tttitoi THE AND PEOPLE'S PENNY1 title POLICE GAZETTE. No. 68. LONDON:— SUNDAY, JULY 18, 1841. Vol. THE LATE RIOT AT LIVERPOOL DURING THE ELECTION- FIVE PERSONS SHOT. POLITE. BOW STREET. TOBIAS BUNKS.— Mr. Tobias Bunks, a young: gentle- man in a jacket of divers colours, well- patched canvas trowsers, no stockings, and shoes, curiously contrived to let in the fresh air at the toes, was brought \ efore the sitting magistrate, charged, under the Stat. 1 Geo. IV., with wilfully and maliciously damaging: the property of Mrs. Dorothy Muggins, the comely landlady of a public- house in the purlieus of St. Giles's proper. It appeared by the evidence of Mr. Ezekiel Smuggs, an operative veterinarian ( vulgo, a journeyman farrier), that Mr. Bunks, who is a wandering melodist, { vulgo* a ballad- singer) by profession, went into the public- house in question, where Mr. Smuggs and several other gentlemen were taking a dejeuner- a- In fourchette of sheep's- head and pickled cabbage. He entered the room singing, at the very top of his voice, the favourite aria, " Oh, Judy! my darling!" and one of the gen- tlemen politely desiring him to shut his potato- trap, and not make such a noise, he seized a pint ofyhtavy and drank it off to the gentleman's better msfnners. The gentleman to whom the heavy belonged, now swoie that Mr. Bunks should post the blunt for it— that is to say, he should pay for it. But Mr. Bunks would do no such thing—" Base is the slave that pays !" he exclaim- ed ; and immediately called for " a quartern of gin of three outs," with which he offered to treat— or, as a swell would say,— to " sluice the ivories " of the gentle- men present. The gentlemen, ho waver, would not ac- cept his treat, and " Turn out tKe blackguard'." was the universal cry; but Mr. Bunks was awake to the " spree,* and before h> s enemies eould say " Jack Ro binson," he capsized three pots of heavy, scattered the pickled cabbage upon the floor, and very nearly bolted with the better half of a sheep's face ! Hut, unfortun* ately, just as he was clearing the threshold of the door, he received the well- shod foot ofthe veterinarian in the rear, about seven inches and a half below the waistband ofhis trowsers, and the concussion sent him half across the street, without once touching the pavement! The veterinarian and his friends, nothing doubting but Tobias was done with, laughed aloud, and returned into the house ; but Tobias was not the man to walk off quietly under this dishonourable visitation of tanned calfskin, and before their shout of laughter was over, he had dashed six panes of glass to pieces in the front win- dow of the house— or, to use a very expressive slangism, he had milled the glaze gloriously ! He was immedi- ately overpowered with numbers, and handed over to the strong « n* asp ofthe police. The magistrate having heard the complaint ( for the valiant Tobias scorned to say a word in defence) imme- diately sentenced him, under the statute above- men- tioned, to pay the value of the glass he had broken— viv., twenty- five shillings; and in default of so doing:, be was consigned to three months' imprisonment in the House of Correction. Now, really this was a very ill- natured prosecution against Mr. Tobias Bunks ; for, after all, what was his offence but a trifling matter of " back- slum " larking ? — as the great chronicler of Life in London would phrase it-- a mere trifling ebullit'on of vitality— a slight manifestation of those lively principals which constitute a true " aristocrat," whether in Duck Lane or St. James's Street. THE INSANE LOVER. In a tavern at a little distance from Charlestown, I was told of an extraordinary character, whom many travellers went to see. This man, whose real name was unknown, but who seems to have played an important part in the war of indipendenee, had entirely lost his reason in consequence of an unfortunate passion. .. He received strangers kindly, and related to them the history of his misfortunes, frequently wilh as much calmness as if he had been in full possession of his senses. At other times, carried away by the violence of his disorder, he said and did the most out of the way things, which, however, were never of a nature to be injurious to society. A man whose mind in the midst of his insanity, was always occupied by a delicate passion, was to me a novelty. This was sufficient lo in- duce me to see him. A young Englishman, with whom I was travel- ling, was desirous to be of the party. Accompanied by a guide, we, therefore, set out, and after a walk of two hours, we reached the spot a_ few minutes before sun set. We learned ftom his servant, that he was on the neighbour'n? rock, lo which he never failed to go at sun setting. In fact, we soon saw nim there walking about with hasty steps. When we came to the foot of this rock, which overlooked the sea, we stopped to listen to him, and were not long before we caught the following words. The simplicity ofthe ideas, and the purity of the style, would not disgrace our best writers of pastorals or idylls. " O, my Anna! thejlengthened rays of the sun dance on the gently- agitated surface of the waters, and play amidst the branches of the quivering aspen, under which thou lovest to repose! The modest willow wee ps thy absence, and the mild and timid songster of the woods, its wings negligently drooping, sighs forth those amiable strains which thou alone could'st have inspired. Yet thou comest not, my Anna, thou comest not to restore to life this garden of nature, the flowers of which are languishing, and wait for one of thy smiles to recover their freshness. Here the soft and verdant turf delights to bend beneath thy tread, and the daisy of spring to kiss eagerly thy beautiful feet. O, my Anna, darling of my heart, come! let me press to that enamoured heart thy enchanting charms. Come and let me quaff those delicious feelings the sweenexpression of which sparkles in thy heavenly eyes. But the sun disappears, and his beneficient rays are lost behind the forest- crowned summits of the western mountains. One ray alone still tinges a cloud, and seems to prolong the existence of the day. Where art thou my Anna? Hearest thou not the accents of love murmured in the valley' Does not the Zephyr on his light wings bear to thee my impatient sighs? Oh, come! smile on my wishes, and charm thefleetimg hour by one of those songs which so well can penetrate my heart. Thou comest, my Anna! thy presence is to my soul what the wild honey is to the palate of a child ; thou art to my wishes that which a hospitable hearth is to the traveller, worn down with fatigue and be- numbed with cold. Thou comest! love shines in thy eyes, and im- patience and pleasure are displayed in all thy features. But why dost thou pause? Fly into my arms, daughter of innocence and virtue: let me be the protector of those precious gifts. When restor- ing slumber shuts the lids of my Anna, her head shall recline on my delighted breast; 1 will watch over her repose as the tenderest mother watches over that of her dearest babe; and when she awakens, these arms whieh guarded her sleep, shall provide her with a shelter against the rage of the winds." After a few instants of silence, and perhaps of hope, he added: " Cruel illusion! deceitful dream! she comes not! she will never come ! crirel fate! why didst thou refuse me the happiness of sinking with her to the grave? Why dost thou still refuse to allow me to join my Anna," without whom I am nothing in the world, without whom my existence is useless to others, and burthensome to myself?" 1 do not know wlievher he was disturbed by the rustling which our feet made among the whithe- red leaves, or whether he had fmished'his invocation; but he looked on us calmly, quitted the rock, and came to give us his hand in a friendly manner. " Whoever you are," said he, " and whatever may be your motive for coming here, you are welcome. Let us go to my hut. I will tell you all about my love, my momentary happiness, and the causes of my endless sorrow." After a frugal supper, during which he conversed upon uncon- nected trifles, he lea us into a small apartment, the walls of which were covered with pictures prettily drawn. " Here is the history of my life, said he to us; " you may run over it in a moment. The beauty of the principal personage is nothing in comparison with the qualities of her heart, and her amiable virtues." I begged him to ex- plain to us the meaning of these pictures. He wept, laughed, leaped, wept again, and then began. Every thing was connected with the dtnerent events of the life of his Anna; her birth, the sports of her childhood, her first lesson of music, the first letter which he received from her, and, lastly, the moment when his duty compelled him to leave her, in order to fight for the independence of his country. Here he stopped, and gave us an animated account of a battle, in which he commanded the left wing, and was dangerously wounded. As soon as he was half cured, he. flew to the arms of his Anna. His reception displayed a mixture of love and fear, which was visible on every countenance. To this picture succeeded that which commemorated the declaration of passion, that had only been strengthened by the dangers of war; their reciprocal vow of constantly loving each © ther, their marriage, and ' he birth of a daughter, the living portrait of her mother. With a delight which was visible in every feature, he made us notice all Ihos'e happy events of his life. But all at once he turned round, cast a look on the opposite paintings, uttered a cry, and hurried away. Wo continued to examine them alone, and we saw in them the long chain of misfortunes which overwhelmed him sub- sequently to his marriage. The death of the parents of his Anna, who were his oldest and dearest friends, the protracted illness of his darling daughter; and at length, Anna on her death bed, holding out to his kiss her hand worn to a skeleton by sorrow and bodily suffering. In the last of the drawings we recognized the rock where we found him. lie himself was delineated there, leaning on his hands, in the attitude of grief. At the bottom were these words, the expression of that anguish, which seemed to consume him. " Ilere are the cherished remains: here I shall close my career. May Heaven, by shortening it, bring my woes to an end." To what painful feelings did the situation of this man give birth to in our minds! We withdrew with heavy hearts, and the unfortunate being, whose sorrows we repented that we had awakened, now went to seek on a mat, woven by the hand of Anna, that slumber which each night he enjoyed for scarcely a single hour. It was some allevia- tion to the painfullness of our feelings to learn that, whenever he had told the story of his woes, he was more calm for several days after. Tiie servant informed us the next morning, that his master had passed the night more quietly, and in fact, he appeared at breakfast to be in a state^ of less agitation. THE LIGHTS OF THE ACE. p " The light of other days is faded," To return no more we presage ; But society is not degraded. For we are the lights nf the age. Like tradesmen we're fond of a puff, A stiff cload we always provoke ; We shine above each common muff. And our troubles are ended in smoke. A cigar to we smokers is meat, In our thoughts e'er economy's upper ; For if we've got nothing to eat. We always can have a light supper I % Then hurrah for the mail who invented A cheroot or a nice mild havannah ; To his memory I'd be contented, To drink, though ' twere with my last tanner. SEQUEL TO THE DEATH CRAC! OR, THE MANIAC AND- THE LIBERTINE. ( IN No. 62.) ' Twas about three years after the occurrences we have been attempting to describe, that the outline » f a human form might be traced, wandering to and fro across one of the dark and gloomy paths at the base of the hills which might be seen from the Death Crag. The mys- terious lurker halted many times in his walk, and ap- peared to listen, as if in expectation of some tardy guest; but finding nought save the sigh of the rising wind broke on Ms ear, lie again resumed his silent w alk, like some speclre from the dark, cold grave. The long day had been one unchecked round of sunshine; but now those golden beams that, but an hour ago, seemed as though Ihey would never fade, were extinguished, and all the smiles of ( he gaudy ( lay were buried in the vortex of oblivion. All the sunny charms which Na- ture, but a little hour gone by, wore upon her face, were blended in one chaotic cloud of darkness. Night, gloomy night, reigned triumphant. Faster and faster still, tile giant clouds rolled o'er the face of heaven, till at length they formed a murky, an impenetrable veil: and then the forked lightning burst through the gloomy mass, and the " harsh thunder'' gave forth its terrific voice. The speclre- like form before noticed now stood sta- tue- like in the centre of the path, apparently gazing on the war- bent elements; and as he raised his head, a long and fearful flash of fire burst forth, and then might be seen the dark scowl that dwelt upon the lurker's pale feat res— then might be seen the long locks of black hair shading the wan cheeks, and lying loosely about the bare and gaunt shoulders— then might be viewed the torn mantle'that hung round tbe spare form — the loaded pistol— the murderer's dagger, partly con- cealed by the rags of his ( for ' twas a man) tatiered garments. " I have waited to no purpose," muttered the lurk- ing robber; " he will not come to- night;"— and lie gazed earnestly down the path'for some'momcnts, and then, in a deep guttural lone he exclaimed—" No, he will not come— my pistol must remain uncock'd, my poniard sleep unstained. I have half a mind," he- soli- loquized, " to return to France, and let Orlando live." He paused—" No, it must not be; he knows too much of the outcast Glonberton ;— we cannot both live in one globe. His virtues, that he vaunts of, would lead him lo confess my crimes, and then what would save me from the scaffold f Orlando live, did I say ?— fool I by sparing him should I sign my own death- warrant; and by one blow I free mjself for ever : for who elje hath heard my crimes ?— not one. The weak- henrted Mary threw herself from the Crag, and ended her life ;— her parents died, they say, broken henrted ; but that's all nonsense— they can'say nothing. Madeline lives, a rov- ing maniac; she knows me not— nor could she, even if her brain was clear. Little iirdeed does she suspect I am that same Ronald she is continually calling upon. Poor girl— I could almost feel sorry myself when 1 see her wandering round the old Crag, singing the song I had used to charm her with when she believed me the shepherd Ronald. And then to look on that once lovely face while she sleeps— to hear her talk of me— me, the outcast, the robber, the hellish libertine I Of me, who sent her mother to a maniac's grave '. Of me, who, by a fiendish artifice, wrecked her soul to madness I Of me, whose crimes have broken a tender father's heart I Of me, who— oh, hell! hell I hell I" At this moment another blue Hash dashed across his features, as he leant against a tree for support. His limbs shook, his lips quivered, and his eye seemed fixed, as in the agony of death. He raised his shaking hand, passed it several times across his eyes, nnd then, in a violent burst of horror, he shouted—" My eyes! my eyes are gone! Iain blind— blind— blind I" He still clung to the tree, and raised a portion of his ragged garments to his face, and eagerly rubbed bis aching eyes. At length, after n pause of some minutes' dura- tion, Glanberton said—" Fool, fool that I was I—' twas but fancy— my eyes are well enough now. I'll to mv cave. Hark I I thought I heard the trampling of a horse ;— hark !— yes, ' tis he—' tis he— be comes." As he muttered these words he drew back a few paces, and at the same time grasped the pistol in his girdle. The horseman came up. " Hold I" shouted Glanberton, seizing the bridle— " Stop." " Who dares to impede my course ?" cried Orlando ; " what villain art thou, and what thy will ?" " Thy life," vociferated the robber, at the same time firing his pistol at the traveller's head. Orlando bounded from the saddle ( for the ball had missed him), and caught the robber by the throat. A terrific struggle ensued— both fell to the ground ; but at length the savage Glanberton freed himself from the grasp of his antagonist ( who lay prostrate), and, with drawn dagger, wasabont to rush on and pierce the heart that once loved him wilh all the warmth and ardour of pure friendship, when the lamp of night broke forth in a flood of light, and revealed the wild form of the Ma- niac, who stood with upraised arms between him and his intended victim. Madeline had fantastically dccked herself with wi- thered flowers and small branches of yew. A kind of hat made of rushes was upon her head, and to the ex- tremities of her long locks of hair were fixed some tiny branches of the willow tree. Her face was deathly pale : her eye sunken, but not lustreless; and as she waved the dark, large yew beugh above her head, she seemed like some frightful inhabitant of another world. When the eye of the robber first rested on the myste- rious figure, he started back in horror, and the dagger fell from his hand. Orlando sprang to his feet, and with a beaiing heart gazed on the mysterious figure be- fore him. , S'Yott shall not fight, 1' ( aid the maniac, " or there would be blood about, and I cannot bear the sight of it, because they tell me there was blood on the earth when my Ronald died. Did you ever see Ronald i" she said, moving towards the trembling Glanberton. " He was so handsome, and his heart was so tender, for he always wept v, hen I did ; and when I smiled, he also smiled. But ihey tore him from my breast, and mur- dered him in battle; yet I often see him in my sleep, and sometimes I see him in the clouds on a fine day, and sometimes in the fire at night; but my father says he can't see him: and sometimes when the wind howls loud I hear his voice, but it always seems sorrowful and sad; and then 1 hear the clash of swords; and then the guns of war. You never heard Ronald sing} — hark 1 I'll tell you what he sung to me before they tore him away to battle." In a low, plaintive voice, she sung the following w » rds: — " Lady fair, wilt thou be mine, wilt thou be mine to- day ? For ere the morning sun Shalt shine, I mult be far away. The lusty trumpet soon wilt call the warrior from thy side. Thou hast his heart, he'll give thee all, if thou'lt become h bride. " Oh yes,'' I cried, *' I will be thine— I will be thine"— and now He sigh'd, " I dare not call thee mine, till victory gilds my brow." He kiss'd my hand, then rode away, aud from me far he hied; And ere tbe sun awoke the day, my Ronald bted and died." " Hell I hell! oh, bell I" shouted the trembling Glan- berton ; " that awful moment seems again to burst upon, my view— I feel the pang that then stung my bosom, when I robbed thee of thy dearest jewel. My soul seems again itn lire ; my brain whirls round— this— oh 1 this is hell indeed! Wretched maniac I I— I am thy betrayer ! I am that Ronald thou hast so many times called npon I I am the cause of all thy misery ! My life shall pay the penalty: thus— thus do I atone for my crimes I" The robber raised the glittering poniard in the air. and with one terrific thrust buried it in his heart. He fell, and in a low choked voice exclaimed—" Staad off, stand off, ye fiends of darkness! My hour is not yet come! Ah ! that mass of fire is rolling towards me ! Bear me away !— it comes!— bear me away !— away !— too lale— too late !"— and the form of the wretched Li- bertine sank heavily to the earth, a ghastly, mangled corse. A few weeks after this, an old silver- haired cottager was seen sitting on a little mound in the village church- yard. A glittering tear fell from his wrinkled cheek, and descended among the flowers that bloomed on bis daughter's— the Maniac's— Grave Orlando retured to his native Italy, married a rich heiress, lived to a good old age, and then sunk to rest in the arms ofhis children. Redditch. w. S. PIH DAVID LINDSAY.— This old Scotch poet was a man of both courage and wit. The king being one day surrounded by a nu- merous train of nobility and prelates, Lindsay approached him with due reverence, and began to prefer a humble petition, that he would instal liim in an office which was then vacant. " I have," said lie, " servlt your glace laiig, and luik to berewardlt a> others are : and now your niaister taylor, at the pleasure of God. is departit; wherefore I would derire of your grace, to bestow this little benefite upon me." The king replied, that he was amazed at such a request from a man who could neither shape nor new.'" " Sir," r, joined the poet, " that maks nae matter; for you have given bishopricks and benefices to mony standing here about you, and yet they can nouther teach nor preach; and why ma/ not I as weill be your taylor, thocht I can nouther shape nor sew; seeing teaching an i preaching are vie less requisite to their vocation, than shaping and sewing to sne tay'or.'' A parrot of no mean parts, l, y frequently hanging out from one of the houses facing St. George's dock in Liverpool, had acquired a variety of human language, and more especially that particular part which so frequently requires the horse to back hi, load, to discbarge it into the ahlp in the dock. A carter, having, unfortu- nately left his cart, with the tail to the dock. Poll, in a garrulous mood, unluckily happened to cry, back, back, back, several times, so distinctly and loudly, that tiie well tutored beaat. obeying the word of command, actually backed the cart, so as to precipitate it himself into the dock. The poor animal, however, wa tared. I'RIE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES AND PEOPLE'S POLICE GAZETTE. THE DEATH G A8P lER'S CURSE! OR, A FA BY THK AUTHOR. » ? •< BLA, THE OUTCAST," ETC. Cfafu . aedfrom our last.) CHAPTER XI. THE INTERVIEW.