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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.

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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

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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.

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Slowly ravel, threads of doom;
Slowly lengthen, fatal yarn;
Death's inexorable gloom
Stretches like the frozen tarn,
Never thawed by sunbeams kind,
Ruffled ne'er by wave or wind,
Man beholds it, and is still,
Daunted by its mortal chill;
Thither haste my helpless feet
While I spin my winding-sheet!

Summer's breath, divinely warm,
Kindles every pulse to glee:
Fled are traces of the storm,
Wintry frost and leafless tree:
Shakes the birch its foliage light,
In the sun the mists are bright;
Heaven and earth their hues confound,
Scattering rainbows on the ground;
Life with rapture is replete
While I spin my winding-sheet!

Summer's voice is loud and clear,
Lowing kine and rippling swell;
Yet beneath it all I hear

Something of a funeral knell.
Sings the linnet on the bough,
Sings my bridegroom at the plough,
Whirrs the grouse along the brake,
Plash the trout within the lake,
Soft the merry lambkins bleat
While I spin my winding-sheet!

Thatched with mosses green and red,
Blooming as a fairy hill,
Lifts my home its cheerful head
By the ever-leaping rill.
Lo! its future inmates rise,
Gathering round with loving eyes;
Some my Dugald's features wear,
Some have mine, but far more fair;
Prattling lips my name repeat
While I spin my winding-sheet!

Youth is bright above my track,
Health is strong within my breast;
Wherefore must this shadow black
On my bridal gladness rest?
On my happy solitude
Must the vision still intrude?
Must the icy touch of Death
Freeze my song's impassioned breath?
I am young, and youth is sweet,
Why, then, spin my winding sheet?

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!
Twine rosy garlands round thy brow,
Nor pine for pearly braid, to fret
Thy whiter skin, beside it set;
Wild flowers are rife, and sweeter far
Than gemmy clasp or jewelled star :-
Smiles on thy lip, love in thine eye,
Let the world frown, I care not, I!

We may not now, as we had wont,
Slake sudden thirst from silvered font;
Nor, when we hunger, haste to sate
Our appetites with courtly cate;
The hot-house fruits ye rich may be-
We may not taste, but only see;
But juicy apples from the bough
Smile on us still, so frown not thou!

We have been rich, and never tasted
The relish of those riches wasted;-
We now are poor,-but not so poor
As drive the beggar from our door
With nayful looks-Hearts may despond
When linked thoughts cease to be fond,-
But that we love, our lives avow,
So let the world frown on-not thou!

And the world takes me at my word,
And flees us like a frighted bird;
Most aptly reading in our looks
A scorn its nature little brooks;
We heed it not-for round us glows
The sunshine of a love that knows
Nor pouting lip, nor clouded brow-
So let the world frown on-not thou!

FIRST GRIEF.

THEY tell me first and early love

Outlives all after dreams;

But the memory of a first great grief
To me more lasting seems;

The grief that marks our dawning youth
To memory ever clings,
And o'er the path of future years
A lengthened shadow flings.

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
Became all cold and wan;

An eye grew dim in which the light
Of radiant fancy shone:

Cold was the cheek, and cold the brow,
The eye was fixed and dim;
And one there mourn'd a brother dead
Who would have died for him.

I know not if 'twas summer then,
I know not if'twas spring;
But if the birds sang on the trees,
I did not hear them sing:

If flowers came forth to deck the earth,
Their bloom I did not see;

I looked upon one withered flower,
And none else bloom'd for me.

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
For memory to keep.

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
From the world's weary strife,
How oft, in thought, did we again
Live o'er his little life?

His every look, his every word,
His very voice's tone,

Came back to us, like things whose worth
Is only prized when gone!

The grief has passed with years away,
And joy has been my lot,
But the one is oft remember'd,
And the other soon forgot:

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From the Athenæum.
BIRTHDAY THOUGHTS.

BY CAMILLA TOULMIN.

"Tis a Birthday! You know whose :
One year added unto those
Which came round so very fast,
That we said, upon the last,
We would chronicle no more
Till had passed another score !
Well! the sky is just as blue
As it was in former years;
Roses have the self-same hue,
And each summer flower appears
Gracefully to raise its head,
While its fragrant wealth is shed,
As when rudely from their stem
We young children severed them,
To compose a plaything wreath.
Just the same the hawthorn's breath,
As when, in the studious hour,
It had a forbidden power;

For, while stealing o'er our senses,
Thought was lured from present "tenses'
To the shady garden plot,

Or the fields where brooks were not.
There's the old clock striking ten!
Is it study-hour again?

Yea, but not from grammar book,
Or in school room's prisoned nook
Read we, as we ponder thus
Of the change that is in us!

Yonder oak tree-not a bit
Has it grown-I'm sure of it,
Since against its sturdy bark
Measured we our three feet height,
And indented there the mark,
Which, alas! is vanished quite.
Tell me-would'st thou, if we could,
Recall one hour of childhood's years,—

With its April smiles and tears,
With its trembling hopes and fears;
These so little understood,

That a young child's woe or mirth,
Is the loneliest thing on earth?
For the Future, castle-building,
With bright fancy's ready gilding,
May not be the wisest way
We can pass an hour to-day;
But methinks 'twere quite as wise
As to turn, with longing eyes,
To the years that dropped so fast
In that grave we call the Past.
Earth grows richer every day
In the wealth that mind must sway.
So, though the sky be still as blue-
The summer clouds as fleecy too,-
The flowers as bright-the thrush's note
As richly to the ear doth float,
As when our tiny footsteps strayed
In garden trim or emerald glade,
Let us with hearts contented own
That we the only change have known.

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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.

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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 in that nook that ye deem so fair ;-
Little reck I of the blue bright sky,
And the stream that floweth so murmuringly,
And the bending boughs, and the breezy air-

Not there, good friends, not there!

In the City Churchyard, where the grass
Groweth rank and black, and where never a ray
Of that self-same sun doth find its way
Through the heaped-up houses' serried mass-
Where the only sounds are the voice of the throng,
And the clatter of wheels as they rush along-
Or the splash of the rain, or the wind's hoarse cry,
Or the busy tramp of the passer-by,
Or the toll of the bell on the heavy air-
Good friends, let it be there!

I am old, my friends,-I am very old-
Fourscore and five,-and bitter cold
Were that air on the hill-side far away;
Eighty full years, content I trow,

Have I lived in the home where ye see me now,
And trod those dark streets day by day,

Till my soul doth love them;-I love them all,
Each battered pavement, and blackened wall,
Good sooth! to me
Each court and corner.
They are all comely and fair to see-
They have old faces-each one doth tell
A tale of its own, that doth like me well,—
Sad or merry, as it may be,

From the quaint old book of my history.
And, friends, when this weary pain is past,
Fain would I lay me to rest at last
In their very midst :-full sure am I,
How dark soever be earth and sky,
I shall sleep softly-I shall know
That the things I loved so here below
Are about me still-so never care
That my

last home looketh all bleak and bare-
Good friends, let it be there!

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