and eyes, The real object of this gentleman's passion was Mrs. Herd, wife of the private secretary to the ambassador from the Lower Palatinate; a lady of most exquisite beauty. On her the unhappy man's affections were wholly concentrated, and, torn by the conflicting emotions of love and honour, he gave himself up to despair. The scenes with his servant-his throwing himself on the bed undressed- and his having returned home one night near midnight without his hat, in total forgetfulness, are correctly described in the work. His hat was found on the brow of a steep hill, close to the ruins of the castle of Kalsmunt. He had often been heard to argue in favour of suicide, and it is believed that he had formed his resolution to destroy himself previously to his last interview with Mrs. Herd. In that interview he made an incoherent declaration of his passion, which she heard with astonishment and dismay, exclaiming with the dignity of offended virtue, "Jerusalem, this is going too far, we now see each other for the last time," and then, fixing one last intense look on his face, as if she meant to treasure up every feature for after recollection, she hastily with drew. He anxiously waited her return, but she came not; he followed to the door of her apartment, which was locked, and in a low tone, entreated permission to speak one last word with her; but receiving no answer, he bade her an everlasting farewell. Jerusalem immediately ordered his things to be packed up, his bills were paid, and horses bespoken, as for a journey. The note requesting the loan of the pistols is in the German original, a literal copy of that which Jerusalem sent to Kästner, who, by lending them, became remotely connected with the last scene of Werter's history; but Charlotte, who was not yet married to Kästner, had of course no more share in the delivery of the pistols, than she had in influencing, in any way, the fate of Werter. On the night of the catastrophe, Jerusalem sent his servant, who slept in a distant part of the house, early to rest, with directions to be ready to start at six the next morning. At that hour, on entering his master's chamber, he found him extended on the floor, weltering in his blood, close to the projecting window,. which stood open. It is believed that some dissensions with his principal the ambassador, contributed, not less than his unhappy passion, to drive him to the deed of desperation. His death took place early in October, 1772, and not at Christmas, as related in the novel. Mrs. Herd died in 1814, four years after her husband. The room in which Jerusalem shot himself is in the first story of a bookseller's house near the Franciscan church, the house in which Kästner, or Albert, lodged, is now occupied by the minister of the Reformed church. Jerusalem was interred by night, and without ceremony, in the public burial ground, but, notwithstanding the confidence with which the common conductors of strangers pretend to point it out, it is not perhaps easy to determine the exact spot where he lies. A funeral mound, erected to the memory of Werter in a public garden at Garbenheim, has sometimes been visited under the erroneous idea that it exhibited the real tomb, and in the campaign of 1813-14, many of the Russian officers and privates, under this belief, and in their respect for the dead, knelt there and said their prayers with deep devotion. The country surrounding Wetzlar is well calculated to heighten the interest of Werter's story. None can ascend the mountain on the opposite side of the valley to the burial ground, without recalling to mind the following lines :"When, in the fine evenings of summer, you walk towards the mountains, think of me; recollect how often you have seen me come up from the valley. Raise your eyes to the church-yard which contains my grave, and by the light of the departing sun, see how the evening breeze waves the high grass which grows over me." ANDREW HOFER. If In a corner of the church of the Holy the traveller does not see, between the crucifix and the image of the patron saint, some representation of him in the dress he wore when leading his countrymen to their country's battles. Since his military murder, in his native valleys, Andrew Hofer is revered by his countrymen as a saint and martyr. There is not, in all history, a more instructive episode, than the enterprises of Hofer and his companions ;-the perfidy and cruelty of Austria, the injustice of his execution by the French, the matchless energy and heroism of a band of peasants led on by one of themselves, abandoned by Austria, by their own nobles, for whom they were fighting, making head against the powerful armies of France and Bavaria,-all unite to give a deep interest to every thing which relates to the patriot. When Hofer was led out to execution, his imprisoned countrymen, through whom he passed, could not contain their indignation and cries for vengeance. "Silence, I pray you, my friends," he said, "in pity both to you and myself,—the time will come -I am about to die, but I tell you that the Tyrol dies not with me." There are not a few in the Tyrol who already look anxiously for the fulfilment of this prophecy. SINGULAR TONTINE. ABOUT thirty years ago there existed at Birmingham a singular society called the Portrait Club, consisting of a few patrons of the fine arts in that town. Their meetings were held at the tavern belonging to a person known at that time as the Poet Freeth, and the designation of the club originated in the following circumstance. Twelve of its members agreed to have their portraits taken in one group, after the manner of Hogarth's celebrated picture of the Modern Midnight Conversation. Their likenesses were accordingly introduced in a picture by an excellent artist, a young Prussian of the name of Eckstein, and hung up in the tavern above mentioned, there to remain till claimed by the last survivor. The painting cost about fifty guineas, and was highly esteemed, both on account of the excellent likenesses and the wellknown eccentricities of many of the members. Their ages were on an average about fifty, and it was painted about thirty-eight years ago. In the year 1829, only