— THE PORTRAIT. Very little did Madame de Floriville, sleep oil the might after the meeting with her wretched, guilty hus- band, the particulars of which we have described in a previous chapter, and when for a sboit time slumber did descend upon her eyelids, dreams of the most alarming description would haunt and torture her ima- gination. Now, she beheld Adolphe as she first 6aw him, ere guilt, as she believed, had contaminated him, and when his numerous accomplishments rendered him an object that few females could have resisted. Then again the scene was changed ; her father's countenance frowned upon her, and his lips again pronounced that dreadful malediction, which had haunted her imagina- tion ever since; and his long bony finger pointed solemnly towards the portrait of her mother, and re- called to her memory the dreadful story of that mother's • wrongs— those wrongs that had been heaped upon her by the father of her husband. From this scene, fancy quickly hurried her to the miserable hut in the forest, where herself, Adolphe, and their son, hud endured all the horrors of want. In rapid succession followed the events which had occurred subsequently ;— the confes- tion of Adolphe, the murder of his brother, the appre- hension, the gloomy dungeon, the trial; the condemna- sion, the escape, the forest, the bridge of death, the pursuit, the supposed awful death of her husband, and the phantom of his murdered friend ; lier own trial, her sentence, the separation from her child, her imprison- ment, and the many painful circumstances that had af- terwards taken place, all these were recalled to her imagination, with visionary horror, in characters so painful that sleep became a misery to her. Fancy was also most busy to conjure up visions of the future, and roost alarming they were. At one time, she was strug- gling in the grasp of her husband, who held a dagger to her breast, and whose eyes flashed wilh the most fero- cious determination; at another, she saw Henri seated in friendly intercourse with her father, and seeming to treat her wilh scorn and neglect. In an instant the scene was changed, and a chapel, gaily decorated, and brilliantly illuminated now met her gaze. Before the altar knelt Henri ( who had now grown into manhood), and a beauteous girl, wlose features sparkled with love and happiness. The priest had just completed the bridal ceremony, when suddenly a peal of thunder shook the sacred building to its foundation, and in an instant there appeared, standing in the centre of Ihe aisle, the dread phantom of her ( Madame Laurette's) fatliei. His looks were dreadful, and, as he fixed them upon Henri, he exclaimed, in a voice that re- echoed throughout the building,— " Incestous wretch! offspring of the accursed! thou hast married thy sister 1" The words had no sooner escaped the lips of the spec- tre, than, with a deep groan, the bride and bridegroom sank senseless lo the earlh. the scene and the objects in it gradually faded from Madame de Floriville's sight, and. she awoke. Cold drops of perspiration bedewed her temples, a deadly chill was at her heart, her limbs trembled vio- lently, and she looked fearfully around, almost fearing to see the subject of her dream realized, and, indeed, for a few moments scarcely able to persuade herself but that it had been reality. The latter part of Ihe vision, filled her mind with a variety of the most painful conjectures, and created in her bosom the utmost astonishment and mystery. The singular words of the spectre slill seemed to ring in her ears, and made a wonderful and powerful impres- sion upon her mind; and for some time after she hod awoke, she lay tossing restlessly in bed, and racking her brain to no purpose, to endeavour to solve the the awful mystery. " Offspring of ihe accursed !" she ejaculated, " alas ! alas ! how painfully, how fearfully do I feel the truth of these words ; bitterly indeed hath thy malediction, my father, been visited upon my head; but oh, in mercy, heaven, let it not descend to my poor boy ; if I have not suffered already enough, for my disobedience to my parent's will, if I have not made sufficient atone- ment, for an offence which love, too powerful love, and not actual guilt led me to commit, oh, let me alone suffer, but spare my innocent, my unoffending child ! But what conld these words mean ! His sister!— what sister? he is ray only offspring, and— but I will nottliui give way to apprehension ; it was only a terrific vision, created by the wild and feverish state of my brain. It is not at all marvellous that I should be thus weak." The sun now sent forth his golden flood of light into the chamber of Madame de Floriville, and, with a heavy heart, and the most melancholy apprehensions, she arose. In two hours, according to the appointment, she inlght expect Adolphe, and as the time approached, her fears increased. She shuddered at the very idea of e; i ountering that man, so slained with crime, and appa- >,.. s tly BO callous to all feelings of humanity ; that man, to whom she unfortunately was indissolubly bound by the laws of matrimony. Formerly, wilh all his guilt, she nd clung to him devotedly, nnd shared with him all his gers and his miseries; but now, although still the ; s of that powerful affection she had felt for him rained in her heart, disgust and horror also had the st powerful ascendancy. The motives that had . ught him to her at that time, also, she could not help • inking, were not those of affection, ( fora 11 such senti- ••' i- rois as that seemed stifled in his breast), but wilh a guilty determination to extort from her, money, and to make her subservient to his vicious propensities. In Jhe interview which had taken place between them the si* before, she had well read his thoughts, and ihe hardened, reckless, callous villain, was visible in oil he said, and thus rendered him to her an object of Ihe f- reatesl horror. Besides, there were several reasons why she should tremble at the appearance of Adolphe. Her father's curse, the corruption and dis- grace any connection wilh him would undoubtedly bring upon her and her son, and the surprise and suspicion it would create in the minds of the persons io the neighbourhood, and the subject it would afford for the envenomed tongue of slander. Such a circumstance would ruin the prospects of Henri in the world ; and yet how to avoid it she knew not. During the time that Annette wa « assisting her mistress at the toilette, she took Ihe greatest nolice of tiie deep melancholy which oppressed her, and although she was not surprised at ihe circumstance, knowing, as she did, the cause, her insufferable curiosity und loquacity, made her feel most uncomfortably anxious to become ac quainted with every little particular of the ali'air, and she tried by every sort of manoeuvre, to elicit Ihe same from her mistress. But Madame Laurette was in no mood to gratify her weakness, and being, above all things, opposed to inquisitiveness, and never liking to make confidants of her servants, Annette succeeded but very seldom in gaining the most trilling piece « f information from her. " I hope to goodness, Madame," said Ihe talkative maid, " I hope to goodness, that that strange and frightful- looking man will not come here again to- day. I'm sure heputmeallin a quandary last night, after he left here." " After he left here, Annette ?" said her mistress, with surprise ; " where did you see him ?" " Why— why—" faltered Annette, « ' yon know, Ma- dame, that— that— that is, 1 am rather partial to Gregory Goldfinch, at' The Traveller's Rest,' and the little man is stark- staring mad in love with me; which I dare say, Madame, you will say is not the least wonder, consider- ing my personal appearance, and all that; BO I went there to pay him a visit." " Annette," said Madame de Floriville, seriously, " I hope you did not divulge a word to any one about the • visit of that person to me " " Oh, bless your soul, Madame !" observed Annette, iiow could you possibly suspect me of such a thing ? Yon know I am not so communicative. 1 am not like many of my sex, always talking and chatting about that which does not concern them ; and as to keeping a se- cret, there's not a female in the universe, I do believe, that can equal me. In fact, I am certain there is not." " Annette, I caution you, as you value my pleasure, and regard my peace of mind," remarked Madame Lau- rette, " never to divulge a sentence to any one upon this subject." " Of course I will not, Madame," returned Annette ; " you may trust me." " I hope so," returned her mistress. " The stranger will probably remain in the neighbourhood, and may frequently be a visitor here, but you must take no no- tice of him, and, above all, treat him with becoming re- spect." " The first part of your injunctions I will strictly obey, Madame," said Annette ; " but as for the latter, I am afraid it's a task I shall never be able to accom- plish." " But you must do so, or else lose my favour." " Well, I wouldn't do that for the world, Madame ; but really I think I shall be very much puzzled to com- ply with your wishes in that respect. He is such an awful looking man — one who appears as if he had been guilty of some dreadful crime or the other. I'm sure I should not like to meet him after dark. Dear me surely he cannot be related to you, Madame J" " Itmatters not," answered Madame Lauretta ; " you know I never like to gratify impertinent curiosity." " Impertinent, Madame 1" said the maid, abashed, " dear me, how you have mistaken me. To be imperii nent, I'm sure, was the farlhest thing from my thoughts, and if no one was more curious than I am, there would not be half the mischief in the world that there is. was only going to observe " " Never mind what you was going to observe, An- nette," interrupted her mistress, " do as I have desired you, and never ventuie to mention the subject lo me unless I speak to you about it." " Very well, Madame; but all that I was going to say was, that he almost frightened me and Gregory into fits last night, when he interrupted us in our little bit of chit- chat." " I am afraid, Anuefte, that you were talking about something that did not concern you." " Oh, no, Madame, indeed we were nof." " The stranger will be here again ( his morning," said Madame de Floriville, sighing, as she prepared to quit her chamber; " and remember my injunctiens— they must be obeyed." Annette curtseyed, and promised to do as her mis tress desired; and the latter then quitted the apart- ment. " A very pretty way she would be in, certainly, if she was aware that I know all about it," said Annette when Madame de Floriville had gone; " but I shall never be satisfied until I have learned all the partieu lars about my lady's husband— the cause of their sepa ration, and what it is he wants with her now. I must have another listen this morning." Henri, like his mother, had been troubled wilh pain ful dreams, his mind being busily occupied with the singular events of the day. His father still alive and returned! It seemed scarcely possible; and the in- junctions of his mother, and his own feelings, told him that it was a circumstance at which they had every rea- son to grieve instead of to rejoice. And now rushed to his memory again the painful recollection of those aw- ful circumstances that have been recorded in the early part of this narrative; and, young as Henri was at tbe time, they were of that powerful and impressive de- scription that were not likely to be easily erased from the recollection. Henri shuddered when he thought of them, and yet he could not dwell upon his father's name, without feeling all the strength of that affection which nature inspired. Eager to meet his mother, and to ascertain the state j) f her mind, and whether she was at all in a condition to meet his guilty but unfortunate parent, Henri arose at an early hour, and walked into the sitting- room, where he awaited until Madame de Floriville descended from her chamber. He flew lo meet her when she en- tered the room, and throwing her arms about his neck, she embraced him with even more than her usual fer- vour. Heari fixed his eyes intently upon his mother, and observing how pale and agitated she looked, he re- marked— " Alas! mother, I see you are not well. Care sits heavily on your brow. Iam fearful the surprise yen have experienced has been too much for your feelings to support. You will never have strength sufficient to undergo the interview this morning." " Fear not for me, my son," replied his mother; " I am not more agitated than might have been expected on the occurience of such an event as lhat which lias taken place wilh me ; and heaven, I trust, will sup- port me throughout the meeting with your father. Fa- ther, alas! I tremble at the name. It is a title to which he has every claim, but which his crimes have rendered it imperatively necessary you should never more bestow upon him." " O', my mother," remarked Henri, " how bard are the rules that stern necessity impose upon me. In spite of all— and notwithstanding | my anxious wish to obey you in every respect, there is an instinctive voice within me which keeps whispering, he is still my father in spite of his offences, and that I must love him as a son." " It would be unnatural wert thou not to do so, Henri," said his mother; " yet thou must learn rather to pity him for his vices, and to pray to heaven to parr don him. Let Ihe misery he has brought upon himself and others by his improvidence and folly, bs a warning lo thee to shun that path whose termination is destruc- tion, and which leads to misery and disgrace." " This advice, dearest mother," sighed Henri, " shall riot be lost upon me ;— but may I not be present at the meeting between you and my father?— may I not be permitted to embrace him, since it must be so, for the last lime J" " No, my child, it mav not be," replied Madame Lau- rette ; " if I were to permit thee to be present, it might have an effect that 1 am very anxious to avoid. Be- sides, there are many things that will doublless be said which 1 would not should reach thine ear. Nay, Henri, banish ( hat look of grief and regret, and endeavour to submit patiently to my will." " 1 will do so," returned Henri, " because it is my duty ; but indeed it will require the exertion of all my energies to do so with tho patience you advise, dear mother. Hark ! some one knocks at the door." " It is doubtless he," said Laurette ; " now heaven, I pr. jy thine aid ! Oh ! give me fortilude to act as my duty, siern as it is, prompts me. Away, Henri, away ; he must not see you." " I go, mother," observed Henri, " and may Omnipo- tence grant you its Almighty aid." Madame de Floriville and her son oece more stole a hasty and fervent embrace, and the latter then hurried from the room. Madame de Floriville made a power- ful effort to regain her composure, and she partially succeeded. She did not hear any one approach, and yet the outer door had been opened, and the person, whoever it was, admitted. It was just the time that Adolphe had said he would be there, and surely it must be him. She was about to ring the bell to summon An- nette into her presence, when she heard some one as- cending the stairs; they stopped at the room- door— the next moment they knocked, and directly afterwards the object of Madame Laurette's thoughts stood before her. ( To be continued in our next.) WOMAN'S LOVE. It is generally believed lhat ladies are more constant in their love than men, which belief, I think, an erro- neous one, their apparent constancy being the result of circumstances. A youth and maiden meet, perhaps, at a ball- room, they appear mutually charmed; assu- rances of affection are exchanged, and ere they have met half- a- dozen times, their faith is plighted. The lady, having little fo divert or engage her mind; allows her thoughts to Constantly dwell upon the object of her fond affection, as she imagines him to be, until she ac- tually persuades herself into the belief that her sole chance of happiness depends upon him. The lady, however, makes a slight mistake ; no portion of her happiness does, in reality, depend upon an engagement so basely formed. Let these relative positions be changed— let it be in tiie potver of the lady to select whom she pleases from the list of her admirers, and would she remain constant to him who had selected her f In nine cases out of ten— no. I once went to pay a visit of condolence to a young friend of mine, whose lover had, from some cause I am unacquainted with, left her to weep, in " maiden meditation, fancy free." Her grief appeared intense. " I shall never be happy again," she said. " Oh, yes, you will," I re- plied; you must endeavour to forget him." " Oh 1 I could soon FORGET him," she answered, but I may never have such another offer." Here, then, was the secret of her grief; she wept the loss of an eligible match, not the loss of her lover. Let women rail at the inconstancy of man as much as tbey please, they are equally so, though from inter- ested motives they appear o'herwise, and then lay this flattering unction to your souls. It is not your person ladies are so very anxious to obtain possession of, but your purses. S. M. TO CORRESPONDENTS. It is useless for persons to send us solutions to Charades, ( Sic., that have been previously answered. This will apply to O. KEOGH, ( Dublin,) & c. G. BOSWELL. — Your poem is very imperfect, call will not suit our columns. We cannot enter into any such arrangement as that you wish. S. B., ( Portsea,) 11 DON JUAN," J. G., and G. D. PERKS, will not exactly suit. We must decline " A NIGHT AT A TEMPERANCE MEETING." H. B.— The new Romance of" EMILY FITZORMOND; OR, THE DESERTED ONE," by the author of " ELA, THE OUTCAST," may be had ef all booksellers in tottn and country. Seven numbers are already published. ET A SAILOR BOYV communication wilt not suit. H. MATHEWS.