of a mother, which nature has implanted in the breast of all women, seemed to be forgotten, and the only evidence she gave of her consciousness of coming anguish, was to forbid any summons being sent to Lord Delmaine. Alone, with only the faithful nurse of her childhood, did she give birth to the heir of Delmaine and Oxenham, and from that moment every gleam of mental light van despatched to Lord Delmaine with the tidings, and the timid servants waited in stupid terror for his arrival, to free them from the responsible charge of the mad Lady of Oxenham. them, but he had no idea that duty required him to watch over the excitable nature of his young wife, and to guard her from disappointment and sorrow. He was a good natured, careless, fashionable husband, and with a woman of worldly character, might have managed to live in peace, if not happiness. But he had chosen a wife whose morbid feelings had been cherished in solitude-whose imagination had always exceeded her judg-ished from her mind. A messenger was immediately ment-who had never learned the mystic lore of the human heart. To such a woman, his neglect and indifference, his careless manner, and frequent absence from home, seemed the height of cruelty and insult. She brooded over wrongs in secret, and met him too often with murmurs and reproaches. The passionate nature of her race existed in full vigor in the fragile form of the last of the family, and the very strength of her affection for her husband, gave new bitterness to her anger at his estrangement. Lord Delmaine was incapable of comprehending fully the character of his susceptible wife; he knew not upon how nice a balance hung the faculties of her mind, or, it may be hoped, he would have been || less careless of exciting her restless and moody spirit. He encountered her sorrow with indifference, her reproaches with anger, and finally wearied with the daily excitements of so stormy a life, Mary determined to return to the loneliness of Oxenham Hall. Lord Delmaine would scarcely have consented so readily to her desire, had he known that the darling wish of his heart-the birth of an heir, which could alone ensure to him the future possession of the Oxenham estates, was so near its fulfilment. But there was no longer any confidence between the husband and wife, and he saw her depart with scarce a semblance of regret. It was late in the evening when Lord Delmaine reached the town of Oakhampton, and leaving his retinue, he rode rapidly forward with but one attendant, towards Oxenham. The birth of a son, the wished-for heir of his honors and estates, had touched the heart of the man of fashion, and awakened kindly feelings towards the mother. He thought of her earnest affection, of her visionary temper, of her tendency to moody melancholy, and while he reproached himself for past unkindness, he determined, for the future, to make her comfort one of the studies of his life. Absorbed in such thoughts, he rode rapidly forward until he reached the park gate, and as the servant dismounted to arouse the porter at the lodge, he looked anxiously in the direction of Oxenham Hall. The walls of the stately building rose dark and scarce-defined against the black and cloudy sky, a faint light glimmered in the window of one of the offices occupied by the servants, but the left wing of the Hall, usually appropriated to the sleeping apartments of the family, was in total darkness. He was in the act of alighting, intending to walk up the long avenue, lest the trampling of his horse should awaken his slumbering wife, when he was startled by a sudden burst of light— and in an instant Oxenham Hall was enveloped in flames. Dashing forward, Lord Delmaine beheld the servants rushing from the great porch, and the next moment all was confusion and terror. The alarm-bell was rung, and all hurried to the rescue of the inmates of the blazing mansion. 64 Lady Delmaine-my wife-where is she?" gasped Lord Delmaine, as he staggered into the midst of the terrified group. It was with sad and troubled feelings that the Lady of Oxenham entered once more within the walls of the home which she had left a happy and loving bride. The omens which had saddened her spirit in the days of her childhood, had, many of them, been fulfilled, and others seemed verging towards their accomplishment. She believed that the curse had fallen upon her, and felt herself doomed to complete the circle of destruction. || To her wandering mind, every thing seemed corroborative of the ancient prophecy, and she looked forward to the birth of her child as the period of its final fulfilment. The apartments of Oxenham Hall, haunted by old traditions of the Dark Ladye, and the wicked John, and filled with the rich remains of the splendors which the wealth of the Indian bride had furnished, the grim portraits which hung upon the walls, the still