acquainted, from his repeated wanderings, with the country around, and the habits of the men of whom he was in pursuit, he proceeded with a burning heart and determined purpose to the deepest recesses of the mountains, for he felt assured thatfrom the discovery of the principal agent concerned, her dishonor was certain; and that the color of brigandage was merely given to the act to hide his fouler purpose. The young painter forgot the scorn she once levelled at him, and remembered only the fair girl that had wiled away the happiest portion of his life, and whom he could never cease to love. Distance or fatigue was nothing; despair lent him supernatural strength. If he stopped, it was but for a moment, to moisten his parched lips at some mountain stream. rushed forward, and sprang upon the bri gand like a tiger. The encounter was desperate, but short, and they both soon rolled struggling together, into a small watercourse, that traversed the valley. it, in hopes of disengaging himself, but in vain; for, although some of his thrusts told, he could not free himself from the wild grasp of his foe, who, suddenly finding his hold relax through loss of blood, ran back a few paces and fired full at the front of his antagonist, and the ravisher received the ball through his heart. The ravisher, who had quitted the Countess on the first alarm, now stood bewilddered, expecting every moment another attack from the surrounding thickets; but, to his surprise, a dead silence prevailed. He directly proceeded to the assistance of his follower, and having descended into the rocky hollow of the watercourse, beheld the two combatants apparently dead, lying at some distance from each other. He approached with eager curiosity, to look upon the features of the determined assailant; but at the moment of his scrutiny he was seized by the throat, and dragged to the Deep in a woody ravine, where the strug-earth. The suddenness of the attack comgling moon, piercing the gloomy, over-pletely bereft him of power, and his sword hanging foliage, showed but a few streaks dropped from his grasp; but he snatched of silver upon the mossy rocks, the forms his stiletto, and dealt some rapid blows with of two men, that were lying at full length asleep upon the greensward, were discovered. At some distance from them, and deeper in the gloom, sat a female figure, whose white draperies, in the loneliness of the spot, appeared ghost-like and unreal. Beside her stood the tall form of the Earl's murderer, whose deep voice of passion and entreaty continued unavailing to attempt to move the captive Countess, whose face was buried in her hands, and who refused to reply by a single syllable to his suit. The speaker, after spending some time in threats and expostulations, seized her rudely by the arm, and although apparently weak from exhaustion, she struggled violently with him. Upon his attempting to drag her from the vicinity of his sleeping companions she uttered a despairing scream that was answered by a thousand echoes from the surrounding rocks. The two sleeping brigands started on their feet in alarm. Hardly able to shake off the effects of the deep slumber into which they had sunk, they staggered to the spot where the Countess was endeavoring to disengage herself from her ravisher. The report of a shot rang through the ravine, and the foremost villain sprang into the air, and dropped down a corpse at the feet of his companion, who for a moment looked wildly around him, and saw at length the form of a man dropping down from the boughs of an overhanging tree. He promptly drew his pistol from his belt, and fired. The figure tottered for a moment; but, instantly recovering himself, The lady had sunk cowering down beneath the shelter of a tree, unable to fly, and almost unconscious of what was passing; but, after the report of the last pistol, she was startled by the appearance of a man making his way slowly towards her. Whether friend or foe, in her distraction she could not tell; but upon his nearer approach she discovered that he was not either of her ravishers. Her heart leapt with joy as she rose to meet him; but, ere she could do so, he fell upon his knees, and sank at full length at her feet, breathing forth with anguish a few words almost indistinct, and in which she heard her own name mixed with fervent thanks for her preservation. She knelt by the prostrate figure of her preserver, and raised his head. As she did so, the moon beamed full and brilliant on the face of the young painter ! What were her emotions when she saw the blood that was flowing from that noble heart, faithful to her even unto death. His full eyes gazed, with a melancholy look, upon her pitying tears! No words fell from his lips; but his bleeding wounds and noble devotion spoke with terrible tongues to her, as she felt, for the first time, that she had been doubly his destroyer. Pride died in the stillness of that valley, and her hand clasped the feeble hands of the gallant youth, as she watched with awe the last fleeting moments of his generous spirit. ANECDOTE OF LOUIS PHILIPPE.-While the king was stopping to change horses at Essonne, on his way back from Fontainbleau, an elderly woman, rushing through the escort at the risk of being trodden to death by the horses, reached the door of the royal carriage, and being seen by his Majesty, presented to him a small piece of paper, which he received. The carriage immediately afterwards drove on, but a very short time had elapsed before an orderly officer returned, and delivered to M. Cullion, sub-prefect of Corbeil, who had been in waiting for the king the poor woman's petition, in which were several pieces of gold, which were immediately delivered over to her. The petition stated that she was a travelling pedlar, who had fallen sick at a public house, and incurred a debt of eight francs, which she could not pay, and as a guarantee for which the publipanion and friend. The fact was she owed the can had detained her dog, who was her only compublican eighteen francs, but she had ten francs 'Here is my preserver,-bear him within her purse, and she could not, she said, deceive you, I will not leave him here.' Morning broke, and a strong party of soldiers, who had been guided by the distant reports of the fire-arms, soon discovered a crouching female in white drapery. One hand she clasped convulsively to her face, and with the other she held the deathclasped hand of the dying painter to her side. They approached, and raised her gently; and, as she beheld the rigid features, and fixed eyes of her preserver, she shuddered, and wept. He was dead! She turned to the commandant of the party, who had formed a litter for her, and almost in a whisper said, the king by asking for more than she actually wanted to pay her debt. It is gratifying to add, the woman bore an excellent character.