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historians, however, have attempted to excuse the con- was, however, never afterwards seen; having, as was duct of D’Aubusson to his royal guest. “ William generally supposed, received, by his speedy execution, de Jalignani avers that the grand master never gua- the just reward of his labors. ranteed safe conduct to the fugitive, nor even passed Of D’Aubusson it is said, “ that horror and shame his word that the order would stand between him and humbled his grey hairs to the dust, when he learned his brother's wrath.” We cannot see the point of this the tragical termination of his victim's (Zemes) life; author's argument. The knights were, by their po- and the circumstance of his being compelled to consition and their oaths, bound to protect all who might ceal his detestation of the murderous act, gave addiflee to them for protection--but more particularly one tional poignancy to his grief. At eighty years of age, who had left the faith of his fathers; so deadly a sin Peter D’Aubusson died, and notwithstanding these in a Musselman's eye—"was a prince of a noble soul-shades on his otherwise illustrious character, the tears deeply versed in oriental literature-master of several of his knights followed the saviour of Rhodes and the languages, and famous for his deeds in war.”

buckler of christendom to his grave.” If the knights, who were thought by the christian During the same year in which D’Aubusson died, world to be always at war with the sultan, could only 1503, Pope Alexander VI was also deceased ; "a monmaintain their position, by acting as his jailors, and ster who had too long harassed the world with his afterwards turning traitors to him, who, trusting to crimes; having perished by inadvertantly quaffing the their reputation, had placed himself in their hands, it contents of a poisoned goblet, which he had drugged would have been far better for them to have sooner for the purpose of shortening the life of one of his resigned their fortifications and maintained their honor. friends." William de Cadrusin, another writer, argues that the Before closing with this notice of the hand of Saint grand master “had no alternative but to accede to John, we would state, for the information of future this base proposition, or bring down the implacable travellers, that we have heard that the true sacred vengeance of Bajazet on Rhodes.” In our opinion, let bone of the apostle is now in the collection of the late the consequences have been what they might, a Mus- emperor Paul of Russia, having been sent to him by selman's friendship ought never to have been pur- Hompesch, the last grand master, at the expulsion of chased by christians at the price of injustice, imprison- the knights from Malta. The one shown at the prement, and poison. With regard to the two Roman sent day, and so much valued by the Maltese, is a fac bishops, Innocentius and Alexander, for their conduct simile, and may answer the purpose for which it is nothing can be said in extenuation. The one purchased used, as well as the original.* bis prisoner, the other poisoned him—“his murderer In my next I shall make further mention of Citta having received from Bajazet three hundred thousand Vecchia, and of our clerical companion, the Canonico ducats as the price of his blood.”


W. Having given this portion of Turkish history, inti

* There is nothing which in the eye of a Protestant would mately connected as it is with this sacred relic of Saint make this relic sacred, save that it was with the christians John, and also with the actions of those warlike priests, when Stamboul was a christian city. The chequered scene several of whom were, not many years after, driven through which it has passed, carries with it, in my opinion, the from Rhodes, and established at Malta-it may not be only idea of sanctity, with which its history is in any way con.

nected. Seven cities have been named in ancient times as each uninteresting briefly to narrate the fate of those illus- being the birth place of Homer, and five hands will now be trious persons, who first or last were actors in this shown in Europe in as many churches, and all are the true ones treacherous and cruel scene. The vengeance of heaven of the apostle, if a stranger would believe the priests who appeared in a singular manner to pursue all who had, show them. It is, however, certain, that the emperor Paul, by thought, word, or deed, injured the unfortunate who was appointed grand master of the order, on the receipt of

this relic, put so much faith in its history, as to erect over it a Zemes. Indeed, had he lived, this Turkish prince church at St. Petersburgh which still goes by the name of St. could not have meted to his enemies a severer punish. John, from the circumstance of this hand being placed on its ment than each in his turn received. Achmet, by whose altar. bravery, military tact, and great popularity, the army of Zemes was routed, was, on the second attempt, strangled by the command of the sultan, who feared his power, and unjustly looked upon him rather as a rival

LINES than as a brave and faithful general, to whom in a great measure he was indebted for his seat on the Otto- To the Memory of Mrs. Anne G. Davis, of Natchez, Mississippi. man throne.

