Introductory material (continued 2)

"By no means, my dear—I should be much pleased that you and Alice should have necklaces alike."

"But I do not want a necklace, sir, and should feel very badly to spend fifty dollars on a useless ornament."

"Then purchase something else with it, Margarette."

"I am in want of nothing, sir, and had much rather restore it to you."

"Can you find no use for it, my dear?" asked Mr. Claremont.

"O yes, sir—I could find enough to do with this, and ten times more. But perhaps you would think it injudiciously expended."

"What should you do with it, Margarette?" asked Mr. Claremont.

"Give every cent of it away, sir," Margarette replied.

"Very well," said Mr. Claremont. "It is yours, my dear, to throw at the birds, if you please. I can depend on your judgment and principles, that it will not go to indulge idleness or vice."

"O, I thank you most sincerely, my dear uncle," said Margarette with warmth—"in behalf of those who are suffering from want. It will give me great delight to be your almoner."

There was a very narrow lane ran past the foot of Mr. Claremont's garden, in which stood a little hut, occupied by a poor, but pious old man, who earned a scanty livelihood by gardening. He was known all ever the town by the title of Commodore, merely because in his youth he had commanded a fishing-smack. Montague had one evening walked some way out of town; and on his return, intending to pass an hour at Mr. Claremont's, he passed through this lane as the shortest way to his house. In passing the Commodore's domicil, which stood on the lower side of the lane, he cast his eyes in at the window, which had neither shutter nor curtain, and by a glimmering fire-light saw the old man sitting in his arm chair by the fire, while a female sat on a low stool beside him, who seemed to be doing something to his foot, which lay across her lap. Montague halted an instant, for there was something about the female figure, although enveloped in a large shawl and hood, that reminded him of Margarette. But her back was toward him, and the fire-light was so dim, that he remained in doubt whether or not it was she. "If it is her," thought he, as he walked on—"If it is her, performing such an office for the poor old Commodore, it may, after all, be her who visits the Delantys." As he came out of the lane, he met an acquaintance, with whom he conversed a minute or two, and then proceeded to Mr. Claremont's.

On entering the parlor, he found the little domestic circle complete. Mr. Claremont was engaged in a volume of Brewster's Encyclopedia; Alice with Malvina, over which she was shedding a torrent of tears,—and Margarette with her knitting work. "It was not her, after all," thought Montague; "but who could it be? she had not the air of a rustic!" After receiving Mr. Claremont's cordial welcome, he advanced toward his cousin, and closing her book with gentle violence, said—

"If you sustain no other injury, my dear Alice, you will inevitably ruin your eyes by reading while you weep so profusely. I wish you would relinquish novels as I fear they do you little good. Their general tendency is to enervate rather than strengthen the character." "I wish you could persuade her to relinquish them, Mr. Montague," said Mr. Claremont. "I am satisfied that that class of reading, only increases in Alice that sensitiveness which is already too strong. It will degenerate into weakness, and I know of few things more to be dreaded than a sickly sensibility."

"Why should you suppose that the reading of novels would produce that effect, more than the scenes of real life?" said Alice, "when it is universally conceded, that no genius can ever reach the truth."

"I can tell you why, Alice," said Montague. "In reading works of the imagination, persons of feeling unconsciously identify themselves with the favorite character; and then in a day or two, and sometimes in a few hours, their feelings are taxed with those scenes of sorrow and excitement, which in real life are scattered through months, or perhaps years. The greater part of life is made up of comparative trifles, which make little demand on the feelings, and scenes of sorrow and excitement are 'few and far between,' like the convulsions of the elements—which, though often distressing, and sometimes disastrous, are, on the whole, highly beneficial. But were the elements always at war, nature would soon sink to dissolution; and so if the mind and the heart were constantly raised to a state of high excitement, their energies would soon be exhausted, and the corporeal part would soon sink in the conflict. Do you read novels, Miss Claremont?" inquired Montague.

"Sometimes, but not often," Margarette replied.

"And do they affect you as they do cousin Alice?"

"Affect her?" cried Alice—"no, indeed! I never saw her moved to tears, by reading, but once in my life."

"And pray what was she then reading?" asked Montague, with a smile.

"A little penny tract, called 'Old Sarah, the Indian Woman'"—said Alice. "Over that she actually wept!"

"Did you read the tract, cousin Alice?"

"Yes—from mere curiosity, after witnessing the wonderful effect it produced."

"And did it call forth your tears?"

"No, certainly not!—Sarah was a good old creature, to be sure, but there was nothing in the tract to touch one's sensibility; and I could never conceive what there was in it, that so moved Margarette."

"Pho, pho, Alice," said Mr. Claremont, "Margarette is not the Stoic you represent her. I caught her no longer ago than this very morning, with a tear in her eye, while reading."

"My dear uncle," said Margarette, in a supplicating tone, while the pure blood in her cheeks rushed to her temples.

"What was she reading, uncle?" cried Alice.

"None of your lackadaisical nonsense, you may be certain, Alice," said Mr. Claremont. "She was reading a newspaper."

Alice laughed outright.

"Not so laughable an affair, neither, my dear," said Mr. Claremont, "as she was reading of the bravery and sufferings of the poor unfortunate"——

"Dear uncle!" again ejaculated Margarette.

"Poles," added Mr. Claremont, without noticing the interruption.

"The Poles? O yes," said Alice. "There was 'Thaddeus of Warsaw'—he was a divine creature! Well might one weep at the recital of his sufferings!"

"Doubtless, my dear—but Margarette's sympathies were moved by sufferings of a more recent date than his—by the narrative of bravery and suffering in all their nakedness—unadorned with the romance and poetry that Miss Porter has thrown around her hero. And to tell you the plain truth, Alice—I do like that sensibility better, that sympathizes with the actual miseries of our fellow creatures, even though there be nothing elegant, or poetic about them, than that which has tears only for some high-wrought tale of fictitious woe—the afflictions of some fallen prince, or the sorrows of some love-stricken swain, or lovelorn damsel."

"That, dear uncle, is as much as to say," said Alice, while her voice was choked with rising emotion—"that I can feel for sorrows of no other kind, and that you like Margarette's sensibility better than you do mine! I suppose you love her, too, more than you do your own poor, lone Alice! I feel that she is stealing every one's affection from me, though I love with so much more ardor than she does!" and she burst into tears.

All present felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and Margarette, who was really distressed, resolved to give a new turn to the conversation. Alice had seated herself on Mr. Claremont's knee, and thrown both her arms around his neck—so leaving him to soothe her wounded feelings in his own way, Margarette asked Montague some question, as foreign as possible to their recent conversation. The effort succeeded—the tears of Alice were soon dried, and the remainder of the evening passed very pleasantly.

One evening Montague and Gordon met the Claremont family, with a small select party, at the house of a friend. Gordon, as usual, secured a seat next Margarette, who was also attended by Alice, who had learned that to be near her, was the surest way to be near the idol of her imagination, the Black Prince. Montague likewise stood near them; for he was beginning to find, that there was something extremely attractive, even in Margarette's apparent coldness; or rather, that it was peculiarly interesting to observe marks of deep feeling, under so calm, so placid an exterior. Gordon recollected the conversation concerning Lord Nelson, and the effect produced on Margarette; and resolving in his turn to find a passage to her sensibilities, led the conversation to heroes and great men. He made some very eloquent remarks, as he apprehended, on heroism and greatness, which had previously been arranged with great care.

"Whom do you consider truly great men, Mr. Gordon?" asked Alice.

"Alexander—Louis the Fourteenth—Napoleon—Voltaire and Lord Byron," said Gordon. "Each in his turn, and in his own way, has dazzled the whole world!"

"Dazzled, but not enlightened!" said Montague.

Margarette looked up with one of her brightest smiles, and Montague felt, at the bottom of his heart, that it was warm, as well as brilliant.

"By Vesta," thought Gordon, "she has rewarded him for those two words, with that smile, which I have made such useless efforts to obtain! and he has made no effort at all!—I abandon her!"

"Whom do you esteem great men, Mr. Montague?" inquired Margarette.

"O, there have been hosts of them in the world," answered Montague; "but perhaps it would be better to tell you what I call true greatness, than to name those whom I esteem great. True greatness, I apprehend, consists in conquering or in duly restraining the ruling passion; in forgiving an injury, when we have fair opportunity for avenging ourselves; in sacrificing our own feelings and interests for the good of others; in that benevolence that leads to a forgetfulness of self, in efforts to promote the happiness and welfare of mankind."

"The world will hardly subscribe to your explanation of greatness," said Gordon, with something like a sneer, "and few are great!"

"Few are—but many might be," said Montague. "Every one who foregoes his own personal good, for the good of others; who forgets his own happiness, in efforts to promote the happiness of those around him, and who will not be turned aside from his purpose by the obstacles, or the unkindness, or the ridicule with which he meets, is great."

"Who sees such greatness?" asked Gordon.

"It has sometimes been conspicuous on earth, as in the case of Howard, Peter the Great of Russia, Wilberforce, Clarkson, Mrs. Fry, and multitudes of others," said Montague. "But no matter whether it is seen by the world or not, provided its influence be felt. And there is no one, capable of moral action, who has not almost daily opportunities for exercising true greatness and magnanimity of soul; and should every one improve the opportunity, the wilderness of this world would soon be like Eden, and her deserts like the garden of the Lord!'"

Margarette's countenance again beamed with pleasure and approbation, as she said—"Moral grandeur, would then be your definition of greatness, Mr. Montague?"

"It would."

