was, however, never afterwards seen; having, as was generally supposed, received, by his speedy execution, the just reward of his labors. Of D'Aubusson it is said, "that horror and shame humbled his grey hairs to the dust, when he learned the tragical termination of his victim's (Zemes) life; and the circumstance of his being compelled to conceal his detestation of the murderous act, gave additional poignancy to his grief. At eighty years of age, Peter D'Aubusson died, and notwithstanding these historians, however, have attempted to excuse the conduct of D'Aubusson to his royal guest. "William de Jalignani avers that the grand master never guaranteed safe conduct to the fugitive, nor even passed his word that the order would stand between him and his brother's wrath." We cannot see the point of this author's argument. The knights were, by their position and their oaths, bound to protect all who might flee to them for protection--but more particularly one who had left the faith of his fathers; so deadly a sin in a Musselman's eye-" was a prince of a noble soul-shades on his otherwise illustrious character, the tears deeply versed in oriental literature-master of several languages, and famous for his deeds in war." of his knights followed the saviour of Rhodes and the buckler of christendom to his grave." During the same year in which D'Aubusson died, 1503, Pope Alexander VI was also deceased; "a monster who had too long harassed the world with his crimes; having perished by inadvertantly quaffing the contents of a poisoned goblet, which he had drugged for the purpose of shortening the life of one of his friends." Before closing with this notice of the hand of Saint John, we would state, for the information of future travellers, that we have heard that the true sacred bone of the apostle is now in the collection of the late emperor Paul of Russia, having been sent to him by If the knights, who were thought by the christian world to be always at war with the sultan, could only maintain their position, by acting as his jailors, and afterwards turning traitors to him, who, trusting to their reputation, had placed himself in their hands, it would have been far better for them to have sooner resigned their fortifications and maintained their honor. William de Cadrusin, another writer, argues that the grand master "had no alternative but to accede to this base proposition, or bring down the implacable vengeance of Bajazet on Rhodes." In our opinion, let the consequences have been what they might, a Musselman's friendship ought never to have been pur-Hompesch, the last grand master, at the expulsion of chased by christians at the price of injustice, imprisonment, and poison. With regard to the two Roman bishops, Innocentius and Alexander, for their conduct nothing can be said in extenuation. The one purchased his prisoner, the other poisoned him-"his murderer having received from Bajazet three hundred thousand ducats as the price of his blood." the knights from Malta. The one shown at the present day, and so much valued by the Maltese, is a fac simile, and may answer the purpose for which it is used, as well as the original.* In my next I shall make further mention of Citta Vecchia, and of our clerical companion, the Canonico Grech. W. Having given this portion of Turkish history, intimately connected as it is with this sacred relic of Saint John, and also with the actions of those warlike priests several of whom were, not many years after, driven from Rhodes, and established at Malta-it may not be uninteresting briefly to narrate the fate of those illus-being the birth-place of Homer, and five hands will now be trious persons, who first or last were actors in this treacherous and cruel scene. The vengeance of heaven appeared in a singular manner to pursue all who had, by thought, word, or deed, injured the unfortunate Zemes. Indeed, had he lived, this Turkish prince could not have meted to his enemies a severer punish-John, from the circumstance of this hand being placed on its ment than each in his turn received. Achmet, by whose altar. bravery, military tact, and great popularity, the army of Zemes was routed, was, on the second attempt, strangled by the command of the sultan, who feared his power, and unjustly looked upon him rather as a rival than as a brave and faithful general, to whom in a great measure he was indebted for his seat on the Otto-To man throne. There is nothing which in the eye of a Protestant would make this relic sacred, save that it was with the christians when Stamboul was a christian city. The chequered scene through which it has passed, carries with it, in my opinion, the only idea of sanctity, with which its history is in any way con nected. Seven cities have been named in ancient times as each shown in Europe in as many churches, and all are the true ones of the apostle, if a stranger would believe the priests who show them. It is, however, certain, that the emperor Paul, this relic, put so much faith in its history, as to erect over it a who was appointed grand master of the order, on the receipt of church at St. Petersburgh which still goes by the name of St. Bajazet, in 1512, and after a fortunate reign for the Turkish empire of nearly thirty years-(during which he had been at war with five kings of England, Edward IV and V, Richard III, and Henry VII and VIII; with three of France, Louis XI, Charles VIII, and Louis XII; with two