Figure 1: The Child and Flowers

painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, engraved by W. Humphreys

The Child and Flowers By Mrs. Hemans

Ballad from the Norman French By J.G. Lockhart Esq.

Sonnets By Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart

The City of the Dead By L.E.L.

Night and Death By the Rev. Joseph Blanco White

The Wanderings of Cain: A Fragment. By S.T. Coleridge, Esq.

1     "A LITTLE further, O my father, yet a little farther, and we shall come into the open moonlight!" Their road was through a forest of fir- trees; at its entrance the trees stood at distances from each other, and the path was broad, and the moonlight, and the moonlight shadows reposed upon it, and appeared quietly to inhabit that solitude. But soon the path winded and became narrow; the sun at high noon sometimes speckled, but never illumined it, and now it was dark as a cavern.

2     "It is dark, O my father!" said Enos, "but the path under our feet is mooth and soft, and we shall soon come out into the open moonlight. Ah, why dost thou groan so deeply?"

3     "Lead on my child," said Cain, "guide me, little child." And the innocent little child clasped a finger of the hand which had murdered the righteous Abel, and he guided his father. "The fir branches drip upon thee my son." -- "Yea, pleasantly, father, for I ran fast and eagerly to bring thee the pitcher and the

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cake, and my body is not yet cool. How happy the squirrels are that feed on these fir trees! they leap from bough to bough, and the old squirrels play round their young ones in the nest. I clomb a tree yesterday at noon, O my father, that I might play with them, but they leapt away from the branches, even to the slender twigs did they leap, and in amoment I beheld them on antoher tree. Why, O my fahter, would they not play with me? Is it because we are not so happy as they? Is it because I groan sometimes even as thou groanest?" Then Cain stopped and stifling his groans, he sank to the earth, and the child Enos stood in the darkness beside him; and Cain lifted up his voice, and cried bitterly, and said, "The Mighty One that persecuteth me is on this side and on that; he pursueth my soul like the wind, like the sand- blast he passeth through me; he is around me even as the air, O that I might be utterly no more! I desire to die -- yea, the things that never had life, neither move they upon the earth -- behold they seem precious to mine eyes. O that a man might live without the breath of his nostrils, so I might abide in darkness and blackness, and an empty space! Yea, I would lie down, I would not rise, neither would I stir my limbs till I became as the rock in the den of the lion, on which the young lion resteth his head whilst he sleepeth. For the torrent that roareth far off hath a voice; and the clouds in heaven look terribly on me; the mighty one who is against me speaketh in

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the wind of the cedar grove; and in silence I am dried up." Then Enos spake to his father, "Arise my father, arise, we are but a little way from the place where I found the cake and the pitcher;" and Cain said, "How knowest thou?" and the child answered -- "Behold, the bare rocks are a few of they strides distant from the forest; and while even now thou wert lifting up thy voice, I heard the echo." Then the child took hold of his father, as if he would raise him, and Cain being faint and feeble rose slowly on his knees and pressed himself against the trunk of a fir, and stood upright and followed the child. The path was dark till within three strides' length of its termination when it turned suddenly; the thick black trees formed a low arch, and the moonlight appeared for a moment like a dazzling portal. Enos ran before and stood in the open air; and when Cain, his father, emerged from the darkness the child was affrighted, for the mighty limbs of Cain were wasted as by fire; his hair was black, and matted into loathly curls, and his countenance was dark and wild, and told in a strange and terrible language of agonies that had been, and were, and were still to continue to be.

4     The scene around was desolate; as far as the eye could reach, it was desolate; the bare rocks faced each other, and left a long and wide interval of their white sand. You might wander on and look round and round, and peep into the crevices of the rocks, and discover nothing that acknowledged the in-

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fluence of the seasons. There was no spring, no summer, no autumn, and the winter's snow that would have been lovely, fell not on these hot rocks and scorching sands. Never morning lark had poised himself over this desert; but the huge serpent often hissed there beneath the talons of the vulture, and the vulture screamed, his wings imprisoned within the coilds of the serpent. The pointed and shattered summits of the ridges of the rocks made a rude mimicry of human concerns, and seemed to prophecy mutely of things that then were not; steeples, and battlements, and ships with naked masts. As far from the wood as a boy might sling a pebble of the brook, there was one rock by itself at a small distance from the main ridge. It had been precipitated there perhaps by the terrible groan the earth gave when our first father fell. Before you approached, it appeared to lie flat on the ground, but its base slanted from its point, and between its points and the sands a tall man might stand upright. It was here that Enos had found the pitcher and cake, and to this place he led his father. But ere they arrived there they beheld a human shape; his back was towards them, and they were coming up unperceived when they heard him smite his breast and cry aloud, "Wo, is me! wo, is me! I must never die again, and yet I am perishing with thirst and hunger."

5     The face of Cain turned pale; but Enos said, "Ere yet I could speak, I am sure, O my father, that

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I heard that voice. Have not I often said that I remembered a sweet voice. O my father! this is it;" and Cain trembled exceedingly. The voice was sweet indeed, but it was thin and querulous like that of a feeble slave in misery, who despairs altogether, yet can not refrain himself from weeping and lamentation. Enos crept softly round the base of the rock, and stood before the stranger, and looked up into his face. And the Shape shrieked, and turned round, and Cain beheld him, that his limbs and his face were those of his brother Abel whom he had killed; and Cain stood like one who struggles in his sleep because of the exceeding terribleness of a dream; and ere he had recovered himself from the tumult of his agitation, the Shape fell at this feet, and embraced his knees, and cried out with a bitter outcry, "Thou eldest born of Adam, whom Eve, my mother, brought forth, cease to torment me! I was feeding my flocks in green pastures by the side of quiet rivers, and thou killedst me; and now I am in misery." Then Cain closed his eyes, and hid them with his hands -- and again he opened his eyes, and looked around him, and said to Enos "What beholdest thou? Didst thou hear a voice, my son?" "Yes, my father, I beheld a man in unclean garments, and he uttered a sweet voice, full of lamentation." Then Cain raised up the shape that was like Abel, and said, "The creator of our father, who had

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respect unto thee, and unto thy offering, wherefore hath he forsaken thee?" Then the Shape shrieked a second time, and rent his garment, and his naked skin was like the white sands beneath their feet; and he shrieked yet a third time, and threw himself on his face upon the sand that was black with the shadow of the rock, and Cain and Enos sate beside him; the child by his right hand, and Cain by his left. They were all three under the rock, and within the shadow. The Shape that was like Abel raised himself up, and spake to the child; "I know where the cold , waters are, but I may not drink, wherefore didst thou then take away my pitcher?" but Cain said, "Didst thou not find favour in the sight of the Lord thy god?" The Shape answered, "The Lord is God of the living only, the dead have another god." Then the child Enos lifted up his eyes and prayed; but Cain rejoiced secretly in his heart. "Wretched shall they be all the days of their mortal life," exclaimed the Shape, "who sacrifice worthy and acceptable sacrifices to the God of the dead; but after death their toil ceaseth. Woe is me, for I was well beloved by the God of the living, and cruel wert thou, O my brother, who didst snatch me away from his power and his dominion." Having uttered these words, he rose suddenly, and fled over the sands, and Cain said in his heart, "The curse of the lords is on me -- but who is the God of the dead?" and he ran after the shape, and the Shape fled

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shrieking over the sands, and the sands rose like white mists behind the steps of Cain, but the feet of him that was not like Abel disturbed not the sands. He greatly outrun Cain, and turning short, he wheeled round, and came again to the rock where they had been sitting, and where Enos still stood; and the child caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and that theman had fallen upon the ground; and Cain stopped, and beholding him not, said, "he has passed into the dark woods," and walked slowly back to the rocks, and when he reached it the child told him that he had caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and that the man had fallen upon the ground; and Cain once more sat beside him, and said -- "Abel, my brother, I would lament for thee, but that the spirit within me is withered, and burnt up with extreme agony. Now, I pray thee, by thy flocks and by thy pastures, and by the quiet rivers which thou lovest, that thou tell me all that thou knowest. Who is the God of the dead? where doth he make his dwelling? what sacrifices are acceptable unto him? for I have offered, but have not been received; I have prayed, and have not been heard; and how can I be afflicted more than I already am?" The Shape arose and answered -- "O that thou hadst had pity on me as I will have pity on thee. Follow me, son of Adam! and bring thy child with thee:" and they three passed over the white sands between the rocks, silent as their shadows.

Verses for an Album By Charles Lamb, Esq.

Lines Written in the Vale of Zoar, Coast of Arabia By Charles Lamb, Esq.

An Aged Widow's Own Words By James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd

From the Italian By Unknown

Work Without Hope. Lines Composed on a Day in February By S.T. Coleridge, Esq.

The Poet Warrior By Allan Cunningham

The Rose By Sir Thomas E. Croft, Bart.

To My Child By B.C.

Figure 2: Sir Walter Scott and Family

painted by David Wilkie, Esq., engraved by W. H. Worthington

Letter from Sir Walter Scott, Bart. By Sir Walter Scott, Bart.

1     LETTER FROM SIR WALTER SCOTT TO SIR ADAM FERGUSON, DESCRIPTIVE OF A PICTURE PAINTED AT ABBOTSFORD BY DAVID WILKIE, ESQ. R. A., AND EXHIBITED AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY IN 1818.

2     MY DEAR ADAM -- The picture you mention has something in it of rather a domestic character, as the personages are represented in a sort of masquerade, such being the pleasure of the accomplished painter. Nevertheless, if you, the proprietor, incline to have it engraved, I do not see that I am entitled to make any objection.

3     But Mr. * * * mentions besides, a desire to have anecdotes of my private and domestic life, or, as he expresses himslef, a portrait of the author in his nightgown and slippers; -- and this form you, who, I dare say, could furnish some anecdotes of our younger days which might now seem ludicrous enough. Even as to my night gown and slippers, I believe the time has been when the articles of my wardrobe were as familiar to your memory as Poins's

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to Prince Henry, but that period has been for some years past, and I cannot think it would be interesting to the public to learn that I had changed my old robe-de-chambre for a handsome douillette, when I was last at Paris.

4     The truth is, that a man of ordinary sense cannot be supposed delighted with the species of gossip which, in the dearth of other news, recurs to such a quiet individual as myself; and though, like a well-behaved lion of twenty years standing, I am not inclined to vex myself about what I cannot help, I will not, in any case in which I can prevent it, be acessary to these follies. There is no man known at all in literature who may not have more to tell of his private life than I have: I have surmounted no difficulties either of birth or education, nor have I been favored by any particular advantages, and my life has been as void of incidents of importance, as that of the "weary knife-grinder."

5     "Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, Sir."

6     The follies of youth ought long since to have passed away; and if the prejudices and absurdities of age have come in their place, I will keep them, as Beau Tibbs did his prospect, for the amusement of my domestic friends. A mere enumeration of the persons in the sketch is all which I can possible permit to be published respecting myself and my

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family; and, as must be the lot of humanity when we look back seven or eight years, even what follows cannot be drawn up without some very painful recollections.