"And the only true one, according to my apprehension," said Margarette, "and I have often had the pleasure of seeing it exemplified. And this moral greatness leads to sublimity of thought," she added. "It expands the soul, and elevates the conception. As an instance: I once attended a prayer meeting, where was a man who had no more than ordinary capacity, and who knew nothing beyond the cultivation of his little farm, and the path to heaven. He could scarcely read intelligibly. Being called on to lead in the devotions of the evening, he knelt down, and began in this manner—'O, thou, who lightest up heaven!' To me, it was like a shock of electricity! I have thought of it a thousand times since, and doubt whether Byron, with all his genius, in his happiest moment of poetic inspiration, ever had so sublime a conception."

"Would you like to examine the prints on the centre table, Miss Lansdale?" asked Gordon, rising, and offering her his arm. With a heart buoyant as the thistle's down, Alice accepted the proffered arm, and Montague secured the seat she vacated.

"There is nothing here that you have not seen a hundred times," said Gordon—"but I panted to get into a warmer latitude. The north pole has few charms for me, notwithstanding its brilliant corruscations. By the way, is this cousin of yours ever warmer than the summit of Mont Blanc?"

"Why ask me such a question?" said Alice.

"Because I thought you would be likely to know," answered Gordon.

"She is much admired and beloved," said Alice, with a sigh. "I wish I had her power over the heart!"

"Admired she may be—but beloved is she?" said Gordon.

"You surprise me, Mr. Gordon," said Alice. "I thought—I feared—I mean I conjectured"—and she stopt short.

"What did you think, fear, or conjecture, Miss Lansdale?" asked Gordon.

"O nothing—nothing of any consequence," said she, with real or assumed embarrassment.

"Now be frank, sweetest Alice," said Gordon, tenderly pressing her arm, which was still locked in his, to his side—"be frank, and tell me kindly what you thought."

"Why I knew that you admired my cousin, and I feared—pshaw—I mean that I thought you loved her," and she sighed again.

"O no, I could never love a block of marble, even if moulded into a Venus," said Gordon. "Believe me, sweet Alice, there must be some signs of sensibility—some little warmth of feeling, to awaken the affections of my heart. I could never love the twin-sister to the snow, and such I take Miss Claremont to be."

"So you are going to take an airing this morning, Commodore!" said Montague, as he saw the old man getting into a wagon in the street.

"Yes, Squire; you see I am taken from my work"—holding out a lame foot—"and so I am going on some business into the country."

"How long have you been lame? and what is the matter with your foot?" asked Montague.

"I sprained it a fortnight ago, sir—and it is almost the same as well now—only Miss Margarette made me promise not to try to use it too soon."

"Miss Margarette?—Margarette Claremont?" said Montague. "Does she advise you about your lameness?"

"Yes, and more than that, Mr. Montague, for, under Providence, she has cured it. There hasn't been a day since I hurt it, in which she has not come and tended it herself, bathing it with her own little hands, in a medicine she brought a-purpose. I couldn't put her off, Mr. Montague! And when she has so patiently and kindly sat, with the old man's foot in her lap, I'll tell you what I thought; I thought—here is the very spirit of Him who said—'If I, then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet, ye ought also to wash one another's feet'—and the tears ran down my old cheeks whether I would or no."

There was a slight rising in Montague's throat, but he checked it, and inquired—"How far the Commodore was going."

"I don't know exactly, Squire, as I am going to buy a cow, and want to hunt up a pretty good one."

"A cow!" said Montague—"What in the world can you do with a cow?"

"Why, she isn't for my own use, Mr. Montague, though she is to be kind o' mine—but that's neither here nor there, and I must be going, as I want to get back in good season. Good day, Squire," and the Commodore drove off.

A few days after this, when Montague was one morning at Mr. Claremont's, it came into Alice's mind to inquire after his protégés, the Delanty's.

"O, they are all well, and in comparatively comfortable circumstances," said Montague. "They have found a very kind friend, who has furnished them with comfortable clothing, besides lending them a cow. Should they be the survivors, I think they would canonize her," added he, smiling.

"Her!" said Alice. "Is it a lady, then?"

"Yes, the same young lady that I told you assisted in nursing the mother. I wish you could hear them express their gratitude, in their own emphatic dialect, with their strong Irish feelings?"

"It is strange who it can be," said Alice. "Have they not yet found out?"

"It seems she has been very careful to conceal her name," said Montague, "as they have not yet learned it. But yesterday I was there, and they pointed her out to me, as she at that moment chanced to pass by."

"And did you know her, Hubert?" eagerly inquired Alice.

"I did,"—said Montague, "but I did not tell them, as she seems so desirous to 'do good by stealth,' and would doubtless 'blush to find it fame'—and neither will I tell you, cousin Alice,"—he added, as Margarette cast on him a look of mingled distress and supplication.

"Now that is the most provoking thing I ever knew you do, cousin Hubert!" said Alice. "But I will find out, if I go to Delanty's on purpose!"

"But I tell you they do not know, Alice; and beside, if a motive of benevolence would not draw you to them, when they were in distress, pray do not let so poor a one as curiosity procure them a visit, now that they are comparatively happy."

Margarette stayed by most perseveringly this morning. She would have given almost any thing would Alice have left the room, if only for one minute. Great was her satisfaction when her cousin hastily rose, saying—"I entirely forgot to send Mrs. Frost the pattern of my new pelerine. I must do it this moment."

She had scarcely closed the door, ere Margarette said, "I must do away the mistake under which you labor, Mr. Montague. The Delantys are indebted to my uncle, and not to me. I was only the channel through which his bounty flowed."

"Mr. Claremont was then Mrs. Delanty's nurse!" said Montague, smiling.

"O no, not that—but the clothing and the cow were purchased with his money."

"I understand it perfectly," said Montague. "I have seen my cousin's neck, encircled by a pearl-necklace; but Miss Claremont preferred relieving the sufferings of a poor Irish family, to adorning her own person."

"But Mr. Montague!" said Margarette.

"But Miss Claremont!" said Montague, laughing.

"Very well," said Margarette, in great perplexity what to say,—"you must think as you will."

"I will think as I must," said Montague,—"and bid you good morning."

A few weeks after the above conversation took place, Mr. Claremont, on returning from a morning's ride, was thrown from his horse, a few rods from his own door, and was brought in, apparently lifeless. At the appalling spectacle, both his nieces obeyed the impulse of nature, and turned to fly. But Margarette had scarcely begun her retreat, ere she returned. "I must face it," thought she, "however dreadful! kind heaven sustain me!" Without much apparent agitation, she gave directions, and assisted in conveying her uncle to his room; and before medical aid could arrive, employed herself in examining his limbs, to ascertain whether they were broken, and then in chafing his hands and head, to produce, if possible, some signs of life. All beside herself, seemed nearly delirious from fright.

The news of the accident flew like wild-fire, and in twenty minutes Montague was at the house. He found Alice in the parlor, walking the floor, and wringing her hands, in an agony of distress, constantly exclaiming—"my dear uncle!"—"my poor, dear uncle." In answer to Montague's hasty inquiries, she exclaimed—

"O, he is dead!—my dear, dear uncle!—and what will become of his own poor Alice?—doubly—doubly an orphan?"

Montague hastened to Mr. Claremont's room, hopeless of learning any thing of his situation from his cousin. The physician and surgeon were both there, and there was Margarette—pale as a statue, and apparently as firm, supporting her uncle's head on her bosom. There was a deathlike silence in the room, while the medical gentlemen were endeavoring to restore animation; while all feared that their endeavors would prove useless. A groan at length announced that the vital spark was not extinguished, and Mr. Claremont opened his eyes on his niece.

"Dear uncle," said Margarette, "do you know me?"

"Margarette!" murmured Mr. Claremont.

"Away with her, Mr. Montague," said the physician—"she is gone!"

Montague clasped her in his arms, and bore her out of the room, while a servant hastened after with restoratives. "She must be mine!" thought Montague, as he supported her lifeless frame, while the servant resorted to the usual means of restoration,—"she must be mine! Such benevolence without ostentation,—such firmness and deep feeling,—such exalted worth and true humility, are a rare combination! She must be my own!"

Mr. Claremont was scarcely able to leave his room, to which he was confined several weeks, ere Montague asked him, if he would bestow upon him his niece.

"Yes, take her Montague," said Mr. Claremont,—"take her as the choicest treasure one man ever bestowed on another. I know no man but yourself, worthy of her hand and heart."

An almost convulsive pressure of the hand, was the only sign of gratitude Montague could give.

Well, who was at the wedding?—and when did it take place?—It took place in a few months, and a large company was assembled,—for Mr. Claremont hated a private wedding. The Black Prince was one of the guests.

"Are they not a beautiful—a fine-looking couple, Mr. Gordon?" said Alice, after the great cake was cut, and the congratulations were over.

"O, yes"—said Gordon—"as fine pieces of statuary as one could wish to look upon! Montague, indeed, has fire enough—the more fortunate for him, for a deal it must have taken to thaw the ice of your cousin!"

"They are both a little singular," said Alice, "yet they love each other tenderly. How happy they will be! How sweet life must be, when congenial hearts are thus united forever!"

"Yes,—perhaps so—but after all, sweet Alice, it is better to do, as you and I do—love each other, and still be free!—I would not link my fate with that of any woman in the world. I am quite sure, that I should hate even you, sweetest,—angel as you are, could you call me husband. O, there is something killing to all romance, in the very sound of that word!—Do you not agree with me, dearest?"

