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yourself—has led me hither. The bolts of your | dungeon are drawn; here is a purse of gold;

fufil one easy condition, and you are free.” “And that condition ?” “Sign this paper.” He gave to Ferdinand a writing, containing a confession of his imputed crimes. The hand of the guilty youth trembled as he gave it; there was confusion in his mien, and a restless uneasy rolling of his eye. Ferdinand wished in one mighty word, potent as lightning, loud as thunder, to convey his burning disdain of this proposal: but expression is weak, and calm is more full of power than storm. Without a word, he tore the paper in two pieces, and threw them at the feet of his enemy. With a sudden change of manner, his visitant conjured him, in voluble and impetuous terms, to comply. Ferdinand answered only by requesting to be left alone. Now and then a half word broke uncontrollably from his lips; but he curbed himself. Yet he could not hide his agitation when, as an argument to make him yield, the false Count assured him that he was already married to Adalinda. Bitter agony thrilled poor Ferdinand's frame; but he preserved a calm mien, and an unaltered resolution. Having exhausted every menace and every persuasion, his rival left him, the purpose for which he came unaccomplished. On the morrow, with many others, the refuse of mankind, Count Ferdinando Eboli was led in chains to the unwholesome plains of Calabria, to work there at the roads. I must hurry over some of the subsequent events; for a detailed account of them would fill volumes. The assertion of the usurper of Ferdi

... nand's right, that he was already married to

Adalinda, was, like all else he said, false. The day was, however, fixed for their union, when the illness and subsequent death of the Marchese Spina delayed its celebration. Adalinda retired, during the first months of mourning, to a castle belonging to her father not far from Arpino, a town of the kingdom of Naples, in the midst of the Apennines, about fifty miles from the capital. Before she went, the deceiver tried to persuade her to consent to a private marriage. He was probably afraid that, in the long interval that was about to ensue before he could secure her, she would discover his imposture. Besides, a rumour had gone abroad that one of the fellowprisoners of Ferdinand, a noted bandit, had escaped, and that the young Count was his companion in flight. Adalinda, however, refused to comply with her lover's entreaties, and retired to her seclusion with an old aunt, who was blind and deaf, but an excellent duenna. The false Eboli seldom visited his mistress; but he was a master in his art, and subsequent events showed that he must have spent all his time disguised in the vicinity of the castle. He contrived by various means, unsuspected at the moment, to have all Adalinda's servants changed for creatures of his own; so that, without her being aware of the restraint, she was, in fact, a prisoner in her own house. It is impossible to

say what first awakened her suspicions concerning the deception put upon her. She was an Italian, with all the habitual quiescence and lassitude of her countrywomen in the ordinary routine of life, and with all their energy and passion when roused. The moment the doubt darted into her mind, she resolved to be assured; a few questions relative to scenes that had passed between poor Ferdinand and herself sufficed for this. They were asked so suddenly and point...} that the pretender was thrown off his guard; he looked confused, and stammered in his replies. Their eyes met, he felt that he was detected, and she saw that he perceived her now confirmed suspicions. A look such as is peculiar to an impostor, a glance that deformed his beauty, and filled his usually noble countenance with the hideous lines of cunning and cruel triumph, completed her faith in her own discernment. “How,” she thought, “ could I have mistaken this man for my own gentle Eboli 2" Again their eyes met: the peculiar expression of his terrified her, and she hastily quitted the apartment. . Her resolution was quickly formed. It was of no use to attempt to explain her situation to her old aunt. She determined to depart immediately for Naples, throw herself at the feet of Gioacchino, and to relate and obtain credit for her strange history. But the time was already lost when she could have executed this design. The contrivances of the deceiver were complete—she found herself a prisoner. Excess of fear gave her boldness, if not courage. She sought her. jailor. A few minutes before, she had been a young and thoughtless girl, docile as a child, and as unsuspecting. Now she felt as if she had suddenly grown old in wisdom, and that the experience of years had been gained in that of a few seconds. - X During their interview, she was wary and firm, while the instinctive power of innocence over guilt gave majesty to her demeanour. The contriver of her ills for a moment cowered beneath her eye. At first he would by no means allow that he was not the person he pretended to be: but the energy and eloquence of truth bore down his artifice, so that, at length driven into a corner, he turned—a stag at bay. Then it was her turn to quail; for the superior energy of a man gave him the mastery. He declared the truth. He was the elder brother of Ferdinand, a natural son of the old Count Eboli. His mother, who had been wronged, never forgave her injurer, and bred her son in deadly hate for his parent, and a belief that the advantages enjoyed by his more fortunate brother were rightfully his own. His education was rude; but he had an Italian's subtle talents, swiftness of perception, and guileful arts. “It would blanch your cheek,” he said to his trembling auditress, “could I describe all that I have suffered to achieve my purpose. I would trust to none—I executed all myself. It was a glorious triumph, but due to my perseverance and my fortitude, when I and my usurping bro