grimmer figures which looked down from the ancient tapestry, all were calculated to deepen the melancholy which was fast settling over the mind of the lonely wife. Old legends, old tales of horror, old prophecies, old stories of fearful martyrdom were the subjects of her moody meditations; and as day after day passed on, in sickness of heart, and wandering of intellect, the light of reason faded slowly away. Yet it was only by slight tokens that this daring on the deep embrasure of a lofty window, was a kening of the spirit was indicated. The servants looked on her with a minged feeling of awe and pity; they knew not whether she was giving expression to a chafed spirit, or to the vagaries of madness. Even the feelings All were silent-each had thought only of his own safety. Rushing into the midst of the flames, Lord Delmaine groped his way amid the dense smoke, towards the apartment of his wife, but the fierce flame met him as he advanced, and opposed his entrance. Thrice did he attempt to force his way amid falling rafters and blazing fragments, but his efforts were vain, and at length, scorched with the fire, and exhausted with his exertions, he was dragged out of the building by his faithful servant, who supported his sinking frame to the spot where the rest had sought safety. At that instant a cry of horror burst from the assembled group. Stand figure clad in white, clasping in one arm a shapeless mass that bore some resemblance to a muffled infant, and brandishing aloft a burning brand. As the red light shone on the loose night-dress and long black locks of the singular apparition, the features of the Lady of Oxenham were distinctly visible. Her eyes gleamed with the wild glare of insanity, and the tones of her voice rang loud and clear above the crackling of the fire and the turmoil of the night, as she cried, "It is the martyrdom of fire! the curse is fulfilled-the broken vow expiated!" "Save her! save her!" exclaimed the unhappy Lord Delmaine, "half my fortune shall be the reward of him who rescues her." But life was dearer than wealth, and not one could be found willing to brave such certain death. It was but a moment that the chance of safety was afforded to the unhappy lady. With a wild cry she suddenly sprang from the casement into the very midst of the flames which rose fiercely beneath her, and at the same instant a large bird whose snowy breast gleamed brightly in the red light of the burning pile, rose slowly from the tower of the old Hall, and wheeling thrice above the spot where the lady had disappeared, soared aloft, and vanished from the view. No one ever knew how the dreadful calamity occurred. They who alone could have told-the crazed mother and the aged nurse, fell victims to the destroying elements. The body of the unfortunate Lady of Oxenham was found amid the ruins, blackened and charred with fire, but still clasping to her bosom the remains of her babe. It was universally believed, however, that in a paroxysm of insanity, the last of the race of Oxenham had fulfilled the curse which had doomed them to extinction. The estates subsequently lapsed to the and the white bird of Oxenham has never since been seen; but the legend is still remembered among the inhabitants of Devonshire, and the ruins of Oxenham are still shunned as haunted and unholy ground. crown, NOTE. The preceding tale is founded upon an allusion to a legend which I found in Mrs. Bray's Traditions of Devonshire. "There is a family," says Prince, speaking of Oxenham, in his Worthies of Devon "of considerable standing of this name, at South Tawton, near Oakhampton, in this county, of which this strange and wonderful thing is recorded: that at the death of any of them, a bird, with a white breast, is seen, for a while, fluttering about their beds, and then to suddenly vanish away." The letter of King Charles II., which I have quoted, is taken from an autograph copy, now in my possession, of one addressed by him to Lady Shirley, on the death of her husband in the tower. Original. TO A PORTRAIT. BEHOLD! The limned features of my lady love, How beautiful, how bright-the dark blue eyes In sportive rapture by the wings of heaven. TREBOR. Original. THE DEATH OF A FAWN. BY WILLIAM C. RICHARDS. CLOSE on the border of a wood, Gemmed with the radiant flowers of spring, A bright-eyed fawn approached the brink, WE all, in every state, have our sufferings, but of none is the condition so abject, that he may not find grounds of consolation, and discern the merciful finger of the Omnipotent pointing out to him a place of rest, of happiness unmixed, of everlasting peace. Origina his voice to be taken on board. Still the boat kept SKETCHES IN THE WEST.