PENNY LONDON:— SUNDAY, JTLTT 4, 1841 UoUct, AWFUL TRABEDY IN THE RUE ST. LA2ARE, PARIS | CHARACTER OF THE SPANISH FEMALES. | The ladies of Spain cannot he compared with the females of the rest of Europe. Their vntues and their rices arise from a social state, which, hoth in a moral and religious point of view, differs greatly from that of every other country. They hloom under the fertile sun of their native land, unhseded and uncultivated. They rcceive no education, at least in the sense that we attach to the word ; and yet such is the peculiar turn of their minds, that they unconsciously possess all the elegan- cies and graces of their sex, w hich in other countries are acquired by long study and application. There is, moreover, a characteristic trait ab. rut them, which is manifested in all their movements, in Jheir conversation, in their very faults, in the whole conduct of their life.— To describe it would be in vain : it is a spt'eies of com- pound between indolence and energy of character. It is a kind of restlessness, which is continuai.' v urging them to extreme, whether in love or trade, pleasure or pain, devotion or impiety. False modesty or pi'udery are seldom to be met with in a Spanish lady. A disre- gard of self, and a high mindedness superior to worldly misfortune are observable in them much more than in the females of other countries. Their peculiar character is displayed in the most com- mon affairs of life. It is so closely allied to their nature, that its germ may be perceived even in infancy ; it in- creases and becomes more fully developed in advancing' years. To this disposition may be attributed the im- passioned feeling which the ladies of Spain give tc » every word and motion; and that freedom and careless- ness of carriage which our countrywomen could not imitate without offending against our opinions of de- cency. The matrimonial tie is perhaps frequently in- fringed by the Spaniards ; and yet among no people is constancy in love preserved so inviolably. Love is every thing in the life of a Spanish female; it is her most im- portant occupation, and she regulates it by fixed laws: and rigorous duties, the violation of which is regarded, as an unpardonable crime. They have their cortejos, as the Italians their cicisbeos. But there is no point of resemblance between the two. With the latter it is merely an affair of form. The cortejo, is the god, the idol, a Spanish lady. Her whole thoughts are bestowed upon him ; and she wishes to appear amiable to him, and ( o him alone: but if he proves unfaithful, her hatred of him is as unqualified as was her love. Since they hold lore in so sacred a light, they disdain to feign it when they feel no real passion. Coquetry is almost unknown in Spain. The Spanish lady hesitates not to confess her feelings; she is too prouu either to dissemble orconceal them. If then the matrimonial tie is more frequently violated in Spain than elsewhere, we must not attribute it to depravity, but to haughtiness of feeline, to the impatience of every restraint, and to that thirst for unlimited freedom which is the characteristic of the Spaniard. SIR WHISKY WETMOUTH. IIY H. MANDER MAY. Sir Whisky Wetmouth was one of those tittering, chattering, tip- toe, curled- wigged, supping animatcu- late of the times, that flutter about court, as harmless, and as constant as the shadows of numerous flies that dangle by the radiance of the sun. He was constantly admired by the belles, and they by him most flatter- ingly: anu when Sir Whisky made any sort of a propo- sal, they would merely make a shew- with, not saying anything to the purpose, but with an eye- glass, poor old Wetmooth generally received the answer, " I'll see to this, my dear baronet. Certainly it requires a little mi- nute consideration; I will set it down in my pocket com- pasion ; bless me, I have forgotten it, therefore will tie a knot in my handkerchief." Now, Sir Whisky was very ini.' mate with Lord Fan- ciful ; so much so, that they " jollied in arms," parad- ing ihe court, streets, parks, gardens, & c. When they were together, they imagined themselves possessed of the influence of a rattle- snake, who can, it is said, fas- cinate with a look, and that every fine woman must, at first sight, fall into their arms. " Hal who's that, Whisky?— She's a devilish fine wo- man, ' pon honor— an immensely lovely creature.— Who is she?— She must be one of us; she must be come atable, ' poll honor." " No, sir," replied a stranger, who promiscuously overheard their conversation,—" No, sir, she's a lady of strict virtue and discretion." " Is she so," continued Lord Fanciful. " Bless me if I dont have another quiz ; aye, aye, she may be a lady of striet virtue— for, now I look at her aeain, there is something, ' pon honor, devilish ungenteel about her." Sir Whisky and Lord Fanciful would yet keep on their tip- toe, and commence a conversation on the affairs of ministration. Fanciful tells Whisky the following:— " That he can see how things were all wrong: they could not deceive him. I can see, ifotherpeople can't I can see if the ministry take the lead, they wont be be- hind hand." Now Whisky found out the only scheme that ever could he invented for paying off the national debt. He immediately disclosed the scheme to his particularly cor- dial friend, Fanciful. " Now, my lord, I have a scheme to pay off the na- tional debt, without burdening the subject with a fresh tax. My scheme is as follows :— I would have all the Thames water bottled up, and sold lot spa water.— ' Who'll buy it ?' I would say. The Watermen's Com- pany must buy it, or they '. iever could work their boats any more. There's a. scheme for you to pay off the na- tional debt without burdening the subject with a fresh tax." MORE HORRIBLE MURDERS.— The Arkansas Times, of March 21st, states that Capt. Miles, U. S. Army, who arrived there the day previous, brings intelli jtnee that a report was brought to Fort Gibson, by friendly In- dians, that Gen. Coffee and six of his men, who were out 011 a hunting expedition, had been massacred by the Camanchee Indians. The following additional parti- culars have been received, by letter, dated March 14, which confirms the report:— It says that an express had reached there, announcing to General Arbuckle that the Camanchees and Pawnees had murdered all the traders at Coffee's Trading House, on Red river, in the Pawnee country. One man only escaped ; he had ar- rived at Fort Gibson, and describes the massacre as dreadful, fifty or sixty Americans, and some Creeks and Osages, were butchered. There will lie some new work for General Gaines, who has been ordered to the Mis- sissippi. It really seems as though the evil one had got into the Indians in every quarter. The late Duke of Norfolk was much addicted to the bottle. On a masquerade night he asked Foote, who was bis intimate friend, what new character he should go in. " Go sober," said Foots. Charles Bannister was once cauaht in a shower of i rain in Hollrorn, and retired for shelter into a comb- ! maker's shop, where an old man was at work. " 1 am 1 sorry that a person at your time of life should have so much pain," ^ aid Bannister to the man. " Pain I I have no pain, thank God." " Yes you must, are you not cutting your teeth ?" " If you are not hanged," said a country justice to a horse- stealer, " I'll be hanged for you." " Very well, your worship," said the fellow, " if it should so happen 1 hope you will not be out of the way." CAIN, A MYSTE1Y, gATT I [ HAYDN AND ® THE DEVIL ON TWO STICKS.' Tile first prdtiuctitfns of if The first4 prtfductitfnfi of Haydn were some short sonatas for the piano- forte, which he sold at a low price to his fertialc pupils, for he had met With a few. He also wrote minuets, allemands, and waltzes for the kidaiio. He composed, for his amusement, a serenaia tor three Inslrtinlfints, wnichhe performed on fine sum- mer evenings, with two of his friends, in different parts of Vienna. The theatre of Carinthia was at that tithe directed bv. Bernardone Curtz, a celebrated buffoon, vtho artiilstjd the, public with his puns. Bernardone drdWcfoiVds to his theatre, by his originality, and by good opera- buffas. He had, a handsome Wife; and this was an additional reason for Our nocturnal adven- turers . to go and pel'orn their serenade under the har- lequin's windows. Curtz was so struck \ v,' in the origt- Uniil,, ll."' i . '< „ Ir y: T, ' , » « » » .• U « . K ••• in rue origi- llanty of the ihuslc, that he ottt. z down into the street, to ask who had imposed it. " I did," replied Haydn, boldly. " Vi ow ! you, at vour age?" " One must make a Vgirinino; sometime." " Gad, this is droll 1 come up stairs." Ilaydn followed the harlequin, was introduced Fond of show the youngsters are, As it affords them all delight; And ( lie proprietor's chief pleasure, Is that the wo Id may take a sight. Alas'! poor rlunte, tf you're not able { Abel) To leftrn your task, ' tis very plain, lil - ti ' tis a mystery to me, ' ti you don't quickly get the cane ( Cain). BOW STREET. R A LITERARY GENTLEMAN.— AIL individual, < vith a very grimly beard, small p'gish eyes, a strongly- convulsed head of hair, and very questionable toggery, was charged with being drunk and disorderly ou tfic pre- vious night, and so gloriously unmanageable, that il was found necessary for the quiet of her* majesty's liege subjects to convey htm to the station- house. MAGISTRATE.— What's your name? PRISONER ( sipping) — " My name's TdWard Morgan, I came from " MAGISTRATE. — VVsll, never mind where you came from '; what arc you ? Pfttsh'NF. R.— Please yer vurship, I'm a litter- hairy genunan ( a laugh). MAGISTRATE.— Oh, a literary gentleman, are VUU? PRISONER.— Yes, yer vurship; I writes poetry and prose like vun o'clock. Shikspur, Wirgil, Byron, or Scott were nothin' to me. I'm vot they calls a nat'ral genus; 1 takes ev'ry thing quite nat'ral, from writiti' a song, a last dyiug speech, ami a dreadful and barbarous murder, to playiu' at shove ba'p'uy, or tossing off a drop of slummock consoler. MAGISTRATE.— What do you mean by stomach con- soler ? PRI « ONP. R.— Vy, yer vurship, that's a clarsickcall term vc gemmeti o' the pl'fcss has for gin. MAGISTRATE.— Well, and what have you to say to Un- charge ? PRISONER.— My guilt, ycr vurship, 1 dec'are ; But it vos through taking too much lrer. MAGISTRATE.— Come, come, we want none of your literary effusion/, here ; but answer the questions' put to you iu pVain, sober prtise. Pi*'. JON ER.— Sober pro- e ; 1 am afraid here's ray tier tr'ut o' my line, ycr vursbip. Th'faet o'the matter is, as I does uot deny th' charge ; I vos a little bit fresh, and tbe, var> e for liquor. MAGISTRATE.— Why, you silly fellow, did jou ever know a person any the belter for liquor ? PRISONER— Vy as to that, here, yer vurship, it's a wcry nice pint. The whole on it is, that I had been to a party, a lew littcr- hairy friends o' mine, in Little Saint Andrew- street, and, 1 believe I did go into it rttyther deep, and, perhaps, I might have been rayther noisy and quarrelsome; but, I'm very sorry for it, and will uot do so any more ; ( singing)— " Oh. pray do forgive me this one little time, Atv.' i I'll n-' Ver do so any mora." MAGISTRATE.— Well, upon that prom'se, I shall dis- charge vou upon your paying a line of one shilling. PRISONER.— Thank yer, vcr worship. There's the bob, and I will go and take the pledge immediately for- " When a man's had too much gatter, He staggers and reel,, Quite spooney feels, His hea t swims round, he don't know wh t's the matter. Is sick and queer, and can't eat his Rivals." ami thus sitigiug, the literary gentleman made his exit. MARLBOROUGH STREET. PUT IT UP.— A seedy swell, of skewer- like propor- tions, was brought before the magistrate, charged by the keeper of an eating- house in Oxford- street, with consuming two plates of roast beef, a quantity of vege- tables, several slices of bread, and three plates of " boiled plum," and, upon being asked for payment for the same, telling him with the greatest nonchalance to put it up. A number of eating- house keepers, coffee- shop proprietors, and publicans, were in attendance to prefer similar charges, and to whom he had aUays upon the requisite being asked of him, returned the same answer of, " put it up." MAGISTRATE.— Well, prisoner, you have heard the charge ; what are you ? PRISONER.— I am a gentleman. MAGISTRATE.— That's not a direct answer to my ques- tion ; how do you live ? PRISONER.— Uncommon well, I assure your worship. MAGISTRATE.— This equivocation will not do; what profession arc you ? PRISONER.— 1 am no profession ; 1 live upon my means. MAGISTRATE.— If you are. a gentleman, why do you not pay for what you have ? PRISONER.— Pay ! Pay! bless your 60ul, we gentle- men never pay. " We always " put it up!" 1 MAGISTRATE.— Are you prepared to pay the demand of the complainant"? PRISONER.— Not a bit of it. " Put it up!" MAGISTRATE. — Then I shall commit you for otic month to the House of Correction as a rogue and a vagabond. PRISONER.— Oh, very well; it will give me a good appetite against I come out. ONE . SHIP TO THIRTEEN. Wc were within hntl of the frigite, » nd hammering awny tn the most Christian- like manner, when the mastel- repotted that the French fleet had tacked, and that the Van ship looked to wind- ward of us. A prudent man would have instantly desisted from further offensive operations, and only thought of a speedy retreat: - notso Sir Peter Parker: he was resolved to have a continuation ol the tragedy, and interrupted the cautious suggestions ot old Soundings, with " Another broadside, my lads: he steady, and n. sko good aim. That's all right— let the smoke clear away."— We must really wear, sir," sail the master, " for, Independent • « f being in shoal water, we never can pass to windward oi' thi, - enemy's line; and we cannot run between tliern and the shore, for that in- shore squadron," " Onelhore broadside, and then stand Tiy to board," was the only answer. Sir Peter's guardian angel in- terposed. and took the film or glory from his ejes, showing'aim his Inevitable ruin In the perseverance of his plan. We wore and stood out to sea ; the French frigate again cheering, the bat teries firing, and we for the moment quieted. We had nothing left for it but to steer boldty for the van shin of the enemy's line, say our prayers, and pack up for a French prtion. A, for hope, we had none. . A single frigate to face thirteen sail of the line, amobgst " which were three three- deckers, besides an inshore Squadron, all ready to pick up the wounded bird, if it should happen to fly past ¥ he line of fire; something like pigeon- shooting, where. If the vlgeon Is missed by ihe man, about a thousand stragglers take the SHberty of knocking it down. I was quartered at the eight afler. guns oa the main- deck, and - therefore I ha- t the entrde of the captain's cabin, or rather the pil- • vllege of walking where the cahin did exist. My attention wa « awakened by Ihe presence, t'ne captain : SorVhad been looking • out ol Vne s'lem- wlndows at our late antagonist, who, while he di- rected his course Into Toulon, continued to direct his br. wdslde at me. Sir Peter c « Ued his clerk, destroyed his prlvntt letters ; placed • the signals in the leaded box, ready to be thrown overboard ;— looked ronnd the quarters qulta unconcerned ; and having cast his - eyes- over some private memorandums, walked on deck as leisurely as tf ' he had a prospect of saving the frigate. Very differently did • we behave. My companion at. quarter* had been a priioner In Verdnn. and began to recall to his memory all the privations and fatigues he had undergone. " Put on your thickest shoes, ray lad," • said he torse-, " two pair of stockings, and sn extra shirt: make • your mind up to a' retch your legs, for you'll he tied to a horse's tail, all In a line, like a tile of soldiers; and, trot or gallop, you must.' trot and gallon too; no chance of an escape; CKNTIAU- antniK before, behind, right and left— no pity for youngsters. Stop when the horses stop. As for money, that would be serviceable. If th » y would let you keep It ; hut money Is a golden key tor, 1ik. lv to fit any lock : besides, plunder Is proverbial In the French navy.' i .. e crew, who overheard these pleasant Intimations, caught the ularm, and ventured to exchange Ideas in the following tone:— No more Common Hard or North. Comer hops for my Poll and me. Caught upon a clinch her*, and no knife to cut the sellings. 1 ssy, Tom, can yen palleyvous ? for these outlandish tubben caa't1 Gaming, that demon of ruin, of crime, and despair, has ' occasioned more scenes of horror than any other vice indulged in by frail mortality, and it is our painful duty to have to record a tragedy of the most dreadfnl description, which has recently occurred in a salon in the Rue Saint Laxare, Paris, and which has created an extraordinary and painful excitement. The facts of this case are as follows:— Monsieur Le Sanquois is a celebrated roue of this gay city, and is connected with some of the first families of France ; but a most inveterate gamester. He was in the constant practice of visiting the salon of M. De C , in the Rue Saint Lazare, much frequented by the fashionable young men of Pur is, and in which play is Carried otl to an unlimited extent. M. De Sanquois was usually prettv lucky, particularly at French hazard. M. De Sanquois had a brother, who had been some years in England. He was two years younger than himself, remarkably handsome, and possessed of numerous accomplishments. About five weeks since, only, he returned to Paris, and was staying at his brother's hotel. M. Henri de Sanquois, the younger brother, was also very fond of play, and, therefore, required very little to induce him to accompany his brother to the salon of M, De C .' On the evening that the tragical occurrence took place, which we are about to describe, there iivere assembled at M. De C ' s, the two brothers, Sanquois; the Count M , Monsieur Bertrand, M. Fenoulet, M. De Signes, and numerous other fashionable personsj and the play had been carried on with unusual spirit. M, De Sanquois and his brother were opposed to each other in the game, and the elder brother and his companions had been very successful, and M. Henri De Sanquois had lost several large stakes. It was perceived that his anger was fast gathering; but, still he was urged to play, and he, with the desperation of all losers, complied, every time playing for larger sums, and almost invariably losing. At length, worked up to a pitch bordering upon madness, the unfortunate young man, imagining he saw something unfair in the play of his brother, in a moment of unguarded passion, snatched a pistol from the mantel- piece, over which it was placed, and, presenting it, discharged the contents at his head, and killed him on the spot. Since the dreadful affair, the perpetrator of the sanguinary crime has been in a state of the most melan- choly derangement, and, it is supposed, cannot survive many days. lays follow one after the other with rapidity; and at every moment, alps and abysses succeed each other." This fine description was of no avail. In vain did harlequin add the thunder and lightning. " Come, de- scribe for me all these horrors," he repeated incessantly, " but, particularly, represent distinctly these mountains and valleys." Haydn drew his fingers rapidly over the key- board, ran through the semi- tones, tried abundance of sevenths, passed from the lowest notes of the bass to the highest notes of the treble. Curtz was still dissatisfied. At 1 last, the young man, out of all patience, extended his j hands to the two ends of the harpsichord, and bringing them rapidly together, exclaimed, " The devil take the tempest !" " That's it I that's it 1" cried the harlequin, \ springing upon his neck, and almost stifling him. Haydn added, that when he crossed the straits of Dover, in bad weather, many years afterwards, he laughed durrng the whole of the passage, on thinking of the storm in " The Devil on Two Sticks." • I to the handsome wife, fe- descended with the poem of an opera, entitled, " The Devil on Two Sticks."— I The music composed in a few days, had the happiest success, and was paid for with twenty- four sequins.