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ther stood, I, the noble, he, the degraded outcast before our sovereign.” Having rapidly detailed his history, he now sought to win the favourable ear of Adalinda, who stood with averted and angry looks. He tried by the varied shows of passion and tenderness to move her heart. Was he not, in truth, the object of her love? Was it not he who scaled her balcony at Villa Spina P. He recalled scenes of mutual overflow of feeling to her mind, thus urging arguments the most potent with a delicate woman: pure blushes tinged her cheek, but horror of the deceiver predominated over every other sentiment. He swore that as soon as they should be united he would free Ferdinand, and bestow competency, nay, if so she willed it, half his possessions, on him. She coolly replied, that she would rather share the chains of the innocent and misery, than link herself with imposture and crime. She demanded her liberty, but the untamed and even ferocious nature that had borne the deceiver through his carcer of crime now broke forth, and he invoked fearful imprecations on his head, if she ever quitted the castle except as his wife. His look of conscious power and unbridled wickedness terrified her; her flashing eyes-spoke abhorrence: it would have been far easier for her to have died than have yielded the smallest point to a man who made her feel for one moment his irresistible power, arising from her being an unprotected woman, wholly in his hands. She left him, feeling as if she had just escaped from the impending sword of an assassin. One hour's deliberation suggested to her a method of escape from her terrible situation. In awardrobe at the castle lay in their pristine gloss the habiliments of a page of her mother, who had died suddenly, leaving these unworn relics of his station. Dressing herself in these, she tied up her dark shining hair, and even, with a somewhat bitter feeling, girded on the slight sword that appertained to the costume. Then, through a private passage leading from her own apartment to the chapel of the castle, she glided with noiseless steps, long after the Ave Maria sounded at twenty-four o'clock, had, on a November night, given token that half an hour had passed since the setting of the sun. She possessed the key of the chapel door—it opened at her touch; she closed it behind her, and she was free. The pathless hills were around her, the starry heavens above, and a cold wintry breeze murmured around the castle walls; but fear of her enemy conquered every other fear, and she tripped lightly on, in a kind of ecstacy, for many a long hour over the stony mountain path—she, who had never before walked more than a mile or two at any time in her life—till her feet were blistered, her slight shoes cut through, her way utterly lost. At morning's dawn she found herself in the midst of the wild ilex-covered Apennines, and neither habitation nor human being apparent. She was hungry and weary. She had brought gold and jewels with her; but here were no means of exchanging these for food. She remembered stories of banditti; but none could be Bo B.