There floats upon the still and starlit air Bajazet, in 1512, and after a fortunate reign for the

A wail of anguish, borne from breaking hearts Turkish empire of nearly thirty years—(during which

For the lost idol of their house: the lov'd, he had been at war with five kings of England, Edward

The gentle one, who in past years of dear IV and V, Richard III, and Henry VII and VIII ; with

And tender intercourse, had so entwin'd three of France, Louis XI, Charles VIII, and Louis

Her soul with their's, that Hope could take no hue XII; with two of Scotland, James III and IV,) met

Of brightness, which did not wreathe its halo that cruel fate at Adrianople, and at the instigation of

Round that fair and shadeless brow. his own son, which he himself had allotted to his brother Zemes. How, to the letter, was the prophecy And thou art gone! to that far land, verified ? Hamon, his Jew physician, having commit- Where faded hopes, nor with’ring fears, ted this treacherous act, returned to Constantinople, May throw their shadows o'er the band to receive ten ducats a day, promised by Selymus. Hel Of seraphs from this vale of tears.

VOL. IV.-82



Why should we mourn thy early doom?

Thy spirit was for earth too bright; And Hope can throw around thy tomb

An Angel's robe of dazzling light. Oh love! a mockery thou art !

The mightiest passion cannot claim The power to thrill the pulseless heart,

And bid it wake to life again. Sweet spirit of the early dead,

Still linger 'round thy lonely hearth, And shed upon one earth-bow'd head

That Hope which had in Heaven its birth.



“My boy was beautiful; and he is dead! Ask me no more ; for I would be aloneAlone, to weep."

Long flowed that mourner's tear; And then, beside the Bible, she knelt down, Laying her cheek upon it's hallow'd page, And said, "God comfort me !"

And as she clos'd The fervent prayer, methought a still, small voice, Bade the swoln surges of her soul, be still ; That He, who walk'd upon Tiberia's lake, Ruling the midnight storm, might thither come, And save from shipwreck.

Then, with pang subdued, Memory went wandering to the lov'd one's grave, Marking in every bud that blossom'd chereIn every joyous butterfly, that spread Its radiant wing amid the flowers-a type Of glorious resurrection. Every drop Of dew, that sparkled on that turf-clad mound, Was holy to her. Even the bitter grief That made the parting hour so desolate, Put on the robe of humble faith, and said 'Tis well, my Lord, well with the little one Who dwells with thee.”

And then, methought, she heard Sweet sound of heavenly harpings,—and behold, Celestial gleamings of cherubic wings, And ’mid the chant of ransom'd infancy Unto its Saviour, caught the tuneful voice Of her own cherished nursling.

So, her lip Join'd in the praise. For how could she forbear To thank her God for him, who ne'er should taste Of trouble more.

Was it the tender tone Of him, so often cradled on her breast, That whisper'd, as she lay that night, in dreams ? “Oh mother, weep no more !—but with a heart Of holy love, hold on yon shining path, And come to me. For He, who took on earih, Young children to his arms, will bid in Heaven The mother find her babe. So, keep thine eye Clear from the grief-cloud-for the time is shortThe way is plain. Dear mother, come to me."

PART I. Many Summers have passed away, In merry mirth and roundelay, And Springs and Autumns, closing on The season's change, have come and gone. And countless days, in rapid flight, Have waned away their morning light, In that fair vale they call the bless'd! Where smiling Nature loves to rest. Where all her witching beauties reign, In glory o'er the bright domain; And where she leads on every stream, The ripples dance in playful beam. Where gushing streams of silver lave The bending trees, whose tresses ware In rich and fragrant verdure bright, Of spreading leaves; which shade the light Of midday suns: while sparkling rills Leap o'er the thousand varied hills; Whose diadems of verdant green, Like distant trophies of the scene, O’erlook the shining plaivs beneath Of golden fruits and blooming heath. It was a land where all was bright

It seemed as nothing there could fade : So full of promise and delight,

By Angels or by magic made. The woods and vales, and rocks among With richest jewelries were hung, Of crystal gems of ev'ry hue, All moulded from the ev'ning dew. The flowers were of fairest bloom,

And every breeze that wafted by,
Was freighted with a sweet perfume,

As fragrant as from Araby.
A limpid lake, whose silent stream
Was quiet as an infant's dream,
Flow'd by, unruffled in its bed,
To other vales; but where it led
None ever knew : for those who tried

To track its course-came back no more, To tell their tale: they may have died,

Or landed on some distant shore.

Who dwells within this Paradise ?

Where are the spirits of the land,
Who warm beneath its summer skies?

