hope of his appearance. If the night was dark, cold, or unpleasant, she would place a light in the casement, as a beacon for his welcome; and would prepare a gown of furs, or slippers, made from the warm skins of the chamois, as if in expectation of his requiring them. When her father beheld these things, when he saw the poor girl that was so lately bounding, lively and free, the happiest of the happy, now wild, woe-begone, and dying; his aged heart felt a pang that fully counterbalanced all the felicity of his former years.

But this stab of melancholy could not last long, it had evidently made too great an inroad in the sufferer's frame, and her father was hourly in expectation of seeing this child of his hope carried to her last home before him; who, he had hoped, when his mortal pilgrimage was over, would have watered the flowers over his grave with the tears of filial affection.

ན

It was late one spring evening, just such another as that on which Mimili first saw Eugene, that a loud knocking at the outer gate was heard. Mimili, influenced by the beauty of the evening, had removed from her couch, and was enjoying the vernal air, evidently under the impression it would be but for a short time. The old man opened the door, and a figure wrapt up in a military cloak, and on horseback, demanded admittance. The heart-broken father went to his side, and to his unutterable astonishment he beheld Eugene. The inhabitants of these mountains, from their wildness and romantic influence, are naturally superstitious; and poor old Gerald thought at the moment, that the spirit of death, under the form of Eugene, had come to claim his bride, and he trembled violently, till Eugene sprung from his horse, and by a truly filial embrace, convinced the good old man he was flesh and blood. No time was made for explanation, he instantly asked for Mimili. Gerald only replied by bursting into tears. Eugene found his utterance choaked, till he falteringly asked, whether she was dead? "No, worse than dead. The report of your death drove her distracted." Eugene was quite overcome, this calamity was the least expected. When he was in some degree recovered, Gerald consulted with him as to the best means of introducing him to his daughter: he told him the circumstance of her invariably expecting him, and thought the best course to pursue would be to mention that he had arrived. This was accordingly done, and Eugene with trembling steps entered the room. As

soon as Mimili saw him, she sprung into his arms, and exclaimed, "you are come at last!" and became senseless. She was laid on her bed, and for a time it was thought that the vital spark had flown; till she partially revived, and to the joy and surprise of all, she spoke less wildly, and more intelligibly.

common

It appeared that Eugene had been left for dead on the field, and there had his uniform and valuables taken from his person: he had, however, been but stunned by the force of his fall; and when he came to himself, found he was in a waggon, among a multitude of invalids, all of whom were soldiers. It was evident his rank was unknown, and by his remaining in a delirious fever for a considerable time, he was unable to undeceive them. During this period the news of his death was industriously propagated, and he saw, himself, his name among the list of slain. Upon his recovery he was taken to Paris, after he had dispatched mes sengers to Switzerland, which from some accident never arrived at their destination: by degrees, however, he recovered his strength, and was able to undertake the journey himself.

Mimili, to the joy and delight of all, recovered her senses, and, before the probationary year had expired, was the happy wife of her heart's choice. Eugene still lives with his father-in-law, who yet remains in his meridian vigour, and is the happy grand-father of three fine children, who, with their beloved mother, comprise the SOLDIER'S REWARD.

MARY MCLEOD.

"O'er thee the secret shaft

That wastes at midnight, or the undreaded

hour

of noon, flies harmless; and that very voice Which thunders terror through the guilty heart,

With tongues of Seraphs whispers peace to thine!"

THE wisdom of the Persian adageBegin nothing of which thou hast not well considered the end,' need not be illustrated better than by the catastrophe of the following melancholy story, in which the eloquence of Sterne could hardly be required to render its termination additionally appalling;-fiction need not lend her aid to render the colouring more attractively impressive.