Alice could not utter a syllable—but cast on him a heart-rending look of mingled disappointment, mortification and astonishment!—"False!—ungrateful! cruel!"—at length she murmured—and hastened to her chamber, at once to indulge and conceal the bitterness of her feelings.

"Alice is mourning herself to death, for that worthless, heartless Gordon," said Margarette to Montague, some time after their marriage.

"She is doing what she has ever done," said Montague—"thinking only of herself, and cherishing feelings that are totally destructive of all that is valuable in character."

"She has keen sensibility," said Margarette.

"But it is all expended on herself," said Montague. "Her sensibility results in good to no one, for she has no sympathy. Her character used to interest me, until I saw it contrasted with one so much more valuable—so much more exalted!—It was you, my dearest wife, who first taught me the strong distinction betwixt sympathy and sensibility,—and how utterly useless the latter is, when unaccompanied by the former. With Alice, it is not love for Gordon, but self-love that is the cause of her thus pining. Let some other romantic looking knight appear, and sue for her hand, and her affections would be at once transformed. Should no such one appear, she will by degrees degenerate into a peevish, useless, discontented, burdensome old maid. And the best advice I could give to any young lady of great sensibility, and who would be either useful or happy, is—That she should strive to forget her own sorrows, whether real or imaginary, and expend her sympathies on the afflictions and distresses of her fellow-creatures. By so doing, the benevolence of her heart would be constantly expanding, until she would on earth approximate to the character of an angel,—and when the summons came, would drop the garment of mortality, and shine a seraph in eternal day."

S. H.

There is little merit in the following lines besides that rare merit in poetry, their truth. They were written in the place of the writer's nativity, where he had at length settled down, after an absence of thirty years. They were written in a house just purchased, and from which the former owner had not yet removed his family, and were inserted in the Album of his daughter. She was young, beautiful, accomplished, newly married, and wealthy. Though confined to her room by bad health, she was preparing for a voyage to Europe, since happily accomplished.

TO ———.

We met as strangers, Lady, tho' the scenes On which thine eyes first opened, were the same To which the sports of childhood, and the hopes Of Manhood's flattering dawn, had bound my heart With cords of filial love indissoluble. We part as strangers, tho' the self-same roof So long has sheltered both. I hear thy voice— I hear thy fairy step—and trace the print Of the soft kiss, with which thy lip has prest My infant's cheek; and see her little hands Rich with the gifts thy kindness has bestowed. And this is all: but there is more than this That with a link of sympathy connects My heart with thee, as if some common lot, Some common spell of destiny had bound Our fates in one. And we have much in common. The hope that guides thy steps to distant lands, In quest of pleasures, such as boundless wealth, And friends, and youth, and peerless beauty promise— How much unlike the stern necessity, Which drove me forth to roam thro' desarts wild, And on the confines of society, Where the fierce savage whets the vengeful knife 'Gainst cultivated brutes more fierce than he, Through hardship, toil and strife, to win my bread! But O! to leave the scenes of happy youth— The Father's sheltering roof, the Mother's care, The blithe play-fellows of our childish sports, The gay companions of our gladsome hours, The cherished friend, whose sympathy consoled The petty griefs, that, like a fleecy cloud, But dimmed the sunshine of our spring of life, And, having shed its freshness on the heart, Melted away, leaving the scene more fair;— To lose all these!—what is it but the type Of that last fatal wrench, that tears the heart At once from all we love; and in one doom, One common bond of sympathy, unites The unnumbered victims, who in every rank, Through every walk, throng to the gates of Death? May we not deem that the fond Mother's heart, Though couched in bliss celestial, yet will yearn To her deserted Child? And will not thine, Where'er thy steps may roam, true to the pole Of all thy young affections, point thy thoughts To the fair scenes, clothed by thy fairy hand With every charm of hue, and scent, and shade, Thyself the brightest ornament? O yes! From the rich isle, where science, art and wealth Have crowded every joy, the ravished sense, And heart, and mind can covet; from the plains Of France the beauteous; from the vine-crowned hills That in the glassy bosom of the Rhine Their blushing fruitages reflected see; From classic Italy, the "marble waste" Of desecrated fane, and ruined tower, And silent palaces, where once the doom Of empires was decreed, the heart will turn To Home. The trackless wild, where foot of man Has never broke the silence with its tread, Is not more lonely than the thronging scene, The "peopled solitude," where jostling crowds Elbow their way, regardless that we look Upon their strife—unconscious that we live. The moss-grown rock, that in the savage dell Has frowned for ages on the silent scene, In its drear loneliness reflects our own, And seems to give a kind of sympathy; But stony hearts have none. Known! yet unknown! There is a strange mysterious interest Follows the form, that flitting through the gloom Of twilight, half concealed, and half disclosed, Glides silently away; and such a spell Upon my memory, thy shadowy image In traces faint but indestructible Has sketched. And I would be remembered too, Not as I am, for thou hast never known me, But as I fain would have thee fancy me. And I shall be remembered—for the scenes On which thy memory will love to dwell, Are now my care. 'Tis mine to dress the vine Which trained by thee its graceful foliage, Gratefully spread to shelter thee: The flower That mourns thy absence, watered by my hand, Shall lift its drooping head and smile; and thou In fancy shalt behold its blue eye glistening Brighter through tears; and, with an answering smile, And answering tear, thine own bright eye will bless me. Then mayst thou think how I, my wanderings o'er, Have found my way back to my native bowers, Among the few whom Time and Fate have left Of early friends, to render up my breath, And lay my bones beneath the turf, where once My musing childhood strayed. And thou wilt think, That fortune yet may have in store for thee, Like destiny. For who so well may claim To rest beneath the shade, to pluck the rose, Or, on the mossy bank reclined, inhale The violet's balmy breath? And trust me, Lady, Should clouds o'ercast the sunny sky that shines So bright above thee; should a stormy fate, Whelming thy hopes, cast thee a shipwrecked wanderer, Wounded and bleeding, on thy native shore, These are the scenes in which thy heart will seek And find its consolation. Where besides Is Sympathy so tender—Love so kind— Religion so sincere? Where else has Hope So learned to look, with cheerful confidence, On worlds beyond the grave? Where else does Faith So show its Love to God by Love to Man?

B. T.

POPULAR EDUCATION.

Towards the close of the sixteenth century, Galileo, while seated in the Cathedral of Pisa, had his attention attracted by the swinging of a lamp suspended from the ceiling. Observing that it performed its vibrations apparently in equal times, whether moving over small or great arcs, he was led to the investigation of the laws of its oscillation, and thus called the attention of philosophers to an instrument, which in the multiplicity of its applications has since proved of incalculable benefit to mankind.

It seems strange that a motion so familiar as the vibration of a suspended body had never before attracted the notice of observing minds; and still more strange would it seem, if, after its laws had been discovered, and its important practical applications ascertained, it had never been applied to its useful purposes. Yet has mankind very generally down to the present day, thus neglected an instrument of more extensive application than the pendulum. I allude to Popular Education, an agent certainly the most important of any that can be applied to the melioration of the condition of the human race. That knowledge is power, stands in no need of proof or formal illustration. It may be assumed as axiomatic. But if we reason from the conduct of mankind, we shall be led to the conclusion that the aphorism applies only when society is viewed in its constituent parts, and not when the whole mass is regarded. Still speculatively it is allowed to be of general application. How is this inconsistency to be reconciled? Has the importance of Education become one of those propositions which from being universally admitted, have ceased to interest the curiosity or engage the attention of mankind? Has the policy of former ages of keeping in ignorance the great body of the people, in order that they might be the more readily oppressed by the enlightened few, who held the reins of government, grown into a custom too inveterate for the more enlarged speculations of modern times to remove? These inquiries we will not pursue, but will proceed to offer some observations on the advantages of Popular Education.

Under Popular Education may be included an acquaintance with Reading, Writing, English Grammar, Geography, and the leading principles of Science; such information in fact as would enable the people to avail themselves of the lessons contained in books, and to discharge with ease and propriety the various avocations of common life. The advantages of Popular Education as thus defined are so diversified and so connected with the whole intertexture of society, as to render it impracticable on the present occasion to trace them out fully. Only some of its most striking effects on the condition of the people can be noticed. My purpose however will be effected, if I shall succeed in directing the attention of my young friends, many of whom will shortly engage in the busy scenes of life, to a subject fraught with interest to our common country, to a cause which, in the various stages they may occupy in society, will demand their liberal, zealous and patriotic support.

By the general diffusion of information, superstition will be banished from amongst the people. Superstition has been defined, "the error of those, who in their opinion of the causes on which the fate of men depends, believe or disbelieve without judgment or knowledge." It is a compound of the credulity and fears of men—a monster truly of frightful mien—destructive of the happiness of individuals, by continually presenting to the mind imaginary causes of terror, and associating with the most common occurrences of life, the dread of impending calamity—no less destructive of the welfare of nations, by affording an agent which designing men will ever be ready to employ in effectuating their schemes of oppression. It is indeed the fulcrum on which ambition may gain a leverage for moving the moral world. The feelings to which it gives rise are of a uniform character, and when they pervade a whole people, to address them effectually no great diversity of means are required. Hence the important part it has played in the subversion of kingdoms and revolutions of empires. Examples need not be adduced to illustrate its pernicious influence on individual and national happiness. It stands in bold relief on almost every page of history; three-fourths of the habitable globe are at this day living monuments of its power. The rest is still marked by the traces of its slow retreat.

The only effectual barrier to the desolating influence of superstition is to be found in the diffusion of Popular Education. Teach men that a sequitur is not necessarily an effect, and they will cease to regard many of the ordinary occurrences of life as portentous because they have once been accidentally conjoined with misfortunes. They will cease to regard those phenomena of the material world which present nature in aspects awful and sublime, as ominous of convulsions in the moral or political world.

