together." Here Jaques caught her hand, and, fect-a moral revolution. His affection for his pressed it passionately to his lips. Julie with- old friend came back, and with it the bitterest drew it hurriedly, saying, "Hear me out, I en- remorse; and when Loraine, on recognizing treat you, cousin. I cannot be your wife while him, sprang toward him with all the frank corthere is one remaining doubt of my being, in diality of a brother, he shrank from the embrace truth, a widow. Should we marry, and should of the man he had wronged, murdered in his Pierre some day return, oh God, what misery thought; and every kind word of the wanderer for us all! No, no; ask me not to be yours, now tore into his heart like the fragment of a till you bring me proof that the cold earth, or shell! But ere Loraine could remark upon his the colder wave, covers him." Here, clasping seeming coldness, another change came over her hands, she cried, in a tone of the most touch- him. He returned that embrace with fervor, ing sorrow, "Oh, Pierre, Pierre, where have and on the breast of his friend renounced for they laid you?" ever the sweet, vain dream of his love. He was roused by the wild, hurried inquiries of Pierre, "What of my Julie ?-what of her father? Tell me, Jaques, for God's sake tell me!" Then flinging herself into her father's arms, she wept with all the wild grief of a first bereavement. Le Brun could but see that the love of Julie for her lost husband had never died, though the form of him who called it forth had been laid by stranger hands beneath a stranger soil-was wasting on the air of the wilderness, or mouldering beneath sea-waves, “a thousand fathoms down.” Julie's resolution continued unshaken by the advice of her father, and the entreaties of her lover; and the result was, that, in the course of a week, Jaques set forth on the strangest pilgrimage of modern times-an expedition to discover indubitable proofs of the widowhood of the lady of his love. "They live, and love you still; come, let us lose no time in going to them." It was the eve of the First of June, and a fit birth-night was it for that rose-crowned queen of the changing months. The stars were unusually brilliant in honour of the great occasion, and freshness, fragrance, and moonlight were abroad. Let us look for a few moments into the quiet home of our heroine. In the pleasant little parHopes and fears chased each other through lour we find her, with her venerable father, who his heart, as he kissed the brow of his cousin in is looking in far better health than a few months parting, and looking into her blue eye, saw there since he had hoped ever to enjoy. He is seated a faint smile struggling with a tear-that beau- in his luxurious arm-chair, with his feet resting tiful strife which we sometimes mark in the cup on a stool, embroidered by the fair hands of his of a violet, when the dew would quench the sun-daughter. He wears a dark dressing-gown of shine, and the sunshine would drink up the dew. Our enamoured pilgrim travelled but slowly, in those ante-steam navigation times, and it was many weary days before he reached Louisville, the place in which Loraine had last been known to be. It was a sunny May morning when he landed, and strolled through the principal street of that then inconsiderable town; and not even the thought of his strange, mournful mission could sadden his spirits, in pleasant unison with the joyous season. We may chide him that he is eager to pluck the flower, happiness, though it nod over the grave of his friend; but do we stay to ask whose life was the cost of much that we enjoy? Suddenly Le Brun remarked a stranger coming towards him, whose light, springing step, and long black curls were surely familiar to his eye. But no; this young man wore a foreign dress and a large moustache. Nearer he came, and, gracious heavens ! it was no other than the lost Loraine! Jaques became deathly pale, and staggered as though struck by a heavy blow! Hope and joy died within him, and a wild and fearful feeling grappled at his heart. Had quick, stern thoughts been good sharp steel, Loraine had then fallen, pierced by more dagger-points than freed the soul of Cæsar! brocade, and his thin, white locks are crowned by a small cap of black velvet. On a stand at his side lies a gold snuff-box, with a miniature of "Louis the Martyr" set in the lid. From this he often regales himself, giving always a glance and a sigh to the pictured semblance of decapitated royalty. But to drop this inconvenient present tense. Julie, clad in deep mourning, with a "widow's sombre cap" almost concealing her sunny hair, sat on a low ottoman at his side, reading in a loud, clear voice-for her father was quite deaf-the last mournful chapters in the new novel of "Corinne"-that gorgeous and unsurpassed prose epic, into which the soul and life of the grand and passionate De Staël were fused and poured like lava. There was a hurried step without; the door opened, and Jaques stood before them! Julie sprang forward with a cry of welcome; but her eye fell on another form. She paused, clasped her hands, and one word broke from her lips— "Pierre!" But