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dying early, had left her a large portion. His suit, I was present, consenting and assisting at this inquisithough backed by Essex, was unsuccessful; the tion; nothing like guilt could be extracted to aggra lady preferred the young, accomplished, but poor vate the charge-yet he was convicted; but such barrister to his rival in the solicitor-generalship, the was the popular indignation that the sentence dared famous Sir Edward Coke, who was then a crabbed not be carried into execution, though the vicpoor widower, well stricken in years, to whom there tim, after languishing in jail till the following year, were seven objections-his six children and him- was released from his sufferings by death. self;" but he was rich, and in possession of power and honours, while his rival was almost a briefless barrister.

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Sir E. Coke was not only his rival in his matrimonial speculation, but he also took every opportunity of disparaging his legal acquirements, and in that rude and brutal manner for which he was so celebrated. To crown his misfortunes, at this time, too, he was arrested by a relentless creditor for a debt of L.300, and detained a prisoner for some days till the matter was arranged through the interference of friends.

The manner in which Bacon requited the Earl of Essex's former friendship, when that favourite now fell into disgrace, sufficiently shows that this otherwise accomplished man was totally devoid of all feelings of gratitude or affection. As long as there was a hope of the favourite recovering his place in the affections of the queen, Bacon did his utmost to forward a reconciliation; but when he found that this was at last hopeless, and that the rash and unfortunate favourite rushed upon his fate, he became his bitter enemy, and courted and solicited the task of being one of his public accusers. This office he performed at the trial in the most heartless and cold-blooded manner, not less to the astonishment and indignation of the prisoner as to that of the whole audience. Nor did his ingratitude cease with the death of that nobleman. By the desire of the queen, he wrote a pamphlet detailing the treasons of the culprit, and excusing and defending the highly unpopular step of his execution.

On the accession of James I. to the throne of England, Bacon contrived to insinuate himself into his good graces. By him he was knighted along with two or three hundred others, and shortly afterwards he led to the hymeneal altar Miss Barnham, the daughter and rich heiress of a city alderman.

In 1605 appeared his treatise "On the Advancement of Learning," a work which spread his fame over Europe. This, as well as some other treatises, were composed in the intervals of incessant toil, both in his profession, and as an active member of the House of Commons.

In 1607, he at last obtained the long-desired preferment of solicitor-general, and in 1613 he was made attorney-general. He at this time might be considered as the chief political adviser of the crown, so assiduously had he courted the good graces of the monarch by entering into his favourite schemes, among which was the union of Scotland with England. Neither had he now any scruples about raising supplies by benevolences or other means, the granting of monopolies, or the confirmation and extension of the royal prerogatives.

But, perhaps, one of the most cruel and tyrannical transactions of the times was the trial of a poor old clergyman of Somersetshire, named Peachum, in which the attorney-general acted a chief part. On breaking into this man's study, a serion was there found, which he had never preached, nor intended to preach, nor shown to any person, but which contained some passages encouraging the people to resist tyranny. He was immediately arrested-the judges were tampered with-his trial went on, and the poor wretch was put repeatedly to the torture. Bacon

Yet, even in the midst of all this subserviency to the dictates of a cruel sovereign, and in the active violation of all justice and humanity, did Bacon coolly sit down, in his leisure hours, and write out, for the edification of the court favourite Buckingham, whose good graces he wished to cultivate, one of the wisest and most noble of treatises, inculcating every thing that is great, and fust and amiable, as the rule and guidance of a statesman! Another curious document exists, illustrative of Bacon's moral character. It is a letter which he writes to his inveterate rival and enemy, Sir E. Coke, on occasion of that lawyer falling into disgrace, through court intrigues. Coke certainly deserved no commiseration at the hands of Bacon, but nothing can exceed the bitter scorn with which he is here addressed; Lord Campbell thus characterises it :-" In no composition that I have met with is there a greater display of vengeful malignity."