of Scotland, James III and IV,) met that cruel fate at Adrianople, and at the instigation of his own`son, which he himself had allotted to his brother Zemes. How, to the letter, was the prophecy verified? Hamon, his Jew physician, having committed this treacherous act, returned to Constantinople, to receive ten ducats a day, promised by Selymus. Hel LINES the Memory of Mrs. Anne G. Davis, of Natchez, Mississippi. There floats upon the still and starlit air And thou art gone! to that far land, Where faded hopes, nor with'ring fears, The fervent prayer, methought a still, small voice, Then, with pang subdued, Memory went wandering to the lov'd one's grave, Of dew, that sparkled on that turf-clad mound, And then, methought, she heard Sweet sound of heavenly harpings,-and behold, Celestial gleamings of cherubic wings, And 'mid the chant of ransom'd infancy Unto its Saviour, caught the tuneful voice Of her own cherished nursling. So, her lip Join'd in the praise. For how could she forbear To thank her God for him, who ne'er should taste Of trouble more. Was it the tender tone Of him, so often cradled on her breast, That whisper'd, as she lay that night, in dreams? way BANCO: OR, THE TENANT OF THE SPRING: A LEGEND OF THE WHITE SULPHUR.* PART L Many Summers have passed away, In merry mirth and roundelay, It was a land where all was bright- By Angels or by magic made. And every breeze that wafted by, As fragrant as from Araby. A limpid lake, whose silent stream Who dwells within this Paradise? Where are the spirits of the land, No sound of music wakens there- * This beautiful little poem, sent to us by a friend, was written by a gentleman at the White Sulphur Springs, at the request of a lady, who wondered why so celebrated a region had never produced a romance. It was written in the course of two evenings, in answer to the challenge.-[Editer S. Lit. Mes. No voice of life-no living trace Is seen of all the mortal race, For ages long, in faded time, Of pleasure, if they even changed; But, like the world, if nothing less, Than bliss was our's; or pleasure true; We'd murmur at our happiness, And look around for something new. The legend runs-it was their creed Some magic spell their souls confined, And from the charm they would be freed, If in the valley they could find The stream of life!-whose crystal flow, Was brighter than the silver's glow: Whose pearly drops of liquid white, To pleasure would give fresh delight: Whose virtues, fairy ban would sever,And all who drank, would live forever. PART II. It was a soft and gentle night The moon was streaming forth her light, The air was still-no sound was heard, When, on a high and greenwood steep, Whate'er she be, of earth or air- With here and there an azure one; She sleeps she dreams-or seeming dreams: A voice, as from the "Witches' Well," And thrice it sounded o'er again : "Light of the Sylphs! we've heard thy sigh, "It came upon the rainbow high: "We've tried it with the sacred dew, "And find thy wish is pure and true. "But all the sighs that ever fell— "From Sylph! or Maid! or Eastern gale! "If pure as e'en the green-fern bell, "Would nothing now, thy wish avail. “Thy kindred from the land have gone. "In fruitless hope and endless toil, "For anxious years they wandered on; "And now are wasted from the soil. "They all went forth to seek the stream- "And some went 'round the mountain's side, "Through dreary wild, and forest brake; "But none came back-they all have died! "Many had gain'd the wish'd-for site; "But, faint with terror and affright, "All, one by one, they perished there"And left you here-sole Bride of Air! "It was decreed-it was their doom "They would have faded soon or late: "(The fruits and trees no more will bloom "Within the vale for them :) for Fate "Had number'd every happy day, "That wing'd their moments here away. "One measure of the fabled stream, "Would soon have broke their happy dream, "Of sweet existence; and the cares "And strifes of mortals, had been their's; "But none have quaff'd the stream, while each, "Who sought it, went within its reach! "If thou would'st seek and thou would'st know, "The monster BANCO keeps the spring; "And Banco! sleeps but once a year: "If thou wilt seek, now Sylph awake! The Sylph awakes-the voice is gone. Or old witch, who hurried her on? The Sylph awakes-but not in fright; For she was glad: and it pleased her so, That the time had come, when she could go, To that valley far! which she doubted notWas, of all the world, the sweetest spot. PART III. The moon is shining lovely still— On the lake a shadow is seen Skimming on as the heron flies; The shadow is the yew-tree skiff, Like lightning streaking by, is pass'd. She passes by the dead-tree brake, And as she speeds, for miles along, The bark has stopp'd-with lightsome leap, And Banco sleeps!-he little dreams- He'd rather watch, than famish here. The Sylph has gain'd the inmost ring, With eager joy, her willing hand, There comes no stream so soft and bright, But breaking forth, with startling roar, And rushing down the mountain side, The waters now in torrents pour, To flood the valley far and wide. Where's Banco? sleeping?