It was hardly possible to imagine the existence of a more amiable spirit than that which actuated the conduct of the charming Mary M'Cleod. The circle of friends which had assembled at the house of her uncle, at Lubeç, in Danish Pomcrania, was composed of rather a large

family circle of the youth of both sexes, and they formed a constellation of no ordinary interest; for there was more than one youthful Tyro of the number, of acknowledged talents, and yet none whose acquired principles could render the fondest parent solicitous to prevent the object of its affections from being blasted by its contagious influence. Amid all their dancing and revelry-in the deepest warmth of sparkling disputation-Mary M'Cleod always held a foremost rank; and, without intruding herself forward as the arbitress of any other person's opinion, she in reality gave a tone to that of the whole-for those who could not be convinced by the strength of her reasoning, were always ready to admire the manner in which it was delivered, and were always willing to believe that her eyes said less than her other arguments.

Boasting, one evening, how little she was subject to the impressions of fear, it was resolved, by her thoughtless juvenile associates, that an attempt should be made to expose what they considered vanity in the extreme. With this view, after some consultation, they resolved to introduce into her bed a portion of a human skeleton, with its head reclining upon a pillow, imagining that, when the unfortunate subject of this memoir should undraw the curtains of her bed, an involuntary scream would expose that even her fears could be easily worked upon. They listened, when she had retired from the dance, with no ordinary silence; but for such an exclamation they listened in vain; no scream-not the least sound was heard ;-the light of the lamp, too, was extinguished, after a seemingly long interval, and all was apparently buried in a profound, uninterrupted silence. Concluding, therefore, that the fearless maiden had seen the skull, and removed it in silence, they retired with some little disappointment at the ill success of the plan they had laid to alarm her. In truth, Mary M'Cleod had not seen the horrid spectacle; she reposed in the same bed with a human skull, totally ignorant of the presence of so appalling a sight, and slept as sound as innocence always will, in peace by its side. The moon rising during the night, shed its rays through the window of her room, full upon the head of the skeleton, presenting an object barely visible to the eye, and for that reason more horridly awful than language could attempt to describe, more especially as there were no objects distinctly present to the eye which could dispel any dreadful illusion which such

a spectacle, under such circumstances, could give rise to. Upon this scene, arranged by an unfortunate concurrence of events, as if laid out by the hand of a demon, beamed the bright eye of Mary M'Cleod, as she awoke from a dream fell like the sparkling eye of an angel hovering over chaos. The shock was too exquisitely horrible to be endured; her fine spirits could not withstand the blow; and but a few minutes sufficed to convert the soaring spirit of her, whose wit had lately abashed even the most presumptuous, into that wild horrorstricken essence, which directed the wild motions of a beauteons unfortunate maniac.

Listen, said the wife of the worthy host, a physician of long practice in the most benevolent of the sciences-Listen to that curious, long-continued laugh! it is surely the laugh of your favourite, Mary M'Cleod! In a few moments all the inmates of the house were assembled at the door of the room, which contained the beauteous form from whence this wild laughing emanated; paused for a few moments, and then again proceeded again it ceased, and all became silent as the grave. Again the laugh went on -no entreaties could stop it-all questions passed away unheeded. It sounds, said one of the servants, as if it was approaching the window. This suggestion roused the weeping energy of the worthy doctor: he hastily burst open the door, and rushed into the room; but his benevolence came too late, for the unfortunate subject of the story had precipitated herself to the ground, and was borne back, by her agonized companions, more dead than alive. The doctor soon foresaw that the injury she had received would render all care useless-death had marked her for his own. The incessant care, however, which was bestowed upon her, brought her from a state of torpor to some little feeling. Her half-dead attendants had yet a hope for the best; but death came on apace -no balm could cure an injured frame, whose angelic spirit was, if possible, still more dreadfully wounded-her days of suffering were therefore few; and on the morning in which she fled into the field where folly never riots, the bright spark of reason returned to her yet once again-all her powers of mind came back with renewed strength; and calling around her the weeping groupe, with whom she had parted a few evenings before, she begged of them to forget her fate, as completely as she forgave those who were the unintentional cause of her death. Do not imagine, said the retiring