7     The idea which our inimitable Wilkie adopted ws to represent our family group in the garb of south-country peasants, supposed to be concerting a merry-making, for which some of the preparations are seen. The place is the terrace near Kayside, commanding an extensive view toward the Eildon-hills. 1. The sitting figure, in the dress of a miller, I believe, represents Sir Walter Scott, author of a few scores of volumes, and proprietor of Abbotsford, in the County of Roxburgh. 2. In front, and presenting, we may suppose, a country wag somewhat addicted to poaching, stands sir Adam Ferguson, Knight, Keeper of the Regalia of Scotland. 3. In the background is a very handsome old man, upwards of eighty-four years old at the time, painted in his own character of a shepherd. He also belonged to numerous clan of Scott. He used to claim credit for three things unusual among the southland shepherds: first, that he had never been fou in the course of his life; secondly, that he never had struck a man in anger; thirdly, that though entrusted with the the management of large sales of stock, he had never lost a penny for his master by a bad debt. He died soon aterwards at Abbotsford. 4, 5, 6. Of the three female figures

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the elder is the late regretted mother of the family represented. 5. The young person most forward in the group is Miss Sophia Charlotte Scott, now Mrs. John Gibson Lockhart; and 6, her younger sister, Miss ann Scott. Both are represented as ewe-milkers, with their leglins, or milk-pails. 7. On the left hand of the shepherd, the young man holding a fowling-piece is the eldest son of Sir Walter, now Captain in King's Hussars. 8. The boy is the youngest of the family, Charles Scott, now of Brazen Nose College, Oxford. The two dogs were distinguished favorites of the family; the large one was a stag-hound of the old Highland breed, called Maida, and one of the hansomest dogs that could be found; it was a present to me from the chief of Glengary, and was highly valued, both on account of his beauty, his fidelity, and the great rarity of the breed. The other is little Highland terrier, called Ourisk (goblin), of a particualr kind, bred in Kintail. It was a present from the honorable Mrs. Stuart Mackenzie, and is a valuable specimen of race which is now also scarce. Maida, like Bran, Lerath, and other dogs of distinction, slumbers "beneath his stone," distinguished by an epitaph, which to the honour of Scottish scholarship be it spoken, has only one false quantity in two lines.

8     Maidae marmorea dormis sub imagine Maida

9     Ad januam domini sit tibi terra levis.

10     Ourisk still survives, but like some other personages in the picture, with talents and temper rather the worse for wear. She has become what Dr. Rutty, the Quaker, records himself in his journal as having sometimes been -- sinfully dogged and snappish.

11     If it should suit Mr. * * *'s purpose to adopt the above illustrations, he is heartily welcome to them, but I make it my especial bargain that nothing more is said upon such a meagre subject.

12     It strikes me, however, that there is a story about old Thomas Scott, the shepherd, which is characteristic, and which I will make your friend welcome to. Tom was, both as a trusted servant, and as a rich fellow in his line, a person of considerable importance among his class in the neighbourhood, and used to stickle a good deal to keep his place in public opinion. Now, he suffered, in his own idea at least, from the consequence assumed by a country neighbour, who, though neither so well reputed for wealth or sagacity as Thomas Scott, had yet an advantage over him, from having seen the late King, and used to take precedence upon all occasions when they chanced to meet. Thomas suffered under this superiority. But after this sketch was finished, and exhibited in London, the newspapers made it known that his present majesty had condescended to take some notice of it. Delighted with the circumstance, Thomas Scott set out on a most oppressively hot day, to walk five miles to Bowden,

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where his rival resided. He had no sooner entered the cottage when he called out in his broad forest dialect -- "Andro', man, did ye anes sey (see) the King?" "In troth did I, Tam," answered Andro'; "sit down, and I'll tell ye a' about it: -- ye sey I was at Lonon, in a place they ca' the park, that is, no like a hained hog-fence, or like the four-nooked parks in this country -- " "Hout awa," said Thomas, "I have heard a' that before: I only came ower the know now to tell you, that, if you have seen the king, the king has seen mey" (me). And so he returned with a jocund heart, assuring his friends "it had done him muckle gude to settle accounts with Andro'."

13     Jocere haec -- as the old Laird of Restalrig writes to the Earl of Gowrie -- farewell my old, tried, and dear friend of forty long years. Our enjoyments must now be of a character less vivid than those we have shared together,

14     But still at our lot it were vain to repine, Youth cannot return, or the days of Lang Syne.

15     Your's Affectionately,

16     Walter Scott.

17     Abbotsford, 2d August, 1827.

The Night before the Battle of Montiel: A Dramatic Sketch From the Spanish of Don Juan Algalaba

[The battle of Montiel was that which determined the fate of Pedro the Cruel. Just ten years before it took place he and Edward the Black Prince had utterly defeated at Nejara Henry (called of Transtamara) Pedro's natural brother, the competitor for the throne of Castile: But in the interval Pedro's cruelties had alienated the affection of his subjects, and the murder of his wife Blanche of Bourbon, sister to the King of France, had stirred up an enemy whom, being deserted by the English Prince, he had no longer any sufficient means to resist.

Jessy of Kibe's Farm By Miss M.R. Mitford

1     ABOUT the centre of a deep winding and woody lane, in the secluded village of Aberleigh, stands an old farm-house, whose stables, out-buildings, and ample yard, have a peculiarly forlorn and deserted appearance; they can, in fact, scarcely be said to be occupied, the person who rents the land preferring to live at a large farm about a mile distant, leaving this lonely house to the care of a labourer and his wife, who reside in one end, and have the charge of a few colts and heifers that run in the orchard and an adjoining meadow, whilst the vacant rooms are tenanted by a widow in humble circumstances and her young family.

2     The house is beautifully situated; deep, as I have said, in a narrow woody lane, which winds between high banks, now feathered with hazel, now thickly studded with pollards and forest trees, until opposite Kibe's farm it widens sufficiently to admit a large clear pond, round which the hedge, closely and regularly set with a row of tall elms, sweeps in a graceful curve, forming for that bright mirror, a rich leafy

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frame. A little way farther on the lane again widens, and makes an abrupter winding, as it is crossed by a broad shallow stream, a branch of the Loddon, which comes meandering along from a chain of beautiful meadows; then turns in a narrower channel by the side of the road, and finally spreads itself into a large piece of water, almost a lakelet, amidst the rushes and the willows of Hartley Moor. A foot-bridge is flung over the stream, where it crosses the lane, which, with a giant oak growing on the bank, and throwing its broad branches far on the opposite side, forms in every season a pretty rural picture.

3     Kibe's farm is as picturesque as its situation; very old, very irregular, with gable ends, clustered chimneys, casement windows, a large porch, and a sort of square wing jutting out even with the porch, and covered with a luxuriant vine, which has quite the effect, especially when seen by moonlight, of an ivy-mantled tower. One side extends the ample but disused farm buildings; on the other the old orchard, whose trees are so wild, so hoary and so huge, as to convey the idea of a fruit forest. Behind the house is an ample kitchen-garden, and before a neat flower court, the exclusive demesne of Mrs. Lucas and family, to whom indeed the labourer, John Miles, and his good wife Dinah, served in some sort as domestics.

4     Mrs. Lucas had known far better days. Her

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husband had been an officer, and died fighting bravely in one of the last battles of the Peninsular war, leaving her with three children, one lovely boy and two delicate girls, to struggle through the world as best she might. She was an accomplished woman, and at first, settled in great town, and endeavoured to improve her small income by teaching music and languages. But she was country bred; her children too had been born in the country, amidst the sweetest recesses of the New Forest, and pining herself for liberty, and solitude, and green fields, and fresh air, she soon began to fancy that her children were visibly deteriorating in health and appearance and pining for them also; and finding that her old servant Dinah Miles was settled with her husband in this deserted farm-house, she applied to his master to rent for a few months the untenanted apartments, came to Aberleigh, and fixed there apparently for life.

5     We lived in different parishes, and she declined company, so that I seldom met Mrs. Lucas, and had lost sight of her for some years, retaining merely a general recollection of the mild, placid, elegant mother, surrounded by three rosy, romping bright-eyed children, when the arrival of an intimate friend at Aberleigh rectory caused me frequently to pass the lonely farm-house, and threw this interesting family again under my observation.

6     The first time that I saw them was on a bright

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summer evening, when the nightingale was yet in the coppice, the briar rose blossoming in the hedge, and the sweet scent of the bean fields perfuming the air. Mrs. Lucas, still lovely and elegant, though somewhat faded and careworn, was walking pensively up and down the grass path of the pretty flower court; her eldest daughter, a rosy bright brunette, with her dark hair floating in all directions, was darting about like bird; now tying up the pinks, now watering the geraniums, now collecting the fallen rose leaves into the straw bonnet which dangled from her arm; and now feeding a brood of bantams from a little barley measure, which that sagacious and active colony seemed to recognise as if by instinct, coming long before she called them at their swiftest pace, between a run and a fly, to await with their usual noisy and bustling patience the showers of grain which she flung to them across the paling. It was a beautiful picture of youth, and health, and happiness; and her clear gay voice, and brilliant smile, accorded well with a shape and motion as light as a butterfly, and as wild as the wind. A beautiful picture was that rosy lass of fifteen in her unconscious loveliness, and I might have continued gazing on her longer, had I not been attracted by an object no less charming, although in a very different way.

7     It was a slight elegant girl, apparently about a year younger than the pretty romp of the flower

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garden, not unlike her in form and feature, but totally distinct in colouring and expression.

8     She sate in the old porch, wreathed with jessamine and honeysuckle, with the western sun floating around her like a glory, and displaying the singular beauty of her chesnut hair, brown with a golden light, and the exceeding delicacy of ther smooth and finely grained complexion, so pale, and yet so healthful. Her whole face and form had a bending and statue-like grace, encreased by the adjustment of her splendid hair, which was parted on her white forehead, and gathered up behind in a large knot -- a natural coronet. Her eyebrows and long eyelashes were a few shades darker than her hair, and singularly rich and beautiful. She was plaiting straw rapidly and skilfully, and bent over her work with a mild and placid attention, a sedate pensiveness that did not belong to her age, and which contrasted strangely and sadly with the gaiety of her laughing and brilliant sister, who at this moment darted up to her with a handful of pinks and some groundsel. Jessy received them with a smile -- such a smile! -- spoke a few sweet words in a sweet sighing voice; put the flowers in her bosom, and the groundsel in the cage of a linnet that hung near her; and then resumed her seat and her work, imitating better than I have ever heard them imitated, the various notes of a

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nightingale who was singing in the opposite hedge; whilst I, ashamed of loitering longer, passed on.

9     The next time I saw her, my interest in this lovely creature was increased tenfold -- for I then knew that Jessy was blind -- a misfortune always so touching, especially in early youth, and in her case rendered peculiarly affecting by the personal character of the individual. We soon became acquainted, and even intimate under the benign auspices of the kind mistress of the rectory; and every interview served to encrease the interest excited by the whole family, and most of all by the sweet blind girl.

10     Never was any human being more gentle generous, and grateful, or more unfeignedly resigned to her great calamity. The pensiveness that marked her character arose as I soon perceived from a different source. Her blindness had been of recent occurrence, arising from inflammation unskilfully treated, and was pronounced incurable; but from coming on so lately, it admitted of several alleviations, of which she was accustomed to speak with a devout and tender gratitude. "She could work," she said, "as well as ever; and cut out, and write, and dress herself, and keep the keys, and run errands in the house she knew so well without making any mistake or confusion. Reading, to be sure, she had been forced to give up, and drawing:

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and some day or other she would shew me, only that it seemed so vain, some verses which her dear brother William had written upon a groupe of wild flowers, which she had begun before her misfortune. Oh, it was almost worth while to be blind to be the subject of such verse, and the object of such affection! Her dear mamma was very good to her, and so was Emma; but William -- oh she wished that I knew William! No one could be so kind as he! It was impossible! He read to her; he talked to her; he walked with her; he taught her to feel confidence in walking alone; he had made for her use the wooden steps up the high bank which led into Kibe's meadow; he had put the hand-rail on the old bridge, so that now she could get across without danger, even when the brook was flooded. He had tamed her linnet; he had constructed the wooden frame, by the aid of which she could write so comfortable and evenly; could write letters to him, and say her own self all that she felt of love and gratitude. And that," she continued with a deep sigh, "was her chief comfort now; for William was gone, and they should never meet again -- never alive -- that she was sure of -- she knew it." "But why, Jessy?" "Oh, because William was so much too good for this world: there was nobody like William! And he was gone for a soldier. Old General Lucas, her father's uncle, had sent for him abroad;

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had given him a commission in his regiment; and he would never come home -- at least they should never meet again -- of that she was sure -- she knew it."