The influence of the enlightened few will never be able to banish superstition from the unenlightened multitude. To eradicate it the torch of knowledge must be lit in every mind. So far from superstitious prejudices being removed by the authority of philosophers, they are contracted by them from the illiterate, through the influence of early education, and are persisted in through a disposition in the human mind to regard with some degree of favor that which has been believed in all ages, however absurd in reason. Addison affords a remarkable instance of the influence of popular belief over a philosophic mind. We learn from the Spectator¹ that he did not entirely refuse his assent to the existence of ghosts, apparitions and witchcraft. In the time of this eminent writer, a period distinguished in the history of English Literature, there was scarce a village in England in which witchcraft was not accredited; so little authority did the great men of that age, who by their writings have had an acknowledged influence on the moral improvement of the nation, exert in eradicating superstition from the minds of the unenlightened common people.

¹ Nos. 110 and 117.

Education exerts a negative agency in promoting human happiness by removing superstition, one of its greatest enemies. But by expanding the mind to more enlarged conceptions of the order and beauty of the universe, it makes a real addition to the sum of human enjoyments. Our capacities are at best but extremely limited. It has been permitted to us however, to explore the threshold of the labyrinth of nature. Our discoveries present us at every step with ends wisely and beneficently planned, and means adapted with the most admirable simplicity and economy to the production of those ends. No human investigation has ever advanced so far as to point out aught of error in the arrangement of the system of things around us. Every thing, whose purpose we can understand, bears the impress of wisdom. How elevating to the mind of man to rise from the contemplation of this visible order, to a Being on whom we can rely with the utmost surety as having arranged every thing, not only in our small planet but in the whole immensity of creation, with the same admirable wisdom and economy which our limited faculties enable us to trace in the small part which falls under our immediate inspection! Yet to the vulgar mind is denied this ennobling feeling. The ignorant man

"marks not the mighty hand That ever-busy wheels the silent spheres; Works in the secret deep; shoots, streaming, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring: Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth; And as on earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life."

It is true, all people, all nations have acknowledged a Supreme Being. But wherever the human mind has been enthralled by ignorance, he has been acknowledged rather as a being of Terror than as a being of Benevolence. 'Tis Education that endues men's minds with a just sense of the attributes of the Supreme Being, and brings them acquainted with their own high destiny, and is in truth, as it has been defined to be, the "handmaid of Religion."

Among an educated people morality and private virtue must flourish. For in the language of Lord Bacon, "learning disposeth the constitution of the mind not to be fixed in the defects thereof, but still to be susceptible of growth and improvement." The human mind is endowed with a variety of passions, implanted in it for the wisest purposes, but requiring the control of reason not to run into excesses destructive of individual happiness and the peace of society. A cultivated mind not only controls the impetuosity of those passions which hurry onward into crime and misery, but peculiarly encourages the growth of those benevolent affections whose gratification rests on prospective good. In the constitution of the mind experience shows the striking fact (and it pleads forcibly in favor of the general diffusion of Education among the people) that the growth of the malevolent affections is nurtured by ignorance, and that of the benevolent by knowledge. The former are more truly the instinctive affections and generally operate under immediate stimuli. The latter may be termed the rational affections, for their stimuli are often remote and chiefly felt by the mind, which traces the relations of things and sees the intimate connexion of virtue with individual and general happiness.

The diffusion of Education will heighten and extend the pleasures of social intercourse, pleasures which truly "exalt, embellish, and render life delightful." Regard for a moment the condition of the savage in that intercourse with his fellows, where sensual indulgences and rude exultation in the slaughter of his enemies, constitute the chief of that happiness which their society affords. Think of the aged and infirm parent falling under the parricidal hand, because forsooth his limbs are no longer active in the chase, his arm no longer nerved to deal the deadly blow to an insulting adversary. Think of the sick and afflicted, deserted in their last moments and left to expire without the hand of friendship to close the dying eye. Think of woman, formed to soothe, to polish and refine our ruder natures, doomed to a degrading servitude, and thought worthy only to minister to the passions of their haughty lords. From this rude society turn to that of civilized life. Benevolence spreads her arms to embrace the human race. Sympathy awakens at the notes of woe. Charity forgets not her work of love, but visits the habitation of poverty and wretchedness, and with a generous hand relieves want and soothes the wounds of adversity. Filial piety softens the pillow of declining age. Whilst friendship and affection wait upon the couch of sickness, forgetful of fatigue, contagion and death. In scenes of health and prosperity, peace and joy reign—mutual confidence and endearment characterize domestic life—rational enjoyment marks the social circle, nurturing feelings which strengthen the bonds imposed upon mankind by mutual wants and mutual dependance. Lovely woman holds her just ascendancy—shines alike in every relation of life—a voluntary homage paid to her charms—her smile encouraging to virtuous enterprise and noble achievement—her frown chilling the ardor of even hardy insolence and impious daring. Does this contrast result from difference in mental cultivation? History presents it as the primary cause. Ignorance and barbarism, as applied to nations, may in fact be considered as convertible terms. But if in reference to social intercourse, such effects as those which civilized society presents, are the results of the increase and diffusion of knowledge among the comparatively small portion of mankind who enjoy its immediate advantages, what might we not expect from the general spread of information among the whole body of the people?

Turning from society to the individual in his solitary moments, knowledge is no less the friend of human happiness. It affords materials from which the activity of the mind weaves a pleasing entertainment, when friends are no longer present to cheer with their social converse, and when the appetites revolt by reason of satiety from sensual indulgences. A book may beguile the tedium of a gloomy day, draw the mind abroad, and prevent its dwelling on imaginary ills that more truly destroy happiness than real misfortunes. The mind must have its excitement; and if it is not endued with that degree of knowledge necessary to stimulate inquiry, and afford a relish for books, it is liable to seek for this excitement in the brutalizing indulgences of the sensual appetites or in the uncontrolled movements of the passions. By furnishing the minds of the people with the due degree of elementary instruction, the best security will be afforded of their minds being usefully or innocently employed, instead of being perverted to their own misery and the disturbance of the public tranquillity.

Such are some of the moral effects of Education. Its diffusion among the people tends to improve their individual and social happiness. It is likewise the great instrument of improvement in the arts and sciences. Discoveries and inventions are said to be the product of the age in which they are made, rather than of the individuals who are immediately instrumental in bringing them forward. But are they not dependant more on the spread of knowledge among the people at large, than on any unusual advancement in learning among philosophers themselves? Speculative philosophy has done much in promoting useful inventions and discoveries. But on the other hand, how much that is really useful do we not owe to the active minds of those engaged in the ordinary vocations of life, and who never had the advantages of instruction in the higher branches of science? It would be a curious and interesting inquiry to trace out the numerous improvements in the arts and sciences, for which we are indebted to geniuses rising superior to the disadvantages of fortune and early education. The list of such names as Ferguson, Watt, Scheele, would be found to swell the catalogue of those whose exertions have contributed to enlarge the field of science, and extend the power of man over the physical creation. Genius is confined to no rank—it is to be found in all the grades of society. Spread elementary instruction among the people, extend to them the means of improvement, and superior minds wherever fortune may have placed them, will not long remain in obscurity. Their inherent vigor will break through difficulties, surmount obstacles, and supply the deficiences occasioned by the want of a collegiate education. In order too that profit be derived from the improvements of scientific men, the minds of the people must be sufficiently imbued with information to appreciate their labors, and to throw off prejudices and break through established customs so far as to adopt in practice what speculation teaches will be useful. Many important discoveries made in preceding ages, when the mass of the people were sunk in ignorance, have been lost to us, because there was not that diffusion of information necessary for preserving and handing them down. It may be said that science has nothing to fear from such a state of things for the future, since the press and other means of diffusing information preclude all danger of any of its discoveries being lost. We readily admit the great advantages afforded by the press and the extensive intercourse between different parts of the world in preserving and transmitting knowledge. But how many discoveries which contained the germs of future sciences have been made and neglected for the want of a proper depository in a cultivated and enlightened community? Scarcely a branch of science can be mentioned, in tracing the history of which, we cannot refer back to some neglected discovery which was its real origin. But neglect has not been the only impediment to the progress of science. The difficulties which the fathers of science had to contend with, in the prejudices of the people, at the revival of letters, are familiar to all. The propagation of the true doctrine of the solar system exposed Galileo to the persecution of the age in which he lived. Yes—not the illiterate only—the learned Cardinals of the seventeenth century (if they deserve the title of learned) compelled him, under pain of the awful terrors of the Inquisition, to abjure his conviction of the most sublime truth in science. And while Philosophy must drop a tear over this weakness in one of her most distinguished promoters, every friend of human happiness must regret that ignorance, or execrate that bigotry which could impose such degradation on one of the greatest geniuses of any age.