angeldo not for one moment believe that I am sorry that the period is come when I shall be set free from a pilgrimage which might, perhaps, have ended still more unfortunately, and might not have afforded so useful an example of the dangers of working upon the fears of any one; nor should I have been so tried, had not my vanity laid claim to what no one ever possessed-a total absence of all fear. In all future periods, amid the gay scenes of life, when anger shalt prompt you, may you recollect to forgive others as Mary M'Cleod forgave you; and if ever my spirit shall be deputed again to visit the earth, I shall, perhaps, be that very attendant spirit, who, at that very moment, will bring back to your recollection the fate of Mary M'Cleod.

ANECDOTES OF CELEBRATED WOMEN.-No. III.

LADY ANN CLIFFORD, Countess of Dorset, Pembroke, & Montgomery. ANN, daughter and heiress of George Clifford, third earl of Cumberland, was born January 30th, 1589, at Skipton Castle in Craven. Her father died when she was only ten years of age; but his loss was supplied to her by the care and attention of an excellent mother, a daughter of the earl of Bedford; who, aided by her aunt, the countess of Warwick, superintended her education. Mr. Samuel Daniel, a poet and historian, was by these ladies appointed preceptor to their charge, who, under his tuition, made a considerable progress in literary attainments.

Lady Ann, in 1609, married the earl of Dorset, a gallant and accomplished nobleman, with whom she lived fifteen years. By his death, in 1624, she was left a widow with two daughters. She was shortly after attacked by the smallpox, from which, after imminent danger, she escaped with life, but with the loss of beauty. Six years after the death of her first husband, she gave her hand to the earl of Pembroke and Montgomery. What could induce Lady Ann to form a connection with a man so worthless, there is no account: it is certain that, for nearly twenty years, her life was 'embittered by his dissolute conduct, till, in 1649, his death relieved her from so unworthy a connection. About this period she became possessed of an ample fortune: her succession to the Clifford estates, on the death of her father, had been contested by an uncle, who inherited the title, and an award had been

236

given against her by James I., but to this award she had never submitted. On the death of her uncle and his son, the fortunes reverted to her, increased by the late jointures she had obtained by her marriages. Having sketched a plan for her future life, she retired to the north, determined for the future to spend her income on her own estates. Five noble castles bad in ancient times belonged to the earls of Cumberland, which, during the civil wars, had been much injured, and suffered to fall to decay. The countess, on coming to the possession of her estates, determined to repair the fortresses of her ancestors. This design was completed in the years 1657 and 1658.

When Cromwell was at the head of the state, his usurpations and hypocrisy inspired the countess with an aversion she took no pains to conceal. Her friends, aware of the jealous temper of the usurper, advised her to be less lavish in building, hinting that there was cause to fear that her castles would be no sooner rebuilt, than orders would be sent to demolish them. "Let him," replied the high-spirited lady, "destroy them if he will; he shall surely find, that as often as he destroys, I will rebuild them, while he leaves me a shilling in my pocket."

On another occasion, she manifested her high spirit, and contempt of Cromwell. In receiving her rights, by the misconduct or negligence of her uncle, she had been involved in a tedious lawsuit. Cromwell, informed of the affair by the opposite party, offered his mediation, which was by the lady haughtily refused: "What!" said she, "does he suppose that I, who refused to submit to King James the First, will submit to him?" Whether from respect to her character, or from the influence of her numerous friends, the protector showed no resentment on these occasions: the castles and estates of the countess remained uninjured. The aversion to Cromwell appears not to have originated only from party; for, being pressed by her friends to appear at court after the Restoration, she testified an unqualified dislike to the spirit of the government of Charles. "By no means will I go to court," replied she, "unless I may be allowed to wear blinkers." Another instance of her independent spirit is worthy of being recorded. Sir J. Williamson, when secretary of state to Charles the Second, named to the countess, in a letter, a candidate for the borough of Appleby. Disdaining to be

dictated to, on such an occasion, she returned the following laconic and spirited reply:

"I have been bullied by an usurper; I have been neglected by a court; but I will not be dictated to by a subject. Your man sha'n't stand.

