a sudden stand, and exhibited violent symptons of oppugnancy to the goadings and buffets he received, by way of encouraging him to proceed. Thrice did he wheel round, quivering in all his ill assorted members, as if under the influence of powerful terror; and thrice did Tristan compel him to put his nose in the direction he wished to take. Then uttering a shrill and melancholy neigh, he started forward at his wonted miscellane ous gait. An angle of the wood hid from the rider the ivygrown towers of his native castle, and a sickening presentiment fell upon his heart, that he had parted from them like Ajut, never to return.' Not that he had ever heard of Ajut, any more than of Ajax; but he felt very sorrowful, and his heart was heavy within him.

All along the road, the people at the inns treated him with great respect, taking him for a messenger entrusted with important secrets and despatches, from the sobriety of his looks and seriousness of his demeanour. After three days journey he reached the town of Stade, and after making a disbursement to the improvement of his outward man, repaired to the residence of Baron Ehrenfriedersdorf, his father-in-law elect. The Baron's dwelling stood in an old part of the town, and looked a little the worse for wear. Tristan felt a little queerish, as he lifted the knocker, at the antiquated and half ruined gateway. What sort of a young lady was Cunegunda Ehrenfriedersdorf? Did she squint? and if so, was the obliquity single, double, or manifold? Had she a hump? and if so, where located? On her shoulder, or her back,-or how was its topography? was she subject to nervous spasms? If so, how did the twitchings exhibit themselves? All down one side of her face, or all over? Intermittently, or all the time? Had she had the small pox? if so, were the cicatrices deep or shallow? was her countenance rivelled by it, into longitudinal or latitudinal seams, or promiscuously? was she a natural, or a virago? All these doubts passed over the mind of the suitor as the iron fell from his fingers. A hollow sound reverberated from the ruinous establishment, and the portal was opened by a decayed looking serving man, faded alike in years and in his livery. At sight of the grave looking young man, he bowed respectfully, taking him for a candidate for holy orders, if not a licentiate, and marshalled him across the court. As Tristan followed, his heart beating quick with the importance of the crisis, a peal of laughter came from an upper story, in which the shriller notes of female organs were distinctly audible. Was it

Cunegunda who helped to make the noise, at this moment so peculiarly disagreeable and revolting to the feelings of her suitor ?

Detesting, as we do, all continuations, we are compelled to defer the remainder of this narrative to our next number.

ED.

DIALOGUE.

Scene-A summer appartment-Amelia at a table, drawing—Anna, seated at a window in deep thought.

Anna. Dear sister, what is love?

Amel.

(looking up surprised.) Why wouldst thou know?
Fair girl! unheeding childhood's happy smile
Yet dwells upon thy lip, and wouldst thou seek
So soon to know the ills of womanhood?

Anna. Ills, sister? Surely love is not an ill !

Amel.

Anna.

Thou knowest nought of it; therefore thou dost say
'Tis not an evil.

Nay, but all things seem
So happy when they love; the gentle birds
Have far more gay a note when they unite
To build their simple nest; and when at length
The anxious mother watches o'er her young,
Her mate is near, to recompense her care
With his sweet song. When I see this, I think
Love must be happiness.

'Tis a false guide.

Anna.

Amel.

I have not found it so.
I know not where thy innocent heart can find
So much of joy, save in thy birds and flowers.
Anna. When I hear Henry Walstein's step, I leave
My darling birds and flowers.

Amel.

Anna.

Amel.

That is not strange,
He is thy brother's friend, and thou, a child
Whom he has always loved.

Dost thou forget

To-morrow I shall be fifteen, dear sister?

Why dost thou blush ?-Nay, Anna, thoughts that bring
So deep a crimson to thy cheek, should ne'er

Find entrance in thy bosom-why is this?

Anna. Turn then thine eyes away, if thou wouldst know,

And gaze not on me thus!

[drawing.

Amel.

There, foolish child. (resuming her

Anna.

Amel.

Sister, whene'er I look on him, methinks
I feel not as a child; and when he oft
Has kissed me, I have felt that I had been
Happier if he were less familiar with me;
Yet when he has been colder, I have wished
Again for his caresses; but of late

He seems reserved and changed. I do not dare
Reproach him with it, and I sometimes think
He loves me more than he was wont, although
He hides it by his coldness-it is strange-
Why dost thou look so sadly, dearest sister?
Anna, thou wouldst know what it is to love,
And I will tell thee-Tis to dwell within
A world of the young heart's creation, bright
And brilliant as 'tis false and fleeting, where
All seems a beauteous fairyland—to mark
No varied season and no flight of time,
Save in the weary absence of the loved one-
To live but in the atmosphere he breathes,
To gaze upon his eyes as on the light
That beacons us to bliss, the only sun
Of our unreal world-in the sad hours
Of absence to be filled with thousand thoughts
Of tenderness, that to repeat we deem
Will make the hours of meeting more delicious;
Yet when that time is come to feel they are
Unutterable-then to count the moments,
And watch his coming as the early dawn
Of an untried existence, (is not love
A new existence?) yet when he is come-
To feel that deep oppressive sense of bliss
Weighing upon the heart, that we could wish
To find our joy less perfect.-This is love!