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ruffian-like and cruel as him from whom she fled. This thought, a little rest, and a draught of water from a pure mountain spring, restored her to some portion of courage, and she continued her journey. Noonday approached; and, in the south of Italy, the noonday sun, when unclouded, even in November, is oppressively warm, especially to an Italian woman, who never exposes herself to its beams. Faintness came over her. There appeared recesses in the mountain-side along which she was travelling, grown over with bay and arbutus; she entered one of these othere to repose. It was deep, and led to another that opened into a spacious cavern lighted from above: there were cates, grapes, and a flagon of wine, on a rough hewn table. She looked fearfully around, but no inhabitant appeared. She placed herself at the table, and, half in dread, ate of the food presented to her, and then sat, her elbow on the table, her head resting on her little snow-white hand; her dark hair shading her brow and clustering round her throat. An appearance of languor and satigue diffused through her attitude, while her soft black eyes silled at intervals with large tears, as pitying herself, she recurred to the crucl circumstances of her lot. Her fanciful but elegant dress, her feminine form, her beauty and her grace, as she sat pensive and alone in the rough unhewn cavern, formed a picture a poet would describe with delight, an artist love to paint. “She seemed a being of another world; a seraph, all light and beauty; a Ganymede, escaped from his thrall above to his natal Ida. It was long before I recognised, looking down on her from the opening hill, my lost Adalinda.” Thus spoke the young Count Eboli, when he related this story; for its end was as romantic as its commencement. When Ferdinand had arrived a galley-slave in Calabria, ho found himself coupled with a bandit, a brave fellow, who abhorred his chains, from love of freedom, as much as his fellow-prisoner did, from all the combination of disgrace and misery they brought upon him. Together they devised a plan of escape, and succeeded in effecting it. On their road, Ferdinand related his story to the outlaw, who encouraged him to hope a favourable turn of fate; and meanwhile invited and persuaded the desperate man to share his fortunes as a robber among the wild hills of Calabria. 23, The cavern where Adalinda had taken refuge was one of their fastnesses, whither they betook themselves at periods of imminent danger for . safety only, as no booty could be collected in that unpeopled solitude; and there, one afternoon, returning from the chase, they found the wandering, fearful, solitary, fugitive girl; and never was lighthouse more welcome to tempest-tost sailor than was her own Ferdinand to his lady-love. Fortune, now tired of persecuting the young noble, favoured him still further. The story of the lovers interested the bandit chief, and promise of reward secured him. Ferdinand persuaded Adalinda to remain one night in the cave,

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and on the following morning they prepared to proceed to Naples; but at the moment of their departure they were surprised by an unexpected visitant: the robbers brought in a prisoner—it was the impostor. Missing on the morrow her who was the pledge of his safety and success, but assured that she could not have wandered far, he despatched emissaries in all directions to seek her; and himself, joining in the pursuit, followed the road she had taken, and was captured by tlawless men, who expected rich ransom from bne whose appearance denoted rank and wealth. When they-discovered who their prisoner was, they generously delivered him up into his brother's hands. Ferdinand and Adalinda proceeded to Naples. On their arrival, she presented herself to Queen ... Caroline; and, through her, Murat heard with astonishment the device that had been practised on him. The young Count was restored to his honours and possessions, and within a few months afterwards was united to his betrothed bride. The compassionate nature of the Count and Countess led them to interest themselves warmly in the fate of Ludovico, whose subsequent career was more honourable but less fortunate. At the intercession of his relative, Gioacchino permitted him to enter the army, where he distinguished himself, and obtained promotion. The brothers were at Moscow together, and mutually assisted each other during the horrors of the retreat. At one time overcome by drowsiness, the mortal symptom resulting from excessive cold, Ferdinand lingered behind his comrades; but Ludovico refusing to leave him, dragged him on in

spite of himself, till, entering a village, food and

fire restored him, and his life was saved. On another evening, when wind and sleet added to the horror of their situation, Ludovico, after many ineffective struggles, slid from his horse lifeless; Ferdinand was at his side, and, dismounting, endeavoured by every means in his power to bring back pulsation to his stagnant blood. His comrades went forward, and the young Count was left alone with his dying brother in the white boundless waste. Once Ludovico opened his eyes and recognised him; he pressed his hand, and his lips moved to utter a blessing as he died. At that moment the welcome sounds of the enemy's approach roused Ferdinand from the despair into which his dreadful situation plunged him. He was taken prisoner, and his life was thus saved. When N apoleon went to Elba, he, with many others of his countrymen, was liberated, and returned to N aples.


