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son, that he may join these goodly manors to the estates which he already calls his. And thou,-"

"Ay, my sentence is already passed. I must wed Aminadab, or renounce all hope of pardon!" And poor Mabel's tears poured down like rain.

"Wed Aminadab, and embrace misery for thy whole life long! No, sweetest Mabel, that must never be. I cannot leave thee to the destiny with which thou art threatened. Come with me, fairest, dearest. The prospects of the cavaliers are brightening. A mightier conqueror, death himself, is wrestling with the great warrior, who hath sat so firmly, I had well nigh said so worthily, on the English throne. His son cannot fill that seat-and then-but even if that hope fail, and we be still poor, my Mabel"—

"I think not of riches. They are as dust in the balance. My father, Arthur, my poor, poor father!"

"Will he be happier, think'st thou, to see thee wretched with one whom thou canst not love, and to feel and know that he caused that wretchedness? Come, sweetest; The horses wait." "He kissed me to-night, and blessed me;-laid his hand upon my head and blessed me, Arthur. My dear, dear father! I cannot leave him!" And she wrung her hands, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

"Wilt thou stay to wed Aminadab? We shall return, Mabel, to thy father, return to kneel together for his blessing. And he has still Kesiah! Here is thy palfrey. Place that little foot in my hand. Soh!"

"My father! my poor father!"

And so exclaiming, she rode away.

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A twelemonth had gone by. The summer sun shone once more on the fair mansion and the rich woods of Temple Laleham. The Protector was dead, and Richard Cromwell had seemed as well pleased to relinquish the task of sovereignty as Charles had been to ascend his ancestral throne. The kingdom after its long unrest was beginning to settle into tranquility, when one fine morning, the offending daughter (now, by the death of stout Sir Philip, Lady Montresor) stood humbly before her father's door. Kesiah received her there with the kiss of sisterly affection.

"My father! my dear father!" said poor Mabel. "He is better, much," replied Kesiah, answering the look rather than the word; "greatly better in health, and prepared to see you."

The sisters sought his room in silence; and Mabel fell weeping at his feet, and laid her head upon his knee.

"Father! dear father!

And again she wept.

Softened by illness, by the sight of his favorite child, and above all by her fondness and humility, the old man once again laid his trembling hand upon her head.

Smiling through her tears, she received the benediction in joyful silence.

in his master's face for the last time, sank patiently down, and, while poor little Jeanie flung herself beside him, stroking his stiffening neck, and mixing her fast falling tears with the lifeblood that dabbled his shaggy coat, stretched out his limbs, gave two or three convulsive twitches, and died. Jeanie would not believe that Luath was dead; and even her grandfather, although contradicting her assertion that he still lived, with the irritability of sorrow, deepened by indignation, raised the body of his favorite, with a half hope that life was not extinct, and when it fell back a heavy weight upon the clay floor of their cabin, broke into bitter denunciations upon the cowardly tyrant who had slain, in wantonness of anger and power, the best and bravest dog that ever trod the braes of Glendorroch.

The peculiar circumstances of the people and the time lent a double force to the old clansman's malediction. It was about twenty years after the Forty-five, in which unhappy insurrection the chief of that branch of the Camerons, together with many chieftains of that brave and ancient house had adhered to the last to the fortunes of Charles Edward, had been attainted and forfeited, and had died broken hearted and in exile. His only son, too young at the time of the rebellion to partake of his father's guilt (the old retainer did not give that name to the part his leader, Glendorroch, took in that remarkable rising), was deprived of his inheritance, while the large property from which he derived his territorial title was bestowed upon a Campbell, the sworn enemy of the clan, who had intermarried with a distant kinswoman of the Camerons. He, too, was dead, leaving only a daughter, reared and educated in England; while an Englisher, or, at the best, a lowland Scot, an Elliot of the debateable land, was placed by the Campbells, her father's kindred, as agent, looker, factor, (which ever were the obnoxious word for a most obnoxious office), over the estates and vassals of the young heiress. He it was, a keen sportsman, and a hot and fiery man, who already deeply unpopular among the clan, with whose language and manners he was unacquainted, and whom he at once mistrusted and despised-he it was, this very Gilbert Elliot, who had now filled up the measure of his sins, by shooting Luath. While little Jeanie was crying herself into comparative calmness over the body of the faithful creature, so long her playmate, Angus found a relief nearly similar in pouring forth, in his native Gaelic, the story of his wrongs, with a fury and energy which really amounted to eloquence, so deeply was the old man stung by the mingled passions of grief and hate.

