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her when I was dying, how much I longed for her happiness. Lost, lost, forever-the sepulchral gloom around me seemed to speak out the words. I tried then to compose myself, and think of heaven, the angels, and the mysterious Deity ; but my mind was fevered, was distracted—I sunk beneath the fierceness of of my despair, that rived, and gashed, and frittered away my heart.
At last a kind of dreaming stupor fell upon me. I thought I stood on a mountain-top above, and looked abroad upon a desolate world, from which a pestilence had swept all life. The sky was full of stormy clouds, that gathered blacker, and blacker, until they burst in one tremendous peal of thunder, and the mountain sunk with me a thousand miles into the earth, and the rocks, and hills, and rivers, closed in a mighty mass above me. I felt that my limbs and body were crushed, and yet that I could not die. There seemed to be a dark, open space, above me ; and my favourite dog looked over the brink, and howled most piteously. I tried to speak to him, but death had paralized my tongue. I next fancied myself dead, and that my soul was doomed to this dimsal prison-bouse ten thousand years. Gradually all these frightful phantasies subsided : but my mind was lost; I seemed to have slept an age ; when suddenly, pain and a distressing heart-sickness took possession of me-I struggled-my eyes opened, and I found myself in a rude log hut, my only human attendant an old hag-ridden woman. I was stretched upon the floor, and my two faithful dogs sat by my side anxiously looking in my face. They no sooner saw this appearance of returning life, than they demonstrated their gladness by every act in their power—they fawned upon me, and licked my hands and feet, and barked for joy.
I was soon able to set up and converse. The woman told me, that my dogs, whom I remembered to have left at the mouth of the cave when I entered it, had come to her hut, two miles distant from the spot, and by their behaviour induced her to follow them. They led her to the cave, with every part of which she was acquainted ; and with their assistance she found me, apparently lifeles, after I had been there sixteen hours. I had entered it by the wrong aperture, and had fallen twenty feet. From the place where I lay, however, there was an opening which I had not found in the dark, and which led into an upper cavity, through which she had dragged me and conveyed me to her cabin. I recovered rapidly by her attention, and was soon on my feet again. She seemed to be naturally a woman of a kind heart, but I found her bitter against my sex. When I offered to fix her in a more comfortable situation if she would go wtih me to the village, she scornfully replied that she preferred her
Von 1.-No. v. 59
solitude-it was hers by choice. My offers of compensation rendered her morose and unconversible ; she refused to communi. cate one particular of her life-except that she had lived in that abode two years, and had never been further from it than the nearest inhabited dwelling, to which sometimes, her necessities forced her to repair. That man was a scoundrel by nature; that husbands were traitors and murderers, and that society was utterly corrupt, were axioms she avowed, without taking the trouble to establish them by argument.
There was something in this suffering, but wild and wayward woman, that excited the keenest interest; and I was naturally soon awakened to it. There appeared to remain with her but one of the many peculiarities of her sex, she was inquisitive. I told her every thing that was going forward in the village, and among other things, of the coming wedding on Hawthorn Hill—the singularities of the case, the suspicion I had of Jacqueline, and many minute circumstances concerning him. I saw that I had struck upon a theme that interested her, for she made a thonsand anxious enquiries, and at the end cursed him for an imposter and villain-adding with frightful gestures—“ My curse is upon him—he shall not prosper
?" I left the woman as soon as I was able to travel, believing her to be partially insane, and reached home five days after I had left it.
