It were an endless task to relate the variety of tricks performed by both sexes. Some were collected round a tub of cold water, diving for an apple; others were endeavouring in a variety of forms, by spells, and incantations, to learn who was the fated partner of their future fortunes.

The "gossoons" were active in doing mischief. The skirt of one man's coat they nailed to a long form, and then set fire to a heap of straw under his feet. In the effort to escape he left the skirt behind him,

Retired from the vulgar gaze, I could observe the young lover pour the soft pleadings of his passion into the ear of his mistress, rich in the glowing expression of his native tongue; whilst she, smiling modesty, seemed to check with a sweetness that provoked repetition.

The spirit of "potteen" thawed every care from their hearts; and, as it circulated, so did the song. I did not understand the themes of their sweet, wild melodies--but they told deeply to the heart.

During the commencement of the evening, my neighbour the schoolmaster, laid such close siege to my attention, that I could scarcely observe any other, and I was almost worried to death by his political enquiries. At length, however, the spirit of story-telling began to prevail, and this relieved me from his importunity.

Fatigued by exercise, and longing to gratify their passion for the fictitious, all began to collect round the fire, and deep was the attention given to the detail of their country's legends. Many a tale was told, till it at length came to the turn of a tall, gaunt, gray headed old woman to favor the audience with a story. She began, and, as my neighhour afterwards informed me, hers was a tale of horror. At first she spoke in a low, deep, emphatic tone, then in such a strain of pathos, that elicited tears from even the men; her energy, rising with her subject, a keen expression of awe was visible among all. I, myself, as if I understood, watched her with the utmost intensity. Conscious of nothing but the engrossing events of her legend, she rose up---there was very beauty in her action---her voice swelled as she spoke, so earnest in her recital, till it became high and shrill, as she arrived at the crisis of her story. She ended---a murmur of terror succeeded; some crossed themselves, some drew their stools closer to the rest. Their pipes hung idle on the nether lips of the "old crones," and an unbroken silence prevailed for some seconds---when, suddenly, the ponderous fist of mine host came thundering on the table. All leaped upon their feet as if the "Pookah”* himself had come in among them---but to their astonishment succeeded peels of laughter that rung through the roof. Such is the variability of Irish character.

sich a flustrification, (continued he, addressing himself to me, for being in rather a nervous mood, I felt somewhat alarmed,) but thin, your honor, take a small dhrop more o' the stuff, (bad luck saze the gaugers, for a theeving set, if they could, I wouldn't have it,) it 'ill make you quite nate intirely, intirely---bether nor all the pois'n the Dochther could be afther givin you.

Mrs. Delany entered, as he spoke, bearing in either hand a jug amply replenished with the insidious beverage, which Murthy so eloquently styled the "crathur."

He filled a large cup which he presented to me. I would be excused, but it was in vain, and to persist in refusing, would be to insult my host, for the Irish peasant is a very tyrant in hospitality, so I even took it without a murmur. He filled another for himself, and the men followed his example. Then turning to me, his eyes glistening as he spoke, "By the sowl o' Murthy Delaney, but it is my own sel' that knows as how your honor is one o' the raal---your face is thrue blue." "Is it?" said I turning to my neighbour in the utmost surprise, not immediately recognising the intent of Murthy's rather equivocal expression. A laugh at my simplicity followed, but the "measther never deigned to relax the rigidity of his countenance, while he answered, with all the consequence of a man that understands two languages, “he manes that your visinogominy (the learned autocrat of the village loved to indulge in big words) is one o' the right sort." "Och, by sowl, if it ben't; so axin your pard'n, continued Murthy, "if it isn't offinsive---shoch on dioul ug a Sassenach." My interpreter whispered, “that manes---the devil to the Brunswickers." In a second, every one raised a cup, brimming with "native" to his lips, and at a single pull the contents were drained. A wild hurrah echoed through the house, while many and deep were the execrations that followed, heaped upon the heads of their oppressors. The girls sat modestly silent---but smiling their acclamations.

By this time, the multiplicity of their potations seemed to have considerably softened the hearts of the men. Their eyes glowed with love and affection, and uttured volumes to the girls. Hands were shaken with warmth, and professions of friendship expressed; even the measther" looked less proudly---though I have been told his features never knew the luxury of a smile.