— Too late. We have no recollection of the lines mentioned by J. MOORE. We should feel great pleasure in hearing again from our old correspondents, A. J. P., S. P., and A. A. L. Intended for insertion: P. BAXTER, J. PRITCHARD, ( Coventry,) and " DELTA." Declined: li. B— N. We thank HENRY TURNER, ( Lakenham, Norwich,) for the trouble he has taken, and will keep a watchful eye on the party in future. We are repeatedly receiving wretched scrawls from some shallow- pated nincompoop, complaining of certain ar- ticles in this publication, This enlightened youth signs himself J. RAMSAY, and we should say, from his style, is some low- bred fellow, whom it would be gross flattery to call an ass. Mister RAMSAY may save his time, pen, ink, and paper, he is beneath contempt. All communications t. o Be addressed ( post paid) to the Editor of THE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES, 231, High- street, Shoreditch. the term passamezzo to be prefixed to the name of several dances; thus we read of the passamezzo gal- liard, as well as the pa- samezzo pavin ; and Sir Toby, by applying the latter appellation to his surgeon, meant to call him not only a rogue, but a solemn coxcomb. " Thepavan, from pavo, a peacock," observes Sir J. , Hawkins, " is a grave and majestic dance. The method of dancing it, was anciently by gentlemen dressed with a cap and sword, by those of the long robe in their gowns, by princes in their mantles, and by ladies in gowns with long trains, the motion whereof in the dance resembled that of a peacock's tail. This dance is sup- posed to have been invented by the Spaniards, and its figure is given with the characters for this step, in the Orchesographia of Thoinot Arbeau. Of the passa- mezzo little is to be said, except lhat it was n favourite air in the days of Queen Elizabeth. Ligon, ia his History of Barbadoes, mentions a pftssaniezizo galliard, which, in the year 1647, a Padre in that island played to him on the lute ; the very same he says with an air of that kind, which in Shakspere's play of Henry the Fourth was originally played to Sir John Falstaff and Doll Tearsheet, by Sneak, the musician there named." Of equal gravity with the " doleful pavin," as Sir W. D'Avenant calls it, was the Measure, to tread which was the relaxation of the most dignified characters in the state, and formed a part of the revelry of the inns of court, where the gravest lawyers were often found treading the measures. Shakspere puns upon the name of lhis dance, and contrasts it with the Scotch jig in Much Ado about Nothing, where he intioduces Bea- trice telling her Cousin Hero, " The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in good time ; if the prince be too important tell him there is measure in every thing, and so dance out the answer. For hear me, Hero ; Wooing, wedding, and repenling, is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque- pace : the first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fan- tastical; the we'dding, mannerly- modest, as a measure full of state and ancientry ; and then comes repentance, and, with his bad legs, falls into the cinque- pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave." A more brisk aud lively step accompanied the canary dance, which was likewise very fashionable. " 1 have seen a medicine," says lafeu, in All's Well that Ends Well, alluding to the influence of female charms, " That'sable to bring life into a stone; Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary, Wilh sprltely fire and motion." » i\ d Moth advises Armado, when dancing the brawl, to canary it with his feet. The mode of performing this dance is thus given by Mr. Douce, from the treatise of Thoinot Arbeau: " A lady is taken out by a gentleman, and after dancing together to the cadences of the proper air, he leads her to the end of ihe hall ; this done, he retreats back to the original spot, always looking at the lady. Then he makes up to her again, wilh certain steps, and retreats as before. His partner performs the same ceremony, which is several times repeated by both parties, wilh various strange fantastic steps, very much in the savage style." Beside the brawl, the pavin, the measure, and the canary, several other dances were in vogue, under the general titles of corantoes, lavoltos, jigs, galliards, and fancies ; but the four which we have selected for more peculiar notice, appear to have been the most cele- brated. " The earl led, or rather dragged me to the altar, and here I threw myself at the leet of ihe holy man, anif in a voice ot the most vehement supplication, implored his interference and pity. " ' Hear me, holy father,' I cried, ' bear me, while I declare that I am forced hither against my will, and that I object to become tbe bride of this nobleman. Oh, do not, I beseech ihee, suffer me to fall a victim to ' Proceed with the ceremony, monk," interrupted the earl, peremptorily ; " heed not what, this silly girl sayest; let the marriage be solemnized without more delay. " ' Oil, mercy, mercy 1' I shrieked, as the earl seized my hand, and with looks of the utmost impatience, motioned tbe itlouk to proceed. No one around, how- ever, seemed to piiy me the least in the world, and the monk obeyed the orders of the earl;— he commenced the marriage rites, and with the most, unutterable anguish I gave myself up to despair, when, suddenly the lights on the altar seemed to burn blue; a utrmige sensation of mingled horror and hope took possession of trie, and the monk paused, as if his senses had all at once become stupified. The persons present seemed to experience the same mysterious feeling, and looked at each othsr with expressions of awe, amazsment, aud confusion. "' What means this?' cried the earl, whose coun- tenance had become ghastly pale, and whose limbs, ( in spite of the efforts he made to stifle his emotions), trem- bled violently ;—' hath madness seized upon ye all, that ye stand there gaping, and wilh vacant stare ? Why dost tliuu not proceed wilh the ceremony, monk ?' " The holy father re- commenced the ceremony, but, scarcely had he uttered a word, when a hollow and se. pulchral voice which seemed to proceed from beneath the altar, cried :— " ' Forbear !' " The monk became silent in a moment, and he was evidently much alarmed; while the earl trembled, and turning more ghastly pale than he had done before, looked eagerly aiound him upon the astonished and affrighted individuals present. " ' Who was it lhat spoke?' at length he demanded, in faltering accents ;—' who dared to give utterance to that insolent mandate ? By mine honour, if I knevi the knave he should pay right dearly for his impertinence.' " ' Hold, soil,' said ibe monk, solemnly, ' it was no mortal voice that spoke 1 I refuse to unite thee wilh this mai( lt- M Heaven is opposed to the nuptials.' " ' This ti'io ' s beyond endurance,' exclaimed the earl, in a'voice of the most, ^ governable rage,' hath mad- ness seized upon ye, all, I say Rgt.:." ?- J< » somft base trick to frustrate nly designs. Oo on Wilj the ceremony, THE PENNY PEOPLE'S AND • POLICE GAZETTE. A VALUABLE REWARD.— When a man of singular humour, a few yeara since, had rendered a personal service to the king, he was asked by Mr. DiKndas, what conld be done for him " Make me a Scotchman, sir!'' was hia reply, " and everything elae will follow ot course," THE ABBE ns VILLEROI.— When the Abbe de Vlllerol, who, at an earlier period, had made many successful attempts to become one ot the canons of Lyons, was appoluted Ijy the king to the archbishopric of that city, the caoons waited upon him with the usual tribute of respectful compliments. While he received them with courtesy, he could not help remarking, that the stone which the builders rejected, was become the head of the corner. Their spokesman InBtantly replied: " This Is the Lord's doing, it is marvellous la our eyes.'' DANCES OF OUR ANCESTORS. As many of our fair readers, who delight to" " trip it on the light fantastic toe," may be pleased to receive soma information with respect to the dancing of their ancestors, we have made, from Dr. Drake's " Shakspere and his Times," the following extracts for their use. " Dancing was an almost daily amusement in the court of Elizabeth; the queen was peculiarly fond ol this exercise, as had been her father, Henry the Eighth : and the taste for it became so general during her reign, that a great part of the leisure of almost every class of society was spent, and especially on days of festivity, in dancing. To danoe elegantly was one of the strongest recom- mendations to the favour of her majesty ; arid her cour- tiers, therefore, strove to rival each other ill this pleas- ing accomplishment; nor were their efforts, in many instances, unrewarded. Sir Christopher Hatton, we are told, owed his promotion, io a great measure, to his skill in dancing ; and in accordance with Ihis ancedote, Grey opens his " Long Story" with an admirable de- scription of his merit in Ihis department; which, as cotf- taining a most just and excellent picture, beth of the architecture and manners of" the days of good Queen Bess," as well as of the dress and agility of the knight, we with pleasure transcribe. Stoke- Pogeis, the scene of Ihe narrative, was formerly in the possession of the Ilaltons. " In Britain's Isle, no matter where. An ancient pile of building stands; The Huntlngdofcs and Hattons there, Kmploy'd the power of fairy hands. " To raise the ceiling's fretted height, Each pannel In achievements clothing, Rich windows that exclude the light. And passages that lead to nothing. " Full oft within the spacious walls, When he had fifty winters o'er him, Mv grave lor 1- keeper led the brawls -, The seal and maces danced before him, " His bushy beard, and shoe- strings green, His hlgh- crown'd hat, and satin doublet, Mov'd the stout heart of England's queen, i llo' Pope and Syttulard could not trouble it. 1' The brawl, a species of dancehere alluded to, is de- rived from ihe French word braule, " indicating, ob- serves Mr. Douce, " a shaking or swinging motion. It was performed by several persons uniting hands io a circle, and giving each other continual shakes, the steps changing with the time. It usually consisted of three pas and a pied- joint, to Ihe time of four strokes of the bow ; which being repeated, was termed a double brawl. With this dance balls were usually opened." Shakspere seems lo have entertained as high an idea of ( lie efficacy of a French brawl, as probably did Sir Christopher Hatton, when he exhibited before Queen Elizabeth; for he makes Moth, in Love's Labour Lost, ask Armado, " Master, will you win your LOVE wilh a French brawl !" and he then exclaims, " These betray nice wenches." That several dances wore included under Ihe term brawls, appears from a passage in Sliel- ton's Don Quixote : " After this there came in another artificial dance, of those called brawles:" and Mr. Douce informs us, that amidst a great variety of brawls, noticed in Thoinot Arbeau's treatise on dancing, enti- tled, Orchesographia, occurs a Scotch brawl; and lie adds, that this dance continued in fashion to the close of the seventeenth century. Another dance of much celebrity at ihis period,, was the pavin, or pavan, which, from the solemnity of the measure, seems to have been held in ntter aversion by Sir Toby Belch, who, in reference to his intoxicated surgeon, exclaims, " Then he's a rogue ! After a passy- measure, or a pavin, I hate a drunken rogue." This is the text of Mr. Tyewhitt; but the old copy reads, " Then he's a rogue, and a pa « sy- measure's pavyn," which is probably correct; for the pavan was rendered stilt more grave by the introduction of the passa- mezzo air, which obliged the dancers, after making several steps round the room, to cross it in the middle in a slow step, or cinque pace. This alteration of time occasioned ERNNESTINE DE LACY! OR, THE ROBBER'S FOUNDLING. BY THE AUTHOR OT " KLA, THE OUTCAST," ETC. ( Continued- from our last.) " My feelings 1 need not now attempt to describe ; I saw at ouce that all hope of escape frj> m the fate with which the tyrant earl. threatened me, was at an end, and that, situated as I was, in a place where 1 had not a single individual near me, who had either the will or the power to attempt to rescue me, I bad nothing left but to make Up sny mind for the worst. My doom, then, was sealed. A few short hours, only, and 1 should be forced to be- come the bride of tha^ man, whom, above all others, I uow dreaded and detested. " ' Ah, Alfred, dearest, most noble of youths,' I solilo- quized, ' why art thou not at hand to rescue thy unfor^ tiuiaie Blanche from a fale so terrible ? But, if thou wert, wouldst thou have the power to save me? Alas, no ; thou darest not resist or oppose thy father's despotic will. Alas! alas! how great would be thy anguish, didst thou but know the misery to which 1 am at the present moment exposed. I am convinced, that even at the hazard of thy father's eternal displeasure, thou wouldst interpose to save me, and accomplish thy wishes, or perish iu the attempt.' " These thoughts, while they caused me much pain, at the same time re- kindled hope in my bosom, and a strange idea suddenly took possession of my mind, that something would occur to save me from the dreaded fate with which I liad been threatened by the earl. Ter- rible were the sufferings 1 endured in the few short hours that intervened between the time at which the earl had promised he would return to force me to ihe altar, and never did it appear to pass more quickly away. Two or three times during the day, the old woman visited me to bring refreshments, and when she found me in tears, she would scoff at my anguish, and with many disagreeable additions, make use of such observa- tions as ;— ' ' Well, I'm sure; I should very much like to know what thou hast to fret about, young lady, because, for- sooth, a nobleman of the highest rank and birth, wishes lo make thee his bride. For my part, 1 think thou shouldst feel thyself highly honoured and delighted with the chance. However, it's no use fretting, or anything about it; for have thee, the earl certainly will, and the pre- parations for tbe uuiou, are even now going on in the chapel of tiie castle.' " 1 clasped my hands, and raised my eyes towards Heaven with a look of earnest supplication, as the old woman thus spoke, and mentally invoked the protection of the Supreme ; and again did a beam of hope dawn upon my mind. Finding that I would not condescend to return her anv answer, the old woman walked away, and I was again left to myself. But I am fearful, lady, that thou wilt deem me prolix, and I will, therefore, not detain thee any longer than I can help, by any unnecessary ob- servations. " At length the dull shades of evening fell upon the earth, and I suddenly heard a strange noise and con- fused bustling sounds in the casth-. Persons seemed to he passing along the gallery in great haste, and the closing of different doors, and other tokens, shewed that some unusual circjimstauce was about to take place. Full well could 1 understand the meaning of it; and my heart throbbed violently as the idea of my approaching fate darted npon my mind. In a few minutes afterwards, 1 heard some one advancing along the gallery towards the aputment in which 1 was confined, and tlife next instant they stopped at the room door. Next 1 heard the bolts bring withdrawn, and the key turning in the lock ; in a moment the door was thrown back on its hinges, and my dreaded persecutor was in my presence, anil eyeing me with looks of exultation and triumph. " ' Now, Blanche,' he exclaimed, advancing towards ine, and forcibly taking my hand,' art thou prepared to become my bride? V have come to lead thee, to the altar.' " ' Ah, my lord,' 1 cried, throwing myself on my knees at his feet; ' surely thou wilt not be so cruel ; thou wilt relent, and not force one to become thy bride, who can esteem thee as a Iriend, as a father, but who cannot love thee as her husband? Nature, justice, reason, all oppose it; aud Heaven suiely will not sanction such a deed.' " ' Pshal no more of this,' said the earl, ' I am sick of hearing such unmeaning trash; I told . thee my deter- mination in the morning, and it is seldom that I break my word. Come, to the altar, to the altar,' " ' Oh, spare me; spare me !* I implored, as the earl threw his arms round my waist, and proceeded tQ force me from the apartment. But he was deaf to my en- treaties, and the more ardent I became, so did his reso- lution appear to increase. He led me forcibly from the apartment, and in a state of almost unconsciousness along the gallery, across the gothic hall, and into the chapel; where I found a number of the earl's retainers assembled, aud a monk waiting at the altar, upon which lights were burning. I looked around upon the different persons present, in the hope to see some of them pity ' me, and step forward to save me, but alas 1 I looked in vain ; they were all the servile creatures of the earl, and seemed to be highly pleased with the event, and gratified to think that they were allowed to be spectators ot it. once more command thee, holy father 3 tn.? U sure'y canst not be so weak aud superstitious as thy woi'. 3 would infer ?' " Once more the monk partially conquered his emo- tion, and again he began the ceremony, aud my situation and state of mind may be very readily imagined ; scarcely, however, had he opened hia lips, when the same awful voice which had excited so much alarm in tbe breasts of all present* repeated the word ' Forbear,' a solemn strain of music floated oti the air, and in a moment was seen standing between the earl and the altar, a shadowy female form, attirtd in long flowing robes of white. It had appeared to lise from the earth, and as everyone stared aghast with consternation, and started back in amazement, it stood with one arm extended towards the earl, while the other was raised towards Heaven, as if commanding obedience in the name of the Most High. " It was several moments before the earl was suffi- ciently recovered from his surprise and horror to give utterance to a word, but at length, in a voice of terror, he exclaimed:— " ' Speak, mysterious being, who slid what, art thou ? Whence comest thou, and for what purpose?' "' Behold!' replied the awful- looking visitant, In the same solemn and impressive accents as before: in an instant afterwards, the long white veil which had hithe;£ o concealed her features was thrown aside, and what was the horror of every person present, when they belnld the spirit of the late Countess of Harlingwood standing before theiti. Her face was ghastly pale, and her eyes which beamed forth a supernatural expression that was awful to behold, were fixed upon the earl with a look of reproach, enough to freeze the blood in his veins with horror. '" Shade of my Adelaide avauut!' ejaculated the earl, in a hoarse voice, ' quit my sight, I cannot gaze upon thy ghastly features, ouce in life SO lovely. Oh, hence ! hence ! to the charnel- house again.' " Thus speaki tig, the terrified nobleman covered liis face with his hands, aud bent his knee to the earth. Again the music floated iu one solemn hurst of melody upon the air, aud ihe phantom repeating the word ' For- bear,' vanished. The monk, alarmed, had made his escape from the chapel, and the other persons quickly followed his example, so that there was only rnyself' and the earl left behind. For a short time, horror aud astonishment had so enchained all my faculties that I pould not move, and almost became unconscious ; but when I biheld myself alone with my peisecutor, and he in a state bordering upon insensibility, tbe thought of self preservation, darted with the rapidity nf lightning across mv brain,— there was no obstruction at that moment offered itself to iny flight; the doors and avenues to liberty were open, and, thererore, seizing the oppor- tunity which thus presented itself, with silent and cau- tious lootsteps, but with the utmost precipitation, 1 fled from the chapel, and soon afterwards found myself in the court- yard. Fortunately, the drawbridge was down, and I passed over it without encountering auy person, and ere many minutes had elapsed, I was treading the mazos of a deep'wo id, the gloom of which was almost imper- vious to the rays of the moon. ( To be continued in our next.) THE SKELETON HUNTEK. A GERMAN LEGEND. It waa some centuries agone, ere the art of printing was known, and when that of writing was confined to pious monks, an i a few learned clerks, that one of the ancestors of the nobie house of Neudar, but whose name has not been preserved by the family genealogists, a knight of much renown in war, and a deep drinker and a hard hunter in peace, happened to follow the chase in a neighbouring forest, which in those days spread very close to the very banks ofthe Rhine, and sent up its mists even upon the walls ofthe Donjon tower, which then occupied the site of tbe present castle, and the spacious courts and open grounds. The good knight found out at sunset that be was quite alone and had lost his way. It seemed strange to him that his followers should have suddenly disappeared, and Granger still that he should be at any loss to recognize the surrounding scene, as he thought himself acquainted with the most intricate parts of the forest. He vainly sought to extricate himself. The gloom grew thicker, the. trees seemed to increase* in height, and the brambles and under- brush to spring up in spontaneous confusion. Exhausted by his effor's to force a passage, the knight at last threw himself on the ground, his two faithful stag- hounds by his side; and th/ re he lay till he heard the chimes of a distant clock, mournfully sounding the hour of midnight. While the last tone still vibrated in the air, a confused rustling sound broke on his ear, and a glimmering lustre, neither like moonlight or dawn, was visible far away. He started up and seizrd his javelin in his hand. The dogs also sprang up, but instantly ran crouching between their master's legs, howl- ing most piteously. The noise and the light increased every in- stant, the trampling of many hoofs was- mixfd with the discordant notes of hunting horns, and the whoops and hrlloosof the chase. A vast illumination of sulphurious gleams spread wide across the forest, and to the knight's astonishment, the trees and bushes re- treated back and away, leaving an immense space quite clear from wood, and covered with rugged stones. Tha knight, with ali his bravery, felt himself to shake with fear, and his hair stood on end, when he saw apuroaching him at lull speed the figure of a hunter, on foot, his bow in his hand, his bugle at his belt, and followed closely by a troop of skeletons mounted on stags of enormous size.