OH God! what a difference throughout the whole of this various and teeming earth a single DEATH can effect! Sky, sun, air, the eloquent Waters, the inspiring mountain-tops, the murmuring and glossy wood, the very

Glory in the grass, and splendour in the flower,

do these hold over us an eternal spell? Are they as a part and property of an unvarying

course of nature? Have they aught which is unfailing, steady—same in its effect? Alas! their attraction is the creature of an accident. One gap, invisible to all but ourself in the crowd and turmoil of the world, and every thing is changed. In a single hour the whole process of thought, the whole ebb and flow of emotion, may be revulsed for the rest of an existence. Nothing can ever seem to us as it did: it is a blow upon the fine mechanism by which we think, and move, and have our being—the pendulum vibrates aright no more—the dial hath no account with time—the process goes on, but it knows no symmetry or order;—it was a single stroke that marred it, but the harmony is gone for ever!

And yet I often think that that shock which jarred on the mental, renders yet softer the moral nature. A death that is connected with love unites us by a thousand remembrances to all who have mourned: it builds a bridge between the young and the old; it gives them in common the most touching of human sympathies; it steals from nature its glory and its exhilaration—not its tenderness. And what, perhaps, is better than all, to mourn deeply for the death of another, loosens from ourself the petty desire for, and the animal adherence to, life. We have gained the end of the philosopher, and view, without shrinking, the coffin and the pall,—JNews JMonthly JMagazine.


It was a custom of Haydn, as soon as he had finished any new work, to lay it aside for some time before he again looked at it, for the purpose of retouching and correcting. It happened that, under the influence of low spirits and chagrin, this great master had written six quartetts, all in a minor key. According to custom, he left the manuscript on his piano, and, as was also usual with him whenever he had finished a new work, he dismissed it from his mind, and forgot entirely the subjects and ideas on which he had been working. Some time afterwards Haydn felt inclined to revise these quartetts, of which he thought favourably, but he sought for them in Vain; they had disappeared, were nowhere to be found, and all attempts to recover them ended only in disappointment. Pleyel, who alone had access to Haydn's house and apartment, was Suspected by him of having stolen the missing quartetts; and notwithstanding all the protesta. tions of his pupil to the Contrary, he continued for a long time firm in that opinion. At length, however, the sincere and devoted attachment of his young pupil convinced Haydn that his suspicions must be unfounded: he restored him to his friendship, and thought no more of the circumstance, except occasionally to regret the

disappearance of what he considered one of his

best productions. The most singular part of the whole affair is, that the thief, whoever he may have been, did not attempt to derive any advan.

tage from his robbery; these stolen Quartetts

never saw the light—JMemoir of Pleyel.




Mark me—there is a prophecy in dreams. SHEIL's Apostate.

SHE dreamed that the treasures of earth and of sea,
Gold and jewels around her were lying;

She dreamed that from boughs and the leaves of each tree,
The soft notes of music were sighing. o

She dreamed that the flowers around her were bright, As bright as earth's flowers could be;

She dreamed that the skies poured a flood of sun-light, And sparkled the foam of the sea.

She dreamed that the vessel, aye that too was there,
To bear her away from the shore;

Dancing light on the waters so brilliant and fair,
And Hope's aspect each flowing wave wore.

And oh! at that moment, a gush of delight,
Pervaded her innocent heart;

She dreamed—all her dreaming was happy and bright,
Joy-tears from her dark eye-lash start:

For she viewed once again the dear land of her birth,
She pictured her childhood's glad home;

The parents endearing that loved spot of earth,
The friends that to greet her would come.