Inventions and discoveries owe their origin to chance, or some happy idea suddenly striking the mind, or to patient reflection and experiment. Those accidents that lead to them are as liable to occur to one individual as another. But to the uncultivated mind they occur and pass away without exciting one profitable reflection, without drawing the attention to those relations of cause and effect, which being pursued under different circumstances might lead to important discoveries in the arts and sciences. Accidents however occurring to individuals of cultivated minds, have led not only to important solitary discoveries, but to the origin of new sciences, and the formation of new systems of existing sciences. The origin of the science of Galvanism is too familiar to be repeated. It is well known that it was owing to accident. Accident likewise suggested to Haüy his beautiful system of Crystalography. It is said that whilst examining a collection of minerals, he dropped a beautiful specimen of calcareous spar crystalized in prisms, which was broken by the fall. He observed with astonishment that the fragments had the smooth regular forms of the rhomboid crystals of Iceland spar. "I have found it all he exclaimed:" for at this moment he conceived the fundamental idea of his new system. Thus, an accident which to ordinary minds would have been productive only of regret for the destruction of a beautiful specimen in mineralogy, was to the philosophic mind of Haüy the occasion of the most real delight; for it led him to a discovery which he saw was to be of importance to science. The circumstances of the early life of Haüy enforce strongly the importance of diffusing information among the people, sufficient to afford them the means of advancing in improvement, and to enable them to turn the accidents that are continually occurring in life, to the benefit of mankind. He was born in obscurity, the son of a poor weaver, and we are indebted to the primary schools in Germany for the evolution of his genius, and the valuable contributions made by him to science.

The diffusion of information among the people will be favorable, not only to the progress of discovery, but also to excellency in the mechanic arts. It is maintained by many that the practical artist does not require the aid of science. Manual dexterity indeed can be acquired by practice only, but yet a moderate share of scientific information will render skill more available. Every artist in fact, by experience, acquires that portion of science which is necessary for excellence in his art; but it is at the expense of much time and many failures. By the diffusion of Popular Education, this information would become a standing fund upon which artists could draw in pursuing their different occupations, without having to derive it from the slow lessons of experience.

By raising the standard of education among the people, the standard would be raised among the learned also; for what is termed learning is only a relative quality. The whole extent of human knowledge is insignificant in comparison with the infinity of truths which remain undiscovered or unobserved. The heights and depths of science, which in our pride we fondly imagine we have explored, only strike us with astonishment because we compare them with that even surface along which ignorance plods. As the progress of information advances, the greater is that portion of knowledge which becomes the heritage of the people. By the mere intercourse of society, much knowledge is diffused, independently of that which is spread by the regular institutions for learning; and the quantum of this erratic knowledge rises in a greater ratio than the general intelligence of the people. In this country a century back, the assertion that the sun remains stationary, or nearly so, and the earth by its revolutions gives occasion to day and night, and the rotation of the seasons, would probably have been heard with astonishment, and received with incredulity by the mass of the people; because their senses, and the common use and acceptation of language led them to believe the reverse. Yet what novice at the present day, enlightened in comparison with a period of one hundred years back, would require to be informed of a truth so well known? This important truth has, like many other scientific truths, become familiar to every member of society. The information thus diffused, would be increased by raising the standard of education among the people. Much of that knowledge which before constituted a part of the stock peculiar to the learned, would become the common property of the people at large. The former would necessarily conform to a higher standard of acquirements. The plan of instruction in colleges and universities would become more liberal and extensive: for on this condition would depend the distinction of their alumni from the uninitiated.

The education of the people presents itself in an interesting light, when viewed in connexion with our political institutions. The study of history and mankind shows the essential connexion of light and liberty. Wherever solid learning has prevailed, governments have been best administered, and the people have been most happy. And on the other hand the most barbarous, rude and uncultivated nations have been most subject to tumults, seditions and changes. In all governments learning exerts a most favorable influence, by impressing on the minds of rulers the true character of their station, and on the minds of the people a just sense as well of their rights, as of their duties towards the established authority. But in our government the intelligence of the people is the very soul of its existence. There are here no distinctions of rank—no great interests artificially balanced against each other, to keep the body politic in equilibrio. Our government recognizes but one class—the people; and but one interest—the interest of the people. To the good of the people the exertions of all must be directed; and this end, to be clearly discerned, and steadily pursued, requires the public mind to be enlightened. The constitutional distribution of the powers of government, constitutes the basis of a political system the most admirable which human wisdom has yet devised—a system which, duly administered in its several parts, tends more than any other to maintain the natural equality and liberty of man, and to promote the welfare and happiness of the people. But the just operation of our political system requires that the powers distributed to the several departments be kept within their proper sphere of action. Experience shows that written constitutions are in themselves an insufficient barrier to the encroachments of men in power. Ambition and interest can easily, by construction and implication, from the most limited grants of power, derive authority for the most arbitrary and oppressive acts. This evil has been provided against as far as practicable, in the separation of the powers, and the organization of the different departments of the government. But another check which our system contemplates, and certainly one of the most effectual in its operation, is to be found in the intelligence and vigilance of the people. Sovereignty residing with them, it is their opinion which must in all cases determine finally, what and how much power has been delegated, and to which government, and which department of government it has been committed. Measures affecting deeply the public interests must often be decided by a few voices in the state and national legislatures. Over these decisions the people exert a controlling influence. How important then is it that they be sufficiently enlightened to discern their true interests—to distinguish between sectional and general good—and with that spirit of liberality which free institutions engender, to submit to temporary and local evil, in consideration of permanent and general advantage!

But it may be asked, has not experience shown that a very moderate share of intelligence, in the great mass of the people, is sufficient for the harmonious and beneficial operation of our republican system? Have not the people, as they have advanced in intelligence, shown themselves less capable of self-government than their predecessors? To these questions it may be answered, that no precise degree of general intelligence can be marked as the point at which the people become capable of self-government; but the very nature of a republican government supposes them to be enlightened, and common sense dictates that by extending the breadth of that foundation on which the whole fabric rests, the best security is obtained for its permanency. Let us dismiss the narrow notion that degeneracy is the necessary accompaniment of learning and refinement. It is true, the boasted republics of antiquity, at the golden period of their literature, sunk into servitude. But their degeneracy and their overthrow were not the effects of their literature; they were only accidental concomitants. They were either overwhelmed by external force, or sunk at length the victims of their own policy. Rome, by her policy of subjecting all nations to her sway, neglected the sources of prosperity contained within her own bosom. By the spoils of foreign conquest the city became enriched—rapine became honorable—the provinces were plundered—wealth was acquired without labor—luxury and licentiousness prevailed—useful employments were neglected, (for the poor subsisted by the largesses of the ambitious great)—every thing was venal. The morality of the state became rotten to the core. Ambitious demagogues, with their mercenary followers, overturned the institutions of their country. Rome sunk—yes, even in spite of her refinement.

But no just comparison can be instituted between ancient republics and our own, in relation to the causes which produced the overthrow of the former, and those which may endanger the permanency of the latter. The theories of ancient and modern republics are essentially different. The science of government has become better understood than formerly, and a more liberal policy marks the practice of rulers. Statesmen have discovered that the prosperity of nations is dependant on the wise administration of their internal concerns. Wars have become less frequent and less dangerous to the existence of nations. And the modern mode of warfare has given to cultivated infinitely the superiority over rude and uncultivated nations. With these advantages, the fruits of science in our favor, we need not dread the fate of bygone republics; we need not fear that the progress of intelligence and refinement will occasion that degeneracy which has been falsely attributed to them on a superficial view of the history of ancient nations. The passions of men will indeed continue to operate as they ever have done: but the diffusion of information among the people will be the surest means of counteracting their evil tendency, or directing them to proper objects.

Late events in the history of our republic have indeed shaken the faith of some in regard to the permanency of our institutions. At its origin, we were united by external dangers and the common defence of our liberties. At a later period, the adjustment of foreign relations, and the development of our system of government, interested the attention of rulers and people. But now we have been for some time at peace with foreign nations—our national character has been established abroad—and the settlement of most subjects in controversy with other countries, together with the gradual extinction of the national debt, have given place to a more immediate attention to our internal concerns. Legislation on sectional interests has brought the public sentiment of the North and South into conflict. Organized opposition to the exercise of powers claimed by congress, has threatened the very permanency of the Union. But the patriotism which directed the councils of our fathers is not yet fled. The wisdom of our legislators, aided by an enlightened public sentiment, has happily averted the danger. Let us not rest in security however. The diversified interests of our wide-spread country will continue to give rise to legislation which will excite popular discontents, and conflicts of public opinion, in relation to the delegated powers of the federal government. A grievous evil confined to one portion of the Union, threatens at no distant day to test the strength of the bonds which bind us together. The tendency of the feelings beginning to be developed among our northern brethren, cannot be mistaken. Free from slavery themselves, the relations in which it stands to our citizens and our government cannot be rightly estimated by them. Abstract speculation, mistaken philanthropy, fanatic zeal in the cause of freedom, may exclaim—the rights of man must be vindicated—the crusade must be commenced against the violators of humanity—opposition must be borne down by the strong arm of government. But let the day come when a northern majority shall in madness interfere in this delicate subject, and our union as freemen is gone forever. Civil war and bloodshed will deface and destroy the beautiful proportions of the temple of freedom. The Cæsar of America will arise to bind together the disjointed fragments of the edifice with the chain of Despotism.

Means for averting these ills are to be sought. Where shall we look for them except in the general diffusion of intelligence among the people? Spread knowledge among the people, and their minds will be awakened to a due sense of the value of our free institutions. They will be quick to detect ambition, aiming under a false pretence of public utility, at private aggrandizement. They will be ready in discerning the true interests of the nation, however designing men may endeavor to blind their perception. They will cultivate that liberal, compromising spirit, which submits to partial evil for the general good. Yea, they will cherish that patriotism which in the hour of danger will stand by the republic, and seal with the blood of freemen the "esto perpetua" of the Union.

TRANSLATION.