The story, in plain English, and separated from Angus Cameron's bitter vituperation, was briefly this:

Elliott, who had, as it appeared, instant occasion for red deer venison, to celebrate the coming of age and expected ar rival of the fair heiress, had set forth before sunrise upon this unlucky morning, attended by two or three Highland gillies and a brace of well trained dogs, with the purpose of stalking some deer, which had been seen upon the hills beyond the lake. At length having reached a station where, concealed

Thou hast a son, Mabel. What hast thou called the by a tree, he was enabled to take a true aim at the noble deer, varlet ?"

"John Goodwin, dear father!"

"John Goodwin! poor silly wench! and I would not suffer Kesiah to name her in my presence! John Goodwin! poor wench! poor wench! They tell me, Mabel, that thy husband is as silly as thyself; that he hath been striving in the council against his own rights, and, contenting himself with winning back his estate of Montresor Vale from his old enemy, Holdfast, hath caused the mansion and lands of Temple Laleham to abide with me. Well! well! thou must dwell there, Mabel, and so must he, and the young knave, thy son.'

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"Nay, father, is there not room for you and Kesiah, also? room for us all? Let us not be parted again, dear father! never let us be parted again!"

And at Temple Laleham, the reconciled family, father and children, roundhead and cavalier, dwelt to a good old age, in peace and honor.

THE BRIDE.

BY MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

'As sure a dog as ever fought at head.' Shakspere. THEY who have had a favorite dog-and who has not?who have felt the solace of his mute sympathy in affliction, and the animation and gaiety which his gambols throw around our happier hours, will not disdain to participate in the grief of the humble family of Angus Cameron, as they gazed upon the faithful creature who, after lifting up his head and looking

which he had been dodging for so many hours; when, just as he had raised his rifle to fire at the quarry, which stood, half suspicious, half secure, on the brow of a small eminence, just within range of a shot, the baying of a hound was heard on the other side of the hill, and, in an instant, the stag bounded away out of sight and hope; and Luath, who had unhappily attended his master, probably for some purpose not far dissimilar, dashed toward the very spot from whence his approach had driven the destined prey. The temptation of immediate vergeance, not merely upon the poor dog, but his master, for the loss of his game proved irresistible Elliott fired, and Luath fell; and the scene of fierce and angry recrimination which followed, ended first in the Lowlander demanding the fire arms of which, as he justly said, the law forbade not merely the use but the possession among the forfeited clans, and upon the Veteran's indignant refusal to deliver up his weapon, he gave him notice that he should send not merely to take away by force all weapons found in the cottage by the brae; but, to dislodge the inhabitants, and, if need were, to pull down the dwelling. "The Leddy," quoth the man of office, "shall find nae nest of rebels on her land gin fire and sword can do their wark."

"The Leddy!" said old Angus to his daughter, quoting the title with peculiar bitterness.-"The Leddy, and this to the foster-father," added he, in the language of old Gael, in which the remainder of the dialogue was carried on, " of Foster, the rightful chief! Ye drew your earliest nourishment from the same bosom, Cathleen! were carried in the same arms!

Many a time hath my poor wife owned that she loved the brave boy-that was after he was an orphan, Cathleen, as well as her own fair girl. Oh, that he were but here! There be hearts and arms enow in Glendorrock, to teach this Sassenach Looker that the Camerons will submit to no woman's rule, least of all when that woman is a Campbell."

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'You forget, dear father," rejoined Cathleen, "that the blood of the Camerons also flows in the veins of the young heiress. I would she were arrived! She, at least, is not responsible for the evil deeds of her kinsmen and guardians, or for the hasty and violent doings of their Factor. And if she bear a woman's heart, she will not see a white-haired follower of her mother's house turned, with his widowed daughter and her helpless bairn, to couch with the hill fox and the roe. I would that the Lady of Glendorroch were here, rather, far rather, than the brave and gracious boy-may heaven bless and prosper him!-whom we cannot but call the chief! Too much of kindly blood hath been shed in Glendorroch. We must have no struggle, dear father; must not give just cause for severity to these Sassenach rulers. Hark! who beats at he door?"

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"Glendorroch!" cried the father and daughter involuntarily. All the faithful clansman's devotion was in one greeting, as the old man doffed his bonnet to his chief; all the tender woman's affection in the other, as she pressed the hand of her old playfellow.