— B it a noblemau, who probably was not handsome, per- ceived that he was ridiculed, under the name of the Devil on Two Stick, and caused the piece to be pro- hibited. Haydn often said, that he bad more trouble in finding out a mode for representing the motion of the waves in a tempest of this opera, than he afterwards had in writing fugues with a double subject. Curtz, who had spirit and taste, was difficult to please ; but there was another obstacle. Neither of the two authors had ever seen sea or storm. How can a man describe what he knows nothing about. If this happy art could be dis- covered, many of our great politicians would talk bet- ter about virtue. Curtz, all agitation, paced up and down the room, where the composer was seated at the piano- forte. " Imagine," said he, " a mountain rising, and then a valley sinking, aud then another mountain, ami then another valley; the mountains and the val- speak our lingo. My eyes and limbs, tf I would not sooner see the \ barkey sink under us, than see that striped ragoverour jacket. It i must blow great guns and muskets to blow us clear of these inounsecrs this tlmr!" The private signals were placed on the capstan, and Sir Peter took up his position on the carronade slide, on the larboard side, abreast of the wheel. Tbe men all stood to their quarters, and the minute rapidly approached which was to decide our fate. We were within about two miles of our adversaries when the leading ship tacked and shortened sail This was followed by the whole fleet, which tacked in succession, and brought their reur ship as our nearest opponent. Our enem'es being under their top- sails and gib, progrea- ed about five knots through the water, whi'e the Alenelaus, being under ail tbe sail she could liertr, was advancing at the rate of nine. We were now a long plstorshet distance, and abreast of the enemy's rear ship. Calmly did we stand the broad- side of her— to return itwss useless; besides, firing puts down the wind, and the harder it blew the better for us. We passed ship after ship, each firing as wc came abreast, and each ceasing when her second a- head commenced. Had they made more sail, and luffed to tbe windward, nothing In the world couid have saved ur| — the capture vt% » inevitable. At last we came alongside of the lieSdnlost slilp. Hope now began to dawn; provided out masts escaped, we had a chance of escape. Not a word was heard on bnard the Menelaus as the broad- side of this eighty- gun ship whistled over our heads. The master himself was steering the ship itrph the steadiness of a fearless sailor, determined not to lose an inch of gfound, and we hild passed the beam of the enemy be. fore he relinquished the helm to the quarter master. At this mo- ment the enemy ceased firing, and the whole fleet began to make all sail in chase. We edged away about a point, in order to get right a- head of our antagonist; which having effected, we began to fire our stern- Chasers, in hopes of wounding a spar of the eighty- sun sliip. As hoWever the wejjht aft did not assist oi'tr speed, but bad evidently altered the trim for the worse, the guns were removed to their proper stations; the men were directed to lie down at their quarters; and very shortly we, thanks to the long legs ofthe fri- gate, were a mile and more a- head of our enemies. THE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES AND PEOPLE'S POLICE GAZETTE. THE DEATH GRASP; OR, A FATHER'S CURSE! BY THE AUTHOR OF " ELA, THE OUTCAST," ETC. ( Continued from our last.) The Master Gregory OH whom the affections of the simple Annette were placed, and to whom allusion has been made, was a certain wide- mouthed, gawky ostler, at the Traveller's Rest, who, notwithstanding nature had not been verv » .. ntiful to him, inasmuch as he was about as orditi„ a man as you woiild meet With in a day's perambulation, was on the most excellent terms with himself, and not only did he consider that he possessed the ele& auce and grace of Apollo Belvidere, hut, moreover, that his countenance was irresistible, and that the qualities ofhis mind were of the most bril- IkiHt order. Ostlers, generally speaking, in the pre- sent age, are not the most cultivated or intelligent part of the community, and our readers must recollect that Master Gregory Goldfinch was an ostler in the sixteenth century, and we feel it our duty to state candidly, that Godfrey was very far from being a refined Ostler of that age; jet, what he wanted in real ability, he amply made up for in conceit, a quality of which he possessed a superabundant stock. Talk about rubbing down a horse, broach a subject to him on tbe quality of corn, or the art of making up a bed, and there Gregory could shew off; oh, he was quite at home then ; but, take him out of the stable, and Gregory Goldhnch was one of the veriest asses to be found. Strange, however, as it may appear, this anything but fascinating biped, was a favourite wilh the fair sex, and considered himself a complete lady- killer. He had a goodly share of nonsensical twaddle at his tongue's e » d, which same nonsensical twaddle, so long as it contains a decent sprinkling of flattery, is ex- tremely pleasing to the female sex generally, and is liiteaed to with avidity, and hence the success of Gregory Geldfinch. In tbe ettfimation of Annette, Gregory Goldfinch was a very gr « » . t man indeed, and she followed up her ad- dresses to him with the most determined perseverance ; for, as has been shown, Annette had been very unsuc- cessful in her amatory affairs, ( not from any lack of personal attraction,) and the awful and old- maidish arje of thirty was rapidly approaching • she was, there- fore, resolved that, whether Gregory loved her or not, she would persecute him wilh her vows, until she teased him into an assent. Gregory, however, chose to come the grand, the dignified, the indifferent with her, and pretended to tieat the attentions of Annette as a very great bore; taking care, notwithstanding, occasionally to drop, as it were inadvertently, a few sentences of flattery, sufficient to inflame the mind of Annette ; as he really had an attachment to the damsel, or probably, to sundry and divers bright pieces of yellow gold, which he had been given to understand, from the most unques- tionable authority, she had saved up, and which was enough to form a very handsome little wedding dowry. Gregory, who had his eye to the gold, also had his eye to the maiden, who possessed charms that even the heart of an obdurate ostler could not withstand. In two respects the dispositions of Gregory Goldfinch and Annette agreed remarkably well,— namely, in in- quisitiveness and loquacity, and she could not have hit upon a better idea to win the favour ofthe ostler than the one she had, and Gregory received the information with all due eagerness and amazement, faithfully pro- mising Annette not to repeat a word of the story to anybody else; but, of course, resolving to tell the same to all his acquaintances with as much expedition as possible. " Well," said the sagacious Gregory when Annette had finished her story, " hang me if I didn't always think there was something very mysterious about your mistress, that I did." This was exactly what everybody else in the neigh- bourhood had always thought, and not only thought, but knew; therefore, perhaps Gregory Goldfinch did not deserve quite so much credit for his superior pene- tration as beseemed to imagine he did. : " Very mysterious, very mysterious, indeed ;" eja- culated Annette. " But now, Gregory, who would have thought my lady, whom every one believed to be a widow, should have a husband living all the time, and that she should have changed her name. And then to have such a strange, uncouth, black- looking man for a husband as this stranger. I wonder what could have induced Madame to elope from him." J " Ah I I wonder!" repeated Gregory, " but, you may depend upon it it was something bad ; take my word for it, she has been guilty of some clandecent ac- tion or other, or why " " Oh, no, Gregory," interrupted Annette, " I cannot agree with yon in that opinion, by any means; I am certain that my mistress is too amiable ever to have acted in the manner you suspect. It is more likely that she has suffered cruelty from her husband, and, to judge from the conversation I overheard, it seems evi- dent that he has been guilty of some heavy crimes." " Lor' 1" exclaimed the ostlerl " now, how I should like just to hear his whole histoiy. What did you say his name was, Annette ?" " His name," answered the talkative waiting- woman, " why,— why, his name is " less manner; although thou wilt not be'a little astonished when thou hearest my name. Thou knijwest the prison of " Ah!" interrupted Caleb, " my isuspiciotis were I Babbling idiot I" at that moment exclaimed a loud cine close behind them, which made them both start and tremble with fear, and looking up, they beheld the subject of their conversation in their presence. An- nette was ready to sink with terror, while the knees and teeth of the loquacious ostler performed a concert o not Ihe most harmonious description, as he gazed at ! ! stern countenance and commanding figure of nsieur de Floriville. II Babbling idiot!" repeated Adolphe, " is it thus tbou performest thy duty to thy mistress?— Get thee hence, immediately, and beware how thou repeatest vbat thou hast overheard to any other person. Thou mjyest repent it if thou dost: mark me." Annette, who was as frightened as if she had been • it* siding in the presence of some supernatural being, attempted to stammer out an apology, but Adolphe stopped her impatiently :—' There, no more ; but begone !" exclaimed Adolphe peremptory- ' and attend to the warning- I have given ti: * !'"• thee, sirrah, the sooner thou art off . Jo ihy , vr.,',' jei , lie iii- ltc" Gregory Goldfinch did . Tot relish his customer at all, and, therefore, he was not ' plow iu obeying him, and, taking the arm of Annette, they both departed in- slauler, without offering any further observations upon the subject. While this was going forward in the kitche . '!<• hostelrie, Caleb Swinton was sitting cosily in the cnim ney- corner of the parlour, indulging himself with a jug of ale, and thinking of the singular condsict ofthe man who had become his guest on the evening before. There was something in his voice and features that was remarkably familiar to him, and yet be could not rccal to his memory where he had before seen him, nor could he account for the deep interest he had excited in his bosoin. " Yes, I would slake my life," soliloquized Caleb, lolling back in his easy arm- chair ; " 1 would stake my life that we have met before, but under what circum- stances I cannot imagine." " So then, Master Caleb," said Adolphe, who at that moment entered the room; " thou dost think thou and I are old acquaintances?" " Aye, marry do I," answered Caleb. " Thou thinkest right than," returned Monsieur de Floriville ; " we have, indeed, often met before, and under very peculiar circumstances." " Indeed," said Caleb, looking more narrowly at Adolphe ; " where have we before encountered each other ?" " In France." •" Ah!" " Yes;— hast thou no idea now? canst thou not yet form any conjecture as to who the person is thai stands before thee " I cannot," replied Caleb, " but I pray thee, if thou hast no objection, to satisfy my curiosity at once." " X question much, whether thou wilt feel anxious to renew the acquaintance,'' observed Adolphe, in a care- right then ;— thou art one of those gaol- birds of whom 1 had the custody when —" " Thou art not much disposed for flattery, Master Swinton," remarked Adolphe, with an ironical smile; " but, indeed thou saye^ t right; I was once in thy charge. Dost know nie now ?" ". No; and after what thou hast said, I very much doubt whether I ought tohave any wish to know thee," answered Caleb. I told thee thou wouldst not feel very ready to renew the acquaintance," said Monsieur de Floriville, with a bitter smile, " Nevertheless, 1 will reveal my. self to thee, as I shall most likely require thy assist- ance. Caleb Swirtton, in me thou beholdest one whom thou hast lo. ng since supposed to be no more. It is Adolphe de Floriville who now stands before thee." " Adolphe de Floriville!" repeated Caleb, jumping from his chair, and gazing at the former, with the most indescribable astonishment and terror; " stranger, art tbou mad, ordost thou think that I am ?— Thou Adolphe de Floriville ?— Why, it is more than seven years since he perished in the forest at Abbeville, and met with a death of horror, but which his crimes fully merited. All, many a sorrv hour did his poor wife suffer, an. d— thou Adolphe de'Floriville the -" " The murderer," added De Floriville, " I know what thou wouldst say;— I do not disown— at least to thee,— my title. I have become used to it, now, but there was a time when I was' not quite so courageous upon that point. I was weak then ; I am reckless, cal lousnow. But enough of that; 1 repeat, Caleb, lhat in me thou beholdest Adolphe de Floriville, the man of crime. Look closer into my countenance; this wig may have effected the principal alteration in my ap- pearance. Nay, nay, man, come nearer; thou hast nought to fear; I am no spectre, but real Uesh and blood. Look at me." Caleb Swinton did indeed look at him narrowly, and when he removed the wig, he could no longer entertain a doubt but that Monsieur de Floriville actually stood before him. " Why, by Heaven.'' he ejaculated, " it is,— it must be he. Monsieur de Floriville, wretched, Unfortunate, guilty man, by what singular miracle has thy life been spared ?" " Come, come, Master Swinton," said De Floriville, " as little about guilt, and such cant, as thou pleasest; it does not agree with my palate now. There was a time when 1 gave way to it, I am not so childish now. Conscience is a bugbear, made use of by priests and— however, we will drop this' subject. Thou wonld'st know by what means I escaped. 1 will tell thee." De Floriville then repeated to Caleb, with tile utmost carelessness, the story he had related to his wife, but added several circumstances which he had not thought proper to impart to her. He made no scruple in acknowledging the full extent ofhis guilt, and in con fessing the utter recklessness he bad at last suffered to take possession of his mind, and Caleb, who before deeply pitied him, now felt horrorstruck and disgusted while he listened to him. " The first year or two after my being rescued from death," continued Adolphe, " I passed miserable enough; for: I could not stifle the voice of conscience. My thoughts, too, were fixed upon my wife and child, and when 1 imagined the sufferings to Which they were exposed, I became truly wretched. I was now an alien from them ; I must never reveal myself to them, or my life would be sure to be the penalty of the same. Thou mayest be sure that the accident which made me a slave in Morocco, did not tend to alleviate my misery ; I endured great hardships, but at length I became com- pletely hardened ; my mind became morbid ; and that which I before could not even think of without a shud- der of horror, I was now enabled to endure wilh the most perfect indifference. I made my escape from slavery ; 1 returned to France, so altered that I thought it would be impossible to recognize me. I was com- pletely destitute, but my mind was soon made up what to do. That night I stopped a traveller in the forest, and demanded his money ; it happened to be the captain of tbe band of robbers which had for many years infested the neighbourhood, and bid defiance to the law. He quickly made himself known to me, and peiceiving that I was a desperate man, he invited me to their place of rendezvous. An offer was made to me to become one of their band, which I readily accepted. Our law- less expeditions were attended with great success, and we amassed considerable wealth. In a short time I be- came used to the wild life, and was as daring a villain as any amongst them." In a few months after I had joined the robbers, the captain died from Ihe effects ofa wound he had received, and, according to our rules, we cast lots who should succeed him in ihe com- mand. The chance fell upon me, and I was received in my new character with great enthusiasm, I being a great favourite with the whole of the gang. I had not long been their captain, however, when our retreat was discovered ; we were surprised by a force too powerful for us to resist, and most of the gang were deslroyed, I having with much difficulty made my escape with a large sum of money. I now made my way to Italy ; re- assumed all the style of a man of fashion, and mixed in similar society to that I had been used to in former days. 1 assumed the name of Chevalier Arnaud, and my company was much sought after by the gay and thoughtless. I told Madame de Floriville not this, re- collect, Caleb, but that I immediately came to England. But it was not so ; although I was several times on the point of doing so, hearing thai my wife and child were living there.- " 1 have before told thee, that I had again launched forth into my former course of life, and my time was al most entirely occupied in scenes of riot, debauchery, and extravagance. In my gambling transactions I was very successful for a time; bul, at length, fortune turned the scales against me, and two or three heavy losses succeeding one another, brought me almost to ruin. To have to abandon my gay life, I could not bear to think upon for a moment, and I determined to adopt some plan by which 1 might retrieve my fortune. Ii was not long ere I hit upon a scheme, which will, doubtless, excite ihy wouder and abhorrence. " I have informed thee what a favourite I was with the fair sex, who, of course, all believed me to be a single man. Bul there was one who paid me more par- ticular altention than any of the rest, and who had sue ceeded in implanting in my breast a considerable sensa- tion. This was the Signora Floretla, a very beautiful legale, young, accomplished, gay, and fascinatin « , and poWsoiw a still greater attraction in my eyes, namely, a very biig." fortune. To her I now devoled my whole attention ; decfareo ' 5V passion for ber, and had the satisfaction to be receive.,' >; itb favour;— to be brief, in a few weeks afler this, Sipuora FJI'retta became my wife." " Thy wife! Monsieur de Fiorr- ille ? > ejinttfjateu 1 Caleb, with unfeigned astonishment and incredulity; i " thy wife, and Madame de Floriville living ?" " Even so, Caleb," returned Adolphe coolly ; " but what was I to do ; I had beggared myself, I shud- dered at the idea of being again reduced to poverty. Floretia had charms, accomplishments, wealth; Lau- rette was parted from me. I oelived, for ever, and thou knowest what followed ; I have told thee." ( To be continued in our next.) a libel on the tailor that madeit, from its unseemly shape, trousers that scarcely reach to his ancles, low, one- tye shoes, and a decayed wrinkled face, and you have a faith- ful portrait ot " The Factory. Overseer.'* The person alluded to is " in the employ" ( if the term is not too gross to ojfend the feelings of this tyrant,) of a gentleman carrying on an extensive business as a weaver, not far from London. To su. ch au extent does lie carry on his tyrannical power, that not a man!, woman, or child in the factory would pity him were he reduced . to the lowest degree of poverty. The employer's ( we will use the term again, spite of his feelings,), opinion of this villain is far different from those of his workmen— he 1 « a nice, good- natured man."— Yes I so long as his " good- nature" brings cash to his pockets, he is so. Many are the workmen who Iiave been deprived of their hard- earned gains, and scut penniless tri their wretched homes, their starving wives and children crying, to them for bread— and who has been the cause of this?— the good- natured man forsooth ! What base hypocrisy lurks under a sauctified face. It' " good- nature" consists iu making people wretched, and kill'ine them by slow degrees, the overseer deserves ihe most credit. Some years ago a robbery was committed on the pre- mises ot the factory, but who was the delinquent none could tell. Several hales of silk, and a variety of other valuable articles was the property missing, and the over- seer was the first to fix his Suspicions on one who had hitherto borne the character of an upright and honest man. No decisive proof was given, but as tbe overseer suspected him, that was enough; he was accordingly transported for a period of seven years on circumstantial evidence only, but by his good behaviour and manly . con- duct, his term was commuted to a considerable shorter time. Some time after the transportation of this poor fellow, tbe overseer turned bis thoughts about going into business in conjunction with another partner ; and having accumulated sufficient wealth by his honesty, (?) he gave his " employer" notice- to leave. Shortly after, his master, having a great regard for him, being an old ser- vant, called at bis residence, and there to his great sur- prise he discovered the identical bales that had been stolen from him— and by whom?—" the good- natured over- seer !" At length the term of transportation expired, the " suspicious" workman was once more received into the factory, from which he had been so unfairly ejected, and tht master, as a recompense for his unjust imprison, ment, appointed him as the future overseer of the factory, which he filled with credit to himself aud profit to his employer. I'he tyrant ex- overseer was immediately seized by the officers of justice, thrown into prison, and left to the " good- nature" of his majesty's government. The judges on his trial, knowing the two- faced hypocrite they had to deal with, in coiisirieiation of the harsh treatment inflicted on tbe innocent man, hardly knew what punish- ment to award to such a villain ; but after a deal of con- sideration, they determined to double tbe term of trans- portation the " suspicious" man had suffered, and be was accordingly sentenced to be sent beyond the seas for fourteen years.