11     This persuasion was evidently the master-grief of poor Jessy's life, the cause that far more than her blindness faded her cheek, and saddened her spirit. How it had arisen no one knew; partly, perhaps, from some lurking superstition, some idle word, or idler omen which had taken root in her mind, nourished by the calamity which in other respects she bore so calmly, but which left her so often in darkness and loneliness to brood over her own gloomy forebodings; partly from her trembling sensibility, and partly from the delicacy of frame and of habit which had always characterised the object of her love -- a slender youth, whose ardent spirit was but too apt to overtask his body.

12     However it found admittance, there the presentiment was, hanging like a dark cloud over the sunshine of Jessy's young life. Reasoning was useless. They know little of the passions who seek to argue with that most intractable of them all, the fear that is born of love; so Mrs. Lucas and Emma tried to amuse away those sad thoughts, trusting to time, to William's letters, and above all, to William's return to eradicate the evil.

13     The letters came punctually and gaily; letters

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that might have quieted the heart of any sister in England, except the fluttering heart of Jessy Lucas. William spoke of improved health, of increased strength, of actual promotion, and expected recal. At last he even announced his return under auspices the most gratifying to his mother, and the most beneficial to her family. The regiment was ordered home, and the old and wealthy relation, under whose protection he had already risen so rapidly, had expressed his intention to accompany him to Kibe's farm, to be introduced to his nephew's widow and daughters, especially Jessy, for whom he expressed himself greatly interested. A letter from General Lucas himself, which arrived by the same post, was still more explicit: it adduced the son's admirable character and exemplary conduct as reasons for befriending the mother, and avowed his design of providing for each of his young relatives, and of making William his heir.

14     For half an hour after the first hearing of these letters, Jessy was happy -- till the peril of a Winter voyage (for it was deep January) crossed her imagination, and checked her joy. At length, long before they were expected, another epistle arrived, dated Portsmouth. They had sailed by the next vessel to that which conveyed their previous dispatches, and might be expected hourly at Kibe's farm. The voyage was past, safely past, and the weight seemed

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now really taken from Jessy's heart. She raised her sweet face and smiled; yet still it was a fearful and a trembling joy, and somewhat of fear was mingled even with the very intensity of her hope. It had been a time of rain and wind; and the Loddon, the beautiful Loddon, always so affluent of water, had overflowed its boundaries, and swelled the smaller streams which it fed into torrents. The brook which crossed Kibe's lane had washed away part of the foot-bridge, destroying poor William's railing, and was still foaming and dashing like a cataract. Now that was the nearest way; and if William should insist on coming that way! To be sure, the carriage road was round by Grazely Green, but to cross the brook would save half a mile; and William, dear William, would never think of danger to get to those whom he loved. These were Jessy's thoughts: the fear seemed impossible, for no postillion would think of breasting that roaring stream; but the fond sister's heart was fluttering like a new caught bird, and she feared she knew not what.

15     All day she paced the little court, and stopped and listened, and listened and stopped. About sunset, with the nice sense of sound which seemed to come with her fearful calamity, and that fine sense, quickened by anxiety, expectation, and love, she heard, she thought she heard, she was sure she heard the sound of a carriage rapidly advancing on the

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other side of the stream. "It is only the noise of the rushing waters," cried Emma. "I hear a carriage, the horses, the wheels!" replied Jessy; and darted off at once, with the double purpose of meeting William, and of warning the postillion of crossing the stream. Emma and her mother followed, fast! fast! But what speed could vie with Jessy's, when the object was William? They called, but she neither heard nor answered. Before they had to won to the bend in the lane she had reached the brook; and, long before either of her pursuers had gained the bridge, her foot had slipt from the wet and tottering plank, and she was borne resistlessly down the stream. Assistance was immediately procured; men, and ropes, and boats; for the sweet blind girl was beloved of all, and many a poor man perilled his life in a fruitless endeavor to save Jessy Lucas; and William, too, was there, for Jessy's quickened sense had not deceived her. William was there, struggling with all the strength of love and agony to rescue that dear and helpless creature; but every effort -- although he persevered until he too was taken out senseless -- every effort was vain. The fair corse was recovered, but life was extinct. Poor Jessy's prediction was verified to the letter; and the brother and his favourite sister never met again.

Song By T.K. Hervey, Esq.

Figure 3: Sans Souci

painted by Thomas Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr. Brandard

Sans Souci By L.E.L.

Figure 4: The Warriors

painted by Thomas Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr. Augustus Fox

A Lament for the Decline of Chivalry By Thomas Hood, Esq.

The Purple Evening: Imitated From the German By the Author of "Stray Leaves"

Scotland: an Ode, Written after the King's Visit to that Country By Robert Southey, Esq. Poet Laureat

To a Friend, On Sending a Fancy Drawing, After Promising Her Own Picture in the Character of a Gypsey By Lady Caroline Lamb

On His Majety's Return to Windsor Castle By the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles

The Hellweathers By N.T. Carrington, Author of "Dartmoor"

Imitation from the Persian By Dr. Southey

Figure 5: Suitors Rejected

painted by Mr. W. H. Worthington, engraved by Mr. A. Wright

The Suitors Rejected By Miss Emma Roberts, Author of "The History of the Red and White Roses."

1     "UPON what knave's errand art thou sent, my dainty page thus early?" exclaimed Leonora, "had I not been afoot with the lark to gather May- dew before the sun had drank the moisture from these flowers, thou mightest have gone bootless home again, for my lady the countess, and Victorine and Eugenie still press their pillows: dreaming perchance of thy master and his gallant esquire; dost think boy, that sallow-visaged melancholy baron, sighing after the wreck of the fortune which he lacks the wit to mend, or the doughty hero, Roland, who would fain prompt him, if his dull brain could compass the matter, to some dexterous shift or stirring enterprise; or those goodly trencher men, Dugarde and Montresor, are like to haunt a lady's slumbers?"

2     "Faith, Leonora," replied the page, "it passes my poor judgment to decide what it may please the fancy of thy lady and her maids to dream about; the place is solitary thou knowest -- there are no other cavaliers of any mark or likelihood within a dozen

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miles, they wear feathers in their caps and deck their legs in silken hose, things which women wondrously affect to look upon, and perchance in default of more ruffling gallants, they may be endured."

3     "Now out upon thee, for a saucy varlet," cried Leonora, "hie thee hence, sire page, or thou shalt taste the discipline of the scullion's broom, and be sent roaring home again."

4     "An' thou dost not bid me stay, fair mistress, I'll get me gone, and speedily, but I'll carry that away which to possess thou wouldst give -- aye, the lovelock Roland begged so earnestly last night, which thou sworest should go with thee to thy grave -- a secret, Leonora."

5     "A secret -- nay, purse not up thy pretty mouth, thou paragon of pages, but tell it quickly; come, thou art a sprightly lad, and wilt make a better knight than thy master."

6     "And dost thou think to beguile me with sugared words; no, no, something better, lady, or I'm gone."

7     "Thou shalt have an eyas, one that the master falconer engages shall prove a tarsel gentle; I'll broider thee thy glove myself, and its jesses shall be of silver: methinks thou only wantest a bird upon thy fist to brave it with the best."

8     "Wilt thou give me a kiss, Madonna?"

9     "Aye, manikin, twenty; dost think that I should blush to press the smooth lip of such a beard-

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less urchin? go to, I'll give thee something better than a kiss, take this fair chain of gold, a metal wondrous scant at yonder castle, if report speak true; every link will buy thee some rich gawd; thou shalt have horse to ride, a good sword girded at thy side, and still wear half its length about thy neck."

10     "Methinks I could carry a hawk as fair, and manage a steed, and wield a rapier as well as the favourite page of King Charles himself, but though I prize a horse and a falcon, and thy massy chain, and thy sweet kisses, pretty Leonora, I'll not sell my secret for aught a-kin to lucre; thou shalt have it without fee or guerdon, because I desire to merit the gilded spurs I mean to win, and I deem it to be rank cowardice for men to set their wit against the weaker sex."

11     "Aye, marry, these are dainty scruples, malapert conceited minion, keep thy council to aid thy master and his sapient friends, and leave us to countervail their plots. This must needs be some device of Roland's, for the baron has thought of nothing better than to sigh under the garden wall, while his trusty squire clears his hoarse throat and trolls some dismal ditty; and Dugarde and Montresor being kept fasting, groan in concert, and cast tender glances at Victorine and Eugenie, or at the shields of brawn which the servitors carry into the buttery, it were hard to say which."

12     "Farewell, mistress Leonora, I meant to do thy lady a service; for not to speak it disparagingly, her broad lands rather than her beauty have tempted my master, whose revenues are, as thou sayest, somewhat slack, to play false to his plighted bride; and thy glittering carkanets, Leonora, and the pearl studs, and the diamond bodkins in which the silly hearts of thy fair companions so much delight, are the grand attraction with his needy followers. I dare not hint that Roland is drawn hither by any brighter object than thine eyes, but Montresor and Dugarde see butts of malvoisin, haunches of the red deer, hawks, Damascus blades, and Barbary coursers in every gem."

13     "I guessed as much," exclaimed Leonora, "an' thy secret be upon a par with thy news, 'twere scarcely worth while to rise so early with it, but for once, though thou deserv'st it not, I'll humour thee; I see thou art burning to tell this marvellous tale, so out with it -- from sheer compassion I'll lend thee mine ear."

14     "Take me then to thy bower, Leonora," replied the page, "for we have idled the time until the morning solitude is broken, and stragglers haunt the glade."

15     "Willingly, my fair boy, and I'll break thy fast with a manchet of wheaten bread, and a platter of potted lampreys, cates I trow not common in the

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baron's hall, and thou shalt wash down both with a cup of sack."

16     The page and the lady passed into the fair chateau of the young Countess de Normanville, laughing as they threw the dew-besprinkled flowers in sport at each other, but the frolic mood of the maiden was changed, as after the lapse of an hour she shewed the boy out of a little postern gate, and charged him to be faithful. Flying round to the mew, where, as he was wont, Bertram de Lille was stationed overlooking the falconers and whistling to the hawks, Leonora seized the youth by the arm, exclaiming, "To horse! to horse! sweet servant, away to the lady of Beaujeu, there is mischief brewing, the thick skulls of the baron's followers have hatched a plot which will cost thee some hard riding, and me all the jewels in my casket to defeat. Here are twenty broad pieces for the lacquey who keeps the door, and this rich chain for the seneschal that you may have speech of the lady; and stay, here is a ruby ring as some small token of our mistress's affection for her royal kinswoman, and these clasps and brooches are for her waiting gentlewomen, that they may speed thy errand; and as I learn that money is not over plenty in the king's camp, for the jewels of the Duchess of Savoy and the Marchioness of Montserrat, which he has borrowed, lie in pawn for his necessities, stint not to say that so there be a fa-

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vourable answer to this missive, plate to the value of a thousand marks shall be dispatched to Lombardy. Now it is well, thou art mounted, fly with the speed of the wind, and linger not in making those gambados -- thy skill in horsemanship has not been cast away on careless eyes."