— The hunter sought to escape by every possible means. He twisted and turned in every direction, but iit vain. The skeletons flung javelins or shot arrows at him, accom- panied with infernal yells j and as the weapons pierced him through and through, he uttered the most heart- rending screams, but still kept on his legs, and ran as though ha was unhurt. A full hour passed on in this way, when the knight, who had during that time stood transfixed with horror, recov ring his presence of mind, threw himself on hia knees, and loudly invoked the name ot his own particular saint. In an instant, the whole troop of phantoms, skeletons, and their stags disappeared. The hunter whom they had been so long pur- suing, approached the knight and said to him :— Thanks and gratitude my deliverer! That invocation of yours has ended my tor- ment and opened for me the path of Paradise. I am your far back ancestor, ltodolf the hunter. Like you I loved the chase, but alas 1 I had no better pursuit than ti. at, and I followed it in cruelty and in crime. I ruined my poor serfs with taxation and extortion, and whenever any wretch, desperate wlLh hunger, was found poaching after my game, I used to have him seized and tied on the largest stag and sent ou into the forest, pursued by my fiercest dogs, to ptfrish in untold agonies. You saw just now a repetition of my mighty punishment for centuries back ; and it had been eternal, had not your presence and your prayer broke the charm, and dis- persed the ghosts of the sufferers who died by tyranny. To night my purgation ends; and to celebrate my fate, I command you to build a ciiapel for tha repose ot my soul, and to have my portrait painted as 1 now am, and placed in the gallery, to hand down my likeness to posterity as a warning of my crimes and a token of my penance. But wo to the curious intruder, not of our blood, who dares to look upon it!" With these words he threw aside the hunting bonnet, and the plumes which had hitherto concealed hia f ace, aud displayed a death's head of a moat hideous character. THE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES AND PEOPLE'S THE ROYAL FAVOURITE. AN ORLFLLVAL ROMANCE. fContinued from our last.) CHAPTER IV. THE MAYPOLE. THE WARNING. THE RIVJL8. BRIGHT and bcaulooua was the morn that ushered in the merry month of May. The inhabitants of Westmin- ster were pouring forth in their gay holiday dresses, and wending their way, with happy hearts and smiling faces, towards the little village of Charing. A May- pule had been erected there on the previous < I « v and was already adorned, from its topmost branch. With'gar- lands of artificial and other flowers, and presented a most, tempting appearance to the light- footed and light- hearted lads and lasses, who were now Hocking in great numbeis from every quarter. The sports of the day were to include a gorgeous pageant, in which Robin Hood hts merrj followers, and the Maid Marian were to plav a conspicuous part. Numerous shows, booths, with the usual number of Nature's won- ders and deformities, were there also, and their owners '. eemed most likely to reap a rieh harvest. But that which seemed to he the great point of attraction was a company of strolling players, who had fixed their quar- ters in a barn, and hail set forth boards on which were painted in large characters, " Alleyne's Platers, who wvll represent Natvre vn the Plaie of Ye Merrie Wyves of Windsor." Crowds were assembled round the platform in front of the theatre, eagerly awaiting t'ns commencement of the performance ; for in ihose days they did not wait till Luna had lighted her silver lamp, but were ruled entirely by the number and wishes of their audience. Foremost among the pleasure- seekers, was Gilbert and the yeung countess. Two years had rolled on since the death of Lord Talbot, and still was Gilbert ignorant of her real rank in life, for Philip, his father, had refused to impart any information respecting her. She had learned to love him with the affection of a sister; but he had gone farther still, he had learned to love her with the most pure and devoted attachment, and would wil- lingly have laid down his life in her service. sake of concealment, her name had be',, ciian„ e( i t0 that of Eflie by which we wiM nenc; forth he„ Accompanied by old M.^^ , hey had ,, a( tened ( Q the fair, with th » ^ termination ( on Gilbert's part, at least,) to e;, J0y the sport9 u afforded. -• ot to with Effie. On her visits to the abbey, for the purposes of prayer, she had often met a handsome stranger, who had introduced himself to her under the name of Richard of Vancouleurs, a knight of noble birth, hut poor withal. His noble and handsome form, added to the powers of a seductive tongue, had gained her affections, but she dared not telf this tu Philip, for he would instantly have prohibited her from seeing him anymore; and she, therefore, kept the knowledge of her love within her own bosom. She hoped to see him at the fair, and it was this that made her consent to ac- company Gilbert, with the express proviso, however, that Margaret should be one of the party. They several times joined the merry group round the May- pole, and as often, by way of varying their amusements, strolled among the booths and shows. Attracted by the number of people assembled in front of the theatre, they advanced towards it, and mingled with the crowd, a sudden change in which separated them from Margaret, who manifested considerable un- easiness at this circumstance. Two gallants, who saw oar distress, offered her their services, and, at the same time, asked ihe name of her friends. —" Master Gilbert, the Chaser, is my young master's name," replied Margaret. " Gilbert the Chaser!" echoed tha eldest of the two, " yon are in luck's way to- day, my lord," added he, turning to his companion. " I pray you, gentle sirs, let me join my master, he will be uneasy at my absence." " My good mother," said the younger one, putting a purse of gold into Margaret's hand, " I will not detain you one minute,— I will ask you but oqe question. Do Jftit know what relation the fair Elfie bears to this Gilbert I" " Norte at all, fair sir." " By Heavens! I thought as much ! What, then, is her father's name ?" " Alas ! sir, that I dare not tell " " Dare not tell 1— What mystery is here 1'' he ex- claimed, in pretended surprise. " Try her again with the golden bait," whispered his friend. " I have a companion to that purse," continued Mar- garet's interrogator. " It shall be yours if you confide to me this mighty secret." The old woman's avarice prevailed,— she took the gold; and first receiving an assurance of secresy, whis- pered,—" She is the Countess of Shrewsbury— the daughter of the Lord Talbot." " Ha ! then I was right in my conjecture. But how know you this !" " Because," replied Margaret, the golden dose operating very powerfully upon her tongue, " I nursed her mother when she was born; and besides this, 1 caught a glimpse of the earl's face when he brought her to Gilbert's house, though they think I believe her to be the niece of old Philip. But I must go, for I hear Gilbert railing loudly for me." And she hurried hastilv from the spot. " Well, my Lord of Essex," said the elder gallant, " what do you propose doing now P" " Still continue to woo her under the name of Richard of Vancoulevrra, It might excite suspicion in her mind weie I to appear as any other. Once mine, all her fa.'.' ner's broad lands, though confiscated to the crown, shall be mine also. Elizabeth was the enemy of her father, but she will not continue that enmity lo tile unoffending daughter." " But think you, tny lord," said Southampton, " that this chaser will give his free consent to the fair Effie's marrying an unknown knight ?" " Bv'r Lady !" returned Essex, " I shall not nsk his consent. This very day will 1 carry her off; if persua- sion will not prevail on her, then 1 must use force. 1 have not come hilher unprovided, for 1 have horses and men near the abbey, and, when the sport thickens, it w ill be no hard matter to carry her off unperceived/^ As the earl uttered these words, he took his com- panion by the arm, and mingling with the crowd, was soon safe from observation. j? While Gilbert's attention was attracted by one of the players, who was delivering a long oration, he felt his arm grasped rather roughly, and a deep voice exclaimed ill his ear, " Beware of the wolf, who, in disguise, would seek to rob the lamb of its innocence!" He turned hastily round, and perceived Ihe figure of a man, wrapped in a dark cloak, retreating quickly through the crowd. He called loudly lo him, but, receiving no answer, turned to Kffie, and asked her if she had noticed the stranger who had addressed him so mysteriously. " ' Tis very strange,'' muttered he to himself, on her replying in the negative. " What wolf have 1 to be- ware off— But, where is Margaret ?'" lie exclaimed aloud. " What can she have left us for ?" At this moment, Margaret, who had but just left the two nobles, came up, saying that she been separated from them by the crowd, and they then returned to the Maypole." As they approached the merry spot, the eye of Elfin caught Ihe form of Essex, as he leaned against a tree, watching the motions of the dancers. She complained of weariness, and asked Gilbert to lead her to a seat; with which request he instantly complied. Margaret had seen the earl too, and had noted the expressive * glances that Eflie interchanged with him; and the fact became clear at once. " My dear Effie," said Gilbert, tenderly, after she rested for some minutes, " let me prevail upon you to dance once more." " No, Gilbert," she replied ; " I am weary, and shall not dance again to- day ; but do not let me keep you from the dancers. Go, seek for some more able and willing partner, and I will remain hero till you return." " Nay, Eftie, if you do not dance, neither will 1.'' " If you would wish to please me," returned Elfie, " you will not debar yourself from that pleasure." As she spoke, a band of Musicians struck up a merry tune,— a most powerful assistant to her persuasion,— and in a minute or two afterwards, Gilbert was seen tripping lightly and joyously among the merry groups of dancers. No sooner had Gilbert left Effis and Margaret to themselves than they were joined by the earl, who ten- derly enquired if he might have a few moments' con- versation with Eflie. " You need not be frighteited at the presence of good Margaret," he said gaily, " for she is already our friend, and I hope will prove a serviceable ally." " What you have to say, dear Richard," replied Effie, blushing deeply at the thoughts of Margaret's discovery of her sectvt, " must be said quickly, as 1 am fearful of Gilbert's sudden return." " Well, then, dear Kffis, I will be brief. You know how dearly, how fondly I love you. My whole life would be a blank without you, and yet, unless you will consent to a private marriage, you never can be mine. You have said that you will not marry unless with the consent of Gilbert's father— that consent will never be given to your marriage with me; for he bears a most mortal enmity to me, and I will not stoop so low as to beg a favour from his hands. What say you, dearest Effi;; ? Do you consent ?" " Nay, ltichard, it must not be so. Philip has ever been lo me as a father, and I will not repay his kind- ness with ingtatitude." For some time she combatted his arguments and persuasions wiih great resolution ; but, eventually love triumphed, and she promised to become his, if he would find the means of conveying her away without the know- ledge of Gilbert, and stipulating that Margaret should accompany her. " I have provided for all emergencies," he replied, in a tone of extacy, " and, in a few minutes we will be beyond their reach The earl then beckoned to a man who was waiting at soma little distance, and gave him some orders in a low voice. The man then disappeared, and returned in a few minutes, saying that all was ready. " Now, my dear Effie," said the earl; taking her by the arm, " one bold stroke; and vVe shall be safe." Effie gave a sad look towards the place where she had last seen Gilbert, and, followed by Margaret, ac- companied the earl in silence to the spot where t| j; hOrses were in waiting. Gilbert had quite forgotten Uie circumstance of the mysterious stranger, and was enjoying to the utmost degree the pleasures of the dance, when he was startled by a voice behind hiin exclaiming, " Again, I say, be- ware ; the wolf is in tiie fold, and bears away the lainb !" He turned in astonishment at this second warning, and again saw the cloaked stranger as before. It was use- less to pursue him, for he was already at some distance in the crowd, which thickly environed him. For some time he could not understand the figurative language of the stranger,— at last a thought flashed like lightning across his brain,— was harm hanging over the head of the gentle Effie J Inthe next instant he stood before the seat where he bad left her and Margaret,— but it was empty. He looked hurriedly around him, and, in a field, at some little distance, he beheld those he was searching for, accompanied by a slranger, hastening towards some horses which stood ready saddled and btidled behind some trees. Seizing a cudgel from a bystander; he flew with frantic cries towards the fugitives, calling loudly ou them 10 sto^). It was plain that they heard him, for the gentle Eflie turned her head towards Gilbert, as if wish ing to return. But the earl caught her in his arms, and placed her safely on a horse ; then mounting another, he rode swiftly from the spot. His attendant did the same with Margaret, and sodn followed his master. Gilbert flew along the field they had just quitted, fol- lowed by numbers of the peasantry, whose feelings were easily enlisted in favour ofthe injured party. As they rushed along, shouting at the top of their voices, the Earl of Southampton, ( the companion of Essex in their interview with Margaret,) at the head of several of Essex's retainers, emerged from behind the shadow of a quickset hedge, where they had beee concealed, and, presenting their petronels, brought them to a sud- den halt. " What would ye with yon gallant knight?" he cried. " The lady accompanies him with her own free will, though this brawling braggart hat raised such an outcry." " Liar 1" shouted Gilbert, as he rushed upon him, and felled him to the earth with the cudgel he had in his hand. He was instantly surrounded and disarmed by a part of the men, and bound firmly to the trunk of one of Ihe trees, while the rest kept the peasantry in check. A party of horse were now seen rapidly approaching in the direction of Charing, and all eyes were anxiously di- rected towards them. The eail, having recovered from the effects of the blow, mounted his horse, and gal- lopped off at full speed, followed by the whole of his men. The horsemen now came up, and proved to be a parly of mounted patrol, who, having received from a stranger, wrapped in a cloak, aud whose face was closely concealed hy the large flaps of his hat, informa- tion of an outrage that had been committed in the vil- lage, had hastened to render their assistance Tliev released Gilbert from his bonds, and one of them, at his persuasion, and the inducement of a few pieces of gold, relinquished lo him the use of his horse. Gilbert taking the lead, they now set off in rapid pursuit, but with little hope of success, as Essex had the siart of them by a quarter of an hour; with the advantage too, of fresher horses, as those of the patrol had been out for some hours. CHAPTER V. THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. IT was midnight, ere Gilbert, worn out with a fruit- less pursuit, and nearly fainting wi ll exhaustion, rode slowly down the road ieading from the palace of White- hall to the abbey. He had searched the country for miles around, but could not obtain the slightest intel- ligence respecting the fugitives, anil lie dreaded lo ap- pear before his father without Effie. Throwing the reins over his horde's neck, he suffered him to take his own road, and sank into a deep reverie. Suddenly, his horse made an abrupt pause, and, on looking up to ascertain the cause, what was his surprise on beholding Ihe mysterious stranger of the morning standing at his horse's head, still enveloped in the ample cloak, and his features concealed beneath the shadow of his hat. " Mysterious being!" exclaimed Gilbert, trembling with superstitious terror, " what wouldst thou, now i What new calamity is yet to befal me ?" " None 1" replied the stranger. " The news I bring is good, though much evil is contained therein. But thy star is in the ascendant,— thy good genius is to- night all- powerful." " You speak in riddles," answered Gilbert. " What is the intelligence you bring me. In Heaven's name say on! whether it be fraught with good or evil!" " Once to- day did you neglect my warning, and you witnessed the event. Had you attended to it immedi- ately, Effie would still have been with her friends. How know I that you will heed a third one ? Will you swear to follow my instructions, if by doing so, Effie will be restored to her friends } Will you swear this f" " I will ! I will!" exclaimed Gilbert, eagerly. " I swear by all the powers of Heaven and earth to obey Words, he pointed with his finger towards the windows of Edward the Confessor's Chapel, through which a faint light was streaming. But why should I thus become a murderer f Why embrue my hands In human blood I Who is he thou tin- named one, whom you bid me destroy ? What is his crime that he should be thus punished ?" *' I will tell thee, boy— tell thee all, and then judge for thyself. That chapel contains the Earl of Essex and thy fair Eflie. They there await the priest to unite them in the holy bands of matrimony, little dreaming that stronger powers are in league to prevent their union. Thou knoWest not whom thy Effie is; thatalso I will tell thee. Boy 1 shall the daughter of a Talbot wed with one of the hated race of Essex, and with the man, who, with unquenchable hatred sought her father's life ? No, no, it shall not— it cannot be." " And has Eflie, knowing of her father's wrongs, en- couraged this treacherous viper's love ?" asked Gilbert, with an eagerness that made it seem as if his very life hung upon ihe answer. " She knew him not as the Earl of Esse*, or his suit would not have thriven so prosperously. She would then have known of his former marriage with the Countess of Rutland ofhis faithlessness to her, and of her inysteriousdisappearance. No; he wooed her under an assumed title, and won her love as a simple knight. I have long watched the progress of tlieir love, and 1 know full well the object that urges hiin to this mar- riage. He depends on the favour of Elizabeth to re- store to the daughter the estates of the father. But he is mistaken, deeply mistaken ! The queen loves him, and would even wish to raise him to her throne ; and think you tint a jealous woman's vengeance would lay dormant? Even now, a guard from the Tower, w^ th a warrant to apprehend him on a false charge of treason, are on their march hither, in consequence of information of the marriage which I forwarded some hours ago to the; palace at St. James's." '• If you knew all this," exclaimed Gilbert, reproach- fully, " why was I not told before? All this misery might have been spared us." .. " The time had not arrived— my plot had not worked out its completion. I wished to dash the cup of happi- ness from his lips, as he did from mine ; and now I have him in my power. His apprehension will not satisfy my revenge, ' tis so deep and deadly 1 He must fall a corpse at the feet of his bride, and then my vengeance wiii he Complete." Ashe uttered these words, a low suppressed growl was uttered from behind the stranger, who instantly exclaimed : " the soidiers are approaching ; we must be quick, or they will be beforehand with us." The growl was repeated rather louder, and, Gilbert dismounting from his horse, to his great astonishment, beheld his father's old dog, Hector, crouching behind the stranger. He had been missed on the night on which the Earl of Shrewsbury had met his death, and had not been heard of since. He recollected the dog's mysterious behaviour during the burning of the castle, and on the coming of the stranger with the child, a sudden thought smote upon his brain— could this mys- terious strangerbe Lord Talbot ? No: he had perished in the dark blue water, amidst a shower of balls ; and Gilbert instantly dismissed the idea from his mind. The stranger now opened a small door in the southern transept, and, hurrying through several vaulted passa- ges, found themselves upon the iron work of the screen belonging to the chapel in which the Earl and Effie were wailing, with a few attendants, the coming of the priest. " We will remain here," whispered the stranger, " till the arrival of the guard, when we may find a fit- ting opportunity for the accomplishment of our pur- pose." [ To he continued in our next ] why, then, was the^ ord ere framed In human language, to pro- duce an idea In the mind, which will find no counterpart without? Oo the plains of my native Prance I siRhed ( or slory; it has been awarded me I and now how contemptibly appear its brightest wreaths, unless you, Isabella, will be the crowning ftjwer of existence. " \ * * * * * ft *' Yet had I not thought that love was of such sudden growth, springing forth in an hour from the depths of man's soul, and exercising over his whole future destiny, such strong control,— how unlike it is to all the other passions. Ambition must be nur- tured, aye— and rewarded. Hatred forgets to curse. Revenge, slaking its burning thirst, becomes remorse) and remorse Is soothed by the soft voice of prayer. But love lives on, without nurture and without reward; It knows not satiety, it heeds not fate i and It dies not but with the heart where it has lived. It bursts on tile path of life, animating and illumining al! things, like the first flood of light which broke on the rejoicing world, creating a thouiand images of excellence and beauty, where before all was darkness and gloom, ***** it " But you will hate me, Isabella, or, what were worse, you will forget me. For while I have revelled in your city, tasting of her choice wlne- cilps, extending the hand of fellowship to her nobles, or accepting Irom her eitlaens the sacrad rites ot hospitality, 1 was then, yes, even then, Isabella, your country's worst foe; and I