— That was their " good- nature." N. R. be no use to endeavour to extract anything worth re- membering, for the pains would be greater than the profit; but still we ought not to condemn that labour which is not totally useless : " Bees extract boney even from poisonous flowers." There are a great variety of tastes ; and all may be gratified to a certain extent, when guided by reason- but it certainly shows a strong intellectual mind, to fol- low with perseverance that which appertains to instruc- tion, and not to lose the advantages of lasting improve- ments, by seeking after present relaxation. The bees roam alter sweets— do not scatter them to the winds, but store them in their hives. So ought we to extract the beauties Of a work, and carefully harvest them in the barns of our understanding. ERNNESTINE DE LAC? I OR, THE ROBBER'S FOUNDLING. BY THE AUTHOR OP " ELA, TUB OUTCAST," ETC. ( Continued from our last.) " The earl having closed tlie door after him, stood contemplating me lor a few seconds with looks of bold- ness, while 1 could plainly read from the expression of his countenance the dark and villanous thoughts that were passing in his mind. I struggled with my fears as much as possible, and endeavoured to meet him with firmness and perfect composure, and I succeeded much better than I anticipated. " As the earl folded his arms, and still did not offer to speak, 1 broke the silence by demanding in tones of indignation :— " ' My lord, probably thou hast come hither to ex- plain to ine the cause ot this outrage— why am 1 detained here a prisoner?' " ' Simply because it is my will,' he replied; ' thou dost forget, mcihiiiks; that thou art under my jurisdic- tion, and must riot question mv conduct. 1 f' ' When that conduct is dictated by a spirit of ty- ranny and injustice, I will question it,' I returned, boldly ; I repeat thai thou hast no right to matte me a prisoner ; eto merit such a punishment?' fO CORRESPONDENTS. Accepted: " THE LOVER'S WISH," D. O., W. S.; J. SIMPSON, " ELA," " BETA," G. B., ELIZA COOK, P. L. M., A. A. Z., CHARLOTTE, B. B„ " SEPTI- MUS," and O. We are obliged to MR. H. MANPER MAY for his ob- servations, the truth of which, we, unfortunately, are a: are of; but such things are almost unavoidable. A SUBSCRIBER.— fYe have distinctly stated that the booksellers have no right to make a charge for the first number of" THE MAMAC FATHER," presented to every purchaser of No. 65 of ". THE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES."; We cannot say, at present, now many num- bers " ' Pin,: HEBREW MAIDEN" will be computed in. S. S. B.— Declined. The communications by W. SUTTON, ( Dublin,) will not exactly suit. We are extremely obliged to the numerous Correspondents and Subscribers, who have bestowed so many encomiums upon the new and deeply interesting romance of " THE MANIAC FATHER; OR, THE VICTIM OF SEDUCTION," the first number of which was . given away with last week's number of this Journal. It is publishing in weekly numbers at one Penny, and monthly parts at Fourpence each. The second edition of No. 1 is now ready. G.— A chapter or more of the new romance called D. " THE ROYAL FAVOURITE," will be published every week in " THE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES," until com- pleted. • ' The following shall appeof as early as possible : " THE POOR MAGDALEN," Charades by J. GOSLIN, ( Dublin,) " SKETCHES OF THE LIFE AND VICISSITUDES OF A SAILOR," and I. T. " HYDROCUMSQUINTO." ( Lynn.) No. T. S., and " ON A DEPARTED MOTHER" will not suit. J. H. ADKIN. — The Tale alluded to was not given as original. We have always felt a pleasure in giving the favours of " ANNA, MINSTREE OF THE HEATH" as prompt in insertion as possible. The packets to which she alludes, never came to hand. The Tale by J. M'CORHAM is quite illegible. A. B— No. Under consideration : F. P. MACBETH; T. B., ( Leeds,) " ELIZABETH," O. KF. OGH, ( Dublin,) P. BAXTER, " MUNGO," R. H., and P. LE BRUMF. NT. Many other communications from esteemed correspondents have reached us, and will be attended to in our next. All communications to be addressed ( post paid) to the Editor of THE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES, 231, High- street, Shoreditch. THE PENNY PEOPLE'S POLICE GAZETTE. THE FACTORY OVERSEER. Mercenary and unfeeling must be the individual des tilled to fill the above situation ; independant, love of money, and control, are the ruling passions of the over- seer ; while those uuder his command crouch to bis very feet, and " want, with horror, stares them m the face." Nay, they are looked upon by him with disdain, and tieaied as if they were his menials— not his master's! Villany iu its darkest shades may be traced upon his coun- tenance, and a grasping disposition, bordering on that of a miser, is bis leading characteristic. Fancy to yourself, reader, a man on the verge of forty, with a downcast look, as if some enormous crime weighed heavily upon his- miud, a gait " slow but sure," and habited in a coat that, if it could speak, would say it was ON READING. The advantages of reading are numerous : supposing you were separated from mankind by illness— distance of abode, or from a disposition for solitude. In each of the above incidents, although you have no intercourse with the living, yetyou may with the dead. How ?— By means of reading— all the wisdom of our predecessors is contained in books ; indeed, in our intercourse with our fellow- creatures, vve cannot always, as is tbe case with reading-, choose those that are wise and enligh- tened, and neglect those that are base and ignorant. We derive much pleasure from reading, but we ought to obtain information aud instruction as well. A book that contains matter of consideration, if lightly read, makes but a slight impression ou the mind. Light ifi. 7 ; SS such as romances, & c., are generally skimmed over, and are easily fosgotten ; no dou', t, there is in many of then; a. good moral'; but Ibe fault is, we read them for pleasure, not fpr profit, " and the :•;,•.. gotten as well- as the story. Reading requires > a, ( and the more we reflect, the more eager we are to read) in order to take deep root: when we consider . what we have read, the vacant parts are soon obli- terated, but not so those passages containing something of importance, as they leave an indelible impression on our minds. Learning civilizes mankind; but great care ought to be taken in the choice of books ; there are bad works as well as good, and we have some con- taining a mixture of good and evil. On reading this latter kind, we ought to reflect even more than as if it was altogether of the same character. All men were born in sin, and all men have a natural inclination to sin ; therefore, great care must be taken lesl; our prin- ciples become contaminated by reading bad works, and thus we become viscious men. In works of a light nature we may^ say that it would what have 1 done Blanche,' said the earl, after a brief pause ; 1 it rests entirely with thyself; a word from thee and the bolts that confine thee shall be withdrawn immediately ; but obstinacy will not only bring down contrary treat- ment, but will also not save thee from the fate thou wouldst avoid. I did fully reveal to thee my sentiments yesterday, and my determination to act upon them, and nothing whatever can alter my resolution. I offer thee my hand, rank, fortune— I woiild make thee my honoured bride, and lavish upon thee every happiness ; then do not reject the proposal while it is vet in thy power. Of this, however, be assured, that here thou shalt remain confined until thou dost consent to become mine, or I drag thee by foice to the altar,' " ' Villain !' had almost escaped my lips, but I stifled my feelings as much as possible, aud with a look aud tone of the utmost resentment, said,— "' Thou hast told me thy determlhation, my lord; hear also my firm resolution— sooner will 1 die than live to endure a fate to me so detestable.' " ' Obstinate, scornful girl,' cried the earl, in vain en- deavouring to conceal the rage my opposition excited in his breast; ' mind that thou dost not repeut this. But a little imprisonment may serve to alter thy toue. Were 1 to suffer thee to be at large, thou mightest perchance take it into thy head to elope from my custody; but I will not afford thee that opportunity. But think not that with the exception of confining thee, I either wish or intend to restrict thee in any of thy enjoyments; on the contrary, I would show thee by my kindness the sin- cerity of those vows 1 have proffered to thee. I would prove to thee, dearest Blanche, that I love thee to dis- traction ; that 1 adore thee even ;— here again, on my knees do I repeat to thee, fair maiden, the assurance of my boundless love ; here at once do I lay my coronet at thy feet, and implore of thee to accept it. Dispel then those frowns of displeasure that so ill- become thy beau- teous face; banish scorn and repugnance from thy gentle bosom, and accept the happiness 1 offer to thee.' " ' My lord,' answered I, ' if thou wouldst not turn that respect 1 had lor thee entirely to disgust ana hatred, thou wilt cease thus to persecute me, and retire imme- diately from my sight. Oh, sir, reflect, ( beseech tiiee, before thou dost proceed further. As the father of Lord Alfred, I would fain love thee as mine, but when—' " ' Why dost thou again mention the name of that hated boy'to me ?' cried Harlingwood, passionately ; ' I tell thee again, nay, I swear that lie never shall be thine ; — thou art mine, mine, and no other. My mind is made up to it., and were all the fiends of hell to stand in my way, they should not prevent the accomplishment of my wishes !' " The earl paced the room with hasty strides as he thus spoke, and the violence of bis manner greatly alarmed me. I did not offer to make any observation, and was resolved not again to make any allusion tp Lord Alfred, if 1 could possibly avoid it. " At length bis emotion being sdmewhut subdued, he took my hand, and in a voice of forced calmness, said,— " ' Pardon me, lovely Blanche; the impetuosity ot my passion at times forces me into expressions of vio lenee, which I do not mean, and which 1 am afterward sorry for. I do request thee to consider well the offer I have made thee, and complete at once my happiness and thine own, by yielding thy consent to become my bride. 1 will no longer intrude myself upon thee for tbe present, but will give thee due time to consider ofit, and will expect thy answer in a week. Farewell, sweet maiden, until we meet again.' " He pressed my hand with an air of respect to bis lips as he spoke, and then after bestowing Upon me a look of the most intense admiration, he quitted the room, and left me to myself. " It would be a useless occupation of thy time, fair ladv, were I to enter into a minute detail of the feelinns lhat filled my mind after this interview, but fear and dis- gust were my most predominant sentiments; however, I knew that no good could possibly be derived by giving way to grief; I, therefore, on the contrary, endeavoured to compose myself as much as possible, and implored tbe aid of Providence to enable me to make a firm and de- termined resistance to the earl. One thing afforded me infinite satisfaction, which was, that 1 imagined from his observations, I should be released from tbe sight ol him for a week, and in that interim I lived in hopes that something might transpire to induce the earl either to abandon his designs, or to restore me again to liberty, md rescue me from his power. Could 1 but manane to escape from the castle, 1 had come to the determination to seek protection and an asylum in some religions house, until 1 was out of his jurisdiction; and, in fact, any fate to me appeared preferable to that with which he threat- ened nie. My thoughts were incessantly fixed upon my lover, who was exposed to all the dangers and horrors of the sanguinary field of strife, and might ere now have perished, while, at tbe same time, should be be alive how bitter, how very poignant would be his anguish could he but know tbe misery I was enduring, and the fate with which I was threatened by tbe villany of his own father. " My conjectures proved correct; I saw no more of the earl for the time he had given me to consider his off, r and Gcbaldirie was my constant companion, aud by tin sympathy which she expressed in my misfortunes, greatly lightened me of my cares. Willingly would siie have aided me to escape had it been in her power, but the earl had made use ot such precautions, and had persons so continually upon the watch, that all chance of such an attempt was rendered abortive. " As the day quickly approached when the earl would xpect my answer, my apprehensions increased, but I trier? toconquer therojts much ,3s 1003) 1}. so that ! migh be able to meet him with that resolution aud present*? 0/ mind which the nature of the- sss'- ject rtq sired ir- o do. " The earl was true to his appointment, and ats an early hour in the morning entered my chamber, apparently elate with expectation. He entered into a long and ful- some rhapsody upon my beauty, and then at once de- manded my decision. Now had the moment arrived which required all the firmness and intrepidity I could muster, and I succeeded by far better than I expected I should have done. I answered him mildly, but with de- cision, lhat honoured as 1 might feel by tbe offer he had been pleased to make me, I must positively decline it; because, were I to bestow on him my hand, it could never be accompanied by my heart. 1 could have told him that nothing could ever change the Sentiments with which his son had inspired me; but I was fearful of exciting him too violently, and I, therefore, desisted. I shall never torget the rage of the earl when he heard my reply to his demand;— he stamped his foot furiously on the floor, bit his lips, and his countenance was so distorted with passion, that it was frightful to behold. He tra- versed the room fiercely for some moments, and was unable to give utterance to a syllable ; al last be turned to me, aud in a voice of half stifled rage, he said,— . " ' And is that positively thy decision ?' " I answered in the affirmative. " ' Tbou wilt not retract that decision ere it is too late?' demanded he. I will not!' 1 answered with ihe greatest firmness, having completely conquered my fears. " • ' Tis well,' observed the earl, with fearful coolness, ' tis well, then be the consequences on thine own head : obstinate, headstrong girl.' " He said no m- re, but with a look of fierce determi- nation quilted the room, closing the door afier him with a loud bang, ana securing it on the outside as before. His behaviour seriously alarmed nie,- for I considered ihere was more to apprehend from it than if he had used any violent threats. The remainder of that day was passed by me in the most miserable manner, my irji, nd being filled wi'h alternate hopes and'feart. Geraldine did not come near me ihe whole of the day, but, as evening approached she entered the room with some refreshments, ot which she induced me to partake; she expressed the greatest commisseration iu my sufferings, but she did not seek fot a moment to disown that there was but too much reasori to fear the worst from the earl, knowing so well as she did his determined disposition, and how little able he was to brook any opposition to bis will. Geraldine was com- pelled to leave me earlier than usual, having some par- ticular business to attend to, and feeling thirsty, I took up the glass containing the wine, of which 1 had before slightly partook, and took a hearty draught. I had no sooner done so than a curious sensation came over rifle 5 — my limbs tottered, my head swam round, my eyes grew dim, every object in the room gradually faded from my view, and sinking on the floor 1 became insensible, " Ou my restoration to consciousness, my astonish- ment aud consternation may be imagined, on finding myself in a vehicle, placed between two ruffians, wboee countenances were sufficient to excite the utmost alarm and disgust in my bosom. The carriage was proceeding at a rapid rate, and the blinds being down, 1 had no op- portunity of judging in what direction we were going, or . whether it was night or morning. I had some faint re- collection, of what had taken place at Harlingwood Castle, aud tbe insensibility which had immediately taken place after 1 had partaken of the wine, and it now sei med pro- bable to me that some strong opiate had been mixed with it, for the purpose of my being conveyed away from tbe castle with greater facility and secrecy. These thoughts flashed in a moment across inv brain, and turning with a look of horror to my ferocious- looking companions, I implored them, in tremulous accents, to inform me whither w » were going, and for what purpose I was borne away from the castle. At first the men took no notice of nie, and returned no answer to my in- terrogatories, but upon repeating my supplicatious, one of them turned to me and said,— ( To be continued in our next.) THE OFFICER, HIS WIFE, AND THE BACCACE ASS. This interesting anecdote is taker, from " A Visit to Flanders," and will give some Idea of scenes that were passing during the memorable battle of Waterloo s " 1 had the good lortune,'' saya the writer, " to travel from Brussels to Paris with a j'oung Irish officer and h; s wife, an Antwerp lady of only sixteen, of £ resit beauty and matchless innocence and ' naivete.* The hHsbanrt wa^ in the battle of Qusitre Bras as Well as at Waterloo, and to him I owe much of my minutest an; i most interesting information. He wan living in tbe cantonments nt Nivel'es, hls'wife with S im. The unexpected advance of the French called him off at a moment's notice lo Quatre fltas ; but he left his wife, his servant, one horse, and the family baggage, which was packed upon a large ass. Re- treat at the time was not anticipated ; but being suddenly or- dered, on the Saturday morning, he contrived to get. a message to his wife, to make the best of her way, attended by the servant and the baggage, to Brussels. The servant, a loreigner, had availed himself of the opportunity to take leave of both master and mistress, and make off with the horse, leaving the helpless lady one with the baggage ass. With the firmness becoming the wife of a British soldier, she boldly commenced on toot her retreat of twenty- live miles, leading the ass by the brfu'ie, and carefully preserving the baggage: no violence was dared by any one to t- o Innocent a pilgrim, but no one could venture to assist ber. She was soon in the mldit of the retreating British army, and much re,.- tarded and endangered by the artillery -. her fatigue was pre at; it rain?! i in water- spouts, and the thunder and lightning were dreadful In the extreme. She continued to advance, and got npon the great road from Charleroi to Brussels at Waterloo, when tbe araiy on the Saturday evening were taking up their line for the awful conflict. In so extensive a field, among 80,000 men, ft was in vain to seek her husband; she knew that the sight 01 her there would only embarrass and distress him ; she kept slowly advancing towards Brussels all the Saturday night; the road choaked with alt sorts of conveyances, waggons, and horses; multitudes of the native fugitives on the road flying into the great wood; and many of the wounded walking their painful way, dropping every step, and breathing their last: every few steps lay a corpse or a limb: particularly, she said, several hands. Many persons were actually killed by others, if by chance they stood in the way of their endea- vours to help themse'ves. And to add to the horror, the rain con- tinued unabated, and the thnnderand lightning still raged, as if the heavens were torn to pieces. Full twelve miles further, in the night, this young woman marched up to her knees in mud, her boots worn entirely off, so that the was barefooted; hut still unhurt, she led her ass ; and although thousands lost their baggage, and many their lives, she calmly entered Brussels in the morning in salety, self, ass, bag, and baggape, without the loss of an article. In a few hours after their arrival, commenced the cannon's roar of the tremendous Sunday, exposed to which, for ten hours, she knew her husband to be; and after a day and night in agony, she was rewarded by find- ing herself in her husband's arms, h- unhurt, and she nothing the worse, on the Monday. The officer toid the tale hlmselt with tears In his eyes. With a slight Irish accent, he called her his dare little woman," and said she became more valuable to him every day of his life. I never saw a more elegant gentlemanlike youog man; and assuredly hi* pretty Belgian seemed almost to adore him. It gave additional value to the anecdote, that I had it from the actors 111 the scene described. When I remarked that It was quite in the spirit ot Kliaabet. li of Siberia, the lady ex- claimed. " Ah, ma mere mia dit la theme chose /" u My mother made the same remark.*" CLARA. BY II. MANSES MAY. I trace the wild course, gently trickling round The sacred spot where fancy loves to dream, And sooth'd, I listen to the pensive sound That marks the progress of my silver stream. Ho- v sweet its murmurs steal upon my ear When in the hour ot grief I weeping turn To Clara's grove, to ourse reflection dear, And weep with memory over Clara's urn. When life was young, and innocence and glee Croivn'd the swift lapse of every varied hourj Hoiv oft, my Clara, have I roved with thee, O'er smiling meads to pluck the early flower. Which drooping soon, its modest beauties. An emblem of thyself, now numbered with the dead. Numbered with the ( lead ! for everlastingly discarded ( rem a world she loved so well, by those profess ng to be her friends in nee 1.