The last speaker had fled from his native village in Somersetshire, to avoid the punishment which threatened him for deer-stealing. Not a word of this conversation was lost to master Willoughbye: he was near enough to hear all that was said, but entirely shrouded from observation by the darkness without, while the fire in the smithy enabled him to scrutinize the features of the Alsatian assembly. He determined to wait until this precious council had broken up. "We must force the Poultry Compter, boys!" cried the Butcher-" and then we shall be strong enough to venture upon Newgate.' "What the d-1 have we to do with the prisons, my valiant slaughterman?" said the tall young man with the gilt chain-"I thought we were to visit the foreigners only.' "Then you reckoned without your counters, master Lorymer," remarked the butcher 66 we have something to do besides that." Just at that moment a human head was thrust in at the window of the hovel, and a voice cried out: "Oh, ye precious plotters of treason! the hemp's already round your throats! Master Dennis, the Sergeant-at-arms has just entered the Friars with a file of hackbut men!" "The devil!" muttered master Lorymer. The butcher swore a horrible oath, which he had probably learned in St. Nicholas' shambles. A begging friar, who had seated himself on a bench, and been sleeping soundly all the time, now started up, and swore per sanguinem dei! "Cross of St. Andrew!' cried the little punchy man, "it's uncivil to visit us at this time o' night. Let's cry arrest! and face the rascals." He made towards the door for that purpose, and in another moment the whole neighbourhood would have been in an uproar, but the alarm was stopped by the entrance of the person who had put his head in at the window. The new comer was a youth of short stature, and dull heavy features, with a profusion of black hair that grew completely over his forehead, beneath which his unintellectual grey eyes twinkled with a sort of stupid satisfaction at the fright he had occasioned. He advanced into the midst of the company, and greeted them with a wild idiot laugh, at which they were any thing but pleased. "Ha, ha, ha, ha! how I scared ye my men of wax!" cried he. "Curse your frolicking," growled the butcher. "I'll slit your weasand, you skritch owl!" "Let him alone, my Soldan of the shambles," said Lorymer to the ruffian, 'you wouldn't harm a poor idiot, surely? A blow on your sconce to-morrow may make you as witless." Then addressing the youth-"Edwin, you deserve to be scourged for this wanton frolic." 66 Scourged!" echoed the idiot, grinning a laugh. Ay, yes, I remember, there was a king of Morocco once scourged by the monks at Becket's shrine. They don't flourish the whip to-night, though-no, there's brandishing of pike and halberd, and handling of caliver! Whew! I heard the vane creak on St. Bride's tower, and I said, ha! there's a storm coming from the west. The devil has set his foot in the Friars!" Here he tweaked the friar's nose, and made his eyes water; but the ecclesiastic seemed too sleepy to resent it; so wiping his rubicund proboscis with his ample sleeve, he muttered "Would that I could drive thee and thy familiar into the Thames, as our Lord dealt with the herd of swine;" and resigned himself again to sleep. "And the blazoned shield will be broken, "Get away with this mummery!" said Lorymer angrily; "you will cause a brawl anon. Go home, sirrah!" The idiot hung down his head at this reproof, and quitted the smithy without saying another word. He had often been protected from insult by Lorymer, and the poor wretch feared the anger of one of the few persons who had treated him with kindness. "That bull-calf," said the butcher, "will work us mischief. Let us go over to the Bankside, and see limping Harry and the boys of the Clink." "Come on, then," cried several voices at once; and immediately the hovel was almost empty. The Alsatians were preparing to cross the water, and master Willoughbye having sufficiently gratified his curiosity, and given a nod to his men, the boat shot out noiselessly into the stream, and proceeded up the river. (To be concluded at p. 145.) But songless, hopeless, heartless-they Sate weeping by Euphrates' billow; Their harps, through many a weary day, Hung silent on Euphrates' willow. Thus I;-around me all is gay; Each eye in heedless pleasure gleaming; Or gazing (how unfeelingly!) On mine in untold sorrow streaming. Yes! we have breathed the dread farewell! And thou art gone, perchance for ever; Yet in Grief's pang, or Pleasure's swell, Think'st thou my heart forgets thee? Never! Whate'er of joy may o'er me steal, I only think with thee 't were dearer; However deep the woe I feel, I deem the loss of thee severer! 