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from which there is no escape nor relief. She managed at last, within three days of that fixed for her union, to write to Rupert, and get her letter conveyed to the post.

room, there sat, with folded arms and abstracted air, a tall military looking figure, apparently about forty. He rose, bowed low to Mary, gazed at her for some moments with a look of deep interest, sighed, muttered something to himself, and remained motionless, with eyes fixed upon the ground, and leaning against the dark wainscot. This was Monkton, the husband of the woman who had allured Rupert to T, and from whom he had so threatening an account of her liege lord. Monkton had long known Zacharias, and, always inclined to a serious turn of mind, he had lately endeavored to derive consolation from the doctrines of that enthusiast. On hearing from Zacharias, for the saint had no false notions of delicacy, that he was going to bring into the pale of matrimony a lamb which had almost fallen a prey to the same wolf that had invaded his own fold, Monkton expressed so warm an interest, and so earnest a de

"Save me," it said in conclusion,-"I ask not by what means, I care not for what end,-save me I implore you, my guardian angel. I shall not trouble you long-I write to you no romantic appeal:-God knows that I have little thought for romance, but I feel that I shall soon die, only let me die unseparated from you-you, who first taught me to live, be near me, teach me to die, take away from me the bitterness of death. Of all the terrors of the fate to which they compel me, nothing appears so dreadful as the idea that I may no longer think of you and love you. My hand is so cold that I can scarcely hold my pen, but my head is on fire. I think I could go mad if I would-but I will not, for then you could no longer love me. I hear my father's step-oh, Rupert!-on Friday next-sire to see the reclaimed one, that Zacharias had remember-save me, save me!"

invited him to partake of the bridal cheer.

Such was the conclave-and never was a wedding party more ominous in its appearance. "We will have," said the father, and his voice trembled,

But the day, the fatal Friday arrived, and Rupert came not. They arrayed her in her bridal garb, and her father came up stairs to summon her to the room, in which the few guests invited were al-"one drop of spiritual comfort before we repair to ready assembled. He kissed her cheek: it was so deadly pale, that his heart smote him, and he spoke to her in the language of other days. She turned towards him, her lips moved, but she spoke not. "My child, my child!" said the old man, “have you not one word for your father!" "Is it too late?" she said; “ can you not preserve me yet?" There was relenting in the father's eye, but at that moment James stood before them. His keen mind saw the danger; he frowned at his father-the opportunity was past. "God forgive you!" said Mary, and cold, and trembling, and scarcely alive, she descended to the small and dark room, which was nevertheless the state chamber of the house. At a small table of black mahogony, prim and stately, starched and whaleboned within and without, withered and fossilized at heart by the bigotry, and selfishness, and ice of sixty years, sat two maiden saints they came forward, kissed the unshrinking cheek of the bride, and then, with one word of blessing, returned to their former seats and resumed their former posture. There was so little appearance of life in the persons caressing and caressed, that you would have started as if at something ghastly and supernatural: as if you had witnessed the salute of the grave. The bridegroom sat at one corner of the dim fire-place, arrayed in a more gaudy attire than was usual with the sect, and which gave a grotesque and unnatural gayety to his lengthy figure and solemn aspect. As the bride entered the room, there was a faint smirk on his lip, and a twinkle in his half shut and crossing eyes, and a hasty shuffle in his unwieldy limbs, as he slowly rose, pulled down his yellow waistcoat, made a stately genuflexion, and regained his seat. Opposite to him sat a little lank haired boy, about twelve years old, mumbling a piece of cake, and looking with a subdued and spiritless glance over the whole group, till at length his attention riveted on a large dull-colored cat sleeping on the hearth, and whom he durst not awaken even by a murmured ejaculation of “ Puss."