— Her life unspotted, her person as beautiful a3 would ap. pear the budding rose opening to the enlivening influence of spring; but aias 1 she fella victim to the slow bat sure workings of Inward grief, deeply atoned for by those who knew her virtue and innocence too well. Few there be who have not at one time or the other entered the solitary boundary and confines of a country churchyard, and In contemplative m , od. pondered over the words, " a good wife, tender mother, and sincere friend," or " much respected,— died regretted." When the messenger Death laid its icy hand on ttie amiable Clara, such may be inserted on the recording stone, which will cover the remains of the most exemplary character that ever existed. In the fourteenth summer alter her marriage, Clara was bereft of her affectionate and worthy husband. An infant claimed her attention, and, in performing the duties of a mother, she era- dicates! her srrief, and experienced toe soft and gentle halm of consolation. For many years it was her custom, Ht stated periods, to calf her infant, to deliver to her lessons of instruction, gathered from ,- xp. rience, and beautified by fancy. This duty, one winter's evening in the latter end of November.— a night of much thunder and lain— being ended, they seated themselves in the little par- lour, when CI , ra began- by sayiisg: " Jr. has always bean a custom with me, my child, to keep your S'- rSh- tl. sy as a tittle morhintr festival. I have now intended, on - bir; h- da; s - sUen vQit r: . Vs.' ve reached your thirteenth year, so try and mak,: yfiu Happy. A year has not qut£ e passed since > « » < » « tf " gave up i is, breath to journey to ' that lionn e from whence no traveller returns, giving „ n ettr s- tlfare to this precarious life. But I uitl not cause tears to flow prior to vour birth- day. No, I will " Clara made a pause here,— her strength minutely decreased, and she tell backwards in her chair. Her child looked at her with a mixture of grief and surprise, and then said, clasping her mother's hands, " Mother, why art thou so pale, and why that tear?" " Your mother," said Clara, in a low tremulous voice, " your mother will sojn know all,"— then looking towards heaven, shtt clasped her hands together and expired. Header, ponder over this, and likewise parents who can picture tfrief. This is no fictitious ^ crap. No,— it is the plain unvarnished truth, founded on fact, and humbly submitted to the serious consi- deration of every person that can read " The sad fate And shed a tear," It is time to drop the curtain over so melancholy a subject,— it falls on the death,— never to be forgotten by the: many admirtrs and relatives of Ciara,— The Heroine of" Domestic Humility I » THE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES AND PEOPLE'S POLICE GAZETTE.' HERBERT A*! D FANNY. A CAMBRIAN TALE. • BY THE AUTHOR Of " BRITAIN'. HISTORICAL ORAM A.." CHAPTER i. WANDERING lately on a Jjllgrimnge ln the beautiful AND roman 11c country ot South Walls, its visited the village churchyard of i' in ( i - shire. It. was on a summer's tranquil eve; tiie ' brilliant, tints of sunset enrobed the distant mountains In the Tichest purple, ami the ruined castles, which rose litre and there • abate the thick folisg » of the craggy summit and lofty precipice, formed enchanting pictures of nature that outvied tlie exquisite ' paintings of a Claude Lrrfilne. Nor was there wanting the deep and gloomy ravine, or the rocky ^ orge and niouutalu puss. over, shadowed with savage wood-, such as Hal valor K,, sa would Invc delighted to copy, and which fancy might people with the fairy beings of ancient romance. or the bandit hordes ofa border land The leaiage of the tall trees which almost surrounded the church yard was tinged wilh flickering gold, awl the Rivers of remem. hrmce, planred round ihe graves by surviving relatives wherever the parti., 1 sunlight tell, lurtoolc ofthe splendid colouring with l" f » ' "\" » preatl. Not a whisper wis heard . inild the houghs tor toe wi„ ds were as silent as the dead. Yet wSiliT8. a u " n< 1 m « ' » » <* ol, music. Which ever and anon • ZZ'i J "" '* ne tl"" 1 bewalllr. gly die away to rise Zl L o-"^'. ', cmu Itwas ihe sound of a lur. dtjr. vit cataract, io I r" cks " f some » " lll « rV d. llle, which, heard hener " m i1 tlle perfect stillness of ronlng, touched the J' indescribable feelings of pensive « e « » arid inve. • would here, remark, that, a lor. ely walk ill a country church J' d has ever possessed more attraction. for us than would a . ounge in the crowded par, s of London, on tiie Prado of Madrid or the Marino of the capital of Molly. Tills taste has, perhaps' arisen chiefly from the fondness with which, in the days ot boyi hood, we repeatedly read Heryey's Meditations among the Tombs aud Gray', sweetly simple eUgy written in a country churchyard! Ohen have we, In year, gone hy, , mon a tomb. tun. ill th, church, yard of romantic 1,-—, which lie, embosomed In a beautifully wooded park repeating the of ,)„. lat, tIll ( w t, fhe , h rik" r"' an< t "" fvrtlttous fear hurried u, back- to the vicarage, then ll. e home of our youth. And never . hall we forget our feelings when, i„ lhe afterwanderlng. of life, we fi « t mention*^".?. "> ,' he ch'iret> Kllhampton In Ctinw. ll mentioned hy Hervey „ s , he actual scene ot his meditations. B,, r , 1," „ i, " -- ntciie ui ins uieuimuuns, l : that we W « « « >* beld In England ma, W.? e. , h th0, e to be round in the villages of - 0Ii 1p- theooe of which we have been . peaking at the tfiAoima — — ou* a- uccu opqunuie av one tint - T r. CT'eut 0f thi" tal<!' , here wa » scarcely a grave that had " ia . utle parterre of ( lowera, while the did, led green sivard was " eo. t smooth and shorn with a lawn- like neatness* Wandering amid thl. humble fere la Chaise, pen. lvely pleased with the simple te. tlmonlea of grief and tenner regard which ap- peared on every « lde, we observed an aged female ill a remote srorner ot the dormitory, planting Sowers around a new- made gril1Vt' - advanced towards her aud enquired if ihe tomb at which she wa. kneeling was that of a dear. loved relative. She looked up, and listing stedfastly oil us, replied, with tears • teailng down her faded cheek, - No, no she was no child of mine; hut I loved her, poor Injured thing, as if » he hail been my own daughter. And she had no friend, no relation who regarded her in her last moments, except oid Winifred. Ah, welladay) my poor Fanny thy fate was 6 Very sad one. But God rest thy soul in heaven, 1 hope I Thou wit grieve and pine no more, and I trust t shall soon be laid by Chy side, for I am now old and feeble, a widowed chiidle. s woman, without one to comfort me, or make my desolate home pleasant. Ihese flower, shall weep over thy cold remains when 1 can weep no more. I have planted them as an emblem of thv beauty, ( or lovely wast thou ere sorrow preyed like a canker on thy bloom. When I sleep by thy aide, who shall tend these flowers? Alas! • we shall both be forgotten as though we had never beer,, for not one ot all my " kindred la there left, to plant even a violet on the grave of old Winifred. Had her mother lived, different might have been the ot of the broken hearted Fanny. I wa » her nurse Irom the day she was born, and a kinder or more beautiful maiden the sun never looked on in all G — shire » BrM", Ly mterest, ed story of poor Fanny, and th ® Kr'v' " y lh « " ide of th, disconsolate Winifred, few « n ,1, Lf! lmv * narr'"-'". If which she had utte. ed but a the her i of lier ° 0" K'""' astonishment, we discovered that drcum « anee » ma, ie Partlal'y acquainted with the ther TndT who, e of , he8e we shall here connect toge- ther, and g! Ve them io our ( nvn wofd|> 8 •• id " i." 8 Sassenach, t possessed ofa good figure, elegant mind, "' 5 handsome face, united with considerable histrionic talent came to C th. i eapitaL of G shire, in the spring 18—, as a member of a company of Itinerant players, whose manpger'a name was F W . This man, it appear., wa. in the habit ot professing great friendship and kindness for hla principal per- formers as long as he stood in need of their services, but no sooner had lie an opportunity, or even pro. pect of . upplying their places with others, than hia Imperious arrogance and vulgar pride were exercised towards them wirh the unsparing rigour of a petlv tyraut. He atiected the manner., phrases, and wearables of a sportsman, and ofleo brought his gun to rehearsal, though we have heard it was never known that he winged even a thnuh or a ioZlfit ' aaak', blra' H\' ing a tae » et tf he altvay, wore a 1 Hef> T mi, ier, 0" hi8 Munt » » aHce, cxcept when excited to l t0 th" " ill of thl. mi? ht his sardonl T bt! tn iut0 a P3 ™ 1!"" of pas, ion- then writhing under th 5 '" ' hat of a great baboon, agony of a gunshot wound. His figure wa. tn ldow' .1' amounting nearly to a squire, yet was he fond ol • J ^ of « sPlaVfng his person in many of ihe youthful heroes ; - rogeOy, while to crown the burlesque, hi. readings were false « ! S pronunciation incorrect, and ill. smirking vl. age void of all expression, save a nouenlity of mimi. StBge bauble, and spangled finery always held the next place in hi. worship to himself, and When perfumed, pulchrilied, and adorned in the habilaments of dramatic costume, he invariably, at every exit, from the scene in Which he had been performing, returned to hi. drrssing- room, and there, with self- adoring delight, stood continually contemplat- ing his own reflected image, like au ape grimacing before a mirror. D Such wa. the manager whose company Herbert St. Claire ( for thai was the name of our hero) joined a short time before hi. ar- v. f'.-. TTT!' rlaing for the « t « tge far outshone JUi • » "• iiaius talent tor lite . lege tar ootshone all Is histrionic companion., and tor a short ilme, as may be well joposed, he was a great favourite with his pretended friend Ihe Ullnajc,- , s'. ioh. however, had been the 111 success of the company » f the town wli'. cii , l; ry left previous to their opening at C - -, that it waa by eorious means t!,;! various . tralagems they could contrive tcreach the next station, and exuiM') t[ « first night of their new campaign. It Is greatly to tie regretted, notwithstanding all which cant l » i hypocrisy may allege lo the contrary, that, with a very tew excep- tion., the protestor, of the histrionic art, the hlerophants of the lock and the bu. kln, ihould be compelled to go through such a long and wretched probation, ere they can reap th- reward cf their unceasing toil, the garland of fame due to their merit. And how many, wilh great lalenta, sink, like the poet nn- 1 the painter unpatronised by a reckle. s world. Into eternal oblivion, and fade like the flower on the desvrt heath. And wh » n it Is also const thelr Pr o fe » s i on I a in Hull'as innocent and harmle. a a. that of the sculptor while to it. honour be It . poken, poetry painting and . culpture yield their votive tribute to exalt, adorn and di « nlfy the actor, art which torms in itself such a splendid union of h. whole a. nelthsv of lli. other, can boast of , os » es « - Ing. Well may Caiapiijit ssy, r 11 For ", 11can poetry express Tall many a tone of thought sublime; And sculpture, mute and motionless, Steals but one glance from time. But by the mighty actor's art, Their wedded triumph, come; Verse cea. e. to be airy thought, And . culptuie to be dumb.'' An art it is, that flings, in the present day, a pure and sunny g'eam ot pie i. ure o'er all the dull and cold realities of life, ^ nno. tently stealing from us for a tirav the recollection of i ur own sor- row, and disappointments, and kindling all the better feeling, of our nature Into kindness and sympathy for virtue in distress, while it awaken, a detestation for vice and crime of every grade and dye, yielding at the same time, the most, rational, elegant, in- structive, ami literary amusement which the human mind can enjoy. An art, that receives not it. poor reward by the cheating, swindling, and trickery ot trade, nor by the chicanery of the law, which so often banquet, on the tears ot the widow, the fatherless * nd ihe oppressed ; nor by the blood- stalled tyranny of the aword, the poisonous nostrum, of quackery, or the ravings and mummery of fanaticism. Why then is such an art esteemed . o lightly? Thia Is easily answered.— Poverty 1. its only crime, and Cant it. bitterest enemy. CHAPTER II. HEHBKRT ST. CLAIRE opened at C— iu the character of Hamlet, Prince'd'Denmark, and won great applause, which wa. re- echoed beyond the wall, of the theatre, through every circle, polite and vulgar. In the town and neighbourhood of C . Fanny weut one eveulng to the theatre— she was young, beau- tiful, ai d romantic. She aaw Herbert St. Claire perform the part ot George Barnwell— a pari which I. almost universally given to au actor who ei'ller cannot look the character, or if he look it, entirely fails in every oilier essential requisite to embody the In- teresting conception of hi. author. As a proof of this, au old performer in tbe very company of which we are speaking, is said to have been greatly annoyed at the manager's casting Herbert this part, querulously complaining how hard it was to be turned out of the character, after having played George Barnwell more than fifty years. Herbert St. Claire not only looked the part, but pel formed it with such an energy aud truth to nature as astonished the au- dience; hi. acting and appearance threw a novel charm over a piece long considered to be obsolete, dull, and uninteresting, and he did that ample justice to the ill- fated hero of the counting- house which 1. rarely witnessed even on the board, of a metropo- litan theatre. Ho did more— he delighted the fair maid, of Cam- bria, and won the heart of poor Fanny the first time she beheld him enter on the stage . while every subsequent scene jn which lie appeared tended to confirm indellb'y the fond impression. She returned home, but not to sleep— or if she did .! eep, her dreams were. filled with the linage of the handsome, the guilty, and the unfortunate Geori e Barnwell— or mote properly speaking, hi. fascinating reprejentatlve. In an unguarded and romantle hour, she wrote . to Herbeit, and modestly confessed her unbounded passion— they met— they were delighted, enchanted with each other, and that meeting was repeatedly folloiveil by other inter- views, o'ten obtuiued at eventide amid Ihe moonlight grove, under every disguise nod in every possible way that love and romance couid devise. Private as their meetings were, they soon became known to the relations of Fanny, and thus the secret of their love iva. speedily discovered. * This i » one, am. ng many other, of the oriental custom, ofihe Ancient . Britons. From China to the Crunea the practice still prevail.. t Saxon, or Englishman. . This amour now became the general theme of conversation at C——, and the tea- table gossip' of ihe venerable old mairis ojt Celtic bl, od, the ' Caryatidip pillars, of their market- town, aristo- cracy, who pretended to be shocked and . scandalised by Fanny's attachment to a Mesunig wanderer of the sock and buskin. Their eyes were uplifted in Horror at the degradation of a Cambrian damsel, descended from a race acknowledged to be of gentle blood nineteen generations before the deluge, and her losing c^ sfcc wus deemed ti);> light a punishMient for casting an eye of tender regard on an English strolle r. But others there. w* r6 whd declared that Herbert St. Claire, from his appeardnCe, mariners, and conversa* tioa, must have been born and brought up in a rank far above the Candle, anil that his present profession was only assumed, the " camlet; and wni « i of a .- ay and reckless frivolity. IN or Were there wanting malicious reports and whispered hints - of. his being obliged to quit his home and I, is friends, either from having fought a duel in which his antagonist felt br in Con Sequence of a lorgery on some relative, who was unwilling to bring the delinquent to public justice ; Which of these evil doings he- had committed, could not be exactly decided, on, though some were generous enougb to I C ieve him guilty ot both. Fanny was con lined to her chnm. b'.' r, and Herbert's life was threatened by her brothers and even cousins- lor their pride and fear was so great, lest their line of Celtic Antediluvians — into which some drops of the blood ot the Trojan Urutii and the Cadwaliadors hud been illegitimately transfused— shouid be polluted by a votary ot Thespis, that they voWed to take a terrible revenge on Herbert, unless he resigned all pretensions to the fair inaii) of , G—:: •.• - shire. But when was lovt*,. de^ p, heiittfelt love, not more ' than a match for - ill the watchful jealousy arid cunning devices of age and opposition ? u The power of love In $ aHh and sens and air aud heaven above, Kuies unresisted with an awful nod, By daily miracies ' leciared a god ; He blindi the wise, gives eyesight to the blind, And moulcs and stamps anew the loves * s mind," Nor, as far as relates to the chief characters ot'our simple story, did the power of love fh. ll to triumph over that caution and lynx- eyed Vigilantte which continually endeavoured to prevent their ardent Wishes and desires. Fanny had obtained, by the aid of a faithful domestic, a ladder of ropes, and at midnight, when her father's household were retired to jest, believing her Securely guarded from all approach or the possibility of flight, she fleetly descended from her prison window, and with Herbert, who stood ready to receive her in his arins at the foot of the ladder, wan- dered amidst the fields aud leafy bowers, whefe fell the pale and shadowy light of the StimtTiei? mooiii, Never looked those fields and silvery groves so lovely before in the eyes of Fanuy, never had the dewy flowers breathed for her such delicious fragrance, or the nightingale poured forth in her ear such richly varied melody. Together they wandered in the land of the ancient Briton, the land ot the harp and the bard, of music and love. A thousand legends of romantic passion and gallant daring have been sung in the halls of that land. But the bard and the chief- tain have passed away, like a cloud before the Winds of evening, and their towered halls stand in lonely ruin on the mountain's brow. Yet love in every age is still the same, attd Still are thy daughters fair and thy sons brave— oh, delightful Cambria! land of the fearp and the bard. Still do the giant mountains lift their proud summits amid the clotids, as in the days of old, and thy wild woods rustle, to the sounding gale in all their ancient honours, where fancy may yet behold the fairy people keep merry banquet and gorgeous revel. As Herbert and Fanny gazed on the moonlit scenes of this land of romance, a paradise smiled around them— And gently clasped within each others arms, A brighter Eden Bhed its flowers of joy On their enraptured hearts. The noisy world was far away, with all its jarriug strife, its malice, and ils cares} and in such a blissful hour what was that world to them, but An a faiht remembrance of a troubled dream. The vivid imagination of their youthful minds drew enchanting visions of the future, when, in despite of those who sought to sunder hearts so fondly united, they should tread together the sunny path of lif<-, and meet to part no more— vVh « n Herbert should hereafter shine unrivalled in his Thespian craft— for such had been ' his earliest ambition— and proudly ciaim the laurel Wreath of histrionic fame in the proudest city of the world. But a far different destiny awaited them both Thus in the full con- fidence of their delusive imaginings they yielded up their sonls to the dominion of an ardent and devoted affection. Often would they linger on the moon enlightened banks of Taff's blue wizard stream, till the first pale hazy light of morning began to make the distant mountains faintly visible, and the herald lark ehaunted her early aGlig at the gate of heaven, till the twilight landscape gleamed out with a shadowy indistinctness, like a half veiled beauty that seems more lovely than when fully seen. Reluctant was their parting, till fear compelled Fanny to fly with breathless speed to her home, where her domestic' faithfully watched at the window, ready to let the ladder down by which she ascended to her prison. CHAPTER III. MiEAk# HiLK there were several females in. who attempted to become rivals to Fanny. Among those that sought, but sought in vain, to win the attachment of Herbert, was a Miss W , a waning, sighing virgin iu her eighth climactcr, or fifty- sixth year, a curious compound of melancholy, enthusiam, love, and ambition, with a spice occasionally of insanity. Her weak head was full of the most romantic whimseys. She continually assured her neigh- bours in spite of all their ridicule, that the Marquis of B—-— had become, when long since residing at the Castle of C , violently enamoured with her beautyj and this venerable damsel, with a sadly withered face, and an Uninviting figure, still lived on in the wild and daily expectation of his arrival at C-—~ under some strange disguise to claim her hand in marriage. She thus acquired among all who knew her, the soubriquet of the Mar- chioness of B One evening she attended the theatre, & herf! she saw Herbert St. C. alre in the character bf a nobleman, and from that moment she became possessed With the certainty that he was the mar- quis, Who, undet