It was at this juncture, that Murthy himself was loudly called on for a song. "Athin, is it ya song yez id be axin from Murthy Delany, ye gossoons, whin I never didn't sing at all at all; but its mysel that won't disappoint yez, for if I can't sing, faix I can tal a shtory."

66

Yerra, Kate, agra," proceeded Murthy, "don't be sham't intirely, kase I'm jist goin to tal them all about. How I took'd you away from your father's, whin I freckened them all, wid that raw-mash of an Omadhaun, that think'd to marry you; an how you took'd away the forthin wid you, an how we were married, an how---" but it would be impossible to relate the many preliminary "an hovs" of Murthy, so we come to the pith and marrow of his stɔry.

"Your honour musht know," said he, addressing himself particularly to me, "whin I was a 'gossoon' the divil a wilder sowl was in the village than my own four bones." "Thrue for you" interrupted my neighbour, as perhaps the recollection of Murthy's excesses flashed across his memory. "Thrue for you," said his mother; and "thrue for you," echoed the ancient association around her. "Thrue for me," resumed Murthy, "and divil a one in the village was

A 1

I afear'd of but the measther there and my mother. So I threwn my book one fine morning into the fire, and scampered away, I didn't know where wid mysel, to seek my forthin; so thin I was'nt afear'd of nobody at all, at all. Well, to be sure, on I wint, walkin an' walkin, till I kem to Shpiddle, but I didn't shtop there; so from Shpiddle I goes to Coshla---and I didn't shtop there nather. So I went from Coshla along by the say side, listnin to the waves roarin like mad, an lashin the rocks for the bare life. Thinks I to myself, yerra, Murthy Delany, where are you going to, at all, at all---laving your poor ould mother. (It isint mysel that sis it, mother, but I felt sore and sad for laving you,) running for all the world like a wild goose thro the counthry, without a praty to ate---nor the face to ax for one. Och, murder, sis I, but there's no help for it now, at any rate." It would be impossible to follow Murthy through his various circumlocutions. He got into the employment of a comfortable farmer, with whom he remained until years matured him into strength and manhood. He was acknowledged to be the stoutest" boy" in the village, and acquired the character of a "strapping fellow" among the girls.

But none thought more of Murthy than Cathleen O'Driscoll, the farmer's daughter. She was a mere child when he first came to the neighbourhood, but she was even then attached to him, and increasing with her years, what was affection in the child, became love---devoted love in the woman. The passion was mutual, nor was it long concealed. "And may be," says Murthy, turning to his Kate. who was blushing crimson at the frankness of her lord, "May be I wasn't the 'Bouchal'* that giv'd the smack on your own two lips, whin you tould me in the meadow that no one would be the better o' you but mysel. By my sowl, they were the purty lips thin---nor are they now itsel faix, the worse o' the wear. Well, to be sure---" but we must continue the relation for Murthy.

Justly did the poet doubt whether the course of true love ever yet ran smooth. A wealthier wooer came; and poor Kate was ordered by her father, to prepare for a bride-groom to whom she was certainly to be united on the approaching night of All Saint's Eve. Evil tidings are seldom long in reaching us. That very night a whisper, "en passant," from Kate, was sufficient to put Murthy in full possession of his misery.

What was to be done? No chance of an elopement offered; for her wary father kept a strict eye on her---conscious that her love was interested, though his suspicions fell not immediately on any one. Some sleepless nights passed over the lovers, and not even was there an opportunity to pour the expression of their mutual misery into each other's bosom. But we must let Murthy tell the remainder of his own story.

"Well, by gor, thinks I to mysel, not makin it known to nobody, I'll go to father Patt himsel, an if he has a dhrop of blood in his vanes, he'll do me a sarvice---for you see, what made me so bould intirely upon the Sogarth,† was kase I kilt myself savin him, when he was drownded in the say, afther tumblin out o' Mick Mulroony's boat in a squall. So afther biddin the top o' the mornin to his raverince, I ups and I tals him how Kate was the jewel o' my heart, an how she loved me bether nor all the world, an how her father was causin her for to marry, an how the thoughts o' it was killin her intirely; an sure enough, I persuaded him down+ Priest.

