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him, who even when reviled, reviled not again; to obey | 'Newton,' 'Bacon,' 'Pope,' or 'Johnson' is mentioned, the dictates of that religion which forbids to "speak evil of dignities," they come with a very bad grace.

"Sir Frederick Adams, Governor of Madras, is not only a weak and most consummate Jack in office, but a real follower and imitator of Jeroboam, who made Israel to sin, for he orders the British Soldiers to present arms in honor of the Hindoo Idols at their festivals, and hypocritically orders money to be distributed among the Brahmins, that they should pray to their Idols for rain. "There is not a more ungodly Governor on the face of the earth, and one more unfit for his situation than Sir Frederick Adams. His whole political science and skill, consists in proving to the Hindoos that he is afraid of them, and therefore would be ready, in order that they may do him no harm, to countenance idolatry, and even make idolators of the English themselves. Sir Frederick Adams has all the wicked dispositions of Jeroboam, who made Israel to sin, without having the talents of Jeroboam! for Sir Frederick Adams never could have made himself King! not only not in Israel, but even not in Liliput." p. 297.

In conclusion, let us inquire what good appears to

everybody understands a personage to be meant, who has attained that well known badge of celebrity, 'the honor of the surname;' and not some obscure villager, or cloistered student. So, by the name 'Arnold,' no American, and hardly any Englishman, could understand any other than Benedict Arnold, of the Revolu tion; unless some explanation either accompanied the mention of the name, or chanced to be already in the hearer's or reader's mind, through an accident like that which enables the intelligent Norfolk editor to correct our error. A reviewer, 'tis true, is bound (and often assumes) to be omniscient: but it is a qualified omniscience. There are objects too small to be embraced by it; as some things are too minute to be reached or regarded by the omnipotence of the law. Among the minima, thus below the dignity of knowledge, may safely be numbered the names of the schoolfellows of one, whom we are striving, with doubtful success, to elevate to the rank of a fourth rate poet: himself not yet canonized by death; his life not yet written; nor his W.'s book contains not the slightest note or token, to name enrolled among the classics of his language. Mr. inform us who was meant by his 'lines.' There they stand, headed 'THE BURIAL OF ARNOLD:' and every thing they say, seems to point at a hero of no ordinary

dimensions. As we before intimated, their strain of praise falls not much below the merits of him, who is everywhere the 'FIRST. Could any mortal, without some special illumination, dream that they alluded' only to a student who died in college, and was a young fellow of fine appearance?"

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have resulted from Mr. Wolff's extensive travels and "labors." We cannot find words to express our admiration of the noble self-devotion of the true Missionary spirit; but we fear that his exertions, though prompted by a sincere piety, have been sadly misdirected. Is it probable that, in his rambling excursions among Jews and Gentiles, any lasting impression has been made upon those who have heard from his lips the glad tidings of the Gospel? Is it probable that his written "proclamations" to the wild Turkomauns and other tribes, exhorting them to renounce their habits of violence and rapine, and embrace the Christian faith, have wrought any reformation? Has he made the way more easy for the Missionaries, who may follow in his track? Perhaps we, or, perhaps, his printed journals do him handling such a theme. Youthful poets are at least as injustice; but we cannot discover, that he has accom-kind exaggerations. But we mean to show that Mr. pardonable as newspaper obituary writers, for such plished any thing, at all commensurate with the object Willis alone is to blame for the mistake into which we, proposed. From a man who has gained credit for so much learn- and ninety nine hundredths of his readers (if he have ing; who is acquainted with so many of the Eastern as many as he deserves) have fallen and will fall, with languages; who has travelled so extensively, and pene-appended an explanatory note, or to have made the respect to the piece in question. He ought to have trated so far beyond others into barbarous and unknown lands, both the church and the world might reasonably have expected much more than they have realized.

WILLIS'S LINES ON

'THE BURIAL OF ARNOLD.'

We do not mean a tirade on the extravagancy, of so

title itself speak more truly. He cannot have intended a quiz, upon such a subject.*

To justify all we have now said, and to prove the naturalness of our mistake, we copy the piece. As a poetical effusion, (its extravagance being forgiven) it has more than ordinary merit.

THE BURIAL OF ARNOLD.
Ye've gathered to your place of prayer
With slow and measured tread:
Your ranks are full, your mates all there-
But the soul of one has fled.

He was the proudest in his strength,
The manliest of ye all;
Why lies he at that fearful length,

And ye around his pall?