17     De Lille obeyed the commands of the sprightly Leonora with so much zeal and diligence that his foaming steed clattered into the court-yard an hour before even her impatient spirit expected to see the dust which the charger's hoofs would raise upon the adjacent hill; and exchanging his travel-soiled garments for the silken vest which displayed his figure to the best advantage, he was ready to join the seneschal in his attendance on the ladies in their evening walk through the parks and pleasure ground. Passing down a broad flower-bespangled glade they encountered the baron, who attired in black garments, and accompanied by his page, and his three trusty esquires, advanced to pay his respects to the countess.

18     "Fair lady," he exclaimed, "attribute to this ardour of my passion my apparent disrespect in approaching you clad in this dolorous habit."

19     "What is't, a penance?" interrupted Leonora; "and by the wing of Cupid for some heavy offence, for it suits your complexion marvellously ill, and of that the malicious priest was aware. A penance it

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must be; the jovial countenances of your merry men declare that no evil hap can betided in your household."

20     "Alas, madam," replied the baron, "I wear this raven-tinted garb as a tribute of respect to the memory of one whose death, in sooth, I lament not, since it promises to remove one barrier to the suit I have so long and so hopelessly pressed, with the lovely but too disdainful mistress of my soul. I am released from my betrothment with the Lady Adela, by her decease."

21     "What, ho! Master Bertram," exclaimed Leonora, "thou mayest restore the baron to the hues of the popinjay, in which he does so much execution in the hearts of simple damsels. This gentleman, my lord, is fresh from the court of the lady of Beaujeu, where he has seen and conversed with the Lady Adela, who morever has sent thee a token that she liveth still to demand the fulfillment of an engagement made before her broken fortune caused her to be slighted."

22     "And," said the Countess de Normanville, "I marvel that a gentleman and a knight should shame his high lineage and chivalric oath by such a paltry device. Know, sir, I am also acquainted with the base means with which you have tampered with the avarice of my kinsman -- an honorable bargain, forsooth -- half the estate when you lost all hope of

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clutching the whole: but, beware sir, neither fraud or force can avail you now; the Lady of Beaujeu, in behalf of my sovereign King Charles, has taken my wardship into her own hand, and has alone the power to dispose of me in marriage."

23     "And my lord," cried Bertram, "there is news from the camp of Charles; he marches from triumph to triumph, and he has 'gaged the hands of his wards to the knights, who shall add the conquered states of Italy to the crown of France. What sayst thou? my poor sword is at the service of my king; I post to the army to-morrow. Wilt thou quit thy sylvan warfare in these woods to strive in martial exploits with the gallant Lusignan, who it is rumoured wears the Countess de Normanville's glove upon his basnet?"

24     "Peace, Bertram," cried the seneschal, "the baron loves to court far more dangerous perils than the Lombard wars present, to tilt with ladies' eyes instead of spears."

25     "Tarry for me, Master Bertram," exclaimed the page, "if it be but for the space of a single day, and thou shalt not ride alone an there be a broad sword and a steel jerkin left in the armoury."

26     "Farewell, friend Roland," said Leonora, "thou, too, hast to win thy spurs, and line thy purse with bezants; say, wilt thou take thy chance with an uncrested helm to gain the land which calls me heir

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in Bertram's absence? He leaves me, thou seest, to combat as best I may against thy wit and valour; or wilt thou, too, speed to these Lombard wars, and delegate to yon sad browed knight and Messieurs Degarde and Montresor, who look wondrous wise, though unhandsomely chary of their words, the task of consoling me and my fellow damsels, when these vales shall be deprived of the sunshine of thy presence."

27     "No, sweet mistress," returned Roland, "though thy sharp tongue and scornful eye drive Master Bertram to the tented field, though thy humour were ten times more petulant, and thy jests more keen, thou shalt not wear the willow branch for me, or hang or drown for lack of one poor servant to bear with thy impertinencies: 'twere pity to have them wasted on thy monkey or thy tire woman, send forth thy warrior youth to gather laurels, we will pluck them from their brows when they return,

28     And thou shalt call him brave who bears away At once, the trophies of each toilsome day."

Ane Waefu' Scots Pastoral By James Hogg, the Ettrick Shephard

Anacreontic By T.K. Hervey, Esq.

The Ritter von Reichenstein By Unknown

1     The Ritter von Reichenstein⁶

2     THE great hall in the royal castle of Linz resounded with kettle-drums and trumpets, while King Ferdinand and his Queen sat at the banquet table, rejoicing that the siege was now raised, and Austria once more victorious. The banquet was given in honour of the young Baron von Reichenstein, who then, for the first time, appeared as the King's guest. He had the good fortune to bring the welcome tidings that Solyman, after beleaguering the city for many weeks, and being repulsed in every attack, had at last suddenly desisted from his undertaking, and retreated by quick marches. Of the distinction now conferred on Reichenstein his own noble conduct during the siege rendered him eminently worthy, nor could the favour have been bestowed on any one who would have valued it more highly, for pride and ambition were indeed his leading characteristics.

3     The lively monarch banished for the time all political cares, and gave himself up to the festivity of the moment, heightened by the consideration that the good news came unexpectedly, as Vienna was then, in truth, but ill provided with the means of defence, and the Sultan, at the head of three thousand men, had vowed never to return till he had conquered both Hungary and Austria, where the Christian sway should be terminated for ever. Merrily coursed the brimming goblets round the table, and in the joy of his heart the King proposed the health of his country's brave defender, the heroic youth, Philip Palsgraf of the Rhine, and of the veteran warrior, Count Nicholas of Salm, whose locks had now grown grey under arms. The mirth became louder, and the applause more vehement, till the Queen commanded silence and attention, for she too had prepared a little entertainment to celebrate the termination of that campaign which had threatened so much misfortune; well knowing that on such occasions her illustrious consort did not disdain to exchange the homage to Bacchus for a sacrifice to the Muses. Of this Monarch, indeed, it is recorded that when a certain Colonel of his Life Guards once ventured to hint that he bestowed too many favors on the learned, to the neglect of the ancient nobility, the Colonel next day received a great packet of old and important parchments, with an order that he

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should read them through, and in a few hours return a written abstract of their contents; the Colonel, of course, brought them back, declaring his incapacity for the task. "Good friend," said the King, smiling ironically, "you will for the future spare your animadversions on our patronage of the learned, for you perceive that if noblemen and warriors only were to be raised to office, the duties of the state would be fulfilled yet worse than heretofore."

4     On a signal from the queen a red silk curtain at the bottom of the hall was suddenly drawn up, and revealed an altar from which a clear flame rose flickering, and illuminated the arms of Austria wreathed with laurel and gorgeously emblazoned. Before the altar sat a female form, beaming in such luxuriance of beauty, that she might well indeed have been deemed one of the muses descended from Mount Olympus. Her long white robes though rich in folds could not conceal the exquisite symmetry of her form; round her waist she wore a gold embroidered girdle, while from her shoulders waved a short mantle of blue velvet studded with golden stars. Her features were of the noblest Grecian mould; round her temples was bound a laurel wreath, and her glossy chesnut hair flowed in profuse curls round her blushing cheeks, down into her snow-white neck and bosom. In her arms she supported a harp, and accompanying her voice with powerful chords, sung

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a fervent hymn in praise of the brave men by whose courage the threatening danger had been averted, and the proud plans of the Pagan invader defeated. Impassioned eloquence or music alone is enough to move irresistibly every feeling heart, -- but how much is that effect encreased , when the tones flow from lips so beautiful, when such eyes beam with the sacred fire of inspiration! -- A watchful silence prevailed in the hall that was before so loud with voices; the guests had eyes and ears only for the seraphic musician, who exercised her power like an enchantress even over the roughest veteran warriors "albeit unused to the melting mood," for she recalled to them and presented as if in a magic mirror the fairy dreams of their youth. How vivid then must have been the impression on younger auditors! Involuntarily all hearts were attracted and won by the lovely performer -- every eye glistened with pleasure, and when she had finished her triumphant song, every tongue was busy in her praise -- even the proud and haughty Baron Reichenstein was deeply moved. 'Till now, the attention which had often been bestowed on the young warrior by susceptible beauties of the capital had failed to excite any other sensation but that of gratified vanity. Now, however, when the songstress in her chaunt alluded to him as the announcing messenger of that that victory which he had assisted to gain, he could

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no longer look proudly around, as he had been wont to do. On the contrary a deep blush came over his features; his proud heart beat anxiously, and his fiery eagle eyes were humbly fixed on the ground.

5     So the festivities of the banquet were closed, and the evening of that happy day was spent in dancing and games of chance. For neither of these amusements was Baron Reichenstein disposed. Leaning against a pillar of the Gothic Hall, he followed with watchful eyes every movement of the Demoiselle Appollonia von Santi, -- for so the beautiful songstress was named. Descended from a noble Greek house, and left in early youth an orphan, she had been brought to the Court of King Ferdinand, and there educated as one of the queen's maids of honour. Her beauty, -- her eminent talents for music, and but still more the unpretending modesty of her demeanour excited universal attention, and every one spoke with respect of the beautiful Lady Appollonia. No sooner had she made her appearance in the ball-room than Reichenstein saw that the young and old crowded around her, to express their thanks for the delight which her music had afforded, and afterwards as she whirled past him in the walk, supported by some gay and brilliant courtier, he was racked by a feeling of the bitterest envy; yet he who had before known fear scarcely by name, had

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not the courage to approach her. With rapture he remarked, that even during the dance, his eyes often encountered hers, and when she seated herself for refreshment and rest, her looks again followed him as if she would say -- "And you alone determined not to share in the pleasures of these fleeting hours?" So at last he mustered resolution, humbly approached the victorious enchantress, and in a faultering half audible voice begged that he might have the honour of her hand for the next dance. Appollonia blushed and courtesied her consent; the warlike hero made an awkward bow, and retreated, not daring to say more, 'till the music recommencing called them to their places. Reichenstein, who was usually a good waltzer could now scarcely keep in time, while his lovely partner seemed to partake of his embarrassment, yet this was but for a few minutes; her sparkling eyes and approving smiles soon roused him to self-possession. Even the musicians seemed inspired; they played louder, and with more precision. Envied by many a youth in the numerous assemblage, he flew down the ranks, with the peerless Grecian on his arm, and all allowed that there never was seen a more beautiful couple. On returning to their seats, Appollonia challenged her partner to give her some account of the Blockade. Reichenstein had now recovered from his awkward timidity, and contrived to tell his story with un-

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wonted eloquence, enlivened and rewarded all the while by the approbation which he read unequivocally in the bright eyes of his auditress. Appollonia's attention was indeed so absorbed that she forgot the dance, and the presence of the court, so that the marshal was obliged to remind her of her duty, for the queen had already proposed to break up the party.

6     Henceforward Reichenstein saw the young lady almost every day, and continued always to discover new charms and fresh virtues, -- and this at length drew from him a confession of his love, and a request for her hand in marriage. Appollonia in answer explained to him that her fate depended on the king, who had hitherto acted towards her as a father, and who therefore possessed the full parental authority. Reichenstein heard this with fear and trembling; for he suspected that Ferdinand might have other views for his fair adopted daughter. He knew how much the king delighted in Appollonia's talents, by which his mind was often exhilarated after the cares of public business, and with which amusement it could not be supposed that he would willingly dispense. It was necessary therefore to watch for some favourable opportunity, when the king should appear in especial good humour, before the subject could be broached, and ere long, such a fitting occasion presented itself to the anxious lover.