two of the party were surviving, one of whom would, in all human probability, very soon claim the painting, THE character of King John, who is generally represented by historians to have been weak, ignorant, selfish, and tyrannical, has had but scanty justice done it; and those, perhaps, who have formed their opinions of that monarch from common report, will be surprised to find him writing to the abbot of Reading, to acknowledge the receipt of "six volumes of books, containing the whole of the Old Testament, Master Hugh de St. Victor's treatise on the Sacrament, the Sentences of Peter Lombard, the Epistles of St. Augustine on the City of God, and on the third part of the Psalter, Valerian de Moribus, Origen's treatise on the Old Testament, and Candidus Arianus to Marius." Still less does it consist with such notions that he should address Bryan de Insula thus, "know that we are quite willing that our chief barons, concerning whom you wrote to us, may hunt while passing through your bailiwick, provided that you know who they are, and what they take, for we do not keep our forests for our own use, but for the use also of our faithful subjects." Records of the Tower. LONDON: Published by Effingham Wilson, Junior, 16, King William Street, London Bridge, Where communications for the Editor (post paid) will be received. [Printed by Manning and Smith: on, Ivy Lane.] OF FICTION, POETRY, HISTORY, AND GENERAL LITERATURE, THE BRIGAND. A TALE OF ITALY. (For the Parterre.) Dear days of boyhood, how the heart loves to recur to thee, to those bright visions of bliss that fed our young minds, ere by their common-place reality the after-scenes of the world banished their fairy scenery, or diminished their splendour! how sweet and many are the joys of that time, and how few the sorrows! joy that casts "on dazzling spots remote, its tempting smile," who does not wish to indulge in that poesy of spirit, in which the young heart loves to revel, ere the after-passion drowns the sweet melody. Such was the current in which ran the thoughts of Auguste, as in all the clearness of an Italian sky, the radiant moon cast a silvery light o'er the richly chiselled armorial bearings which decorated the halls of his ancestors, with the sharp angles of the heraldry dis tinguishing his house clearly defined against the sky in the background. The castle was built in the richest style of the Corinthian order, strongly defended in case of an attack, by a deep ditch and drawbridge, with towers at the angles; its inner front was adorned by a lofty portico, on the pedestals and entablatures of the columns of which the powers of sculpture were excellently displayed. Above, the numerous battlements and frowning towers cast their broad shadows far behind, where the rays of the "Spirit of Night" sat in trembling restlessness on the waters. Standing on the south-west end of the beach, it commanded a picturesque and extensive prospect of the most beautiful bay in the known world; as the thickly strewed houses of the town with their white walls, presented themselves to your view, rising from the brink of the sea, they seemed as if a flock of watery birds had merged from the waves, with their wings shining with spray, and hasening to bask on the undulating hills, which far as the eye could pierce, spread their vine-clad bosom to the refreshing sea breeze. 106 As the Marquis had been expected, the blaze of light which cast its lurid rays o'er " many a rood," betokened that his arrival was hailed with pleasure: by his retainers: the drawbridge was lowered, and the keys of his castle presented to him on a silver dish, by the veteran major-domo; mirth and gladness beamed on the countenance of all, and the liberal dole ordered to be distributed to each, did not at least damp their spirits. On being ushered into the banquetting hall, he found refreshments prepared, and having done honour to the cheer, retired to enjoy a sound sleep, where we leave him for the present; but My tale I'll follow to its last recess, Of suffering and peace. Torn from the abode of her father, and deprived of the presence, or the means of procuring the presence of her betrothed, the situation of the lovely Angelica was far from enviable. Her guardian was one of the most rapacious members of the Venetian, senate, who at once saw the propriety of taking the heiress to the great wealth and broad domains of Villadomonti under his own surveillance, hoping thereby to accomplish a marriage, between her and his son. One motive, had he needed an incitive, also urged him to bring it about; it was to blight the hopes of the young Marquis di Romaine, to whose late father he bore no small share of hostility. Prompted by these motives, he allowed no means untried to further his project: her ears were filled with the praises of the young man, every tidings of Auguste were carefully denied her, his absence was accounted carelessness; in fine, wherever she sat, walked, moved,―the son, or his minions were before her. Now this youth was not exactly the description of husband every guardian would have chosen for his ward, unless indeed, as in the present instance, he happened to be his own son; for Messer Carlo Docheri was a professed roué; a first rate masker and stiletto man, and moreover the greatest gambler in the territories of San Marco, was familiarly acquainted with all the bravos, and knew the intricate passages of the hills, far better than the galleries in the church of San Isadora; he therefore offered little obstacle to the scheme, when his father told him of unknown wealth, the result of the frugal disposition of her deceased parent; and recounted with the exultation of actual enjoyment, the various rich estates, the productive vineyards and spacious dwellings he would possess. The perfect willingness of the young ma to his father's proposal, was so pleasing to the senior, that he gave an order to draw on his banker, which was so scrupulously obeyed, that at the end of a month the property of Signor Docheri was more than half mortgaged. And such was the substitute to have been for the beloved of her heart-her first, her only love-he who was to pour the balm of happiness on the