Cheerfully and cordially were their greetings returned. Claude's look, as he resumed his old seat by the Ingle side, and looked about, and spake to Angus as if they had parted yesterday, making acquaintance with Jeanie, alluding slightly but feelingly to the loss of her father, and entering into the general grief and indignation for the death of Luath, the decendant of a race of dogs who had belonged to the chieftains of Glendorroch from generation to generation.

"The Saxon churl!" muttered he; "he shall abide the deed." And then waiving off until another time the particular account of himself and his fortunes which their affectionate interest required and deserved, and saying only generally that he had entered the service of a German Prince, and, after filling the post of aid-de-camp to a distinguished officer, had accompanied his old commander on an important embassy, so that his prospects were fair, he returned to the grievance of the hour, and offered his assistance to Jeanie, who was by this time seated on his knee, to dig a grave among the birks and gowans for her poor favorite.

They sallied forth accordingly. It was a bright autumn evening. The hills were purple with heather, while the narrow valley, through which the bright burn ran wimpling, was green as an emerald, except where the sun slept with a golden shine upon patches of velvet turf, and the holly, and the mountain ash, with their coral berries crept up the sides of the hills. Tufts of blue bells waved lightly in the air, and the silver bark of the weeping birch glittered through the light and feathery foliage.

to stay any further proceedings until the arrival of the lady, from intelligence communicated by an avant courier confidently expected on the morrow.

now,

The morrow came, and, gathered together by every device which the indefatigable Factor could devise, half the retainers of the house awaited the youthful heirs before the gates of Glendorroch. Our friends Angus and Cathleen, accompanied by little Jeanie, attended in fulfilment of a promise to Claude, who was no where visible. The old man was dark and gloomy, and so was all around, in spite of young girls carrying baskets of flowers, and children with garlands, and pipers playing the gathering, and a broken-nosed cannon firing as often in the half hour as an engineer marvellously well adapted to his artillery, being lame of an arm and leg, could contrive to compass. Every outward symbol of welcome that mere power could command was prodigally bestowed. Nothing was wanting except that true and genuine love and loylaty which no Helen Campbell, none save the real Chieftain of the old line, could excite in the warm hearts of their faithful people. The Lady arrived; as fair a Helen as any since, that first and frailest of the name, who wrought the woes of Troy. All smiles and blushes the fair lady came, but few gazed upon her, for at her side sat a noble-looking man in the very prime of life, in whom the crowd recognized at the glance, the youth brought up in Angus's cottage, the rightful heir of Glendorroch. All eyes were fixed upon him, as, leaping from the carriage, he half lifted out his lovely companion, turned her gently, abashed and shamefaced as she stood, toward the wondering expectant throng, and doffing gallantly his plumed bonnet, said, with a countenance radiant with happiness, "Friends and kinsmen, this is your lady and mine, my own dear wife, Helen Cameron."

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"A light upon the cliff above the cottage, say'st thou, Senhor Don Jose? A light from the post which I have in charge! A signal to the smugglers, belike, or the enemy? Now, by St. Jago, great man as thou think'st thyself, procurador, and what not, thou may'st rue the day when thou insultedst an old soldier and an old Castilian! There is some pith and marrow left in this right arm still," continued the veteran, extending as tough and sinewy a limb as ever grasped a Toledo, "and by our Lady of Pity, he who accuses me of treason is like to feel its weight, were he twenty times a procurador. If Catalina had married thee now, as thou wantedst last vintage, or if I had acceeded to thy other proposal, and exchanged my good olive ground for thy patch of a vineyard, we might never have heard of this matter. But the girl and her father were both of them wiser. I warn thee once again, meddle not with an old soldier."

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Nay, good Diego," rejoined the little lawyer, shrinking instinctively from the harsh tones and threatening gestures of him of the Beacon Rock, "the saints only know whether Catalina or I should have had the worst of that bargain; and as to my sunny vineyard, it 's worth a dozen of thy lean, hungry olive grounds any day in the year. I bear thee no malice, however, Senhor Diego," continued the procurador in the spiteful accent in which a disclaimer of spite is usually pronounced; "I bear no malice, either to thee or to Senhora Mencia, thy The scene was full of pastoral beauty, and Claude Came-wife, and still less to Catalina; only I warn thee once more ron surveyed it with the feelings of an exile restored to his that if the beacon on the cliff be again seen alight without ornative land; feelings with whose unusual softness the wailings ders from the Christino chiefs the warder will right speedily of the tender hearted little girl over her dead favorite accord- find himself within the walls of a prison." And off the little ed well. The young soldier would have respected in another lawyer walked. After taking two or three steps, however, he the tears that certainly stood in his eyes, if they did not find returned. "Perhaps, Senhor Diego, if you really know noththeir way down his cheeks, nevertheless, he was a little ing of the matter-I love to be candid where I can―the pretty ashamed of the emotion, and gathered himself up quickly, damsel Lina may have caused the blaze by way of a signal to when just as he was replacing the turf over Luath's humble her muleteer lover, Gil Gomez." And now, having shot off grave he heard loud sounds of contest and distress from the his last arrow, the worthy attorney walked himself off, with a path leading to the cottage, and was aware of Gilbert Elhott's comfortable persuasion that he had made his old acquaintance. myrmidons thrusting forth Angus Cameron, in spite of the and would-not-be father-in-law, thoroughly uncomfortable. old man's sturdy resistance, and the alarmed cries of his daughter.