7     The disaffected Bohemians, whom Ferdinand had a few years ago severely chastised, happened to lose by an accidental fire great part of the national archives, and their most important charters or deed of immunity. Conscience-stricken, and fearful that advantage might be taken of this event, whereby they might be deprived of many valuable privileges, they sent a deputation to Linz, in order to treat with their monarch on the subject. Scarcely had Ferdinand heard their preamble, when he exclaimed angrily -- "Your charters may be destroyed, but our imperial promise, and principles of integrity, are not destroyed along with them. All the rights and privileges of which this fire has robbed you, we shall renew; and, where there is doubt, rather than give you less, we shall make your advantages greater than before." Of that scene Reichenstein was a witness. "No," said he to himself, "it is impossible that a sovereign, who is thus so mild and equitable, should be harsh to me alone." And no sooner had the ashamed representatives left the audience-hall, than he threw himself at Ferdinand's feet, and stammered out his request. For a few moments he was, indeed, kept in agonising suspense, while the king looked at him silently and with a very grave aspect. At length he made a sign for the supplicant to rise, and said, "I cannot conceal that I shall be very unwilling to part with Mademoiselle de Santi. In

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her delightful music I must lose one of the best enjoyments of my life; -- yet far be it from me to interfere on any selfish principles, with her future prospects or yours; -- take her then, and be happy."

8     What language could adequately describe the rapture of the lovers! Soon after, their marriage was solemnized with princely magnificence, and Reichenstein took his young bride to the family castle from which he derived his title, and which was situated in Upper Austria, in one of the most attractive districts of that beautiful country. Then, from far and near, flocked visitors to pay their homage at the festal mansion, more attracted, however, by the wondrous musical talents of the bride, than by the hospitable manners of the castle's lord. The young noblemen of the neighbourhood, especially, were numerous and unwearied in their attentions; and their admiration of the Lady von Reichenstein's improvisator songs was beyond measure fervent. The baron's pride was at first flattered by such universal applause; but that feeling soon yielded to another very different emotion. He began to fear that it was not merely the delight they experienced from her music, but much more their admiration of Appollonia's personal charms, which shone in the eyes of these gay and idle youths, so that by degrees jealously more and more deeply fixed her serpent stings into his very

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heart. Yet far too proud to confess that he had become the prey of a passion so despicable, and sensible that her conduct was too scrupulously correct to warrant his avowal of any suspicions, he concealed his irritability as much as possible, though many times, by gloomy silence, or short monosyllabic answers, did he betray his inward discontent. Appollonia, conscious of her own innocence, was completely at a loss to fix on any cause for this change, and enquired anxiously the reason of his distress, -- whereupon the proud baron, instead of imparting at once the source of his grief, and thus, for ever banishing the demon that haunted his house, was either moodily silent as before, or ascribed his depression to a transient attack of illness.

9     Love is sharp-sighted. Appollonia thought that she had at last found out the real cause of his displeasure; and under the pretext that their present mode of life was far too fatiguing, she begged him to dismiss their guests, in order that they might henceforth live in retirement: but how could Reichenstein's haughty spirit submit to the idea of having appeared as a jealous husband? He insisted that the castle of his ancestors must remain open to every guest; and when Appollonia, under various pretences withdrew to the solitude of her own apartments, and the visitors with regret commented on

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the absence of their beautiful hostess -- but especially when ironical hints and conjectures were whispered round the festal board, regarding the reasons for her disappearance, his pride was more than ever wounded. He therefore entreated Appollonia, nay, commanded her, to appear as formerly at every banquet, and to enliven his guests by the exercise of her magic art. Under these circumstances, concluding that her former suppositions had been altogether erroneous, she obeyed him willingly, without disguising that the incense of praise lavishly bestowed was welcome and acceptable to her female heart. Reichenstein's gloomy discontent now increased visibly from day to day, and it was only in the presence of strangers that his jealousy was overcome or concealed by the determination to appear gay and unembarrassed. In vain did his affectionate wife enquire into the cause of such inexplicable conduct. Two whole years thus passed away, during which that abode of his ancestors, where the spirit of domestic happiness should have woven for him the richest and brightest wreaths, was changed by his own imperious temper, and haughty and foolish reserve, into a cell of torment and ceaseless disquietude.

10     Meanwhile Solyman, in order to revenge himself for the loss and disgrace which he had encoun-

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tered, prepared to renew the war more formidably than ever, and made such an attack on Styria and Austria, that the Emperor Charles, in person, at the head of a considerable army, came to the assistance of the king, his illustrious brother. Ferdinand at the same time hastened to collect around him his faithful troops, and the rumour of these proceedings having reached the secluded castle of Reichenstein, the baron determined that he would immediately resume the duties of his station in the army. He had not yet been summoned; but alas! in his home there was no longer any domestic happiness that could induce him to remain there. In his wayward self-delusions he had cast it away; and in the tumult of the battle-field he best hoped to forget his vexations.

11     The news of this approaching separation struck fearfully on the already wounded heart of Appollonia. When the dreadful hour of parting arrived, her anguish was indeed most sincere and overpowering, yet her foolish husband imagined that her tears and complaints were but a mask under which she concealed her joy at the prospect of being able in future to follow her inclinations without restraint. Unmoved, therefore, and sternly, he tore himself from her affectionate embraces, and galloped away, spurring his foaming charger, even as the

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demons of jealousy and distrust goaded him on in his insane career.

12     Now the once gay castle of Reichenstein became silent as a hermitage; -- and like a widow mourning the death of a beloved husband, Appollonia withdrew from all society, living only for the care of his property, and ceaseless prayers for his welfare and preservation. Often at the midnight hour her attendants found her still at her earnest devotions, or listened with respectful sympathy as she touched her harp, and with tearful eyes expressed her grief, and even her prayers, in low faultering melody.

13     Day after day, week after week dragged on, but no news arrived of Reichenstein, though she had earnestly requested that he would write to her. At length she found herself quite unable any longer to bear the racking pains of suspense, and dispatched her Castellan, a man of years and experience, with orders that he should make his way to the royal army, and by no means to return without some intelligence of her beloved husband. The interval of her messenger's absence she spent in continued prayer, and in acts of charity and benevolence.

14     When the Castellan's return was announced, he was summoned immediately to her presence, but alas! -- his features wore an expression of deep grief

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and disappointment. "Merciful God!" cried she, "my worst fears are then realized -- and I shall never see him more!" She fainted, and not without great care and skill could her attendants restore her to self-possession -- then it seemed that by direful and heroic exertion she had resolved to conquer her emotion, yet her bosom heaved convulsively, and her lips and eyelids quivered. "Speak on," said she in a hollow voic -- "relate all that thou know'st." "Forgive me," noble lady, said the messenger -- "but I fear you are not well enough now to hear such tidings." "I know already that which is most appalling," answered she, "thou canst not tell me aught that could wound more deeply -- say then, how and where did he die?" "Die!" exclaimed the Castellan -- "God forbid that he should die -- no, of this much be assured, your noble husband lives." "Lives!" exclaimed Appollonia, in a voice like that of the condemned victim on the scaffold, in whose ears for the first time sounds the voice of pardon, and who fears he may yet be deluded. -- "Lives -- saidst thou -- lives?" "Aye indeed," said the Castellan, "but the Baron von Reichenstein is now a Turkish prisoner." "Oh, heaven be praised!" cried the enraptured wife, "his life then is yet spared;" and she fell on her knees, uplifting her clasped hands in fervent gratitude to the Giver of all Good for his

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mercy. Thereafter she listened with calm attention to the Castellan's narrative. Reichenstein had been placed with a corps which was destined to oppose that of Michael Oglu, who was forcing his way with the van of the Turkish army over the Sommering mountains. In the heat of battle the Baron had advanced too far; he was quickly surrounded, and after a brave resistance, taken prisoner, and dragged away by the repulsed and fugitive Turks. Intelligence had been subsequently received by means of deserters, that he had fallen into the power of the Bassa of Belgrade, who, in consequence of his severe wounds, had obtained permission to return home, and had taken with him to his own country all his prisoners. "So then he lives -- he is at Belgrade," cried Appollonia, "and there is hope that I may yet again call him mine!" With these words her tears flowed more freely than ever, but they were now tears of joy.

15     For the rest of that day she remained shut up in her chamber, she would not speak with any one, nor accept of refreshment, but in the evening the castle chaplain was summoned to her presence. To him she explained that some affairs of great urgency and importance obliged her to go forthwith to the Queen's Court at Linz, and as the Castellan must attend her on the journey, the chaplain should, in their absence,

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use every means in his power for the due guardianship of the castle. The grey-headed priest not knowing the purpose of her journey, did not venture to remonstrate, and only implored that as her affectionate servants and vassals would deeply grieve for her absence, she would not long defer her return. With visible emotion she then took leave of her domestics, and at the earliest dawn of the next day, followed by the old castellan, and the blessing of all the Baron's vassals, she departed, taking with her only her harp, and wearing apparel.

16     Meanwhile, the Ritter von Reichenstein was obliged to fulfil menial drudgery as a slave in the gardens of Ibrahim, Bassa of Belgrade. At that time it happened that in his Harem there prevailed great affliction; Fatima, the most beautiful and beloved of his wives, had been driven to distraction by the death of her first-born infant child, and the violence of her sorrow had given way to an apathy and indifference which amounted to insanity. The unhappy Ibrahim offered the largest rewards for assistance, and tired every method to save his favourite from that untimely death to which the continuance of her malady would certainly lead. The most skilful physicians had recourse to all expedients of their art, but in vain; so that with an almost broken heart, Ibrahim saw that she was rapidly sinking into the grave.

17     One evening when he was under the dominion of these painful reflections, it was announced that a Grecian youth had made his appearance at Belgrade as a harp player and singer, with whose music every listener had been enraptured, and who had begged permission to prove his talents before the Bassa. Ibrahim gladly availed himself of the opportunity to obtain some diversion from his own gloomy thoughts; he desired that the stranger should be admitted forthwith, and was so much delighted with the youth's performance that as long as the music continued he quite forgot his usual sufferings. Thereafter the question occurred to him whether that magic art which had such influence over his emotions might not also alleviate the malady of his beloved Fatima. He imparted this idea to the stranger, who encouraged his hopes, and assured him that many instances were on record of insane persons being altogether restored to health by the power of music. "Should'st thou succeed in this attempt," cried the rejoiced Bassa, "then demand what thou wilt -- no reward is too great, when the service performed is the preservation of my dearest Fatima."

18     The Greek youth was duly instructed in the cause and symptoms of the malady, and undertook its cure. The attempt succeeded even beyond expectation. At first he was concealed behind a veranda, and ventured only to sing the most melan-

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choly lays in soft and long protracted notes, to which for some time Fatima seemed, as usual, indifferent, but by degrees her attention was roused, and she listened with visibly increasing interest. While the music continued, her beautiful features were once more animated, a slight tinge of colour rose into her cheeks, and a lambent fire shone in her eyes, but as the tones died away into silence she declined again into her wonted mournful apathy. By degrees she began to watch every word of the youth's songs, which like the music were plaintive and desponding, till her bosom heaved, and she wept unconsciously. Thus the trial was repeated for several successive days, and as often as the hour drew near which was appointed for the musician's attendance, she expressed anxiety and impatience; nay, once when by some accident he had been detained, she enquired if they intended to deprive her of her only remaining consolation. These words were the first that she had been heard to utter for many weeks, and from henceforward the Greek, at her request, came earlier, and remained longer. By degrees, too, he ventured to introduce songs that were less mournful, and the listener seemed even more gratified than before, till at length she begged to see the wonderful musician by whom she had been thus delighted; and even requested that he would give her instructions in his divine art. He obeyed

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willingly, and Fatima had soon learned a few simple ballads, which she practised passionately night and day, thus forgetting her misfortunes, so that she was ere long restored to perfect health.