Some readers may remember, that in our last No. (amidst much praise bestowed upon the author,) we censured these 'lines' very sharply; supposing them to be a most unmerited, nay, almost impious panegyric, upon General Arnold, the traitor. We learn, from a Norfolk paper (the editor of which was a college classmate of both the poet and his subject), that they allude not to the traitor, at all; but 'to a classmate of Willis, who died in college, and was a young fellow of fine appear-petual remembrance, for every subordinate fact it contained.

ance.'

We are naturally somewhat provoked, at having been thus duped into the useless expenditure of so much good thunder. It is purely the fault of Mr. Willis himself. When 'Borgia,' 'Cicero,' 'Cæsar,'

Since the above paragraphs were in type, we have seen it mentioned, that in a former edition, Mr. W. did explain whom of that edition, to suppose that it had won notoriety, and per his lines' meant. It was reckoning too largely upon the effect

One object of succeeding editions is, to supply chasms, not to
make them. The fact now spoken of, the more needed continual
mention, as the little notoriety it once had, would of course
Arnold' the student, sink constantly farther and farther out of
lessen with every year; and the humble but unspotted name of
sight, behind the bad eminence' which History will forever
not the explanation still retained?
ensure to the name of "Arnold" the traitor. Then why was

Ye reckon it in days, since he

Strode up that foot-worn aisle,
With his dark eye flashing gloriously,
And his lip wreathed with a smile.
O, had it been but told you, then,
To mark whose lamp was dim,
From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men,
Would ye have singled him?

Whose was the sinewy arm, that flung
Defiance to the ring?
Whose laugh of victory loudest rung-
Yet not for glorying?

Whose heart, in generous deed and thought,
No rivalry might brook,

And yet distinction claiming not?
There lies he-go and look!
On now-his requiem is done,
The last deep prayer is said-
On to his burial, comrades-on,
With the noblest of the dead!
Slow-for it presses heavily-
It is a man ye bear!

Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily
On the noble sleeper there.

Tread lightly, comrades!-we have laid
His dark locks on his brow-
Like life-save deeper light and shade:
We'll not disturb them now.
Tread lightly-for 'tis beautiful,
That blue-veined eye-lid's sleep,
Hiding the eye death left so dull-
Its slumber we will keep.

Rest now!-his journeying is done-
Your feet are on his sod-
Death's chain is on your champion-
He waiteth here his God.
Ay-turn and weep-'tis manliness
To be heart-broken here--

For the grave of earth's best nobleness
Is watered by the tear.

We have heretofore spoken of several scripture incidents, which Mr. Willis has made the subjects of his best verse: and we entertained (perhaps intimated) a design, to copy one or more of them at a subsequent time. The present is as suitable an occasion as any, for following out this design. We therefore now select what may be deemed the happiest of those pieces.

THE LEPER.

By N. P. Willis.

"Room for the leper! Room!" And, as he came,
The cry passed on—“Room for the leper! Room!"
Sunrise was slanting on the city gates
Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills
The early risen poor were coming in
Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up

Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum
Of moving wheels and multitudes astir,
And all that in a city murmur swells,
Unheard but by the watcher's weary ear,
Aching with night's dull silence, or the sick
Hailing the welcome light, and sounds that chase
The death-like images of the dark away.
"Room for the leper!" And aside they stood→→
Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood-all
Who met him on his way--and let him pass.
And onward through the open gate he came,
A leper with the ashes on his brow,
Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip
A covering, stepping painfully and slow,
And with a difficult utterance, like one

Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down, Crying "Unclean! Unclean!"

'Twas now the first

Of the Judean Autumn, and the leaves
Whose shadows lay so still upon his path,
Had put their beauty forth beneath the eye
Of Judah's loftiest noble. He was young,
And eminently beautiful, and life
Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip,
And sparkled in his glance, and in his mien
There was a gracious pride that every eye
Followed with benisons-and this was he!
With the soft airs of Summer there had come
A torpor on his frame, which not the speed
Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast
Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs
The spirit to its bent, might drive away.
The blood beat not as wont within his veins;
Dimness crept o'er his eye; a drowsy sloth
Fetter'd his limbs like palsy, and his mien
With all its loftiness, seemed struck with eld.
Even his voice was changed-a languid moan
Taking the place of the clear, silver key;
And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light,
And very air, were steeped in sluggishness.
He strove with it awhile, as manhood will,
Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein
Slackened within his grasp, and in its poise
The arrowy jereed like an aspen shook.
Day after day, he lay, as if in sleep.