At last, in the year 1617, Bacon attained the height of his ambition, in being made keeper of the great seal. To the duties of this office he set himself with that zeal and perseverance which characterised all his actions. At the end of one month from his assuming office, he had, with incredible labour, cleared off the whole arrears of cases, so that not one cause remained to be heard-a circumstance which, he remarks, in a letter to Buckingham, could not be said in our age before. In the following year, as a reward for his labours, and his general subserviency, he was raised to the peerage by the

title of Baron Verulam.

Amidst all his labours, he was at this time too busily employed on his great work, the Novum Organon, which had engaged his thoughts for thirty years, and which he had twelve times transcribed with his own hand, at the same time enlarging and amending it. It was published in 1620, with a dedication to the king. But his downfall was now near at hand. It had become notorious that he was in the practice of receiving bribes from suitors in his court, and that this had been carried on to a great extent.. Some of those suitors who had thus bribed him, but who, nevertheless, found that his decisions were adverse to their cause, became loud in their denunciations-his mortal foe, Sir Edward Coke, led on the accusations against him; and the Parliament, which had just inet, showing a determination to take cognisance of all such gross abuses, the court became frightened, and dared not, even if they had the inclination, show partiality to the chancellor.

Finding matters thus drawing to an open exposure, the chancellor became terribly alarmed; for some time he was overpowered by illness, and was unable, or unwilling, to appear in his place in the House of Lords. Meanwhile fresh charges of bribery and corruption were poured in from all quarters against him, and, finding the house resolved to bring on an impeachment, and being convinced of the inability, as well as the disinclination, of the king and his favourite to take strong measures for suppressing the inquiry by a prorogation of the parlia ment, he at last resolved to write a letter, confessing his guilt, deprecating farther inquiry, and imploring their leniency. On this the Peers proceeded to pronounce the following judgment:-That the Lord

an accurate knowledge of the great good which they bestowed on science. His style is exact, perspicuous, and forcible, teeming with illustrations, and full of bold and figurative eloquence.

Viscount St Albans should be fined L.40,000: | of reasoning and thinking, almost impossible to have That he should be imprisoned in the Tower during his Majesty's pleasure, and that he should be for ever incapable of holding any public office, place, or employment: That he should never sit in parliament, nor come within the verge of the

court.

Some biographers have attempted to make it appear that there was some undisclosed mystery in the course which Bacon adopted of making no defence; but it appears evident he had no defence to make, for whoever will compare the charges with the evidence, will find that they are all fully substantiated. It has been said, too, that such practices were notoriously common in the age in which he lived, yet it is evident judicial bribery was by no means sanctioned, for both houses of parliament condemned the practice as most culpable, and the nation with one voice exclaimed against it. And if we turn to the written works of the celebrated delinquent, we shall there find the true standard of morality strictly enjoined.

In execution of the sentence he was conveyed, in as private a manner as possible, to the Tower; but from his earnest entreaties, and the humane interposition of Prince Charles, his farther imprisonment there is commuted to retirement to a villa in the country. Here, even amid penury and the pressure of embarrassed affairs, he set indefatigably to study, and produced some of his most admired works. Before the death of his sovereign, he had the satisfaction of receiving a full pardon, but he never again entered public life, and spent the remainder of his days in retirement from all the busy scenes of politics. Age and infirmity now came upon him, and, in December, 1626, he, with his own hand, wrote out his will. Amongst other directions he says,-" For my burial I desire it may be in St Albans; there was my mother buried. For my name and memory, I leave it to men's charitable speeches, and to foreign nations and the next ages." The immediate cause of his death was a cold, which he caught in making an experiment of preserving a fowl by stuffing it with snow. He had driven out from his apartments in Gray's Inn to Highgate, for this purpose, and being there seized with a cold shivering, he was taken to the house of his friend, the Earl of Arundel, where he expired in a few days afterwards. He had no near relatives to soothe his last moments; his conjugal life had not been a happy one, and his wife had separated from him a short time before.