the appearance of a player, had come at last to crown ail her long- deferred hopes and wishes with the felicity of connubial love. Whether there was any striking resemblance between the persons of St. Claire and the marquis, whose image was vividly pictured on her imagination, we are . not aWare. Her delirious extaclea now knew no bounds. She flew inio a rage if any one presumed to addresB her by any other title than that of marchioness; talked of het carriages, horses, and liveries, her waiting maids and grooms of the chamber, till the pomp of ex- pectted nobility seemed almost to have completed her dotage. At length she began to marvel greatly that the marquis did not visit her, either in. his own or Some borrowed character, or send even O » P endearing epistle to Inform her of his arrival. She fancied a thousand reasons, and formed as many excuses in her St..; :: dnd for his .1 .. nee and silence, till dissatisfied with them all, and biaisrUig '. il list . of his attachment to Fanny— an at tachment which she vowed was feSre deroga. c y to the honour of the supposed marquis than th? family'Gi' fawny could conceive it to be to her— despair and rage took possession 01 '. he sonl of Miss 1 W , who traced her genealogy through halKtbv. princely lines of Cambria, even to the third branch of the Noahic . .. • • ! During this tempest of anger, doubt, hope, and uncertainty, ^ 1 was said that she passed many midnight hours in solitary and ! love- tora wanderings near the house in which Herbert had taken | up his abode. His landlady, a good- natured, laughter- loving, and respect- able woman, determined to humour the wild fancies of the old maid, which divided with the attachment of Fanny, the domestic gossip of the whole town. Miss W was invited to her house. Herbert was prevailed on, and prepared to give her an inter- view. The hour, the important h ) ur, for which this virgin model of antiquity had languished, sighed, and wept so long, and for which she had now quaintly bedizened herself in all the silken gear of bygone days, at length arrive'!; nor had she forgotten to adorn her bosom with certain " petits bejotix," which might have been taken for the ornaments o: some Celtic queen at the court of Caer Merddhyn, in the days of Vortigern. Thus attired, aud glowing with the pride of her Japhetian lineage, in all her maiden grace and virgin blushes— though the latter, it was maliciously said, were given to her neither by pride or modesty, but secretly stolen from her dressing case— she entered the dwelling of Herbert St. Claire. Their meeting was beyond all description ludicrous. Miss W trembled and faiuted— or pretended to faint, as she was led by the landlady into Herbert's apartment, who, with the assumed rapture of a doating lover, poured forth on his knees a rhapsody of theatrical bombast. He then adopted the tone and lofty bearing of one who considers himself, born to command, while attendants in « tage liveries were prepared to wait his nod wiih the most submissive obedience and respect. During the whole evening— for day- light was not suited to such a scene— St. Claire pinyed the tender inamorato, and after many excuses and apologies on his part for absence and longer neglect, he calmed and satisfied the anxiously enquiring and troubled min i of the would- be marchioness. All was forgotten, all forgiven. In a paroxysm of delight, she remembered no more the months and years which she had pined and languished in sorrowful maiden- hood, sighing for his arrival, and while in the height of her trans- port, she went so tar a* to lavish on him a kiss from her pale and parchment lips. She now appoared anxious that a splendid establishment should be at her command the moment she became a marchioness, for ambition seemed to claim an equal Bhare with love in ker hopes and wishes. This, of course, was reatiily promised by Herbert even tothe full extent of her lofty desites, and thus closed the evening's passionate eclaircissement. Their parting, like their met* ting, beggars description. Their next and last, interview was a very different one, for Her- bert had determined to be troubled no more with her folly. On her second visit the landlady whispered in her ear the startling secret, that the marquis was married, that his lady had discovered his retreat, and had already set out 011 her journev to C , for the purpose of claiming him as her rightful lord. Her arrival was even expected that very night. The only hope now held forth by the landlady ( who seems 10 have delighted in this hoax) to the horrified old maid, was an immediate elopement with the marquis, who, if she consen ted to the scheme, would procure a divorce, and take her, like another Esther, to his legal bed. Fearing, yet honing against hope, the antiquated spinster en- tered the apartment of Herbert, her heart all lire aud her eyes all tears. The interview of this evening was one of sighs, lainentlngs, and reproaches; of tenderness, mingled with fury, 011 her side, and of excuses for the past, and soothing promises for the future, 011 his. When just as the love- bewildered maiden of fifty- s'x began to dry up her tears, and was half consenting to the " dernier resort" of a speedy elopement, the loud wheels of a vehicle came rattling up 10 the door, a thundering knock ensued, a confused din of voices, with a running to and fro, was heard in the outer apartments, and the door ot Herbert's room was suddenly flung open, whf n there appeared, standing in the entrance, veiled and clad in all the gorgeous trappings of state— the enraged mar- chioness! alias Mrs. Young, the tragedy queen at the theatre, followed by several livery- bedizened lackeys. Away flew the affrighted Miss W with a frantic scream to the first door > he could reach, which ehanced to be the entrance to a cellar, down the steps of which, from the first to the last, she slid, reckless of neck and limb, nor could she be Induced to ascend, till repeatedly assured that the marchioness had departed, taking with her the faithless lover in her carriage. Fearfully venturing from her4 dark retreat, the woe- begone damsel, of fifty- six returned home to weep and Wall over her irretrievable loss, and Herbert was never again annoyed with her Visits. On a subsequent evening she once more entered the theatre, to soothe her disconsolate mind with the representation M fictitious woes— perchance to view with a melancholy: pleasure the scene in which her false hearted lover had so lately appeared to revive her h. ng- de! ayed hopes, how blasted and withered. But how great was her surprise, mortification, and fury, when she again beheld Herbert on the stage— and Mrs, Young by his sid « j dressed in the very identical robes of the supposed marchioness ! The gross, de- ception which had been practised on her tender feelings instantly rushed in horribie conviction on her awakened senses, and she fled out of the crowd madly pushing down and trampling on all who impeded her flight. The theatre, from that hour, became an abomination hi her eyes. CHAPTER IV. Wis shall rioW retiim to fautiy. One eVenltiJ* nW unfortunately admitted Herbert by the ladder of ropes to her prison chamber. He was discovered, we remember nbt how, by her brothers David and Morgan, the former being armed with his cava'ry sabre, thf edge of which, happily for Merbert, had hot been sharpened for warfare, and the latter with a stout bludgeon. Regardless of the tears and entreaties of the- Sr affrighted sister, they both fell on her, lover with the apparent intention of ruthlessly destroying him. Ere he could aei£ e any defensive instrument, he Was struck across the face by the broad sWdtd of l) aVid. Sparks of fire flashed across his dazzled eyes, he reeled backward and nearly fell on the floor, when Morgan rushed upon him and completed his fall. The savage and cowardly brothers then knelt upon him, and while David pinioned down his arms, Morgan attempted to strangle him with the handkerchief that was round his neck. The struggle was tremendous! Inspired by despair, Fanny forgot all fear for herself j her blood seemed on fire, and her whole frame filled with the spirit of heroism. She seized Morgan by his dark brown locks, who was drawing tighter and tighter the handker- chief like another Turkish bowstring round the neck of her half- suffocated lover, and with an almost supernatural strength dragged him to the further end ofthe room. She then instantly caught up the sword of David, and with it struck so heavy a blow on his hand that, uttering a bitter curse, he lost in a moment all hold on Herbert, who leaping irom the floor, grappled in his turn the throat of Morgan, as he was in the act of springing, like a tiger, upon him the sefcond time Fanny now hurled the sWord from her WindoW into the street, and as David was about to level a deadly blow at the head of Her- bert with the oaken bludgeon which his brother had dropped, she clung around him as the lioness fastens on the unwary hunter when he has seized her whelps, so that he could neither shake her off nor strike a blow. Herbert, at the same time, dashed Morgan, who was madly struggling in his grnsp, to the ground, and hearing the sound of Voices and footsteps on the stairs, he flew to the window, and by the aid of Funny* s ladder reached the street, nor did his assailants attempt to pursue him. In this unequal strife Herbert suffered greatly ; his coat hun « from his back in Strips and shreds, bis hat was left behind, his shoes, whibh had be « n taken ol£, Were disregarded, and one of his eyes so swollen by the blows he had received from the edgeleas sabre of David, as to be already deprived of sight. The company, a short time previous to this affray, had removed to the town of C— B———, where the theatrical campaign was begun, and he had now to walk twelve long miles ere he could reach his present home. He hastened through the midnight streets of C- •-, fearing every moment that seme one might, meet and recognise him in that wretched plight. SUch fear was certainly needless, as no passer- by could have discovered Herbert St. Claire under so sad and strange a disguise. Crossing the old bridge which led from the toWn over the Taff, he escaped unob- served, and hastened forward with all the speed hifc remaining strength would allow towards C—— B— Before he had proceeded seven miles on his barefooted pilgrimage, he became faint with pain, his unprotected feet refused to perform their toil- some office, and he flung himself down on the dewy flowers of a green bank by the wayside, not far from the summit of a lofty bill, anable to continue his jotirney, yet hoping to gather that strength from a short repose which would enable him to reach the nearest village. Here broke the summer dawn upon him in all its blushing love- line?, s and pomp. The prospect that stretched out to the bending skies from the elevated spot on which he lay was Immense, varied, and beautiful. In the wide and verdant plain below, appeared the dimly distant towers of Fitzhammon, the once mighty Norman chief of the fertile province or kingdom of Morgahna, as it was anciently styled, and beneath thefr lofty battlements rose the baronial town of C on tha green banks of the gentle Taff, winding, like a gleamy thread of silver, through the richly- tinted landscape to mingle with the broad waters ot the majestic Severn. On the left was seeii a grey aud haif- indistinguishable pile of massy grandeur— the delapidated and venerable cathedral of L whose heavy towers overlooked its now humble and scattered village, dignified with the proud title of a city, inter- Iwlngled with gardens and orchards, , aiid the shattered, fragments of its archiepiadopai paiabe. . While far beyond* skirting the brightened horizon, appeared the lofty summit of Cadair Arthur, with the Table Rock, the Skyrridd Vawr, and the Cradle Moun- tain, whose sky- embosomed peaks were already tipt with flaming gold by the sun Tiacenoing. behind them, and whose bickering lights resplendantly mingled with the amethyst, orange, and rosy- dyes which were spread over the vast concave of the east, all brightening into perfect day. A thousand blossom- sheeted hedge- rows divided the far- stretched valley beloW, interspersed with dark green grsVes, and shadowy Woods, and white cottages fleer- ing out among the trees^ while the pearly mist still hung, like the lofty cloud of the tabernacle in the wilderness* on the pilgrimage of the mighty Severn,- aboVe Whhak rose in faint out. lihe the azure hills of DevoniaS lovely land, Illuminated here and there with the ruby lights and purple colouring of the early morn. The melo- dies of earth and sky came in all their sweetness to heighten the beauties of the scpne. The full toned anthem of nature re- sounded far and n^ ar, and the glory ot the Almighty filled her spacious temple, made not by the puny hands of man, but by the word of Omnipotent power. Herbert, who possessed all a poet's enthusiasm, mingled with the wildest flights of romance, and the soul ofa painter for the beautiful and the sublime, in spite of Sickness, pdin, and anxiety of mind, could not but admire this delightful prospeet, replete with the music and loveliness of earth, the splendour and tran- quillity of heaven; and as he cast a wishful glance on the ba- ronial towers of the once magnificent castle and town of C , deeply did he sigh for his unhappy maid of Cambria. But his agony of pain ndw increased sd fast, that he felt ready to yield himself to the fate which seemed speedily to await him ; when looking towards the summit of the hill, he saw beneath a shelter- ing tuft of trees a little inn, or rather ale- house, near the side of the road, and gathering fresh strength and resolution from hope, he arose, and with difficulty reached the door. He knocked and soon obtained admittance. The humane old woman and her son, who kept the humble hostlerle, kindly put him to bed without any questions, which hi his case must have been cruelly vexatious, where he lay the whole of that day without any medical assist- ance, and In the evening, the yoUng man, placing him on a horse, conducted him in safety to C B—— Here an attentive ugeon dressed his wounds, and his landlady nursed him with all tne ' fender affection of a mother. Often have we heard him ex- pt . S. tfor this good Woman the grateful regard ofa son, and many & wish lljat he could once again behold her to repay in some degree her ^ r. pearled kindness. At the end of Aiur or lire weeks Herbert St. Claire was himself again. His dark eV2? resumed their wonted brilliance, their poetic expression, find were captivating as ever— such, at least, 0___ r._ 0 r r ... , was the opinion of the ladies oi . B' "> who flocked in j and trembling form from sinking on the pavement. Curiosity, crowds on the first night of his Wisfreo re* app*'* r. : fter pity, and surprise prompted him to approach. It the be- ll is dangerous affray, and greeted him with their chee: ' j ginning, as he fancied, of anew chapter in the. romance of life, and plaudits. His love for Fanny, and his narrow e; v.; ; He c.' Uight a side view of her face— it was faded with grief, and showered with living splendours, whose glory continueth from generation to generation. Herbert soon lost sight of those vene- rable fragments ot antiquity whieh the town and castle of C presented, and as he entered on the borders of a wild and desolate moor, he heard " the sound of quick and heavy steps advancing ; behind him/ Turning round, he discerned the tall figure of a man, and as this unknown person rapidly approached, Herbert perceived that he held In his hand a carbine or short gun. Night, solitude, and silence were around, and those who have not been placed in similar circumstances with Herbert, cannot easily con- ceive the cold and sudden- horror which, thrived through his veins, as he thought on the savage fury of the brothers of Fanny. The grave seemed to yawn beneath his feet— he was defenceless, un- armed, aud alone, in a land of strangers, aud his present Where- about unknown to all the world except himself and the man ad- va - cing upon him, nor would inquiry be made after him, or his remain's ever discovered, or if by chance discovered, ever known, should he fall the victim ofa dark aud ferocious revenge. Such were some of the thoughts which flashed in lightning- terror at - that moment across the mind of Herbert St. Claire. ' Ihe man now advanced opposite to him— both stood front to front, and gazed at each other With a seemingly inquiring and suspicious sih? nee. Herbert instantly knew that it was not the figure of David or his brother Morgan.—' Not a word was spoken.— There was a sternness mix£ d With a strange irresolution which marked the manner of this mysterious person. He turned away abruptly, and as his athletic form became, lost ia the deepening mists of that lonely moor, a flash darted through the gloom, and tils ? eport of a gun railg like a death- knell in the ears of Herbert! H « f Btarted from the gfotind as if shot, and even involuntarily felt for the wound which, for some moments, he firmly believed he had received. Such,, in peculiar situations and circumstances, is the power of imagination. He then heard,, or thought he heard, a voice far distant calling to some one, but the import of the Words were lost on his ear. Finding no pain as he moved his limbs, he hastened forward with such mingled sensations as only can be conceived, but never expressed. He saw the man 110 more.— Whether by design, or accident, his gun was fired,— at whom, or what it was levelled,— or what his business could have been on that lonely moor at such an hour, remains, and everwi. il remain an inexplicable mystery. Herbert had left his future address at the cottage of the friendly peasant, yet though he and Fanny wrote many letters, their cor- respondence was wholly intercepted, and they heard of each other no more. This seeming silence of Fanny must he urged as an excuse for the coldness, neglect, and subseq ient conduct of Her- bert, who, unconscious of her hapless situation and unchanging love, imagined that absence had made her forgetlul of all her former vows, and endeavoured, though he never succeeded, to erase from " the book and volume of his brain"— " All fond records, All pressures past, That youth and observation copied there," of one who had, as he thought, proved so faithless and undeserving of his devoted attachment; In the meantime, poor Fanny retired to the unfrequented dwelling of her kind nurse, and there became the ill- fated mother of a fatherless boy. He was said. to have been a lovely child, but after a few months he closed his fine dark eyes in death, and now his mother also sleeps in peace beside the little grave of her © nee fondly- cherished infant. We shall pass over the cruelty and neglect which Fafiii'y suffered from her family, and follow her to London, to which she withdrew on the death of her child, and in the house of a female friend, supported herself by humble but honest industry, forsaken and forgotten by all her proud and cold- hearted relatives. Year after year rolled slowiy away, and still the haples3 Fanny could gain no tidings, no intelligence of her lost Herbert. Every play- bill of the various London Theatres which she saw, how eagerly did she read, in the delusive expectation of once more beholding the name of her loved Herbert. Often did she visit each of the theatres, but all in Vain. Never Was she absent oh the first appearance of a new actor, however unknown to her his name, still thinking that Her- bert, like many other heroes ot the stage, might have adopted sume new cqgno< nen. Then with what intense anxiety did she long for his entrance in the scene, fondly hoping and praying she might in him again behold that well- known form which LoVe had so deeply engraveri on the tablets of her menu ry, and once more hear the tones of that voice, the musie of which her ears had so oft drank in with exquisite delight, and which her fancy still re- tained, like the remembrance of some blissful dream. But how keen was her eternal disappointment, When instead of. the ar- dently wished- tor Herbert, some unknown form and face appeared. She then constantly rose and quitted the house, which had no longer any attraction for her, and with a sad and heavy heart re- turned to her disconsolate home. Yet again and again were these visits to the theatre repeated, till hope grew fainter and fainter, and at Last expired in despair. Herbert could not be living, or some tidings of him must, ere this, have reached her. too, like her infant, slept, unconscious of her tears, iu the dark cold grave. Oh! could she but find that grave— there on its green turf broken hearted die, and meet them both in heaven ! Such were the daily and nightly thoughts of the pale and sorrow- strick « n Fanny, But Herbert was sfctll aliVe, though hot to her. He had quitted the stage and all its fascinating allurements for eVer.