will reveal to you the name by which hereafter you may hear of him who has dared to love you. I was— I am— a Spy I Enough— one word, which is echoed and re- echoed by all the deep recesses of the human breast. Farewell 1" Thus ended the letter of the unhappy Count de V., whom we shall hereafter mention under his real name of Orlaudo de Grammont. But w* shall not detain the reader lu this dismal epoch of our little history. Early on the following morning, when endeavouring to make his unobserved escape from a city, where he felt that suspicion had attached itself to his name, our Jbero vvas taken pl- lsoner as a spy from the French army, then encamped in the immediate neighbourhood of Venice, and thrown into a dungeon, where an ignominious and speedy death awaited him. A , d how did Isabella bear this desperate trial of her love and faith ? I. oVd and faith! they are no summer fl > wers to bloom, but in the cherished bowers of Prosperity. On the barren rocks of Poverty go Idok for them— they are there; and in the dark valley of Adversity, behold how soft are their colours. how grateful to the care- worn soul of man is their odour, and woman's heart is their native soil. Isabella, in the solitude of her chamber, Indulged her grief in tears, or pondered in intense thought some plan for the deliver- ance ot tier lover. It was her first sorrow. Grief and disappoint- ment, she had heard, were inseparable to the lot of man ( alas 1 how closely twined with that of woman t) but as she had bouoded through the marble halls of her father's palace, or roamed its beautiful gardens with the wild gaiety of early girlhood, she had grasped happiness so closely, so palpably, that she had believed her nature peculiarly constituted not- to grieve. But is it wise to wish, that for us, earth may have no sorrows? How can mortals decide, that all the hundred Ills of life, now keen, small, and envenomed as the spider's sting, now dashing o'er the mind with the roar of tempest and ocean— how can mortals decide, that al! is not intended to make brighter appear that bright world to which ihe pure in heart are journeying. Thus, at least, hoped the afflicted Isabella, as she knelt at the shrine of Heaven, breathing forth her poignant grief, and imploring its aid. 1' Let not reason fall me," cried the almost frantic girl, " let it but half equal my love, and Orlando de Grammont may yet be free." Then she wildly sought her confessor, told all her love and all her woe. " Father," Bhe said, " thou knowest the great treasures of our house, and wealth shall be yours for the remainder of your days, will you but aid me In accomplishing my plaos." " Alas! daugh- ter, and what can these old and feeble hands avail against the bolts and birs of a prison- house." " Go,'' said she, speaking rapidly, " go now to the palace of the D » ge; tell him your kind- ness would fain, ere death, assolllze the soul of the captive spy. Obtain his signet- ring; and then, when the midnight hour arrives, tend rce the e robes, that signet- ring; aud then, oh! then; yes, yes. thou understandest me." As she stood, with throbbing heart and fl- ishlng cheek, before the old man, her dark eye flashing with the high purpose of her breast, her clustering curls thrown back from her unsullied brow, as if they had interfered With the thou- sand rays of Intellect which burst therefrom, the sculptor of old might have found in her an assemblage of all those charms, which he wandered Greece over to collect. THE HODMAN. AN ILLUSTRATION OF CHARACTER. Englishmen may boast with satisfaction of their knowledge In art and science, of their foreign travels and domestic inventions,, their scenic powers, ship buildings, dock- yards, saw mills, and patents; but, to the young, sturdy, poor Irishman, must be con- ceded the triumphant and disputable honour of representing the unvarnished and genuine " hodman." I do not allude to the sapient tyro that goes with his modicum of free grammar learn- ing and a presentation to college; not that he ia not, to a certain degree, in search of a living, by climbing the ladder " sofne other way" with proportionate speed; but that while there is a dispari- tied likeness in the pursuit, a verisimilitude is in his parpose; the one raising an edifice of mental structure, the other, effecting a domicile for corporeal and family convenience. The latter of the two is the subject of the present delineature. That she " hodman" maybe seen in his active glory and alti- tude, discover him from " among the sons of men" early in a fine breezy morning, when the master builder is in the fulfilment of a contract of time, and the walls are aiready wrought to a third story. His cap is a cap of liberty and indulgence, not worn by the greatest judge in the land fur . criminal jurisprudence and admlnis-* tratiofl, nor converted into the poetical use of directing his imagi- nation, but abstractedly for its *' * ear," and then it* " tear." His pigtail is twisted in his mouth for a " quid repetis " Hia mortar, like that of an apothecary, is a mean for his bread, and his spade acts like a pestle in mixing component qualities. He knows but little of the architect pointing h- re and directing there, with the unrolled plan of the structure, yet he pretty well guesses what is meant to be done, by a kind of instinctive anticipation. The brickkyef is on the topmost height with his trowel in his hand, ready for the fray. The foremost ho. dman leads a line of battle mortars, and aasistfi In forming the square. The signal for warfare is given by the General Bricklayer in a " cough,' under- stood only by the hodman, for snpplies. Quick in laJwect suc- cession tha " rank and file" quit the " lime and hair i^ 1* 1"^* slaked from the liquid flash, and laden with the posse comiiZ ™ ot bricks, ascend like Jacob and his angels, with the pilgrim's bur- den. In this journey, like Fielding's, from " this world to the next," the hodman possesses an unique knack of holding his hoa~ ful on his shoulder, by an equipoise with the pole untouched, ana each hand alternately holds each ascending bar of the ladder with cerfainty and despatch. A quantum sujjicit thrown out of the hod on the working scaffold, the hodman, in train, trots down a swing- ing plank, taking in his descent every other bar of the ladder, by one foot, then the other, his hands sliding down the sides till, in almost imperceptible Velocity, he reaches terra firma. and fills his hod denovo. But, with his ear attentive to his appetite, he no sooner hears the strike of eight o'clock, than the hod is thrown aside, and left " stuck in the mud." " Off, away and away" he runs, two or three miles for his breakfast, with his jacket on his arm. Ere he seems to have time to swallow it, he is returned to the post of his labours With the last fragment of a consoling shock acting like electricity to his nerv<? s, and lending a whiff to a friend, ready and willing in the resumption of his employ, to ascend the scaffold bare- headed, but not in danger of being be- headed. When the edifice is raised, he ties a handkerchief to a stick, and vociferates hurrah with heart and soul. Or, it some- times happens, that Pat obliges his " Kate" to appear just at the nick of time with the substantially agreeable meal in a basin and bottle. In this exercise they retire to a heap and partake of the banquet in undivided peace, unless the flavour of the thing is not quite suited to Pat's taste. Then he sits sullenly, or grumbles in no measured threats of future punishment ffl the purlieus of St. Giles, or the classic garrets in Chick- lane. Kate, aware of the dingers of contradiction, keeps at a respectful distance, When the meal is finished, however, she gives her helpmate an inuendo which insures her an extra pair of diamonds in the night time with a " nate and tundhering blow," for which he atones at the shrine en masse. Yet, in his better mood, the " hodman" is a frank and well- meaning fellow, with a good share of drollery and low wit. H e enjoys his annual combat on Kennington Common at " hurly," with a good deal of " burly" added to it ; spends a Sun- day noon at football; fights on St. Patrick's Day with shamrock and shillelah; wrestles on Good Friday; loves a shock without an earthquake; feels proud of his country, but rarely rises above the " hod station," except recommended for his nerve and good . be- haviour to throw his party- coloured trappings aside, for the more uniform suit ofa metropolitan policeman. you I Now, say on ; I am your slave." I am satisfied," said the stranger, triumphantly. " The guardian saints of the se holy wulls have heard your vow, and endless perdition is yours, if you do not fulfil it!" Gilbert looked around him for the first time, and, saw to his great surprise, that bis horse had wandered close beneath the abbbey walls. The moon was shining and as its pale beams fell full on Ihe statues of the saints high up on the walls, he fancied that he could perceive a melancholy smile of pity steal across their cold and vacant features. " Take this dagger, then," said the stranger, " and plunge it deep into the heart of hirn whom you shall see at the altar of your cathedral. At he Bpokej these A SPY IN VENICE. There is a land where nature wears a deeper bloom in her cheek, and a brighter radiance in her eye, than i. i other climes; the per- fume of her breath i? richer, and her brow is bound with a wreath of perpetual spring flowers. Those who have elsewhere loved her as a mother, would there do her the impassioned homage due to a mistress: for bright— bright is the sunshine, soft is the moonlight, and lustrous are the stars of Italy. The sun of her former glory has net, but the twilight tefis how long ajri'd pteasaht was the day. The mourning veil ot' memory and time Is thrown around her in deep and graceless folds; and the mental eye scarce wishes it re- moved even to behold her, as she was in the days which are past. Gone is her greatness— its only emblems are her fallen columns; silent are her orators, but sweet the distant echo of her waterfalls; nerveless are the arms of her warriors, but light and graceful as ocean mists are her dark- eyed daughters. While we gaze on her beauty, and remember her former high estate among the nations, we mourn over her, as for some fair victim, whom the arts of men have despoiled of honour. " But to my tale." It was a soft even- ing in the soft region, wh- n from the loftiest palace in Venice, strains of fine melody were heard to break, and mingling with the peculiar laughter of the young, the perfumes of the sweet" south, and the light echoes of dancing feet, spoke to those who ap- proached, of one who was young, and j ^ yous and beautiful. The Duke de celebrated on that evening the anniversary of his daughter's birth. The Lady Isabella had attained her seventeenth year— exquisite era in female life, when the bright graces of child- hood, blending with the maturer charms of later hours, produce a sort of coniDOsite order in womanhood, fleeting and transient as ' tis beautiful. Within these halls of pleasure moved a gay and courtly crowd ; some slowly wound their way in measured pro- menade; others in liijht circles, followed the rapid mazes of the waltz ; while here and there in some windowed niche, apart from their fellows, stood those who loved the moonlight and the night wind better than all the mocking splendours which the art of man can produce. Amon^ r these last was a well- dressed and handsome cavalier, with an eye like a star, and a form of striking symme ry, Who ere long attracted the attention of the guests. 44 Who is he ?" " Whence comes he?" was whispered around. AU that we know was quickly told. The stranger was the Count de V., a mere loiterer from a neighbouring city, who had come to pass a few weeks in Venice, attracted thither, as a thousand others were, by the admirable collection of the chief works of tbe best masters in the arts which that ancient city boasts. He was an anateur in the fina ar's, and as such was honoured with more than usual notice from the Duke de . Yet it vvas no-; the mag nificent hospitality of the duke, but the sunny smile of the daughter, which now inspired tbe young count with the most ani- mated gaiety, or anon threw over his features an eloquent shade of thought, deepening into melancholy. But the level and the dance were ended, and the stars wore fast fading in the sun. Re- luctant ' good nights" Were echo ; d around, and the Count de V. sought his solitary chamber,— but not to sleep. He did not even seek or wish to sleep. Menv ry's cup, filled with distillations from the preceding hours, offered a draught far sweeter than the dull Lethe of forgetfulness. He recalled the smile of the playful Lady Isabella, and the dimple which came at its bidding; he heard again the soft low tones of her voice, or dwelt ou the innocent ex- pressions of her eye. Brief and bright as falling meteors were the succeeding weeks. Isabella and the count were mutually fasci- nated. She knew, she saw, she felt, that she was beloved; and ber life became a succession of the brightest day dreams. Soli- tude and meditation had charms for h.* r which they had never before possessed. Her companions often looked around in vain at their festive meetings for " her whose cheek out- bloomed them all." Her gold fiah were neglected in their crystal hall; her flower bl > omed or drooped unheeded by that eye, which was wont to bend over them like a descending sunbeam. Her favourite bird languished and died, scarce claiming from her a sigh, who a few months before w^ uld have paid it the tribute of many tears. The rays of her. young feelings, which had hitherto shown on and cheered a thousand varying objects, were now'all centered in the burning glass of love. It was vn Italian evening in early summer, when the earth seemed decked as for a festival; there was not a cloud on the lofty brow of nature, and the stars, beautiful daugh- ters of Heaven! came forth from their high chambers in the fir- mament, now singly, now in sister- like and shining groups ; then suddenly the nightingale hurst into song, to serenade ths listening earth, and all around was calm and beautiful. Isabella hurried on, full of joyous expectancy, to the rose- bower, where her lover awaited her; but their interview was silent and melarnholy. At parting, the count placed in her hands a letter: " R^ ad it now. Isabella," he exclaimed, " but to morrow, when I am gone, I know that you will scam, I know that you will hate me— but not now; no; let us at lea « t part in kindness," and then they did part, and it was in kindness. Early on the succeeding morning, Isabella sprung from a sleep- less pillow to read her lover's letter. It vvas brief, and simple as the language of deep feelings hath ever been, and yet how much did it reveal to the astonished Isabella. The count commence;! with gome account of his own life. 4i My father was a French duke of the ancient Regime; my mother was an Italian lady ot high rank, and from her lips did I learn the language of her country. Had you, Isabella, owned no other charm, your voice, which recalled to my mother's accents, would have bound me to you as an Eastern spell. My mother's voice! my mother's voice ! how kind and„ pleasant were its tones ! Now breaking into the pretty raptures of - a mother's caressing words, now mourning with me, in mimic melancholy, at some childish grief; or at the matin, or the vesper hour pouring her simple, yet eloquent prayer, that God would bless her boy, and shield him from all the thou- sand ills of fate. In the profound stillness ot midnight, and in silent and solitary places, I have earnestly prayed that but one word from that voice could again break on my ear, if but to say she forgave me all my boyish waywardness, and was blest in Heaven. But, wniil you spoke, lobelia, naught, save memory, had ever supplied its tones. And it is this association with an object, which has hitherto been first in my regard, which gav « e an impetus to my affection for you, far beyond what the fascinations of beauty, or the splendours of wealth, or thellight of genius could have bestowed. The midnight hour arrived, and with It a shaded arm was seen entering the cell of the prisoner. A solitary lamp tried in vain to dispel the darkness of the awat'tment, and showed imperfectly to Isabella the pale features of her lover, sunk in deep repose. And at such an hour could he sleep! How kindly does Providence blend with some of the severest trials of humanity a nioral opiate, whicli renders the soul half callous to their effects, and often sleeps the senses of the woe- worn wretch in slumbers sound and sweet as those of a p'ay- wearied boy. She approached the prisoner, and laid her small cold hand upon his brow; " Orlando!' We are easily awakened by the voice of one we love. He sprung into in- stant consciousness. " I have read it all, I have fyeard it all, and I am here to deliver you. Take this dress," throwing from her light figure the habit of the priest—" without these walls waits a gondola, to bear you whither you may direet." " And think you," said her proud lover, thi& k you, Isabella, I would accept of life on such terms as these? When I volunteered to perform the office of a spy, its dangers were to me its chief attractions, for they were so many paths to glory; and ere you appeared, Isabella, glory was to me a lady- love, for whom all risks and trials were to be lightly borne, and wouldst thou make a recreant of thy knight, and bid him basely fly, and leave thee, the innocent, the beautiful the kind, to expiate his crime, if crime it were? no ; never, never 1 " Hear me! hear me f" cried the kneeling Isabella; and if thou hast ever loved me, listen to my words. Hadst thou died in battle, Orlando, with the brave aud free about thee— had honour's trophies been laid upon thy bier, and heroes pronounced my hero's requiem, I could, I might have borne it; but when my eyes fastened on that hated scaffold as if they had no power to wander, I felt the burning hands cf madness lay hold upon my brow. Oh ! if thou wouldst save thy Isabella from despair and death, fly! What said the judge? that ere the sun rise on the morrow, thou shalt die. Away, away! And know'st thou not," she added, with forced calmness, " the relation in which I st^ nd to the Doge? believe me, in this dungeon I shall be as safe as in my accus- tomed chamber. Orlando was convinced. " I go," said he, " but in one hour I will return, and then I will claim thee as my own, my plighted bride." He is gone. His first, last kiss is on her brow; and, breathless with contending emotions of joy, sorrow, and expectancy, she sank on the couch of straw upon which her lover had so lately slept, hoping that each sound which fell on her ear, through the thick walls of her cell, was the returning step of Orlando de Grammont. She counted the tardy moments in im- patient anxiety, or soothed her agitated spirits in earnest solicita- tions to Heaven for fortitude to support the coming hours at became a devout Christian, and tbe betrothed of a hero. " But my father, my dear father ! ' murmured she, " he is sleeping calmly now, all unconscious that his Isabella has wandered thus from the home of her childhood. Oh! if through my means, anguish and disappointment should add one shade of care to his declining years, what could recompense me for the thought?" And the unhappy girl, shed the first tears which had wet her cheek since she formed the design of liberating her lover. Thus, alternately weeping for her father, or musing over the future des- tinies of Orlando and of herself, she was aroused by the sound of footsteps and voices rapidly approaching her cell. In breathless suspense she listened : the door opened, and she sprung forward to meet— not Orlaudo ! Alas 1 it was he who was to have been his executioner. The report of the escape of the prisoner, and the captive found iu his stead, spread rapidly through the city. Fast rushed in a tumuluous mob, demanding vengeance on teer, whom they . styled a traitoress, and the betrayer of Venice. The officers of the law held an affrighted council. The French were entering the city on all sides. The populace was enraged. To deliver her to the mob was finally determined on. They dared not attempt her defence, even had they wished it. Isabella foresaw instantly her doom. " He comes not! he comes not, and I am lost! but, Orlando, I repent not the deed which has saved thee this wretched fate ; and paie and trembling, she shrunk to the remotest corne-- of her cell. But see, what plumed and belted knight, with flash- ing sword and bounding step, springs to her rescue ? ' lis he; ' tis Orlando de Grammont! With the wild energy of his impassioned nature, his blows are dealt on all sides, nor does he pause before is strongest foes, till he fiads and rescues his beloved Isabella from the rude crowd wiiich surrounds her. Some of his followers assisted in bearing her otf on a rude litter, formed of their now sheathed swords, over which their military cloaks were hastily folded. Close around the litter a small and chosen band arranged itself in an impenetrable phalanx, and through crowded and tumultuous streets they wound their rapid way to the palace of the Duke de . " Here nuught shall harm thee," whispered Or- lando, and Isabella sunk in the arms of her only parent. A month had passed since the date of the surrender of Venice and the gay, luxurious city was again joyous as ever, in her sun- shine, her fountains, and her m « lodies. Ihe rain- cloud of spring the golden wealth of western skies at sunset, the sorrow of a chi'd, or the smile of a mistress, are Immutable things, compared with thy favour, oh, human will. Isabella's constancy, her cou- rage and hv. T heroism, were the fond themes of every tongue. But she heedo- d not their praisss. Deep within the caverns of her soul, from whence came no voice, where no eye could penetrate, lived and flourished, with each sunny hour of existence, a lone and a beautiful flower. Its root was life, its bloom vvas happi- ness. It was a bright morning in Venice. Fast assembled a gay and splendid crowd, and among them stood a pale and trembling bride. Think'st thou that sorrow had blanched that cheek ? No, it was the excessive draught ot human happiness. Isabella, matchle's in beauty, absorbed in love, we will leave thee at that marble shrine, with thy snowy robes about thee, and the orange- flow « r wreaths on thy brows. Around thee stand thy young kins- men and cousins; thy father is gazing on thee, with that look of mingled tenderness and solicitude which belongs only to a parent's eye. Thy lover is murmuring vows of eternal constancy, and thou, Isabella, art striving to echo them. A few tears ^ thou scarce kuow'st why) are falling from thy downcast eyes. Precious drops ! may the tears of her future days be all like unto them, distilled by the hacd of feeling, Irom the very finest emotions ot the soul. We wiH not lor thee penetrate futurity , it may be, that even from that high eminence where love and fortune hath placed thee, we might behold afar off, on the plains of human life, some distant sorrow approaching one, for whom we would wish naught but the purest joy. THE HAPPY MISTAKE; OR, WOWIANS LOVE. BY C. W. UUCKKTT— AUTHOR " OP AN AFTERNOON'S PLEASURE, AND OTHER TALES Elizabeth Anderson, ( the heroine of our tale,) was the daughter of virtuous parents. She, at the period her history commences, was about the age of eighteen, and a mare interesting, pleasing, and beau- tiful girl did not exist. She resided at a neat farm house on the road to C , adioining which, were several handsomely bu; lt dwellings inhabited by independent people; and in the course of life, our heroine " Can it be true, that happiness is not the abode of earth ? Oh SIR WILLIAM JONES.