-No. XIV. on, and I saw it was the intention of the captain to give BY THE AUTHOR OF LAFITTE,' CAPT. KYD,' ETC. him a long chase. He run for about a quarter of a mile, casting the most appealing looks towards the boat, when he came to the mouth of a deep creek, thirty feet broad. We thought his race was now terminated, and he evidently thought so himself, for clasping his hands together in despair as he saw the water, he stood still; when the captain sung out" Run round the creek! Why don't you run round it!" At this moment, his eye lighted on a pirogue on the shore, and jumping into it he pushed across to the opposite bank, and again continued his course. The steamer had got some distance above him during his delay at the creek, and throwing away his string of onions, as he leaped ashore, he pressed forward with renewed vigor, every now and then, waving his hand and shouting. At length, he untied his handkerchief, and out rolled a loaf of bread, biscuits, apples and sausages, and thus lightened, he seemed to run better. He was now full a mile from his starting post, and yet the boat We have been sailing all day through delightful scenery, made up of hills covered to their tops with noble forest trees, or pleasant intervals, spread between them and the river, with over-hanging cliffs, wooded islands, and occasional peeps through the openings in the hills, of a pleasant country beyond. Our boat moves through the water with undiminished velocity, and so far, has accomplished the quickest trip ever made from Saint Louis, and in all probability, she will arrive at Louisville at the time set, that is, fifty-two hours from her departure from Saint Louis. It is amusing to see how all on board, from the captain to the youngest cabinboy, enter into the spirit of the occasion. It is the general talk; and all, including passengers, are as anxious to perform the quickest trip ever made, as if each were interested in a large stake. Bets of money, segars, oyster suppers, and " 'drinks," have passed between the passengers-while the cabin-boys bet jack-showed no signs of stopping for him. Still on he came, knives and circus tickets, to be paid at Louisville. evidently dragging his legs through the mud, climbing Every half-hour, one of them, a litte dirty-faced, brushover bogs, forcing his way through bushes, growing very headed urchin, comes to me, or some other passenger, much fatigued. He bared his head and began to fan asking, "what 'tis o'clock," and evincing as much himself as he ran, with his hat; next off came his coat, interest in the race, as if he had a purse of at least five and then his shoes. With all these auxiliaries to his dollars upon it. Two barrows, or iron trucks, loaded speed, it was apparent from the heavy dragging of his with chain-cables, are placed on the forecastle, and one legs, the open mouth, and his general weariness of manor two men are constantly moving them from side to side ner, that his strength was failing him. We had all now to keep the boat in trim; they have been at this all the become interested in the luckless victim. The ladies way from Saint Louis, and have worn already, quite a thronged the guards, pitied him, and wondered the captrack in the deck, by the ceaseless rolling of these iron-tain "could be so cruel;" the gentlemen at first enjoyed laden cars. The mate is active in keeping an equal it and considered it a good joke, but they now began to number of passengers on each side of the boat, or else feel that it had become too serious, and desired the capdriving them to the centre; the doors opening on to the tain to take him on board; the deck hands hurrahed at guards are locked, to keep persons from going upon every good leap he made over a log or a ditch, and them to destroy the boat's trim. "Stand a little this laughed unfeelingly as he at length tottered, from over way, gentlemen, if you please-now look out you deck At length it became evident that the passengers, there, keep off that lower guard !-Stand a poor fellow was actually knocked up, for he appeared little in, gentlemen, stand a little in,-pitch in the wood, about to throw himself on the ground several times, but boys, lively now, lively!" assail the ears every few as often nerving himself to renewed exertions, and then moments. In vain, passengers on shore wave their hand- the boat was stopped and the yawl sent ashore for himkerchiefs and white flags, and shout for the boat to He was so weak when the boat came along side, that the heave to and take them on board; a deaf ear and a blind sailors had to assist him on board. "Now, confound eye are turned to these appeals, and steadily and swiftly,you," said one of the men, as he helped him in, “I turning neither to the right hand nor to the left, we Comment on move onward. We were compelled to stop for a few moments at a small town in Kentucky, when one of the deck passengers hastened to a groggery to get some supplies. During his absence, (and it was not of a minute's duration,) the boat started and was ten