the house of God. James, reach me the holy book." The bible was brought, and all, as by mechanical impulse, sank upon their knees. The old man read with deep feelings some portions of the Scriptures calculated for the day; there was a hushed and heartfelt silence; he rose-he began an extemporaneous and fervent discourse. How earnest and breathless was the attention of his listeners! the very boy knelt with open mouth and thirsting ear. "Oh, beneficient Father" he said, as he drew near to his conclusion, “we do indeed bow before thee with humbled and smitten hearts. The evil spirit hath been among us, and one who was the pride, and the joy, and the delight of our eyes, hath forgotten thee for awhile; but shall she not return unto thee, and shall we not be happy once more? Oh melt away the hardness of that bosom which rejects thee and thy chosen for strange idols, and let the waters of thy grace flow from the softened rock. And now, oh Father, let thy mercy and healing hand be upon this thy servant (and the old man looked to Monkton,) upon whom the same blight hath fallen, and whose peace the same serpent hath destroyed." Here Monkton's sobs were audible. “Give unto him the comforts of thy holy spirit; wean him from the sins and worldly affections of his earlier days and both unto him and her who is now about to enter upon a new career of duty, vouchsafe that peace which no vanity of earth can take away. From evil let good arise, and though the voice of gladness be mute, and though the sounds of bridal rejoicing are not heard within our walls, yet grant that this day may be the beginning of a new life, devoted unto happiness, to virtue, and to thee!" There was a long pause— they rose-even the old women were affected. Monkton returned to the window, and throwing it open leaned forward as for breath. Mary resumed her seat, and there she sat motionless and speechless. Alas! her very heart seemed to have stilled its beating.

At length James said (and his voice, though it On the window seat at the farther end of the was softened almost to a whisper, broke upon that

Rupert twice into the bosom of the adulterer. staggered and fell. Monkton stood over him with a brightening eye, and brandishing the blade which reeked with the best blood of his betrayer. "Look at me!" he shouted, "I Henry Monkton!-do you know me now?" "Oh, God!" murmured the dy ing man, "it is just, it is just!" and he writhed for one moment on the earth, and was still forever!

Mary recovered from her swoon to see the weltering body of her lover before her, to be dragged by her brother over the very corpse into her former prison, and to relapse with one low and inward shriek into insensibility. For two days she recov

evening of the third, the wicked had ceased to trouble, and the weary was at rest.

deep silence as an unlooked for and unnatural interruption,) "I think, father, it must be time to go, and the carriages must be surely coming, and here they are-no, that sounds like four horses." And at that very moment the rapid trampling of hoofs, and the hurried rattling of wheels were heard-the sounds ceased at the gate of the house. The whole party, even Mary, rose and looked at each other a slight noise was heard in the hall-a swift step upon the stairs-the door was flung open, and, so wan and emaciated that he would scarcely have been known but by the eyes of affection, Rupert de Lindsay burst into the room. "Thank God," he cried, "I am not too late!" and in mingled fond-ered from one fit only to fall into another-on the ness and defiance, he threw his arm round the slender form which clung to it all wild and tremblingly. He looked round. "Old man," he said "I have It is not my object to trace the lives of the remaindone you wrong; I will repay it; give me your ing actors in this drama of real life-to follow thee daughter as my wife. What are the claims of her broken hearted father to his grave-to see the last intended husband to mine? Is he rich ?-my rich-days of the brother consume amid the wretchedness es treble his! Does he love her? I swear that I love her more! Does she love him? look, old man, this cheek, whose roses you have marred, this pining and wasted form, which shrinks now at the very mention of his name, tokens of her love? Does she love me? You her father, you her brother, you her lover; aye, all, every one among you know that she does, and may Heaven forsake me if I do not deserve her love! Give her to me as my wife; she is mine already in the sight of God. Do not divorce us; we both implore you upon our knees." "Avaunt, blasphemer!" cried Zacharias-"Begone!" said the father; the old ladies looked at him as if they were going to treat him as Cleopatra did the pearl, and dissolve him in vinegar. Wretch!" muttered in a deep and subdued tone, the enraged and agitated Monkton, who, the moment Rupert had entered the room, had guessed who he was, and stood frowning by the sideboard, and handling, as if involuntarily, the knife which had cut the boy's cake, and been left accidentally his grave. there. And the stern brother coming towards him, attempted to tear the clinging and almost lifeless Mary from his arms.