In an instant Claude was at their side. The weapon with held with a lion's strength from the Factor's emissaries was yielded with a child-like docility (such was the instinct of fendal obedience) to his chieftain, the real, although unacknowledged, head of Clan Cameron; and one word spoken apart, aided by the chink of gold in a well plenished purse, overcame the lesser difficulty of persuading Gilbert Elliott's people

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Our friend Diego was, as he had truly said, an old soldier and an old Castilian, brought to the frontier by some one of the many captains who had fought the cause of the infant queeri with more or less ill success, and placed in a post of real rather than ostensible trust and importance, as being one upon whose good faith and intelligence reliance might: be placed.

The Beacon Cliff, with which at its only point of access his cottage communicated, was a lofty and almost perpendicular rock, commanding alike the sea-coast and the mountains, and

most useful as a signal post for the transmission of local intelligence to the bands in those wild hills and the ships in the offing. A narrow wooden drawbridge, beneath which gushed a rapid stream, led from a gallery which surrounded Diego's dwelling to the only level spot upon the Beacon Cliff. From that landing to the summit, the ascent, as viewed from below, was apparently impractible to any foot less light and tenacious than that of the goat or the chamois. But certain slight inequalities, natural or artificial, winding round the face of the rock, gave to the bold and practiced climber sufficient footing to gain the small platform, upon which swung from a strong iron pole a small bucket, of the same material, filled with tar and with the resinous woods of the country, of which easily ignited and highly combustible materials a stock sufficient for many months' consumption was deposited on the spot. A more effectual signal post could hardly be devised, and in the disturbed state of the country, agitated by civil war, plagued by the bold inland smugglers called contrabandistas, and exposed to so much change and anarchy that the English naval officers, ever the Queen Regent's best allies, hardly knew whether the district was possessed by Carlists or Christinos. The Beacon, confided as it had been to bold and faithful hands, had often led to successful co-operation and prevented a useless sacrifice of men and ammunition.

Diego's family consisted of his good wife, Mencia, and his pretty daughter, Catalina, who, as we have just seen, had made him an effectual enemy, by refusing the meddling lawyer, Don Jose Ortiz, a wizen-faced, withered sample of the Spanish Hidalgo, who (and we suppose the attorney-phobia is the same in all countries) had been for years the pest and dread of the country round, and found his power rather extended than limited by the present state of partisan warfare, inasmuch as, by keeping fair with both parties, and denouncing very impartially friend or foe to which ever happened to be uppermost, he contrived to increase his importance and fill his coffers. His accusation had completely mystified poor Diego, especially that part which alluded to Catalina.

"The Beacon a-light last night! Impossible!" So ran his half-muttered thoughts. "Poor Lina! That she does like that gay muleteer, Gil Gomez, with his songs and his mandofine, is, I fear, too true; and, after all, if he have money enough to keep the girl comfortably, why should they not marry some day or other? 'T is a light-hearted, good humored spark and she fancies him, as twenty years ago I fancied her mother. But as to Lina's lighting the Beacon-with the great key of the house door under my pillow, and at night, too, when I myself can hardly keep my footing, and she never there except once or twice, when she would go to help me to carry the fir faggots, and was forced to turn back before she got half-way, for very giddiness-Bah! The thing 's impossible! and, by Santiago, the Beacon could not be alight. T is a lie of that cankered little lawyer, and does not deserve another thought. I'll just go and ask Mencia whether she locked the door of the balcony last night. Of course she did. And, that door being locked, how could Lina get to the drawbridge, and why should she light the Beacon? Bah! It's a lie from the first word to the last, and I 'll think no more of it."