19     The Bassa, rejoiced beyond measure at this result, did not fail to send for the musician. "Thou hast fulfilled thy promise," said he, "now demand thy reward, in order that I also may behave honourably. Be not afraid to ask too much, for Allah has made me rich by his exceeding bounties, but for the preservation of my best and dearest treasure I am indebted to thee." "Sir," answered the youth, "there is in the gardens of your Harem a noble German soldier, the Ritter von Reichenstein, a captive who now labours there as a slave. It so happens that I have been deeply indebted to his house, and therefore if you are pleased to give up to me the liberty of this man, I shall be amply and richly rewarded." "Take him hence then," said the Bassa, "and along with him, if thou wilt, ten of his fellow soldiers, who have hitherto shared his fate. Moreover, it shall not be said that the Bassa Ibrahim sent any man out into the wide world to find his way home as a mendicant; he shall therefore be amply provided for; and thou, too, modest youth, shalt not leave my palace unrewarded." Hereupon Ibrahim summoned the overseer of his slaves, commanding him to lead the Greek youth into the prison of the Christians, to

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inform the Baron and his companions that they were free, and present to them the noble Greek youth as their deliverer. In vain did the humble minstrel strive against this -- the Bassa's resolution was inexorable, "for it is no more than justice," said he, "that these Christian dogs should learn to know their benefactor, and offer him due thanks for his disinterested benevolence."

20     Miserable embarrassed, the young Greek followed the overseer, and entered a gloomy prison, where the captives were seated on the damp ground, strewed with rushes. No sooner had the overseer announced the purpose of his message than the overjoyed exiles threw themselves at their deliverer's feet, even kissed the hem of his garment, and wept in their excess of gratitude. "Be thankful to God," said the youth, in a faultering, scarce audible tone, "and may Providence guide you on your homeward journey!" "Stay, noble stranger," cried Reichenstein, as the minstrel would have hastily retired -- "if you will not listen to our humble protestations of gratitude, yet at least accept from my hands this insignificant ring. Should you, or any of your friends ever come to Germany, and pass near the castle of Reichenstein, this little token will open for the traveller a new home, and make him an acknowledged inmate of a noble family, whose last remaining chief you

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have thus contributed to uphold." "We shall meet again," stammered the youth, with obvious emotion, and taking the ring, rushed from the prison as though he dared not trust himself in any farther colloquy.

21     The Bassa's promises were faithfully fulfilled. Enriched by valuable presents, and attended by a secure escort, Reichenstein, along with his companions, left Belgrade. They arrived in safety at the Christian camp, and were all most kindly received by King Ferdinand, especially Reichenstein, who still expressed his wish and resolution to remain with the army. "In the first place," answered the King, "it is our will and pleasure that you should appear before her Majesty at Linz. Should your inclinations alter when there, which I hope may be the case, you shall have free leave of absence from your military duties, for after the oppressions you have undergone, this indulgence is but just and necessary. If however your determination should remain unshaken, the presence of so brave a soldier as the Baron von Reichenstein will always be welcome to our army."

22     In the royal palace of Linz, after an interval of three years, the baron once more sat in the great hall at the banquet table, though now the party was less numerous, consisting only of the queen, her maids of honour, and some old coutiers. He

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again beheld the same golden framework of the folding doors, and the same red curtain which had formerly risen at the queen's signal, and afforded the first view of that peerless beauty, whom afterwards he was so fortunate as to call his own. With bitter regret he thought of that happy day, and all the fairy visions that had shone so brightly, and were now fled for ever. He sighed deeply, and the queen observing his distress, interrupted his contemplations with the words -- "If I interpret your looks aright, that curtain revives recollections of the good fortune, which was here unexpectedly prepared for you, and I can well explain that sigh with which your longing heart has reverted to home and a beloved wife." A cloud came over Reichenstein's expressive features, and a yet deeper sigh was his only answer.

23     "Nay, then, perhaps you have received some disquieting letters," said the queen, "and I doubt not that Appollonia's grief at your long absence -- "

24     "Appollonia's grief, indeed!" interrupted the baron with bitter irony; "your majesty must forgive me if I venture to doubt that any such cause -- "

25     "Nay, nay," answered the queen, "we must hear no more of this. I shall not allow myself to believe that unworthy suspicions could ever find harbour in your bosom. For the present, let us hear

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minutely how you contrived to escape from the Turkish prison?"

26     The Ritter went through his narrative accordingly.

27     "But your deliverer," observed the queen; "that noble-hearted Greek -- have you then never seen him since your meeting in prison?"

28     "Alas, no!" answered the baron; "and the manner in which he then took leave obliges me to fear that I shall never in this world be so happy as to see my generous benefactor again, in order to prove how deep and sincere is my gratitude."

29     "While there is life there is hope," said the queen; "could you have believed, three years ago, that yonder curtain, which you no doubt looked on with contempt, concealed the beautiful songstress, who was destined to be your loving wife? What should you think, if its mystic folds should once more expand, and reveal the person of your kind deliverer?"

30     "Your majesty is pleased to jest," said the baron with a melancholy smile.

31     "Let us try," said the queen, "whether it is impossible to convert his infidel;" and at her signal the curtain was again drawn up. Again he saw the altar from which a bright flame rose and illuminated, not the Austrian arms, but those of the noble house

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of Reichenstein; while beneath stood the Grecian youth, his large hat slouched over his features, and leaning on his harp.

32     "Is it possible? my deliverer! my benefactor!" cried Reichenstein, and then rushed up to the apparition. At that moment the pilgrim's hat fell off; the grey-coloured dress was thrown aside; and Appollonia smiling in all her wonted loveliness, while tears of joy shone in her eyes, presented to him the ring which he had given as a token to the wandering minstrel. He stood silent and confounded.

33     "Yes," said the queen in a solemn voice, "she it was -- your affectionate and faithful wife, whom not all the fatigues and dangers of so long a journey could deter from her undertaking, to redeem out of wretched thralldom that still beloved husband, who, too haughty to confess the injustice of which he had been guilty, had destroyed her happiness and his own."

34     Reichenstein meanwhile throwing himself prostrate on the ground, and forgetting all his wonted pride, had hidden his face in the folds of her garment. Appollonia would have raised him up, but he exclaimed vehemently, though in a voice broken by his emotion -- "Never more dare I lift up mine eyes to her whom I have thus injured! No penance no humiliation can atone for that guilt which now

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cleaves to my conscience and of which the stain will never be effaced."

35     "Nay," said Appollonia, "knowst thou not that of all duties in this world, there is none more easy for true love than to forgive, -- that the fond heart may indeed be wounded and broken by faults, mistrust and injuries, yet will never thus be alienated from its idol?"

36     So the happy couple rushed into each others embrace, forgetful of the spectators and all the world -- nor was there one individual present, who did not sympathize in their emotion; even the queen herself burst into tears. Henceforward, Reichenstein cherished no other pride but that founded on possession of the most beautiful and faithful of wives. The Bassa of Belgrade's gifts might increase his worldly wealth, but not his happiness, for in the tried attachment of Appollonia, he had secured the richest of all earthly treasures; mutually placing unbounded confidences in each other, their path of life was evermore cheered by sunshine and strown with flowers.

Figure 6: The Boy and Dog

painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A., engraved by Mr. W. Humphreys

A Familiar Epistle to Sir Thomas Lawrence By Barry Cornwall

Youth and Age By S. T. Coleridge, Esq.

A Day Dream By S.T. Coleridge, Esq.

Figure 7: A Village Festival (Head Piece)

painted by T. Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr. Augustus Fox

Marie's Grave: A Tale of the Landes By the author of "The Subaltern."

1     IT is hardly necessary to remind the reader that at the close of the Peninsular war orders were issued for the formation of an encampment in the neighbourhood of Bourdeaux, where the regiments which had been selected to reinforce Sir George Prevost in Canada, as well as to carry on hostilities along the shores of the United States, might assemble. It fell to the lot of the **** regiment of light infantry to form one of the corps appointed for the last-mentioned of these services. Having been attached to the left column of Lord Wellington's army we were stationed, when the above intelligence reached us, under the walls of Bayonne, at the distance of ten long day's march from the point of rendezvous; but we welcomed the communication with not less alacrity on that account, and

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made ready, on the 14th May, 1814, to act in accordance with its tenor.

2     Of the particulars of our journey I am not at present called upon to give any account, farther than that in all its stages, and in every circumstance connected with it, it was most delightful. The weather chanced to be peculiarly favorable. Not a shower of rain, or a blast of wind, overtook us during the whole of our progress; and though towards noon the heat usually became more oppressive than agreeable, we managed by starting every day an hour or two before sun-rise, to escape most of the inconveniences which might have otherwise affected us. Every thing moreover, animate and inanimate which came in our way, had about it an air of exquisite novelty. The costume and personal appearance of the people, the arrangement of their houses, fields, vineyards and gardens, the order of their domestic life, were to us perfectly new, and interesting. We struck into the Landes, on the morning of the third day, and if any of my readers have happened to visit that wild district, he will doubtless attest that one more singular, or more prolific in extraordinary spectacles, has seldom been pressed by the foot of a traveller [sic].

3     Amidst the huge forests of pine which overspread the whole face of this region, there are scattered at wide intervals from one another, a few villages, or rather hamlets, remarkable for their extreme beauty,

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and for the air of primitive simplicity and contentment which hangs over them. They consist, for the most part, of from ten to twenty cottages, the walls of which are composed entirely of wood, and the roofs uniformly covered with straw. Each stands apart in the centre of its own neat garden and enclosure, whilst to the distance of perhaps a quarter of a mile in every direction, a circle of cultivated fields encompasses the whole. It rarely happens that a stream of limpid and excellent water is wanting in the vicinity, and a church, suited to the humble charactor [sic] of its simple worshippers, was a conspicuous feature in every one of the hamlets that lay along the line of our march.

4     The quarter-master-general had so arranged our route that we were every day enabled, after compassng [sic] a sufficient extent of ground, to encamp in the neighbourhood of one or other of these delightful villages. The inhabitants proved in all instances, as obliging, as their poverty and secluded course of existence authorised us to expect; and if the women were not always remarkable for personal beauty they were, at all events, invariably goodnatured [sic], and lively. It happened that on one occasion I had my feelings wrought upon to a degree beyond my anticipations; and as the affair appeared at the moment worthy of being noted down, perhaps even now it may be deemed not undeserving of mention.

5     The night of Saturday the 21st of May, having been spent in the village of St. Muret, at two o'clock on Sunday morning, our tents were struck and we were in motion. Our route lat, as usual during the preceding week over a deep sandy track, cut through the heart of a dreary pine-wood, and our journey, on account of the absence of a convenient spot for halting, proved to be particularly tedious and fatiguing. We had traversed something more than six leagues; the hour of noon was past, and the heat had become intense, when a sort of shout uttered at the head of the column gave notice, that a resting place was in view. The shout did not deceive us. The leading files had already emerged from the wood into the customary range of open country; and in little more than half an hour afterwards our camp was pitched in one [sic] the loveliest situations which it had occupied since the commencement of our progress.