There are few exercises of poetical talent more frequent than translations of the Odes of Horace; and there is perhaps none of these on which more men have tried their pens, than the 22d of the first book. Of all that we have ever met with, we think none superior to the following. Were it even inferior to the best efforts of the well trained pupils of Eton or Westminster, it would be interesting as the production of a Virginian. It was written some sixty years ago, as a school exercise by a pupil in the grammar school of William and Mary. We find it in the hand writing of J. Randolph of Roanoke, on the blank leaves of an old copy of Horace, where it is recorded that the age of the writer was fourteen. Comparing it with the early compositions of Pope or Byron, the reader will be apt to ask, "What became of the author?" The answer will be found in the history of the Polish wars, in which he acted a conspicuous part. Late in life he returned to his native country, and lived and died in voluntary obscurity. It is believed that few men possessed more of the confidence and esteem of the unfortunate monarch to whom he devoted his services than General Lewis Littlepage.

We have no reason to believe that these lines were ever published. They are all that remain of an extraordinary man, and we are pleased to think that by giving them a place in the Messenger, they may be preserved.

Fuscus, the Man, whose quiet heart No conscious crimes molest, Needs not the Moor's envenomed dart, To guard his guiltless breast. Safe he may range Getulia's sands, Virtue and Peace his guides, Or where the desart Garma stands, Or famed Hydaspes glides. Late, as I ranged the Sabine Grove, Beyond my usual bounds, And, void of care, I sang my Love, In soft melodious sounds, Sudden I met, without defence, A Wolf in fierceness bred; But, awed by peaceful innocence, The savage monster fled. Not scorched Numidia's thirsty fields, Where tawny Lions feed, Nor warlike Daunia's dreary wilds, So dire a monster breed. Remove me far from cheerful day, To night and endless shades, Where not a bright celestial ray The awful gloom pervades: Or place me near the solar blaze, Beneath the burning Zone, Where no refreshing breeze allays The influence of the Sun. Still shall the memory of my Love, Her soft enchanting smile, Her charming voice, my woes remove, And all my cares beguile.

VERSES.

Written during an Excursion among the Alleghany Mountains.

How calm and glorious is the hour of night In these uncultured solitary wilds, When o'er each lowly vale and lofty height The full-orb'd moon in cloudless lustre smiles. Those lofty mountains with their forest green And craggy summits tow'ring to the sky— How proudly do they rise o'er all the scene, And lift the thoughts from earth to muse on high! And yon pure rivulet that pours along, Playing and sparkling in the moon-beams clear— How sweet the music of its vesper song In tuneful cadence falls upon the ear! And hark! the roar of these far spreading woods, Sinking or rising as the winds sweep by! Myriads of voices fill these solitudes, And send the notes of melody on high. While all his works with one accord rejoice, And pour forth praises to the Great Supreme, Shall man unmoved withhold his nobler voice Nor glow with raptures on the glorious theme? His bounteous goodness all creation fills,— Even these wild woods where solitude prevails; He sends his dews upon the untrodden hills, And flowers he scatters o'er the lonely vales. Scenes unfrequented by the feet of men Display his goodness, and proclaim his might: He feeds the wild deer in the secret glen, And the young eagles on the craggy height. His mighty arm the vivid lightning speeds, And bursts the clouds that o'er the hills impend: The mountain stream through distant lands he leads And Joy and Melody his steps attend. To trace his wonders through each varying clime, And all his mercies to the sons of men, Fills the rapt soul with ecstacy sublime Beyond the effort of the poet's pen. O Solitude! how blissful are the hours Among thy shades in heavenly musing past, When Nature leads us through her secret bowers, And Contemplation spreads the rich repast. Among the haunts of men the thoughtful mind That fain would rise above the things of earth, Finds its bold flights on every hand confined, By care distracted, and seduced by mirth. But in the deep and solemn hour of night The soul luxuriates in a scene like this: From cliff to cliff she wings her daring flight O'er foaming cataract or dark abyss. Or else, uplifted o'er the things of time, By heavenly Faith from all her bonds set free, Among the fields of ether soars sublime, And holds communion with the Deity. Oh! how transporting is the glorious thought That He whose power controls yon worlds above, Is ever nigh—and ever found when sought To save and bless us with a father's love. Even his chastisements are with mercy fraught, And seal instruction on the attentive mind. Driven by disease these distant shades I sought, And all the fruitless cares of life resigned: 'Twas there He met me, and in mercy healed The raging fevers that my strength deprest, His love paternal to my soul revealed, And swell'd the tide of rapture in my breast. Oh! then, my heart, may'st thou continual turn To Him whose power alone can guide thy ways: May love divine upon thine altar burn, And every thought and feeling speak His praise.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. VII.

He was too good for war, and ought to be As far from danger, as from fear he's free.—Cowley.

"You are an accomplished Lovelace, Lionel!" said one of a merry throng, collected around a wine table. "Poor Miss Ellen Pilton is now fondly trusting to your mellow song of flattery and promise. Here's to her health! and to that of every pretty woman with a silly heart, and a credulous ear."

"'Tis pledged," cried I, forgetting every feeling of honor in the incense offered to my vanity, "and may each of you be equally successful."

The words were scarcely uttered by me, nor had the glass touched my lips, ere I received a violent blow in the face, which sent me reeling to the extremity of the room. Rising with shame from my debasing posture, I encountered the eye of Pilton, fixed on me with a firm, cool, and deliberate gaze, and in an instant, my dirk was pointed to his heart. I looked in his face with a stern, malignant, and merciless triumph, yet his color neither blanched—nor did his countenance quail. "Let him alone!" cried twenty voices, "he is unarmed, give him fair play;" and I thank God, that in the tempest of my rage I was sufficiently alive to this appeal to my manhood, suddenly to throw the vulgar weapon away.

"Base coward!" cried I, "I will not assassinate you—but remember that your blood alone, can cleanse this foul and dastardly assault."

"You have insulted my sister," he replied, "and I have punished your falsehood. I fear neither your attempt at assassination—nor the resentment of that baseness which can trample on unprotected innocence. Remember, Mr. Granby, that the blow which you received was from a brother's hand! and if you be a gentleman, your infamy will be deepened by the seething recollections of your own conscience."

"You have done wrong Lionel!" said many voices, "tell him, that you did not see him enter the room when the toast was offered, or you would not have wounded his feelings."

"Who dictates to me?" said I,—"who measures my honor? who controls my revenge? for whoever dare treat me with such impertinent freedom, I will hold as an enemy, whom I will pursue to the grave. As for you, Mr. Pilton—you will understand——to-morrow."

My couch that night was one of utter wretchedness, and my revenge was lashed into bitterness, by the whip of sleepless conscience. That I should in a moment of folly have committed an act disgraceful to a gentleman—that I should, under the excitement of puerile vanity, have offered myself to the just resentment of my enemy—that I should thus foolishly lose the "vantage ground," which I had long and anxiously sought—that I should be stung and tortured by a consciousness of impropriety—and that I should bear on my proud cheek, the scorching blush of a public insult, were feelings which conspired to humble and cheapen me to the lowest point of mental and personal degradation.

Where duelling is a passion—and where public opinion calls it chivalry, it is easy to procure a second, and I was saved the trouble of seeking one by the voluntary offer of the young man who had given the offensive toast to my vanity. Early on the next morning, the warlike missive, graced with the usual courtesies, was sent to Pilton, and in a short time I received the following answer—a brief, though comprehensive commentary on the truisms and philosophy of cowardice.

Sir—I cannot—I will not fight a duel. I owe duties to my country, my God, and my family, dependent on a life which none but a fool would idly risk. I am not sufficiently base to murder you—nor am I silly enough to offer my life to your malignant revenge. I have no right to kill you—therefore, I shall not attempt it. I chastised you, as I shall do every man, who acts in a similar manner, for an insult to the reputation of a sister. Sustained by an approving conscience—and a mind honestly alive to a sense of its own dignity, I am prepared to defend myself from every attack of brutality and malice.

Your ob't servant, EDMUND PILTON.

Lionel Granby, Esq.

"Why did you suffer Pilton to refuse the challenge? Was it not delivered in proper form? and did you not assure him that there was no alternative?"

"It was with difficulty," replied my second, "that I could induce him to receive your note, and when he informed me of his refusal to fight, I called him a coward, and threw a glass of water into his face. Provoked to some spirit by the grossness of my insult, he struck me with a cane; I aimed a pistol at his bosom which unfortunately flashed; and he terminated my visit, by caning and kicking me down stairs. I am more deeply insulted than you are. What shall I do? How shall I act to obtain satisfaction?"

My second's reception added more gall to my wounded pride, and I resolved to coerce Pilton into a fight, by attacking him, whenever we should meet. I crushed his letter with my heel, and, throwing it into the fire, I watched it twisting and crackling amid the blaze. Ere it had wasted itself into ashes, Arthur Ludwell, almost breathless, entered my room.

"I feel deeply, dear Lionel," said he taking my hand, "for your situation, and regret that you have not sent for me, and demanded my assistance. I have waited on Pilton, who declares that he will make an apology for his blow, if you will say that you were ignorant of his presence in the room, when the toast was pledged. All who have heard of the affray know very well, that this was the fact; for you would not wantonly wound that exquisite sensibility which a brother alone can feel. It would be honorable on your part to express the truth, and it is magnanimous in Pilton to offer his reconciliation."