* The boy.

right how I'd put an ind to my life if I wasn't the man to get her. Och, to be sure, his raverince (good luck to him) was mightily taken whin he heerd me talk so big on the head o' it, an being quite frecken'd, he begun preachin an preachin to mysilf. 'Och,' sis I, 'beggin your honor's raverince's pardon, (for the measther there always toult me to be mannerly,) I'm quite detarmint on the thing, and if you won't do one good turn to sarve another, (tiching him on the head o' the sarvice I did him) the blood of a fellow crathur be on ye all.' 'Yerra, Murthy, you unchristhin dog,' says he, 'what is that you're afther sayin at all at all.' 'I said my say, your raverence,' sis I, shtill lookin mighty glum an So wid that he begun sayin a 'pattern avee,' but shtill I look'd as big as ever.

sour.

"Murthy,' sis he, at last, 'sure av I could, you'd have her wid all the vanes o' my heart.' 'Thank your worship, sis 1, 'but if you'd only help us a bit, there's a chance yit.' 'Ker dhe shin, ma Bouchal! sis he, manin what chance is that, an spakin quite succhora† to mysel. 'I'll tall your worship,' sis I. 'To-morrow, bein Allhallowmass, on the night o' the mornint she's to be married to one o' the Darmodys, payin no respict to the 'good people,' nor the 'Pookah' as your raverince knows: well, beggin the Pookah's pard'n, I'll jist make him o' mysel, §(axin my own pard'n too, an your raverince's, for mekkin the requist;) av you'll jist lave the bit of a sthaggeen || at the door, saddle an all, mekkin out to be in a mighty grit hurry away, tho' you need'nt be in no hurry at all; an whin the 'Pookah,' that 'ill be me, God forgiv me, for puttin sich a lie upon mysel, comes roarin an blazin in about the house av you'll run for the life o' you, purtending to be mightily taken wid fear, divil a sowl in the place but what ill folly your raverince, barrin Kate an the coult, an I'll be bail they folly me.' 'Orra, Murthy, agra,' sis he, 'sure you wouldn't hould sich a notion in your pate.' 'Beadhershin,' sis I, 'so as you won't save a man as saved you,' still hittin him on the tindher spot, 'good by to Murthy Delany.' I was hurrin away for the bare life, though I wasn't in no hurry at all at all, whin his raverince bawls out afther me, 'come back, you unchristhin baste; come back here. Och, did I ever think that an ignoramush, like the likes o' you, would make an Omadhaun o' me, but you did me a sarvice, Murthy, an you may make a fool o' me now.' I took the sogarth at his word, an off I wint to make my Cholleen's heart as light as my own. So I tould her how father Patt consinted to lind us the loan of his baste, and how I was to frickin them all, an how whin they run'd away from the Pookah, manin mysel, she was to run away wid him, manin me."

We must pass over Murthy's rather tedious description of the meeting between the two clans, the Darmodys and the O'Driscolls, suffice it to say, it was as magnificent as a Cunnemara procession could be. Murthy thus continued:--"Well, to be sure, the night com'd at last, as by course it should, an wid it cum'd father Patt. 'Put his raverince's coult into the shtable, Shawneen,' sis O'Driscoll to one o' the gossoons, that was standin near him. 'No,' sis the Sogarth, ‘lave him where I tied him, for I must be goin from yez jist now, to tind a chrishning at the tother ind o' the parish,' an wid that he winked knowingly at mysel. My heart laped into my throttle as he sid the word. All is right enough now, thinks I, so I takes a wee dhrop o' the crathur