I made a journey to the south soon after, and did not return until the eve of Mary Delamere's contemplated marriage. Our family had a general invitation. My father insisted in my going; and though I would as soon have been led to execution, I determined not to betray my weakness, or to falsify, in the eyes of my parents, the avowal my pride had led me to make, that my affections were weaned from her. I accompanied them, and met her with an unchanged countenance. But she was changed her cheeks were white as marble, the fine fire of her eyes were quenched with moisture, her hand trembled as she leaned it on a chair. I read in every look, and tone, that her heart was breaking. But the moment arrived, she stood up on the floor, supported by Jacqueline, and her maids. The ceremony was just commencing, when the hasty trample of a horse arrested a momentary attention. Some one dismounted at the door, and almost instantaneously, a tall female figure, habited in white, with her face half concealed by a dark cowl or hood, glided through the company, and stood immediately before the bride and bridegroom. She said not a word, but, hastily throwing back the garments from her face, raised her shrivelled hand pointed to her brow. The light glared upon ber features ; and amid the general exclamations of horror, I involuntarily pressed forward and caught Mary in my arms, just in time to prevent
her from falling. I looked up, and recognized a well remembered face it was the old Hag of the Mountain Glen, come to fulfil her malediction. Her curse was surely upon her victiin; for Jacqueline turned pale as ashes, and in vain endeavoured to speak.
Still she kept her eye fixed upon him with a horid glare ; and free from the superstitious awe that had fallen upon all the beholders, I marked the workings of Jacqueline's mind; rage, frenzy, despair, alternately succeeded, and his brow changed with the rapidity of thought. At last one pale streak remained along his temples; it proceeded from a sick heart, overpowered in the conflict of passion. He fainted and fell; there was a general sbriek. All believed the unwelcome visiter had come on this fearful errand from another world. The cry roused her; she turned, and calmly bade the company be silent. “I came to save him from deep crime,” said she, "and that young woman from ruin. He is my husband !"
I shall drop the curtain here. It only remains to say, that the match was instantly broken off. Mary Delamere speedily recovered her health, and the next spring slie was led to the altar, a lovely and a happy bride, by whom, I leave my ingenious reader to discover.
VIRTUOUS SINGULARITY IN OPPOSITION TO PRIVATEERING,
During the American war, the Amazon privateer was fitted out by the merchants of Belfast on a joint subscription. One l'espectable merchant who had spent the early part of his life at sea as the captain of a trading vessel refused to join, but lent fifty pounds, the amount of a share, to the poor house to support the cotton manufacture, then carrying on, in its infancy, for the benefit of that institution. Such virtuous opposition to the general current is deserving of being preserved as a proper example, and as a distinguished mark of disapprobation against the vicious and anticommercial spirit of privateering.
Dr. Franklin recommended to the Americans to propose in all their treaties, that in the case of future hostilities between them and any nation, no countenance should be given by either parties to privateering. The article was only accepted by the Prussians, who were not much engaged in maritime pursuits.
Friend of my youth! thy words were
And deep they sunk into my heart;
Faith whispers yet of joys in store, Yellow Fever, at Charleston, S.C. after That where in glory now thou art, little more than two days illness.
We'll meet--though here we meet
no more! In Carolina's fatal clime, From whence fair health in terror For thee, not Carolina's maids,
Like Erin's fair, in secret mourn! Cut uff' in manhood's glowing prime, Nor stranger's bands, 'mid torrid My earliest friend now lowly lies!
glades, No more his heart's warm throb shall with vernal flowers thy grave adorn! rise
Nordews on bending shamrocks borne, To beat in sympathy with mine!
Their weeping lustre there display; For mute that voice, and clos'd those Nor linnets from their native thorn, eyes,
Sing softly o'er thy hallow'd clay! I thought would cheer my life's decline!
Yet tribute shall to thee be paid, Ah! what avail'd his verdant age,
In plaintive numbers, by thy friend; The freshness of life's flowing spring! And still to join thy sainted shade, No aid against fell fever's rage,
His dearest wishes shall ascend! Could art oranxious friendship bring.
While to his strains thine ear will bend, It deeply pierc'd with scorpion sting,
Indulgent, as it oft hath done, And health and life at once destroy- Till, all bis sorrows at an end, ed ;
He wins the prize that thou hast Oh! then he rose on heaven-ward wing
won! And left to me a dreary void! Long had my heart esteem'd his worth;
Long his unchanging faith had tried: In one lov'd vale we had our birth,
FOR THE AMERICAN MOXTULT MAGAZINI. And hoped that there we should have
died! But o'er yon foaming ocean wide, EDWARD AND EMMA. - TALE.
