dark clouds, from which she emerged only to throw a wild and wan light upon the landscape. It might have been about midnight when Walter thought he heard the voice of his father high in anger, interrupted at times by the shriller tones of a female voice, but then all was hushed, some minutes passed and then the footsteps of his father fell upon his ear. Murray rapidly approached, and without saying a word, laid his hand upon his son's arm, and drew him within the recesses of the arbor. He appeared agitated and breathed hard. Walter's heart sank within him, for he dreaded an unfavorable termination to his suit.

"Hold," said he, "if possible, do not force me to re-enter that house. I had rather face death. But it is too late."

They are in the throng of excited men, and hurried forward, asking each other questions, which but two among the crowd could answer. The villagers rushed into the house of Mrs. Fairfax, and, guided by cries and sobs, entered the room of the deceased. Every revolting evidence of violence was there, and, bending over the body, her dark hair mingling with that of the corpse, convulsed, maddened by grief, Ruth Fairfax met the eyes of Walter. "Not thus," he muttered, half aloud, "not thus had I

"Speak, father," he cried, "has anything untoward hoped to meet thee, Ruth, to-night." chanced? What did Mrs. Fairfax say?"

"What she will not repeat. The time is brief-ask me no questions-enough the woman was a fiend-she knew me, Walter-knew me! the words have a terrible meaning, though you may not comprehend them. She swore that Ruth Fairfax never should be yours, and threatened to denounce me." "Wherefore-to whom?" "Justice. But hear me out.

'Sooner would I see

The sound of her name, the voice, dearer even than her mother's, recalled the wandering senses of the maiden. She rose from the bed, and then threw herself into the arms of her lover, clinging to him for support, with convulsive eagerness.

"Walter," she sobbed, " my-my poor mother-did you know they had murdered her?"

The horror of the scene was too much for the unfortunate young man. His face was paler than that of the my child the bride of death,' she cried, 'than wedded to corpse, and he reeled to and fro. His appearance was so one of your accursed race! Thou knowest the knife-ghastly as to arrest the attention of even the distracted ha? the knife with which-no matter--it was in my girl. hands-"

"Father, father! what did you?"

"Removed the barrier between you and your bride." "Merciless fiend!"

"Walter, it was for you I struck!"

"Is this

"Good God!" exclaimed the young man. frightful scene a reality or a most maddening dream? A moment since he parted from me sinless, and now my father comes back to me, a murderer! No! no! it cannot be? What is to be done?"

"Stay here, rant, rave like a madman, and see your father perish. Every moment is worth a day to meFly!"

At this moment rose on the air the shriek of a woman, the tones of which, well known to Walter, thrilled to his very soul. A hoarse voice was heard to cry "murder!" and the alarm of the neighbors was immediate. The murderer seemed uncertain how to act,-not so his unhappy son. A wild energy took possession of him, and he acted under its excitng influence.

"And you too, Walter," she cried, "you too are sick, dying." And with girlish tenderness she loosened his vest to give him air. The fatal knife dropped to the ground. O'Hara seized it and held it aloft before the excited spectators.

"You, Walter! oh, no! no! no!"

He saw her fall faint and motionless into the arms of servant, his brain reeled. A moment passed, he awoke to the bitter agony of the doom before him. They were binding him. He gazed upon his father, that father turned away. He looked imploringly upon the multitude, horror, indignation glared in every eye, and low mutterings met his car as he was dragged away to be

"Father," he said in a quick, low tone, "you shall not have it to say that I destroyed you. Follow me-examined. leave this spot by a path which I will show you, and join the alarmed neighbors."

They fled, the guilty and the guiltless. Once Walter paused, and fixing upon his father a countenance of unutterable woe, the expression of which was fully revealed by a sudden burst of moonlight, he said,

"Give me the murderous weapon. If we are suspected, let the suspicion fail on one to whom life is now a worthless boon."

"Never, Walter," answered the father, "it shall fall upon the guilty."

"Give me the weapon!" exclaimed Walter imperiously, and the old man, yielding to the tone and air of command, placed it in his hands.