— When be was only a boy at Harrow School, he invented a political play, in which Dr. William Bennet, Bishop of Cloyne, and the celebrated Dr. Parr, were his principal asso- ciates. They divided the fields in the neighbourhood of Harrow, ac- cording to a map of Greece, into states and kingdoms; each fixed upon one as his dominion, and assumed an ancient name. Some of their school fellows consented to be styled barbarians, who were to invade their territories, and attack their hillocks, which were denomi- nated fortresses.' The chiefs vigorously defended their respective domains against the incursions of the enemy; and in these imitative wars, the yount; statesmen held councils, made vehement harangues, and con- posed memorials, all, doubtless, very boyish, but calculated to fill the, • minds with ideas of legislation and civil government. In these unusual amusements Jones was over the leader. had many admirers, ( with the reader's permission I will describe one or two.) Albert Robwell resided next door to her ; long had he viewed her with admiration when pacing op and down in his garden. * * Time flew, and oft did Albert and ai! that was dear to him on earth, viz. Elizabeth, meet on a moonlight night, and repeat those vows they had ere this so freely given. In person, Albert was tall, of fair com- plexion, well made, and blessed with a sweet temper. At No. > 1* a few doors off, lived Thomas Wilson, a countryman ; spirited, ill- tempered, and a coward. He also loved (?) Elizabeth, but she knowing his mind, rejected him. Several others also pretended to be fond or her. Among the rest was Dick Sordent ; but I will not tire the reader with a detail of each, I will merely relate what occured with the above mentioned persons. A few months had elapsed when Elizabeth was taking her evening'/, walk by the side ofa purling stream, when Master Sordent overtook her. " How is ver, Miss ?" said he," hope's no defence—( offence.) Is yer going fur? shall I company yer? shall 1 carry your pair- a- soles? ( parasol); and shall 1 see no one hurts yer ?" " Really, Mr. Sordent," she replied, < cI can take care of myself, I thank you ; nevertheless, gratitude dictates to me to be obliged to you for the offer." " Oh," said he," that's it, is it ? then the fact is yer dosn't want me." " It would not become a lady to tell a gentleman that, if even she thought so," replied Elizabeth. true," said Mr. Sordent? " but if yer know how I loved yer, yer would not object to our practising rule of reduction." " I do not understand yer, sir," said Elizabeth. Oh, I'll tell yer," returned he. " Make one of us two, to be sure." " I am obliged to you for your compliments, sir, but I can go my journej by myself," said she. " Oh," ejaculated Mr. Sordent. " Well, then, Miss Independence, go, jo, I care not for you, not one might for you ; and I'll let you know, Missj that 1 have a young lady that would die for me ; jump in the river forme; hang herself fo/ me; and shoot herself for me. But— but— I'll prove it; iook, Miss Independence. Here— here-—( holding forth a minature ) I eare nought for yer, so begone." " If you think to break my heart, sir. by your conduct, you are very' much mistaken," said she. " Since it has come to that, look here," ( dis- play? ng- a picture of Albert.) " My stars; I'm mad1.— Never!— What Albert Roswell, ' tis him !— Ah, what an ass 1 have made of myself. I'll wish yer a wery good dav,— good day,— good day," vociferated he; then making a bound or two, was lost in the greenwood of a country lane. * * In the evening of the 23rd of Osiober, Elizabeth was waiting at the door for her father's return, as was her custom, when up came Mr. Thomas Willson in a handsome chaise. He stopt— alighted— and ad- dressed her, inviting her to take a ride; but she using prudencc as her guiding star over her undertakings, refused him. Finding he could not prevail over her to accompany him, he promised faithfully to visit her the following evening. He would take no denial, knowing her father was always out on the 24th of each month. She begged of him not, but he was determined on his object. He bade her adieu; then spring- ing into his chaise, he drove oSf, leaving her in a sad desponding state. Her father now returned. S' e then went to her female attendant., Eleanor Lesmond, and communicated to her all that had pas- ed, beg- ging she would assist her in frustrating his designs. She promised thai she would do so. The day arrived, and Eleanor got one of Elizabeth's dresses, and all the & c. & c.' s attendant upon it, delivering them to John E., their footman, with instructions to fit himselt out. He retired, and in the space of a quarter of an hour, returned, the complete per- sonification of his young Mistress Elizibeth. He then went into the parlor, sat himself down by the fire, whilst Elizabeth hid herself upstairs. Hulfan hour had scarce/^ elapsed, when a rat- tat came at the door. Eleanor opened it, when Mr. Thomas Willson presented himself, and was ushered into the parlor. After talking uoon the wather— crops- state of things— and last, though not least, love, he got so close to his Elizabeth, (?) that he ventured to pop the question, ana embrace her. (?) Up sprung John, dashing his handkerchief from his face, and displaying a large bull hanker. Imagine, kind reader, Mr Willson's surprise. '^ Villaincried he, 1' who art thou? Speak, fellow." " Oh yes," replied John. " I means to teil you, my young Missus dosn't want anything to say to you; so you mav just cut and run." " Then, sir," returned Mr. Willson, » I shall do no such thing." " You won't," said John; " then I'll make you;" at the same time raising his stick. But Mr. Willson seeing his danger, thought he had better make his exit; and © atchingup his hat, bolted out ofthe room- John following liim. After the above, Elizabeth made a handsome present to each of the domestics for the trouble they had taken. Time passed on— Albert visited tier— and to his joy, he perceived she accepted him. The only drawback to their mutual happiness, was Elizabeth's father sternly disapproving. When one particular day in the annals of history, namely, the 5th of November, they,-_ ihe Anderson's family, had three of their cousins to' visttthem; and in the mirth of boyhood, they had formed an effigy < poor Guy, and placed it for their evening's sport against the bedg- • the bottom of their grounds. At dusk, when Mr. Anderson f •. beth's father— was returning from a shooting excursion,— and ivwjl ,'.• the hedge, his musket went off, and shot poor Guy. Down he • • . from his upright position at the feet of Mr. Anderson; and u v - that gentleman caught of Guy in the twilight, struck honor m ' hi breast. He thought it was Albert. He was petrified : kiv- wiri" he ( Albert) .^ sually walked through that grove at that ho-'; rivl, / brought John— Elizabeth— a man servant— and the . Elizabeth wishing to further the joke, feigned grief, im ; c'-^'- a iVi- father withthe deed and ingratitude. The youth's, the strain, and pretended to letch an offitfer, but or and secreted him in ambush. He ( Mr. Amlc m r declared it was accidental, and begged forgiveness he could once behold Albert alive again, he wou'n' ter to him. Things were in this state w! " As I know it was an accident, and if i u union, and keep your promises, I will public." " Sweet girl, I will, I wdlj <, me, an used to make you unhappy; r. uiter shall it . foes from thy view, as the grass before the ... . 44Then," returned shi," as yoo ;> tom >.. word ' 1 have now tl in good health." Albert now spring » rward . Anderson was paralysed— thunder- truck. He rushed , . <'•,•- •;< body.— and surely it was a dead body, • 0 m: v: u. i. vvhat was his surprise when lie dis- • ; o5 i. i bl: alarm was poor Guy? A general laugh . ' • 1 " place, which ended in the tecon- e > - V- Hi Che » - ening was spent in hilarity and merri- • Ti'-. wuh agreed to their union. Mr. Thomas » ocd Eleanor; for he was an aliered man, and by his • - - i ; r.; e fortune. • • - H os well led the pleasing Elizabeth to St. James's •• ii , s s , where they soon sea'. ed thos- vows ted. Eleanor Lcsmond also became the bride of sq., late Mr. Wilison. They livea respected by all Aud thus terminates " This strange eventful history," tWKepi up instead, I stamped, i'"' K that if is daugh- : n Elizabeth exclaimed :- give your consent to our ve you, and not make it • i c -' r shalt my arm be •'!-. toyed to sweep thy faithfully to keep your hcation to introduce to you Albert Roswell, > rward. for it never hat covered the followed— "< ciliation of a' ment. M Wilhon had fru. • 101M8 Wllls< rbo knew the ME Imart SIMRDAT AN ® totitt & AAM& ^ Fragment** for tfit eurtoua. PASWAN OOLOU.— In 1798, the Porte, which had been long set at defiance by Paswan Oglou, determined to make one great effort to reduce the rebel. Hussein, the high general, was ordered to march against him with all the forces of Europe and Asia that could be raised. Paswan, on the approach of the enemy, dis- banded the greatest part of his troops, and shut himself up in Wld- din, with 12,000 chosen men. After having reconnoitred the envi- rons of the town, after having assigned to the different chiefs all the posts which they were to occupy, and having made all the dispositions which he judged necessary for the siege, Hussein sum- moned Paswan to lay down his arms, promising him his life, liberty, and a distinguished rank, if he would spare Mussulman blood. " In vain wilt thou oppose to me," said he to him, " a momentary resistance ; I have a hundred thousand men with me ; a hundred thousand ethers would come to their assistance were it necessary; acknowledge thy errors j prostrate thyself before the majesty of the imperial throne, and deliver up to me thy town and thy army.*' Paswan received the envoy of the pacha on the most lofty tower of his palace, whence he was observing, with a glass, the movements of his enemy, and with that disdain which the idea of the superiority of one's own strength and talent naturally produces » " go, and tell thy master," replied he, " that it de- pended on me to have a hundred thousand men to oppose him ; I preferred conquering him with ten.'' The result of the contest sufficiently justified the haughty boast of Paswan. A MOTHER'S TEAR. Is there a grief that's keener felt?— Is there a sorrow more sincere?— Can pity stronger feelings melt, Than those which prompt a mother's tear ? Does danger meet a darling child, Who shall pourtray a father's fear ? But, who can speak the anguish wild,— The language of a mother's tear ? Should he, on whom their hopes are set, Be called to quit his parents dear, Guage, if you can, the sad regret That's compassed in a mother's tear. And, falls he ' neath the foeman's steel, With home, nor friends, nor kindred near,— What ransom would he give to feel The influence of a mother's tear ? And should her fever'd vision see Him bleeding on a soldier's bier, Though severed by the broad blue sea, ' Twill not restrain a mother's tear. But, should their long- lost, mourned- for boy Come back his childhood's home to cheer, ' Tis then the soul's unspoken joy Will sparkle through a mother's tear. In life these sacred drops shall flow— In death will quell the sufferer's fe?, r j Till in that land that knows no woe, Where God shall wipe the mother's tear. H. B. K. Sterne, like many other people, did not pay much attention to truth, whew he had an opportunity ot displaying his wit. At the table of Lord Tavistock, in Paris, he met Mr. Dutens, and was seated next to him, without knowing him. The party consisted principally of gentlemen, who were on the point of visiting Turin, whence Dutens was just arrived, and of gentlemen who had just * eturned from it. Sterne, addressing himself to his neighbour, fcskedhim if he knew Mr. Dutens? * Yes, ver/ intimately,' re- plied the latter. The whole company began to laugh; and Sterne, perfectly ignorant of the person he was addressing, but conceiving lhat there must be something very whimsical In th « character of a man whose name alone was sufficient to excite merriment and laughter, began drawing a portrait of Dutens, which the latter affected to consider vastly like the original. As the company be- came more and more amused, the satirist invented many stories, ' which he related in his dry way, to the great diversion of the table. When Mr. Dutens had retired, and Sterne was made acquainted with the grossness of hla blunder, be was not a little alarmed, and called the following morning with a hundred apologies for his indiscretion on Mr. Dutens, who had received the joke as much as any one in the room, and who received the humiliated satirist with admirable good humour. A poet walkine over LincolnVlim- lieids, one who prelended him- self a maimed soldier, begged alms of him. Tiie poet asked liim by what authority he went begging? " Sir," said ihe soldier, " 1 liave a license.' " A license," said lire poet; » tier, 1 conceive, tlicui ayest have, but sense thou hast none, to beg money of a poet." ADNA'S SONG, TO HER KOSE TREE. Fair rose 1 thou com'st in all thy beanteny. o bloom To charm those feelings lhat are nd'it, me. ' Vain i, thy lovely glow and rlc', 1 perfume, For he is not that used Mmlre thee. Thou shouM'tt not t'. ooin, sweet rose, thou should'st not bloom Nought out thy wounding thorns should flourish, now • ahgel msstt- i slumburs in the tomb! And can thy beauty grace the mourner's brow? Ah ! no, sweet rose, Indeed thou should'st have died, You cannot on this throbbing bnsooi rest ; Why dost thou come, in all thy glowing pride, To mock the desolation in my breast? Yet I will cherish thee for his lov'd sake. Whose admiration so enhanced thy charms; AH! happy rose— thou hast no heart to break, And I can shield thee from all lesser harms. And I may gaze on thee ami weep, sweetil i er That all thy loveliness will soon decay; ' And thy fair beauty wither In an hour, Like Mm whose sweetness all has passed away I AMNA, MINSTREL OF TUB HKATII. One Mr. Summers was so great a drinker, tha^ there went a com- nion proverb of him, " That he |, ad a great swallow." Then a mi tleman said, " one swallow tloth not make a summei » " » ••• " another, « one Summei ir. akes a great many swallows." Qratnattc SMea.— No 7. ' FARINELLI. FOUNDED OH THE POPULAR OPERA OF THAT NAME. Those who know anything of Spanish history are of course aware of a foul plot that was formed against Philip the Fifth, when con- fidence in two or three of his treacherous favourites had nearly terminated in his own downfall. So Weil indeed had the plot been contrived, that everything was prepared for execution when the hero of our present tale arrived at Madrid and thwarted the vile projects ofthe traitors. The people, it is true, had for some time past expressed their indignation at the seclusion in which their monarch was kept, and they frequently broke out iutiloud mur- murs against the king's chief physician and chamberlain, Gil Polo, who was rightly enough suspected of being the principal person engaged In this unnatural conspiracy. One evening when Gil Polo was making his way towards the palace, he was fiercely set upon hy a large body ofthe citizens, who would have slain him had he not made the best use of his legs and fled before his exasperated enemies. Still, however, they pursued him, and a second time he would have fallen Into their hands, when, fortunately, Theodore, one of the royal pages, made his appearance and pacified the wrath of his Indignant assailants. Left thus once more to himself, Gil Polo was about to continue his way when he was accosted hy Alphonso, the captain of the royal guard, who was also engaged in the plot that had been formed against the sovereign of Spain. On perceiving the chamberlain he drew nigh, an « l, in a low whisper, enquired how all wa. going on. " Admirably l' » replied Gil Polo, in the same subdued tone,— " thanks to my good management the king is now seriously 111, and his melancholy has sunk Into confirmed hypochondria." " And this Is your work }" observed Alphonso. " Silence!" exclaimed the oiher; *' in the name of the Holy In- quisition I charge you to be silent. The monarch Is now confined to a solitary chamber,— not a ray of light beams upon him, and he now refuses to leave his apartment," " Then the people will more than ever believe Is the report that ha. been raised of his death,' replied the captain of the guard. " Aye," replied Gil Polo, " they blame me for it, aud salute me with their heaviest maledictions whenever I venture abroad. But I care not for their wrath, for the hour approaches when Philip, without a sigh, will abdicate his throne in favour of another." " Aye.'' cried Alphonso, " his brother, Don Ferdinand." " Yes," continued the chambcrlaln, " he Is lhe prints for an enlightened nation like ours, for his heart a » d sotll & re devoted to the Inquisition." ' Fh1en, the <) afe"! « ru! n 18 Inevitable ?" exclaimed Alphonso Itls,'" replied Oil Polo; " and to effect that have all my plans been laid. Should the king's love for her revive our hopes are destroyed for ever, and disgrace would be our portion. To this end do we labour to place Ferdinand on the throne, whose grati- tude 11 li_, increase our power, and \ re shall then fear no meddling woman's iulltiense to shake it.'' " At any rate," exclaimed Alphonso, " she has not much Infill, ence now, lor ihe king refuses to grant Ills Consort an audience. ' " True,'' returned the chamberlain, " thanks to my artifices ; tl her efforts to obtain one have proved nnaVa Mil -, ilul enough of this, Alphonso, I must now gtj for a letter that I exp- ct from the convent of Santa Maria at Cadis— my niece Geraldine, who is an inmate there, has not wiitten lately, and lam anxious to km w whether she is willing to take the veil. So farewell, my frend, and remember that alt our energies will be required to bring our plot against King Philip lo a successful termination," As these two separated Carlo Brooclli, afterwards better knoivn as the celebrated singer, Farlnelli, nrtlved at the spot they had just quitted, and with him came Gerahilne. who had escaped froril the convent In which she had been plated by H? r Intriguing uncle, Gil Polo. In fact, so well pleased were they with each other, that they had united themselves In man- lane at the lirst town they cam, to, and then proceedsd onwards to Madrid, where Farlneill ,( or by that name we shall call him,) was in hopes of raising lilmse f Irom obscurity by the extraordinary talent ol singing with' which he wa, endowed. But his prospects were not very fenconrrtglbg dn first entering the city, for neither he nor hie JBilfig bride possesi d a coin In the world. While, h( ttvver, they were debating upon what course to pursue, a clashing of swords was heard at no pr„ at dls. tance off, and then came the shriek of a female as il calling aloud tor assistance. Upon this Farinelli's gallantry was called in o action, and requesting C-' eraidine to remain where she was till his return, he hurried away to see whether he could not rentier assist- ance to the lady whose voice he ha 1 heard. Oeraldlne would have remonstrated against being left alone, hut ere she could do so her husband had disappeared down an adj nuing strcSt, an! she was thus doomed to wait his return. But , he had not been long her, belore Gil Polo and A'plionSo iSturned, the lormer ol whom no Booner discovered his hiiiaiVay ul c-, ban assuming the authority of a guard iii, he Insisted upon her accompanjlng lilm to the palaci, where she was to remain till an opportunity off, red to send her l ack again to the convent from wit ch sbe hadju. t escaped It vvas In vs. in that she remonstrat.