And she dwelt on the thought, for 'twas bliss thus to dwell,
And 'twas blissful to gaze on the scene;

For the vessel was there on the waves' sparkling swell,
And the sea and the sky were serene.

Then she dreamed of her lover, she dreamed that he came,
Disguised, and in silence, alone;

He bore her away from the fierce tyrant's power,
And swam with her through the white foam.

But alas, ere the light-bounding bark they could reach, Clouds and darkness o'erspread the blue sky; : And thunders were heard, and the clouds shot their fires,

And they heard, loud, the seaman's cry!

She heard too the shouting—she saw the frail boat, Engulped in the broad-bursting wave;

She saw it close o'er them, and heard the last shriek, And the sea was the mariner's gravel *

And she screamed as she felt her own true-one sink too,
Life's powers exhausted and broke;

She screamed, and sleep fled from her eyelids again
She trembling and tearsul awoke.

“Ah Juan,” she cried, “this dreaming foretels
What has eler been the cause of my fears;

Thou hast given me pearls too, bright pearls for my hair,
And pearls are the emblems of tears ”

'Twas the moment resolved on, and young Juan came,
Warm and glowing, and fixed on success;

His lips press her cold cheek, her motionless eye;
But no impulse returns the caress. f

“Ah Clara, dear Clara, why thus cold and chill, This hour when all should be fair?

Come, banish thy sorrows, away leve with me, And affection shall chase away Care.

“The boat too is waiting upon the blue wave, The bark too is on the blue sea;

I have hastened my own one, my Clara to save, Then Clara, love, come love with me.”

She trembled as through the thick foliage they passed,
She sighed, and reclined on his arm,

Not daring one last, parting look back to cast—
The leaves were all fraught with alarm.

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planted an oak in the en, and nourished the fancy, that as the tree flourished's sh uld he, On revisiting the abbey, during Lord Grey de uthve sidence there, he found the

oak choked up by w Falmost destroyed;—hence these lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman, the present proprietor, took possession, he one day noticed it, and said to the servant who was with him, ‘Here is a fine young oak; but it must be cut down, as it grows in an improper place.” —'I hope not, sir,” replied the man; ‘for it's the one that my lord was so fond of, because he set it himself.” The Colonel has, of course, taken every possible care of it. It is already inquired after, by strangers, as ‘the Byron oak,’ and promises to share, in after-times, the celebrity of Shakspeare's mulberry, and Pope's willow.”

“Young oak" when I planted thee deep in the ground, I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine;

That thy dark waving branches would flourish around, And ivy the trunk with its mantle entwine.

Such was my hope, when, in infancy's years,
On the land of my fathers I reared thee with pride:

They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears—
Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.

I left thee, my oak, and, since that fatal hour,
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire;

Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power,
But his whose neglect may have bade thee expire.

Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care
Might revive thy young head, and thy wound gently heal:

But thou wert not fated affection to share-
For who could suppose that a stranger would feel?

All, droop not, my Oak lift thy head for a while; Ere twice round yon glory this planet shall run,

The hand of thy master will teach thee to smile, When infancy's years of probation are done.

Oh, live then, my Oak tower aloft from the weeds
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay,

For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds,
And still may thy branches their beauty display.

Oh yet, if maturity's years may be thine, Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death,

On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath.

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy 1aid;

While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade.

And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot,
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread-

Oh surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot:
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.

And here will they say, when in life's glowing prime,
Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay,

And here must he sleep, till the moments of time
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.”