to keep the life in me, an out I slips, nobody bein the wiser. "Off I goes to the gardin; an there I threw a cow's hide over me intirely, wid the horns stickin out as nathur'l as possible; an faix, as Kate tould me afther, I looked worse nor the devil himsel. I thin gits a bundle o' hay an walks quietly to the door. To be sure, I thrimbled a wee bit whin I peeps in the windee, an sees father Patt jist goin to begin the sarvice, and Kate thrimblin too by the side o' the Ogaunach, that think'd to take her from me. 'Ma churp an Diaoul,' sis I, Christ pard'n me for cursin; an setten fire to to the hay, without sayin by your lave, nor nothin at all, I jumps in in the middle o' the flure, bringing the door along wid me. The Pookah,' the 'Pookah,' roared his raverince, an he run'd away like mad. The 'Pookah,' the 'Pookah,' sis thim all, an away they scampered afther father Patt, screechin an roarin, an I screechin an roarin louder nor any o' them, nor thim all. Well, to be sure, there they run'd an run'd, I pitchin the hay all blazin afther thim, fallin' on top o' one another, min, womins, childhers an all into a wee room; whin Kate (God bless you 'Ma Cushla,' 'tis yoursel that did it nately) turns the key in the door an lift thim all sprawlin within. 'Murthy, Murthy, agra,' cries father Patt, 'don't take away the coult tal you let me out at any rate.Och, Mavrone, I'm smoth'rin for the life o' me.' 'It isn't ill manners, your raverince, sis I, while I was placin Kate behint me on the bit of a 'sthaggeen;' an I'd do it jist now, only I wouldn't do it for the head o' me, manin I'm in sich a divil o' a hurry.'

"May be we shtop'd or shtaid tal we put our four feets upon my mother's thrashold; an may be her ould heart did'nt warm to her son an his Colleen.' Kate was Mrs. Delany next day, and the childhers that thought to be Darmody's ar mine now. Sthrange enough, she brought cash ‘galore' wid her, for it was the pride o' the O'Driscolls, (they bein an ould ancient stock) to fasten the daughter's forthin about her neck, when she was goin to be giv'd away.

"His raverince got the baste (God bless her) next day, an a 'Bonov't to boot, an her ould father's heart warms as much to Kate Delaney now as it did to Kate O'Driscoll afore. So let us take a wee dhrop more, boys, an dhrink long life to ALL SAINTS' EVE."

THE MUSIC OF THE HEART.

There is music in the waters, and music in the breeze,
And music in the sunny lawns, and music in the trees;
There is music o'er the earth and music on the sea,
And all its blended harmonies dwell, my love, in thee.
For music's but the embodied voice of all the thousand tones,
Whose influence o'er this lovely world each thrilling bosom owns;
The tones of gladness, life and power, impressed upon the whole
Which, though they speak not to the sense, have magic for the soul'
And thus, tho' bright perfection may thy dazzling charms enhance,
Though beauty lights thy noble form and trembles in thy glance;
I deeper love the voiceless spell like silence in the flower,
Which gives my thoughts a purer shrine, and thee a sweeter power.
The spell of unborn ecstacies, which words may not define,
But which with more than earthly ties, my spirit links to thine;
The spell which in this narrow life speaks of a better part,
And wakens in its weariness, the music of the heart.

• An expression of great contempt, hardly translateable. A little pig; an instance of great generosity on Murthy's part on his marriage festival.

HANNAH HERVEY.

It was the month of June, and we were descending from Rochester to Schenectady in a packet canal-boat, a mode of travelling to most people excessively annoying, from its slowness, monotony, and destitution of excitement. I have been accustomed to be thrown upon the resources, such as they are, of my own thoughts, and never tire of being drawn thus leisurely through green meadows and fields, and having an opportunity to analyze the slowly-moving landscape, and deriving from it all the thoughts and associations which it is capable of exciting in the mind of a lover of

nature.

At this time, in addition to those pleasures, we happened to have a very large assortment of fine young gentlemen and ladies,---by which I mean young persons well dressed, and with whole lots of airs and pretentions. Among them there happened to be one or two well-informed ladies, worthy of that name, and a single young gentleman, who had sense, instruction, enthusiasm, and a heart. He felt that he did not belong to those empty-headed persons, whose claims rested upon their whiskers, opera-glasses, fine clothes, and knowledge of the mysteries and dialect of Broadway.