1834. THE PAINTER'S REVELATION. "I cannot paint it!" exclaimed Duncan Weir, as he threw down his pencil in despair. The portrait of a beautiful female rested on his easel. The head was turned as if to look into the painter's face, and an expression of delicious confidence and love was playing about the half parted mouth. A mass of luxuriant hair, stirred by the position, threw its shadow upon a shoulder that but for its transparency you would have given to Itys, and the light from which the face turned away fell on the polished throat with the rich mellowness of a moonbeam. She was a brunette-her hair of a glossy black, and the blood melting through the clear brown of her cheek, and sleeping in her lip like colour in the edge of a rose. The eye was unfinished. could not paint it. Her low, expressive forehead, and the light pencil of her eyebrows, and the long, melancholy lashes were all perfect; but he had painted the eye a hundred times, and a hundred times he had destroyed it, till, at the close of a long day, as his light failed him, he threw down his pencil in despair, and resting his head on his easel, gave himself up to the contemplation of the ideal picture of his fancy. He I wish all my readers had painted a portrait, the portrait of the face they best love to look on-it would be such a chance to thrill them with a description of the painter's feelings. There is nothing but the first timid kiss that has half its delirium. Why-think of it a moment! To sit for hours gazing into the eyes you dream of! To be set to steal away the tint of the lip and the glory of the brow you worship! To have beauty come and sit down before you, till its spirit is breathed into your fancy, and you can turn away and paint it! To call up, like a rash enchanter, the smile that bewilders you, and have power over the expression of a face, that, meet you where it will, laps you in Elysium!-Make me a painter, Pythagoras! A lover's picture of his mistress, painted as she exists in his fancy, would never be recognised. He would make little of features and complexion. No-no-he He has not been an idolater for this. has seen her as no one else has seen her, with the illumination of love, which once in her life, makes every woman under heaven an angel of light. He knows her heart, too-its gentleness, its fervour; and when she comes up in his imagination it is not her visible form passing before his mind's eye, but the apparition of her invisible virtues, clothed in the tender recollections of their discovery and developement. If he remembers her features at all, it is the changing colour of her cheek, or the droop of her curved lashes, or the witchery of the smile that welcomed him. And even then he was intoxicated with her voice-always a sweet instrument when the heart plays upon it—and his eye was good for nothing. No-it is no matter what she may be to others-she appears to him like a bright and perfect being, and he would as soon paint St. Cecilia with a wart as his mistress with an imperfect feature. He Duncan could not satisfy himself. painted with his heart on fire, and he threw by canvass after canvass till his room was like a gallery of angels. In perfect despair, at last, he sat down and made a deliberate copy of her featuresthe exquisite picture of which we have spoken. Still, the eye haunted him. He felt as if it would redeem all, if he could give it the expression with which it looked back some of his impassioned declarations. His skill, however, was, as yet, baffled, and it was at the close of the third day of unsuccessful effort that he relinquished it in despair, and, dropping his head upon his easel, abandoned himself to his imagination. * A Duncan entered the gallery with Helen leaning on his arm. It was thronged with visiters. Groups were collected before the favorite pictures, and the low hum of criticism rose confusedly, varied now and then, by the exclamation of some enthusiastic spectator. In a conspicuous part of the room hung 'The Mute Reply, by Duncan Weir.' crowd had gathered before it, and were gazing on it with evident pleasure. Expressions of surprise and admiration broke frequently from the group, and, as they fell on the ear of Duncan, he felt an irresistible impulse to approach and look at his own picture. What is like the affection of a painter for the offspring of his genius? It seemed to him as if he had never before seen it. There it hung like a new picture, and he dwelt upon it with all the interest of a stranger. It was indeed most beautiful. There was a bewitching loveliness floating over the features. The figure and air had a peculiar grace, and freedom; but the eye shewed the genius of the master. It was a large, lustrous eye, moistened without weeping, and lifted up, as if to the face of a lover, with a look of indescribable tenderness. The deception was wonderful. It seemed every moment as if the moisture would gather into a tear, and roll down her cheek. There was a strange freshness in its impression upon Duncan. It seemed to have the very look that had sometimes beamed upon him in the twilight. He turned from it and looked at Helen. Her eyes met his with the same -the self-same expression of the picture. A murmur of pleased recognition stole from the crowd whose attention was attracted. Duncan burst into tearsand awoke. He had been dreaming on his easel ! Ir is a very common observation, but not the less true on that account, that no advantage is fully prized except by the want of it. Our fairy countrywomen, who are now instructed in every branch of education, can with difficulty realize the ignorance of their female ancestors, with whom to read and write was considered learning enough to have made a modern blue-stocking. It must be confessed, that, even now, a woman