Forming internally this wise resolution, but unable to direct his mind to any other subject, Diego (for this conversation had happened in the olive ground on which Don Jose had cast his eye) strode rapidly toward his cottage; as he neared which, shrill sounds of female voices gave token of an animated discussion between Senhora Mencia, the wife of his bosom, and certain neighbors, her gossips and friends. He arrived in time to hear their dismissal.

"The Beacon a-light, good Ursula? and you saw it with your own eyes, you and Pepita? You must have been dreaming, good people! No soul could get to the rock except from the drawbridge that leads from our balcony, and I locked the door myself with these hands. You were dreaming, good gentlefolk! Pepita there says she saw Santa Teresa clad in white, flying over the top of the rock. Santa Teresa, quotha! A fair good day to ye, ladies both! Santa Teresa, forsooth! as if my husband Diego Hernandez, could not manage his own Beacon without her help. Santa Teresa"-continued Senhora Mencia, upon whose nerves the notion of a saint, clad in white, flying about so near their cottage, seemed to have made an unpleasant impression, "I hope we say as many Aves as our neighbors. I wonder whether burning a candle before our Lady of Pity-or to vow a pilgrimage-I'll ask Father Jerome. Did you see the light of the Beacon last night, Lina?" added her mother, as the voice of the dark-eyed beauty was heard from the cottage, singing one of the many

songs which Gil Gomez had composed in her honor. She inte rrupted herself to answer Senhora Mencia's question, and then recommenced her song:

"The Beacon last night? No, dear mother.
'Girls! for truant hearts a-playing,
Vainly vaunted charms arraying,

Flower and veil and fan you ply:
One rare spell your snares is spoiling,
As, o'er steep Sierra toiling

Homeward comes your favorite boy.
'Mid the mules before him creeping,
'Mid his comrades round him sleeping,
Sees he only-guess and sigh!'"

"Leave that foolish song, Catalina, and answer me at once. Did you see Santa Teresa last night flying over our rock?" "Santa Teresa flying over our rock, dear mother!" exclaimed Catalina, in very natural astonishment. "Santa Teresa flying over our rock! Heard ever mortal such a question! Santa Teresa!"

"Clad in white," rejoined Mencia. "Pepita and Ursula vow by all the saints that they saw her light the Beacon last night, and then fly away over the face of the cliff. They talked, too, of coming to watch again to-night."

66

They have been dreaming, mother! Poor old Pepita passes her life in seeing visions. Poor old Pepita! She is not what she used to be, since the loss of her son. You must have seen how her poor white head shakes under her mantilla, but she is a kind creature. To be sure Ursula ought to have known better. But dreams are catching, dear mother, especially dreams of the saints; and you know my father has always, from motives of prudence, made a little mystery of this Beacon. Are you quite sure that he did not light it last night? I saw nothing, I heard nothing. But I sleep sound, for Gil could never wake me," sighed she, in a lower voice. "I wish Gil were here again, safe from these dangerous passes." And then the song was resumed, as she went quietly about her

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This dialogue, which he had overheard without making his appearance either to the departing guests or the incensed hostess, did not tend to quiet the keeper of the Beacon. Catalina's words and manner had completely assured him that she had no hand in the matter, and although a devout son of the Catholic Church, he was yet a person of too much sense to put any faith in the St. Teresa vision of the story. He had, however, from the testimony of the two women, confirming as it did that of Don Jose, little doubt but the rock had really been ascended, and the Beacon lighted; probably by some daring Carlist spy, to lead the crews and commanders of the English vessels upon the coast into a trap, by inducing them to land upon some spot only too well prepared for their reception, and he determined to walk to Marquina, a small town in the neighborhood, for the double purpose of hearing whether any mischief had befallen by sea or land, and to secure some resolute man to watch with him the ensuing night. "If poor Gil were here," thought he as he passed through a grove of fine oak trees, echoing unconsciously his daughter's dearest wish; "or, failing him, Lope Mureno, he is strong, agile, and resolute. Ay! Lope Mureno, and we'll conceal ourselves among the pine faggots on the platform, or keep guard below, according to circumstances.'

*

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Twelve hours had passed since the conversation between Jose and Diego in the olive ground. It was now midnight, and dark from the want of moon, but clear and cloudless "This is a strange story that Ned Miles has told us; and still stranger is that which we have gathered from these women,' said Captain Heywood to his first lieutenant, Mr. Adeane, as they were pacing the sands beneath the rocks, trying to keep as much as possible in the shadow, but yet where they might see every movement both in the cottage and about the Beacon

constant snap, to one who excels me in a great many points of author* I am indebted for these characteristic stanzas, with their pretty, ship, besides the writing of a national song, my kind and valued friend, Mr. Henry Chorley.