6     Unlike its fellow-hamlets, La Barbp the village, beside which we now halted did not stand in the midst of an extensive area of bare meadows, and low corn-fields. Meadows and corn-fields there doubtless were but their surfaces were beautifully diversified by the frequent interspersion of clumps of oaks and chesnuts [sic]; whilst numerous undulations in the ground produced a species of tasteful irregularity, which gave to the little landscape the

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appearance, rather of a park, or gentleman's enclosure, than of lands portioned out into fourteen or fifteen different farms. A rivulet of the purest water issued from the forest upon the right, and flowing gently onwards, wound round the base of a green hill, upon which, about a stone's throw apart from the other buildings, was erected the village church. In the village itself I saw nothing to distinguish it from the others. It consisted as usual of wooden cottages, not one of which, in point of architecture or decorations could claim a superiority over the others. And even the very cure or vicarage, if such it deserved to be called, was nothing more than a cabin, clean and neat, indeed, but presenting the lowliest aspect.

7     Every body [sic] knows, that Sunday is observed in a French village as a day, not of relaxation only, but of jubilee. We therefore found the villagers in their best attire, assembled on the green or common, round which their cottages stood; and as they came forward in a body to bid us welcome, they presented upon the whole, a very striking and picturesque appearance. The men were conspicuous for their jackets of coarse brown cloth, their grey or brown breeches, blue stockings and large wooden shoes, but it was in the garb of the women that the distinction paid to Sunday might be most readily

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noted. The boddice [sic] laced up with blue or scarlet ribbon; the bright scarlet petticoat, made so scanty as to display the scarlet clock [sic] which ornamented the blue stocking, these, with the handkerchief tied round the head with more than ordinary care and neatness, gave intimation that the toilette for that day always occupied much time, and particular attention. All, however, seemed to enjoy the same excellent flow of spirits, and not a few of the younger had gladly availed themselves of our band, to continue the dancing which our approach had interrupted.

8     As soon as the bustle of encamping came to a close, I directed my steps towards the church, with the design of joining in the devotions of these simple people, or at least, of offering up my own orisons, from within consecrated walls. In this, however, I was disappointed; the priest, it appeared, officiated at another village besides La Barbp, taking the one in the morning, and the other in the evening, alternately; and as on this day, divine service had been performed here in the morning, it would not be repeated. Though a little chagrined at this circumstance I nevertheless followed up my original design so far, as to take a hasty survey of the interior of the pile; and then proceeded to indulge a favourite whim, by strolling leisurely

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through the humble cemetery by which it was surrounded.

9     I found the churchyard moderately studded with green mounds, but wholly devoid of head-stones or columns to tell the names of the persons who slept beneath. Wooden crosses seemed to be the only species of monument erected by the people of La Barbp to the memory of their deceased relatives, and of these, though they were almost as numerous as the graves themselves, not one bore a word or letter of inscription. Even the garlands, which throughout most parts of France it is customary for the survivors to twine over the tombs of those whom they loved, were all, with a solitary exception, wanting here. Upon one cross, and one only, hung a wreath of flowers; and though the blackened hue of the wood told a tale of exposure to more than one summer and winter, the garland was fresh and fragrant, as if gathered and arranged this very morning. I was much struck with the contrast which the condition of this grave, as compared with the others, presented, and, sitting down, was beginning to give free vent to fancy, when the noise of approaching footsteps disturbed my reverie. I looked round, and beheld, advancing towards me, a man in the common garb of the country. His age seemed to be about three or four and thirty; but in his general appearance there

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was nothing at all remarkable except that an upright carriage, one empty sleeve, and a pair of monstrous mustachios, indicated that he had been a soldier, and had served in the memorable wars of his country. As he drew nearer, however, I examined him more closely, and observed, or fancied so, a peculiarly mild and even melancholy expression in his eye. Whether or not I was correct, little time was granted to consider, for he raised his hand to his hat and coming forward at once, with the freedom and frankness of his country entered with me into conversation.

10     "I perceive, Monsieur," said he, "that the garland upon the cross which distinguishes this grave from those around it, has attracted your attention." I assented to his remark, and proceeded to inquire whether he could give me any information respecting the individual who had suspended it there, and the person to whose memory it was consecrated. "I can indeed, sir," answered he; "I can satisfy you fully on both these heads; it was I that gathered it, it was I that wove it, and it was I that hung it here; it is a task which I religiously perform on the return of every Sunday morning, and she to whom I dedicate my weekly offerings, was the best, as she was the loveliest maiden of the province. Perhaps you may desire to learn something of her history. If you will allow me to take the privilege of a brother soldier I

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can sit down beside you; and God help me, I shall derive as much satisfaction, though it be a melancholy one from relating the brief detail, as you can have from listening to it." I immediately, and with the utmost readiness, accepted his proposal, upon which the villager seated himself by my side, and began as follows:

11     "I am a native of this place, as from my address and dialect you have doubtless already guessed. My name is Jean Baptiste, and my father, whose only child I am, is accounted the wealthiest and most skillful cultivator in all the department. You may perceive that bating the loss of this arm (and that occurred six years ago, ought not to tell against me), I am neither worse made, nor less personally attractive than my neighbours; whilst I can appeal to all that know me, whether my temper be not as mild, and my disposition as amiable, as those of any lad in these parts."

12     I could not suppress a smile at this most characteristic display of French egotism. "Why Jean," said, laughing, "I thought you were going to tell me a tale connected with the fair tenant of this grave; but you seem more disposed to instruct me concerning your own good qualities and fortunes." "Ah! Monsieur," replied he, "you may smile if you please, and say on that point what you will; but

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believe me I speak the truth. Yet what availed all these advantages. Marie, the beautiful and gentle Marie, whom I loved with my whole heart, and to promote whose happiness I could have willingly sacrificed my life, would not listen to my suit. It is a fact, indeed it is, she slighted my accomplishments, undervalued my wealth, and preferred to me a poor neighbour, who had nothing to recommend him, that I, at least, could discover, except that he was of a less fair complexion, and possessed a tolerable share of bodily strength and activity. Well, well, I could not quarrel with the girl for that, nor yet forsake my friend because he supplanted me, for Lewis Charmont was my friend, and dear to me as my own soul.

13     "It is hardly necessary to inform you, that La Barbp has been inhabited by the ancestors of those families which inhabit it now, since the day when the good saint first planted these forests, and stayed the sands from moving. Under these circumstances you will not be surprised to learn, that we are all accustomed to regard one another as brothers and sisters, and that the poorest man amongst us is not despised or treated as an inferior, by the richest. But though this be, and has ever been the case, it is still only natural that even in our small community particular friendships should bind individuals more closely to each other, than the tie of common regard which

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binds the same individuals to the whole body. Such has long been the case with the Charmonts, the Clausels, and the Baptistes. Our ancestors loved one another from the remotest period; no change in worldly circumstances ever interfered with their feelings; our parents were as if they had descended from the same stock; and we *** I mean Lewis, Marie and myself *** inherited their attachment.

14     "Lewis Charmont was by one year only, my junior; Marie Clausel was two years younger than he. From the very cradle we were companions and playmates; nay were more, *** Lewis was the brother of my adoption, and Marie was our sister. Ah! Monsieur, those were blessed days, when each holding a hand, we led the sweet girl forth towards the river, and seating her on the bank the one plied his rod and line, whilst the other chased the butterfly which she admired, or wove a wreath of wild flowers for her fair brow. But childhood passed away, and youth came, to make us acquainted with the true state of our feelings, and to teach us that we were rivals. We both loved Marie, loved her to absolute idolatry; yet we loved each other at the same time, and never, no not for an instant did a pang of angry jealousy rankle in our hearts.

15      "As we approached to manhood, Lewis and I, differing widely in our propensities and pursuits became by degrees not less truly friends, but less fre-

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quently companions. Lewis was agile, daring and adventurous; field sports, violent bodily exertions, especially where danger was to be surmounted or difficulties overcome, carried him away from his home, and the operations of agriculture; whereas my habits and tastes were all quiet and domestic. I cultivated my father's fields, contentedly and cheerfully, and was never so happy, as when I found leisure to dress Marie's garden, and stock it with the rarest and choicest plants within my reach. Yet for all this, she rejected my addresses: she withdrew not, indeed, from my society, but she refused to listen to my vows, and her refusal was so mildly and so affectionately pronounced that I only loved her the more because I felt my suit was hopeless. The truth is, Monsieur, that her affections were already engaged. She preferred to me, (who was continually at her side,) him who bestowed but a small portion of his time or attention upon her; but spent whole days, and sometimes nights in the woods, only that he might bring home and present to her the head of a wolf or the skin of a bear.

16     "In this condition affairs continued for some time. We never dreamed of concealing from each other how our affections were disposed of; on the contrary Lewis was all along aware that I loved Marie tenderly, and I was equally aware that Lewis loved her also; yet that either was preferred by her to the

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other we both continued ignorant, till an accident drew forth the secret.

17     "Early in the year 1808, there arrived in our village a sub-officer's party of Gendarmerie, bearing an order from the prefect of the department, to enrol [sic] four young men from the division of La Barbp, for the service of the army. Such an order, coming from such a quarter, could neither be disputed nor evaded; the names of all the villagers capable of bearing arms, were put into a cap, and that of Lewis Charmont came up. Lewis himself, naturally brave and enterprising, uttered no complaint against his fortune, but rather rejoiced, in the prospect of honor and advancement. Lewis continued as yet ignorant of the possession of Marie's affections, for though repeatedly urged, she had hitherto refused to acknowledge it, though now, however, concealment was at an end. A threatening separation effected that which years of intimacy and familiar intercourse had failed to effect; and in the bitterness of her agony she yielded a full confession. I was present when she assured him, that she lived for him and him alone; that his departure would be to her a blow which she could not survive; that she would not even desire to exist, did he abandon her. What could I do. I saw indeed that my own hopes were blighted, and that Marie's coldness sprang not from indifference, but from a positive predilec-

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tion for another. But that other was my friend; Marie I still loved as before; could I be contented to behold this misery! No, Monsieur, though naturally averse to a life of bustle and contention I determined on the instant, to volunteer in Lewis's room, I did so without so much as consulting him, and was accepted.

18     "Not all the misery which in my quieter hours has followed up the reflection that Marie was lost to me for ever [sic]; not all the grief which was my lot when I committed her delicate form to the earth, have been able to efface the blessed recollection of the moment when the flushed cheek, and glittering eye I told her that her lover was free, and that they might thenceforth be happy together. Ah! Monsieur, that was indeed a moment of rapture, of rapture such as I shall never again experience when I heard her address me as her brother and preserver; when I felt her arms around my neck, and her warm tears upon my cheek, and received the sweetest and most rapturous kiss that the lip of woman ever bestowed! Oh! whole years of agony could not suffice to blot out the recollection of those moments; a life of pain were but a poor price to offer for their repossession! But they passed away; and I marched off, if not happy, at all events, satisfied that I had done my duty, and that there were two kind hearts which

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beat in gratitude for me, whose own was little better than a blank.