gifted with any uncommon literary acquirements, falls under the displeasure of the well dressed illiterate dandies of the day; but their jurisdiction is a harmless one, and seldom extends beyond a shrug or the opprobrious epithet of blue. But this was not the case in 1669. female literature excited serious suspicion, and was taken under the cognizance of that memorable and never to be forgotten synod of pious, enlightened worthies, who would fain have condemned all the ugly old women and all the intelligent young ones, to be hanged or drowned as witches. Then, It was the misfortune of Ann Jones to be born at this period. She lived at New Haven, and, when a child, discovered a remarkable faculty of learning. She could string rhymes together, as children of quick and playful imaginations are wont to do. Ann's father died before her genius had developed itself beyond any other indication of great powers than imitating the language of every animal she heard. This early habit gave her, no doubt, a flexibility of organs. In the present day a young lady may have the gift of half a dozen tongues, and a more accurate knowledge of all than her own, without exciting wonder; but it must be remembered that Ann flourished nearly two centuries ago. Her mother was a good hearted, honest, respectable woman, and early discovered that she had brought a prodigy into the world. This dsscovery mothers are daily making now, and prodigies have so much multiplied, that nobody is surprised to find the youngest or the oldest child a complete wonder. The mother was constantly relating instances of the extraordinary talents of her child, and, among other things, affirmed, before a number of people who were afterwards summoned as witnesses against the girl, that she could say her letters before she could speak; which, if the woman had not explained her meaning by stating that she could pick them out of the alphabet before she could articulate, was certainly enough to have hung her for a witch in any court of justice. A Dutch family removed from New Amsterdam to New Haven. Formerly the people of New Amsterdam had designated the inhabitants of New Haven as squatters,' and now the term was thrown back on the respectable and ancient family of Von Poffenburghs, who, though they purchased every inch of land they occupied, were, most unjustly, by way of contempt, called squatters. Some say that nothing serious was meant by this appellation, and that it was only in derision of the superabundance of petticoats that were worn by Vrowe Von Poffenburgh, which, when she seated herself, gave her an appearance to which the above injurious term might be applied. They built a low house with slanting roof and gable ends, and though it might shew meanly by the side of our city houses, was then considered one of exceeding costliness.' It must be confessed that the goede vrowe discovered a little more pride in dress than was congenial to the simplicity of the times. It was said she never walked out with less than ten petticoats, and as confidently asserted she could bring ten more to cover them. And then her jewelry was of the most extravagant kind. She wore her pinball and scissors dangling at her side by a massy silver chain, and her square buckles contained more silver than any other lady's in the colony. The shortness of her petticoats excited much indignation among the New England dames. They said there would have been some excuse had economy been the object, but it was evident what was taken from the length was put on to the breadth. They therefore very candidly concluded that their brevity was contrived to shew off a pair of red stockings with gold clocks, well fitted to ancles that did not discredit the epithet of Dutch built. Unfortunately for poor Ann, the vrowe took a great fancy to her, and said she was the very image of her little Dirk Von Poffenburgh, who died when he was a baby. Nothing would do but Ann must have a set of petticoats, and she actually rigged out the poor girl with buckles as big as her own. Some said they were silver, and others that they were only pewter, and scoured every week with the plates and porringers. At any rate she did enough to draw the hatred and envy of the whole village upon her. All It is no wonder that Ann, who could imitate the language of dumb beasts, should catch the vrowe's. It was surely pleasanter to make human sounds than to baa-a like sheep, or moo-o like cows. In a very short time she could speak Dutch as well as mynheer himself. this at first had no other consequence than exciting envy and ill-will; but, not content with two tongues, Ann contrived to exercise a third. She spoke strange, unknown words, that even the Dutch people confessed they could not understand themselves. About this time the witches began their gambols in New England, and one of the strongest evidences against them was speaking in an unknown tongue. Ann began to be looked upon with an evil eye. It was not, however, till a young man of the name of Hall became strangely affected, that the whole village grew alarmed. It was said that she had so bewitched him by her arts and infernal charms that he could do nothing but follow her about like a Jack-o'lantern. It was generally agreed that he used to be a