"Ann Dorset, Pembroke, and

Montgomery."

The churches belonging to the villages on her estates having been beaten down, or converted to other purposes, she repaired and rebuilt them. The expences in building were estimated at forty thousand pounds. She divided the year into periods, residing in turn at each of her castles; thus superintending the whole of her estates, and carrying blessings in her The patroness of the distressed, her ear and her heart were ever open to their complaints, none implored relief from her in vain. To occasional acts of beneficence she added permanent endow. ments; among which, she founded two hospitals.

train.

By the side of the road between Penrith and Appleby, appears an affecting monument of her filial gratitude. On this spot, she had last parted with her beloved mother; a separation she was accustomed to recal to mind with tender sorrow, and in commemoration of which she erected a pillar, its base a stone table, known in the county by the name of the Countess's Pillar, on which were engraven her arms, a sun-dial, and the following inscription," This pillar was erected in 1656, by Ann countess dow ager of Pembroke, as a memorial of her last parting in this place from Margaret countess dowager of Cumberland, her good and pious mother; April 2d, 1616." In memory whereof, she hath left an annuity of four pounds, to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every second day of April, for ever, upon the stone table hard by.-Laus Deo.

The establishment of the countess accorded with her liberal mind: her servants were the children of her tenants, who, if they behaved well, were sure of a provision to her women, when they married, she gave small portions. She was a lover of learning, and a patroness of learned men: in gratitude to her tutor, she erected a monument to his memory at Beckington, Somersetshire. She also raised a monument to Spenser. Her prudence in the management of her affairs was exemplary; and her economy and exactness were the support of a generosity worthy of the name; yet she defended her rights with a spirit and firmness which doubtless preserved her, in those fluctuating and relaxed times,

from many contentions. A lesser in stance, after those already mentioned, may serve as an example.

Among the tenants on her estate, it was an annual custom, after paying their rents, to present a boon-hen, as it was called, which was always considered a just claim, and the perquisite of the steward. A rich clothier from Halifax, whose name was Murgatroyd, having taken a tenement near Skipton, was called upon by the steward for his boonhen. This he refused to pay: the coun tess, therefore, commenced a suit against him, which, both parties being alike inflexible, was carried to a great length. The countess established her claim at the expence of two hundred pounds. When the affair was decided, she invited the defendant to dinner: the hen was served up as a first dish. “Come, sir,” said the countess, drawing it towards her, "let us now be friends, since you allow the hen to be served at my table; let us, if you please, divide it between us."

It

The understanding of this lady had received considerable cultivation. was humourously said of her, by Dr. Donn, "that she knew how to converse on all subjects, from predestination to slea-silk."

Her manner of living was simple, and with regard to herself almost parsimonious: abstemious in her diet, she was accustomed to boast that she had scarcely ever tasted wine or physic. Her dress in the latter part of her life was a close habit of black serge.

Her rational and exemplary life was extended to an advanced period: she survived her second husband 26 years, a blessing and an ornament to the country in which she resided; and expired ht her castle in Brougham, March 23, 1675, in the 86th year of her age. She was interred at Appleby, in a vault she had constructed during her life-time.

M

A sort of untwisted silk used in embroidery.

REFLECTIONS ON VIEWING THE

FUNERAL OF LORD BYRON.

What now to thee are riches, honours, birth?
What that thou seem'd a blazing star on earth?
That, meteor-like, thy transient glories shone?
We look'd-we gaz'd-and, lo! the light was
gone!

So comets pass in bright eccentric sphere,
But are forbidden long continuance here.

