All this was said by the Baron, the lady Edith, and others, in the hearing of Wolmar, while they shed tears at the foot of Von Deutzberg's statue. In due time the lady Edith was delivered of a son, the only heir to the honours of the houses of Von Deutzberg and the old Baron. As soon as the child was capable of understanding, it was taken to the statue and taught to recognize and venerate the image of its noble father, the Baron Von Deutzberg. But no one knew that the spirit of the real father inhabited the towering mail! The youth grew up under Wolmar's eye; he was united to a noble lady, and transmitted the name of a detested rival to future times. For three generations Wolmar remained a conscious statue of the man he had most hated upon earth -proudly pointed to as such by his son, and a long line of descendants-till at length the colossal figure was cast down in a feudal warfare, amidst the ashes of the chateau, and the long-suffering and indignant soul of Wolmar was freed from its place of torment. THE R. H. H. GROUSE-SHOOTER'S CALL. Come! where the heather bell, Child of the Highland dell, Breathes its coy fragrance o'er Moorland and lea; Gaily the fountain sheen Leaps from the mountain green— Come to our Highland home, blithesome and free! See! through the gloaming The young Morn is coming, Like a bridal veil round her the silver mist curled, Deep as the ruby's rays, Bright as the sapphire's blaze, The banner of day in the east is unfurled. The red is scattering grouse Dews from his golden wing, Gemm'd with the radiance that heralds the day; Peace in our Highland vales, Health on our mountain galesWho would not hie to the Moorlands away! Far from the haunts of man Seek the lone moorcock, the pride of our dells; Birds of the wilderness! 'Mid the brown heath where the mountain-roe dwells. Come then! the heather bloom Woos with its wild perfume, Fragrant and blithesome thy welcome shall be; Gaily the fountain sheen Leaps from the mountain-greenCome to our home of the Moorland and lea! STEAM. BY WILLIAM COX. "I had a dream, which was not all a dream.” Will, at the rate she's rushing on, Ride the grand circuit of creation.”—Anon. I have a bilious friend, who is a great admirer and imitator of Lord Byron; that is, he affects misanthropy, masticates tobacco, has his shirts made without collars, calls himself a miserable man, and writes poetry with a glass of gin-andwater before him. His gin, though far from first-rate, is better than his poetry; the latter, indeed, being worse than that of many authors of the present day, and scarcely fit for an album; however, he does not think so, and makes a great quantity. At his lodgings, a few evenings ago, among other morbid productions, he read me one entitled "Steam," written in very blank verse, and evidently modelled after the noble poet's "Darkness," in which he takes a bird's-eye view of the world two or three centuries hence, describes things in general, and comes to a conclusion with, "Steam was the universe!" Whether it was the fumes aris ing from this piece of solemn bombast, or whether I had unconsciously imbibed more hollands than my temperate habits allow of, I cannot say, but I certainly retired to bed like Othello, ". perplexed in the extreme." There was no "dreamless sleep" for me that night, and Queen Mab drove full gallop through every nook and cranny of my brain. Strange and fantastical visions floated before me, till at length came one with all the force and clearness of reality. I thought I stood upon a gentle swell of ground, and looked down upon the scene beneath me. It was a pleasant sight, and yet a stranger might have passed it by unheeded; but to me it was as the green spot in the desert, for there I recognized the haunt of my boyhood. There was the wild common on which I had so often scampered "frae mornin' sun till dine," skirted by the old wood, through which the burn stole tinkling to the neighbouring river. There was the little ivy-covered church with its modest spire and immovable weathercock, and clustering around lay the village that I knew contained so many kind and loving hearts. All looked just as it did on the summer morning when I left it, and went a wandering over this weary world. To me the very trees possessed an individuality; the branches of the old oak (there was but one) seemed to nod familiarly towards me, the music of the rippling water fell pleasantly on my ear, and the passing breeze murmured of "home, sweet home." The balmy air was laden with the hum of unseen insects, and filled with the fragrance of a thousand common herbs and flowers; and to my eyes the place looked prettier and pleasanter than any they have since rested on. As I gazed, the "womanish moisture" made dim my sight, and I felt that yearning of the heart which every man who has a soul feels let him go where he will, or reason how he will on once more beholding the spot where the only pure, unsullied part of his existence passed away. Suddenly the scene changed. The quiet, smiling village vanished, and a busy, crowded city occupied its place. The wood was gone, the brook dried up, and the common cut to pieces and covered with a kind of iron gangways. I looked upon the surrounding country, if country it could be called, where vegetable nature had ceased to exist. The neat, trim gardens, the verdant lawns and swelling uplands, the sweet-scented meadows and waving corn-fields, were all swept away, and fruit, and flowers, and herbage, appeared