festering wounds which the loss of a fond parent had occasioned. Oh! the change was great indeed; and loud and long was her grief, when she reflected on the utter hopelessness of her situation, and the bright visions of her day-dreams, as she used to picture to herself the love and affection with which she would tell her woes; Fall upon his neck and weep; His hand in her's, while gentle sleep at The One evening, after he had seen most effect, he walked forth alone, to meditate of his desired arrangements carried into on what lay nearest to his heart. sun had set in golden splendour; even yet, as if loth to leave the sight of the green earth, the fiery tinge of his latest beam shone with a lovely softness on the topmost peaks of the blue and distant hills; the air was balmy, and the breezy zephyrs sportively waved the boughs of Surely the trees in the shady groves. there is magic in that twilight hour, something so peculiarly soothing to a troubled mind, calming the grief, and drawing the dark train of anxious thought into a calmer channel, elevating the soul so that nought --earthly can alloy Its sacred purity. Yet the beauties of earth, or the starry sky, were lost on the lone beholder of the entrancing spectacle; he felt a "craving void left aching in his breast," as he thought of his isolated condition; truly he experienced the most painful severity, the separation from her he loved, a bursting of the strongest link which binds the human race, one which is stronger than the ties of nature, and of kindred, and to be ignorant whether she was in health, or -and the maddening idea caused him to start-could she have forgotten him? On his return from his walk, he was accosted by a strange man, whose weary steed and way-worn appearance bespoke him one who had travelled fast and far. Approaching Auguste with more speed than the crippled gait of his steed promised, he thrust a small packet into his hand with joy the writing of Angelica was recognised, but it was short-livedthe contents were as thus: :: "You once loved, and are still beloved. She to whom you uttered the vows of affection has lost a father, fortune, and it would seem one who should have been a friend; if this is as useless an appeal as the others made to the Marquis di Romaine, well may the unfortunate Angelica Villadomonti resign her once prized hand to Carlo Docheri." "Gracious heaven!' cried Auguste distractedly, "I fly to save her, if it yet be time: she blames me, too.. That vil lain Docheri intercepted her letters, and I here like an idiot-why did I not go myself to Venice ? Such were the half-muttered sentences of the now wretched Auguste: then, turning to his pitying domestics, he ordered half a dozen of them to arm themselves, and attend him with horses, "to tear his lamb from the ravenous wolf Docheri." 'Signor," said the major-domo, who concluded, and not without some shew of reason, that his master's intellect had been somewhat disturbed by the letter, "surely you would not expose your own valuable life, and those of the men, to the danger of an attack of the banditti who are known to infest the hills-wait but for the morning's light, and make up in speed what they will lose by delay." "Dotard," hastily exclaimed Auguste, "think you that I value my life, when it is risked to save the happiness of the worthiest of her sex: no, old man, had I the gift of ten lives, I would peril each for her's; but I influence none-let such as wish to strike a blow in favour of one intended for their mistress, mount and follow." His words were magic-all seemed vying in impatience to be ready for the road; and the rising moon cast her straggling beams on the Marquis and eight well-appointed attendants, rapidly journeying on their road. They had now travelled several hours without interuption. The road for the most part lay over vast marshes, from which salt is abstracted; and from the great speed with which they, in their impatience, traversed the level space, the horses required some relaxation. A turn of the road brought them into a narrow dell, wooded, to the brink of a rivulet running through its centre. Here the horses stooped to drink water, when, ere he had time to call for aid, a strong hand was clasped so tight on each arm, as to pinion them to his sides; and Auguste was sensible of the presence of his captor: seated on the crupper of the saddle behind, he attempted so cry out, but the command "silence," powerfully aided by the pressure of cold steel across his neck, made him obey the mandate. The horse was spurred up the course of the stream, and after some time, with a noise as of the splashing of a dozen steeds in the rearat least, it so appeared to Auguste, who could but look straight before him, for the narrow glen only afforded a view of a few feet on either side; after stumbling over the loose stones of what was intended for a landing place, though so closely covered with cork and brushwood as to be only available to those who were aware of its existence, the horse brought our hero, and companion, to a sort of dwelling, evidently a retreat of the very personages to whom they were indebted for their introduction. On his arrival at the hut, Auguste no sooner felt himself released from the iron grasp of his compagnon de voyage, than he turned to look for some tidings of his men; and what was his astonishment and dismay, at perceiving that each had fallen into the same predicament as himself, and sat helpless on their horses, with the ferocious features of their brigand captors (who sat steady behind, with a drawn sword in the hand of each) lit up with a sarcastic smile of exultation; his eyes, at last, rested on the man who stood awaiting the effect of the scene, with his hand playing with the bit of Auguste's bridle. "How now, sirrah," said the impatient Marquis, "what means this?" "Just what your own mind tells you, Signor," calmly replied the brigand. "Then we are to be held to ransom." "Even so." "Name your terms, villain," cried the impetuous Auguste, who was in agony at the unforeseen delay likely to be put to his attempt for Angelica's rescue. "Softly, Eccellenza-softly," replied the other, still suffering his hand to re |