What Queen or Beauty has command?
No sound of music wakens there
Save from the carols in the air,
Of singing birds on gayest wing;

And none can see an earthly thing. * This beautiful little poem, sent to us by a friend, was erkten by a gentleman at the White Sulphur Springs, as the te quest of a lady, who wondered why so celebrated a region had never produced a romance. It was written in the course of (FO evenings, in answer to the challenge.-[Editer S. Lit. Mes

No voice of life-no living trace-
Is seen of all the mortal race,
If such they be, within this vale-
Of whom tradition has the tale.

For ages long, in faded time,
There liv'd within this sunny clime,
A fairer race, than ever earth,
'Tis said, since then has given birth.
In days whose ever-constant wing

Of pleasure, if they even changed ;
But varied, new delights to bring, -

In joys they lightly, freely, ranged—
Without a care to mar with strife
One moment of their rosy life.
But, like the world, if nothing less,

Than bliss was our's; or pleasure true; We'd murmur at our happiness,

And look around for something new. The legend runs-it was their creed

Some magic spell their souls confined, And from the charm they would be freed,

If in the valley they could find
The stream of life !-whose crystal flow,
Was brighter than the silver's glow:
Whose pearly drops of liquid white,
To pleasure would give fresh delight:
Whose virtues, fairy ban would sever,-
And all who drank, would live forever.

A voice, as from the “Witches' Well,”

In tones of not an earthly strain, Then on her ear thus deeply fell;

And thrice it sounded o'er again : “ Light of the Sylphs! we've heard thy sigh, It came upon the rainbow high : “ We've tried it with the sacred dew, “ And find thy wish is pure and true. “But all the sighs that ever fell

"From Sylph! or Maid! or Eastern gale! “ If pure as e'en the green-fern bell,

Would nothing now, thy wish avail. “ Thy kindred from the land have gone.

“ In fruitless hope and endless toil, “For anxious years they wandered on;

And now are wasted from the soil.


It was a soft and gentle night,
The moon was streaming forth her light,
And so resplendent in her ray,
It seem'd as if it still were day.
The air was still- no sound was heard,
Save from the hum of houri bird,
Returning late on restless wing,
From some feathery gathering.
And now and then the whirling by-
Of insect bee or the fire-fly.
When, on a high and greenwood steep,
Which overhung a ravine deep-
(So dark and drear, that gloomy dell,
It had the name of “Witches' Well.”)
A female form! serenely bright,
Was seen beneath the pale moonlight;
In gesture wild, and stranger mood,
And sighing in the solitude.
Whate'er she be, of earth or air-
Her features are divinely fair.
Her hair looks made of golden strings,

With here and there an azure one;
And head-dress form’d of blue-birds' wings,

She seems some Seraph of the sun ! She sleeps-she dreams or seeming dreams: What magic light about her streams? It plays in circles 'round her brow, And there, in fire, it settles now.

“ They all went forth to seek the stream-
“ Whose vision often in thy dream,
“ In all its fancy-colored light,
“ Has broke upon thy raptur'd sight.
“Some went up, by the silent lake,

“ And some went 'round the mountain's side, “ Through dreary wild, and forest brake;

“But none came back-they all have died ! “ Many had gain'd the wish'd-for site ;

But, faint with terror and affright, “ All, one by one, they perished there“ And left you here-sole Bride of Air ! “ It was decreed-it was their doom

“ They would have faded soon or late: “ (The fruits and trees no more will bloom

“ Within the vale for them :) for Fate “ Had number'd every happy day, “ That wing'd their moments here away. “One measure of the fabled stream, Would soon have broke their happy dream, “ Of sweet existence; and the cares “ And strifes of mortals, had been their's; “But none have quaff'd the stream, while each, “ Who sought it, went within its reach ! “ If thou would'st seek and thou would'st know, “ Still more of all this tale of wo; “ And, knowing all, still sigh to gain“ The fount ! thy wish will not be vain. “ 'Tis written—'In the cycle's wane " "The last of all the Sylphs shall gain " "The sacred wand, and break the spell" "That binds the waters in the dell.'

“ The monster Banco keeps the spring; “ He walks around the magic ring, “ Where there within the waters wait “ To break from out their restless state. “ A savage wolf! his horrid yell, “Wakes up the mountains of the dell. “ Bound by a spell, he cannot move, “ Nor from without the circle rove. " Whilst thousands of thy better race, “ Have ceas'd to live within that space! “ Have been for him, his sole repast. “ The fairest were devour'd the last.