Cliff. Pepita and Ursula were also watching; and approaching at some little distance appeared a light-footed young man, picturesque in figure and air, with a mandoline in his hand, which he now and then struck, and humming, apparently from the mere impulse of a gay and buoyant temperament, brief snatches of many airs.

"However, we are not alone in onr folly, if folly it be," continued the English officer, "for there are the votaries of St. Teresa; and the young man tripping toward us on the other side seems, by the description, to be the muleteer, the lover Gil-what is his name? Gil Gomez. If there be, as Diego suspects, and he has been so constantly faithful and watchful that I rely implicitly upon his word-if there be treachery we shall be strong enough to seize the traitor-provided, always, that he be simple enough to come again. Ha! the Muleteer was expected. There is a light in Catalina's chamber-is it not what was described to us as Catalina's chamber. Aye! there she is, opening the lattice, and we shall after all play no more important part than that of witnesses to a serenade. No, by heaven, she is the culprit after all. Look how she is forcing herself through that barred and narrow casement. And the lamp! she will set herself on fire. No! she is through. She is letting down the drawbridge. Do you see her, Adeane? It is too heavy for her strength! It will fall back upon her. Had we not better call? No! She has passed it, and is climbing the rock."

"She is asleep, Senhor!" cried the Muleteer, who by this time had joined them. "Holy Mother, protect her! Look how boldly she treads, as if unconscious of danger."

"Yes, it is a case of somnambulism. There can be no "Nothdoubt of it," replied Captain Heywood, in Spanish. ing can be so lucky as our coming, since it frees Diego from all suspicion. But how to save her! She pauses now, and if awakened might return without much danger. Shall we call? But what is become of the lover? Aye, I see now he is rousing the mother and getting upon the balcony."

And quicker than any, except a lover, could have reached the rock, Gil had won to a place where, if his fair mistress had fallen, he was close behind to save her, and then, after a gay and lively symphony upon the mandoline which he had still retained, he began in a clear, manly voice the air which she had herself sung that very evening.

"Girls! for truant hearts a-playing,

Vainly vaunted charms arraying;"

And before he had finished the first couplet the fair slee per awakened and fell, with a little start, trembling into the lover's arms.

THE WIFE TO THE WOOEK.

BY SIR E. LYTTON BULWER.

WELL, then, since scorn has failed to cure
The love you press so blindly,

For once your reasons I 'll endure,
And answer follies kindly:

I'll grant that you more fair and gay
Than Luke to some may be;
But light itself, when he 's away,
Is never gay to me!

Then go-then go! for, whether or no
He's fair, he's so to me!

Its words your summer-love may wreathe
In florid smiles and gladness,
His lips more often only breathe
The trouble and the sadness.
But, ah! so sweet a trust to truth,
That confidence of care!

More joy one grief of his to sooth
Than all your bliss to share.

Then go then go! for, whether or no
He grieve, 't is bliss to share!
You say that he can meet or leave

Unmoved-content without me;

Nor recks what snares Neglect may weave-
Too heedless ev'n to doubt me.
Ah, jealous cares are poor respect!
He knows my heart, my guide;
And what you deem is to neglect,
I feel is to confide!

Then go then go! for, whether or no,
I'll think he does confide!

And Luke, you say, can sternly look,

And sometimes speak severely; Your eyes, you vow, could ne'er rebukeYour whispers breathe austerely. How know you of the coming cares His anxious eyes foresee? Perhaps the shade his temper wears Is thought for mine and me! Then go-then go! for, whether or no, His frown has smiles for me!

But Luke, you hint, to others gives

The love that he denies me; And hard, you say, in youth to live, Without a heart to prize me! Well, if the parent rose be shed,

The buds are on the stem;

My babes!-his love can ne'er be dead,
Its soul has fled to them.
Then go-then go!-His rival? No:
His rival lives in them!

THE DAUGHTER'S REQUEST.
BY MRS. ABDY.

My father, thou hast not the tale denied—
They say that, ere noon to-morrow,
Thou wilt bring back a radiant and smiling bride
To our lonely house of sorrow.