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MARIE-JosephinE-Rose, daughter of J oseph Gaspard Tascher de la Pagerie, by Rose Claire des Verges de Sanois, his wife, was born in the island of Martinique, on the 23d of June, 1763. Before she had reached her fifteenth year she ed the island, and resided for some time at

Renaudin, who superintended the household concerns of the Marquis de Beauharnais. At this period few remarked ahy thing about Josephine, except that she had a tall, fine figure, and an extremely small footo

she was, however, simple, modest, and of a sweet and amiable temper. is Wiscount Alexander Beauharnais, second son of the marquis, suddenly became enamoured of the young Creole; and Josephine, on her part, could not be insensible to the blandishments and handsome person of her youthful lover. The parties were united at Noisy-le-Grand, on the 13th of December, 1779. The lovely bride was introduced at the court of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, whose successor on the throne of France she was one day destined to become; and such were her wit and vivacity, that she was soon accounted one of its ornaments. This circumstance was, however, a misfortune for Josephine; since it imparted to her character a taint of levity which even her subsequent heavy afflictions could not entirely remove, and led her into habits of improvidence with which all Napoleon's liberality was unable to keep pace. The marriage was not a felicitous one. Cerfain suspicions took place on the part of the husband, and a separation was demanded; the tribunals, however, adjudged that the proofs were not sushciently conclusive to warrant a process of so serious a nature, and the husband and wife were prevailed on to resume their former cordiality. But shortly after the reconciliation, the conduct of M. de Beauharnais himself gave Josephine serious cause for jealousy. At first, she complained with gentleness; but finding that, so far from altering his conduct, he affected a violent passion for the woman who interfered with her happiness, she infused into her reproaches a degree of bitterness which alienated the affections of her husband, and a separation became necessary. The revolution ensued. Viscount de Beauharnais, who had for some time been a fieldofficer, was denounced as an aristocrat, by his own troops, deprived of his commission, and confined in the prison of the Carmelites. As soon as Josephine was apprized of his situation, forgetful of her wrongs, she adopted every possible mode, through the medium of friends and her own personal solicitations, to obtain his release.

* See “Memoirs of the Empress Josephine. By John S. Memes, LL.D.”—Family Library.

The viscount, on his part, was deeply moved by the attachment and assiduity of his wife; who was soon after not only denied the melancholy happiness of attending on her unhappy spouse, but deprived of her own liberty. In the course of a few weeks, the unfortunate viscount was dragged before the revolutionary tribunal, which instantly condemned him to death. He suffered with great courage, on the 23d of July, 1794, and on the evening before his execution wrote an affectionate letter to his wife, recommending their two children to her maternal attentions, and expressing an earnest hope that justice would be done to his memory. On learning the sad news, the disconsolate Josephine became insensible, and was for a time confined to her bed. - Her jailer, having been desired to call in medical assistance, coolly replied, that there was no occasion for a physician, as on the morrow it would be her turn to experience the fate of her husband. Indeed, so confident was she that such would be her lot, that her beautiful tresses had been cut off, with the view of being transmitted to her children, as the last and only present she could make them; but, in six days, the death of Robespierre restored her to liberty. * Josephine appeared, however, to have escaped proscription only to be exposed to new misfortunes. All the family fortune in Europe had been seized on, and the conflagrations and massacres in the West Indies had bereaved her of

the possibility of receiving a supply from that

quarter of the world. So cheerless was her prospect, that her son Eugene, afterward Viceroy of Italy, was bound apprentice to a joiner; while his sister Hortense, the future Queen of Holland, was sent to learn the business of a semptress.f During her imprisonment, Josephine had formed a close intimacy with the celebrated Theresa Cabarus, then Madame Fontenai, and when this lady married Tallien, she partook largely in the advantages of her changed fortune. Both these ladies were at that period conspicuous, on account of the Grecian costume which they adopted. Thus attired, they were generally present at the civic feasts, the theatres, and the directorial circles. They were the first to proscribe the revolutionary manners: they held in detestation all who delighted in blood, and seized every opportunity of saving those whom the existing government wished to immolate. Barras, now at the head of the Directory, himself an ex-noble, and remarkably fond of show and pleasure, began at this time to hold a sort of court at his apartments in the Luxembourg. These two beautiful women formed the soul of his assemblies, and it is generally supposed

f Las Cases, vol. ii. p. 301.

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