THE PRISONER.

The rays of a declining sun fell over a landscape of surpassing beauty. The rugged aspect of the hills was softened by their influence, and the river-fish sparkled in the diamond blaze, as they broke the limpid surface of the water, and sprang from their native element. The glossy leaves of the oak, wet with a recent shower, glittered as they dallied with the passing breeze. Mere animal existence seemed a rich boon at this season of summer glory, and some of the sunshine fell into the lonely cell of a prisoner. The barred window which admitted it was so lofty, that he could not look upon the earth, but his eye was fixed upon the cloudless summer heaven, and his thoughts were tranquillized as he dwelt

"Calm yourself," whispered her lover, "and look to || man. Heaven as I have done, for resignation. Did it come in ho! any other shape, I could almost welcome death, for upon the earth we can never be united. A fatal event has placed an insurmountable barrier between us!"

Ruth was about to reply, but the door of the dungeon once more revolved upon its hinges, and the jailor informed her that the hour of departure had arrived. She took a mute and tearful farewell of her lover, who, left alone, once more addressed himself to the consolations of religion. His devotional exercises were long and fervent, and when at length he retired for the night to his humble pallet, a most refreshing slumber steeped his senses in oblivion.

THE CRIMINAL.

Reclining in a deep chair before a table, on which burned dimly a single lamp, sat a solitary watcher. book lay open before him, but he did not glance upon its pages. A window, open to the floor, disclosed a glorious scene of wood and water. The beams of a young moon played among the branches of the trees, and the pleasant murmurs of a summer night were not wanting to lull the senses into forgetfulness. Yet the occupant of the apartment did not gaze with admiration on the moonlight landscape, nor yet yielded himself to the Elysian of a calm repose. His eye was fixed on vacancy, and ever and anon he started and gazed uneasily about him. The incoherent mutterings which escaped from his lips, at length shaped themselves into something like the following soliloquy:

"He must die-and wherefore should I seek to avert his doom? Does it not save him, young and guileless, from the crimes and cares of wretched humanity. One would choose a different mode of death, perhaps, but that is a mere matter of taste-yet I shall miss him from my side. Though with every cause to hate him, he contrived to gain a hold upon my affections. How like his mother-in beauty, character, and self-devotion. Oh, Mary! why did I ever cross your path. At such an hour as this have I wandered arm and arm with you-| and at such an hour as this-but why do I think of these things now? In my own dark heart be its secret slumber. What would they accuse me of? Murder! ha! me, a man of peace. They lie. I never struck but twice-but then each blow was fatal. Methinks I see the recent victim now. She reviled-she threatened me -she died. But who is my accuser?"

He started to his feet as if a poignard had been stricken to his heart, for, gliding through the shrubbery, a tall female figure appeared before the window of the library.

"I have heard of these phantasms," said Murray, calmly passing a hand across his brow: "wise men have suffered from similar delusions, but I never knew

my reason to play me false before." He opened his

eyes-the figure was there still.

The features of Ruth, pallid, sad and severe, seemed to Murray those of his victim.

"What would you have?" he asked.

Justice!" was the reply. It was her very voice." "Do the fiends keep holiday?" exclaimed the wretched

"She stands there yet-it is no deception. Help, I could pray, but my tongue refuses that office. She waves her wan hand. Why should I follow her? This is some trick," he added, "but the game's afoot, and I must follow on. Lead on!" he exclaimed, as he dashed through the window, and trod in the footsteps of the now receding figure. Once or twice Murray attempted to draw back, but he was now completely under the spell of his guide, and followed her even against his will. Though his joints trembled under him, he still held on his way. "Miserable wretch that I am!" he exclaimed; "the crimes I have committed were most horrible, and dreadful is the punishment reserved. Mercy! mercy! Heaven!"

Ruth paused, and turned full upon him.

ling tone; "do you ask for mercy, and show none? "Do you ask for mercy?" she exclaimed, in a thrilEven now you are contemplating a deed of the blackest dye. The innocent must perish, that you may prolong your wretched life. To-morrow, an innocent man is doomed to death. Look to your own morrows, that they may be happier. The fiends themselves will suffer less than you will suffer."