— Where he dwelt we may not here disclose. The secret place of his retire- ment was amid the beautiful woods and bowers of his native vil- lage, far from the, noise of cities, and the din of crowds, the en- ticing plaudits of a theatre, and the heartless gaieties of a volup- tuous world. Those who had known him on the stage knew him no more. Yet still uid he preserve in this retreat the picture of Fanny, and no doubt he often gazed on it, with a painful remi- niscence of iSygone days. CHAPTER VI. HERBERT ST. CLAIRE possessed a poetic geniils of the first order, and a lofty aspiring mind ; he devoted all the powers and energies of his soul to literature— his days and night3 were spent in deep study— and, at length, after bravely surmounting, with all the stoic firmness of an ancient philosopher, a thousand difficulties, he slowly ascended into the hemisphere of fame, till he became a fixed star of the first magnitude, and though dim and clouded was the rising of this luminary, its brightness has never yet declined. Herbert now moved in a far different circle. Strolling players were no longer his companions, nor could barn- managers exercise their control over his daring spirit. Patronage, honours, fame, and flattery, the caresses ot men renowned in the ranks of litera- ture, and the encouraging smiles ot high- born beauty, were lavished ou him, and poor Fanny was utterly forgotten, cr if her image sometimes flitted across the mirror of his mind, which reflected a thousand forms of intellectual glory, it was but as the light of the meteor gliding athwart the star- thronged depths of heaven— a sha- dowy figure in the wild and romantic recollections of the past. Emerging from the solitude of his retreat, he now paid frequent visits to the metropolis. There amid the gay enchanting scenes of the imperial city, his buoyant spirits revelled amid a bright ely- sium of pleasure; often contemplating on the low and poor ob- scurity of former days, with that joyous contempt which the past and the present awaken iu the bosom of the successful aspirant after fame; and looking back with scorn on the dull scenes of Cambria; even as the way- worn traveller, who achieves at morn the glorious prospect of some delightful country, turns to view the wide ami gloomy desert, across whose barren sands his midnight footsteps had wandered in danger and fear. One day, as he was passing along the streets of London, he met a female clad in deep mourning, who suddenly starting, gazed on his lace with such a whd and half- distracted earnestness, that her look arrested his steps. He quickly turned back, with a strong presentiment that she was known to him. He saw her stand for a moment grasping one of the lamp- posts, as if to support her weak life from her ferocious brothers, had been bruited far and wkie, and gave n tenfold interest to his performance on the stage. A short time after this, Herbert with the whole eompany quitted ' C B for another station at the remote distance of sixty miles from C . Before he left he ventured once more within a very short distance of the latter town, where, it the cot- tage of ORe who had been a domestic in the service of Fanny's father, the parting interview of these disastrous lovers took place, It was the last time they ever met in Wales— and had Herbert lingered but a few minutes longer at that cottage, it would have been, no doubt, their final meeting on earth ; for as the last sound of bis footsteps died away on the listening ear of Fanny, while she yet stood weeping at the garden gate, her brother David, followed by two hired ruffians, armed with bludgeons, came to seek him. How the brother acquired the intelligence of this meeting was never known. Enraged at not finding the object of his resent- ment at the trysting- place, he vented the coarsest imprecations on Fanny, and roughly dragged her back to her home. CHAPTER V. HERBERT went on his lonely way that night in safety, and shortly after joined the company on the eve of opening the theatre at Caer , on the boards of which a Cherry, an Edwin, and a Kean " had frequently played, the latter not long previous to his first appearance in London. Herbert had now wholly lost the friendship of the manager, who acting on his loug- eatablished principles of interested cunning and duplicity, fancied he had no further n* ed of the services of his best actor, having engaged a new one to appear in the- first characters— one who had performed at some minor theatre in London, and was known in the jargon of the profession by the soubriquet of ' Three fingered Jack,' having in a stage- battle lost one of his fingers. This man was what the actors term an old stager, well versed in the business of the scene, and studied iu the whole series of the acting drama; but in whose mind, not Diogenes, had he taken for hia lantern the radiant spear of Ithuriel, could have found one intellectual idea. His attainments, therefore, in the profession, were of- an inferior grade, his manners coarse, his action vulgar, and his appearance unpleasing, while his plebeian countenance exhibited the ravages of premature age and dissipation. It was soon discovered that Three- fingered Jack, with all the manager's puffing, could not compete with the rising talents of Herbert St. Claire, and stung by disappointment, his tyranny grew more intollerable and op- pressive, though poiicy should have taught him the direct reverse of such conduct. Herbert soon grew disgusted, not only with the manager, but with his profession— or rather, perhaps, with most of its professors, whose acquaintance he had known since he be- came. one of the fraternity - and he vowed to quit both for ever. That row he speedily performed, and the ungrateful manager as quickly found to his cost, that it Wa3 useless to keep the doors of his theatre open any longer. On hi* way to England, Herbert passed through the town of C but ills letter to Fanuy, announcing his intention, mis- carried, Kjnd when in the evening ha reached the cottage where last they parted, he fouud to his bitter disappointment that all hope of seeing her was lost. At midnight he continued his jour- ney on foot, he passed through the silent streets ofC- , lie stood a solitary hour gazing at a distance on the house where his Fanny dwelt, who, unconscious that Herbert was so near, or that he bad taken Ids last farewell of the stage, was, perchance, bath ing her pillow with tears for him she so tenderly loved. What ' his' feelings were, at that dark hour, cannot now be told. At length he tore himstlf away— he left the town, casting " many a longing lingering look behind, as its ancient gates and lofty towers rose dim and shadowy on the dark blue heavens, pale m the early ' — Again her eyes met his, and he ex- claimed, " Oh, G « > o ; -> e v* nny ?" Her lips moved; b& l ; apon them, like thelast sigh of the evening winds on the drooping rot, ' She was sinking to the earth— Herbert caught her in his arms-- w cil: ' began to gather around them. " For heaven's sake, my dearest Fanny, come this -. that may avoid observation." And he ied, or rather carried " her, s3 he spoke this, into a private alley where no one attempted to follow them. " And is it you indeed, Herbert?" " It is, Fanny," said St. Claire. " But how could you know me after so long an absence ? Am 1 not greatly changed ?" " Not in appearance," replied Fanny, " or if you are it is for the better." And then a faint smile of joy at seeing him look so like himse. f in days gone by, past over ber countenance, as a brief gleam of sunlight blesses the wintery earth ere it departeth to its rest. " Oh, could I ever, Herbert," she continued, " forget those eyes, so bright and dark ? Where, where have you besn all these tedious years? See you not. these mourning weeds? They are worn for you; I thought my Herbert had long been laid iu hia grave. Oh ! what have 1 not endured for his sake, since that dark hour when last we pat ted at the cottage gate of old Alice in Wales!" But we may not stop to record the mutual questions and up- braiding3 for li> ng silence, which past between them. Suffice it to say, that Fanny told ail which had befallen her since their separa- tion ; while both discovered, too late, that they had been crueiiy betrayed by those to whom their correspondence was confided after Herbert's return to England. At length, Fanny tremblingly inquired if Herbert was married^— Here a long plause ensued— but to peurtray the anxious fear and hope pictured 011 her pale and interesting countenance,; Would be utterly impossible. The art of the most celebrated painter in Itaiia'a sunny clime would have failed in the attempt. Herbert for a few moments forebore to reply j but when closely pressed, honour, the idol of bis soul, impelled him to declare the truth. He thought, too, perhaps, that as it muBt be known, it were better at once to answer the question.— He did answer it— and in the affirmative. Fanny neither shrieked nor faiuted.— She was silent— but it seemed as if Death at that moment had laid his bony hand upon her, and frozen, with the touch, life's crimson tide to ice. A con- vulsive sob was all she uttered. She did not slitd^ a single tear; but her eve lost at once all its brightness— it appeared as if death- glazed, and her countenaKce was like the countenance of one who had just' dep vrted in peace to heaven. Herbert now sorely repented that he had not concealed the truth, at least for a time. He attempted to rouse her from the stupor of grief into which she was last sinking. He spoke of the fame, the honour, and the pationage which had crowned his lite- rary pursuits and struggles, and concluded by telling her that a drama, the production of his pen, was announced for representa- tion on the next evening at one of the Royal Theatres in London. 14 And wiil you not go, Fanny?' said Herbert. V How I should reioice to see you there, for I have no doubt remaining of its suc- cess; and I feel assured it would give you great pleasure, and how much will that pleasure be heightened by the recollection of past days, past sorrows, and bygone disappointments— for we have both suffered, both endured many miseries since last we parted." " No, Herbert," replied Fauny, " 1 cannot go. Your success, whatever woes and agonies it may yet be my hard lot to bear, would still give me inexpressible pleasure. But I cannot go— I must prepare for a long, a dreary journey which I well knuW I shall speedily. take— I am about to retiv I. / Yeon whence I came—- my departure is at hand.— Herbert, you v ' a me again." " Nay," said Herbert," be net so" sad, Fanny. Cruel F^ t'La divided us, yet you still shall be my friend, aye,, nvorc than friend — my ever dearly- loved. sister. Talk not of reu.;; rensaia, a*- least, till I quit London. You must, you shall go to the theatre once more.—- But 1 confess I cannot go with you, h - pledged my word to attend a lady, who moves in the first circles, to the private boxes, and Who expects to take me back in hev riage to her own house, where. I am engaged to meet a large sup i party." Herbert spoke this without the slightest shade of vanity, or th-? most distant thought of wounding the tender feelings of Fanny— for he was in reality one of the kindest- hearted creatures in exist- ence. But he had his frailties, and his splendid genius rather in- creased than dirn^ ushed them— at jlcast its brilliance eaused the shades ill his character to appear with a deeper hue. His love of gaiety, when, flinging his buoks and his pen aside, he flew from solitude and study, like a bird loosened from its wiry prison; his wild aud boundless attachment to the romance of real life: and his pliability to yield himself a willing votary to the impulse and caprice of the moment, often drew him into error, and rendered him frequently incapable of resisting temptation, or reflecting, till too late, on the future consequences of his conduct. And now as these once- fond lovers separated, there was such a solemn tone la the voice of Fanny, which was ever soft and, mu- sical, and such an: earnest sadness in her manner, that it seemed as if her words had be^ n addressed to Herbert from her dying pillow. . « .* farewell, Herbert St. Claire, < wd oh! for your own sake," said Fanny " well to the future. M'uy you be happy, prosperous, and blest, when I am laid low in the grave, as soon I shall be, Herbert—" , " Oh, say not so," replied St. Claire, deepr,' affected. " Yes," continued Fanny, " I knotf that soOti I shall He dowfl in peace by the side of my slumbering im^ nt— my child and pours, Herbert.— rln the quiet valley of Lantrigsant tv* both shall sleep together, unwept and unremembered !— Once more, farewell! fare- well for ever!" It was the last time her melodious voice fell Ou his ears.— So mournfully did it sink into his heart— a heart'equally allve t0 the sensations of grief and joy— that, aa he passed along tbe streets, he could not restrain the outbursting ot a wounded spiriJ. The burning tears he shed were those of unfeigned sorrow, mia^ i*?^ with deep though unavailing regret for the past. He spent an almost, sleepless night; and when at length he' closed his eyes in slumber, dreamy imagination conveyed him ortce more to the wild and beautiful vallies of Cambria, to those very moonlight groves in which he had so often met his now heart- broken Fanny. They seemed as bright and blooming as when amid their shades he revelled in all the blissful delirium of love ; and there the gentle Fanny again appeared to him in all her former fascinating innocence and unstained beauty. But a sadden change came o'er those delightful visions.— He stood alSne at the gloomy hour of midnight in a solitary churchyard j the winds lifted his dark locks, as they howled with demon- like voices to the screams of the desolate bird of darkness. A light, unearthly and / earful, fell on the dwelling- place of the dead, and the tombs gleamed out as if enwreathed with fire. A new- made grave wag at his feet; while the clods which cbvered it moved as if some living thing struggled horribly beneath, seeking to fling its heavy burthen off. The earth rolled back on either side, and in the hollow vault he beheld the bedy of an infant, strewed with fading flowers, and lying on its dead mother's bosom. Well knew he that shrouded face of paleness and sorrow. Here lay her whom once he so dearly loved, in the dark decay of death! His tears feli like ram- drops, and their warmth disturbed the repose of the grave.. The death- closed eye ot Fanny was unveiled; it gazed fearfully. on. the terrified Herbert— her stiffened corse rose up from its clay- cold bed to embrace him!— He awoke, with the chill dews of horror trickling down his brows— and that night dared he not to sleep again. But a new day dawned on the romantic son of Genius, who had so long and arduously toiled for fame and distinction. It was to him a day of hope, anxiety, and delight. The feelings of a general on the eVe of battle, when victory shall crown him with laurels, or defeat doom him to shame and scorn,, may only be compared with those of a bard, on the first appearance of some dramatic effort of his muse. At last, the dreaded, wished- for hour arrived.— The theatre was filled in every part. And Fanny— with all the devotion of a woman's love— deter- mined to endure this final conflict of joy and despair which min- gled in her bosom, like the last faint sun- beams struggling with ' the wintry tempest.— Fanny, without friend or companion, ap- peared in the pit. She had not long been seated, before al e saw two ladies, richly dressej, enter a private box, and in a few mo- ments after she beheld Herbert also enter the same box, and come forward to the front. His attire was elegantly fashionable, and poor Fanny could not but think he looked more handsome than ever he appeared before. And then his eyes— always bright and intelligent— how flashed they now with the high- flown, romantic exultation of the hour, and often tvere they directed towards her — at- leaalshe fondly thought so— while, as the performance of his play proceeded with universal applause, not a cloud overcast those s m 5 le a of :- iri uhi ph and congratulation which were continually ex- changecTbetween him and the ladies, who sat in the splendour of their, beauty and their pride, on the right hand and on the left of our delighted hero. There was a joyous sadness visible in the dejected countenance of the deserted Fanny ; but not a smile passed over her pale cheek, not one sunny ray of laughter illuminated her tear dimmed eye. She felt a mournftil satisfaction to see that Herbert was so fortu- nate, so gay, and so happy. But it was no longer for her that his joys were thus full.— She, the poor forlorn one, felt herself cut off for ever from being the partner of his brilliant career.— She was never to share in the glory of that fame which his poetic talents; had conferred upon him.— Another must be the partaker of all his triumphs— one, it might be, whose soul was not formed to feel aught of that sympathetic bliss which she would have feit whose kindred spirit was once as ardent, impassioned, and romantic as his own. But earth had now for her not one single tie remaining; and it seemed as if she were taking a last farewell of all its pomps and vanities, a parting view ot that one only object beneath the sun whom stili she could not. cease to love. Her mind would also sometimes turn to the land of her birth*— She thought on the friends of her early youth, on her stern and releutlesa relatives, who had so cruelly cast, her off for ever from their fellowship and regard.— She thought too, on the humble theatre of C———, on the ill starred hour when she first beheld within its walls Herbert St. Claire in the character of George Barnwell. How different was now his fate! How changed his love!^— Her love, alas! could never fade but in death— aloye become as refined and pure as that of angels. At the close of the play, which was announced for repetition amid unqualified applause, the ladies in his private box rose to depart. Herbert accompanied them into the saloon. A crowd of friends flocked around him, pouring forth their congratulations, which he received with a transport he neither could or wished to conceal.— Indeed his high- wrought feelings during the evening had revelled in the very delirium of Romance— it being ever his supreme happiness to compare the gloom of the past with tbe brightness of the present: and then, from Fancy's lofty summit, to contemplate a far more splendid future, which, like Moses on Pisga's top, he may never reach. But the carriage was already in waiting, and Herbert handed the ladies into it; his foot was on the: first step, when turning round he saw Fanny by his side. She spoke not a word, but her sad and death- like countenance told U she would have uttered. He started back, tor it seemed life:?* tha dead in his dream awakened from the tomb! A motive of delicacy towards the ladies whom he accompanied ., perhaps a false shame, forbade him to speak. Turning iron* the carriage door, he kissed his hand to her, and looked on her fov a moment with all his wonted tenderness.— But oh ! that look, thai: farewell look of hers! can he ever forget it in all his hours of luture bliss or woe? It was the last time their eyes ever met. H- stepped into the carriage, the door was closed, and it dashed at full speed. Fanny had gazed on that form and face which she adoreri„ t thelast time on earth; she had beheld him in honour and splen- dour, and she turned towards her humble abode in broken- hear'a i despair. The next day Fanny quitted London to return no more. She reached again her once- delightful vallies of Cambria; bat not Herbert himself, in tbe brightest hour of his vivid imagination, cou^ d pourtray the anguish of her heart, when first the d? a • t mountains of her native land lifted their daik blue summits to her view. ShS- ai'riVed at the lowly cottage of Winifred, her kind nurse, tlie only fr; end->? v' - had left, beside her God, in this• hopeless world. But nev , , tha good old woman's maternal foruU;, -. ; alleviate her despoi. . or bring one transient smile on bee faded cheek. Within one mfcntb, one painful month, she her white shroud,- paler than the pV, J-& t flowers which her wetp; nurse had scattered profusely on her I' « om. No mourne. at- tended her to the last dark dwelling ofthe u ad but that kinu 0: - woman, whose tears bedewed her coffin as it was' ]<?> ve in to the silent grave. Poor Fanny! thy day of sorrow and anguish is .. steepest in peace by the. side of thy once - beautiful child, marks the spot, but the flowers bloom sweetly around resting- place, shedding their richest fragrance— " The scattered oft the earliest of the year, By hands unseen are showers of violets found; The redbreast loves to build and warble there, . And little footsteps lightly press the ground." And Herbert— where is he? We may not tell.— Still is he the flattered idol of the gay and the renowned. Poor Fanny!— She is in her grave, but her picture still hangs in Herbert's study.— He ften looks at it with a sigh, and thinks on the flowery grove* of Cambria, but he dreams not that she lies mouldering in her shroud, that the worm is her companion! he knows not of the lonely spot where her ashes rest in peace. CROSS READINGS. Wanted immediately, several hundred men to superintend the -—- education of four children, who will be treated as one of the family. Last week John Jones was indicted for stealing The Duke of Wellington and several other lords and gentlemen. His Royal Highness Prince Albert arrived in town this morning —- on a dung cart. A dreadful fire broke out last week—- in the Mediterranean sea. Mr. Kean, after playing the part of Richard the Third to a bril- liant and crowded house was sentenced to be transported for fourteen years. Last night a furious beast tossed—- St. Paul's, and a great many other churches. A glutton, for a trifling wager, ate up four old houses which were going'to be pulled down. Yesterday a new work was published by—— a royal Bengal tiger. A numerously attended meeting was yesterday held at the Free- mason's Tavern, his Royal Highness Prince Albert in the chair, fur the purpose of taking into consideration—- the most effectual way of destroying bu^ s and other vermin. Considerable alarm was excited at the Stock Exchange yesterday morning, by an unfounded report that-— an old apple woman was knocked down in Fleet- street, ! THE PENNY SUNDAt ttltfiA AND P W P t t i * POLICE CrAJZETTC. ^ Fragment* for ttje Curious CURIOUS RECIPE FCVR LAZINESS.