-No! the sound And Banco seeks the mountain's brow, The wolf has reach'd the summit hill- A thousand flitting spectres rise. A murdered Sylph! with torch on high, On every wave: which fast the breeze Is urging on, and bringing by. The wolf is stricken with despair- But, fiendish wolf! the waters roll In swelling surges o'er his head; And Banco! with his troubled soulNow yells among the restless dead. Long years have passed-a merry ring Old Age, he comes—his gladden'd eye And Beauty comes, with face so bright! And oft a tear is there let fall— And then again-remember'd still- THE COPY-BOOK. NO. IV. Br C. C*******, OF PETERSBurg, Va. MY COUSIN BOB. I took it into my head once, to pay a visit to my cousin Bob. I am afraid he drank too much, though 1 never saw him intoxicated. However that may be, his house wore a neglected air-broken windows-dusty looking-glasses-torn curtains. The cows had broken down the hedge-the garden fence was decayed--and the gate choked up with grass. Lean, gaunt, hungry hounds, were dozing in the sun. Cousin Bob had never been farther from home than to Richmond, and seldom extended his thoughts far from home. As insects assume the color of the leaf they feed on, so he borrowed the complexion of his politics from his newspaper; and reading only one side of the question, he became dogmatical in his opinions, and seemed to feel pity for a man who should be so ignorant as to differ from him. His library was neither large nor select, consisting of some odd volumes of Shakspeare, Addison, Goldsmith, Scott's novels and Miss Porter's, Riley's Narrative, Mason's Farrier, Buchan's Family Medicine, Scott's Lessons, and the Almanack, which last was the only one he ever opened, and he frequently mentioned that there was some very good reading in it. With this relative of mine I passed some days in the year eighteen hundred and blank. The incidents of my stay were few and simple, as will appear in the succeeding chapters. WARWICK. There are no antiquities in Virginia except some of the old maids; but Warwick is an old fashioned structure, of perhaps the reign of William III, of happy memory. Rooms oak-pannelled-inside folding window-shutters-the house quite ruinous and deserted— martins build their nests in the walls-the dining room is occupied by an overseer and his family-the rest of the mansion, naked and untenanted-unhinged doors and broken windows-a sad picture of decay. The family portraits, the hereditary heirlooms, were gonea few fine old English prints survived; but time has no doubt ere this consigned them also to the tomb of the Capulets. I observed an antiquarian looking-glass on the wall, surmounted by an eagle, whose head had been knocked off, no doubt by some old tory. Around the house spreads a smooth lawn—a clump of patriarchal oaks fanning their leaves in the breeze. Under these, perhaps, the naked Indian has reposed his limbs, wearied with the chase; and the children that played under their shade, have grown up and been scattered, and many, perhaps, descended to the dust, while these old trees still lift their heads to the winds and defy the storm. In front of the house a river meandered lazily through broad, flat meadows of tall grass, in which cattle were wading for pasture. The roses of evening were fading in the western sky, when, mounting my horse, I bade adieu to Warwick, whose present state seemed an emblem of life-the gaiety and pomp of wealth had yielded "to dumb oblivion and decay." The coachman, the footman, the butler had disappeared, and the hunter's horn had ceased to rouse the early dawn. These scenes are forgotten, or recollected only by some superannuated slave, or some small antiquary like myself. OLD DUNMORE. After we had finished our tea, cousin Bob moved an adjournment to the porch, where, he observed, we should enjoy the twofold advantage of moonlight and mosquitoes. My kinsman, leaning back in his chair, threw his legs over the railing, and having thus brought his head and his heels nearly to a level, he called for his pipe. In the course of the evening, our conversation happened to take a genealogical turn, and I learned several new particulars of my forefathers. Cousin Bob, finding me quite interested in these reminiscences, sent for old Dunmore. He shortly made his appearance-a tall, erect mulatto of about seventy, or according to his chronology, for slaves always exaggerate their age, eighty large odd. He lodged, as it appeared, in a cabin in the orchard, by himself, with no companion but a cat, to which he had taken a sort of Robinson Crusoe fancy. As the priestess of Delphi would never utter her oracles until an offering of gold was made to Apollo, so an old negro will never spin long yarns about old times without a dram: a dram in all such cases is a sine qua non. Cousin Bob gave the old fellow a glass of whiskey, adding, "Now he will tell you lies enough to shingle a barn." Dunmore being thus put upon his voir dire, underwent a crossexamination on his genealogical reminiscences, which being ended, his master dismissed him with another dram of whiskey and the parting compliment of "It's all a pack of lies." When he had shut the gate after him, my kinsman remarked, that there was some truth in the old man's story. After all, the ancestral developments of Dunmore and his master did not prove to be of any great consequence, as will more clearly appear in the next chapter. GENEALOGY. The first stock of our family we take to be Adam and Eve. Not caring, however, to push matters so far back, we are content to begin with a worthy gentleman who came over, about the year 1700, from England. He located several thousand acres of land on the river before mentioned; and by the culture of tobacco and |