They were now before the door of Judge Heathcote's residence, in the outskirts of the village of Doveden. The tall building cast its giant shadow on the street. Beyond them the ghastly moonlight glittered on the long perspective of the main street. Murray's hand was

on the latch. He turned to look once more at the phantom. She had disappeared. The door was unfastened, according to the custom of the country, and no one challenged his entrance, so that he soon made his way into the presence of the judge, who was seated alone, over his books and legal documents.

The wild and haggard countenance of his nocturnal visitor, the disorder of his dress, and the abruptness of his entrance, seemed evidence either of insanity or meditated violence. Fearing the latter, Judge Heathcote rose hastily, and inquired the business of the visitor with some alarm.

Be seated, sir," was the reply, "and calm yourself. I have that to communicate which you alone must hear, and you must hear me out. I am an abandoned, desperate man-a villain-nay, start not-I mean you no violence. If I did, what would outcry or resistance avail you?" As he pronounced these words, he produced a pair of pistols, and laid them beside him on the table, cocked, and ready for use. He then drew a chair near the judge, and seemed collecting himself for some disclosure. A wandering of the eye-a twitching of the muscles of the face, indicated insanity. Judge Heathresolved to make his escape from the apartment, the cote regarded Murray with no little uneasiness, and moment an opportunity occurred. Disguising his feelings, however, he addressed his companion calmly.

"I am at leisure, sir, and prepared to listen to whatever communication you have to make."

THE CRIMINAL'S CONFESSION. "Hear me, then. I told you I was an abandoned I am one to whom blood, and the thoughts of blood, are very familiar-yet was I not thus always.

man.

giate studies, made new acquaintances, and set up for a literary man. I poured some of my wild thoughts into poetry, and the verses, strange, unfinished as they were, attracted general attention. Criticism looked kindly on them, and the world applauded. I wrote a political pamphlet, and both parties anxiously endeavored to unmask the author. At length I disclosed myself. Flatterers crowded about, and Royalty itself deigned to notice me; but I turned away in disgust. I had made all these exertions to reinstate myself in the favor of Mary-to prove that I could render myself worthy of her, and win her back. She came not. I wrote her a

I can remember the time when my heart was guileless || shamed an anchorite. I read deeply-revived my colles and buoyant-when the sports of the field and forest were to me thrilling and absorbing. You may wonder that I can look back on those calm times at this moment. Yet I see it before me-the noble mansion of my ancestors, surrounded by the broad oak woods, in the shade of which the deer sported the livelong day. It was a scene characteristic of old England. I see my venerarable father seated in his magnificent library, reciting some tale of my ancestors, who were stern warriors in the olden time, or of the bridals, the hunts, and the archery meetings, that made the hall such a holiday residence in by-gone days. My stately mother is stand ing by his side, and observing, with a smile, my enthu-burning letter, breathing all my resolves-my hopes. siastic reception of the narrative. They are both dead, She sent it back unopened. It was then that love was and I am a lonely and lost man. The name I bear is blotted from my heart, so that I knew not the meaning feigned-thank Heaven, that, at least, I have not dis- of its very name. Vengeance-vengeance-that was graced the stainless and time-honored name of my family. all my cry. It was too galling to sit still and brood I was an only son, and the death of my parents left me upon my wrongs, without the power of avenging them. master of a large and almost unencumbered property. My recent studies were distasteful to me. I travelled, Then it was that the evil passions of my nature, which but wherever I was, wandering by the legendary Rhine, had heretofore slumbered, were warmed into life by the or in the ruins of the Coliseum, or treading the classic sunshine of prosperity. I must needs come up to shores of Greece, the thirst of vengeance tormented me London. I sicken at the recollection of my reception unceasingly. For a few years I wandered like Cain, there the officiousness of pretended friends-the syco- longing to deserve the curse he bore. At length the phancy of menials and sharpers. The turf the ring-hour came. I returned to England, and revisited my the opera, I patronized munificently. I led the fashion -dressed, dined, drank to perfection. Weary of London, I went to Paris, and exhausted its pleasures in a brief space. Finally, for excitement, I settled upon gaming. With an infatuated reliance on my luck, I threw myself upon rouge-et-noir. I rose one evening from the table, and left the salon a ruined man-comparatively speaking. Why did I not then blow out my brains as I meditated, and so rid the world of a monster. It was in the seclusion of the country to which I again retired with the pitiful wreck of my fortune, that I met a beautiful young girl, an American, who, with a female companion, was residing in the same town, being on a visit to an English relative. Lovely and intellectual, she inspired me with the first pure passion that I ever felt. Our casual acquaintance grew into intimacy, and finally I had reason to believe I was beloved. And now, as before, the sunshine of success warmed into life || my scorpion passions. I had, heretofore, been a profligate and gambler. I now drank deeply, first for excite ment, next, for oblivion of all but my successful suit. Mary perceived a change in my conduct, traced it to its cause, and remonstrated with me vehemently, and, as she thought, successfully. She vowed that she never would be mine until I had for ever renounced the fatal cup. I did so, and the very next week, broke my oath. She finally dismissed me. I was frantic. I sought an interview with her, employed entreaties, oaths and threats to change her purpose, but in vain. She had cast me off, and now quitted the house of her relative to avoid my persecution. For a while, a scorching fever bound me in its fiery chains, and it was many weeks before I received my consciousness, and with it, a portion of my former health. I was now an altered man. I drank no more-my abstemious habits would have