— The following ex- tract is from an old book, entitled, 44 The Brevary of IHealthe" by Andrew Boorde, Physyche Doctour, m Englishman, ^ nno 1557, which merits particular at- tention as an infallible cure for the 4 lazyfevtrS The 151 ch& ptre doth shewe of an evyll fever, Ihe Whiche doth combate yonge persons, named the fever ( burden, ( lazy fever.) Among all the fevers, I had at- most forgotten the fever burden, with the which< 5 many ; yonge men, yonge women, and other yongc persons, be aore infested now a- days. The cause of this infinnitic: — This never doth come naturally, or els by evyll and alouthful bringing up. If it do come by nature, then the fever is incurable ; for it can never out of the fleshe that is bred in bone : If it come by slontbful bringing up, it may be holpen by diligent labour. A remedy, there is nothing for the fever burden w unguent** i baculinum, ( birch entrant) that is to say, take a stick or wan, of a yard ^ length or ^ ! et be ag ShreaIIIa man- fln « cr^ Hnd * ith u & n° ynt , he back twentv morning and evening, an. i do this tw , ° ne day!,, if thi* fey< jr :' ot Mpen in that r ul fhem bewaPe of ^ W& ggyne on the gallows, ,- nd why leg they do tak* theyr medicine, put no lubber- wort in theyr pot^."— Probatum est. I LOVE THEE STILL. 1 thee still, though grief and care . Has seared my heart and paled my cheek; Through ohance and change thou stdl art fair j Thy aspect holy, mild, and meek. To paint thy form would mock my skill?— Though scorned and shunned, I love thee Still, fi saw thee at the houss of prayer,— I thought a tear then dimtn'd thine eye; I thought thy brow WHS tinged with care;— I thought I heard thee heave a sigh. I would not that a tear should fill Thine eye for mc,~ yet love thee still 1 I SAW thee pace our favourite walk, No creature near,— no eye, save mine, Gazed on thy beauties - — saw thee stalk To what is still a holy shrine— The rustic altar, where our plight Of love was made with wild delight. And all around was bright and calm,—• Was lair and lovely still as ever; X felt a sweet and soothing balm Dispel the heartburning and fever. But still concealed I saw the ® tread The spot where early hopes lay dead. & would not that thou shouldst repent The step thy errant fancy took; Though days aud nights in grief were spent, ' Tis over now.— 1 could not brook • Again to feel the keen suspense Which shook my frame, both soul and sense. Go. and if still remembrance brings Visions of former, happier days— The memory ofthe dried- up springs Of young Rte's bright and flowery ways— Danish aufcfi thoughts,— why should we grieve, IFor what we cannot now retrieve ? fi would, not drink of Lethe's stream— still the hours I've spent with thee OottVt: o'er me like a pleasing dra?. m ; And all 1 erst was wont to be Floats on my mind, despite my will. And memory makes me love thee still, A. J. W. © feratra. « Nothing eitemmte, Nor « et down imghl ib malice." SIIAKSFERE. RAYSfAftKE*.— Webster still continues to have his full share of public support, fashionable and numerous audiewcos have visited the theatre since our last. Mr. Charles Kean, Mr. Maywood, Miss Ellen tree, and Madame Celeste, have formed a galaxy of talent, inde- pendent of the other eminent members of the company not to be met with in any other theatre ADEWHF.— Mr. Anderson's indescribable entertain- ment, has lost none of its attraction-, and hundreds of Wondcrslricken and delighted frequenters. After all that lias been said of this highly talented gentleman hy the public pi- ess, it would be superfluous for us lo say more tlmn that his performances may be witnessed again, and still afford astonishment and nmurertWbt, STRAND,-~ We are very HFTPPY to think that the mana- ger of this theatre has met Willi stich success, since he has undertaken the reins of goVei- nmient; ahd> indeed, belli. " I woiild wish to be alone for a ihort period. In i afa hour hence I will join you in the council- chamber." Essex bowed, and the party withdrew. Messengers were instantly dispatched to the different nobles favour- able to the cause, and were soon followed by the arrival of the Earls of Leicester, Sussex, and Southampton, with their retainers, as before stated. At the appointed hour the council assembled, and waited impatiently for the arrival of the queen. At last she came-, and, after graciously bowing to the nobles, proceeded to the upper end of the room, and ascended the throne. Her countenance was pale, and her looks disturbed; her eyes wandered occasionally round the room, as if in search of something that she dreaded to see, and her whole appearance betokened visible per- turbation, " My lords," she exclaimed, aftW a jiiitise df some duration, " I havte vtitbih this last hour witnessed a sight; At the thoughts of which even my heart's blood rutts cold. I may not be believed— I may be called a dreaming visionary; but 1 am determined to act in ac- cordance With what 1 have seen and heard." Your majesty speaks itl fiddles," Cxclaittted the Earl of Sou'thditiptort. " May 1 dsk whit has occasioned these WoMsf" he deserves every enc- ouhtgfement, tictV pieces of Stirling I " You may, indeed," replied" the queen, " for it ap merit being produted itt rapid succession, and brought plies equa! l^ to ytitl all its to niysfclf. I had retired MUSICAL MATCH.— The lute Mr. Palmer of Drury- lane theatre, appeared at a rehearsal in a violent per- tubation of mind, on some intelligence he had just heard. Air. Bannister requested to know what made him so un- easy ! " M. marchs, my dear tit-," says Palmer, with a tragedy strut," monarchs hive met with afflictions, then why should I grieve my puppy of a brother, a cub, sir, has made as Iiad a match aj he possibly could make ; fee was married yesterday, and the girl is as pennyless as a third- rate actress's dressing woman." " Wliat is the lady's name ?'' says Bannister. " Sharp, 1 think they call her." says I'almer. 14 My dear friend, says Bannisler, « ' I don't see why you should fret so, it was a musical wedding, there was aflat an> l a sharp," Said one old woman to another the day after a storm, " 1 saw a roost terrible wind yesterday." " Saw a wind," replied the other, " I never heard talk of a wind • being seen. Pray if you did see tbe wind, what was it like?" " Like! why it was like to blow my house down." MY GRA. NDSIRE' 8 OAK. Just under a bill, In a well shaded nook, An nld ( arm. bouse now stands not by me forsook; o'er shall It be, so long as remains Til' endearing remembrance In mem'rv's chains : For near is an oak tree that nobly has grown, Serves me as a mentor—' tis my grandslre's own ; 44 Kmm trifling affair.," seems to say " great events spring}" 04 Or noble results time aud patience oft bring,'' Should kindred, or friendship, or what lies be broke, I still will revere tills majestic grown oak. For ' tis now three- score and ten years, since he on tMs spot, - A little hedge- row bad nude up, to mark out the plot Of his Juvenile farm, then aasigmd Illm to till, To make goose- pond. orduck- pond, or whatelsa was his will : In Innocent d. slre, against encroachments to prove, He a live fence tlionght to hsve, and to plant was his lord j So many seeds he there planted, not dreaming to see, From any one then plant, d, so noble a tree. ' Tis for this, then, 1 11 pray the intent to revoke, Sheuld they e'er think to fall this majestic grown oak. For he, when in his youvli, In his manhood, his age, Before market, or paper, or e'en sacred page,— " When tenant, and long * cre he purchased the soil, It pleased him to visit— around it to toil. In sickness, prosperity, In grief did I see, This good mau stlil revisit his favorite tree : And the height of ambition that e'er has been nilne, Is to make this spot hallowed and sacred through time. And accursed a'er be that woodman's fell stroke, Which shall bring to the ground this, my grand sire's oak. Cloucesier, March, l » 4l. H. Y. I. T. THE THREE PROFESSIOKS.— The three professions have their greatest encouragement from the operation at fear. A man fears the devil, and therefore bribes the ftnrson ; he fears death, and therefore fees the phy- sician ; and fearing th. loss of his property, gives one half to the lawyer to preserve the other half, and this last project usually ends in tbe loss ef all I The following whimsical hill was some time since to be seen in a shop window near the foot of London bridge, Southwark; viz., " Salt, Peruke maker, removed from Pepper- alley to Vinegar- yard." A PAINTER AT STAMFORD.— A. painter being em- ployed to represent some Chi;-, iibiins and Seraphims, in a church, not a liandteii miles from Stamford, made them appear with ; ery sorrowful crying faces. His re- verend empl jycr asked him his reason for so doing } He renVted, that his prayer- hook informed him that CJ'. erubims and Seraphims CONTINUALLY DO CRY. LOVE'S OFFERING; OR, IF LADIES LISTBN, LOVE WILL PROVE VICTORIOUS. Young Love, onca enrnptur'd, to Virtue did kneel, His eloquent sighs did his passion reveal; But to render his heart's fond devotion complete, He wlsh'd for an olf'ring to lay at her feet— That in nature and fashion an emblem would prove. How pure his affection, how endless his lave. He flew off to Hymen, to ask his advice. Who settled the gift and Its form in a trice. Hymen took of" fine gold," Implying how pure, Undefiled, and holy, real love would endure ; And Into a circle the metal did bend, Expressive, like that, it should be without end. And when he had fashion'd and finlsh'd the thing, Exultlngly call'd it a true " Wedding Ring." Love back t. the maid flew, and while she did lkiger To hear his Sotld vows— slipt the ring on her linger. AXNA, MINSTREL OF THE HEATH. A non- conformist parson preaching on tbe fire ol L& udou, said, " The calamity could not be occasioned by the sin of blasphemy, for in that case it would have begun at Billingsgate; nor lewdness, for then Drury- lane would have been first on fire; nor lying, for then the flames would have reached from Wesi minster Hall. No, my beloved, it was occasioned] by the sin of glut- tony, for it began at Pudding- lane, and ended at Pye- corner." One man said to another, " I am very ill, I don't think I shall live a week." " Keep up your spirits," said the other, " 1 dare say you'll live a month." Blessed are they who expect nothing, for they never shall be disappoiuted. Two porters quarreling, one said to the other, " Stop your jaws, you puppy, and double your distance, for your absence would be quite a cordial to me," forward in the most perfect manner. We will give a full notice of Leman Rede's new Burletla, called the Frolics ofthe Fairies, probably in our nel. t, QUEEN'K.— That popular afcttSss, Mrs. Honey, has been delighting the ttuftierous visitors of this theatre for some nishts past, and has appeared in many of her most favourite characters ; also in the popular farces of My Grandfather's Will; The Blue. Jackets; Seventy and Seventeen, & c. A drama called The Phantom BrMe, has also been played wilh success, SADLER'S WF. T. LS.— We Witnessed the performance of another new dVamR at this theatre, called Bracry ; or the Phantom Robber and the Roundhead's Daughter, which was received w ith considerable applause. Pyg- malion's Statue, and The Bridge of Kehl, also continue to be received with marks of approbation. PAVILION.— That eminent light comedian-, Mr. Ji S Balls, has been performing at this well managed theatre, and has been greeted every liight of his performance with the most enthusiastic applause. We understand that Mr. DenVil has several extraordinary novelties in a forward state of preparation. SURREY.— Since our last we have again visited this theatre, for the purpose of once more seeing the opera of A Queen for a Day. We have before staled that il was quile successful, but it Is mttre conspicuous for Ihe manner in which it is supported by the singers, and in which it is brought out, than by any striking features given to it by the author. A piece never makes " a hit' whichis equal in all ils parts and those parts nut ofa hi„ order of merit; and thus it will be with A Queen for a Day, the music of which is pleasing, hut nothing extra- ordinary. It is, however, well acted, and with some humour, although the humouris produced more through ihe aid ofthe performer than of Ihe writer. It has been got up in a Style which does credit to the thaatre. The plot has nothing new in it, hut it suffers FO deterioration from ( his fact. The Queen of Charles II. is desirous of landing iu England, to further the cause of her exiled husband, and, fearing that she may be opposed by the Puritans, she has recourse to a ruse, and this is to per- suade a French milliner to undertake the journey to England under her disguise. This Ihe milliner does, nnd lands nt Dover. The suspicions of the landlord are aVoused, and he gives information to the authorities, who immediately convey 1 lie supposed Queen awav. Whilst the attention of the persons in authority are directed to this French milliner, the real Queen land in another part of ihe kingdom, without the least sus- picion being raised as to whom she is. By this nutans she accomplishes lier object, and her husband lands soon after, and, of coHrse, is invested with his legal authority. The French milliner was neatly acted hy Miss Itomer, who sung wilh much taste and fluency of note. Mr. Wilson acted up to her, as ihe lover. With such a powerful company surely the manager of the Surrey is able to make a decided hit, for th* Snrreyites are not accustomed to such sweet warbling as that which now delights them. VICTORIA.— Osbaltlislon continues to have full houses, and, ( if we may judge from the applause with which the piecesare received) high iygratified audiences. TheVic- toria has certainly never been so spiritedly managed, since Davidgc was Ihe " governor," and it is now, as it ought to be, one of the most favourite theatres in the metropolis. ALBERT SALOON.— This excellent establishment crowded to suffocation every evening. The entertain, ments are too numerous to be described here, and we recommend those who are fond of a rational species of amusement to judge for themselves. within A recess ill illy cliailibel- fot' tfie purpose df t and WAS dki'ejilyeiigagiM ih cUitlmUiiitig With thy when i was startled by THE ROYAL FAVOURITE. AM ORIGINAL ROMANCE. ( Written n> premhj for " The Penny Sunday Times.") CHAPTER. IT. WIIRN the morning dawned on the grey walls of the Tower, the greeu that fronted it to the north- west was still filled with citizens, resting on Iheir arms after the fatigues of that cventlul night. Their numbers had been greatly increased by the arrival of the retainers of the Earls of Southampton, Leicester, and Sussex, who, on the first intelligence of the death of tbe (> een, bad hastened to pay their homage to the Princess Elizabeth. The several standards of the nobles were planted on the most conspicuous spots- tbe Royal Standard of England was flying from tbe highest pinnacle of the White Tower— tbe camion from the embrasures, fronting the river, were announcing, by thsir thunders, that England bad changed its ruler— and bands of martial music, filling the sou't with an enthusiastic ardour, resounded from different parts of the Tower, forming altogether a " most gaye and martial arraye." But, amidst all this bravery and rejoicing, there was a grim and ghastly trophy of the last night's victory, and one at which even the warders of the Tower, accustomed as they were to scenes of bloodshed and tyranny, could not look with- out a fe ling of compassion stealing through their rugged breasts. High above the battlements of the Bulwark Tower, on the point of a rusty halbert, was the head of the most chivalric and gallant of England's nobles, the Earl of Warwick, who, after a long life of devotion to his country and to his sovereign, had, at last, through a mistaken devotion to an unjust cause, met the fate of a traitor at the hands of his fellow coun- trymen. The scene within the castle was not less gay and joy- ous. The nobles there assembled had commanded that ' lie numerous dungeons should once more yield up their pining inmates to the broad glare of day, and many a gallant heart again felt the sweet breath of he tven play over his care- worn cheek in wanton liberty— others, who, for their Redeemer's sake, hail suffered a long and painful martyrdom of torture aud imprisonment during Mary's rcigu, and to whom the coining morn brought nought but fresh sufferings and fre- h miseries, now found themselves at liberty, among lost friends- their wants administered to, their slightest wishes anticipated. Their sober, quiet, thankful look of joy forming a strong contrast to the laughing, good- humoured countenances of the pages and, servitors of the nobles, who, ill their bright coloured dresses, aud their badges glistening in the sun, were hurrying to and fro on errands from the council- room. Immediately on the defeat of Talbot and his troops, Essex, accompanied by Sir Henry Bedinglield and Lord Blount, had proceeded to the prison- chamber of the Princess, and informed her of the change in her position. The queeu, as she must hence- forth be called, was greatly affected at the news, not- withstanding the many injuries she had received at the hands of her sister. But sbe fervently returned thanks to God for having, at last, placed in her power the means of forwarding the interests of the Protestant re- ligions, and redeeming the land from abigotted spi- ritual slavery. " It will be necessary that your majesty should hold a council immediately," exclaimed Essex, " that we may take measures for your peaceful succcssion to the throne — for, already has your right been disputed." " 1 am not yet sufficiently recovered from the effect of your unlooked- for tidings," said the Princess Eliza- aver, aker, bearing my name pronounced in a soft, low tone. I instaatly turned in the direction from whence the sound came, and what was my sui prise and horror at beholding tbe form of my deceased sister, clad in her coronation robes, but with her countenance the colour of the dead, seated in a chair by my bedside. Terror dispossessed me tlf itly ftfculties — m^ tongue cloVfe W tlie reof bf riiy ihButh— 1 could not utter a sound. ' Elizabeth!' It again exclaimed; but its lips moved not; and its eyes were fixed upon me with a cold, glassy expression, that changed the hot blood in my veins to ice. The figure then slowly arose, and ad vanced towards me : its previous shadowy iudistinctions now assumed a more visible form, and my affright in- creased. It raised its ftrttls; as if fetljdiilinj; attention, and ill thdt stctiott dlscltlstt'l to my View a most fearful sight; on lier breast, near the region ol the heart— gleamed in characters of livid fire, the word ' CALAIS.' The truth was plain ; the loss of that town— the last of her possessions in France— bad broken her heart. " My lords, I will not keep you longer in suspense but the dreidful sccue recurs to my mind witli such vivid aud fearful dlstitictiic& s, that 1 feel, though much against ihy will, compelled to let you kuow all: - As the shadow advanced closer towards me, 1 started from my knees, and, retreating a few paces from it, I ex- claimed, in trejiulous accents, ' Shade of my once- loved sister, what wouldst thou with me ?' " ' To warn tliee against crime'.' was the answer, ut tered in a sepulchral tone. ' Secure thy throne without bloodshed— return good for the evil thy persecutors have inflicted upon thee— and thy reign shall be long and happy !' " As she uttered these words, her form began to dis solve, and mix with the thin air; and by the time sbe had finished speaking, she was no longer visible, it was some time ere I rould recall my scattered senses ; aud, when I did so, it was but to fix me firmer ill my determination of abiding by the warning 1 had received. Now, what say ye, my lords, to what I have told ye, and to the ad\ icc 1 have received ?" " It is, indeed, most strange," replied the Earl of Leice- ter, " anil, if it had been witnessed by any other persou than your majesty, 1 should have been inclined to doubt it. But, as to the advice, it is impossible that we can follow it. The Lords Talbot and Fevershain, with the Bishops of Winchester and London, all pow- erful supporters of Mary Stuart, can only be dealt with by force, and will hold out to the last." " Mv throne depends not on those nobles," answ ered Elizabeth, " but oil the support of my people, and on them ah- iie will I rely. My lather, Henry, on shaking off the papal yoke, placed his whole dependence on them, aud nobly did they repay his confidence. We ivill dispatch a herald to Lord Talbot's castle, summon- ing him to sui render iu our name, with promise of par- don, and quiet possession of all his property and titles. If he refuses, then, and then only will we revert to force. Other of our enemies will we deal with in like manner.' " Your majesty's pleasure shall be obeyed," said Essex ; " I will accompany the herald myself; and i n our way thence, we will proclaim your majesty through- out the city." While the earl was speaking, a tremendous shouting was heard, and cries of " The queen— tho queen 1" re- sounded through the air. A flush of exultation passed across the queen's hitherto pale features, and descending from her throne, she exclaimed,— " Hear you not, my lords, the confirmation of my words ?