Thus died, in his 66th year, not merely the most distinguished man who ever held the great seal of England, but, notwithstanding his faults, one of the greatest men that ever lived. As a lawyer and judge, his attainments were of the first order; as a statesman he was disposed, as far as right principles and inclinations are concerned, to govern constitutionally and by parliaments. He never counselled violent measures, and was not averse to moderate and cautious reforms. As a philosopher, he was less distinguished for original discovery than for that rare and profound sagacity which enabled him to compass, as it were, the bounds of human knowledge, and to lay down laws for rigid investigation, and deductions from facts and phenomena. Before his time the learned busied themselves in building up theories upon baseless visions and a priori reasonings. He taught the true investigation of nature from facts and experiments. His writings had a marked effect on the age, and were extensively read, however, some have objected to the contrary; and it is now, from the complete change in the modes

His intellectual capacities were those of the very highest order, but nature seemed to have curtailed him of all the best affections of the heart. It is admitted on all hands, that he was without any fixed or steady attachments, and that, regardless of gratitude or of friendship, he was entirely governed by a selfish view of his own interests. But he was perfectly free from malignity; he was good-natured and obliging, provided the objects of his favour did not come in the way of his own ambition and selflove. His passions seem to have been moderate: he was temperate, laborious, and free from sensual vices. He was a most instructive and amusing companion, and had the natural talent of adapting himself to the company in which he was placed a little fanciful about his health and regimen. In his younger years, he was inclined to scepticism in religion, but farther inquiry corrected this. "It is an assumed truth," says he, evidently alluding to his own experience, "that a little and superficial knowledge of philosophy may incline the mind of man to atheisin, but a further proceeding therein doth bring the mind back again to religion; for, in the entrance of philosophy, when the second causes which are next unto the senses do offer themselves unto the mind of man, if it dwell and stay there, it may induce some oblivion of the highest cause; but when a man passeth on further, and seeth the dependence of causes and the works of Providence, then, according to the allegory of the poets, he will easily believe that the highest link of Nature's chain must needs be tied to the foot of Jupiter's chair."

In person he was of middle stature, his limbs well formed, though not robust, his forehead high, spacious, and open-his eye lively and penetratingthere were deep lines of thinking in his face-his smile was both intellectual and benevolent-the marks of age were prematurely impressed upon him,—in advanced life his whole appearance was venerably pleasing, so that a stranger was insensibly drawn to love before knowing how much reason there was to admire him.

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THOSE who are in any considerable degree acquainted with the ballad lore of Scotland, must, like Wordsworth, have drawn in their imaginations a picture of the Yarrow. No Scottish river, if we except the Tweed, has enjoyed the fame of being the subject of so many sweet strains, or of being so closely connected with our national poetry, to such a degree as this truly classic river, and its adjacent scenery. From the times of the early minstrels, who played and sang in the ancient baronial halls of the Scottish nobility, up to the present day, the Yarrow has been a favourite theme of song, not only for the interesting traditions connected with it, but for the peculiar beauty of the district through which it flows. An additional interest has likewise been thrown around

The imagination cannot but be deeply impressed
with the stillness which characterises this scene.
The almost innumerable associations which are con-
nected with it, and the fact, that except the ruins of
the Old Freebooters' Towers, which stand in the
glens around, it retains the same appearance which
it did when the "peerless flower of Yarrow vale"
bloomed amid its solitude. Scott, in his beautiful
description of it, has said truly—

"There's nothing left to fancy's guess,
You see that all is loneliness,

And silence aids, though these steep hills
Send to the lake a thousand rills:
In summer tide so soft they weep