“ And Banco! sleeps but once a year :
“ His sleeping time is drawing near.
“ And now he's famishing for food,
“ For none have broke his solitude
“For three whole days,-and he longs for more
“Of his fav'rite Sylphs, and hungers sore.
“If thou wilt seek, now Sylph awake!
“And haste, and speed thee up the lake.
“A skiff, made of the light yew-tree!
“ Is waiting there, to carry thee,
“ With the speed of light, thro' elfin dells,
“To the fabled fount, where Banco dwells."
The Sylph awakes—the voice is gone.

Was it a fairy, elf, or sprite,
Or old witch, who hurried her on ?

The Sylph awakes—but not in fright;
For she was glad: and it pleased her so,
That the time had come, when she could go,
To that valley far! which she doubted not-
Was, of all the world, the sweetest spot.

The Sylph has gain’d the inmost ring,
And there beholds the glistning spring,
“ The stream of life," at joysome play-
And oozing in it's wonted way,
Beneath the clear transparent vase,
That holds it, at the mountain's base.
With eager joy, her willing hand,
Has seized the white and mystic wand,
And with a light and gentle stroke,
The spell that bound the waters broke.
There comes no stream so soft and bright,
Whose promise made the Sylphs delight.

But breaking forth, with startling roar, And rushing down the mountain side,

The waters now in torrents pour, To flood the valley far and wide.


The moon is shining lovely still-
Her beams are playing on each rill:
She's sleeping quiet on the lake,
And peeping thro' each wood and brake.
On the lake a shadow is seen-

Skimming on as the heron Aies ;
And where a ruffle ne'er had been,

The curling waves now fast arise. The shadow is the yew-tree skiff,

Bearing along the Sylph so fastWhile every highland rock and cliff,

Like lightning streaking by, is pass’d.

Where's Banco ? sleeping ?-No! the sound
Has freed his spell-and with one bound
Of despirate strength, he's cleared the steep;
While closing on-the waters sweep,
In ocean streams, o'er lake and vale:
When thro' the air is heard a wail-
A howling wailmand fearful cry-
While rolling thunders break the sky.
And Banco seeks the mountain's brow,
(The monster wolf is swimming now,)
He's failing fast—his strength is gone
And by the tide is carried on.
The wolf has reach'd the summit hill-

He looks around : before his eyes-
Upon the waters, gaining still-

A thousand fitting spectres rise. And there his troubled vision sees

A murdered Sylph! with torch on high, On every wave: which fast the breeze

Is urging on, and bringing by.
The wolf is stricken with despair-
He crouches like a monk at pray'r ;
And while the waters 'round him swell,
He sends on high his horrid yell.
But, fiendish wolf! the waters roll

In swelling surges o'er his head ;
And Banco! with his troubled soul-

Now yells among the restless dead.

She passes by the dead-tree brake,
Where waning forms, thrown o'er the lake,
Appear, when shaken by the storm,
Like skeletons of human form.
She passes by the fern-sward heath-
High up the lake ; and there, beneath
The maple trees, in silver sheen,
The elfs are dancing on the green.

And as she speeds, for miles along, She faintly hears their notes of song: “Come, dance around the green yew tree, “ And let the dance go merrily ; “ The Sylphs are wasting from the lea,And morning's dawn no Sylph will see !"

The bark has stopp'd-with lightsome leap,
The Sylph is on the highest steep;
And there, bewilder'd with amaze,
She pauses for awhile to gaze.

Long years have passed--a merry ring Is ever seen around that spring, Of mortals, length’ning out their dream Of life's enchantment, at the stream(That stream of life, whose crystal flow, Is brighter than the silver's glow.) From every clime—from far and nearThey come to make their homage here. Old Age, he comes-his gladden'd eye Anew with lustre sparkles high; And while he quaffs, his heart again Goes back to youth--forgets his pain.

And Banco sleeps !-he little dreams

How delicate a Sylph is near : He's dreaming fast of other streams,

He'd rather watch, than famish here.


And Beauty comes, with face so bright!

no doubt ere this consigned them also to the tomb of She drinks, and smiles with new delight;

the Capulets. I observed an antiquarian looking-glass And cheeks that have grown brown with care, on the wall, surmounted by an eagle, whose head had The pearly stream makes wond'rous fair. been knocked off, no doubt by some old tory.