- d, for the old m n was resolute and as she dared not incur his ancer by confessing her marriage with Farlnelll, she found herself compelled to obey him an i within * few minutes afterwards she entered the stately halls ot the rovai palace. Scarcely, however, had she quitted the place where her husband had left her, when Faritielli returned with tbe Queen of Spain who, while Wnla ng disguised through ll. e streets of Madrid, had been suddenly attacked by some hr. tvoei, from whose violence she was happily r. s. m d by the gallantry of her preserver. But Fatl n. lll knew not ihe high rank oi the lady whose life he had just before saved, and perceiving her agitation, he exclaimed :— " Nny, compose yourself madam, I entreat yon ;— II danger Is now past, and with your permission IU tee you safely to your A countryman going by St. Paul s Church, was saying, " That it was • in,', 0,? m"' V * l, at c;, s4 ul'on " Nay," said another, 4111 tell you what It is most like, and that is, that if it'be not speedily' repaired, it is I'. ia jo fall.' H. li. A man. at a snull village, not an hundred miles from Andovcr coming home late one night, and kneeling by the bed- s. de ( as he termed it) to " say his prayers," while tints engaged, lie actually ° roPP « i off lo sleep, ami never discovered himself till six o'clock fallowing morning. AS some prisoners were being conveyed from ihe New Prison, Clerkenwell, to ihe Old Bailey, they slopped lo drink in st, John's ' lane. A gentleman a, king what were their offences* one of the culprits, Willi grc at archness, told him, « lie was tmlv chaiged with plotting a washerwoman's pocket of a pail of soap- suds." A young scholar having been very extravagant, and having writ'en 1o Ins father 10 supplj fc, m wilii money, and used all means, but nothing would do, lie very Ingeniously wrote to his father, " 1 hat lie • was dead, and desired him to send him money lo pay for his burial." A gentleman was In mourning for his father, who died a month before, and as he - was tiding before some ladies, his horse, having a crimson- velvet cloth on, ihe ladies asked him, why that was not DUCK, too; oiu" says he, " the father of my horse is not dead yet." A courtier, thinking to abuse a country fellow, said, " You fellow wim the copper nose. " Faith, says the other, " 1 will not change my copper mscjor your brazen face." THE YOUNG EXILE'S RECOLLECTIONS, BV 11. WANDER MAY. Oh, that I could return to the land ot my birth, " In fancy how dear are the scenes that 1 view,— The lakes and the rhone that Is Inst In the oarth. The old paper kite that my infancy flew. t) h, when shall I behold on this rough troubled sen, The beauties and scenes that I saw in my childhood, Which old recollections I Imagine I see. With my own little garden adjoining the wood? Oh, when shall I see my ground full oi flow'rs— Dear Rosa, tlie sweetest of blooms In the glade; Ths rich chesnut groves where we passed the long hours, With Tabby and Rose, while we danced in the shade. Uow well I remember when spring flowers were blowing, With rapture I cropt the avenues there; lille seemed like a lamp In eternity glowing, Nor dreamt lhat I all the green boughs would be sear. That green shaded grove I haled as a treasure, And often In summer, when tired of play, I found its thick cluster an exquisite pleasure. And sat on its green plots, my lessons to say. Ho Images more dear than the thoughts of these baubles— Ghigs, peg- tops, and infantine games ; The grass plots for bad, and the yew- walk for marbles, That leads to a temple that nobody names. And shall I return to this scenery never, The objects of infantine glory and love ? Oh, teil me, my dear guardian angel, that ever Float's nigh me, safe guide me to tbe regions above. OBOUIK MORLAND.— A circumstance occurred to him during his retreat to Ilackney, and altogether an unfortunate one; for in hi; retirement here, he applied closely to his profession, remained singu- larly sober, and seeincd about to recover that composure and serenity ot mind, to which lie had long been a stranger. Ail the pictures sent from his easel, while at 1- ldCkneS, ate very carefully finished ; his draw- ings also evinced a minuteness of attention, which was wanting in many others, produced under the pressure of immediate necessities. His • works, in consequence of this great and obvious improvement, now rose very highly in value ; and although through the craft of picture • dealers, the artisthimselt derived from his paintings a small part only of the price which they produced, still Morland received such sums of money in his extreme privacy, as produced a suspicion that he was con- nected with a gang of coiners or forgers! Information was according communicated to the Bank of England, and a party of officers wasdis- paxhed to the harmless dwelling of poor Morland, in order to secure the suspected criminal. He had notice of their approach, and having no doubt lhat they were coming to arrest him for debt, made his escape over the garden wall, and affected his retreat undiscovered into London. Tbe officers after rummaging all his boxes, drawers, & c discovered their error, and the directors when this allair was represented to them, sent the terrified artist, as an indemnification for the incon- venience he had suffered, a paltry present of twenty guineas. The mis- chief to Morland, however, was irreparable; the spot which had aftorded him an asylum was no longer secure, and the tranquillity lie had begun to enjoy was destroyed. Ife took shelter at a carver - uid gilder's, in Leadenhall- street; ihence he wandered from place to place i- i dreadrul| apprehension of his discovery, till lie received an invitation from Mr. Lynn, to pass a few weeks with him at his house at Cowes, in the Isle of white. His retreat was discovered within three days, and lie was compelled to fly to Yarmouth, accompanied by a faithful friend, his servaut George Sympson, where, after having remained in quiet fora few days, he was arreted as a spy by a silly military officer, who commanded in that quarter, ' home.' Thanks, generous stranger," returned the queen j " you have Indeed rendered me a most important service —'' u Oh, name It not, lady," interrupted Parinelli. " What I il » ve done my own itellng^ amply rewahl trie for, and there is but one simple boon that I Would ask in return." " Aud what is tba' ?" asked the queen. " To know thy name " he replied. " Nay, geek not to know that." exclaimed Elizabeth. " I have reasons for withdrawing il at present, and my obeying your request could be of no service to yourself, whilst to me the revelation might be attended with the most serious consequences.'" " Thy words are full of mystery,' exclaimed Farinelli, " and thy oiks assure me that the service I have performed has been done o one who belongs not to the common rank*" " Alat!" sighed the queen, " I am nurrouu led on every hand by a g « r; foes threaten me whithersoever I turn, and I know not rflu'r • to look f ir < r slnglo friend in this dark hour of adversity." Faiinelli fe. t more und more interested in the lonely stranger whom he had just rescued from peril, and he was about to assure her that in him at least she had found a faithful friend, when to his surprise he foUnd th& t she hfid Ruddenly disappeared. In the midst of his astonishment a croud of persons approached to re- create themselves at the close of day on the Prado, and hoping to obtain a trfling Bum of moue, by the exercise of his unrivalled voice, he commenced the following song :— " There came from soft Italy's sun- lighted hlmre, With st- p free and bounding, a young troubadour, ' Neath the boughs of the summer where dancing groups met. And feet, lightly beat to the gay castawet. Full many a lay to the* fairest he ? ung, While o'er his guitar they in extacy hung;~ A reward greater far than poor gold Was his lot, For ne'er was the troubadour's Wild song forgot, Aydimi ! aydimi! aydimi!" The people were in estacies as they listened to the minstrel's tender harmony, and they were about to entreat that he would repeat his song, when a party of soldiers issued fron. the palace gates head' d by Alphonao, the former or whom advanced and ar- rested Farinelli in the name of the king. Alarmed at this un- looked- for event, the s'. nger reihon& trated and anxiously enquired the reason of his capture, but the only answer he could obtain was that the arrest had been ordered by the monarch, and that resistance would be useless as they had the royal authority to apply force In the event of his refusing to accompany them. AU this appeared to be mysterious enough to Farinelii, but as he had very little to hope from any display ot obstinacy, he at last quietly sub- mitted himself to the will of his captors and accompanied them Into th? palace. Here, however, an agreeable surprise awaited him, for instead of being, as he Imagined, a state prisoner, he was forthwith con ducted to the king's apartment, where, In an Interview with the monarch, he learned that his song had been listened to with rap- turous delight hy Philip of Spain, and that he had now been con- ducted Into his presence for no other purpose than to amuse that royal personage with a repetition ofthe s> rg he had been - singing on the Prado. This command was of course readily complied with, and so delighted was the king that he or'ered a suite ot apartments to be allotted to the musician, and finally presented h'. m with an order oa the bank for the sum of three thousand piastres. - But we must now return to Gil Polo, who no sooner saw the influence possessed over the mind of his sovereign by a stranger, than he began to reflect upon tbe danger that threatened himself should a discovery of his plot take place. In the midst of these unpleasant cogitations he was interrupted by Alphonso, who, ad- vancing hurriedly towards him, exclaimed: — " You are well met, Gil Polo, for I was now seeking you with the intelligence that another tumult is hourly expected." 4t Curses on the people 1'' cried the chamberlain in perplexity; " the king, too, seems to have roused from his melancholy at the sweet tones of an opera singer." " These bursts of feeling are dangerous,'' observed Alphonso;— " should his love for the queen return we. are lost " " Ah, there's little fear of that at present," answered the other. " Once she has escaped me, but this very day the Inquisition has struck a final blow that must end In her d< struction. From their tribunal a solemn denunciation of High Treason has been issued against her." " Indeed !" exclained Alphonso," and that denunciation?—'' " Was secretly placed by me in the king's escrutoire,' answered Gil Polo. " But no more at present, my niece approaches and I would be alone.'' As the officer quitted the apartment Geraldine approached, to whom the chamberlain addressed himself with more than his cus- tomary courtesy, in order to ascertain from her own lips the reason of her leaving the convent. This vvas a questi n which his niece would rather have avoided, but knowing that to be impossible sh- replied that the holy sanctuary had been broken into by piratec, why had carried off all the sisterhood except herself, who had the good fortune to escape. Gil Polo evidently doubted the story, but appearing to give credit to it he enquired what had become of the Superior. 4< Oh,,' replied Geraldine, *' sh* also was carried off by them." " What! a woman of seventy- five!" exclaimed the chamber- lain ; " by the Virgin it w. ts lucky you escaped them, girlhere, however, you are safe ; I am high in court- favour, and will procure you a situation as one of the queen's maids of honour." " Is not that a difficult situation?" asked Geraldine. " On the contrary, the easiest imaginable," answered the old man. " When you rise, you have to go inio the queen's apart- ment, gaze at her while she swallows her royal breakfast; enjoy the luxury of seeing her eat her dinner with a queen- like appetite; sing to her when weary} read when sleepy; smite when she smiles; praise \ yhen she praises; condemn when she condemns,' and when the fatigues of the day are over, you can be lulled Into gentle slumbers by the charms o fher conversation.'' " How remarkably pleasant!" observed Geraldine. " YeS," continued the chamberlain, " and it's the same every day/ But it is the hour for me to visit the king, so I leave you for & while. But be cautious gentle niece, for there are as many taires in a eourt for the inexperienced, as there are drugs in the pharmacopeia of Esculaplus.' Geraldlne was not long suffered to remain alone, for In a few tiiinutes afterwards Farinelli approached, drest in all the gaudl- ness of apparel that characterize the gay flutterers about at court. At first the young wife pretended to be offended at his long ab- sence, but her ill humour could not last any long time j and finding that he had in reality endured as much uneasiness as herself, she readily awarded the pardon he was so solicitous of obtaining. She then informed him ot her unexpected encounter with Gil Polo, and of her probable future residence beneath the roof of their so- vereign. " You astonish me," exclaimed Farinelli, as she concluded; " but I also have a multiplicity of adventures to relate. I « aved a great lady from imminent peril; 1 sang in the public streets ; I was arrested, and taken before the king, who wus alone in a dark chamber, and who commanded me to sing. I took courage, and as I sang, his countenance changed, and tears came from his eyes — the charms of music seemed to dispel his gloom, and in his gra- titude he gave me this order for three thousand piastres." " Let me see it," cried Geraldine, and opening the paper she read as follows i— " In the name of the tnost Holy Inquisition, the Queen, Eliza- beth fVrnese, is dendilneed to the justice of the king, for having conspired against the chtirch fti. d tlie safety of Spain. For these crimes the Holy Tribunal demand her banishment I*' " What is this?" exclaimed Farlnelllj—" a deaunciatlon against the queen 1 I am ccrtaiu | F « « d atj prder," As he spoke he turntd the paper,& nd discovered on tlie other side these words;— " Pay the Signor Frtrinelll three thoiisand plaitreS." 11 Ah !" eselalHied Geraldine, " the mystery is easi y solved— the king wrote the order on the first piece of paper he met with, and that was the denunciation. Unfortunate queen I she is much be- loved in Spain, arid this harsh sentence is most unjust. Farinelli was about to reply, but at that moment the queen ap- proached, nnd as he kpelt in reverence at her feet, he beheld on her glove the cypher which he l ad Observed when he rescued the unknown female frohi the poHiar& s of tiie bravoes, OVertome with erhotion, he knew not what course to pufsue, find scarcely conscious of what he said, he muttered, in a low tone,— " It was your majesty, then, whom last night I was the means of preserving from danger. Nay, again I have it in my power to serve you. A fearful peril threatens.— I am your countryman— an Italian— re'y upon my ftith— mv devotion to your cause," What fearful mystery is this?" cried the queen, with agitation. " Behold 1 royal lady 1" he replied, placing in her hand the de- nunclatiou. " Ah !" she exclaimed, " I now perceive the extent to will- h the malice of my enemies has Urged Uiem. But tell me, Signor, how came you posscRS'-' d of this paper ?'' , .. " It wps given iiie b^ the kirg," replied t' rinellij and then turn ng tlie paper, lit continued—" oh the oilier side your majesty may perceive is an order for three thotisard piastre*. " l hy faith aud leal well desefyg? the reward," replied the queen ; " thou hast saved me from eternal rum, ami as a proof of my » ratitu' 1e, I name you master of our royal chapel." FarineUl Would have £ > ured forth his thanks for this distin- guished honour, but at this juncture Gil Polo approached, with alarm exprest in his counteriance, and at the Mime moment the populace \ V « re heard at the gate* ot the p tlace, loudly demanding a iwittance, in order that they might be ? atistied whether the king vvas redlly alive or not. The utmost alarm now prevailed, for it was well known that violence would be resorted to It the monarch should not be seen^ and, as a last resorce, Farinelli once more ti led the power o£ his voice, for tlie purpose of drawing the monarch from the seclusion liito which hu had chosen to retire. By this time a crovi- d of persons ha- l rushed into tlie saloon, and just as they wefO about to give Vent t'> their indignation, the door of the kind's apartment slowly opened, and Ids majesty, pale and care- worn, approached towards the singer The people were now satis- lied, and uttering loud demonstrations of their jo>, they once in re retired, leaving the palace in the same quirt which had just been broken by their rude clamours. On being leit alone, the king sank into a chair, and seemed agsin lost in the glooniy reflections that croivded upon his bra n. Th* queen was a silent speltatbr of hli hrelancholy, but at. last thinking this might be a favourable moment to seek ( Or a recon- ciliation, she ixpproacnedj and sinking upon her knees, whispered his name, in a ten e of extreme agitation, tt it Phi ip was uot to be moved by the tears and entreaties of his sutfeing wife, and lising from his seat, he commanded her, in a stern voice, to leave him. " Not till y u have hea d me," she replied; " I have been silent too long for your peace and m_, own, aud you now must— nay, shall hear me !' " I would b « alone— leave me," exclaimed the king. " No, no," sobbed EPb ibeth;—" my heart is fu 1— in mercy heat irte-* yoU have been cruelly deceived. Believe not those who have basely, forged their calumny against me. I have ntver wronged you— even in thought— let these ttars plead for mei" " Away i — they are false as thou ! ' exclaimed the monarch. " My heart w. b bdrst i ' sighed the ro> al lady. " My enemies have sought, by slanderous words, to shake your confidence in me. who haVe ever lovid you. I wiil kneel to you— clasp your hand— nay, nay, struggle not— I will not loose my hold. In pity hear me lor a moment— but for a single moment 1" All her pleadings, however, were lu vain : the king obdu rate, aud breaking forcibly fioin her hold, he rushed frantically from the apartment. Elizabeth now began to fear that all her hopes were at an fDfl. and retlrifig, to the solitude of her own chamber, she gave way io the tears that she could not help shed- ding for the happiness that » * emed to be fled for ever. Farinelli, too, was doomed to experience a pang for which he was dttle prepared; for no sooner did Gil Polo discover that his niece was married to a man who he so much hated, than he to<.