it, from its connexion with the Border Minstrel and the Ettrick Shepherd, and the scene of many of their tales, ballads, and poems. Notwithstanding the celebrity which it has thus acquired, the Yarrow yet retains much of its primitive character. Totally different from other localities favoured by the muse -where the great number of visitors has produced an almost corresponding amount of modern improvements for the convenience of the lovers of the picturesque, in the shape of steam-boats, elegant bridges, and expensive hotels-the scenery from the. source of the Yarrow down to its junction with the Ettrick, in the vicinity of Selkirk, fully justifies its right to be called "the lonely Yarrow." In many places, indeed for many miles, hardly a human being is to be met with, except it be a single shepherd far But the vale of Yarrow does not always present the in some lonely glen, beguiling the long summer day by reading Burns, or knitting stockings. Sabbath, same serene appearance-storms of wind and rain, generally the quietest day of the week, may be conwhich are frequent in this district, come on with a sidered the busiest here. On week days the pastoral rapidity which seldom occurs elsewhere but in mounoccupations of the inhabitants lead them far away lake become in a few minutes dark and gloomy, the tainous localities. The sky, and the sky-mirroring among the wild hills which tower above the river, from St Mary's Loch nearly to Selkirk, while on the bright purple of the hills is darkened, and a long Sabbath day the roads are busy with shepherds, in ominous sough of the wind comes through the glens, their blue bonnets and plaids, and shepherds' wives and sweeps, sighing like the ghosts of the departed and families, on their way to the several churches of heroes of the scene, down the dale, warning the Yarrow and Meggetdale. One of these stands in a shepherd to seek the bield of the pen or the hill side, beautiful ravine in the vicinity of

"Sweet St Mary's waters blue."

Although the river Yarrow may properly be said to take its rise in Meggetdale, it presents no considerable appearance until it has widened into the Loch of the Lowes, and shortly afterwards into St Mary's Loch. The beauty of the last mentioned loch is of a particularly solitary character, almost entirely encompassed by hills, which slope gradually from the margin, and which in clear weather are mirrored from base to summit, in its depths, and so presents a singularly still and even solemn appearance, although no cliffs or precipices give a boldness to the scene the utter loneliness of every thing around, and the shape of the hills, which are for the most part covered with heather, and spotted here and there with solitary sheep pens, and still more solitary cairns, contribute to give it a most imposing effect. On a knoll, overhanging the lake, is the old churchyard of St Mary's, with its moss-covered and defaced grave-stones, which point out the last resting places of the

"Scotts that dwelt on Yarrow."

To contribute to the wildness of the scene, a small mound, with a few rough stones, is observable a little to the east of the church-yard, said to be the burial place of a famous wizard of olden time. In one of the introductions in Marmion, Sir W. Scott speaks of this spot

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The Wizard's grave;

That wizard priest, whose bones are thrust
From company of holy dust."

The lake itself, perhaps one of the finest of our smaller
Scottish lakes, is free from reeds or sedge, and when
seen on a beautiful summer day, it looks like a vast
expanse of liquid gold floating among the hills; and
the ripple, while it has the effect of preserving its
clearness, reflects the sunbeams, and gives it the ap-
pearance which Wordsworth speaks of when he

says

"Through all her depths St Mary's Lake
Is visibly delighted."

And again

"The swan, on sweet St Mary's Lake,
Floats double-swan and shadow."

Till sound but lulls the ear asleep."

ere the storm comes on.

The particular interest of this region centres in Dryhope Tower, the residence of Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow. This lady, the daughter of one freebooter, Philip Scott of Dryhope, and subsequently the wife of another, Scott of Harden, seems to have been as much famed for the number of her lovers, and for her fickleness, as for her matchless beauty. Old song glows with her praises, and the minstrels of more modern times, catching the echoes from the harp of ancient days, have chanted strains to her beauty, rivalling the numbers of the early poets. A writer about the beginning of last century sings

"In ancient times, as songs rehearse,

One charming nymph employed all verse,
She reigned alone, without a marrow-
Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow."

The following lines, from a song by Ramsay, shows
that he too must have been moved by the ideal
beauty of this "beauteous flower, this rose of

Yarrow"

"Ye registers of heaven relate,

If looking o'er the rolls of fate,
Did you there see one mark'd to marrow
Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow.

Ah no! her form's too heavenly fair,
Her love the gods above must share,
While mortals in despair implore her,
And at a distance due adore her."