the heart spoke volumes in that single word, and the next instant she lay in a swoon of joy on the breast of her first and only love, her lost and her found! And it was touching to see old Jean Dulaire; how he rose, and tottering toward the returned wanderer, "fell upon his neck and wept." And Jaques with his life-long love, tried, But Jaques' nature was too essentially tempted, and sanctified-was he not happy, with generous and good to cherish such deadly feel- a happiness greater than theirs? a holy pleaings as these; the reaction was sudden and per- sure, which nothing could take from him; the calm, sweet joy of self-sacrifice, of renunciation? When the first half-delirious raptures of meeting were over, all gathered round Pierre to hear the story of his long absence, wanderings, and adventures. But first, he removed from Julie's head, with his own hand, the widow's cap, and twined in her beautiful hair some halfopened roses, wet with night-dew. Then, with that dear head leaning on his shoulder-one arm around the slenderest waist in the world, and one hand grasping his father's, he related the "strange eventful history," which we give as near as may be, in his own words:-- "It was rather late in the winter when I left Louisville for home, and I was obliged to stop awhile at some small settlements on the way, to transact business. Just as I was about leaving one of these places, with a company of traders, all strangers to me, I observed a keel-boat near the shore, containing a number of men, which had become encompassed and blocked in with the ice. I could persuade no one to go with me in a boat to the assistance of the strangers, so I took a long pole in my hand, and walked to them, on the floating ice, leaping from block to block. I reached the boat in safety, and found -ah, you will scarcely believe me when I say that I found three of those men to be our young exiled princes, the Duc d'Orleans, Duc de Montpensier, and the Count de Beaujolais They had come in this manner, the brave young men, all the way from Pittsburgh. But I forget ---you must know of their undertaking, for they told me that they stayed one night with you. "A day or two before I encountered them, their helmsman had been taken ill, and given up, and thus they had got into trouble. But I soon got them free of the ice, and brought them safely to the landing. Then it was that his highness, and his highness' noble brothers earnestly entreated me to turn my face from home, and go with them to New Orleans. What could I do? There was my royal master, who, in his prosperity had befriended me; and could I forsake him in the hour of his misfortune? Ah, Julie, pardon my once obeying loyalty rather than love. I promised my prince, proudly, but sadly, to go with him. But I wrote to you, telling the story of my strange fortune, and gave the letter to the sick boatman, who was returning to Pittsburgh." "I never received that letter!" exclaimed Julie. "Ah, then, the poor fellow may have died before reaching this place." the thick branches of a tree, which overhung our boat, two bright, red lights-not stars, but the fiery eyes of a panther, whose dusky form I could just perceive. He was evidently crouching for a spring; I raised my rifle, and the next moment the creature fell-fell upon one of the sleeping princes, but dead! "We reached New Orleans at length, in fine health and spirits, and the princes took passag that very day for Havana, on an American ship, which was to sail the next morning. At night I went on board, to spend the few last hours with my illustrious friends, who had the cabin entirely to themselves. "With a few bottles of choice old Burgundy, with songs and legends of la belle France, what wonder if time went by unchallenged? It was past midnight when we embraced and parted. I went up on deck, and, mon Dieu! the ship was off for Havana, with all sail spread, and far behind us gleamed the lights of New Orleans! I beat my breast, called upon Heaven and my wife, and swore at the stupid captain; but all in vain-they took me the whole voyage to Havana! "Well, after seeing my friends sail for Europe, I concluded to return to New Orleans in the same vessel which had brought me out. But again the fates were against me. We had been but about two days at sea, when we were boarded by a French cruiser, and owing to my having about me some books, autographs and a miniature, parting gifts from the Duc d'Orleans, I had the honour of being taken possession of, as an important prize. The rascals believed, or pretended to believe me a Bourbon, one of the princes; and malgré my remonstrances, threats and entreaties, they took me all the way to France, and placed me in close confinement. "It was then some months before I could obtain a trial, and though I was at last honourably acquitted of the grave charge of royal birth, my money was retained, with what I valued more-the last gifts of my prince. I was thus detained until I could earn sufficient to replenish my wardrobe, and pay my homeward passage. I wrote several letters to Julie, and to you, my father, but did not send them, from utter hopelessness of