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led captain, each of whom took the opportunity of hinting to him that they knew more of the matter than he imagined, and that Russel was the rival who obstructed him in gaining the affections of Lady Julia. Shortly after, meeting the fair Julia in earnest conversation with Russel in the garden, he attacked him with the sharpest expressions, exclaiming:—“Say that you have not betrayed her father's confidence! say that you have not practised upon her unguarded heart! say that you do not know that she loves you to distraction' “Oh! Mr. Vivian, what have you done!’ cried Lady Julia; she could say no more, but fell senseless on the ground. Vivian's anger was at once sobered at the sight. Russel now withdrew, and after Lady Julia recovered, she convinced Vivian that Russel's conduct had been honourable, and that he knew nothing of her attachment to him; he then sought him, but in vain, and the next morning found that he had set off, underpretence of visiting an old relation in the North, but received a letter in which Russel not only disclaimed all knowledge of Lady Julia's affection, but confessed an attachment to Miss Sidney, which hitherto he had only repressed out of a point of honour to his friend, and until he had ascertained that all was at an end between her and Vivian; and he concluded with regretting that as esteem was now impossible, so he could no longer be his friend. Vivian now determined to clear up everything to Russel, by explaining the treacherous insinuations of the three before-mentioned gentlemen, and hastened to the breakfast-parlour in hopes of seeing Lady Julia, but she was not there; and shortly after, he went by appointment to Lord Glistonbury in his study. Here he was surprised by the entrance of Lady Julia, who exclaimed:— ‘Sir, I must trust to your honour, while I deprecate your love! —You owe me no gratitude. I am compelled by the circumstances in which I am placed, either to deceive or trust you. I must either become your wife, and deceive you most treacherously; or I must trust you entirely, and tell you why it would be shameful that I should become your wife—shameful to you and me.” She then told him that she had met Russel before his departure from the Castle—had offered him her heart and hand, and been refused Julia is now sent by her enraged father into Devonshire, along with her brother, who is ordered to the sea coast, but is stopped on the way by her uncle, the Bishop of , where she remains. Vivian suffering under her loss, and lamenting her departure, determined on leaving the Castle, but is stopped through the simplicity of a country servant girl, who informs him that Lady Sarah is dying for him. A combination of circumstances which might upset the determinations of a more resolute man, now assail the unsteady Vivian, who finds himself at length compelled to give his hand to Lady Sarah ; and she, in spite of her acquired frigidity, becomes a fond, nay too fond, yet rational wife. Vivian suffering under domestic uneasiness, though not domestic unhappiness, flies to the bottle for relief: here unfortunately the remonstrances of his mother and of his wife, become unavailing; yet he reproaches himself and feels his degradation, but his reproaches are too feeble for his happiness. One chance, however, still remained for him. He had still a public character; he was conscious of having preserved unblemished integrity as a Member of the Senate; this integrity, still more than his oratorical talents, raised him far above most of his competitors, and preserved him not only in the opinion of others, but in some degree in his own. He now appears again as a flaming patriot; but Lord Glistonbury having been induced to change sides, by the offer of a Marquisate, and for which he had pledged not only his own, but Vivian's Parliamentary support, the unhappy youth is called on to take a new part in politics, which after a severe struggle, he adopts, driven to it by the fear of family quarrels, and by the offer of a place which will enable him to overcome some pecuniary difficulties. He now appears in Parliament, on the other side of the House, but here his abilities fail him in a set and necessary speech, and he retires to a coffee-room, where Wharton and some of his late political friends drive him, by repeated insults, into a quarrel with the former, which ends in a challege, to be settled at eight the following morning. In order to dress for a political dinner, poor Vivian retires to his home to settle his affairs, whilst his house in the evening was to be a blaze of splendour, Lady Sarah being “at home.” Before the company arrives, however, an interview takes place between him and his wife, who had just overheard in a jeweller's shop, some political animadversions upon her husband, and with a degree of unexpected feeling and magnanimity, she tells him:— “You cannot have bartered your public reputation for a Marquisate for my father.—You cannot have done that which is dishonourable.—You cannot have deserted your party for a paltry place for yourself—You turn pale; I wish if it pleased God, that I was this moment in my grave ''' “Heaven forbid! my dear Lady Sarah!” cried Vivian, forcing a smile, and endeavouring to speak in a tone of raillery:—“Why should you wish to be in your grave, because your husband has just got a good warm place —Live ' live!” said he, raising her Powerless hand; “for consider—as I did; and this consideration
was of no small weight with me... Consider, my dear Sarah, how much better you will live for it!” “And did you consider me, and that did weigh with you?— Oh! this is what I dreaded most " cried Lady Sarah; “when will you know my real character? when will you have confidence in your wife, Sir? when will you know the power, the unconquered, unconquerable power of her affection for you?” After an interesting conversation, in which she urges him to throw up his place and redeem his consistency, but in vain, Vivian hurries to the political dinner, retires to his home, has some conversation with his wife, and by eight o'clock the following morning was at the place appointed. Mr. Wharton appeared a few minutes afterwards. Their seconds having measured out the distance, they took their ground. As Vivian had given the challenge, Wharton had the first fire—he fired; Vivian staggered some paces back, fired his pistol in the air, and fell ! Assistance was given; he was carried to a house with a bullet in his chest; his friends were sent for, and after an affecting interview with Russel, he expired whilst pressing his hand to his bosom in the act of reconciliation and forgiveness. Vivian's mother and widow arrived just at this moment. The latter shed no tear and uttered no exclamation; but advancing slowly and insensible to all opposition, to the bed on which her dead husband lay, tried whether there was any pulse, any breath left; then knelt down in silent devotion. She then retired, still without shedding a tear; a few hours afterwards she was taken ill, and before night, delivered of a dead son' This elegant novelist now concludes her story, stating that Russel and Miss Sidney were so much shocked by the death of Vivian, that they could not for some time think on any other subject.—“The hope, however, that their union may be effected, and the belief that they may yet be as happy as their united virtues and strength of mind deserve, is the consoling idea upon which, after so many malancholy events, the mind of the humane reader may repose.”