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Nay, is it so ?" said Rupert, and with an effort almost supernatural for one who had so late recovered from an illness so severe, he dashed the brother to the ground, caught Mary in one arm, pushed Zacharias against the old lady with the other, and fled down stairs with a light step and a lighter heart. "Follow him, follow him!" cried the father in his agony, "save my daughter, why will ye not save her?' and he wrung his hands, but stirred not for his grief had the stillness of despair. "I will save her," said Monkton; and still grasping the knife, of which, indeed, he had not once left hold, he darted after Rupert. He came up to the object of his pursuit just as the latter had placed Mary (who was in a deep swoon) within his carriage, and had himself set his foot on the step. Rupert was singing, with a reckless daring natural to his character. "She is won, we are gone over brake, bush, and scaur," when Monkton laid his hand upon his shoulder! "Your name is De Lindsay, I think," said the former" At your service," answered Rupert, gaily, and endeavoring to free himself from the unceremonious grasp. This, then, at your heart!" cried Monkton, and he pluuged his knife

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of a jail, or to witness, upon the plea of insanity, the acquittal of Henry Monkton-these have but little to do with the thread and catastrophe of my story-There was no romance in the burial of the lovers-death did not unite those who in life had been asunder. In the small churchyard of her native place, covered by one simple stone, whose simpler inscription is still fresh, while the daily passions and events of the world have left inemory but little trace of the departed, the tale of her sorrows unknown, and the beauty of her life unrecorded, sleeps Mary Warner.

And they opened for Rupert de Lindsay the mouldering vaults of his knightly fathers; and amid the banners of old triumphs and the escutcheons of heraldic vanity, they laid him in his palled and gorgeous coffin!

I attempt not to extract a moral from his life. His existence was the chase of a flying shadow, that rested not till it slept in gloom and forever upon

The Nun.

BY JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

She lived a nun! No convent wall
Immured her-she was woman! All
That man in woman seeks! Not one
More fair, and yet she lived a nun!
She lived a nun for love-Her soul
Had met a kindred one!-Her whole
Of wishes-hopes-the maid had given
To him who owned that soul-and Heaven.

She could not wed-was doomed to prove
The poet right-" the course of love
That's true, ran never even yet"—
Such lot the maid's true love had met.

She knew but love-She knew not sin,-
The flame her bosom warmed, within
Her seraph breast, might burn or claim
For child of earth a seraph's name.

And was the maid beloved again?
She was -Beloved, alas, in vain!
Unblest he died! unwed, though won
The maid, for love that lived a nun.

ORIGINAL.

c

&c

The Indian's Curse.

THERE was silence in the wood,
There was silence in the dell;
Save the voice of the roaring flood,
As it angrily foamed and fell.
"Twas the silence of Autumn's eve,
And Autumn's rosy haze,

Like the gossamer nets that fairies weave,
Slept on the woodland maze.

'Twas nature her incense bringing,
Her odours gratefully flinging,-
A sacrifice meet for that holy shrine,
For ceaseless goodness, and love divine.

Slowly with searching glances they came,
But the lion soul that man could not tame,
Fearfully flashed from each warrior's eye,
And told that his wrath burned fierce and high.
On the cliff's dizzy verge they stand,
Those Indian warriors now;

The hatchet firm grasps the sinewy hand,
The knife, and the stalwart bow.
Sullenly pours the stream,
Sullen the waters flow,

Red falls the sun's retiring beam,

On the warrior's swarthy brow.

Slow fades from the sky the rosy light,
And oh! 'tis a dread and a fearful sight,
As slowly and silently sinks the shade,
Wrapping in twilight that lonely glade,
To see those forms-as like spirits they stand,
To guard from mortal the fairy land.

And their music then was solemn and high,
The waters roar, and the owlets cry.
And ever they scanned the darksome abyss,
Where the waters rage, and fearfully hiss,
And glanced at the cliff's that over them rose,
And listed the footsteps of coming foes.

Where the latest lingering light,
Was closing on the eye,
When the gloomy pall of night
Was falling from on high-

The white man came in his wrath,
He stood on the topmost brow,
And death seemed to point his path,
Alas for those warriors now.