— My people clamour for our presence. Let's to the walls, and thank them for their loyalty." Raplurous was the shout that hailed her appearance ; each citizen, by all the means in his power, testifying his attachment for his new queen, and her peace- bring- ing principles. When the queen withdrew, it was with the firm conviction that the sovereign's best safe- guard and citadel is in the people's hearts. Long did she con- tinue of that opinion, and her lengthened and prosper- ous reign may be attributed to that and her fearful vision, and to tbe events we have been relating. Lord Essex proceeded on his mission to Totehill Castle ; and on his way through London, his herald duly proclaimed Elizabeth, < 2ueen of England, without the least opposition. The Earl of Shrewsbury refused to surrender, assert- ing that h « owed allegiance to none but Mary Stuart, his rightful sovereign ; and accordingly the Earl ol Essex " returned wyth all due despatch ' to the Tower. The next day a sufficient force msrehed to Westmin- ster, with orders to burn an< J destroy Totehill Castle, lint In take thn *> arl if . w. tcil. l,. Wliot wnc tl,.,',,- ing to surrender to the queen, after the promise that she made him." " I do not at all wonder at his refusal, good father," replied Gilbert; playfully patting the head of an im- mense mastiff; wbo'lay ( awning at his feet. " He hath been one of the queen's greatest enemies; and, it is said, tohtinlially urged Queen Mary to sign the w arrant for her sister's execution." " He could not have done that, Gilbert, answered the father, " for he was with the army in Ireland at the time. No, no ; it was that Spanish traitor, Renard. It was well for him that he was recalled prior to Mary's death." Well, well, good father, the earl, I am afraid, hath cause enough to liindfcr him frorii surrendering, espe- cially as l evershatli and Bonner are still at liberty, and endeavouring to raise forces from France and Spain for Mary Stuart. But I hope and trust that Elizabeth will be enabled to put an end to the anarchy and blood- shed that has for so many years depopulated this once happy country." " Amen 1" said the old man, gravely. A pause here occurred tti thfc cofltersaiioil, and he was soon lost in a densfe t- lotid tjf his bftn fcl- festtlilg. " What ails the dt) g ?" estlaimtd Gilbert, impa- tiently, as the huge animal, growling loudlj', faced to and fro through the rqo, m, hjs hairs bristling, and his tail lashitig. the air. " L"'' 1'- down, sir, down!" But the dug piid tlo heed to his exclaniatioh. He advanced towards the door, and scratched violently, Els if Wishing to ieave the room. " Open the door for him," said the old man, '* and turn him into the street." Gilbert did so; and the dog, rushing violently along ihe passage, paused again before the unopened outer door, aiijl tutned to Gilbert with an imploring look. The instant Gilbert ojjfelied this doiir; a flash of red light, bright and intense, illumined the passage. The dog flew past him, and was out of sight in a moment. The cause ofthe dog's uneasiness was now apparent to Gilbert from the tall summits of the cast'e rose spiral flames of fire, and pieces of burning timber fell even at Gilbert's feet. Hastily re- entering tbe house, he hastened to his father, and told him of illfe circumstance. They unfas- tened the shutters of the WiudotV, ,- lhd ftotii thence watched the progress of tbe flames. " The soldiers have not been long behind the herald, father," at last said Gilbert; " and, ere now, many a LLOYD'S LIST or POPULAR WORKS. SIXTY- FIVE HUMOUROUS ENGRAVINGS BY AN EMINENT ARTIST, AND TEN NEW COMIC SONGS ( BY PREFCT) FOR ONE PENNY I !! " THE P£ NNY~ SUNDAY TIMES GALLERY OF COMICALITIES," CONTAINS THE FOLI. OWINO ORIGINAL COMIC SONGS, WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THE W( JSS:- i poor wretch has yielded up his tortured spirit through the btistihafcy of Lord Talbot: The scene was now a truly grand one, far the whole castlc was a mass of blazing ruins. The country, for miles around was quite visible, and the lichf'reflectcd on the river, shewed it to be crowdcd with boats, many of them full of soldiers, and some containing citizens, drawn to the spot by curiosity. Tne moon had long risen, but her radiance was totally obscured by dense volumes ol srtioke that iiscetided to the heavens. Sud- denly a tower would fall amidst the blazing pile ) and then, like another volcano, an eruption ot sparks and Haines, and burning wood, would shoot up into the air to an immense height, and fall far away from the scene of conflagration. One by one did the fire reach the cannon oil the ramparts, and their explosions rever- berating through the air, added to the terrors of the flames. Ever aud anon a cry of horror, from the sol- diery beneath the blackening walls, would reach the ears of Gilbert and bis father, as they st- od at the win- dow, contemplating the tremendous scene, telling too plainly the fat. of any poor wretch who had not been able to make his escape. ( To be continued.) The Contented Man. My Sarah and Me. Domestic Economy. Brandy and . Salt. Population; er, It's all owing to the Family Ointment. A Private Still. Happy Land— a Sad Lot. foor Jack— Plwse R.- Member Jack, Joht. Delf— In his Cups. Hard- Up; or, Shocking Ex- tremities. AND ALSO THE FOLLOWINO GRAPHIC SKETCHES: The Maid of the Mlll.- A General Rising — Physical Force.— Bringing him tso ( Two).— A Black Fast.— Ladles of the Court. - His Mind Is on the Rack.— Settling a[ c] Count; Double Entry.— Friar Bacon.— Giving Himself ( H) alrs.— Contracting an Acquaint- ance.— A Heavy Swell.— A Good Bite.— Bodgi-' s Best.— Sedan- tery Occupation.— Currant Jam ; a Friendly Squeez'*-.— A Neat Turn- out.— A Votary of the Nine. — Taking the Pledge. — Warlike Guise ( Guys).— Food for Reflection.— Ceiling Whacks,' a Bel. frey. — A Promising Child,— A Boy In a Fit.— Giving up the Ghost.— Cabriolet Society,— Pleasures of" Fancy."— Best London . Porter. — A Back Settler.— Going by the Post; General Delivery.— CO"', of Age.— Cutting Him to the Quick.— Breaking Cover.— SaucS ( Source) of the Nigger ( Niger).— A l) ey's Pleasure.— A Sad Plight, — A Belly Full of Grapes.— The Changeless One.— A Private Box. — Taken in A[ rjrest. — The Lively Smack; Looking Out for Squalls.— HebreC Melodies.— A Funny Pair.— A Good Calling.— A Shocking Sttek.— The Pot- boy.— Snmmnt Short.— Detachment of Cavalry.— SeprlMd of ti,' « Ule of their Organs.— Neat as Im- ported.— A Free- BooiM.— Faricy Fair.— At a Stand Still.— An Un- happy Attachment.— Coming ! t Slsp. VTHE EMBELLISHMENTS HAVE BEEN ENGRAVED AT THE ENORMOUS EXPENSE OF l, 0W) GUINEAS III In Weekly Number, at Id., and Month!,' Parts at 4d., the New and Highly Interesting Romn-' ice of KATHLEEN! on, THE SECRET MA. IRiACE. In We. kly Numbers at Id., and Monthly Parts at 4d. EMILY FITZORMortO S OR, THE BESERTED ONE. This is decidedly one of the bwst works of fiction we have lately perused, and tbe exceedingly low price at which It is published, must command far it'an extensive circulation. Emily Fitzormond Is a beautifully drawn cliara. ter.— DISPATCH. In Penny Weekly Numbers and Fourpenny Monthly Tarts. THE MANIAC FATHERS OR, THE VICTIM OF SEDUCTION. AN ittGflr. V tNTERKSTINQ TALE BY A CELEBRATED AUTHOR. We have perused Ihe first, and second number of this new ro- mance with much pleasure, nnd recommend it to the admirers of the romsntlc and pathetic.— SATIRIST. * ** Now Publishing In Numbers at One Tenny, and Fourpenny i, onthly Parts, ERNNESTINE DE LACY I OR, THE ROBBERS' FOUNDLING. The lovers of the wild and wonderful will find rich food for their tastes in the romance ofthe above title.— CHRONTCLJC. Complete in 104 Numbers at One Penny each, or Elegantly Bound at Nina Shillings and Sixpence, ELA, THE OUTCAST! OR, THE GIPSY GIRL OF success will be rela ed in the next chapter. CHAPTER III. THE ALMONRY.— THE ABBEY.—- THE SANCTUARY. ON the south- west side of the Eleemosynary, ( or, as it is termed at the present day, the Almonry,) stood the house of one Gilbert, surnamed, from his profession, the Chaser. Even at that time it was an old building, and had been so from the earliest period that Gilbert's father could recollect. Like many other houses of its date, it had its subterranean passages leading to the Abbey, from which, as our readers must be aware, it is not far distant; it had been built to suit the emergen- cies of those eventful times, when the barons obeyed nought but " The good old rule, the simple plan— Let tbose take who have the power, Let those keep who can." But its present occupants were of a different descrip- tion. From morning till night did Gilbert toil at his profession, for the purpose of obtaining sufficient means for the support ot himself and his aged father, who, from sickness and natural decay, was unable to con- tinue at his employment— the same as that of his son.— No thoughts ot care had as yet clouded young Gilbert's brow— for work was plentiful, and the gallants of the court were more f anciful than ever in the ornaments for the hilts of their poniards. OIL the night succeeding the journey of Essex to the Castle of Lord Talbot, Gilbert and his father, after the work of the day was finished, were seated by a glowing, crackling fire of logs, in a small, comfortable looking room, and chatting together over the events that had taken place in the city during the previous two or three days. The room was closely hung with old tapestry, that on every side concealed the massive oaken pannel- lng, and the beams that supported the roof were of an immense thickness. It had Dut one window, aud that looked towards the fields reaching to the Thames, on the banks of which frowned the Castle of Totehill, men- tioned in the previous chapters. Over the carved man- tel was suspended an ancient bow, with windlass and stanchion complete— the property of the younger Gil- bert, who, far a certain season every year, was obliged to attend Sir Riehard Neville's merry companies of archers and cross- bowmen alFinsbury and Islington.— Above this, in right good order, were arranged num- berless highly- ornamented hilts of daggers, rapiers, glaives, broad swords, & c., the work oi the owners; and a polished mahogany sideboard, with the required silver- mounted utensils for drinking, completed the de- scription of the apartment. 44 I wonder much, Gilbert," said the old man, thoughtfully, and letting a volume of smoke escape from his pipe—° I wondei much at Lord Talbot's refus- ANSWERS TO CHARADES. ANSWKR TO J. W — l)' s CHARADH IN NO. 63. When August's month near to its end does come, I oft unto a scene of pleasure roam j Whsre Ir'. sh lads and lasses blithe and gay. For rfcreation from their home* do stray. A Spaniard often was my company, B « ten In Don Pedro's camp, brave man, had he} There lapses nod and very » weet! y smile, Tbe you IU and hearty lads for to beguile. One day when rambling through ihe pleasant green, I met a lass most comely to be seen; I asked her arm. to which she replied no, That from her darling boy she wouid not go. Being slighted thus near to the brook I strayed, And with a book to banish care e* s< tyed. I returned back and meeting with good luck, I had my share of sport iu PONNTBROOK. A. SlN'NOTT. ANSWER. TO THE FIRST CHAIIADR BY II. B. K. IN NO. 64. I agree with you Mr. H. B. K., We c > uld not live without bread; Which is made ( or eo the bakers say,) From wheat both white and red. To have a blow upon the ear, I'm sure is very bad; But to be pawed by a nasty bear, Would drive a body mad. Then Gad bless good Rowland Hill, The peoples' friend sincere; Who introduced the Postage Bill, That correnpondence might be no longer drar. Great Gulldford- street. J. T. ANSWERS TO RIDDLES IN NO. 54. I. What your riddle is I cannot see, Unless it be the letter D. VI. Tom is the name I think j- Ou mean, A hawk for » p:'" rt wai used; A TO^ AUAWK'S your whole I ween, Which oft has many bruised. VIII. Your number I have found to be ten, Don. is a titk often used in Spain ; When thpst? two togither arejolnrd, TENDON must be your whole I lind. Aberdeen. J. FARQUHAR. ANSWER TO A RIDDLE BY ROBERT III/ ISII IN NO. 62. When first your riddle I perused, I thought that It would be Impossible for me t'unfold So great a mystery. But reading it more carefully, Resolnsd to con it well; It struck me that the ldtter G The meaning would reveal. C. S. M. ROSEMARY DELL. A TALE OF THE MOSR THRILLING INTERT8T. lit Numbers at One Penny each, or . Fourpenny Monthly Parts, Stitched In a neat Wrapffr, THE HEBREW MAIDEN! OR, THE LOST DIAMOND. A ROMANCE OF T1IK DAV9 OF CHIVAL^ T* Complete in 18 Numbers at One Penny each, or Ne£> ly Bound, price Two ^ billings. GALLANT TOM! OR, THE PERILS OF A SAILOR ASHORE AND AFLOAT. INTERSPERSED WITH ANECDOTES, TOUGH YARNS, ETC. Complete in 20 N umbers at Sixpence each, VICTORIA I OR, THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. BV A POPULAR AUTHOR. Complete In 30 Penny Weekly Numbers and Fourpenny Monthly Parts, or Neatly Bound 8s. ANGELINA! OR, THE MYSTERY OF ST. MARK'S ABBEY- A TAI- E OF DEEP IN'F.? RES' 1, « Complete in 24 Numbers at Sixpence BLACK- EYED SUSAN! OR, THE SAILOR'S . BRIDE. A NAUTICAL ROMANCE. Complete in 54 Numbers at One Penny each, or Elegantly Boun at Five Shilling*. FATHERLESS FANNY! OR, THE MYSTERIOUS ORPHAN. A TALE OF DEEP INTEREST. CHARADES. I. I am a word of seven letters.— My 1, 2, 3, Is a man's name j my 4, 6, 5, Is what we all inhale; my 5, 4, 3, i » an animal; my 3, 4, 5, 1, is a planet; my 3, 2, 5, 6, 7, is a woman's name; my 2, 5, 3, is a part ofthe body ; my 5, 6, 3, is a part of a hat j and my whole is a celebrated district of Asia. II. I am a word of nine letters.— My 2, 3, 4, is Latin for law: my 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, is one who was drowned for love; my 5, 6 7, is a copulative conjunction ; my 9, 3, 7, is a colour; my 7,8, 1, 6, is a church dignitary ; my 1, 2, 3. is a favourite beverage ; my 7, 5, 6, 3, is a foreigner; and my whole is the name of a famous general of antiquity. III. I am a word of nine letters.— My 5, 6, 7, is generally applied to an Irishman j my 7, 9, 8, is a bittuminous substance j my 8, 9, 7, and 1, 6, 7, are animals j my 1, 4, 7, is a small house ; my 5,3, 7, 3, 8, is a man's name; my 5, 4, 2, 3, is on « of nn unfortunate na- tion ; my 1, 4, 2, 2, 4, b, is a famous Scotch dish j and my whole was the most famed btauty ofher day. IV. I am a word of twelve letters.— My 6, 5, 9. 10, is an insr et ? my 6, 7, 10, 2, is a barrier; my 1,8, 4,3 4, 10, is an apparition; my 12, 9,3, 4,7, is a woman's name} my 1.4, 5, is what we are all subject to; my 12, 9, 8, is a plan ; my 3, 11, 10, is an animal; my 2, 3, 4, 5, is the poetical name of a well- known island j my 8, 11, 6, 9, 5, is an idolater; my 8, 2, 5, is what affords a livelihood to many; my 12, 11, 5, is the first created being; my 5, 9, 6, is the name of an animal j and my whole is a famous city of India. Two YOUTHS. V. If it were mine to climb the rocky steep, To cull the flowers that on its summit blow; To scale the cliff that mantles o'er the deep, And view its billowy tempests from its brow— T' enjoy the rural grove, or deep blue sea, Where the tall trees o'erarch the carpet green j Or where the dashing waves are bounding free. Where nought but sky and waters can be seen. Where'er I go, whatever wonders find, Whatever things 1 ste, or new, or old, To all the world l thus declare my mind, I will not do it when the weather's cold. M. A. CHESTRRBLLJS. VI. In Erin's fair isle do they ride in my first, My second is everywhere found ; A treasure, a torme> t, a thing to be nurs'd, My whole snugly lies on the ground. SARAII PEARCE. VII. Within the barracks, in the camp, and on the plain, My first is very often to be seen. To enjoy my second is the^ ommon wish Of those blest with health, wealth, and happiness. My whole combined has often useful been To wounded soldiers on the battle plajn0 CHILDRENS' PENNY BOOKS, ETC.— THE LIFE OF DICK TURPIN, including hl « Hide to York ( 12 En- gravings).— THE HISTORY OF GEORGE BARNWELL ( Engravlfgs). — LLOYD'S TRUE FORTUNE TELLER, by which any person may tell their Fortunes, by Cards, Lin « s of the Hands, See. fen. ( Colottfed Engraving*'.— IRISH BULLS, by TEDDY O'FLANNIGAN') F. 1* ZTTIV+ Ings).— LLOYD'S UOYAL DREAM BOOK: a Correct Interpretation of Dreams. * c . ( Coloured Engraving).— FAVOR'S STELLING BOOK AND FIRST STEP TO LEARNI. YO, containing Words from One to Five Syllables, w't. Vn gre « t number of Useful Lessons in Reading and Spfc'n ng; aleo, some v « ry entertaining Lessens in Natural History, & c.— MOTHER HUBBARD AND HKR DOG ( 13 Engravings). — VALENTINE AND ORSON ( 7 Engraving*).— CINDERELLA AND THE GLASS SLIPPER ( 13 Engravings).— THE LIFE OF JACKSHEP- PARD. THIC HOUSEBREAKER ( 13 Engravings).— LLOYD'S NURSERY KHTMES ; two sorts ( 13 Engraving* each).— WUITTINGTOX ANI> HIS CAT ( 7 Engravings).—' TIIH HISTORY OF PAUL . IONES, THE PIRATE ( 13 Engravings).— THE LIKE AND ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE ( 6 Engravings)— YYSE'S NEW LONDON SPELL- ING BOOK, containing a great number of Useful Le « sons In Spelling, with appropriate Fable*, Scriptiue PUces, & c,; together with numerous other Penny Books. LLOYD'S MAGIC, SHADOWS; OR, CANDLE- LIGHT AMUSF. MENT ( Twenty sorts, including all the most Popular Subjects ; One Penny each. PUBLIC ACKNOWLEDGMENT. THE undersigned JOHN CUBLEY, late of Derby, but now of the town of Nottingham, heretofore a schoolmaster, but now out of employment, do hereby acknowledge, that I have lately got com founded some Pills, which I have stfld to different persons as " OLD PARR'S LIFE PJLLS," by repre- senting that I had purchased the Recipe for that celebrated Medi- cine; such- representation was, however, entirely false, and the Proprietors of the GENUINE " Old Farr's Life Pil's" hare com- menced legal proceedings against me for the above fraud. Sut I having expressed sorrow and contrition, and given up to them the names and addresses ot each person to whom I have sold any of such Pills, as well as of the Druggists who compounded the same 5 and agreed to make this public apology, and jjay all the expenses^ including this advertisement, the Proprietors have kindly con- sented to forego such legal proceedings. I do, therefore, declaro my shame and sorrow for having committed such an imposition on the public, and such a fraud on the Proprietors of " Old Parr's Life Pills," and further express my acknowledgments for ttielr lenity. JOHtf CUBLEY. Dated this 2Sth day of January, 1841. Witness— H. B. CAMPBELL, Solicitor, Nottingham. In order, therefore, to protect the public from such imitation*, the Hon. Commissioners of Stamps have ordered " PARR'S LIFE PILLS ' to be engraved on the Government Stamp attached to each box, without which none are genuine. I, LETTER From Mr. J. DRURY, of Lincoln, shewing the high estimations these invaluable Medicines are held in that Cjty " To the Proprietors of Parr's Life Pills. " GENTLEMEN,— " When you first appointed me agent to sell Old Parr's Life Pills, which was Augunt 14th, 1840, I was doubtful of maKJng much sale, there being so many different pills for the public to please themselves with. There must, however, be more length of LIFE in Parr's Pills than in others, for I find on enquiry, that much benefit is obtained from them, and that they RUALLY DO GOOD to hundreds and thousands of people : I may say thousands, for if ali your agents sell at the same rate I do, and I have sold a few, up to the present time, viz:— 642 boxes! large and small sizes. I am new wanting a fresh supply, which please to send instanter, or else you will have much to answer for by not making haste to GIVE NEW LKNGTH OF LIFE to them waning it; and you may depend upon it for truth, that many OLD people who were going down fast in life, are now Invigorated wilh NEW LIFE, NEW FEELIKGS,— SPRIGHTLY, and FULL « F - ACTIVITY, and who say THEY ARE FAR BETTER, IN HEALTH since they have taken OLD PARR'S LIFE PILLS, than they we e some twenty years back ! Surely there is magic in the pills to do so much good to the human frame, noi only to the aged, but to the young as well, a* d particularly youn females. I am, your obedient Servant. JAMES DRURY, 224, Stone Bow, Lincoln. Feb. 8th, 1841. Price Is. l$ d., 2a. 9d., and family boxes lis. each; the boxes at 2s. 9d. contain equal to three small, and those at lis. equal to five at 2s. 9d. Full directions are given with each box. This Medicine is sold wholesale, by appointment, by EDWARD'S, St. Paul's Church Yard, London. London .— Printed and Published hy E. LLOYD, 231, High Street, ShorcdiUh / and at 44, Holywell Street.