feet from the shore when he came in sight. "Stop, captain, stop!" he shouted, running to the shore with a bunch of onions in one hand and a handkerchief full of something in the other. "Now you lazy lubber!" replied the mate, "you may run for it. What in the d-1 had you to do ashore ?" "Do stop, captain, do," cried the man in a low, plaintive tone. The captain seemed not to hear him, the boat moved along the shore at increasing speed, and the man run along the bank, shouting at the top of exertion. reckon you'll not be left behind again." The modes of wooding on the Ohio and the Mississippi differ. On the latter, boats approach the shore and receive their wood from the bank; on the Ohio, before all the wood-yards are to be found long narrow flat boats, holding from twenty to thirty cords, ready loaded: the steamer runs along side of one of these, takes it in tow, and while she is still underweigh, the wood is transfered from one boat to the other. Sometimes these boats are towed up four or five miles, when they are cast off with the two woodmen who attend them, and suffered to float back to the place from which they were taken. This is a great saving of time and labor. The strength of the current of the Mississippi, and the difficulty of managing boats on that river, render the adoption of this convenient mode of wooding, altogether impossible. We came very near running into a flatboat this afternoon; it lay directly across the channel, and was manned by three or four country-merchant looking youths, in broadcloth frocks and long-tailed coats. The boat was new, and it was very evident the men were new. The awkward manner in which they handled their long paddles excited the merriment and derision of some regular, hard old flatboatmen, standing on the forecastle of our steamer. "I could cut a better man out of a shingle than that are long coated chap," said one. "I say, strangers," called out another, "which o'you long tails is the preacher?" "Hand that paddle here," said a third, through his nose, "and I'll give it to my old woman to stir homminy with, for I'll be shot if you know whether it is a wooden ladle or a paddle you're got hold on." "I," said another, "should'nt be astonished to see him take it to stir up his "It would make a first chop sugar-spoon." grog with." (The paddle which was the subject of these remarks, was at least thirty feet long, constructed of a single, straight tree, with two planks nailed on to one end to give it breadth as a paddle.) After the flatboat had got out of the way, more by the help of the current than the green crew, an old pilot near me, (who like all pilots had once flatboated,) said-" How scared them chaps looked when they saw us coming right on to 'um! I don't wonder they did'nt know what they were about. When I was flatboating, I'd as lieve see the old one himself, hoofs, horns, forked tail and all, coming, as a steamboat, snorting and blowing enough to scare a human critter out of a year's growth." Original. TO A YOUNG LADY. YOUNG maiden let the lily be, An emblem of Life's flower in thee; Pure as its bud ere sun or dew, Have oped its leaves of virgin hue. And when the lily bends its head, To mingle with the garden's dead, J. H. I. Original. SONG. BY MRS. EMELINE S. SMITH. THE dream of existence is blissful and bright How chang'd is the vision when Time hurries on, Then the sunbeams from Hope's fairy landscape are gone, And then like a stream which the wind-spirit wakes, 'Tis well, since we're speeding away to the tomb, Too dear to our heart they would be. Original. SPRING. BY THE REV. J. H. CLINCH. As hope to the heart And billows of care, Even so the soft breathings of Spring, Over Earth their blest influence fling. As light to the sailor When tossed on the wave, As life to the suff'rer Condemned to the grave,Even so falls the light of the Spring On the shadows of Winter's wing. And thus when the soul It receives for Earth's Winter and pain, A bliss which no sorrow can stain. Boston, Mass. 283 Original. THE SECRET CONFESSION. BY MRS. CAROLINE ORNE. "Now Peggy," said Hannah Matson, addressing her sister-in-law, "I can see no reason in your taking on so because Mrs. Ray's child is dead. You had better by half leave off crying and come and help me to fold these clothes, and get them ready for ironing, so as to earn something to get your own child warm, comfortable clothing for the winter, that is fast coming upon us." Mrs. Matson, instead of heeding this remonstrance, broke out into a fresh agony of tears. When she had become a little calmer, "You have never been to Mr. Ray's," said she, "as often as I have and seen what a pretty creature little Eliza was, or you would cry too." "The child was well enough," replied Hannah, "but not a quarter part so handsome as your Betsey would be if she could be dressed out in as fine clothes as Elizabeth used