His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales
Circled with livid purple, covered him.

And then his nails grew black, and fell away From the dull flesh about them, and the hues Deepened beneath the hard unmoistened scales, And from their edges grew the rank white hair, -And Helon was a leper!

Day was breaking
When at the altar of the temple stood
The holy priest of God. The incense lamp
Burned with a struggling light, and a low chaunt
Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof
Like an articulate wail, and there, alone,
Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt.
The echoes of the melancholy strain
Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up,
Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head
His costly raiment for the leper's garb,
Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off
And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip
Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still
Waiting to hear his doom :--

Depart! depart, O child
Of Israel, from the temple of thy God!
For He has smote thee with his chastening rod,
And to the desert-wild,

From all thou lov'st away thy feet must flee,
That from thy plague His people may be free.

Depart! and come not near

The busy mart, the crowded city, more;
Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er;
And stay thou not to hear
Voices that call thee in the way; and fly
From all who in the wilderness pass by.

Wet not thy burning lip

In streams that to a human dwelling glide;
Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide
Nor kneel thee down to dip
The water where the pilgrim bends to drink,
By desert well or river's grassy brink.
And pass thou not between
The weary traveller and the cooling breeze;
And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees
Where human tracks are seen;

Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain,
Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain.

And now depart! and when

Thine heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim,
Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him

Who, from the tribes of men,
Selected thee to feel his chastening rod.
Depart! O leper! and forget not God!

And he went forth-alone! not one of all
The many whom he loved, nor she whose name
Was woven in the fibres of the heart
Breaking within him now, to come and speak
Comfort unto him. Yea-he went his way,
Sick, and heart-broken, and alone--to die!
For God had cursed the leper!

It was noon,
And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow,
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched
The loathsome water to his fevered lips,
Praying that he might be so blest-to die!
Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee,
He drew the covering closer on his lip,
Crying "Unclean! unclean!" and in the folds
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face,
He fell upon the earth till they should pass.
Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er
The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name.
"Helon!"--the voice was like the master-tone
Of a rich instrument-most strangely sweet;
And the dull pulses of disease awoke,
And for a moment beat beneath the hot
And leprous scales with a restoring thrill.
"Helon! arise!" and he forgot his curse,
And rose and stood before him.

Love and awe
Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye
As he beheld the stranger. He was not
In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow
The symbol of a princely lineage wore;
No followers at his back, nor in his hand
Buckler, or sword, or spear--yet in his mien
Command sat throned serene, and if he smiled,
A kingly condescension graced his lips,
The lion would have crouched to, in his lair.
His garb was simple, and his sandals worn;
His stature modelled with a perfect grace;
His countenance the impress of a God
Touched with the open innocence of a child;
His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky
In the serenest noon; his hair unshorn
Fell to his shoulders; and his curling beard
The fulness of perfected manhood bore.
He looked on Helon earnestly awhile,

As if his heart was moved, and, stooping down,
He took a little water in his hand

And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!"
And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins,
And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow
The dewy softness of an infant's stole.
His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down
Prostrate at Jesus' feet and worshipped him.

LORD BYRON,

A BORROWER, OR A PLAGIARIST?

It is scarcely credible that Lord Bryon had not read CORINNE, when he wrote his IV. Canto of Childe Har. old; or that, in penning his magnificent stanzas to the Ocean, he did not have in view the following passage. If he has not copied Madame De Staël as closely as

Virgil does Homer, or Thomson, Virgil,-she certainly furnished the germ, which he has so nobly expanded. Our reading does not enable us to say, whether his Lordship has ever acknowledged his obligation to her, or not: nor whether the similarity of thoughts has been remarked by any other person. That it should not have been, however, is hardly possible. But no one, surely, can blame an appropriation, which has given to the English language one of its most sublime flights of poetry.

'Cette superbe mer, sur laquelle l'homme jamais ne peut im. primer sa trace. La terre est travaillée par lui, les montagnes sont coupées par ses routes, les rivières se resserrent en canaux, pour porter ses marchandises; mais si les vaisseaux sillonnent un moment les ondes, la vague vient effacer assuitot cette légère marque de servitude, et la mer reparaît telle qu'elle fut au premier jour de la création.'-Corinne, chap. 4.