Yet proudly they gazed on the thickening band,
They glanced to the wave-the gulf-the land-
And list-in a low and a solemn tone,
Like the gathering tempest's boding moan,
That chief with dark eye, and haughty frown,
Is calling the Spirit's curses down.

"

I see it! I hear it!-the fiat is passed,
"Twas borne to my ear on the rushing blast-
The red man must yield to the white man's stroke,
The red man must bow to the white man's yoke.
Yet ere this land ye can claim as your own,
These forests shall echo the dying groan-
The sun shall oft rise from the eastern flood,
O'er smoking ruins, and scenes of blood,

And loud shall the wail and the death shriek ring,
And the death-song oft shall your maiden's sing.
I go for never to man will I bow,

For the white man's arm my blood shall not flow;

But I curse ye with this my latest breath,
I curse ye in life-and I curse ye in death.
Manitto-blest spirit, to thee will we come,
And seek with our fathers, the red man's home-
Thine ear to our curse on the white man's bow,
Manitto! Manitto! we haste to thee now!"

Proudly they stood-that warrior band,
Broken the bow, and clasped the hand:
Then with a yell that rang through the wood,
And echoed like thunder around the flood,
They dashed 'mid the surge, and the wreathy foam,
And sought the Spirit Land's peaceful home.

Deerfield, Mass. July 1835.

What is Love?

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

WHAT is Love?-a rainbow glory,
Cradled in a stormy cloud;
Glow-worm of a fairy story,

Spangling beauty's winding shroud : Born in smiles, but nursed in sorrow, Love's the child of weeping skies, Though the rose's bloom it borrow, Soon the fleeting splendor dies.

Yet with all of evil round it,

Like a jewel darkly set,

Dear as loving hearts have found it,
How can they its light forget?

There's a sweetness in its anguish,

There's a music in its sigh;

Hopes may wither, joys may languish, Still it lives, it cannot die.

Though relentless fate may sever

Hearts that love would fain unite, Mem'ry's star shall linger ever

O'er that fount of young delight.

All things fade away, and leave us; Youth, and health, and fortune wane, Hopes betray, and friends deceive us, Still we hug Love's rosy chain.

Like the cloistered vestal, telling,

Every holy bead with tears,
Love, in gentle bosons dwelling,
Counts the joys of vanished years.

Song.

I WROTE my name upon the sand;
I thought I wrote it on thine heart.

I had no touch of fear, that words,
Such words, so graven, could depart.
The sands, thy heart, alike have lost

J. W.

The name I trusted to their care;
And passing waves, and worldly thoughts,
Effaced what once was written there.
Woe, for the false sands! and worse woe,
That thou art falsest of the twain!

I, yet, may write upon the sands,
But never on thine heart, again.

ORIGINAL.

THE VICTIM OF DESPAIR.

A TALE.

MANY years ago, a crowd of persons were seen in commercial enterprises. We entered into a running to the water's edge, upon the great promenade of New York-the battery, where a young and beautiful female, who, alive, and apparently sensible of her situation, was in the act of drowning herself. A young gentleman present, instantly divested himself of his outer garments, leaped into the water, swam towards the young woman, and seizing her by the arm, brought her to the shore. Several gentlemen descended to the water, and by actual force, carried her in their arms, she resisting all efforts to rescue her from a watery grave. By the time she was safely placed on shore, a great number of spectators had gathered around, to wit: ness the curious spectacle. She looked at her preservers in anger, and asked them what right they had to interfere; she said she wished to die. After much persuation, however, she was prevailed upon to allow a carriage to be called, and while in the coach she wept aloud, and indeed seemed to have relented of her desperate intention to destroy herself, and instead of anger and reproaches, she gave full vent to her feelings.