This lady, so celebrated in song, herself became, by
the connexion of her family with the Elliots, the
ancestress of two individuals who hold no mean rank
among our national song writers; one, Miss Elliot,
the authoress of the beautiful modern version of
"The Flowers of the Forest ;" and the other, Sir

Gilbert Elliot, the author of some fine pastoral poetry, and among the rest the song

"My sheep I've forsaken."

Not far distant from Dryhope Tower, stands Mount Benger, the early residence of the Ettrick Shepherd; and, on the opposite side of the stream, Altrive Lake, the place of his death. These localities cannot but be interesting to all lovers of Scottish

poetry. Next to the works of the poet, the place of his residence is most attractive. And this region, so identified with the memory of him who found a harp amid his own wild hills, and who struck from it such strains of artless beauty, is alive with the most delightful associations. Here the vale of Yarrow assumes that character so admirably expressed in the appellation

"The Dowie Dens o' Yarrow."

And in the vicinity, near the parish church, where the stream murmurs along with a slow doleful sound, is the scene of that catastrophe, celebrated in the ballad of "The Dowie Dens," and in the modern production of William Hamilton of Bangour, entitled "The Braes o' Yarrow," and alluded to in "The Douglas Tragedy." Two large unhewn stones still mark the spot where tradition says the hero fell.

"Did I not warn thee not to love

And warn from fight? But to my sorrow,
Too rashly bold, a stronger arm thou met'st,

Thou met'st, and fell on the braes o' Yarrow."

Another tradition, of which very little is known, sets forth, that some lover was drowned in the stream, and that his mistress, in despair, sought out the place where his body lay, and destroyed herself also.

"She found his body in the stream,

And now wi' him she sleeps in Yarrow."

On this tradition the plaintive old song of "Willie's Drowned in Yarrow," and Logan's beautiful lay, "The Braes o' Yarrow," are founded. Farther down, the stream gains an additional poetical association from its proximity to the old castle of Hangingshaw, the scene of the ballad of the "Outlaw Murray," in Scott's Border Minstrelsy. Nearly opposite to this place, the famous hill, Black Andrew, raises its thickly wooded summit. And again, on another eminence which divides the vale of Ettrick from that of Yarrow, stands the beautiful ruin of Newark, the scene of the Minstrel's last lay.

"He passed where Newark's stately tower
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower,
The embattled portal's arch he passed,
Whose ponderous gate and massy bar
Had oft rolled back the tide of war."

Not far from Newark, the Ettrick, which flows through a vale on the other side of the eminence, on which the ruin stands, joins its waters to those of the Yarrow, and the poetical associations connected with this famous stream ends with its individual existence

"The Ettrick from its lonely dingle,

And elassic Yarrow from its dens,
In each other's waters mingle,

And flow through copsewood and through shingle,
To join proud Tweed among its glens.

Flow on for ever, Yarrow stream,
Fulfil thy pensive duty,

Well pleased that future bards shall chant,
For simple hearts, thy beauty.

To dream light dear, while yet unseen,
Dear to the common sunshine,
And dearer still, as now I feel,

To memory's shadowy moonshine."

Standing by Newark's old grey tower, which the genius of the last minstrel has hallowed, we realize the beauty which Wordsworth speaks of in one of his enchanting poems on this beautiful river. Around us every thing seems to belong as it were to by-gone

times. On one side, the long glen which was once the royal hunting forest of Ettrick

"Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow,"

stretches among the hills. Here the well known plain
of Carterhaugh, of fairy celebrity. There, on the
other side, is Minch Moor and Philiphaugh-the scene
of struggle and the theme of song-behind us we can
perceive the solitary Tower of Aikwood, supposed to
have been once the residence of Michael Scott, the
wizard; and before us lies the famous vale. The plain-
tive murmur of its waters falls heavily on the ear, and
we can distinctly trace the localities which tradition
and song have rendered marvellous. In the evening,
when the natural stillness of the air, and the deep
murky shade which falls over the mountains,
crowned here and there with a cairn or a memorial
stone of some departed warrior, adds to the charmed
silence which reigns over the scene, the full display
of the Yarrow's lonely loveliness is visible—
"Meek loveliness is o'er it spread,

A softness still and holy,
The grace of forest charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy."