-Galigthat the sub-prefect of Corbeil ascertained that nani. The mind of the Countess was for some months in a state of oblivion as to the past; and when she awoke to consciousness it was upon the bosom of her mother. No word was uttered in relation to what occurred; Low SUNDAY.-A curious volume of sermons, but she never smiled again, for the moon- printed A. D. 1652, lies before me. It is entitled, light ravine and the dying eyes of the paint-Bees sucking the honey of the Church's prayers "The Christian Sodality, or Catholic Hive of er could never be banished from her ima- from the blossoms of the Word of God, blown out gination! The color never returned to of the Epistles and Gospels of the divine service her pallid cheek, and I became the only throughout the year. Collected by the puny bee memento of what she was. of all the hive, not worthy to be named otherwise than by these elements of his name, F. P." ANECDOTE OF ADMIRAL HOPSON.-In the first action in which Admiral Hopson (then a boy) was engaged, after fighting cheerfully for two hours, he inquired of the sailors for what they were contending; and on being told that the action must last until the white rag at the top of the enemy's mast was struck, replied, 'Oh, if that's all, I will see what I can do!' At this moment the ships were engaged yard-arm to yard-arm, and obscured in smoke; and our young hero noticing this circumstance, determined to haul down the enemy's flag or die in the attempt. Accordingly, he mounted the shrouds, walked across the mainyard, and, unperceived, gained that of the French admiral's ship, when, ascending with agility to the main-top-gallant-mast-head, he struck the flag, and by that same route returned with it. The enemy's flag having disappeared, the British tars shouted Victory!' by which the crew of the French ship were thrown into confusion, and fled from their guns. The officers,surprised at the event, endeavored to rally them; but the English sailors seized the opportunity for boarding the vessel, and took her. At this juncture, young Hopson descended from the shrouds with the French flag, which he displayed in triumph. He was immedi The author, in his sermon for White or Low Sunday, thus writes:-"This day is called White or Low Sunday, because, in the primitive Church, those neophytes that on Easter-Eve were baptised and clad in white garments did to day put them off, with this admonition, that they were to keep within them a perpetual candor of spirit, signified by the Agnus Dei hung about their necks, which, falling down upon their breasts, put them in mind what innocent lambs they must be, now that, of sinful, high, and haughty men, they were, by baptism, made low and little children of Almighty God, such as ought to retain in their manners and lives the Paschal feasts which they had accomplished." Other writers have supposed that it was called Low Sunday because it is the lowest or latest day that is allowed for satisfying of the Easter obligation, viz. the worthily receiving the blessed Eucharist. The former, however, appears the most probable reason for the designation of Low Sunday.-Lit. Gazette. FRY TESTIMONIAL.-The Lord Mayor has, with his usual benevolence and liberality, put himself at the head of a subscription, the object of which is to commemorate the humanity of the late Mrs. Fry, by founding a refuge, bearing her name, for the reception of female prisoners on their discharge from jail. It is a noble and most laudable design. Slowly ravel, threads of doom; Summer's breath, divinely warm, Summer's voice is loud and clear, Something of a funeral knell. Thatched with mosses green and red, Youth is bright above my track, Hark! the solemn winds reply, "Woman, thou art born to woe; Log ere 'tis thine hour to die, Thou shalt be well pleased to go. Though the sunshine of to-day Blind thine eyeballs with its ray, Grief shall swathe thee in its pall, Life's beloved before thee fall. Bride, the grave hath comfort meet, Thankful spin thy winding-sheet!" From the Metropolitan. LET THE WORLD FROWN. BY MAJOR CALDER CAMPBELL. Let the world frown; not thou, not thou! We may not now, as we had wont, We have been rich, and never tasted And the world takes me at my word, FIRST GRIEF. THEY tell me first and early love Outlives all after dreams; But the memory of a first great grief The grief that marks our dawning youth Oh! oft my mind recalls the hour When to my father's home Death came an uninvited guest, From his dwelling in the tomb! I had not seen his face before, I shudder'd at the sight, And I shudder still to think upon The anguish of that night! A youthful brow and ruddy cheek An eye grew dim in which the light Cold was the cheek, and cold the brow, I know not if 'twas summer then, If flowers came forth to deck the earth, I looked upon one withered flower, A sad and silent time it was Within that house of wo, All eyes were dull and overcast, And every voice was low; And from each cheek at intervals, The blood appear'd to start, As if recall'd, in sudden haste, To aid the sinking heart! Softly we trode, as if afraid To mar the sleeper's sleep, And stole last looks of his pale face With him the agony was o'er, And now the pain was ours, As thoughts of his sweet childhood rose, Like odors from dead flowers! And when, at last, he was borne afar His every look, his every word, Came back to us, like things whose worth The grief has passed with years away, From the Athenæum. BY CAMILLA TOULMIN. "Tis a Birthday! You know whose : For, while stealing o'er our senses, Or the fields where brooks were not. Yea, but not from grammar book, Yonder oak tree-not a bit With its April smiles and tears, That a young child's woe or mirth, When we sobbing knelt around it, ere thy stainless spirit fled, When you told us you must part us now, for God had will'd it so, He who can dry the orphan's tear and calm the orphan's woe. No glad hearth have we now, mother, to kneel at eventide, No matron's eye beams over us in tenderness and pride; But daily at this spot we meet, our bitter tears to blend, And pour out all the grief-fraught heart before the orphan's friend. We're kneeling round thy grave, mother, the sun has left it now, It beams on happy children as they sport on yon hill's brow; There's none to mock the tears which flow so copious from each eye, And mingle on this lonely sod, 'neath which you silent lie. From the Athenæum. THE GRAVE IN THE CITY. BY T. WESTWOOD. Not there, not there! Not there, good friends, not there! In the City Churchyard, where the grass I am old, my friends,-I am very old- Have I lived in the home where ye see me now, Till my soul doth love them;-I love them all, From the quaint old book of my history. last home looketh all bleak and bare- |