At her request, she was conveyed to a house in the upper part of Hudson street. She was a wife and a mother! Imagine the consternation of her husband, on seeing her brought home by strangers, in such a situation-her dishevelled hair hanging down wildly about her form, and half shrouding her delicate features and light blue eyes from observation. They rushed into each other's arms, and the two gentlemen who had accompanied her home were about retiring, from instinctive delicacy. But as they were quitting the apartment, the husband, Mr. S- rushed towards them, eagerly caught their hands, and entreated them to be seated for a few minutes. They could not resist the desire of knowing the whole mystery, and therefore took a seat, as requested by the afflicted husband, who begged them to remain while he retired with his lady, to give her in charge of attendants. He was absent not more than half an hour, when he returned, and entered into a full explanation of the circumstances which produced the extraordinary scene they had witnessed.

copartnership, and the sum of fifty thousand dol lars, one half of my property, was invested in the establishment. For a few years our undertaking prospered, or seemed to prosper. My partner was the financier of the concern, and one day he came to me with a countenance full of horror, and told me that we were ruined, irretrievably ruined. He entered into explanations which satisfied me, and our store was immediately closed. We called our creditors together, and they were assured, on examining our affairs, that we were bankrupt; but they told me they believed my partner to be a villain. Our firm was so much involved that after all our property had been disposed of, a large debt was still remaining, The residue of my private property was seized by the creditors, and I became a beggar. The disastrous news reached our relatives in Europe, who have since remitted to us occasionally, small sums, which have just enabled us to keep up an appearance for ourselves and children. My wife was grieved at our having become beggars, depending upon the casual charity of others, that she has fallen into a deep despondency of mind, from which it seems impossible to arouse her, and it was in this despondency that she has committed this rash act, which has been the means of introducing us to a mutual acquaintance."

After the two gentlemen had heard the sad history, they left him, having promised at his urgent request, that they would continue to visit him, as, he added, he would never cease to remember the service they had rendered him.

This adventure was but the beginning of a series of remarkable ones, which attended the hapless career of this truly wretched couple. The very next day, Mr. S- perceiving that his wife continued in such a dreadful state as to induce him to suppose that she would make another attempt on her life, resolved to try if a change of scene would not relieve her from the deep melancholy into which she had fallen. He sold off all his furniture, and departed for a journey to the west, with his wife and children.

The gentlemen who had become acquainted with "You must be informed, gentlemen," said Mr. this unhappy couple by means of the incident S―, "that we are both of patrician ancestors, above detailed, took considerable pains to trace who were born to hereditary wealth. It is not ne- them through their wanderings, and obtained the cessary for me to detail our pedigree, or to show following particulars relative to them. They emforth all the afflicting events which made both our barked in a sloop for Albany, for at the period of father exiles from their native land, happy to find our narrative, steam navigation was not yet in use. peace and contentment on these western shores of As they passed slowly up the beautiful river, which freedom. Suffice it to say that they had wealth will preserve imperishably the name of its discoenough to make their residence in America com- verer, Hudson, the sorrows of both were beguiled fortable. Our parents are dead, and we have also by a view of the majestic scenery of the Palisades, suffered but crime has never stained the fair on the New Jersey shore, and the Highlands at escutcheon of our family: misfortune, cruel mis- West Point. There is something sacred and atfortune caine, and bowed us nearly to the earth. tractive in the stupendous works of nature, the I was unused to business, yet in an evil hour I lofty hills flung together in wild magnificence, the was overpersuaded by an acquaintance to embark noble stream whose bosom bears the white sail and

the rich freight, that imperceptibly diverts the attention from the troubles of life, and turns the heart to feelings of devotion and admiration of the being

who has caused all.

At length they reached Albany, and took the stage for the western part of the state. They pas sed through towns and villages, many of which were then just springing in infancy from savage wilderness. They gazed and wondered at the lofty cataract at Ithica, and spent a week in viewing the immense and unequalled Falls of Niagara.

band, and the whole of the tribe quickly fled into the woods, and were not seen again. Two young men of the party to which Mr. S belonged, and five of their bloodthirsty enemies, were killed. The hunting party then pursued their course, not apprehending another attack. Towards spring, the party returned to the hamlet, and their friends rejoiced at the return of the husbands, fathers, and sons, of the little, secluded settlement. Mr. S was so much injured by the blow of the Indian's club, that his shoulder and neck became very much Travelling, Mr. S- perceived, effected a great affected internally, and a lingering wasting of his change in his wife. Unfortunately, however, their whole frame ensued. He grew worse, until at last expenses were so great that they were obliged to it was evident to him that his end approached. He remain for several months at an obscure hamlet, on called his wife to him, told her to trust in God, who the borders of the Mississippi, in order to receive | would be to her a protector, kissed his children, from New York the pittance which was occasion- and in less than two days afterwards, during which ally transmitted to them from Europe. At this ham- time he was almost insensible, he breathed his last let they became accustomed to a humble and rural in the arms of his beloved wife, and amid the tears life. The tenants of the cabin in which they lodged, of his children and neighbors, was consigned to lived a life almost as rude as that of the aborigines the silent grave. themselves. They were all a sturdy, gigantic race. The children had been born in this spot, and knew not any other mode of life but their present wild

one.

