formerly a portion of the hay-loft, until converted into an occasional sleeping-room for the humble applicants who sometimes solicited a night's lodging at the Sandyholm. The ascent was by a crazy ladder, and so steep, that I was afraid we should find some difficulty in helping our feeble guest into his lodging.

It was my intention to have prevented him from getting a sight of the ghastly object that occupied his couch, but, pressing foremost, he ran up the ladder with surprising agility, gaining the top almost ere I had commenced my preperations for the ascent. I cautiously mounted, and giving him the light whilst I made good my landing, he went directly, though unconsciously, towards the bed. I had set my foot on the floor. and was affording assistance to Kate, who had to contend with the difficulties without the aid of her favourite lantern, when I heard a dismal and heartsickening shriek. Starting round, I beheld the stranger gazing on the couch, his eye-balls almost bursting from their sockets, and the most intense expression of horror and amazement visible in his countenance. I ran to him-the light dropped from his grasp. Recovering it ere it fell, I saw his eyes fixed upon the corps, as if they were riveted on its livid and terrific features. My limbs stiffened as I gazed,-imaginings of strange import were crowding on my mind, but I knew not how to shape the ideas into form, as I stood trembling and appalled, before the dark chaos from whence they sprang. Though scarce knowing what I said, I well remember what the inquiry that burst from my lips. 'Know'st though that murdered wretch?' The words were scarcely uttered, when the conscience-stricken criminal exclaimed---' Know him! ---Yesterday he sat at my helm--I had long owed him a grudge, and I vowed revenge--the devil prompted it---he stood at my elbow-it was dark---the fiend's eye flashed as I raised my arm for the blow-the weapon descended with a heavy crash, and the body rolled overboard! He never spoke again, save once, it was when his mangled carcase rose to the surface of the waters, that I heard a faint moan. It rang on my brain like the knell of death---the voice rushed past a low sepulchral shout---in my very ear it echoed the cry of MURDER!'

Little now remains to be told---he persisted to the last in this confession---he had no wish to live---and the avenging arm of retributive justice closed the world and its interests for ever on a wretch who had forfeited its protection, been cast out, and judged unworthy of a name and place amongst his fellow men.

THE DEBUTANTE.

She stood in all that bashful tenderness
Which marks a maiden's entrance to the world,
O'er her fair forehead wav'd each raven tress,
And down her neck in soft luxuriance curl'd,
Shading its whiteness-while her full dark eye
(Half hidden by its silken lash from sight)
Beam'd with expression-yet one might descry,
A pensive feeling mix'd with her young heart's delight!

Soft was her cheek and beautiful-the hue
Of the young rose-bud lightly vested there;
While many a wandering vein of deepest blue
Stray'd o'er hér brow of purest marble-where
No trace of stormy passion yet was seen-
No with ring marks, stamp'd by the hand of care;
Nought that the loveliest form might ill beseem,
Of blight or blemish dwelt upon a shrine so fair!

Such was the form that, vision like, came o'er The desert pathway of the scenes I trod; And many a ling'ring year must pass before (If e'er again) we pass life's stormy road An hour together-time will then have chang'd The bloom and freshness of that fair young brow; And, more then all, that guileless mind estrang'd From the pure saint-like thoughts that make it lovely now! How many a form, that meets now in the gloom Of this dark world, and cheers the passing hour,. Must fade away, and lose its sunny bloom Ere we again behold it!-like the flower Whose buds at morning woo the pilgrims eyes, And fill the air with sweetness-till the shower Or mid day sun hath touch'd it!—then it lies A drooping, fading thing, beneath the twilight skies! And such a fate is Woman's. What so fair So pure and lovely, as her morning primeEre the heart's blight, or cankering touch of care, Hath done the work of the destroyer, Time, And stol'n away her freshness-ere the hour Has come, that comes to all things-when Decay (The universal foe) asserts his power, And sweeps with ruthless stroke youth, beauty-all away! Mrs. B. C. Wilson.