-'that proud sea, on which man can never leave a trace of himself. The earth he belabors-his roads cleave mountainsrivers are narrowed into canals, to bear his merchandise ;-but if his ships furrow the waves for a moment, a billow instantly obliterates that slight mark of servitude, and the Ocean appears again as it was on the first day of Creation.'

MISS HAYLEY.

"This is a sight for pity to peruse."

Cowper.

This young lady was by nature lovely-and had received all the advantages of an accomplished education. Her early life was passed for the most part at home, in her native village, under the roof of a widowed mother. At the age of seventeen, by the invitation of a cousin, she came to spend the winter in the city of New York. At the house of her cousin she frequently met a young man, in whose favor she was soon much prepossessed.

He was indeed at that time already engaged to her cousin-but of this Miss Hayley was entirely ignorant. The betrothed charmed with Miss H.'s beauty and wit, notwithstanding his engagement to her cousin, seemed to pay her very marked attentions: yet perhaps charity will not charge upon the betrothed a deliberate infidelity to his engagement on the one hand, or purpose of deceiving Miss H. on the other. Allowance must be made for the frailty of human nature. In a world where so many complex motives actuate, we ought not to be in haste to denounce what we can never fully comprehend. Perhaps the strong irresistible magnetism of female beauty, may sometimes weaken the ties of the firmest preconceived attachments, and shake from their centre the well founded purposes of life-for love, like the swollen tide of a spring freshet, sweeps every thing before it, and in one short day wastes the labor of

years.

The civility of the betrothed soon arose to fondness-a fondness, alas! too nearly allied to devotion! In this there is no doubt much to reprehend, and perhaps something to pity and forgive. However this may be, when Miss Hayley came to leave the city, he had, whether he was aware of it or not, or whether he intended it or not, completely won the affections of this young lady.

To confirm the attachment indissolubly, it was now only necessary for him to accompany her home. This he did-and after a few days, during which he was ever at her side, he returned to New York, leaving her perfectly enamored of him.

After the lapse of some weeks, he not revisiting her, as she fondly and certainly expected, she grew uneasy; yet why should she doubt his good faith whom she

loved, and by whom she credulously believed she was as truly loved in turn? Her fears, she was at times almost ashamed of, yet she could not altogether subdue. Time glided on; Miss Hayley grew daily more and more pensive, and her lover still not coming, the roses on her cheek began to turn pale. Month after month rolled away, until it was now a year since she had seen or even heard from the object of her affections.

At length, she was again invited by her cousin in New York to visit her. She went, and found her kinswoman as affectionate as ever. It was not long before she made her the confidant of her love, and opened to her her whole heart. She recounted to her all the series of hopes, and fears, and doubts, that now had agitated her for more than a year. While she was speaking, the tone of her voice and the expression of her eye were tender, touching and subdued, and many were the tears that she shed. She had not yet ended her story, when her cousin too burst into tears-only able to exclaim, 'He is engaged to me!'

The words rang in the ear of Miss Hayley like the notes of a deathbell. In a moment she snatched up her bonnet, and rushing from the house, ran through the streets frantic, until she found her way to the house of a relative who lived in an adjacent square.

There every means was used to soothe the anguish of a wounded spirit. She at length was prevailed upon to go back to the house of her cousin; but on her arrival there, she refused to speak to her, or to the betrothed. It was not long before Miss Hayley went back to her home, as a wounded fawn returns to her lair, but leaves not the fatal arrow in its flight. "Hæret lateri lethalis arundo." Shortly after, to the inexpressible grief of her friends, this unfortunate young lady began to exhibit the symptoms of mental derangement.

These symptoms were not at first such as absolutely to demand her removal from home.

Indeed the friends of one so unhappily affected are slow to admit the necessity of committing what is so dear to them to the care of a public establishment. The means of cure, if means of cure there be, are sometimes deferred until, alas! the malady strikes its roots so deep as to be ineradicable.

At length, the retirement of home and assiduities of friends bringing no alleviation, Miss Hayley was invited by a former teacher, the head of a celebrated female school, to stay with her. Here she was persuaded to occupy herself in giving lessons in music and paintingin both of which she was a proficient.

In this situation she passed three years. Her demeanor was flighty and disturbed, but she mingled somewhat in company. More than one young man was here captivated by her charms, but whenever the string of her affections was touched, with an hysterical laugh, she would rush from the room-fly to her chamber-throw herself on the bed and weep for hours; yet as soon as the storm of grief was over, in a moment she would appear gay as a bird, and perhaps join the girls in a walk or a dance. Sometimes when alone, she would be overheard exclaiming, "I see his noble brow-that eye-that mouth-that dark hair," or repeating some expression of her lover, or reciting some favorite verses of poetry.

