Quarterlies for October._--The first on our table is _The American Biblical Repository_, edited by J.M. SHERWOOD (New York), commencing with an article on "The Hebrew Theocracy," by Rev. E.C. Wines, which presents, in a condensed form, the views which have been brought before the public by that gentleman in his popular lectures on Jewish Polity. "The Position of the Christian Scholar" is discussed in a sound and substantial essay, by Rev. Albert Barnes. Dyer's "Life of Calvin" receives a summary condemnation at the hands of a sturdy advocate of the Five Points. Professor Tayler Lewis contributes a learned dissertation on the "Names for Soul" among the Hebrews, as an argument for the immortality of the soul. Other articles are on Lucian's "de Morte Peregrini," "The Relations of the Church to the Young," "The Harmony of Science and Revelation," and "Secular and Christian Civilization." The number closes with several "Literary and Critical Notices," written, for the most part, with ability and fairness, though occasionally betraying the influence of strong theological predilections.

_The North American Review_ sustains the character for learned disquisition, superficial elegance, and freedom from progressive and liberal ideas, which have formed its principal distinction under the administration of its present editor. This venerable periodical, now in its thirty-eighth year, has been, in some sense, identified with the history of American literature, although it can by no means be regarded as an exponent of its present aspect and tendencies. It belongs essentially to a past age, and shows no sympathy with the earnest, aspiring, and aggressive traits of the American character. Indeed its spirit is more in accordance with the timid and selfish conservatism of Europe, than with the free, bold, and hopeful temperament of our Republic. The subjects to which the present number is mainly devoted, as well as the manner in which they are treated, indicate the peculiar tastes of the Review, and give a fair specimen of its recent average character. The principal articles are on "Mahomet and his Successors," "The Navigation of the Ancients," "Slavic Language and Literature," "Cumming's Hunter's Life," "The Homeric Question," all of which are chiefly made up from the works under review, presenting admirable models of tasteful compilation and abridgment, but singularly destitute of originality, freshness, and point. An article on "Everett's Orations" pays an appreciative tribute to the literary and rhetorical merits of that eminent scholar. "The Works of John Adams" receive an appropriate notice. "Furness's History of Jesus" is reviewed in a feeble and shallow style, unworthy the magnitude of the heresy attacked, and the number closes with a clever summary of "Laing's Observations on Europe," and one or two "Critical Notices."

The _Methodist Quarterly Review_ opens with a second paper on "Morell's Philosophy of Religion," in which the positions of that writer are submitted to a severe logical examination. The conclusions of the reviewer may be learned from the passage which closes the article. "We believe Mr. Morell to be a sincere and earnest man, one who reverences Christianity, and really desires its advancement, but we also believe that for this very reason his influence may be the more pernicious; for in attempting to make a compromise with the enemies of truth, he has compromised truth itself; and in abandoning what he deemed mere antiquated outposts to the foe, he has surrendered the very citadel." The next article is a profound and learned statement of the "Latest Results of Ethnology," translated from the German of Dr. G.L. KRIEGK. This is followed by a discussion of the character of John Calvin, as a scholar, a theologian, and a reformer. The writer commends the manifest impartiality of Dyer's "Life of Calvin," although he believes that it will not be popular with the "blind admirers of the Genevan Reformer, and that the Roman Catholics, as in duty bound, will prefer the caricature of Monsieur Audin." "The Church and China," "Bishop Warburton," and "California," are the subjects of able articles, and the number closes with a variety of short reviews, miscellanies, and intelligence. The last named department is not so rich in the present number, as we usually find it, owing probably to the absence of Prof. M'Clintock in Europe, whose cultivated taste, comprehensive learning, and literary vigilance admirably qualify him to give a record of intellectual progress in every civilized country, such as we look for in vain in any contemporary periodical.

_The Christian Review_ is a model of religious periodical literature, not exclusively devoted to theological subjects, but discussing the leading questions of the day, political, social, and literary, in addition to those belonging to its peculiar sphere, from a Christian point of view, and almost uniformly with great learning, vigor, profoundness, and urbanity, and always with good taste and exemplary candor. The present number has a large proportion of articles of universal interest, among which we may refer to those on "Socialism in the United States," and "The Territories on the Pacific," as presenting a succinct view of the subjects treated of, and valuable no less for the important information they present, than for the clearness and strength with which the positions of the writers are sustained. The first of these articles is from the pen of Rev. Samuel Osgood, minister of the Church of the Messiah, in this city, and the other is by Prof. W. Gammel, of Brown University. "The Confessions of Saint Augustine," "The Apostolical Constitutions," "Philosophical Theology," and a critical examination of the passage in Joshua describing the miracle of the sun standing still, are more especially attractive to the theological reader, while a brilliant and original essay on "Spirit and Form," by Rev. Mr. Turnbull, can not fail to draw the attention of the lovers of æsthetic disquisition. The brief sketches of President Taylor and of Neander are written with judgment and ability, and the "Notices of New Publications" give a well-digested survey of the current literature of the last three months. The diligence and zeal exhibited in this department, both by the Christian Review and the Methodist Quarterly present a favorable contrast to the disgraceful poverty of the North American in a branch which was admirably sustained under the editorship of President Sparks and Dr. Palfrey.

_Brownson's Quarterly_ is characterized by the extravagance of statement, the rash and sweeping criticisms, and the ecclesiastical exclusiveness for which it has obtained an unenviable preeminence. Its principal articles are on "Gioberti," "The Confessional," "Dana's Poems and Prose Writings," and the "Cuban Expedition." Some inferences may be drawn as to the Editor's taste in poetry from his remarks on Tennyson, in whom he "can discover no other merit than harmonious verse and a little namby-pamby sentiment." He strikes the discriminating reviewer as "a man of feeble intellect," and "a poet for puny transcendentalists, beardless boys, and miss in her teens."