A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. BY ALEXANDER SUTHERLAND.

The wind is high on Helle's wave,
As on that night of stormy water,
When Love, who sent, forgot to save
The young, the beautiful, the brave,
The lonely hopes of Sestos daughter.

Bride of Abydos. "SHE will come at last: I am sure she will come, though all the bolts and bars in Brittany should intervene to keep us asunder. On such a night-the last I shall pass in France for many, many monthsshe cannot, will not, disappoint me. O Renée, dear and long-loved, Heaven speed the ship that brings me back to bear you away from this shore for ever!"

The soliloquist, a young Englishman, was pacing impatiently to and fro under the shadow of a high wall which surrounded an extensive garden in the environs of St. Servan. He was closely muffled in a boat-cloak; but the outline of a manly and symmetrical figure was distinguishable: and the glance which he ever and anon directed to a small casement in a summer-house that commanded a view of the spot he was traversing, expressed the independence and fire of a lofty character. The last gleam of day yet lingered in the west; but towards the zenith, the stars sparkled in multitudes. A thousand lamps glimmered among the dusky roofs of St. Marlo, which, in that dim twilight, resembled a mighty mural pyramid piled up on the bosom of the sea. The monotonous lashing of the billows on the seaward ramparts smote mournfully on the ear; but blended with their incessant roar were many cheerier sounds. The shouts and laughter of the groups of merry boatmen, who beset the Dinantgate, swept over the still waters in the inner basin; the watch dog's faithful bark came encouragingly from many a distant orchard and tobacco field: and the faint tinkling of a guitar floated at intervals on the breeze. But the young Englishman lingered not there to watch for star or lamp, not to listen to watch dog's bay or guitar's tingle. A pair of bright eyes, looking down from the casement of the summer-house; a sweet voice murmuring "Edward," was the only sight or sound that his soul desired. He was to depart

escape, and deposit it in the hollow tree.

Trust to my finding it within twelve hours after you have placed it there, and also my strictly adhering to any instructions it may contain. I shall visit the tree every day during your absence; and when you come at last, neither wall nor rock shall intimidate me. Your boat will quickly bear us beyond the batteries of San Malo; and once on board your gallant ship, I shall bid my cross aunt, old Duchesnois, and even dear Bretagne itself, farewell with a joyful heart. England and Edward shall then be all the world to me. But"and her voice faltered" if you return not Edward, before the leaves of next spring are sear on the hollow linden, return no more. I shall be a nun, or in my grave."

"If Heaven grants me life," said the Englishman vehemently, "I will return long, long before that period. It is a romantic project, my Renée; but fortune leaves us none more feasible. In the convent, you will, in the interim, be exempted from the persecution of Duchesnois; and mine be the care to rescue you from a living death within its walls. Often, often, when far away, rocked on the salt sea, or lingering perforce in merry England shall I think of the linden tree, and the gate of Sainte Anne!"

“And of the chapel at the vesper hour, Edward,” said the simple girl; "and the beautiful shrines, with their many tapers burning lonely and silently; and the choral hymn and solemn responses, that rise night and morning from behind the dark bars that interpose between a nun and the world, for ever."

"Of all, of all," said the Englishman. "They shall constantly be present to my mind. At matin and at vesper hour, my heart shall be inseparably with Renée."

66

And now," said Renée, "since we fully understand each other, I must hasten back to my chamber without delay. To tarry lenger with you would only risk discovery of our plans, and perchance lead to a perpetual separation. Hark! I am Hark! I am sure I hear my name shouted by some one in the garden. It is that prying minion, Jeanette; I must fly. Adieu, friend of my heart! Remember Renée !"

"One kiss of that white hand," said the lover, “and then I vanish." He waited not for permission, but made a sudden spring, and caught hold of the frame of the window. Renée was startled, but not displeased, and not only granted the boon he desired, but a still more indubitable token of affection. A shrill voice at the very door of the summer-house, calling on Mademoiselle Renée, warned him not to linger, however great might be the temptation; ́and he dropped down from the window as suddenly as he had vaulted up to it. Ere he had time to recover himself, the casement closed, and Renée had vanished.