I should wish thee joy of thy coming bliss,
But tears are my words suppressing;
I think on my mother's dying kiss,
And my mother's parting blessing.
Yet to-morrow I hope to hide my care,
I will still my bosom's beating,
And strive to give to thy chosen fair
A kind and courteous greeting.
She will heed me not, in the joyous pride
Of her pomp, and friends, and beauty:
Ah! little need has a new made bride
Of a daughter's quiet duty.

Thou gavest her costly gems, they say,
When thy heart first fondly sought her:
Dear father, one nuptial gift, I pray,
Bestow on thy weeping daughter.
My eye, even now, on the treasure falls,
I covet and ask no other,

It has hung for years on our ancient walls-
'T is the portrait of my mother!
To-morrow, when all is in festal guise,

And the guests our rooms are filling,
The calm meek gaze of those hazel eyes
Might thy soul with grief Le thrilling,
And a gloom on thy marriage banquet cast,
Sad thoughts of their owner giving,
For a fleeting twelvemonth scarce has past,
Since she mingled with the living.

If thy bride should weary or offend,

That portrait might waken feelings

Of the love of thy fond departed friend,
And its sweet and kind revealings;
Of her mind's commanding force, unchecked
By feeble or selfish weakness,

Of her speech, where dazzling intellect
Was softened by Christian meekness.
Then, father, grant that at once to-night,
Ere the bridal crowd's intrusion,

I remove this portrait from thy sight
To my chamber's still seclusion:

It will nerve me to-morrow's dawn to bear,
It will beam on ne protection,

When I ask of Heaven, in my faltering prayer,

To hallow thy new connection.

Thou wilt waken, father, in pride and glee,

To renew the ties once broken,

But nought upon earth remains to me
Save this sad and silent token.

The husband's tears may be few and brief,

He may woo and win another,

But the daughter clings in unchanging grief.
To the image of her mother!

"THE LADY-BIRD'S BAZAAR."
Written by Lady Cathcart, on the occasion of the Fancy Fair at Rozelle.
While the insects were sporting one fine summer's day,
And frisking about, full of frolic and play,

A brisk little gad fly perch'd down on a rose,
And cried, "My dear friends, I've a scheme to propose:
Let us fix on some spot, where our tribes may all meet,
And be merry together-in short have a treat."
The project was loudly applauded by all,—
Some wished for a feast, others talked of a ball.
But the lady-bird whispered-"We certainly know
That the butterfly once gave a ball long ago;
That is quite an old tale-'twould be sprightlier far,
And much more the fashion, to have a bazaar."
A hum of assent was soon buzzed from each side-
"Yes, we'll have a bazaar!" fifty voices replied.
So a council was summoned to perfect the plan,
And the Emperor Butterfly's speech thus began:
'The first thing we think of, should be to decide
Who is fittest o'er what we propose to preside.
As highest in rank, and as proudest in race,
That task should be mine; but I give up my place
To one who will grace it, you all will agree,
And the lady-bird fair shall our patroness be."
The Emperor's gallantry highly was lauded,
And the choice he had made was warmly applauded.
The Lady-Bird curtsied, and blushed too, 'tis said,
At least she ne'er looked a more beautiful red;
And she cheerfully promised to work night and day,
Such flattering kindness to try to repay.

Much nonsense was talked, many questions were ask'd,
Numbers proffered their councils, or begged to be task'd;
The gnats buzzed their fancies, resolved to be heard,
While the humble bee modestly spoke not a word.
The ant, who has always with justice been prized
For her wisdom and industry, strongly advised
"That the profits they gained should be stored up by each,
To raise up a school, little insects to teach."
The programme so settled-invention was strained-
To fancy new works, no one idle remained;

Each creature that crept, or that gambolled in air,
Was anxious to bring something pretty or rare.
And such numbers of elegant trifles were made,
That a gayer collection was never displayed.
The spot that the lady-bird chose for the show,
Was a garden adorned with all flowers that blow.
Long tables she placed, 'neath the peony's shade,

And on pink and white rose-leaves her treasures she laid:
While above them the silk-worm an awning had spread,
Woven all from her own bright and delicate thread.
Ere the crowd were admitted, a short private view

Of the works was allowed to a privileged few.
Were I now to describe all they saw and admired,
My hearers, I'm sure, would be terribly tired—
Fine silks for the toilets of ladies were there,

Which a queen might herself have been happy to wear;
White, beautiful lace, of a texture so thin,
As only the gossamer's fingers could spin.
Long gauzes of silver, transparently light,
Composed of the wings of the dragon-fly bright;
Rich perfumes, extracted from flowers with care,
Which the honey-bee toiled after dark to prepare.
There was armor for warriors-a strong coat of black,
Made plain and of proof, for the beetle's stout back;
While others more brilliant, and slighter of mould,
Were burnished like emeralds, or studded with gold.
And some friends to the patroness-silly young things-
Turned pale to see daggers, whose points were wasp's stings.
There were toys, too, of various descriptions and dyes,
The pretty productions of idlers and flies.