• Iv- an opportunity of withdrawing her secretly from the palace, and placing her in a convent, where he iutended she should pass the remainder of her d^ ys in religious seclusion. Nor c- rnld her hus- band by any moans discover the place to which she had been con- veyed. It ij true that every indulgence was afforded him in the palace of Philip, but then he was each day called upon to attend his royal master, and thus was deprive t ot all opportunities of personally searching after the object of his tend- rest solicitude. One day while he Was exp-. ctirig a visit from the king, he was aroused by the sounds df soiem . music in the streets, rutd hasten- ing to the w ndow, he perceired a procession of men on their way to the cathedral, in which they wer • about to solemnize the ser- vice ot high- mass. On a sudden, the attention of Farinelli was attracted towards one of the females in the group, and upon gaz ing yet more intently, In- discovered lhat It was Geraldine, who, in his despair, he had almost given up as lost to him for ever. Iu an instant he fl- w w th the speed of lightning to the spot, seized up > n his bride, and carried her back to his apartment, ere the as- tonished spectators could prevent his hazardous attempt. On arriving there, however, they found the queen already awaiting them, frwm whom they learnt that her dojm was at l* st pro- nounced, and that she must quit Madrid, never ag- iin to return. This w tiie inome. it of peril which Farinelll had most dreaded, and as no time was now to be lost, he requested her Majesty to wait in au adjoining room while his expected interview With the king took place. Nor Was it long b. fwre Philip arrived, gloomy and melancholy as usual; and in spite of all Farinetli's efforts to remove his despondency, he remained brooding over the fancied misfortune that had befallen him. In the midst of this, by a me- chanical contrivance of the musician, a table ' oadedwith delicate viands rose up through the floor, near the chair where ths king was seated. Tiie delicious smell from the dishes, together with the entreaties of Farinelli, at last tempted the king to eat; and hy the time he had takeil a glass Or two df tflne, he began to converse more freely upon the cause of all his sorro\ Vs. Thus the ruse ot • ur hero succeeded, for he knew that the s(. are diet ordered by Gil Polo had reduced the king almost to ih* veige of the grave; and it was by this means that he hoped to restore him to health, and ultimately to point out the traitors wh > had so long practised arainst him. In the midst, how ver, the queen approached from the room in which she had been concealed, when the king, starting from his seat, would have fled precip tately, had not Far. nelli pre- vailed upon him to remain and hear her exculpation. In a few words he satisfied Philip of the infamous plot that had been formed by Gil Polo, to place Ferdinand upon the throne of Spain, and of the arts that had been us. d by the same person to ferment a quarrel between Oim aud the queeri, in ol- der the better to carry his designs into execution. At lirst the king listened Incredu- lously to this narrative, but he soon yielded to the oft- repeated assurances of Farinelli, and once more taking the queen to his arms, he promised never again to listen to the calumnies of those who were interested in her downfall. In the midst of this recon- ciliation, however, a loud knocking was heard at the d > or, upon which Philip and Elizabeth retired behin » a screen, in hopes that tn the conversation that ensued enough would be gathered to con- vince his majesty of the traitorous designs that had been practised against him. This done, our hero opened the door, When The- oio e, the page, rushed in, exclaiming.— " Oh, Siguor 1 Doctor Gil Polo is without, with a large party of soldiers to arrest, you. He swears that you have committed treason, and nothing but your death will ever natisfy the hatred he has always borne towards you." Farinelli, however, only laughed at the fears of the page, but ere he could convince the latter of the little cause there was for alarm, the chamberlain, attended by a large party of the military, entered the apartment. " Let every avenue be strictly guarded," exclaimed Gil Polo, " and, above all things, see that Signor Fariueili escapes not, as you value y. iur own 1' ves." " In the name of Heaven, doctor, what does all this precaution mean ?" enquired the musician, gaily. Is the monarchy ot Spain in danger, mat you are taking such an active part in hunting out for sedition?" " Danger!" cried Gil Polo;— no, no;— thanks to my prudence and foresight the dan& tr is nowp* st. As to you, however, sir, your time Is come. We know all about your scandalous intrigues, and I have brought these soldiers with me to arrest you ou a charge that effects your life." " indeed!" exclaimed Farinelli. " You really seem to be re- markably clever at finding (, ut a plot •, but in the present instance I believe you will lind yourself woefully disappointed." " Don't be too eura ot that," replied the chamberlain; " for in an interview this morning with the king, I prevailed upon him to sign a few decrees, among which is one that consigns you to a prison, and, in al) probability, to death." '• Indeed!' exclaimed Farinelii;—" yet, notwithstanding your good wishes, doctor, it is possible I may yet live to triumph over all the enemies who would triumph in my downfall " " Aye, aye, bat trie king has signed it, i tell you," answered Gil Polo ; " tuough, between you and I, the poor fellow wiil not have an opportunity of signing many more." " Could this poor fellow, a$ you call him, hear you l-' cried Farineltl. " Ah! that's not very likely," answered the chamberlain, ex ultingly; for that bell which you now hear, tolls for the end of the reign of Philip the Fifth of Spain." " Is it poB* ib. e 1' exclaimed Farinelli^ with unfeigned surprise. " Aye, both possible aud true," replied Gil Polo. " At this mo- ment he enters the Dominican Convent, which he will n « ver quit again.— This is all owing to my good management \ and when his brother, Ferdinand, ascends the vacant throne, I expect to be ex- alted to the very highest rank among the grandees of Spain." " Are you sure, then, that Ferdinand will be king?' ssked our hero. • Am I sure 1— why of course I am," replied the chamberlain, with a joy that he could not suppress. ' I hrice- happy Ferdinand 1 to me yeu will owe the celestial joys that are now come in store for you.'' " And does Philip owe all this to you?" asked » he other. " Of course he does," replied Gil Polo; •• he owes it all to piy advice— to my prescriptions, which have exti; guished every hu- man feeling in his breast. I first planted the seeds of jealousy in his heart— I— but I lose time;— I am very sorry for you, Signrr Farinelli, but the regent's command is imperative, and " At this moment, to the utter discomfiture of Gil Polo, the king and queen advanced from their place of concealment— the former ot whom beckoning to two of his guards, desired them to seize the chamberlain, and convey him to prison ou his own admission vf the share he had had in the late traitorous attempts against his sovereign. It was in vain that Gil Polo pleaded for mercy;— he and the rest who had been engsgsd with him, were thrown into the state- prison, there to await th « punishment which their crimes so justly merited. As to Farinelli, he was rewarded for the generous share he had taken In the king's preservation, and he was immediately afterwards created a knight of Calatrava. As a highly- esteemed favourite, he continued to enjoy the royal favour for many years, and with his wife, Geraldine, occupied apartments in the palace of his illustrious patron. LLOYD'S LIST OF POPULAR WORKS. STfjcatrts. " NothiDg extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice." SHAKSFERE. The Contented Man. My Sarah and Me. Domestic Economy. Brandy and Salt. Fopalatlon; or, It's all owlnj to the Family Ointment. HAYMARKET.— Mr. Kean's engagement having been prolonged, the theatre, since our last, has been ex- ceedingly well attended. Not the least attraction, how- ever, is Bernard's excellent drama of Marie Ducange, with Celeste's beautiful acting; this, of itself, is a sufficient treat, and ought to draw crowded houses, independent of everything else. ENGLISH OPERA.— The new burletta called Barnabi/ Rudge, which we briefly noticed in our last, we are glad to see, has drawn much better houses than they had in the eAriy nS"" 1 tl, e season, aud we think will increase in popularity. TliC other enterlaiments are of a light and pleasing character, atid are nfii supported by the different members of the company. S+ R^ NB.— Mrs. Keeley and Mrs. Waylett, have ap- peared together its a new drama called Tbe Maid of Madrid, a piece possessing considerable merit, but the exquisite acting and sifiging of the above- mentioned lauies, would have been sufficient to have ensured suc- cess to an indifferent production. The farce of Aidgaie Pump continues to excite roars of laughter; and the success of The Devil and Doctor Faustas lias been una- bated. yuiiEN's— The admirable acting of Mrs. Honey has filled this elegant little theatre every evening. A new piece entitled The Runaway ; or, Ihe Favourite against the Field, iu which Mrs. Honey sustiins live different characters, has been brought forward, and received with warm applause and shouts of laughter by the audience, Don Giovanni^ aud Woman's the Devil, have been the other j feces, SADLER'S WELLS.— A new drama, called Temptation, from the pen of Mr. J. P. Wilson, has proved ihe ! nost successful piece ofthe season. It contains some capital writing, in fact, of a far superior order to the generality of the pieces usually brought out at the minor theatres, and t< e performers have | arts admirably fitted to them, and play them with great spirit and judgment Mr. John Herbert and Mr. J. s. Balls are irresistibly funny in ihe new farce of The Racket Court. Mr. framplon, t" 0, and his clever pupils, are highly attractive in the different ballets produced. PAVILION.— We were very glad to see that the benefits of Mr. Denvil proved bum ers, which bore ample tes- timony to the high estimation in which the public hold the superior talents of Mr. D., and the skilful and inde- laligable manner in which lie calers for their amuse- ment. A new Hebrew drama, written by Mr. H. P. Giattan, ami called The Patriarch, was produced ou that occasion, and with pre- eminent success, for which it was principally indebted to the excellent manner in which Mr. Denvil played the principal part. The Death Grmp, which increases in attiaction, and the laughable farce of Board and Lodging, were the other entertain- ments. The SURREY, VICTORIA, and ALBERT SALOON have all been well attended, and the amusements provided at each place of a super or order. SIXTY- FIVE HUMOUROUS ENGRAVINGS BY AN EMINENT ARTIST, AND TEN NEW COMIC SONGS ( BY PREST) FOR ONE PENNY 1 !! " THE PENNY- S~ U NDAY TIMES GALLERY OF COMICALITIES," CONTAINS THK FOLLOWING ORIGINAL COMIC SONGS, WMITSV EXPRESSLY rOB THK WORK!— A Private Still. Happy Land— a Sad Lot. Poor Jack— Please Re- Member Jack. John L'slf— In his Cups. Hard- Upi or, Shocking Ex- tremities. ANII ALSO THK J0LL0W1NO ORAPHIC SKETCHK3: The Maid of the Mill.— A Central Kislng.— Physical Force.- Hringing him two ( Two).— A Bijsk Fast.— Ladles ol the Court. — Hi. Mind Is on the Rack.— Settling a[ cJCount; Double Entry.— Friar Bacon.— Giving Himself vHJalrs.— Contracting an Acquaint, ance.— A Heavy Swell.— A Good Bite.— Hodgff*. Best.— Sedan- t « ry Occupation.— Currant Jam ; a Friendly Squee7f,— A Nest 1 nrn- Out.— A Votary of the Nine. — Taking the Pledge, — Warllk. Guise ( Guys).— Pood for Reflection.— Celling Whacks) a B. l- frey. — A Promising Child,— A Boy In a Fit.—( living up the Gh « st.- j Cabriolet Society,— Pleasures of" Fancy."— Best London Porter", — A Back Settler.— Going by the Post} General Delivery.— Com. of Age,— Cutting Him to the Quick— Breaking Cofer.— Sauca ( Source) of the Nigger ( Niger).— A Dey's Pleasure.— A Sad Plight, — A Belly Full of Grapes.— The Changeless One.— A Private Box. — Taken In A[ r] rest — The Lively Smack; Looking Out for Squalls.— Hebrew Melodies.— A Funny Pair.— A Good Calling.—< A Shocking Stick.— The Pot- boy.— Snmmut Short.— Detachmeni of Cavalry — Deprived of the Use of their Organs.— Neat as Im- Eorted.— A Free- Booter.— Faney Fair,— At a Stand Still.— An Un- appy Attachment.— Coming It Slap. THE EMBELLISHMENTS HAVE BEEN ENGRAVED AT THE ENORMOUS EXPENSE OF 1,000 GUINEAS 111 In Weekly Numbers at Id., Rnd Monthly Parts at 4d., the N. w and Highly Interesting Hum nee of KATHLEENI OR, THE SECRET MARRIAGE. In Weekly Numbers at Id., and Monthly Parts at 4d. EMILY FITZORMOND I OR, THE DESERTED ONE. This is decidedly one of the best works of Action we have lately perused, and the exceedingly low price at which It is published, must com'i. and for It an extensive circulation. Emily Fitxormond U a beautifully drawn character.— DISPATCH. In PeMif Numl, erI * nd Fourpenny Monthly Parts. THE MANIAC K ™ "* THE VICT"" OF SEDUOT'CN. AN HIGSLT INTERESTING TALK BY A . BLKSRATEI> AOTBOIX. We have perused the first, and second number C! , hi? ro; mance wltli much pleasure, and recommend it to th « am^-"** 0' the rofliatitlc and pathetic.— SATIRIST. Now Publishing in Numbers at One Penny, and Fourpeony Monthly Parts, CTTNNESTINE DE LACY! OR, THE ROBBERS' FOUNDLING. The lovere of the wild and wonderful will find rich food for their tastes in th. rotlanee of the ab. ve title.— CHRONICLE. Complete In 104 Numbers ai One Penny each, or Elegantly Bound at Nina Shillings and Sixpence, ELA, THE OUTCAST I THE C1PSY GIRL OF ROSEMARY DELL. A TALK op THB MOST THRILLING INTEREST. Iu Numbers at One Penny each, or Fourpenny Monthly Parti, Stitched in a neat W'rjnper, THE HEBREW MAIDEN 1 OR, THE LOST DIAMOND. A ROMANCE OF THE DAV8 OF CHIVALRY. Complete in 16 Numbers at One Penny each, or Neatly Bound price Two shillings. GALLANT TOM I OR, THE PERILS OF A SAILOR ASHORE AND AFLOAT. INTERSPERSED WITH ANECDOTES, TOCOH YARNS, ETC-. Complete in 30 N umbers at Sixpence each, VICTORIA! OR, THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. BY A POPULAR AUTHOR. Complete In 30 Penny AVeekly Numbers and Fotirp. nny Monthly Parts, or Neatly Bound 3s. ANGELINA! OR, THE MYSTERY OF ST « MARK'S ABBEY. A TALK OP DEEP INTEREST. ANSWERS TO CHARADES. ANSWER TO THE NINTH CHARADE BY A. J. P. IN NO. 9IXTY- PIVE, Friend A. J. P., it needs must be, The letter ll you mean; Of Nature and art, it forms a part, As plainly may be seen. Newcastle- on- Tyne, June 26, 1841. J. K. ANSWER TO THE PIRST CHARADE IN NO. SIXTY P1VS. *' Si' 4 is two- fourths of a sill, I am told ; " Lent" ComeS before Easter— deny it. Ywu'll be then, kind sir, if I'm not too bold, When " Silent" Exceedingly Quiet. ANSWER TO THE PIFTH CHARADE IN NO. SIXTY- FIVE. " Na," Is a word used by Quakers ; A " Pier" is built close to the sea ; " N- ipler" is a noble commandar— Will this explanation suit thee ? Liverpool. J. LICKLEY. ANSWER TO THK EIOHTH CHARADE IN NO. SIXTY FIVE. Mr. Duckett, your tirst is a wretched old elf, Who a " Miser" we call for loving his pelf. Your second is " Able." if I do guess true; " Miserable is your whole, and I thus answer you. Stockport. S. WOOD. ANSWER TO THE CHARADE BY SARAH TEARCE, IN NO. SIXTY- SIX, In a j uniting " Car" I should like to ride, If you, siveet P., were by my side ; Although I can't any that ever we met, Except in the TIMES, my principal " Pet." J. H. GRIFFITHS. CHILDR£ NS' PENNY BOOKS, ETC.— THE LIPB OF DICH TURFIN, including his Ride to York ( 12 ERT-' graving*).— Tiin HlsfORY OF GEOROB BARNWELL ( Engravings). — LLOYD'S TRUE FORTUNE TELLER, by which any person may tell • heir Fortunes, by Cards, Linws of the Hands, & c. feu. ( Coloured B » gravings\— IRISH BCI^ S, by TEDDY O'FLANNIOAN) Engrav- ings).— LLOYD'S ROYAL DREAM BOOK: a Correct Interpretation of Dreams. & c . ( Coloured Engraving).— MAYOR'S SPELLING BOOK AND FIRST STKP TO LEARNING, containing Words from One to Five Syllables, with a great number of Useful Lessons in Reading and Spell ng; also, some very entertaining Lessons in Natural History, SiC,— MOTHER HUBBARD AND HER DOG ( 13 Engravings). — VALENTINE AND ORSON ( 7 Engraving*).— CINDKRKLLA ANE » THE GLASS SLIPPER ( 13 Engravings).-— THE LIFE OF JACKSHEP- PARD. THE HOUSEBREAKER ( 13 Engravings).— LLOYD'S NURSERY" RHYMES; two sorts ( 13 Engraving, each).— WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT ( 7 Engravings).— THE HISTORY OF PAUL JONES, THE PIRA'IB ( 13 Engravings).— THE LIFE AND ADVENTURER or Koair « soN CRFSOE ( 6 Ei gravings)— VYSE'S NEW LONDON SPELL- ING ROOK, containing a great number of Useful Lessons in. Spelling, with appropriate Fables, Scripture Pieces, & c, j together With numerous other Penny Books. LLOYD'S MAGIC, SHADOWS ; OR, CANDLE- LIGHT AMUSE. MENT ( Twenty sorts, including all the most Popular Subjects j One Penny eac'i. OLD PARR'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. CHARADES. I. I » m a word of fourteen letters.— My 2, 13, 6, 4, is to mike a noise; my 1, 6, 9, 1* 1, 8, is apulied to various parts of a building; my 8, 9, 10, is a metal; my 12, 3. 1, is a toy much used by boys; my 5, fi, 7, I, is used by bakers; my 1, 6, 7, 12, 3, 5, is % shepherd; my 4, 9, 12,2, 13,9,1s a foreign fruit; my 10,6, 12,9, 3, 10, is governed by a queen ; my 2, 6, 12, 7, are destructive vermin ; my 14, 3, 12, is decay ; my 1 5, 9, 10, 12, may be seen in books $ my 12, 11, 10, is made from the bark of a tree; ail farmers like to see a good 4, 5,13, 1, of their 4, 13, 2, 10, in due time ; and my whole is an idle person. High- street, Whitechapel. ^ T. W. CLARK. In the house from which men oft come, I ween, With g'tdriy heads my lirst is very often seen. My next I practise when my course I steer Along the gentle Slaney bright and clear. Before a man my whole you'll often see. To find me out much trouble it can't be. Dublin. N. SINNOTT. III. I am made up of letters five, The lot of every one alive. My 3, 4, 5. you'll find a prayer, My 2, 3, 1, the beggars wear. An open countenance ' tis true, Is mouth from ear to 5, 3, 2. No thinking man that's now alive, And notes the present 3, 1, 6, But must confess the same to be A very curl us 5, 2, 3. My 2, 5, l's a fixed abbreviation, Which marks a woman's most exalted station. My whole's a place where friend and foe may meet The wise and foolish, churlish and discreet; Where rank and honour live but in the name, Where age and clime and colour are the same. - H. B. K. CHEAP AND ELEGANT BOOKBINDING. OFFICE OF " THE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES. E. LLOYD, Begs to inform the public that he undertakes Bookbinding in all its branches. Demy 8vo same size as *' Ela, the Outcast," " Hebrew Maiden," *• Gallant Tom," & c.. Bound with coloured Leather Backs, Ornamental Cloth Sides, and neatly Lettered in Gold, at the extraordinary Low Price of ONE SHILLING each volume, and all others equally low. *** A LIBbRAL ALLOWANCK TO THE TRADE. AMOST SINGULAR DOCUMENT lias re- cently been brought to light, and is now in the possession « - f the REV. W M. ARTHUR, of EAST PECKHAM; it appears to have been written t y ti e celebrnted OLD PARR, who attained the almost incredible age of 152 years, nnd who left this document to a re ation. It s written on parchment, and although upwards of 2 ) 0 years old Is in an excellent state ot preiervatlon. The follow- ing is an extract: — These dn certifie yt ye undermentioned is ye method of preserving health, which hy ye g race of dhnigkty God has caused me to attain to my miraculous old be t in my youth I was afflicted with ye Bloody PliiZ and King's Evil, but which all left me by using some dayeS ye herbs as herein written. Here f llows tha receipt— Moreover, I bequeath to my second Great Grandson ye method I employ for preparing ye medicament. Given, this day, and in ye With year of my ag e. THOMAS PARR. Winninglon, Salop, Januarie 17th, 1630. The Clergyman who holds the valuable document above- menc tioned, has, by the assistance of a very able Chemist and Physician;, caused the receipt of OLD PARR'S to be made into Pills, and, al- though only a spnee of eighteen months have ela psed since the trial, upwards of 700 cures have been effected, more than one- half of which were considered incurable » and what is more remarkab e, cases which possess the very opposltes as regards outward syrnp~ toms: the balsam'c and Invigorating effects on the blood produced by thrse medicines is perfectly miraculous ; many who have kept their beds tor years have been so speedily re- invigorated with an infusi n of new blood, and consequently of new life and strength, that their re- nppearance amongst their fellow- beings, who had long given them up as incurable, Is looked upon as the greatest of the many great wonders of this MIRACULOUS AGE. The whole of our « ystem is built up from the blood— nerves, sinews, muscles, andl even solid bone ;— this being the case, the grand object is to keep this precious fluid ( the blood) in a pure and healthy stat% for with- out this purity disease will shew itself in some way or other,— thus- diseases of every description have ali been cured simply by the use of PARR'S LIFE PILLS,— thus shewing that what has been con- sidered different disorders, and requirirg different treatment, a 12, originated in th- same cause, and can be cured by one uniform- treatment. PARR'S LIFE PILLS, although powerful In con- quering disease, yet are as pure and harmless as n « w milk, and may be administered with confidence to the invalid, however weakly from long ill- health, who will soon enjoy those delightful symptoms of a return to strong health, viz., good appetite, sound sleep, and an increase of animal spirits. To have produced a medicine so benign and mlli In Its operation and effects, and yet * o effectual In searching out and curing disease of however long standing, exhibits, on the part of Old Parr, deep research and a thorough knowledge of his subiect. Those who hare been the instruments of restoring this long- lost secret to the world, feel confident when they make the assertion— that NONE NEED DESPAIR, that if only a fair trial be given, the result will b « a restoration to health and happiness: " Thus shall their humble labours merit praise, And future PARR'S be blessed with honour'd days." This Medicine is sold by EDWARDS, St. Paul's Church Yard London, in Boxes at Is. l^ d., 2s. 9d., and Family Boxes lis. each the Boxes at 2*. 9i contain equal to 3 small, and those at Us equal to 5 at 2s. 9d. Full directions are given with each box. Dec. 18, 1840.— In order to protect the public from imitations the Hon. Commissioners of Stamps have ordered " PARR'S LIFE PILLS " to he engraved on the Government Stamp attached to each box, without which none are genuine. London Printed and Published by E. LLOYD, 231, High Street, Shorediteh j and at 4l^ HolyveU Street Strand* **