Fate called him from his native shore; “Adieu, my friend!” he said and sigh’d, Young Emma was as fair a maid, “ We part, perhaps, to meet no As nature e'er with beauty blest; more!"
Her mind was fairer than her form,
And tender was her virgin breast. * It was in the autumn of 1817, when the separation here alluded to, took Her eyes were bright as that sweet star, place. “ When shall I see you again?"
Which bids the lark her mattins sing, was the last question I addressed to Like early blossoms, were her cheeks
, him. “God only knows; perhaps not
The first, faint blush, of infant spring. in this world!” was the emphatic reply; and we separated with heavy hearts; But love too soon that bloom destroyed, mine labouring under a melancholy And made those early blossoms pale
: presentiment that the words were And withered by a fatal blight, ominous.
This fair, mild, lily of the vale.
For oft with many a melting sigh, That bleeding heart, which broke for
And ardent look, and moving tear, him, Had Edward vow'd eternal love,
He wept for now, but wept in vain; And Emma thought his vows sincere. And every pang that heart had felt,
Came doubly sharp to him again. In heart felt, plaintive notes he sang
His Emma's charms, nor sang in vain Long o'er her grave, he weeping hung, For fondly as he Emma loved,
Then with a solemn step and slow, So fondly Emma loved again. He wandered to yon craggy cliff,
That frowns on dashing waves beAh! when a parent bids them part,
How hard for lovers to obey ! By love withheld, by duty prest,
Thrice on his injured Emma's name, Reluctanı Edward took his way.
The frantic lover called in vain,
Then headlong from the rock he fell, He goes, and soon a gayer scene,
He fell and never rose again. On festive Gallia's mirthful shore,
Ye parents, know from this sad tale, Drives from his thoughts, his rural
How vain your sordid cares may maid, And Emma, is beloved no more.
How little age can judge for youth, Not so the mournful maiden felt,
How little wealth can weigh with
love! In secret to despair a prey ; Still drooping o'er her fatal love, And you, ye swains, while through She slowly pined in grief away.
The tide of youth impetuous flows; No pride her gentle bosom knew, Ah! ne'er deceive believing maids,
Of injured love the wound to heal; Nor offer up unmeaning vows.
Let not your sutt persuasive tongues,
For artless beauty lay a snare : Her faithless Edward's long neglect,
Oh think on Edward's broken heart, And broken vows, she ne'er would
And fear bis mournful fate to share. tell;
And lastly you, ye British maids, But smiling saw the hour approach, From love's fell poison guard your In which she bade the world farewell.
Oh, think on Emma's hapless lot, Around her grave, the village maids,
And shed a tear upon her tomb. Their cypress garlands weeping
bring, And offer to her virgin shade, The earliest tributes of the spring.
THE SPIRIT OF ERIN. Now tired with vain and guilty joys,
Pale beam'd the moon's cold placid Young Edward seeks bis native shore; light, And to his lovely Emma flies,
On Castle Connell's ruined tow'r, His once loved Emma now no more! Nought broke the stillness of the night
In midnight's silent, solemn hour. Distracted at the horrid tale,
He sought the spot, where Emma lay; No cloud obscur'd the azure sky, And Aung him on her new-made grave, No rough wind murmur'd through And wet with tears the mouldering
the trees, clay.
When lo! a strain of melody,
Floated upon the whispering breeze. Her generous love, her beauteous form,
Each maiden grace, and winning art, And on the castle's topmost height, Returned with all their former force, Appear'd a form of fairy grace, And with them came her bleeding A seraph form, whose beauties bright, heart;
No mortal's feeble pen could trace.
FOR THE AMERICAN MOXTULY MAGAZINE.