I was amused to observe how naturally the kindred spirits of the passage gathered round this young gentleman, from sympathy. The consequence was, we had a little circle of our own, in which we originated many agreeable conversations, with just sprinkling enough of discussion, disputation, and wit, to keep them from being tame and stagnant on the one hand, or having the slightest shade of bitterness on the other. My young friend was an extensive merchant, on the line of the canal, and had the advantage of being more or less acquainted with all the distinguished inhabitants, whose habitations came in our view, in the slow movements of the canal-boat. When we saw a pretty place, it was natural, that in addition to the name of the owner, we should like to know something of his history and character. It was amusing to remark, with how much pith and brevity our historian dispatched most of these personages,—a half a paragraph, in many instances, serving to furnish us with all of interest, that their history could offer. It was otherwise with a noble seat, that we saw opening among the green fields and trees on one of those fine acclivities, that bound the rich alluvial belt of the Mohawk valley. At a distance, it presented that happy union of nature and art, of simplicity and magnificence, of rural retirement, repose, and opulence, which always excites pleasant associations, and a curiosity to hear, if the owner of a spot so beautiful, is as happy as these appearances-unhappily so often deceptive-would indicate that he might and ought to be. "Whose beautiful place is that?' was the united question of us all, 'It belongs to my particular friend, Henderson L-, Esq.,' said our cicerone, 'on whom I expect to call on my return from New York.' 'Oh! is not the owner of such a splendid place happy ?' 'Yes,---but not from being the owner of such a splendid place; though that circumstance, undoubtedly contributes an element to his enjoyment By that beautiful mansion and its tenants hangs a tale. The sun,' he continued, 'is pleasantly clouded in, and if you have a mind to hear me spin a yarn considerably longer than my common ones, take chairs, and task your patience accordingly. We unanimously expressed a wish to hear his narrative, which commenced in the following terms.

'Yonder small cottage, that you see half a mile to the right, was, two years since, the residence of Mr. Morrison Hervey, head of an English family, that moved to this part of the country a few years ago. Before I advance in my narrative, I ought to premise, that although my father resides fifty miles from this place, he had become acquainted with Mr. Hervey in New York, and had conceived an opinion so exalted of his capabilities as an instructor, that being an earnest partisan of a private education in preference to a public one, he applied to that gentleman, to receive me in his family, as his pupil. As my father was rich and he poor, and as I was the only, and perhaps I ought to add, spoiled son, there was no difficulty in settling the arrangement.

'Behold me then an indolent, indulged, and untaught subject, removed fifty miles from home, and placed in a position as unlike that in which I had hitherto moved, as can well be imagined. But I pass wholly by every thing that occurred here to myself, in order to give you, as I promised, the story of the family, and all that part of this, which has its scene laid in England, I shall dispatch in a word. Mr. Hervey was an Oxford graduate, a genius, truly and emphatically such---a poet, and as sensitive, shy, and proud, as such persons generally are. He tried the church awhile, and abandoned it. He tried the law, and became disgusted with it. He tried versc-making, and as he was nameless, unpatronized, unknown, and wrote from the enthusiasm of a rich and elevated mind, and of course overshot the taste and comprehension of the circle in which he moved, the little poetasters and gazette paragraphists barked his verses into nonentity in their clique. He was more successful in making love to the beautiful seventh daughter of a country curate, with a living of sixty pounds. She was only inferior to him in talents; being in inefficiency, in aimless incapability, in simplicity of character, and excellence of heart, his perfect peer and yoke make. Though it be mathematically true, that minus into minus makes plus, it is not a practical fact, that poverty added to poverty becomes wealth. After reducing love and a cottage to their very lowest endurable experiment, in various efforts for a subsistence, and when their family already amounted to five children, a small succession from a remote relative of Mrs. Hervey's fell to them in New York, and in the hope, that chance might prove more favorable in opening some avenue to subsistence in the new world, than it had in England, they sailed for America. Their bequest was rapidly exhausting in New York, in different trials of pursuit, as little persevered in, and as little successful, as those in England. Mr. Hervey's health and spirits were declining, and as usually happens to minds of his temperament, the final experiment, that suggested itself to his thoughts, invested with a thousand soothing associations, was to turn farmer, and die in his own fields, and be buried under his own trees. Between two and three thousand dollars remained to him, with which, on the recommendation of a friend, he purchased yonder tract of land, furnished that cottage, and became its occupant.