Fashions for November.

As the cold weather approaches, different shades of brown, dust color, green, and other grave hues, predominate, diversified with pink, blue, lilac, and purple. The beautiful season of the Indian Summer, which prevails with us in November, allows the use of out-of-door costume, of a character similar to that of September, the temperature being too high to require cloaks or pelises. Bonnets composed of Leghorn and fancy straws, are appropriate for the season. They are trimmed with _noeuds_ of pink, straw color, and white silk, which are used to decorate Florence straws. These are ornamented, in the interior, with _mancini_, or bunches of harebells, heaths, and jacinths, intermixed with rose-buds and light foliage. There are plain and simple _pailles de riz_, having no other ornament than a kind of _noeud_ of white silk, placed at the side, and the interior of the front lined with pink or white _tulle_, and clusters of jacinths, tuberoses, and rose-buds, forming a most charming _mélange_. Fancy straws, called _paille de Lausanne_, are very fashionable abroad, resembling embroideries of straw, and trimmed with a bouquet of the wild red poppies, half blown, while those which are placed next the face are of a softer hue, with strings of straw colored silk ribbon.

FIG. 1 represents a graceful afternoon promenade costume, and a carriage costume. The figure on the left shows the promenade costume. The dress is made quite plain, with low body and long sleeves, with cuffs of plain fulled muslin; chemisette of lace, reaching to the throat, and finished with a narrow row encircling the neck. _Pardessus_ of silk or satin, trimmed in an elegant manner, with lace of the same color, three rows of which encircle the lower part, and two rows the half long sleeves. These rows are of broader lace than the rows placed on either side of the front of the _pardessus_. Drawn white crape bonnet, decorated with small straw colored flowers, both in the interior and on the exterior.

The figure on the right shows the carriage costume. It is a dress of pale pink _poult de soié_; the corsage, high on the shoulders, opens a little in the front. It has a small cape, falling deep at the back, and narrowing toward the point, pinked at the edge; the waist and point long; the sleeves reach but a very little below the elbow, and are finished with broad lace ruffles. The skirt has three deep scalloped flounces, a beautiful spray of leaves being embroidered in each scallop. Manteau of India muslin, trimmed with a broad frill, the embroidering of which corresponds with the flowers of the dress. The bonnet of _paille de riz_; trimmed inside and out with bunches of roses; the form very open. There are others of the same delicate description, lined with pink _tulle_, and decorated with tips of small feathers, shaded pink and white, or terminated with tips of pink _marabout_.

FIG. 2 represents a morning costume. Dress high, with a small ruffle and silk cravat. The material is plain _mousseline de soié_, white, with a small frill protruding from the slightly open front. The body is full, and the skirt has a broad figured green stripe. Sleeves full and demi-long, with broad lace ruffles. The skirt is very full, and has three deep flounces.

FIG. 3 is a plain, and very neat costume for the opera. The body, composed of blue or green silk, satin, or velvet, fits closely. The sleeves are also tight to the elbows, when they enlarge and are turned over, exhibiting a rich lining of pink or orange, with scalloped edges. The corsage is open in front, and turned over, with a collar, made of material like that of the sleeves, and also scalloped. Chemisette of lace, finished at the throat with a fulled band and _petite_ ruffle. Figures 2 and 3 show patterns of the extremely simple CAPS now in fashion; simple, both in their form and the manner in which they are trimmed. Those for young ladies partake mostly of the lappet form, simply decorated with a pretty _noeud_ of ribbon, from which droop graceful streamers of the same, or confined on each side the head with half-wreaths of the wild rose, or some other very light flower. Those intended for ladies of a more advanced age are of a _petit_ round form, and composed of a perfect cloud of _gaze_, or _tulle_, intermixed with flowers.

TRAVELING DRESSES are principally composed of _foulard coutit_, or of flowered jaconets, with the _cassaquette_ of the same material. Plain cachmires are also much used, because they are not liable to crease. They are generally accompanied by _pardessus_ of the same material. When the dress is of a sombre hue, the trimmings are of a different color, so as to enliven and enrich them. The skirts are made quite plain, but very long and of a moderate breadth; the bodies high and plain, and embroidered up the fronts.

Transcriber's Notes:

Words surrounded by _ are italicized.

Obvious punctuation errors have been repaired, other punctuations have been left as printed in the paper book.

Captions added to captionless illustrations.

Obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent spellings have been kept, including: - use of hyphen (e.g. "birth-day" and "birthday"); - any other inconsistent spellings (e.g. "panel" and "pannel").

Following proper names have been corrected: - Pg 728, "Fanueil" corrected to be "Faneuil" (Faneuil Hall). - Pg 773, "Hazledeans" corrected to be "Hazeldeans" (The Hazeldeans in chorus) and "Higgingbotham's" corrected to be "Higginbotham's" (Captain Higginbotham's lead). - Pg 800, "Agatha mother's" corrected to be "Agatha's mother" (found Agatha's mother alone). - Pg 846, "tartantula" corrected to be "tarantula" (bite of a tarantula). - Pg 860, "Lowz" corrected to be "Lonz" (Lonz Powers). - Pg 860, "Minifee" corrected to be "Minifie" (Wm. Minifie and Co.).

Following corrections are by removal or addition of a word: - Pg 723, word "by" removed (surrounded by [by] tall trees). - Pg 781, word "in" added (and in spite of). - Pg 801, word "I" added (that I was not sorry). - Pg 855, word "are" removed (there are [are] thirty-two).