their ever reaching you. "At length, I was able to take ship for Mar tinique, and from thence to New Orleans; from thence I worked my way up the Mississippi and Ohio-up to-home, I had almost said heaven! But I am sure you, my father, must be wearied by this long recital, feeble as you are. And see, it is almost morning! So, while we may, let us bid you good night!” "I will not weary you with a detailed account of our hardships, adventures, and hair-breadth escapes for we had enough of all these to preserve us from ennui. But one little incident now occurs to me. While descending the Mississipi, For many days after the return of Loraine, we commonly moored our boat at night, as, you all was mirth and social sunshine in the lately are aware, the navigation of that river is very darkened home of his friends. But there was difficult and dangerous. One night I was keeping one heart which, though not sad, was ill at rest, watch, while my companions slumbered around troubled with a pain which it could not cast off me. I was thinking of you, Julie, and involun--the faithful heart of Jaques. This was his tarily raised my eyes to look for those stars I secret care; he had contemplated a union with used to swear by; when I saw, shining through his cousin, while her husband yet lived, and of this innocent treason Pierre was yet ignorant. The sensitive and honourable nature of young Le Brun revolted from the concealment of such a circumstance; he earnestly desired that Loraine should know all, but shrank from being himself the revealer. One afternoon, finding Julie standing on the rose-shaded portico which fronted the garden, he entreated her to confide to her husband the plan proposed by her father, and acceded to by herself, with the condition which had led to his own singular pilgrimage. Julie, the blush of whose second bridehood: rivalled the rose in her boddice, grew startlingly pale, but at once undertook the painful duty, and as she perceived her husband reading in an arbour in the garden, immediately sought his side. Oh, how long seemed the next ten minutes to Le Brun !—he dreaded the denouement, yet his suspense was terrible. Loraine was known to possess a fiery and passionate spirit, quick to resent a wrong or an insult. He adored, and might forgive Julie; but for the man who aspired to fill his place in her heart, and by her side, while he yet lived, what punishment were too severe, what scorn and hatred too intense? As these forebodings passed through his mind, Jaques leaned against a pillar, and covered his face with his hands. At length he heard Loraine coming hastily up the garden walk, but he did not look around, or lift his head. Suddenly a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a pleasant voice said laughingly, but most kindly 64 Ah, my dear Le Brun, my poor fellow, I am sorry for you-you lost so charming a wife!" THE POET'S PRAYER. BY PERN BLUNDELL. Though our early youth with its freshness dies, And which linger the last, at length decay; Be it mine, when the winter of life draws near, In innocent peace, and in calm repose; A GLIMPSE OF THE NIGHTSIDE OF NATURE. NOTE.-The poem which follows was found in a fragmentary state among the papers of my late friend, Lieutenant Pinchard, Madras Horse Artillery, and was one of the last pieces of verse which flowed from his pen. It has never been published; and finding it unfinished, I have endeavoured to complete the fancy he had so happily commenced, taking up the thread of the vision at the 50th line, where he had dropt it.- CALDER Campbell. The summer sun had set; its fiery gleam Still faintly glimmer'd in the western sky; The billows were at rest, the sparkling stream In childish murmurings ran babbling by : The evening star shot forth a trembling beam, And the bright moon display'd her lamp on high; The beaming Day gave place to sober Night, And spread his flaming wings, and took his westward flight. The Tree of Grief,* the lovely evening flower, Who closes while the sun is up in power Her buds of softest odour for a time, To fling upon the earth their sweets sublime, Spirit of Darkness, hail! I love to keep The lonely watch beneath thy solemn wings, When o'er the bosom of the waters deep Her cloud of peace and silence Midnight flings: When to all those who smile and those who weep, Slumber an interval of feeling brings O let me rove, unseeing and unseen, And muse on what I am, and what I might have been! Night fell... the moon in undisputed sway Sail'd proudly on to her meridian height; And yellow beams displaced the twilight grey, And all around seem'd gilded in her light: The flowers all smiled, which through the gaudy day Had shone more clearly but less purely bright; Sparkled beneath her ray the shining stream, And the dark cypress shone and slumber'd in her beam. Here, where the turf its native carpet spread, There where the moonbeams pale in silence fell, I lay me down beneath their soothing ray, Nyctanthes Arbor tristis. MACAULAY'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. (Continued from page 165.) Perplexed by the vicissitudes of the contest in the Palatinate, into which he had been