steady, business-like young man, but since he had known her he had neglected all work, and would saunter whole nights under her window. This was bad enough, but when other young men began to shew symptoms of the same kind, it was time to look into the matter. There were some strong arguments used by the more intelligent and candid against her being an actual witch. It was said by every one who had deeply studied the subject, that the abominable and damnable sin, of witchcraft was wholly confined to ugly old women, whose faces were wrinkled by time, whose joints were distorted by rheumatism, and whose steps were tottering from debility. Now it could not be denied that Ann was fair to look upon, her complexion as smooth as marble, and her step as firm and elastic as that of a mountain deer. Possibly these favorable circumstances might have acquitted her in the eyes of the venerable magistrates and divines of Salem; but they did not at all meliorate the feelings of the mothers and daughters at New Haven, who sat in judgment upon poor Ann. They unanimously pronounced that she was a sorceress, and that her beauty was nothing but a mask, and if it were stripped off, she would be ugly and old enough to excite the indignation of any magistrate in New England, or even Cotton Mather himself. At any rate the effect she produced began to excite serious alarm. At this time there lived at New Haven a very excellent, good hearted woman, by the name of Eyers. She had heard all these stories of Ann, and not being a full believer in witches, had a laudable curiosity to behold one. Accordingly she sent for her to come and see her; when, strange to say, after a few hours' conversation, she became apparently under the influence of her spells, and used to invite her to make long visits at her house. It could not be expected that things would be suffered to go on in this way, and, accordingly, a warrant was issued for apprehending Ann Jones accused of the abominable and damnable sin of witchcraft.' She was arrested and thrown into prison. But as the judges were not so expert and so much practised in finding out witches as in Salem, and as nobody appeared against her but a few girls of her own age, and half a dozen children who said she had come to them under the shape of a black cat, the magistrates were unwise enough to dismiss her. This acquittal, however, did not release Ann from suspicion. It grew stronger than ever. She had always from her childhood loved to wander over hills and valleys. She was healthy and robust, and never hesitated to take her walks because the wind blew, or the sky lowered. With her little red cloak wrapped round her, and her gay and happy face peeping from the hood, she braved every element. As she grew older she still preserved her taste for rambling, and, as she could now go nowhere with out observation, her favorite haunts were soon discovered. It was said she was often seen vibrating on a broomstick in the air between East and West Rocks, and alighting alternately on each; and that, though the latter was a perpendicular cliff, rising three hundred feet, she would run up that, or the side of a house with the greatest ease. It was also said that she was once seen standing on the top of this tremendous rock, and that somebody fired at her and she sunk down into the earth. It was supposed she was laid for one while, when, to their horror, they saw her a few hours afterwards looking as bright and as happy as ever. Wherever she walked she found her path impeded by broomsticks and horseshoes, and, though she skipped over them good humoredly, it was confidently asserted that she was always stopped by their infallible power. About this time, new accounts arrived of the wonder-working providence of God in detecting the witches in various parts of New England.' It was thought by many people a disgrace to New Haven that it had not signalized itself in this business, and Ann was more closely inspected than ever. At length it was actually discovered, that she was often met by a mysterious looking personage, who shuffled along as if he had a cloven foot, and some averred that they had positively seen it. It was easy now to account for her strange languages. There could be no doubt but this mysterious being was Beelzebub himself, and there were various conjectures upon the nature of their connexion. Some supposed she had made a league with him and signed the bond with her blood; that he had supplied her with her buckles, and was finally to be rewarded with her immortal soul. Others supposed she was his wife and coadjutor with him. It was not however till some months after she had been seen with this mysterious personage that the worst suspicions were realized. Mrs. Eyers' kitchen was situated on the street. The windows were low and it was an edifying sight to look into them. The dressers and shelves were garnished with bright pewter plates, standing on their edges, and peeping through rows of tin saucepans, dippers, and skimmers, that hung suspended from the shelves, while a shining brass warming pan and chaffing dish garnished the wainscot. A woman happening to pass by, cast her eye with a little maidenly curiosity into the kitchen, and beheld Ann Jones sitting there and conversing |