"And am I then so degraded, so contemptible, and so humble, that you can thus cruelly taunt me, and, with the harlotry of insidious friendship, counsel me to vilify my name, and commit a debasing suicide on my own character? Must I make an apology to a brute—one who is a disgrace to manhood's spirit—and who has rotted into life, on the dunghill of selfishness? Must I succumb to him, whom I have hated with long, unbroken, and relentless abhorrence? Must I be deaf to that fearful curse with which his malice blighted the freshness of my boyhood—which burnt on the tablet of memory, and graven in letters of blood, now agonizes my brain, and swells through my heart? Must I be recreant to my name, and family—forget that blow which will ever tingle on my cheek, and basely creep through life a reptile coward? Take back your treacherous friendship, if this be its infamy, and remember, Mr. Ludwell, that in one moment you have crushed every feeling of affection, and on its ruins, have arisen an eternal contempt for your duplicity, and a damning scorn for your character."

"Hear me, dear Lionel!" said he, bursting into tears, "and forgive that advice which sprung from a heart tenderly alive to every thing connected with your interest. Control your rage, and listen to the voice of that friend who will sacrifice life, and surrender every thing he has on earth, for your reputation. Pardon the intrusion of my counsel, and I will forgive your suspicions. Come, give me your hand, and let me not believe that you have a bad heart."

"What right sir! have you to allude to my heart, whatever it may be?—no imputation shall be cast on it, by a weeping coward. I shall hold you answerable," said I quitting the room—"for the baseness of your insinuation, and I can assure you that an ocean of hypocritical tears will not protect you."

So soon as I could procure a pen, I addressed a cruel and fiend-like letter to Arthur, demanding an humble apology—and an explicit disavowal of his insult, and in the event of his refusal, my second was authorised to make a speedy arrangement. "Let him not (concluded my letter) see your womanly accomplishments, for he is prepared to scorn the weakness, and loathe the duplicity of your tears."

The same second whom Pilton's attack had maddened into a demoniac rage for blood, bore my challenge to Arthur; and when he returned, I saw his eye kindled into animation at the hope of a certain fight. "Here is a letter for you! Ludwell is true game. You cannot retract your challenge, and he will be forced to meet you! I will clean the pistols, while you write family letters and starve; for the odds are against you, if you dine or eat any thing." While he busied himself in searching for the pistols, I opened and read with feelings of stern contempt, the letter of Arthur.

My dear Lionel,—Take back your challenge, and do not force me to meet you in combat. I cannot refuse it, for I have not firmness of mind to do an act which my reason suggests, and my heart approves. I am afraid of that public opinion which would execrate me as a coward, and trample me into infamy, ere I had stept into manhood. In spite of your unkind letter, I still love you with the candor and truth of a boy's heart, and I think now more deeply of the innocent hours of our early days, when friendship united us, and sincerity hallowed the union. You know that I cannot make an apology under a threat. Retract it, and I will humble myself, if by such means I can regain your wonted affection.

Your friend, ARTHUR LUDWELL.

"Return!" said I to my second, "and inform Mr. Ludwell that if he do not consent to fight, I will proclaim him as a coward, and publish his whining letter to the world. He, with every other man who dare sustain Pilton, is my enemy."

We met! 'Twas a mild and peaceful evening when we approached the field, and the setting sun was rejoicing like a bridegroom in the blushing embrace of the trembling horizon. Its quivering rays were reflected in shadowy lines, through the foliage of the forest, while the scarlet fruit of two old holly trees—the mute records of many a duel—lent the only cheering aspect to the frightful solitude of the scene. Our seconds having retired a short distance, for the purpose of arranging the usual ceremonies, we were left standing near each other. I was proud and inflexible, yet I felt my heart throbbing with anguish, and long-prized friendship, and when I looked on his serene and dignified countenance, the jeweled days of our childhood flashed before me—when I was untainted by revenge—and uncursed by hatred,—when I was lifted above the darkness of human passion—when hope illuminated the airy future, and pleasure grasped the unalloyed fruition of reality. I thought not of my own death—of that dreamless and sodden sleep, from whose ghastly phantasm wisdom sinks into horror—of that dark insensibility to warm and mantling life—to light, hope, and love—a shadowless, impenetrable and boundless desart. Could I destroy the life of him, who with tireless truth had ever joyed in my joys—and sorrowed in my sorrows? Could I crush and scatter into nothingness, the full harvest which his ambition had garnered—the gems of mind—the sparkling thoughts of genius—the rich treasures of learning—and bankrupt the accumulated spoils of wisdom? Could I seize from the fœtid riot of the grave the animated countenance, the brave, generous and affectionate heart, or call back from the eternal prison of death, the gifted mind, and the eloquent brow? I reasoned with a memory which could not be recreant, and of the result of that duel my heart is guiltless?

Our seconds, having finished their conversation, now approached, and placed the pistols in our hands, Arthur holding his in a perpendicular position, and mine according to the latest improvement, and the repeated suggestions of my second, being directed to the earth.

"I cannot consent to fire?" said I, "while Mr. Ludwell stands directly in the line of that tree, it gives me a great advantage!"

"It makes no difference, Lionel!—Mr. Granby," said Arthur, suddenly correcting himself, "I care not in what posture, or situation I stand." His second now advanced and placed him in a position, the advantage of which did not escape the keen eye of my friend, who turned me around twice, before he confessed himself satisfied with my attitude. The word "fire" was now given, and almost at the same moment our pistols were discharged, Arthur having fired his into the air, while I in raising mine, had involuntarily aimed it directly at my antagonist. The ball struck him I know not where, but I saw him reel backwards, stagger, and laying hold of a bush near him, stumble, and fall to the earth.

"I demand another fire," said his friend, "he is able to stand, and I claim the privilege." "Mr. Ludwell cannot fire again," replied my second, "for he has thrown away his shot."

"I resign my right," interrupted Arthur! "and Lionel, I forgive you. If I recover, I will forget all—and dying, you have my unalloyed friendship. Leave this frightful place as soon as possible, for you may be arrested; and do not fear, for I shall yet recover, and we will be friends again." These words were uttered by him in a faint, though distinct voice; his features were nerved with his usual lofty dignity of countenance, yet his eye quivered with a flitting light, and a dark and unearthly color fell, like a wintry cloud, over the radiance of his brow. I could not so far divest myself of pride, as to confess in presence of our seconds that my fire had been accidental, nor could I, even at that trying moment, reconcile it to myself to be an exception to that general rule, which requires that a challenger shall never throw away his fire. Motioning to our friends to retire, I approached Arthur, and leaning over him, I whispered the simple truth. A momentary smile flashed over his pallid countenance, and grasping my hand in an ecstacy of delight, he said, "I knew it! I believe you! I was confident that you did not fire intentionally!" He was here interrupted by my second who exclaimed "the civil authorities!" I looked round, and through the dim twilight, I saw a crowd of ill-dressed people rapidly approaching us. I knelt down, and asking forgiveness once more from my injured friend, fled with the burning brand of Cain on my forehead—an humbled and heart-broken man!

UNKNOWN FLOWERS.

"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen."

Oh! many are the unknown flowers, By human eyes unseen, That bloom in nature's woodland bowers, Of bright and changeless green. The brightest flowers earth ever knew, Of lovely breath, and brilliant hue, Are sparkling there with morning dew, Or bright with summer showers— Above them tower the forest trees, And o'er them blows the gentle breeze, And by them many a mountain stream Runs eddying thro' its banks of green, And to each bud that o'er it bends A drop of pearly radiance lends, Dashes its sides with snowy spray, Then hurries on its course away— The wood-bee revels on their sweets, And 'neath their leaves the bright Fay sleeps; And by them bounds the gentle deer So full of life, so full of fear: And lovely birds, whose brilliant wings Are bright with hues of brighter things, Make music in those woodland bowers, Those Edens of the unknown flowers.

MORNA.

SONNET TO ********.

BY ALEXANDER LACY BEARD, M.D.

I will not leave thee! no by heaven I swear, Although thy soul be stained with guilt and shame, I will not leave thee! for by me it came— Then cheer up, sweet one, shudder not with fear; From my own side, thy form they shall not tear; I will not leave thee! one undying flame Burns in my breast!—will ever burn the same, 'Mid sorrow's storm, and darkest hour of care. O that some far off, dark, and desart isle, To man a stranger and his heartless pride, Would take us to its bosom lone and wild, Where I, unwatched, could wander by thy side, Soothed by thy voice and gladden'd by thy smile, Rich in thy love so long and deeply tried.

A. W. Schlegel says, that in a German drama is the following stage direction. "He flashes lightning at him with his eyes, and exit." (Er blitzt ihn mit den augen an.)

METZENGERSTEIN.

A TALE IN IMITATION OF THE GERMAN.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

Pestis eram vivus—moriens tua mors ero. Martin Luther.

Horror and Fatality have been stalking abroad in all ages. Why then give a date to the story I have to tell? I will not. Besides, I have other reasons for concealment. Let it suffice to say, that at the period of which I speak, there existed, in the interior of Hungary, a settled although hidden belief in the doctrines of the Metempsychosis. Of the doctrines themselves—that is, of their falsity, or of their probability—I say nothing. I assert, however, that much of our incredulity—as La Bruyére says of all our unhappiness—"vient de ne pouvoir etre seuls."

But there were some points in the Hungarian superstition which were fast verging to absurdity. They—the Hungarians—differed very essentially from their Eastern authorities. For example. "The soul," said the former—I give the words of an acute and intelligent Parisian—"ne demeure qu'un seul fois dans un corps sensible: au reste—un cheval, un chien, un homme même n' est que la ressemblance peu tangible de ces animaux."

