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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
A wail of anguish, borne from breaking hearts
For the lost idol of their house: the lov'd,
The gentle one, who in past years of dear
And tender intercourse, had so entwin'd
Her soul with their's, that Hope could take no hue
Of brightness, which did not wreathe its halo
Round that fair and shadeless brow.

And thou art gone! to that far land,

Where faded hopes, nor with'ring fears,
May throw their shadows o'er the band
Of seraphs from this vale of tears.
VOL. IV.-82

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The fervent prayer, methought a still, small voice,
Bade the swoln surges of her soul, be still;
That He, who walk'd upon Tiberia's lake,
Ruling the midnight storm, might thither come,
And save from shipwreck.

Then, with pang subdued,

Memory went wandering to the lov'd one's grave,
Marking in every bud that blossom'd there-
In every joyous butterfly, that spread
Its radiant wing amid the flowers-a type
Of glorious resurrection. Every drop

Of dew, that sparkled on that turf-clad mound,
Was holy to her. Even the bitter grief
That made the parting hour so desolate,
Put on the role of humble faith, and said
""Tis well, my Lord,-well with the little one
Who dwells with thee."

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?
"Oh mother, weep no more!-but with a heart
Of holy love, hold on yon shining path,
And come to me. For He, who took on earth,
Young children to his arms, will bid in Heaven
The mother find her babe. So, keep thine eye
Clear from the grief-cloud-for the time is short-
The is plain. Dear mother, come to me."

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,
And Springs and Autumns, closing on
The season's change, have come and gone.
And countless days, in rapid flight,
Have waned away their morning light,
In that fair vale they call the bless'd!
Where smiling Nature loves to rest.
Where all her witching beauties reign,
In glory o'er the bright domain;
And where she leads on every stream,
The ripples dance in playful beam.
Where gushing streams of silver lave
The bending trees, whose tresses wave
In rich and fragrant verdure bright,
Of spreading leaves; which shade the light
Of midday suns: while sparkling rills
Leap o'er the thousand varied hills;
Whose diadems of verdant green,
Like distant trophies of the scene,
O'erlook the shining plains beneath,—
Of golden fruits and blooming heath.

It was a land where all was bright-
It seemed as nothing there could fade:
So full of promise and delight,

By Angels or by magic made.
The woods and vales, and rocks among,-
With richest jewelries were hung,
Of crystal gems of ev'ry hue,
All moulded from the ev'ning dew.
The flowers were of fairest bloom,

And every breeze that wafted by,
Was freighted with a sweet perfume,

As fragrant as from Araby.

A limpid lake, whose silent stream
Was quiet as an infant's dream,
Flow'd by, unruffled in its bed,
To other vales; but where it led
None ever knew: for those who tried
To track its course-came back no more,
To tell their tale: they may have died,
Or landed on some distant shore.

Who dwells within this Paradise?

Where are the spirits of the land,
Who warm beneath its summer skies?
What Queen or Beauty has command?

No sound of music wakens there-
Save from the carols in the air,
Of singing birds on gayest wing;
And none can see an earthly thing.

* 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,
If such they be, within this vale-
Of whom tradition has the tale.

For ages long, in faded time,
There liv'd within this sunny clime,
A fairer race, than ever earth,
'Tis said, since then has given birth.
In days whose ever-constant wing

Of pleasure, if they even changed;
But varied, new delights to bring,-
In joys they lightly, freely, ranged-
Without a care to mar with strife
One moment of their rosy life.

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,
And so resplendent in her ray,
It seem'd as if it still were day.

The air was still-no sound was heard,
Save from the hum of houri bird,
Returning late on restless wing,
From some feathery gathering.
And now and then the whirling by-
Of insect bee or the fire-fly.

When, on a high and greenwood steep,
Which overhung a ravine deep-
(So dark and drear, that gloomy dell,
It had the name of "Witches' Well.")
A female form! serenely bright,
Was seen beneath the pale moonlight;
In gesture wild, and stranger mood,
And sighing in the solitude.

Whate'er she be, of earth or air-
Her features are divinely fair.
Her hair looks made of golden strings,

With here and there an azure one;
And head-dress form'd of blue-birds' wings,
She seems some Seraph of the sun!

She sleeps she dreams-or seeming dreams:
What magic light about her streams?
It plays in circles 'round her brow,
And there, in fire, it settles now.