We feel as if gazing on a land in the world of dreams, like Kilmeny ere she

when

"Returned to the land of thought again,"

"A lonely land before her lay,

A land that had glens and mountains grey,
A land that had valleys and hoary piles,
And marled seas, and a thousand isles.
Its Lakes

Like mirrors, where slumbering lay,

The sun, and the sky, and the cloudlet gray."

For once, perhaps, the reality of the scene before us equals at least that which our imagination has drawn, as Wordsworth has beautifully said

"And thou that did'st appear so fair To fond imagination,

Doth rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation."

THE BROKEN HEART.

I never heard

Of any true affection, but was nipt
With care, that, like the caterpillar eats

The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose.
Middleton.

Ir is a common practice with those who have outlived the susceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought up in the gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of novelists and poets. My observations on human nature have induced me to think otherwise They have convinced me, that however the surface of the character may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, which, when once enkindled, become impetuous, and are sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed, I am a true believer in the blind deity, and go to the full extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it?-I believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of disappointed love. I do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my own sex, but I firmly believe that it withers down many a lovely woman into an early grave.

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His

nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He

THE TORCH.

seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's
But a
thought, and dominion over his fellow men.
woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The
heart is her world; it is there that her ambition strives
for empire; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden trea-
She sends forth her sympathies on adventure;
she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection;
and, if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless-for it is the
bankruptcy of the heart.

sures.

To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some bitter pangs; it wounds some feelings of tenderness -it blasts some prospects of felicity; but he is an active being-he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure or if the scene of disappointment be too full of painful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and taking as it were the wings of the morning, can "fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest." But a woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, She is more the companion of and a meditative life. her own thoughts and feelings, and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where shall she look for consola tion? Her lot is to be wooed and won, and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. How many bright eyes grow dim-how many soft cheeks grow pale-how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness! As the dove will clasp his wings to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so is it the nature of women to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when fortunate she scarcely breathes it to herself, and when otherwise she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her With her the desire of the heart has failed-the peace. great charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is broken-the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams"dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury. Look for her after a little while, and you find friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that one who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty should so speedily be brought down to "darkness and the worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposition that laid her low; but no one knows of the mental malady that previously sapped her strength, and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler.

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the grove; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf, until wasted and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the forest; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay.

treason against his country-the eloquent vindication of
his name and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the
hopeless hour of condemnation-all these entered deeply
into every generous bosom, and even his enemies la-
mented the stern policy that dictated his execution.
But there was one heart whose anguish it would be
impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer for-
tunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and in-
teresting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish
barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervour
of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly
maxim arrayed itself against him; when blasted in for-
tune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name,
she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings.
If then his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his
foes, what must have been the agony of her, whose whole
soul was occupied by his image! Let those tell who
have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between
them and the being they most loved on earth-who have
sat on its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely
world, from whence all that was most lovely and loving
had departed.

But then the horrors of such a grave-so frightful, so dishonoured! There was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe the pang of separation-none of those tender, though melancholy circumstances, that endear the parting scene-nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish.

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity that scathe and scorch the soul-that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness, and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but she was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude. She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe, that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and "heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely."

The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone To find it wandering like a spectre, wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. lonely and joyless, where all around is gay-to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice, but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears.

I have seen many instances of women running to waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven; and have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death through the various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until it reached the first symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of this kind was lately told me; the circumstances are well The story of one so true and tender could not but known in the country where they happened, and I shall but give them in the manner in which they were related. excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthuEvery one must recollect the tragical story of young siasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so E-, the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the His living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He lover. He however persisted in his suit. He solicited He was assisted by was so young, so intelligent, so generous, so brave, so His not her tenderness, but her esteem. everything, that we are apt to like in a young man. her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing

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