Time rolled on. The leaves on the hollow lindentree opened under the genial influence of spring, lived through a long parching summer, and, in the first days of autumn, began to turn sear and die. All was bustle and triumph in the convent of Sainte Anne, for a novice of great beauty and rank was about to dedicate herself to the special service of Heaven, at its altar. No news could have been more interesting to the inhabitants of St. Servan-no ceremony cause a greater exultation among the antiquated sisterhood, who, one

and all, derived a malicious, perhaps it ought in charity to be called a holy gratification, from witnessing an addition to their number. Old Baron Dugas, who had eaten horse-flesh in Russia, in the absence of better fare, along with the " Emperor," and who regularly displayed his star of the Legion of Honour and Cross of St. Lazare once a day in the Grand Place, had his faded uniform brushed up for the occasion. Monsieur Le Brun, the wine-merchant sent to St. Heliers for a new bonnet for his English lady, in order that she might appear as gay as her more recently expatriated countrywomen; and Madame Le Roi, who lets chambres garnies during her husband's absence at the Newfoundland cod-fishing, was full twenty-four hours in arranging her coif. Multitudes poured in from the adjacent country: some from Dinar, on the opposite bank of the Rance: some from Cançale of oyster-gorging celebrity; some from St. Suliac, St. Jouan, and St. Pere; and some even from Dol and Chateauneuf, with the venerable marquis at their head. The English, heretics though they were, did not escape the infection. Madame Banko, with a galaxy of beauty in her wake, swept down like a bird of paradise from the princely chateau of Versailles: some scores of captains, naval and military, followed, each with a wife, and some with a couple of daughters tucked to their skirts. Even honest Pat Heatly, himself was routed out of his den in the college, where, being but a "boy" of fifty, he had voluntarily incarcerated himself for the purpose of completing his education. It was a fête-day, in short, at St. Servan; and the whole population, natives and foreigners, were equally alert to partake of the amusement which the immolation of a beautiful girl at the shrine of bigotry was expected to afford.

All hearts, however, are not equally selfish and cold. There were individuals, who, notwithstanding their respect for an intolerant creed, did not scruple to lament, that one so young, and so eminently formed to shed joy around her, should be destined to pine her life away in conventual solitude. Some even went so far as to aver, that she would not approach the altar a living victim-that her heart was sad even unto death at the prospect before her, and that at vespers, her low and plaintive voice echoed through the dim aisles like the song of a prisoned bird. Whether such were really the case the austere sisterhood best could tell; but though they might suspect that she bewailed her destiny, they could not comprehend the extent of her grief. They knew not, that, early and late, she had visited the hollow linden-tree-that she had watched with humid eyes the leaves on it unfold and perish; but had watched in vain for the return of her English lover. She thought him cruel-hearted-faithless; and, with the gloomy resignation of despair, prepared to take the vows that were to rend asunder every link that bound her to the world.

But on the day preceding that which had been appointed for her profession, a wonderful change took place in her deportment. Some friends, who attended in the chapel at vespers, affirmed, that they could distinguish her voice in the choir benind the grate, much fuller and sweeter than they had ever heard it before; and this, of course, was sagaciously attributed to inspiration, and a foretaste of that solemn and uncloying happiness, which the priests described as awaiting her

i

In her sanctified vocation. Even the cunning sisterhood, albiet deeply experienced in the art of fathoming the depths of unsophisticated hearts, knew not how to account otherwise for so miraculous a change. Little did they dream that the novice, instead of contemplating with holy serenity and joy the approaching ceremony, was actually meditating flight with her English lover, and perpetual exile from her native country. On that morning she had paid what she had intended should be her last visit to the hollow lindentree. She went to it with a faltering pace and desponding heart, for the idea of Edward's inconstancy and cruel desertion filled her fond breast with unutterable grief; but she returned to her cell with a bounding step, and joyously-panting bosom; for in the cavity which she had so often searched in vain, she had found the long-expected letter from her truant knight. Her Edward-and tears filled her beautiful eyes while she read his fond epistle-was as devoted and faithful as woman could desire. Insuperable obstacles had occurred to prevent him from returning sufficiently soon to redeem his promise,-and bitterly had he bewailed them: but he had arrived at last with a stout vessel in the offing; and, provided she were still contented to share his fortunes, would be at the lindentree at midnight to bear her away.