Screens, trimmings, and fans, of each bright gaudy hue,
Made of feathers on butterflies' pinions that grew.
And those who were present can never forget
The many fair visions by which they were met.
The purchasers eagerly pressed to the show,

Some crawl'd from their dark little caverns below:
Some tripp'd o'er the grass with a holiday ease;

Some skimm'd through the air, or flew down from the trees.
A hum of applause, and a buzz of delight,
Proclaimed their approach to this beautiful sight.
Not an insect was absent-and need it be told,

That the lady-bird's wares were each one of them sold?

WASHINGTON.

AN INCIDENT OF THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR.

BY REV. ALBERT BARNES.

Every thing pertaining to the public or private life of Washington is of the deepest interest to an American citizen. The period will never arrive in this land, or in the world, when his name will cease to be pronounced with veneration and respect; or when his opinions and the record of his personal habits and his public deeds will cease to exert an influence on mankind. His character is settled, and his sentiments recorded and known. There is no ambiguity about his character; no doubt in regard to his valor; no suspicion about his patriotism; no question about his wisdom and prudence. The subject of his character is not to undergo discussion in distant lands or in future times; nor are our descendants ever to be perplexed and embarrassed in regard to his principles. On all subjects connected with the true welfare of the nation, his example and his opinions are to travel down with the richest influence to future ages; as far as our limits are to spread, and numerous as is to be our population, everywhere, by the innumerable millions that are to people the hills and vales of our land, is to be spoken with the profoundest regard the name of WashingThere have been other great men, whose character required many years after they died to determine whether they were to be regarded with gratitude or disgust; whether they were influenced by the love of country or by ambition; whether they lived to bless or curse the race. Many have lived, and have transmitted their names to us, of whom it is now difficult to determine whether we should regard their existence as a proof of the Divine mercy or the Divine displeasure, and of whom the opinions of men may continue for ever unsettled ;— but no such ambiguity attends the name or deeds of WashingHis character was well understood when he died; there was no doubt felt on the subject by the weeping millions who mourned his death; and the lapse of years has produced no change in the public mind in regard to this illustrious man.

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We cannot be ignorant of the many things in our own age and time that are fitted to call forth tears from the eyes of those who love their country, or who love the Christian religion. We cannot be unapprised that large numbers of the citizens of this land-and it is to be feared many occupying places of trust and power-have ceased to feel any dependence on God, and are trusting to the wisdom of human counsels and the power of a human arm in times of danger. cannot be unaffected by the fact that large numbers of our countrymen have cast off the religion of the Bible, and despise the ordinances of Christianity, and are strangers to humble and fervent prayer. Yet it is a subject of the deepest interest, and is one of the happy indications of a substantially sound state of things in this age, that the hearts of the nation are turned still to the sacred remembrance of the Father of his country; and that enduring monuments to his memory are erected all over the land. I mean not in splendid arches and obelisks; I mean not in the skill of statuary and the art of the painter; but I mean in the fact that his opinions are collected, recorded, and published; that his name is one of the first that is taught to infancy and childhood; and that there is not probably in all our wide domain a hamlet so remote, or a cottage so humble, that, in the hearts of the children there, there is not already a monument erected to the name and memory of Washington.

Foreigners speak with contempt of our literature; and they have not yet ceased to ask the question propounded twenty years ago by the Edinburgh Review, "Who reads an Americau book?" Yet there has been accomplished in this land what has never occurred in any other country. The American press has given to the world, in a manner worthy of the subject, the Life and Writings of Washington. It has done for him who was "first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen," what has never before been done in respect to any distinguished individual of the old world.Where are even now the life and writings of Charlemagne,of Alfred, of the Edwards and Henrys of England? In which of the great libraries of the old world can there be found a monument erected to the memory of prince or warrior like Sparks's Life and Writings of Washington? Which of their monarchs have furnished materials for such a work? In what country but the United States has an individual ever had such a hold on the public mind, that such an undertaking could be sustained by private enterprise?

While the American public thus feels a deep and a deepening interest in all that pertains to the name of Washington, to a very large portion of the nation, also, there is a growing inEveterest in regard to his religious opinions and practices

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