'Such was the family in which I became an inmate. It presented the most striking contrasts, and compounds of gentle and affectionate intercourse, kept up almost in a state of want; of refinement and elegance of manners, in a disorganized and slatternly family establishment; of high-minded pride of feeling and deportment, sustained in the necessary discharge of offices and labors alike servile and profitless. Every thing in this new world was a study to me. Uninstructed as I was, I was soon made to feel the native resour

ces and the vast acquirements of the mind that was to form mine. This, united to a quick perception of the admirable character which swayed that mind, awed me into a stedfast and unconscious respect for him and his household. The laughable shifts to which this family were often obliged to resort for subsistence from day to day, and the reckless mismanagement of every thing, within and without, were calculated to produce, and under any other circumstances would have produced, any other feeling than that of respect. 'Four of the five children, George and Ruth, Sarah and Thomas, were fair and balanced compounds of the character of the father and mother. Like them, they were each remarkable for personal beauty, and were gifted with the genius and poetic temperament of the father, and the gentle, quiet, and uncomplaining mildness of their mother. At first view, their characters seemed as uniform as was the unhappy result; there was the same want of energy and firmness of purpose that marked their father. When studied more intimately, and analyzed with a more ample experience, each showed a modification of this singular endowment of the father, that rendered the study of these most amiable and most uselesss of human beings, a source of perpetual and high excitement to my curiosity. It seemed impossible, that under an exterior so monotonous, and a result so exactly the same, there should be couched such a strange diversity of character, alike feeble, interesting and amiable.

'Hannah, the third in point of years, and when I entered the family, fifteen, that is to say five years younger than myself, was a strange exception. She was only what would have been called pretty, or perhaps good-looking, though the least beautiful of the family, if you laid out of the view, eyes of a melting, black, lustrous, brilliancy, which shone with the intense expression of sense, amiability, and firmness. Her eyes were such as a sacred painter would assign to a seraph. At the same time, their brightness was tempered with a lovely and forbearing expression of gentleness, and raised the impression of the intelligence of an angel, bestowed upon the guileless and loving nature of a child. Shall I speak of her intelligence? I was ashamed to attempt the same task with her, she grasped it so much more readily and perfectly. In regard to the moral part of her nature, I shall only remark, that all my conceptions of embodied truth, dignity, and worth, were carried out in her character. So entire were my convictions, that she would not act except with the noblest motives and the highest views, that her wrong doing, in my eyes, would have been consecrated as some perfection of right which I understood not. Strange to tell, she was active as the domestic bee---as firm as the rock on the shore of the ocean; and of invincible inflexibility of purpose. If any one should ask, how it came that such a girl should be born of such parents, and should be found in such a place, I can only refer him to the will of of Him who has seen fit to scatter the fairest flowers in the desert, and the most beautiful gems in the depths of the sea. A striking result of her vigour, firmness, and prematurity of judgment, was, that without ever departing for a moment from the natural character and deportment appropriate to her years, she seemed to me a mentor, twenty years older than myself, and, without intending it, and apparently shrinking from the natural influence of her character upon them, she moulded the rest of the family, and guided its concerns, as a pilot steers his vessel. Dangerous would have been the temptations of her position, but for the intrinsic and shrinking modesty of her mind, which prevented

her from abusing this strange precocity of judgment. But she saw and felt how revolting it would seem to others, as well as herself, to attempt to manage the family; and from the purest and most natural of feelings, she recoiled from that sort of government and direction which might have retrieved the fortunes of her unhappy kindred. As it was, almost unconsciously, she introduced gradual order, industry, and arrangement into the concerns of the family, which began to operate, to a certain extent, the retrieval of its downward course. But she took especial care, that this redemption should not seem her work; and with such a happy forethought and address, that while one year had gone round, in which they had added to the comforts of the house, and the improvements of the farm, and it was found on balancing accounts on the last day of the year, that their income had actually exceeded their expenditure, each member felt encouraged to claim a share of the merit of this happy change. It was while leading her parents, that she contrived to impart to them the inspiring feeling, that they were the sources of this new power. The hand that wound up the machinery was concealed.

'Such was this family, promising to commence a new chapter in its history, when we heard of the commencement of the fearful ravages of the cholera at Buffalo and Rochester, and generally on the line of the canal. As my father lived at this time in Rochester, and as the cottage we have passed was retired, remote, as you remarked, from other habitations, and apparently a very healthy position, it was deemed more prudent that I should remain where I was, instead of returning to my father's family.