Around the house spreads a smooth lawn—a clump And oft a tear is there let fall

of patriarchal oaks fanning their leaves in the breeze. For that fair Sylph! who perill'd all :

Under these, perhaps, the naked Indian has reposed his Who gave a life, made up of bliss

limbs, wearied with the chase ; and the children that To freshen our's-with joys like this.

played under their shade, have grown up and been And then again—remember'd still

scattered, and many, perhaps, descended to the dust,

while these old trees still lift their heads to the winds Where Banco sleeps is now “Wolf Hill."

and defy the storm. And many a boy, by the mountain's side,

In front of the house a river meandered lazily through There tells the tale how the old wolf died. broad, flat meadows of tall grass, in which cattle were White Sulphur Springs, August 10, 1838.

wading for pasture. The roses of evening were fading in the western sky, when, mounting my horse, I bade adieu to Warwick, whose present state seemed an emblem of life-the gaiety and pomp of wealth had

yielded "to dumb oblivion and decay." The coachTHE COPY-BOOK.

man, the footman, the butler had disappeared, and the hunter's horn had ceased to rouse the early dawn. These

scenes are forgotten, or recollected only by some superBy C. C*******, OF PETERSBURG, VA. annuated slave, or some small antiquary like myself.


After we had finished our tea, cousin Bob moved an MY COUSIN BOB.

adjournment to the porch, where, he observed, we should I took it into my head once, to pay a visit to my enjoy the twofold advantage of moonlight and mosquicousin Bob. I am afraid he drank too much, though.1 toes. My kinsman, leaning back in his chair, threw never saw him intoxicated. However that may be, his his legs over the railing, and having thus brought his house wore a neglected air-broken windowsdusty head and his heels nearly to a level, he called for his looking-glasses-torn curtains. The cows had broken | pipe. In the course of the evening, our conversation down the hedge—the garden fence was decayed--and happened to take a genealogical turn, and I learned the gate choked up with grass. Lean, gaunt, hungry several new particulars of my forefathers. hounds, were dozing in the sun.

Cousin Bob, finding me quite interested in these Cousin Bob had never been farther from home than reminiscences, sent for old Dunmore. He shortly made to Richmond, and seldom extended his thoughts far his appearance-a tall, erect mulatto of about seventy, from home. As insects assume the color of the leaf or according to his chronology, for slaves always exag. they feed on, so he borrowed the complexion of his gerate their age, eighty large odd. He lodged, as it politics from his newspaper ; and reading only one side

appeared, in a cabin in the orchard, by himself, with of the question, he became dogmatical in his opinions, no companion but a cat, to which he had taken a sort and seemed to feel pity for a man who should be so of Robinson Crusoe fancy. As the priestess of Delphi ignorant as to differ from him. His library was neither would never utter her oracles until an offering of gold large nor select, consisting of some odd volumes of was made to Apollo, so an old negro will never spin Shakspeare, Addison, Goldsmith, Scott's novels and long yarns about old times without a dram: a dram in Miss Porter's, Riley's Narrative, Mason's Farrier, all such cases is a sine qua non. Cousin Bob gave the Buchan's Family Medicine, Scott's Lessons, and the old fellow a glass of whiskey, adding, “Now he will Almanack, which last was the only one he ever opened, tell you lies enough to shingle a barn.” Dunmore and he frequently mentioned that there was some very being thus put upon his voir dire, underwent a crossgood reading in it. With this relative of mine I passed examination on his genealogical reminiscences, which some days in the year eighteen hundred and blank. being ended, his master dismissed him with another The incidents

my stay were few and simple, as will dram of whiskey and the parting compliment of "It's appear in the succeeding chapters.

all a pack of lies.” When he had shut the gate after WARWICK.

him, my kinsman remarked, that there was some truth There are no antiquities in Virginia except some of in the old man's story. After all, the ancestral developthe old maids; but Warwick is an old fashioned struc-ments of Dunmore and his master did not prove to be ture

, of perhaps the reign of William III, of happy of any great consequence, as will more clearly appear memory. Rooms oak-pannelled—inside folding win in the next chapter. dow-shutters—the house quite ruinous and deserted—

GENEALOGY. martins build their nests in the walls—the dining room The first stock of our family we take to be Adam is occupied by an overseer and his family—the rest of and Eve. Not caring, however, to push matters so far the mansion, naked and untenanted—unhinged doors back, we are content to begin with a worthy gentleman and broken windows-a sad picture of decay. The who came over, about the year 1700, from England. family portraits, the hereditary heirlooms, were gone- He located several thousand acres of land on the river a few fine old English prints survived; but time has before mentioned ; and by the culture of tobacco and

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