19     "My satisfaction was, however, but of short duration. I had sojourned but a few weeks at the dépôt, when the arrival of Lewis, as one of a fresh batch of conscripts, gave proof that the sacrifice which I had made had been to no purpose. A second call for recruits, it appeared, produced a second ballot; and the name of Lewis, as if heaven had decreed that he should not elude his destiny, was again among the number of the drawn. You may well believe that my friend for some time after his enlistment was melancholy enough, when I inform you that the very day was named which ought to have made Marie his own; yet he recovered his spirits by degrees, applied steadily to his drill and his duty, and bore himself as proudly, and was as much admired as any man in the ranks, when the detachment began its march to join the army in Spain.

20     "Lewis and I were fortunate enough to be appointed to the same corps, and the same company, indeed we were comrades. We were fortunate too in being commanded by a brave and good officer; and to fill up our measure of good luck, were sent off to serve under one of the ablest and most humane generals whom France has produced. We were ordered to Catalonia, at that time the province of the gallant and

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generous St. Cyr. This happy combination of events naturally tended to make us look to the future with a less desponding gaze, and upon the past with greater resignation; we acknowledged that our lot might have been far less desirable, and we were contented.

21     "No particular events befel [sic] us on our journey towards the frontier. On the whole, we were treated with sufficient consideration by the inhabitants, who bestowed on us a thousand wishes for our success and safe return, and we came up with the army just as it had taken its ground, and begun to make preparations for the siege of Rosas. You are, doubtless, aware, that the defence made by the garrison of that fortress was exceedingly obstinate and gallant. Though our trenches were gradually drawn to the very crest of the glacis, and our saps penetrated the escarpment, the governor refused to surrender; nothing therefore remained but to try the fortune of an assault, and for this perilous service volunteers were invited to offer.

22     "The first man who presented himself on that occasion was Lewis Charmont. It was in vain that I reminded him of Marie, and of the necessity under which he lay of guarding his life, as far as circumstances would allow, for her sake. He only smiled at my remonstrance, and squeezing my hand, replied, that if he fell, Marie would honor his memory, and if he survived, he should be the more worthy of her, as

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he would have acted like a brave man, and earned a medal.

23     "The assault took place, and was successful. The carnage on both sides was terrible, but the town fell, and Lewis escaped unhurt. That I rejoiced at his escape you will, I am sure, believe; yet let me be candid, I did envy him, for the first and only time in my life, when I beheld him next morning upon parade with the medal already suspended from his button. Bitterly did I upbraid myself that I had not volunteered also; and I resolved that he should never again earn a distinction to which I should not be equally entitled; nor was I without hope that even Rosas might be to me, as it had been to him, a theatre of renown. The citadel still held out, principally, I believe, through the exertions of your countryman, Lord Cochrane, and a few of his sailors; and it continued for many days to withstand all our efforts. I was one of those who thrice endeavoured to storm it, and were thrice repulsed; but the works were demolished at last by cannon shot, the English were compelled to abandon them, and we took possession of the ruins.

24     "Worn out with the labours of a tedious and harassing siege, we fondly looked forward, now that the place had fallen, to the enjoyment of at least a few days of repose, but we were disappointed. The critical situation of Barcelona, at that period blockaded by the

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enemy, called upon the general to make every effort for its preservation. It was by far the most important of all our possessions on that coast, for the loss of which hardly any success would have compensated; so St. Cyr having determined that it should not change masters through any negligence on his part, made ready, without a moment's delay, to succour it. On the evening of the day which saw our flag hoisted upon the ramparts of Rosas, the order to prepare was issued, and at an early hour next morning the whole army was in motion.

25     "The direct road from Rosas to Barcelona leads, you must know, under the very guns of Hostalrech, a fortified town, which was then held by a numerous Spanish garrison. Conscious that any effort to force a passage must be attended by a heavy loss, and unwilling to waste time by reducing the fort, St. Cyr resolved to penetrate, as he best could, through the mountain; and having found a shepherd who professed to be acquainted with the different tracks, he took him for his guide. The man was no traitor. He conducted the column, by a difficult and circuitous route, round the hill upon which Hostalrech is built, and brought it in safety, after a perilous and fatiguing march, once more into the high road.

26     "On this occasion Lewis Charmont and myself were both attached to the rear-guard. It was not very efficient in point of numbers, though the general was

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pleased to say that we were all brave men, on whom he could perfectly depend; and it came not off so well as the column which it was appointed to protect. During the earlier part of the day, indeed, we, like those in front of us, went on without beholding an enemy; but about four o'clock in the afternoon we suddenly found ourselves watched by a very superior force; which, in spite of our most strenuous efforts to prevent it, succeeded in throwing itself between us and the rear of the column. For and instant we fell back, as if uncertain what course to pursue; the main body, we were well aware, would not, and could not halt to succour us, they could not even spare reinforcements to bring us off, for the defile of Trientepasos was before them, which must be passed that night or never; there was, therefore, no help to be expected from that quarter. The idea of surrendering, whilst we had arms in our hands, could not be borne for a moment; more especially as we were not ignorant that he who became a prisoner to the Spaniards was less to be envied than his comrade who fell in battle. Though they exceeded us in numbers by four to one, we resolved to fight our way through them, and either to make good our passage, or perish in the attempt.

27     "The Spaniards were advantageously posted on the brow of a wooded height, and galled us dreadfully, as we rushed on, with their fire, but our charge

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was decisive; for one instant they stood the shock, in the next we had pierced them. And now all was hurry and confusion; it was our business to escape, each man as he was best able, and we were not very scrupulous as to the means. We ran as fast as weariness would permit, preserving, however, for a time an irregular line, and stopping occasionally, as a convenient space offered, to check the pursuit by our fire; but at last even our skirmishing order was lost, and we fled and fought in files or singly, as chance or circumstances directed.

28     "In this manner the tiraillading continued till hardly light enough remained for us to point our muskets, when Lewis, who throughout the whole affaire had kept by my side, fell to the ground. You will wonder when I tell you, that notwithstanding the situation in which we were placed, it never once occurred to me that my friend could be wounded; I imagined that he had merely lost his footing, and I stooped down, in the careless turn of mind which such a belief was calculated to create, in order to assist him in rising. What then were my sensations when I found that he made no reply to my inquiries, and on examining him more closely, discovered that a musket ball had struck him just where the shoulder joins the neck, and passed into his vitals. My very brain swam round, yet I retained self-command sufficient to raise him in my arms, and to entreat that he

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would exert his utmost strength, as the fire was fast slackening. He did so, and I led him to the rear; but we had not proceeded a dozen paces before he exclaimed in a feeble voice, 'It is useless, Baptiste, I cannot proceed farther. Go, go you, save yourself for poor Marie, and leave me to die.' I could not act thus, Monsieur; it was not in my nature to abandon any one, more especially the friend of my heart, under these circumstances; so partly carrying, and partly dragging, I contrived to hurry him along, till a cottage opportunely offering, I conveyed him into it. It was deserted and in ruins; yet with a winter's night closing rapidly upon us, I was too thankful even for such a shelter to pass it by.

29     "The firing had now ceased; our people having made good their retreat, and the enemy fallen back to Hostalrech; but that was a matter about which I was perfectly regardless. I thought only of my friend, for whom the plundered hut afforded no comforts, and but a very partial shelter. I laid him upon the mud floor, and tearing my handkerchief into shreds, attempted to staunch the blood which welled from his broken limb; but all my efforts were fruitless, it flowed in spite of them. When I looked at his countenance, too, that told me plainly enough that there was no hope; the half-closed eye and fallen jaw, not less than the pale lit and livid cheek, warned me that Lewis was departing. Wild with my own

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fears, I called upon him in the name of Marie, and of all the tender associations connected with his native village, to rally himself, and take courage; and at last, finding that he paid no heed to my adjurations, I sat down beside him in despair, buried my face in my hands, and wept aloud. The sound of my lamentation reached him even in his last moments; he looked up, and in a tone scarcely audible, exclaimed, 'Do not weep, Baptiste, do not weep, it must be thus, we must all die. Tell Marie that I fell as became me; and give her my medal, that she may occasionally look upon it, and remember me when I am gone. Tell her, likewise, that with my last breath I consigned her to you; you love her, Baptiste, that I know; and I need not add be kind to her, for to whom was my friend ever unkind? May you be happy together, and the thought that you are so *** .' He could not finish the sentence; no doubt he meant to say, that his spirit would look down upon our happiness with delight, but the word died upon his lips, the lips themselves ceased to move, and he was a corpse.

30     "Ah, Monsieur, if you have ever known what it is to witness the dissolution of a friend who was dear to you as the air which you breathed, then, and then only, will you be able to imagine what my feelings were at this moment. Alas! I could not even pay to him the last tribute of friendship; I could not lay him in a grave; but I did what I could; I took his

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medal from his breast, and fetching a quantity of straw from an adjoining chamber, I spread it over him; I knelt down, too, and breathed a fervent prayer for his soul's repose; and then with swollen eyes, and a heavy heart, set out to overtake my regiment.

31     "I need not pursue the remainder of my story with any particular minuteness. I came up with the corps at the farther mouth of the defile, for the Spaniards, contrary to all expectation, had permitted us to thread it unmolested; and I partook of the bivouac which they had formed on the plain of Llenas. But our repose was of short continuance; the dawn had just begun to break when a heavy column showed itself in full march towards the pass; no doubt could exist as to the force which composed the column; so the drums beat to arms, and in five minutes after the army was in line.

32     "Of the action which ensued, and which ended in the total defeat of the Spaniards, I cannot pretend to give any account, for the cannonade had scarcely begun when a round shot struck me in the left arm, and took it off. I was carried from the field along with hundreds besides, and having suffered amputation, was removed to a crowded hospital, where, during many weeks I endured all the misery attendant upon inadequate accommodation, imperfect nursing, and scanty provisions. At last, however,

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thanks to a naturally good constitution, I recovered; and being no longer serviceable, I received my discharge, but no pension was allowed me; I had not served long enough, it appeared, to merit one; indeed I was left to make my way, as I best might, through the whole breadth of France, without receiving any assistance than that which private benevolence afforded. Thus mutilated, and a beggar, I reached my home exactly ten months from the day on which I quitted it.

33     "And now, Monsieur, it only remains for me to repeat the saddest portion of my story. Poor Marie had received no account of her lover since he departed, and had pined and languished after him, like a bird robbed of her young. Her health, naturally delicate, was already impaired by suspense; how then could it be expected that she would bear up against the terrible reality; she did not, Monsieur. I broke the matter to her as delicately as I could, but even thus she was unable to bear it; the intelligence that Lewis was no more came upon her like a thunderbolt upon a bruised reed *** it crushed her. When I strove to cheer her by making mention of her lover's valour, her tears only flowed the faster; and when I pulled out his medal, and gave it to her as his last bequest, it seemed as if her heart would have broken. She took it, laid it upon her bosom, and to her dying day kept it there; nay, it was not removed from her even

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in death, it is buried in her grave. No, no, Monsieur, I could not speak to one, thus afflicted, of new ties; I never told her that Lewis had bequeathed her to me. The poor stricken doe had no pasture to fly to; she lingered on for a while, and died.

34     "Six years and a half have passed since we laid her in the dust; she had then barely completed her twenty-first year, and the merciful God never took to himself a purer or a chaster spirit. For me, it has ever since been my chief delight to deck her grave, as you see it even now. Every Sunday I gather fresh garland for the purpose; and as long as life remains, I will continue the practice."

35     Though there was something French in this poor fellow's story, I was, upon the whole, a good deal affected by it; and deeming it not unworthy of a place in my scrap-book, I noted it down.

The National Norwegian Song, From S. P. Wolff By W. H. Leeds

An Address to the Lost Wig of John Bell, Esquire By a Tyro