She prized more than all her wardrobe, a blue and white checked gingham dress-a present from the betrothed; she would wash and iron it herself-no one else was permitted to touch it; she called it the true blue, and often wore it. She was also fond of singing the "Bonnets of Blue," and declared that she could never bear to be addressed by any one beside him she loved.

Miss Hayley was of a romantic turn, fond of looking at the moon, and of composing verses.

On Saturday afternoon she would walk out to a favorite rock, near a murmuring brook, and with a pencil write verses, but she would never consent to show them to her companions. I was told by one of these, her associates, from whom indeed I received the greater part of the information contained in this story, that

Miss Hayley would sometimes burst into tears in the midst of a music lesson, and that she sung one of her favorite airs in a style so touching as to draw tears from those around her.

"She never blamed him-never!

But received him when he came,
With a welcome kind as ever,
And she tried to look the same.

But vainly she dissembled ;
For whene'er she tried to smile,
A tear unbidden trembled

In her dark eye the while.
She sighed when he caressed her,

For she knew that they must part--
She smiled not when he pressed her
To his young and panting heart.
But yet she never blamed him
For the anguish she had borne,
And though she seldom named him,

She thought on him alone."

At length Miss Hayley was removed to one of those institutions founded for the benefit of the alienated in mind. She soon became attached to her new abode, which she infinitely preferred to her own home. She had the prettiest room in the hospital, and in it a pianoforte.

Her naturally fine mind, though fatally unhinged, was as active as ever, and on some subjects as rational; like a wrecked ship at sea, at the mercy of every wind that blows.

Miss Hayley was an exquisite painter, and often occupied herself with her pencil. Whenever her nerves would allow, she would read. She took a fancy to some rabbits in the hospital garden, and might often be seen pulling grass to feed them.

The physician of the establishment showed her parental kindness. Indeed he was the soul of kindness and generosity. Never was man more exactly fitted for the office he held. Mild, yet firm-ardent, yet cautious--full of professional enthusiasm, he was in his element among the wrecks of mind which he lived to repair. Miss Hayley loved him as a father. Sometimes, it is true, in moments of excitation, she addressed him in bitter, passionate, vindictive language; but she always soon relented, and with tears sought his forgiveness. She was reserved to strangers-affable to her friends, but rather inconstant in her regard.

At length, the hallucination of this young lady underwent a change, and she took up a most extravagant attachment to an idiot boy from the Three Rivers, Canada. This poor youth had been a promising lad at school, but from venturing into the water when his body was too much heated, he had suffered a paralysis, and was now sunk in absolute idiocy, and would stand for hours with his face to the hospital wall, uttering only the unmeaning mutter of insensible fatuity. Some metaphysician, they say, once essayed to prove that nothing exists really, but only in idea. What is a para dox in reference to the sane, is a truth in reference to the insane. To them nothing is real, everything is ideal.

Accordingly, in her disordered fancy, perhaps Miss Hayley confounded the Canadian with her former lover,. and then invested him with a thousand imaginary charms. Before this, she had often begged her physi cian to adopt her as his daughter; but that, and even her continuance under his care, was cut off by the new and unfortunate turn that her malady had taken. She was removed home, where the arguments and entreaties of her friends only confirmed her hallucinations, and she became incensed against her nearest relatives.

She was at times so nervous that she could read only one verse in the Bible at a time. Her face was uncommonly fine and intellectual-her dark eye could beam with melting beauty, or sparkle like the glance of a meteor in the sky. One could not behold her without pity and admiration. Her attachment to the idiot boy resembled that of Shakspeare's Titania, enamored of an ass's head.

Alas! was ever so sweet a flower blasted by the fortable corner, beside a fine fire in the old library storms of life!

"Woe is me

For what I have seen and what I now see."