native place. When I went abroad, I had parted with the old family mansion, to obtain the means of travel. It was resold, and a young baronet, Sir Malise Grey, was its tenant. I was curious to see this new man who now called my ancient home his own, and being informed that he was a regular attendant at church, I repaired thither on the first Sunday after my return. He came up to the pew with his young wife. They bowed their heads in silent reverence. The lady turned, and I beheld the face of Mary! She uttered a faint shriek, while I, forgetful or reckless of the place in which I stood, rushed madly from the church. Mark me, sir, I met them not again until the нOUR had arrived. I scaled the window of their chamber, and entered it at dead of night. I killed them both. My vengeance was instantly satiated, and even as I withdrew the fatal weapon, remorse took possession of my soul. At this moment the wailing cry of a young child broke upon my ear. It was that of the boy whom I had just made an orphan. What would become of him? With a singular inconsistency I determined to bear him off. I succeeded in so doing. With him I fled to this country, and, for years, I was a father to him. His countenance constantly recalled my early passions and my crime, and it was a self-imposed penance to supers intend his education, and exercise the paternal relation with regard to him. He became the lover of Ruth Fairfax, and I resolved that no obstacle should cross the path of his desire, and turn the fountain of his affection to waters of bitterness. I sought Mrs. Fairfax to arrange the preliminaries for the nuptials. Picture my astonishment, when I beheld, hanging on the wall, the portrait of my early victim. The agitation into which this threw me, gave rise to words and half confessions, that very nearly betrayed me. They might have fallen

fruitless upon an indifferent ear, but the listener—the ]]
mother of Ruth Fairfax, was too keen, too vigilant to
permit them to escape-she charged me with crime-
the avowal seemed wrung from my lips. In spite of
agony and suffering, I had always clung to life. I now
no sooner perceived how dangerous a power I had given
her, than I resolved the fatal secret should die with her.
My worthless life must be preserved. I saw but one
way, and I was blinded and stung by her revilings. I
stabbed her to the heart. Circumstances fixed the guilt
on my reputed son. He lies in prison awaiting his sen-
For days I have been as one upon the rack, now
impelled to rush forward and save him, and now recoil-
ing from the face of death and shame. To-night, as I
sat in my apartment, torn by conflicting emotions, a
warning was sent me. Yes, believe me or not, the dead
appeared to demand the publication of the truth. You,
sir, are a magistrate. Into your custody I surrender
myself. Let the law work its worst-it can inflict no
I ask no
torments like those of my own conscience.

tence.

Original.

THE AMERICAN INDIANS.