to be." "You don't consider that I nursed her, and had the whole care of her for full three months. I loved her as if she had been my own child." A little better, I should think, for in my opinion you never treated Betsey as a child ought to be treated." Mrs. Matson made no reply, but moved backwards and forwards with a rocking motion in her chair, more violently than before. The door now opened, and a child about eight years old, meanly clad, entered with a basket in her hand filled with chips. She went to Hannah, and said in a whisper, "Mr. Giles says he cannot let mother have any more chips unless she pays him a higher price, but I am afraid to tell her." "I will tell her myself, dear," replied her aunt, stooping down and kissing her pale cheek. "Now go sit down and rest yourself, the basket was too heavy for you." The child raised her large, beautiful eyes to her aunt's face filled with tears, threw her arms round her neck and returning the caress, cast a timid glance towards her mother, and then whispered,-"I am very hungry." Hannah cut a slice from a brown loaf, which the child took and sat down where she could not be observed by her. mother, who, however, had apparently paid no attention to her entrance. After the lapse of ten or fifteen minutes, she beckoned her sister to approach her. was perceptible in her sickly countenance, as she tied on her gingham bonnet. As her aunt looked at her little bare feet," Poor child," said she, "it is almost too cold for you to go without shoes, and I hope if Mrs. White observe you have none, she will give you an old pair that were Eliza's." "I have something to reveal to you, Hannah," said Mrs. Matson, as soon as the child was gone, "but you must first make a solemn promise, that you will never mention it to a single person as long as I live." "Indeed, Peggy, you behave so very strange, that I fear that you have something to reveal, which it would be wrong to keep secret." "You may do as you like, but I will never tell a word 'till you promise solemnly never to say aught about it 'till after I am gone. No, Hannah, though the weight of it sink me to the grave, I will tell on no other condi tions." "Well, Peggy, I will promise then." "That won't do. Here, lay your hand on this bible, and say, that you will never hint, in the most distant manner, what I am going to tell you." Hannah, whose curiosity was strongly excited, rested her trembling hand upon the sacred volume, and solemnly and deliberately gave the required promise. "You think it very strange," said she, after burying her face in her hands for a few moments, as if summoning resolution to commence, "that I should make so much ado because little Eliza is dead-but Hannah, she was my own child." "What do you mean? I believe you are not in your right mind." "Yes I am, though there is enough to make me otherwise. You know that Mrs. Ray lay at the point of death for several days, and that she was too weak for a long time to bear the noise of the child in the room. There were only three weeks difference in the age of her child and mine, and hers, when six weeks old, was rather the largest. A sore temptation came over me one night, as I sat all alone watching them, and I tried to get rid of it, but the more I tried, the harder I was beset. It was nearly midnight before I undressed the children, and when I did, I exchanged their night-clothes. The next morning I returned to again exchange their clothing, and by feigning them to be asleep always for several days, when any person came into the room, I escaped being detected, though Mrs. White, who still lives in the family, did say one day, that she thought Eliza had grown very homely. As no one cared about seeing the child they thought was mine, I had little trouble in preventing it from being seen, for being very quiet, it would lie covered in bed, even when awake, without crying. When I returned home, I took with me Eliza Ray, and I vainly thought I should left my own child in her room. be happy if I could see her brought up as a rich man's daughter, but 1 have never known a moment's peace since. Often when I used to go to Mr. Ray's and offer to kiss the child, or even take hold of her hand, she would shrink away from me, as if I were too coarse looking to touch her, and I can tell you, Hannah, it was Betsey rose with alacrity, and a gleam of pleasure a cruel thing to a mother's heart to be an object of dis "That child," said she, in a low whisper, "must go away from here,-I cannot bear the sight of her any longer." "What can you mean?" inquired Hannah. "Make some excuse to send her away a little while, and I will tell you. If she should catch a word, I am ruined." "If you are rested Betsey," said her aunt, "you may go to Mr. Ray's, and ask Mrs. White, if she would like to have you do some errands-there must be a great many to do, I think." |