SUCH were my musings, as the funeral procession with the remains of the late Lord Byron rested at a house for refreshments in Kentish Town yesterday. The pomp of death, the train of relations and mourners, and some of " the mockery of

woe," had left the painful charge to a few domestics, and those necessary assistants, whom business makes callous to any serious reflections over their melan choly duties. A casual spectator of the fast honours due to the dead, usually drops a tear to the memory of the de, parted, or heaves one conscientious pang on the recollection that such must, bye and bye, close his own career. Here was excited uncommon interest: a plain hearse, with only black ornaments, car ried the body; a coach followed with the coronet, and a coffin containing the urn, in which was enclosed the heart of Lord Byron that heart which has bled for thousands! Hundreds flocked to the side of the coach to snatch a view of the appalling repository, as the driver opened the door; it was covered with crimson velvet. "O, in mercy, let me touch it!" exclaimed a female voice, which betrayed a deep feeling: "for mercy's sake, let me but touch it!" Her request was granted, and many followed her example. The Italian favourite drew my next attention: I could but look with emotion on that faithful servant, who had de servedly merited the esteem of such a master; I could but gaze on one who had heard his last sigh, and, perhaps, knew, better than any third person, the real and established principles of him who has raised so many surmises. Alas! in justification of the character of such a man, it is much to be regretted, that a narrative from his own pen, which scorned to dissemble, should have been torn from an enquiring world. In my humble opinion, it would have erased prejudice, and left a picture, with fewer spots and blemishes, than its destroyers wish us to believe. Why sacrifice the illustrious memory of the departed to the feelings of the humbler survivors? The motive is felt by many, very many, with deep regret. July 13th.

C.

and his shoulders slouch, and his hair grow long to be gathered into a heavy pigtail; but when full dressed, he prides himself on a certain gentility of toe; ou a white stocking and a natty shoe, issuing lightly out of the flowing blue trowser. His arms are neutral, hanging and swinging in a curve aloof; his hands, half open, look as if they had just been handling ropes, and had no object in life, but to handle them again. He is proud of appearing in a new hat and slops, with a Belcher handkerchief flowing loosely round his neck, and the corner of another out of his pocket. Thus equip. ped, with pinchbeck buckles in his shoes (which he bought for gold) he puts some tobacco in his mouth, not as if he were going to use it directly, but as if he stuffed it in a pouch on one side, as a pelican does fish, to employ it hereafter and so, with Bet Monson at his side, and perhaps a cane or whanghee twisted under his other arm, sallies forth to take possession of all Lubberland. He buys every thing that he comes athwart,nuts, gingerbread, apples, shoe-strings, beer, brandy, gin, buckles, knives, a watch, (two if he has money enough,) gowns and handkerchiefs for Bet, and his mother and sisters, dozens of "Superfine Best Men's Cotton Stockings," dozens of "Superfine Best Women's Cotton Ditto," best good Check for Shirts (though he has too much already), infinite needles and thread (to sew his trowsers with some day), a footman's laced hat, bear's grease to make his hair grow (by way of joke,) several sticks, all sorts of Jew articles, a flute (which he can't play, and never intends), a leg of mutton which he carries somewhere to roast, and for a piece of which the landlord of the Ship makes him pay twice what he gave for the whole;-in short, all that money can be spent upon, which is every thing but medicine gratis; and this he would insist on paying for. He would buy all the painted parrots on an Italian's head, on purpose to break them, rather than not spend his money. He has fiddles and a dance at the Ship, with oceans of flip and grog; and gives the blind fidler tobacco for sweetmeats, and half-a-crown for treading on his toe. He asks the landlady, with a sigh, after her daughter Nance, who first fired his heart with her silk stockings; and finding she is married and in trouble, leaves five crowns for her; which the old lady appropriates as part payment for a shilling in advance. He goes to the port playhouse with Bet Monson, and a great red handkerchief full of apples, gingerbread nuts, and