BY MRS. EMELINE S. SMITH.

THEY are exiled by Destiny's changeless decree,
From heritage, birth-place and home,
And doom'd like the storm-bird that flies o'er the sea,
Still onward unresting to roam.

They are leaving for ever their own native clime;
They are hastening on to decay,

A few more dark waves from the ocean of Time
Will sweep the last remnant away.

E'en now from the forests that rise in the west,
From valley and mountain and stream,
From the prairie's broad surface, the lake's boundless breast,
They are passing away like a dream.

When a few more brief years shall have rolled o'er the land,
And cities lie thick on the plain,

On our far western hills will the traveller stand
And ask for the red men in vain.

In vain will he ask for the wild-woods they lov'd,
In their happy and prosperous hour,

mercy! let me meet the punishment of my crime! total For the homes and the haunts, and the scenes where they rov'd annihilation is better than this life of anguish!"

*

Calm and cloudless rose the sun upon the morrow, that day which Walter thought would put an ignominious termination to his career. But he was ransomedthe bitter chalice was removed from his lips. In the joy of his emancipation, he forgot, for a moment, that another was to suffer in his place. The confession of the criminal, the tale of his father's fate, threw him back again into a state of agonized feeling, and the only relief he experienced, was in the thought that no insurmountable barrier interposed, as heretofore, between himself and Ruth. Then came the harrowing certainty that one whom he had long regarded as a father, must expiate his crime by an ignominious death. Murray was convicted, and condemned to die, but long before the hour appointed for his execution, his own hand had sent his soul to its dread account.

In the days of their freedom and power;
No record shall linger to tell of the race,
No epitaph point to their tomb;

The changes of Time will have swept from the place
All sign of their life and their doom.

The streams where their fleet barks once glided about,
Will bear gallant vessels along ;

And the hills which have echoed the warrior's shout,

Will resound to the husbandman's song.

On the plains where the forests their arms tossed on high,
Where the red hunter sought the wild-deer,

Fair cities will lift their proud domes to the sky,
And Art's splendid temples appear.
The flocks of the herdsman will feed o'er the grave

Where the dust of the chieftain is laid;
And the rich yellow harvests of Autumn will wave
Where the tomb of a nation was made!
The ploughman will pause in the midst of his toil,
And ask with a wondering gaze,

As he bends o'er the relics he turns with the soil,
"Who dwelt here in earlier days?"

Not many months had passed, before Edward Grey- No voice from the past will arise to reveal

such was the real name of Ruth's lover, was united to his mistress. Together they had joyed, together they had suffered-it was not for two such tried and kindred spirits to remain asunder. As they sat in the travelling-carriage which bore them away from the scene of so much suffering, Edward clasped the hand of his bride, and pointing to the receding spire of the village,

said

The secret he questions to know;
For Poesy's song will not wake to the theme,
Nor Hist'ry an answer bestow;

But echo alone will reply to the sound,

O'er hill-top and valley and plain,
Her voice in low music will linger around,

And repeat the sad question again.
Tis meet that we mourn for the Indian's doom---

With perishing things he must pass from the earth,

And leave not a trace to disclose
His name or his deeds, or the place of his birth,
Or the spot where he sunk to repose.

When life's weary journey is o'er "Dearest, look your last at Doveden. After what has He must sink to a lonely unchronicled tomb, happened, it is no home for either of us. I go to Eng-And be nam'd or remembered no more: land to regain possession of my father's estates and title. I long to present my lovely bride to those who will welcome her and me. Yet we shall not linger there long. We must travel. Paris, Vienna, the Alps, Italy, have all their attractions. Beneath a softer sky, we shall learn to look back upon the past with resignation, and coming joy will seem the dearer for the trials we have suffered."

Such were the words of Edward Grey. "Oh! what glorious prophets of the future are youth and hope!" Boston, Mass.

WHAT is so hateful to a poor man, as the purse-proud arrogance of a rich one? Let fortune shift the scene, and make the poor man rich, he runs at once into the vice that he declaimed against so feelingly; these are strange contradictions in the human character.-Cumberland.