The following lines allusive to this young lady, I have, since writing this sketch of her, found in a newspaper:

"I saw her in the bloom of youth

When joys were bright and hope was high,
And love and innocence and truth
Glowed in her dancing azure eye;
And every thought of hers was fair,
And pure as angels' visions are;
And sweet as innocence can be,
Was her light laugh of frolic glee.
And ne'er a fairer ringlet strayed
Around a neck more clear and bright,
Than hers o'er which enchanting played
Her auburn hair in silken light.
Her step was light, as fabled tread
Offairies o'er the wild flowers' bed;
Her form so fragile, light and fair-
It seemed much less of earth than air.
But she is changed-for sorrow stole
The roses from her glowing cheek;
And grief, the mildew of the soul,
Flushed her clear brow with hectic streak;
And those soft charms of youth are gone,
That once I loved to gaze upon-
That seemed the brightest flowers of all,
That glow in beauty's coronal.
Now oftentimes her mood is wild,
And oft she raves and curses him,
Who first deceitful on her smiled,
Till fever throbs through every limb;
But when her wilder nood is fled
She calls for blessings on his head,
And seems forgetful that his vow
Was false-is lost and broken now.
And when a ray of reason breaks
Across her dark bewildered brain,
The wretched maiden only wakes
To more intense-to wilder pain-
To all the woes that mem'ry brings
Upon her particolored wings--

To that full sense of wretchedness,
Which man may feel, but not express.
Petersburg, Va.

C. C.

room.

It was merry Christmas, and beside us stood a long table covered with various presents which the owner of the mansion was accustomed, on such occasions, to distribute among his servants, who soon came dropping in to receive them. At length, there remained but one bundle, when a matronly, sedate negress opened the door, and dropping a low courtesy, wished the gentlemen a very merry Christmas. We returned her salutation, and my friend, Charles L-, handing her the packet, she gravely received it, and in the same dig. nified manner left the room. There was a something so striking about her, that she had scarcely shut the door, when I remarked to him on her intelligent and matronly appearance.

As I spoke, he suddenly dropped his chin on his breast, seemed lost in thought for a moment, when his features relaxed into a smile, and he vented his feelings by a low chuckle.

"Old aunt Dinah :"-responded he to my look of inquiry. "She has never forgotten a trick I once played her, when she was much younger than she is now, and myself just beginning to raise a pair of whiskers.

"I had returned from college but the day before, and was sitting just here, by this very table too, when one of the servants tapped lightly at the door, and asked permission to come in. It was Charles, my namesake. He always had been particularly attached to me. We were christened on the same day, and shortly after, his mother died, leaving him a month old. There happened to be no nurse on the plantation at the time, and so my mother took him into the house and raised him along with myself. The poor little fellow used to amuse us very much, by calling her "mammy," until he was taught differently, but his devotion to herself and the family has never subsided, and, to this day, her grave is to him the holiest spot of all the earth.

EMINENT PLAGIARISTS. Supposing he had come in to receive my orders in Bacon, Newton, and Boyle reduced the fanciful phi- relation to the next day's hunt, I proceeded to inquire losophy of France into experiment and demonstration. concerning the abundance of the game, and so forth; Helvetius and Diderot gleaned their pretended disco- but this, from his unconnected answers, was very eviveries from Shaftesbury, Mandeville and Toland.dently not his business. I therefore said to him, 'Well, Hackluyt, Churchill, &c., furnished Montesquieu with the moral facts in his Esprit des Loix. The Cyclopædia of Chambers was the parent of the French work.*

A COUPLE OF LOVE-LETTERS. "Come," said my friend, as we rose from a Virginia breakfast, the merits of which were better discussed by my dentals than they can be by my pen, "come, let us adjourn to the library. The ladies always like to have every body out of the way when they are clearing off the table, so that the contrast may be more striking, when one returns and finds every thing in order." "Capital!" cried Miss Bella. "What a fine excuse to be rid of our company!"

The latter part of the speech we only conjectured, for ere it was completed we had closed the door behind us, and, in a moment more, were enjoying each a com

See another instance, p. 159.

Charles, what do you want to see me about?' "I dont want nothin,' replied he.

"Who does, then?' said I.

"The poor fellow screwed his mouth into all possible contortions; grinned, and muttered some broken sentences, from which I gathered that aunt Dinah had received a letter from somebody or other, and wished me to read it for her.

"Very good,' said I, 'send her up.'

"Charles disappeared, apparently glad to complete his commission, and presently aunt Dinah availed herself of my leave, by making her appearance.

"She had the letter in her hand, and gave me to infer that it was nothing particular. She would have burned it, only she felt a little curious to know what the fellow had to say. But stop; I will read it to you."

So saying, L. opened a small writing desk, and took out a couple of letters, one of which looked as if it had lain for ages in a tobacco chest. This he unfolded, and began to read. But as he allowed me to copy the letter, I will give the reader an exact transcript of it, and the

answer to it.

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