Anna. Ah! sister, then I love; for when I see

Dear Henry coming, though I've wished for him,
I sometimes fear to see him, and I dare not
Look in his face; but when I sit beside him
I turn away mine eyes that I may see-

Amel. (not heeding her) To feel our whole existence wrapt in his,
Till we have lost all consciousness of self,

All sympathy, save of his joys and sorrows,

All sense of suffering, save when he doth suffer

To have no use of being, but to give

Our every thought to him—and then to feel
Even while we lowly bow before our idol,
And give ourselves a sacrifice to him,
How all unworthy of our love are such
Expressions of devotion. She who loves
Forgets her country, parents, nay, herself;
One master passion governs her, and all
Must yield to its control.-This! this is love!
Anna. Oh! surely then I love; for should he ask it,
I'm sure that I could give up all I've loved
From infancy, nor feel my heart bereft
8

Vol. II. No. F.

Amel.

Anna.

Amel.

Anna.

Of one enjoyment, while he smiled upon me
But, sister, thou didst say love was an evil.
And is it not so? is it not most sad

That we must yield our pleasur s, nay, our duties
To the control of false and fickle love?
All love is not thus false, and if we yield
Our pleasures but to gain a greater joy—
If we forget some duties while we practice
Others as strong, and far, far more delightful,
Surely 'tis not an evil.

Dost thou know,
Mine innocent child, the recompense of all
This self-devotion?

Yes, the consciousness

That we are ministering to the joys

Of one we love, is recompense enough.

Amel. Alas! art thou too doomed to dream of bliss,

And wake as I have done?—think'st thou this knowledge
Would cheer thine hours of loneliness, while he,

For whom thou gavest all, was revelling

In other pleasures, thinking not of thee?

Anna. Yes I would think that though awhile forgotten,
The truant could not quite forget the love
That gave him all, and left itself a bankrupt.
The ills of life-age, sickness, chilling sorrow,
Should make me but cling closer to him, share
His griefs, and soothe his pains, and find
my heart
Lightened of half its wo.

Amel.

Anna.

These are the thoughts
Of woman-wouldst thou know what 'tis to love
With passionate tenderness and purity,

Inquire not from the tongue of man, but ask
The heart of woman.

Why is it thus, my sister,
That woman's love is so unlike to man's?
Amel. Men say it is their privilege to rove
From flower to flower, like the gay bee, and steal
Their varied sweetness-but, alas for woman!
She loves but once, and then she loves forever.
Therefore, the love of woman is most precious.
'Tis said, in eastern climes the nightingale
Rejects a thousand fragrant flowers, if there
The blooming rose be found not.-Then 'tis thus-
Man is the roving bee, but woman is

Anna.

Amel.

Anna.

The faithful nightingale

Ah! thy young fancy

Can make e'en sorrow wear the brilliant garb

Of poetry, but when thou hast, like me,

Beheld the brightest tints of fancy fade

Into the sober grey of sad reality-
Thou wilt not find so gay a simile

For unrequited love.

I wonder, sister,

How Henry would paint love-thou dost describe it

So beautiful, it would entice the heart
To grasp its joys and risk its unknown sorrows.
If one should lead us to a beauteous valley
Filled with delicious fruits and fragrant flowers,
And when we wished to pluck them, bid us fear
The thorns that lie beneath each smiling flower,
And tell us that the tempting fruits were poisoned;
Though we might pause awhile, yet if we saw
Others enjoying their delights, I think
We would not long obey our cautious guide.
Ah! there is Henry, but he looks not here-
Now, see with what a gentle smile he greets me;
He beckons me to come-farewell, dear sister.
I wish I knew what Henry thinks of love!

Exit.

Tales of a Traveller, Parts I. II. III. IV. By Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. Author of "The Sketch Book," "Bracebridge Hall," "Knickerbocker's New-York," &c. Philadelphia, H. C. Carey & I. Lea. 1824.

There is a natural propensity in a people who have attained, as a country, great literary or scientific eminence, to look down upon the efforts of those who are following at a distance in the same career. In this respect, as in most others, nations resemble individuals. He who after long and expensive exertions, reaches at last the object of his enterprize, finds nothing so diverting as the thoughts of the distance his followers are behind him, although he knows well that they too have a right to laugh at others in their turn. We recollect, when we were boys, what pleasure we felt in atchieving the lofty summit of one of those hills which our vigorous corporation, with the activity of an earthquake, has thrown into the river. But the pleasure of having reached the top was very far surpassed by the delight which we experienced, in watching the stri vings and the strainings, the panting and the perspiration, the struggling hand and the backsliding foot of the urchins who only started when we were more than half way up the hill. 'Men are but children of a larger growth;' and we may add that nations have the motives and the attributes of men. commenced our literary career long after England had reached' the middle height' of hers, and we ought not to be surprised nor displeased that she smiles at the efforts we are making to overtake her. There is doubtless not a little of the mischievous malice of success, in her laughter at some of the slips and

We