to be things uncared for and unknown. Houses and factories, and turnpikes and railroads, were scattered all around; and along the latter, as if propelled by some unseen infernal power, monstrous machines flew with inconceivable swiftness. People were crowding and jostling each other on all sides. I mingled with them, but they were not like those I had formerly known-they walked, talked, and transacted business of all kinds with astonishing celerity. Every thing was done in a hurry; they ate, drank, and slept in a hurry; they danced, sung, and made love in a hurry; they married, died, and were buried in a hurry, and resurrectionmen had them out of their graves before they well knew they were in them. Whatever was done, was done upon the high-pressure principle. No person stopped to speak to another in the street; but as they moved rapidly on their way, the men talked faster than women do now, and the women talked twice as fast as ever. Many were bald; and on asking the reason, I was given to understand that they had been great travellers, and that the rapidity of modern conveyances literally scalped those who journeyed much in them, sweeping whiskers, eye-brows, eye-lashes, in fact, every thing in any way movable, from their faces. Animal life appeared to be extinct; carts and carriages came rattling down the highways, horseless and driverless, and wheelbarrows trundled along without any visible agency. Nature was out of fashion, and the world seemed to get along tolerably well without her. At the foot of the street my attention was attracted by a house they were building, of prodigious dimensions, being not less than seventeen stories high. On the top of it several men were at work, when, dreadful to relate, the foot of one of them slipped, and he was precipitated to the earth with a fearful crash. Judge of my horror and indignation on observing the crowd pass unheeding by, scarcely deigning to cast a look on their fellowcreature, who doubtless lay weltering in his blood; and the rest of the workmen went on with their several avocations without a moment's pause in consequence of the accident. On approaching the spot, I heard several in passing murmur the most incomprehensible observations. "Only a steam man," said one. "Won't cost much," said another. "His boiler overcharged, I suppose," cried a third; "the way in which all these accidents happen!" And true enough, there lay a man of tin and sheet-iron, weltering in hot water. The superintendent of the concern, who was not a steam-man, but made of the present materials, gave it as his opinion that the springs were damaged, and the steam-vessels a little ruptured, but not much harm done; and straightway sent the corpse to the blacksmith's (who was a flesh-and-blood man) to be repaired. Here was then at once a new version of the old Greek fable, and modern Prometheuses were actually as plentiful as blackberries." In fact, I found upon inquiry, that society was now divided into two great classes, living 66 and "locomotive" men, the latter being much the better and honester people of the two; and a fashionable political economist of the name of Malthus, a lineal descendant of an ancient, and it appears, rather inconsistent system-monger, had just published an elaborate pamphlet, shewing the manifold advantages of propagating those no-provenderconsuming individuals in preference to any other. So that it appeared, that any industrious mechanic might in three months have a full-grown family about him, with the full and comfortable assurance that, as the man says in Chrononhotonthologos, "they were all his own and none of his neighbours." These things astonished, but they also perplexed and wearied me. My spirit grew sick, and I longed for the world again, and its quiet and peaceable modes of enjoyment. I had no fellowship with the two new races of beings around me, and nature and her charms were no more. All things seemed forced, unnatural, unreal-indeed, little better than barefaced impositions. I sought the banks of my native river; it alone remained unchanged. The noble stream flowed gently and tranquilly as of yore, but even here impertinent man had been at work, and pernicious railroads had been formed to its very verge. I incautiously crossed one of them, trusting to my preconceived notions of time and space, the abhorred engine being about three-quarters of a mile from me ; but scarcely had I stepped over, when it flew whizzing past the spot I had just quitted, and catching me in its eddy, spun me round like a top under the lash. It was laden with passengers, and went with headlong fury straight toward the river. Its fate seemed inevitable-another instant and it would be immersed in the waves; when lo! it suddenly sunk into the bosom of the earth, and in three seconds was ascending a pependicular hill on the opposite bank of the river. I was petrified, and gazed around with an air of helpless bewilderment, when a gentleman, who was doubtless astonished at my astonishment, shouted in passing, "What's the fellow staring at?" and another asked "if I had never seen a tunnel before?" Like Lear, "my wits began to turn." I wished for some place where I might hide myself from all around, and turned instinctively to the spot where the village ale-house used to stand. But where, alas! was the neat thatched cottage that was wont so often to "impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart?" Gone! and in its place stood a huge fabric, labelled "Grand Union Railroad Hotel." But here also it was steam, steam, nothing but steam! The rooms were heated by steam, the beds were made and aired by steam, and instead of a pretty, red-lipped, rosy-cheeked chambermaid, there was an accursed machineman smoothing down the pillows and bolsters with mathematical precision; the victuals were cooked by steam, yea, even the meat roasted by steam. Instead of the clean-swept hearth "With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel sweet,' there was a patent steam-stove, and the place was altogether hotter than any decent man would ever expect to have any thing to do with. Books and papers lay scattered on a table. I took up one of the former; it was filled with strange new phrases, all more or less relating to steam, of which I knew nothing, but as far as I could make out the English of the several items, they ran somewhat thus: "Another shocking catastrophe.—As the warranted-safe locomotive smoke-consuming, fuel-providing steam-carriage Lightning, was this morning proceeding at its usual three-quarter speed of ene hundred and twenty-seven miles an hour, at the junction of the Hannington and Slipsby railroads, it unfortunately came in contact with the steam-carriage Snail, going about one hundred and five miles per hour. Of course, both vehicles with their passengers were instantaneously reduced to an impalpable powder. The friends of the deceased have the consolation of knowing that no blame can possibly attach to the intelligent proprietors of the Lightning, it having been clearly ascertained that those of the Snail started their carriage full two seconds before the time agreed on, in order to obviate in some degree, the delay to which passengers were unavoidably subjected by the clumsy construction and tedious pace of their vehicle." "Melancholy accident.-As a beautiful and accomplished young lady of the name of Jimps, passenger in the Swiftas-thought-locomotive, was endeavouring to catch a flying glimpse of the new Steam University, her breathing apparatus unfortunately slipped from her mouth, and she was a corpse in threequarters of a second. A young gentleman who had been tenderly attached to her for several days, in the agony of his feelings withdrew his air-tube and called for help; he of course shared a similar fate. Too much praise cannot be given to the rest of the passengers, who, with inimitable presence of mind, prudently held their breathing-bladders to their mouths during the whole of this trying scene," &c. &c. A Liverpool paper stated that "The stock for the grand Liverpool and Dublin tunnel under the Irish channel, is nearly filled up." And a Glasgow one advocated the necessity of a floating wooden railroad between Scotland and the Isle of Man, in order to do away with the tiresome steamboat navigation. I took up a volume of poems, but the similes and metaphors were all steam; all their ideas of strength, and power, and swiftness, referred to steam only, and a sluggish man was compared to a greyhound. I looked into a modern dictionary for some light on these subjects, but got none, except finding hundreds of curious definitions, such as these: "Horse, s. an animal of which but little is now known. Old writers affirm that there were at one time several thousands in this country." "Tree, s. vegetable production; once plentiful in these parts and still to be found in remote districts." “ Tranquillity, s. obsolete; an unnatural state of existence, to which the ancients were very partial. The word is to be met with in several old authors," &c. In despair I threw down the book, and rushed out of the house. It was mid-day, but a large theatre was open, and the people were pouring in. I entered with the rest, and found that whatever changes had taken place, money was still money, They were playing Hamlet by steam, and this was better than any other purpose to which I had seen it applied. The automata really got along wonderfully well, their speaking faculties being arranged upon the barrel-organ principle, greatly improved, and they roared, and bellowed, and strutted, and swung their arms to and fro as sensibly as many admired actors. Unfortunately in the grave scene, owing to some mechanical misconstruction, Hamlet exploded, and in doing so, entirely demolished one of the grave-diggers, carried away a great part of Laertes, and so injured the rest of the dramatis persona that they went off one after the other like so many crackers, filling the house with heated vapour. I made my escape; but on reaching the street, things were ten times worse than ever. It was the hour for stopping and starting the several carriages, and no language can describe the state of the atmosphere. Steam was generating and evaporating on all sides-the bright sun was obscured-the people looked parboiled, and the neighbouring fisherman's lobsters changed colour on the instant; even the steam inhabitants appeared uncomfortably hot. I could scarcely breathe-there was a blowing, a roaring, a hissing, a fizzing, a whizzing going on all around-fires were blazing, water was bubbling, boilers were bursting-when lo! I suddenly awoke, and found myself in a state of profuse perspiration. I started up, ran to the window, and saw several milkmen and bakers' carts, with horses in them, trotting merrily along. I was a thankful man. I put on my clothes, and while doing so, made up my mind to read no manuscript poems, and eschew gin and water for the time to