Most of their provisions were procured by hunting and fishing. The sons generally joined a party of neighbors, Indians included, and go off, fifty or sixty miles distance, and pass the whole winter season in their hunting expeditions.

In this secluded place the bereaved wife received every attention and consolation. She remained there for seven years, and saw her three children grow in strength and beauty. She enjoyed the necessaries of life, became reconciled to her fate, and almost forgot the busy world which she had long since quitted for her present humble abode. She was yet attractive as a woman, and had received for some time the attentions of a neighboring farmer, who at length declared to her his attachment, and she consented once more to become a wife.

Alas! her griefs were not ended. One dreadful night the settlement was attacked by a party of Indians. The houses were fired, and the half

Mr. S- often accompanied these individuals on short excursions, and as his residence was protracted, he was persuaded to join the winter party. I should have stated that the hamlet consisted of the habitations of about seventy persons, dispersed among the hills. It was the younger portion of the men of this hainlet, who, together with the Indians of a neighboring tribe, composed the present hunt-naked inhabitants came rushing forth from the ing party. flames and smoke, many of them were slaughtered at the very threshold of their doors. Her husband and children perished, and she was carried far away into captivity. The Indian warrior to whom she was a prisoner, not having any wife, compelled her to become his, by the forms of their ancient and rude customs. The loss of those who were most dear to her, added to the harrowing recollections of her former miseries, soon brought her to a pitiable state of bodily weakness, and almost total alienation of mird.

One morning they had gone out as usual, upon the track of some deer, when they were suddenly set upon by a party of hostile savages, who were in ambush, and a skirmish commenced with the rifle and the tomahawk. A ferocious, tall, grotesquely painted warrior attacked Mr. S with

a club, and gave him a blow which he only eluded
so far as to escape, being instantaneously killed by
its descent upon his head, which the Indian had
aimed at; but missing that, struck his shoulder and
injured it severely. Fortunately he had a loaded
pistol in his belt.
Before his terrible antagonist
had time to repeat the blow, he levelled his own
deadly weapon at the breast of the savage; he
fired, and the enemy staggered back: he did not
fall instantly, but gathering up all his energies for
one dreadful onset, he threw himself upon the
hunter, and brought him to the ground. He then
drew a long knife, and aimed a blow at the heart
of Mr. S, who, in expectation of immediate
death, uttered a cry of horror, which attracted the
attention of one of his own party, a young man
whose aim with the rifle was unerring; he fired,
and the uplifted arm of the Indian was shattered
ere his blow could reach its destination. A sudden
faintness came over the savage from loss of blood,
and Mr. S―, availing himself of the opportunity,
regained his feet, and seizing the savage's club,
dealt him a blow upon the head, which ended his
This was the chief of the hostile

life at once.

A party of United States troops, on an expedition to that quarter, accidentally found her in this situation, and the commander released her, and sent a guard of six soldiers, with a wagon, to conduct her to a town where she could receive better assistance. On their way thither, they stopped for a night at a tavern near a very singular looking hill, on one side of which was a deep, lonely glen, through which a torrent poured its waters with a deafening roar. During the night, which was excessively warm, one of the soldiers arose from his pillow, to inhale the cool night breeze. He sat for nearly an hour, at the window, and at length a drowsiness was brought on, by the refreshing coolness of the air, and the distant sound of the torrent contributed to soothe the listener to repose, when suddenly he started, as if he had heard the call to battle, and his accidental glance at the hillside caught the glimpse of a form in white, gliding like a spirit among the rocks and trees. The sol

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