* * * * *

The families of Berlifitzing and Metzengerstein had been at variance for centuries. Never before were two houses so illustrious mutually embittered by hostility so deadly. Indeed, at the era of this history, it was observed by an old crone of haggard and sinister appearance, that "fire and water might sooner mingle than a Berlifitzing clasp the hand of a Metzengerstein." The origin of this enmity seems to be found in the words of an ancient prophecy—"A lofty name shall have a fearful fall when, like the rider over his horse, the mortality of Metzengerstein shall triumph over the immortality of Berlifitzing."

To be sure the words themselves had little or no meaning. But more trivial causes have given rise—and that no long while ago—to consequences equally eventful. Besides, the estates, which were contiguous, had long exercised a rival influence in the affairs of a busy government. Moreover, near neighbors are seldom friends—and the inhabitants of the Castle Berlifitzing might look, from their lofty buttresses, into the very windows of the Chateau Metzengerstein. Least of all was the more than feudal magnificence thus discovered calculated to allay the irritable feelings of the less ancient and less wealthy Berlifitzings. What wonder, then, that the words, however silly, of that prediction, should have succeeded in setting and keeping at variance two families already predisposed to quarrel by every instigation of hereditary jealousy? The prophecy seemed to imply—if it implied any thing—a final triumph on the part of the already more powerful house; and was of course remembered with the more bitter animosity on the side of the weaker and less influential.

* * * * *

Wilhelm, Count Berlifitzing, although honorably and loftily descended, was, at the epoch of this narrative, an infirm and doting old man, remarkable for nothing but an inordinate and inveterate personal antipathy to the family of his rival, and so passionate a love of horses, and of hunting, that neither bodily infirmity, great age, nor mental incapacity, prevented his daily participation in the dangers of the chase.

Frederick, Baron Metzengerstein, was, on the other hand, not yet of age. His father, the Minister G——, died young. His mother, the Lady Mary, followed quickly after. Frederick was, at that time, in his fifteenth year. In a city fifteen years are no long period—a child may be still a child in his third lustrum: but in a wilderness—in so magnificent a wilderness as that old principality, fifteen years have a far deeper meaning.

The beautiful Lady Mary! How could she die?—and of consumption! But it is a path I have prayed to follow. I would wish all I love to perish of that gentle disease. How glorious! to depart in the hey-day of the young blood—the heart all passion—the imagination all fire—amid the remembrances of happier days—in the fall of the year—and so be buried up forever in the gorgeous autumnal leaves!

Thus died the Lady Mary. The young Baron Frederick stood without a living relative by the coffin of his dead mother. He placed his hand upon her placid forehead. No shudder came over his delicate frame—no sigh from his flinty bosom. Heartless, self-willed, and impetuous from his childhood, he had reached the age of which I speak through a career of unfeeling, wanton, and reckless dissipation; and a barrier had long since arisen in the channel of all holy thoughts and gentle recollections.

* * * * *

From some peculiar circumstances attending the administration of his father, the young Baron, at the decease of the former, entered immediately upon his vast possessions. Such estates were seldom held before by a nobleman of Hungary. His castles were without number—of these the chief in point of splendor and extent was the "Chateau Metzengerstein." The boundary line of his dominions was never clearly defined—but his principal park embraced a circuit of fifty miles.

Upon the succession of a proprietor so young—with a character so well known—to a fortune so unparalleled—little speculation was afloat in regard to his probable course of conduct. And, indeed, for the space of three days the behavior of the heir out-heroded Herod, and fairly surpassed the expectations of his most enthusiastic admirers. Shameful debaucheries—flagrant treacheries—unheard-of atrocities—gave his trembling vassals quickly to understand that no servile submission on their part—no punctilios of conscience on his own—were thenceforward to prove any security against the remorseless and bloody fangs of a petty Caligula. On the night of the fourth day, the stables of the Castle Berlifitzing were discovered to be on fire: and the unanimous opinion of the neighborhood instantaneously added the crime of the incendiary to the already hideous list of the Baron's misdemeanors and enormities.

But during the tumult occasioned by this occurrence, the young nobleman himself sat, apparently buried in meditation, in a vast and desolate upper apartment of the family palace of Metzengerstein. The rich although faded tapestry-hangings which swung gloomily upon the walls, represented the shadowy and majestic forms of a thousand illustrious ancestors. Here, rich-ermined priests, and pontifical dignitaries, familiarly seated with the autocrat and the sovereign, put a veto on the wishes of a temporal king—or restrained with the fiat of papal supremacy the rebellious sceptre of the Arch-Enemy. There, the dark, tall statures of the Princes Metzengerstein—their muscular war-coursers plunging over the carcass of a fallen foe—startled the steadiest nerves with their vigorous expression: and here, again, the voluptuous and swan-like figures of the dames of days gone by, floated away in the mazes of an unreal dance to the strains of imaginary melody.

But as the Baron listened, or affected to listen to the gradually increasing uproar in the stables of Berlifitzing—or perhaps pondered upon some more novel—some more decided act of audacity—his eyes became unwittingly rivetted to the figure of an enormous, and unnaturally colored horse, represented in the tapestry as belonging to a Saracen ancestor of the family of his rival. The horse itself, in the foreground of the design, stood motionless and statue-like—while farther back its discomfitted rider perished by the dagger of a Metzengerstein.

On Frederick's lip arose a fiendish expression, as he became aware of the direction his glance had, without his consciousness, assumed. Yet he did not remove it. On the contrary he could by no means account for the singular, intense, and overwhelming anxiety which appeared falling like a shroud upon his senses. It was with difficulty that he reconciled his dreamy and incoherent feelings with the certainty of being awake. The longer he gazed, the more absorbing became the spell—the more impossible did it appear that he could ever withdraw his glance from the fascination of that tapestry. But the tumult without becoming suddenly more violent, with a kind of compulsory and desperate exertion he diverted his attention to the glare of ruddy light thrown full by the flaming stables upon the windows of the apartment.

The action, however, was but momentary—his gaze returned mechanically to the wall. To his extreme horror and astonishment the head of the gigantic steed had, in the meantime, altered its position. The neck of the animal, before arched, as if in compassion, over the prostrate body of its lord, was now extended, at full length, in the direction of the Baron. The eyes, before invisible, now wore an energetic and human expression, while they gleamed with a fiery and unusual red: and the distended lips of the apparently enraged horse left in full view his sepulchral and disgusting teeth.

Stupified with terror the young nobleman tottered to the door. As he threw it open, a flash of red light streaming far into the chamber, flung his shadow with a clear outline against the quivering tapestry; and he shuddered to perceive that shadow—as he staggered awhile upon the threshold—assuming the exact position, and precisely filling up the contour of the relentless and triumphant murderer of the Saracen Berlifitzing.

To lighten the depression of his spirits the Baron hurried into the open air. At the principal gate of the Chateau he encountered three equerries. With much difficulty, and at the imminent peril of their lives, they were restraining the unnatural and convulsive plunges of a gigantic and fiery-colored horse.

"Whose horse? Where did you get him?" demanded the youth in a querulous and husky tone of voice, as he became instantly aware that the mysterious steed in the tapestried chamber was the very counterpart of the furious animal before his eyes.

"He is your own property, Sire"—replied one of the equerries—"at least he is claimed by no other owner. We caught him flying, all smoking and foaming with rage, from the burning stables of the Castle Berlifitzing. Supposing him to have belonged to the old Count's stud of foreign horses, we led him back as an estray. But the grooms there disclaim any title to the creature—which is strange, since he bears evident marks of having made a narrow escape from the flames."

"The letters W. V. B. are also branded very distinctly on his forehead"—interrupted a second equerry—"I supposed them, of course, to be the initials of Wilhelm Von Berlifitzing—but all at the Castle are positive in denying any knowledge of the horse."

"Extremely singular!" said the young Baron, with a musing air, and apparently unconscious of the meaning of his words—"He is, as you say, a remarkable horse—a prodigious horse! although, as you very justly observe, of a suspicious and untractable character——Let him be mine, however," he added, after a pause—"perhaps a rider like Frederick of Metzengerstein, may tame even the devil from the stables of Berlifitzing."

"You are mistaken, my lord—the horse, as I think we mentioned, is not from the stables of the Count. If such were the case, we know our duty better than to bring him into the presence of a noble of your family."

"True!" observed the Baron drily—and at that instant a page of the bed chamber came from the Chateau with a heightened color, and precipitate step. He whispered into his master's ear an account of the miraculous and sudden disappearance of a small portion of the tapestry, in an apartment which he designated: entering, at the same time, into particulars of a minute and circumstantial character—but from the low tone of voice in which these latter were communicated, nothing escaped to gratify the excited curiosity of the equerries.

The young Frederick, during the conference, seemed agitated by a variety of emotions. He soon, however, recovered his composure, and an expression of determined malignancy settled upon his countenance, as he gave peremptory orders that a certain chamber should be immediately locked up, and the key placed in his own possession.

* * * * *

"Have you heard of the unhappy death of the old hunter Berlifitzing?" said one of his vassals to the Baron, as, after the affair of the page, the huge and mysterious steed which that nobleman had adopted as his own, plunged and curvetted, with redoubled and supernatural fury, down the long avenue which extended from the Chateau to the stables of Metzengerstein.

"No!"—said the Baron, turning abruptly towards the speaker—"dead! say you?"

"It is indeed true, my lord—and, to a noble of your name, will be, I imagine, no unwelcome intelligence."

A rapid smile of a peculiar and unintelligible meaning shot over the beautiful countenance of the listener—"How died he?"

"In his rash exertions to rescue a favorite portion of his hunting stud, he has himself perished miserably in the flames."

"I—n—d—e—e—d—!"—ejaculated the Baron, as if slowly and deliberately impressed with the truth of some exciting idea.