'It was among the inscrutable anomalies of that mysterious and formidable scourge, that Mr. Hervey's family should be the only detached farming establishment attacked with it, within fifty miles. But Mr. Hervey came in from hay making, one beautiful evening, toward the close of July, apparently overwrought and fatigued with the exertions of the day. Apprehending no other cause for his exhaustion, he retired immediately to bed. No alarm was expressed ; and his lady saw him not, until nearly nine in the evening, when he summoned her to his bedside, and complained of having felt for some time extremely restless and depressed, and a strange and unextinguishable thirst. His bedroom was so darkened, that she saw not the expression of his countenance; but, startled by the hoarse and unnatural tone of his voice, she laid her hand upon his breast, and was struck with terror, almost amounting to faintness, on remarking the death-like and marble feeling of his body. A light was brought. We all rushed in alarm to the room. None of us had yet seen a case of cholera; but we had all read so much upon the subject, and were so well informed of the more obvious and marked symptoms of this frightful disease, that the terrible conviction stood embodied before us, that Mr. Hervey had the cholera, and that his disorder had already advanced to the stage of collapse. A sick sensation came over me; the first selfish rush of personal apprehension to the heart, as I saw myself present with that mortal malady, then generally supposed to be more contagious than any disease known. All the children but Hannah, and Mrs. Hervey with them, sunk into chairs, in a state of passive agony of terror. Never were members of a family more perfectly and deeply attached and affectionate to each other. In proportion to their love for their head, was their terror and stupified inaction. Between the exertions of Hannah and myself, such measures were put in operation, and such

medicines administered, as the means of the family afforded. I, meanwhile, ran for the physician. But when, at length, I returned with him, there sat four of the children, and the mother, emblems of the group of Niobe, changed to stone; and such an expression they wore!---an expression of fear, crushed affection, and despair. Oh! it was horrible to witness! It seemed as if, during my absence, they had scarcely moved from their place. Yet the heroic, the noble minded Hannah, wore an expression as of an angel come down to administer relief and comfort, in such a case of agony. Her energy and industry were only exceeded by a skill and judgment still more extraordinary. The physician found that she had anticipated him in all the remedies he would have prescribed, and in every possible application of friction and external heat. All was in vain. The last moments of this wonderfully-endowed, most excellent, and most useless man, were approaching. I had heard it advanced, that persons of such inefficient characters were often found capable, in emergencies, of putting forth a passive courage of endurance, as extraordinary as their ordinary weakness and langour. I had known Mr. Hervey to be subject to the most servile and unmanly dread of death. It was a sentiment that exercised such an absorbing and often manifest influence over his thoughts and actions, that he took no pains to disguise it. What horrors I had heard him express at the idea of death, even before his assembled family! This weakness was shared by all the household, with but one strange exception.

'Death was now drawing near this man, whose heart was so full of deep and unextinguishable affection for his family. There were the loved ones sitting in his view, like statues, incapable, from agony and despair, of either words, exertions, or tears. One ministering spirit of the number was over him, exerting herself, dictating to some neighbors, the physician, and myself, what was to be done. Courage and hope were in her looks. 'You are better, dear father,' she would say; 'I see by your countenance, you are better. Say but the single word, that you are better, and you will encourage the rest of us to action.' How was I astonished, I might almost say cheered, by the words and deportment of Mr. Hervey, on this awful occasion, when so suddenly, and with so little premonition, arrested by this terrible form of death! He called his wife and children to his bedside, one by one; but, petrified with terror and conflicting emotions, they either heard not, or only manifested that they heard, by a sort of spasmodic shudder, and dropping their faces on their hands. He then said in our hearing, and in the usual hoarse whisper of his disease: 'How am I now punished for the temperament and example of unworthy fear, which I have bequeathed, as their only portion, to these dear ones! Blessed be God, who hath promised to wipe away all tears, and swallow up death in victory, I am delivered from the fear of death! I would have given worlds, during the long bondage of my life, through fear of this event, could I have been assured that I should feel as I do now. What a calmness!—what a repose! Oh! think, dear loved ones, when I am no more, that I had not a doubt, not a fear—and that I pass to my last rest, even as the worn traveller to the evening shade. How vain has been my existence! This life and its trials were not appointed for the faint-hearted and fearful, but for the strong in heart and purpose.'

'But I pass over this scene, to me so impressive and awful, and so indelibly engraven on my memory. I lack words to describe to you the mingled tenderness and dignity of the