come. Inesilla," said he to her, "I have often rendered services; but no one comes to render services to me. There is no such thing in the world as generosity." "The numbers of the ungrateful would seem to prove the contrary," replied Inesilla. Ingratitude would be less common, if we knew how to appropriate our benefactions; but the rich and powerful, hemmed in as they are by mercenaries, parasites, and adventurers, are intercepted by this mob of slaves, from conveying to virtuous indigence the noble kindness which may relieve without degrading. We should know the characters of those whom we oblige, before we do them services. We listen to our hearts, and are deceived. You have yourself done this, and more than once. "I own it. I own it. I was in the wrong." The conversation was interrupted by a clap of thunder. A rapid storm darkened the horizon, Lopez thought no more of the ungrateful. All resolutions of future caution vanished. He flew to fling open the large gate of his cottage yard, that the wayfarer might be sheltered beneath his cart-shed from the tempest, whose roar was now redoubled by the mountain echoes. A brilliant carriage, drawn by six mules, at once drove in. Don Fernando descended from it; had his servants and his mules placed under the shed, and presented himself at the door of the cottage of Lopez. Inesilla opened it, and Don Fernando paused with wonder, to meet beneath the lowly thatch a form so sylph-like and a face so refined. The courtly bearing of Lopez seemed to create no less surprise; his astonishment, the earnestness of his questions, the interest he seemed to take in every thing relating to the old man, stimulated Lopez to tell the story of his misfortunes, ending with the moral which his daughter had deduced from them. Fernando heard him with intense attention. "By the sword of the Cid!" cried he, "that daughter of thine is a philosopher! 'We should know the character of those whom we oblige, before we do them services;' and I bless the storm,' added he, tears starting to his eyes, "which has acquainted me with thee and thine; but we should also bear in mind another truth of which thy daughter's philosophy seems not to be aware. We should also know the characters of those by whom we are obliged, before we let them do us services." The words of Don Fernando sank deep into the heart of Lopez. He felt he had at last found one with whom he wished he could exchange situations, merely that he could render so worthy a man a service. Don Fernando seemed to be animated with a similar yearning towards poor Lopez. "But, Lopez," added he, "it is not from words that characters are to be learned. We must look to actions. From these I would teach you mine. Lopez, I am rich, and I am not heartless. You have bestowed on me the only kindness in your power. Do not be offended. I must not be numbered among the ungrateful. Your fortune must be restored. Deign, till we can bring that about, to let me be your banker." "There is nothing I have to wish for, on my own account," said Lopez; "but my dear girl, though still in the bloom of early youth, has for a long while been interrupted in her education. Poor darling, she has no associates of her own age and sex about her—no one to supply the place of a mother. The warmest affection of a father never can make up for wants like these." "I have an aunt," replied Fernando, "who inhabits Cazorla with her two daughters, both much about the age of your Inesilla. In this family are blended inexhaustible amiableness, enlightened religion, deep and varied acquirements. Deprived of the gifts of fortune, they have nothing to live on but a moderate pension, of which their virtues, the duties of humanity, and the claims of relationship, concur in rendering it imperative on me to force their acceptance. Cazorla is situated not far hence; just on the skirts of the Vega—a site of surpassing beauty. Go, yourself, in my name. Find my noble relation. Confide to her your Inesilla. Lopez, scarcely hearing him out, caught his hands, and bathed them with tears of gratitude. It was not long before Inesilla was conducted by her father, to the aunt of Fernando, from whom, and from her daughters, she received a most affectionate welcome; while Lopez, disabused of his prejudices against the world, regained his cottage, satisfied with himself and others, and silently and seriously resolved never more to think slightingly of human nature, and go often and see his daughter. One day he was pondering on his recollections of Fernando, on his delicate liberality, and on his profound proverb, when, casting his eyes unconsciously around, they rested upon a lowly tree, where a poor little orphan-dove, left alone ere the down had enough thickened to shield it from the evening chill, forsaken, as it was, by all nature, filled its forlorn nest with feeble wailings. At that moment, from the mighty summit of the Sierra Morena, a bird of prey(it was a vulture!)-outspreading his immense wings-pointed his flight downwards toward the lamenting dove, and for some time hung hovering above the tree which held her cradle. Lopez was instantly on the alert for means to rescue the helpless little victim, when he thought he could perceive that at the sight of the vulture, the infant dove ceased to moan, fluttered joyously, and stretched towards him her open beak. In truth, he really beheld, ere long, the terrible bird gently descending, charged with a precious booty, towards his baby protégée, and |