SPIRIT OF MAGAZINES.
FIRo M Tri E. S. Port ING MAGAZINE.
M. CHATEAUBRIAND, in his Travels in Grecce, gives the following account of the manner in which the Arabian horses are trained to hardihood :
“They are never put under shelter, but left exposed to the most intense heat of the sun, tied by all four legs to stakes driven in the ground, so that they cannot stir. The saddle is never taken from their backs; they frequently drink but once, and have only one feed of barley in twenty-four hours. This rigid treatment, so far from wearing them out, gives them sobriety and speed. I have often admired an Arabian steed thus tied down to the burning sands, his hair loosely flowing, his head bowed between his legs to find a little shade: and stealing with his wild eye an oblique glance of his master. Release his legs from the shackles, spring upon his back, and he will paw in the valley, he will rejoice in his strength, he will swallow the ground in the fierceness of his rage; and you recognise the original of the picture delineated by Job.—Eighty or one hundred piastres are given for an ordinary horse, which is in general less valued than an ass or a mule; but a horse of a well-known Arabian breed will fetch any price. Abdallah, Pacha of Damascus, had just given 3000 piastres for one. The history of a horse is frequently the topic of general conversation. When I was at Jerusalem, the feats of one of these wonderful steeds made a great noise. The Bedouin, to whom the animal, a mare, belonged, being pursued by the Governor's Guard's, rushed with her }. the top of the hills that overlooked Jericho. The mare scoured at full gallop down an almost perpendicular declivity without stumbling, and left the soldiers lost in admiration and astonishment. The poor creature however dropped down dead on entering Jericho, and the Bedouin, who would not quit her, was taken, weeping over the body of his companion. This mare has a brother in the desert, who is so famous, that the Arabs always know where he has been, where he is, what he is doing, and how he does. Ali Aga religiously shewed me in the mountains near Jericho the footsteps of the mare that died in the attempt to save her master. A macedonian could not have beheld those of Bucephalus with greater respect.” * -
FROM THE SAM E.
DESCRIPTION OF THE ANIMALS FOUND IN THE IT&OVINCE OF DASHTISTAN, 1N PERSIA.
ABOUT twenty-five years ago, in the time of Sheik Nasr, who possessed both Bushire and the Island of Bahrein, and who consequently was enabled to improve the native breed of Persia, by bringing over the Nedj stallion, the ‘Dashtistan became celebrated for a horse of strength and bottom. But the original breed of Persia, that which is now restored, is a tall, lank, ill-formed, and generally vicious animal; useful indeed for hard work, but unpleasant to ride compared with the elegant action and docility of the Arab. There is another race of the Turcoman breed, (such as are secn at Smyrna, and through all Asia Minor,) a short, thick, round-neck, and strong-legged horse, short quartered, and inclined behind. There is also a fine breed produced by the Turcoman mare and the Nedi stallion. At two different times, large lots of horses were .. to us for sale: the first, by the people of the Shiraz officer, who asked immense prices, and when refused, departed in apparent ill-humour, but generally returned and took the reduced sum which was offered. In this way also we purchased a lot of forty horses, principally of the Turcoman breed, which had been destined for the Indian market, and for which an average price of three hundred and twenty piastres for each horse had been asked at Bushire, but which at the end of the month were sold to us for two hundred and fifty. The distinct and characteristic value of the horses of the country, was exemplified in a present of two, which the Envoy received from the Sheik of Bushire. One was a beautiful Arab colt, of the sweetest temper I ever knew in a horse, frisking about like a lamb, and yet so docile, that though now for the first time mounted, he seemed to have been long used to the bit; a sure proof in the estimation of the country of the excellence of his breed. The other was a Persian colt of the most stubborn and vicious nature; to the astonishment and admiration, however, of the Persians, the Envoy's Yorkshire groom, by mere dint of whip and spur,
VOL. VIII, 3 Q.