A voice, as from the "Witches' Well,"
In tones of not an earthly strain,
Then on her ear thus deeply fell;

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-
"Whose vision often in thy dream,
"In all its fancy-colored light,
"Has broke upon thy raptur'd sight.
"Some went up, by the silent lake,

"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,
"Still more of all this tale of wo;
"And, knowing all, still sigh to gain-
"The fount! thy wish will not be vain.
""Tis written-'In the cycle's wane
""The last of all the Sylphs shall gain
""The sacred wand, and break the spell-
""That binds the waters in the dell.'

"The monster BANCO keeps the spring;
"He walks around the magic ring,
"Where there within the waters wait
"To break from out their restless state.
"A savage wolf! his horrid yell,
"Wakes up the mountains of the dell.
"Bound by a spell, he cannot move,
"Nor from without the circle rove.
"Whilst thousands of thy better race,
"Have ceas'd to live within that space!
"Have been for him, his sole repast— ·
"The fairest were devour'd the last.

"And Banco! sleeps but once a year:
"His sleeping time is drawing near.
"And now he's famishing for food,
"For none have broke his solitude
"For three whole days,-and he longs for more
"Of his fav'rite Sylphs, and hungers sore.

"If thou wilt seek, now Sylph awake!
"And haste, and speed thee up the lake.
"A skiff, made of the light yew-tree!
"Is waiting there, to carry thee,
"With the speed of light, thro' elfin dells,
"To the fabled fount, where Banco dwells."

The Sylph awakes-the voice is gone.
Was it a fairy, elf, or sprite,

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—
Her beams are playing on each rill :
She's sleeping quiet on the lake,
And peeping thro' each wood and brake.

On the lake a shadow is seen

Skimming on as the heron flies;
And where a ruffle ne'er had been,
The curling waves now fast arise.

The shadow is the yew-tree skiff,
Bearing along the Sylph so fast-
While every highland rock and cliff,

Like lightning streaking by, is pass'd.

She passes by the dead-tree brake,
Where waning forms, thrown o'er the lake,
Appear, when shaken by the storm,
Like skeletons of human form.
She passes by the fern-sward heath-
High up the lake; and there, beneath
The maple trees, in silver sheen,
The elfs are dancing on the green.

And as she speeds, for miles along,
She faintly hears their notes of song:
"Come, dance around the green yew tree,
"And let the dance go merrily;
"The Sylphs are wasting from the lea,-
"And morning's dawn no Sylph will see!"

The bark has stopp'd-with lightsome leap,
The Sylph is on the highest steep;
And there, bewilder'd with amaze,
She pauses for awhile to gaze.

And Banco sleeps!-he little dreams-
How delicate a Sylph is near:
He's dreaming fast of other streams,

He'd rather watch, than famish here.

The Sylph has gain'd the inmost ring,
And there beholds the glist'ning spring,
"The stream of life," at joysome play-
And oozing in it's wonted way,
Beneath the clear transparent vase,
That holds it, at the mountain's base.

With eager joy, her willing hand,
Has seized the white and mystic wand,
And with a light and gentle stroke,
The spell that bound the waters broke.

There comes no stream so soft and bright,
Whose promise made the Sylphis delight.

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
Has freed his spell-and with one bound
Of desp'rate strength, he's cleared the steep;
While closing on-the waters sweep,
In ocean streams, o'er lake and vale:
When thro' the air is heard a wail-
A howling wail-and fearful cry-
While rolling thunders break the sky.

And Banco seeks the mountain's brow,
(The monster wolf is swimming now,)
He's failing fast-his strength is gone-
And by the tide is carried on.

The wolf has reach'd the summit hill-
He looks around: before his eyes-
Upon the waters, gaining still-

A thousand flitting spectres rise.
And there his troubled vision sees

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-
He crouches like a monk at pray'r;
And while the waters 'round him swell,
He sends on high his horrid yell.

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
Is ever seen around that spring,
Of mortals, length'ning out their dream
Of life's enchantment, at the stream-
(That stream of life, whose crystal flow,
Is brighter than the silver's glow.)
From every clime-from far and near-
They come to make their homage here.

Old Age, he comes—his gladden'd eye
Anew with lustre sparkles high;
And while he quaffs, his heart again
Goes back to youth-forgets his pain.

And Beauty comes, with face so bright!
She drinks, and smiles with new delight;
And cheeks that have grown brown with care,
The pearly stream makes wond'rous fair.

And oft a tear is there let fall—
For that fair Sylph! who perill'd all :
Who gave a life, made up of bliss-
To freshen OUR's-with joys like this.

And then again-remember'd still-
Where Banco sleeps is now "WOLF HILL."
And many a boy, by the mountain's side,
There tells the tale how the old wolf died.
White Sulphur Springs, August 10, 1839.

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

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