In this way she was seated between them one Sunday afternoon; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown open, and the soft air that stole in, brought with it the fragrance of the clustering honey-suckle which her own hands had trained round the window.

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible: it spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and of the joys of heaven: it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant village church; the bell had tolled for the evening service; the last villager was lagging into the porch; and everything had sunk into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were gazing on her with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass so roughly over some faces, had given hers the expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue eye. Was she thinking of her faithless lover?-or were her thoughts wandering to that distant church-yard, into whose bosom she might soon be gathered?

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard-a horseman gallopped to the cottage-he dismounted before the window-the poor girl gave a faint exclamation, and sunk back in her chair; it was her repentant lover! He rushed into the house, and flew to clasp her to his bosom; but her wasted form-her death-like countenance-so wan, yet so lovely in its desolation-smote him to the soul, and he threw himself in an agony at her feet. She was too faint to rise-she attempted

to extend her trembling hand-her lips moved as if she spoke, but no word was articulated— she looked down upon him with a smile of unutterable tenderness,-and closed her eyes for ever!

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little novelty to recommend them. In the present rage also for strange incident and high-seasoned narrative, they may appear trite and insignificant, but they interested me strongly at the time; and, taken in connexion with the affecting ceremony which I just witnessed, left a deeper impression on my mind than many circumstances of a more striking nature. I have passed through the place since, and visited the church again, from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a wintry evening; the trees were stripped of their foliage; the church-yard looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, had been planted about the grave of the village favourite, and osiers were bent over it to keep the turf uninjured.

The church door was open, and I stepped in. There hung the chaplet of flowers and the gloves as on the day of the funeral: the flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed to have been taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. I have seen many monuments, where art has exhausted its powers to awaken the sympathy of the spectator; but I have met with none that spoke more touchingly to my heart, than this

simple but delicate memento of departed inno

cence.

SKETCH BOOK.

PERSEVERANCE.

LIKE as a mighty grampus, who, though assailed and buffeted by roaring waves and brawling surges, still keeps on an undeviating course! and though overwhelmed by boisterous billows, still emerges from the troubled deep, spouting and blowing with tenfold violence-so did the inflexible Peter pursue, unwavering, his determined career, and rise contemptuous above the clamours of the rabble.

KNICKERBOCKER.

A DOLEFUL DISASTER OF ANTHONY

THE TRUMPETER.

RESOLUTELY bent, however, upon defending his beloved city, in despite even of itself, he called unto him his trusty Van Corlear, who was his right-hand man in all times of emergency. Him did he adjure to take his war-denouncing trumpet, and mounting his horse, to beat up the country, night and day-sounding the alarm along the pastoral borders of the Bronx-startling the wild solitude of Croton-arousing the rugged yeomanry of Weehawk and Hoboeken-the mighty men of battle of Tappan Bay ;*-and the brave boys

* A corruption of Top-paun; so called from a tribe of

of Tarry town and Sleepy hollow- together with all the other warriors of the country round about charging them one and all, to sling their powder horns, shoulder their fowling-pieces, and march merrily down to the Manhattoes.

Now there was nothing in all the world, the divine sex excepted, that Anthony Van Corlear loved better than errands of this kind. So, just stopping to take a lusty dinner, and bracing to his side his junk-bottle, well charged with heartinspiring Hollands, he issued jollily from the city gate, and looked out upon what is at present called Broad-way, sounding as usual a farewell strain, that rung im sprightly echoes through the winding streets of New-Amsterdam-Alas! never more were they to be gladdened by the melody of their favourite trumpeter!

It was a dark and stormy night when the good Anthony arrived at the famous creek (sagely denominated Haerlem river) which separates the island of Mannahatta from the main land. The wind was high, the elements were in an uproar, and no Charon could be found to ferry the adventurous sounder of brass across the water. For a short time he vapoured like an impatient ghost upon the brink, and then bethinking himself of the urgency of his errand, took a hearty embrace of his stone bottle, swore most valorously that he would swim across, en spijt den duyvel (in spite of the devil!) and daringly plunged into the stream.

Indians which boasted of 150 fighting men.
History.

See Ogilvie's

Luckless Anthony! scarce had he buffeted halfway over, when he was observed to struggle violently, as if battling with the spirit of the waters-instinctively he put his trumpet to his mouth, and, giving a vehement blast, sunk for ever to the bottom!

The potent clangour of his trumpet, like the ivory horn of the renowned Paladin Orlando, when expiring in the glorious field of Roncesvalles, rung far and wide through the country, alarming the neighbours around, who hurried in amazement to the spot. Here an old Dutch burgher, famed for his veracity, and who had been a witness of the fact, related to them the melancholy affair; with the fearful addition (to which I am slow of giving belief), that the saw the duyvel, in the shape of a huge moss-bonker, seize the sturdy Anthony by the leg, and drag him beneath the waves. Certain it is, the place, with the adjoining promontory, which projects into the Hudson, has been called the Spijt den duyvel, or Spikingduyvel ever since, -the restless ghost of the unfortunate Anthony still haunts the surrounding solitudes, and his trumpet has often been heard by the neighbours, of a stormy night, mingled with the howling of the blast. Nobody ever attempts to swim over the creek after dark; on the contrary, a bridge has been built to guard against such melancholy accidents in future-and as to moss-bonkers, they are held in such abhorrence that no true Dutchman will admit them to his table, who loves good fish, and hates the devil.

Such was the end of Anthony Van Corlear-a