forced in opposition to his better judgment, harassed by continual contests with parliaments from whom he with difficulty extracted the supplies which he lavished among favourites who purchased his brief affection with enduring ignominy, James the First died somewhat suddenly, in March, 1625; leaving a continental war, an exhausted exchequer, and a discontented-if not disaffected people to his successor. Charles, like his father, had but little love for Parliaments his favourite and prime-minister, Buckingham, still less; but as supplies were indispensable, the Houses were at once convoked, and Sir B. Rudyerd moved them "to take such courses as should sweeten all things between the king and people." As the opposition, however, deemed it their duty to consider "grievances" ere they voted subsidies, they were speedily dissolved, to be again summoned in 1626, when Rudyerd once more admonished them. "Let it be our masterpiece so to carry our business, that we may keep parliaments on foot; for as long as they are frequent, there can be no irregular power. There can be no total and final loss of liberty, but by loss of parliaments; for as long as they last, what we cannot get at one time we may get at another." they, in consideration of five subsidies, obtained its sanction from the king. By this famous statute, Charles solemnly engaged "never again to raise money without the consent of parliament; never again to imprison any person, except in due course of law, or to subject his people to the jurisdiction of courts-martial;" pledges no sooner given, than they were deliberately, and "not occasionally, but constantly and on system" violated. Tonnage and poundage were forcibly levied, without the authority of parliament. Sir John Elliott drew up, and moved, a remonstrance; the speaker refusing to put the question, and declaring the House adjourned, was held in his chair by Hollis and Valentine, while it passed by acclamation. Yet again the houses were dissolved, the leaders of the opposition fined and imprisoned; Elliott refusing to accept as a favour the liberation which he demanded as his right, died in the Tower, after a long confinement. The French war-recklessly provoked, feebly prosecuted, and disgracefully concluded, Hampden's resistance to the king's claim of shipm money; Strafford's "thorough-going" administration; Laud's domineering arrogance and semi-popish ritual observances; the mutilations, whippings, and ruinous penalties of the Starchamber, "where" (says Mr. Hallam) "those who inflicted the punishment reaped the gain, and sat like famished birds of prey with keen eyes and bended talons, eager to supply for a moment by some wretch's ruin, the craving emptiness of the exchequer;" the Archbishop's peremptory interference to prevent Hampden, Pym, and Cromwell from leaving England; and, by way of climax, the insane bigotry which prompted him to force the English liturgy upon the Northern presbyterians, gave rise to their famous "Covenant," goaded the Scots into rebellion, and brought upon himself the merited sarcasm of the king's jester, Archy, "Who's fool now, my Lord of Canterbury?" these, and such like acts of alternate violence and imbecility, filled up the long interval of eleven years, during which Charles ruled without the intervention of a parliament. Unhappily, in 1626-7, parties ran high-too high indeed for the disputants of either faction to listen to the arguments of this rational and moderate reformer. The king, after vainly endeavouring to deprive the Earl of Bristol of his seat in the House of Peers, directed the Attorney-General to prosecute him for treason; Bristol, in turn, impeached Buckingham; the Commons backed the accusation; Charles imprisoned two of their managers, Sir Dudley Digges and Sir John Elliott, and a few days afterwards dissolved his second parliament. In 1628, the Houses were for the third time summoned; but the rash arrogance of Buckingham had, in the meantime, embroiled his master with the French Court; his unsuccessful attempts to reduce the Isle of Rhé and relieve Rochelle added to his unpopularity, and in all probability nothing but his assassination saved him from disgrace and ruin. Charles too had, in many were not convoked. Never in our history had there instances and under different pretences, raised been an interval of eleven years between parliament large sums of money by means of "forced and parliament. Only once had there been an interloans;" and imprisoned and otherwise mal- val of even balf that length. This fact alone is suffitreated those who ventured to refuse contribution. Complaints were loud and general; the country-party felt its strength, and having embodied their main grievances in the celebrated "PETITION OF RIGHT," refused supplies; until, after much equivocation, shuffling, and delay, "From March, 1629, to April, 1640, the houses merely trodden in the footsteps of the Plantagenets cient to refute those who represent Charles as having and Tudors."—Vol. i., p. 86. The new parliament, which assembled on the 13th April, 1640, sat little more than six weeks. "Its moderation," says Mr. Macaulay, "has been |