Renée laid the blessed letter close to her beating heart, that pure heart whose every beat was love. Never had the hours appeared so leaden-winged as on this eventful day. She thought the lazy sun was miraculously arrested in his course, and that he would never sink beyond the bluff precipices of Cape Frehal. Her little head was half crazed by the many plans successively invented and rejected, as to the manner in which she was to elude the vigilance of the sisterhood, and effect her liberation; for a huge door intervened between the cloister and the gardens, which was regularly locked at vespers, and the key as regularly consigned to the custody of the lady abbess. Renée was a favorite with the old lady, and frequently remained in her apartment, for the purpose of talking and reading her to sleep, long after the less favoured sisterhood had retired to repose. On this evening she prayed with fervency that her services might not be dispensed with; and fortune for once proved propitious. The abbess was more than usually garrulous,-talked over the levities in which she had indulged when a belle at the court of Marie Antoinette, with more pleasure than repentance, sipped an extra demi tasse of undiluted eau-de-vie, and then dropped into a lethargic dose.

Renée felt the crisis of her fate had arrived, for the important key was now completely at her discretion. She took possession of it the moment the old dame began to sound her nasal trumpet; and without lamp or taper, stole noiselessly from the room, along the dark passages that led to the oaken barrier. The lock of the door was obdurate; but love lent unusual strength to her delicate fingers, ann the key at length revolved in the wards. To prevent immediate pursuit, in case her flight should be discovered before she had time to descend the cliffs, she relocked the door on the outside, and then darted like a newly liberated dove towards the hollow linden-tree. As she approached it, a dark figure reared itself on the other side of the garden wall, which was built on the verge of a lofty cliff overhanging the Rance. "Edward!"" Renée !"

-were the only words that passed between them, ere the arms of her admiring lover were twined around her. Alas, that such a tale should end in tears! They held but short colloquy in the garden, for every moment was pregnant with danger, as lights were already blazing in almost every window of the convent. Edward assisted her to scale the garden wall, and supported her, not without imminent peril to both, down the precipitous steep, to the brink of the river. The wind blew fiercely from the south; the thunder rattled in interminable peals directly overhead; and the Rance, hurrying to the sea with the rapidity of a torrent, sent forth an ominious moan. Renée shuddered at the fury of the wind and the irresistable gush of the water. She knew that they must venture in a frail boat far into the open bay, and her womanly heart foreboded disaster; but she dared not, wished not, to falter in her progress. The Englishman, though seriously apprehensive himself, endeavoured to reassure her, and in some measure succeeded. Two stout British sailors manned the boat, and a dear friend and countryman, who had been his companion in many an enterprise of danger, sat at the helm. Edward lost no time in lifting the shrinking girl into the boat; and the rowers instantly stretched to their duty.

Though the wind blew tempestuously, there was neither foam-bell nor billow on the Rance. The stream shot down like an arrow; and no sooner were they fairly exposed to its strength, than they were borne along with frightful velocity. Edward knew that rocks were scattered in their course, and he whispered to the steersman to hold nearer to the western bank, while, at the same time, he endeavoured to keep a sharp look. out ahead; but the helm was powerless in such a current; and no human glance could penetrate the murky chaos into which they were darting. In the mouth of the harbour of St. Servan, there lies a low rock, round which the outsetting tide sweeps with terrific violence. On that rock the unfortunate boat was dashed. The sentinel who on that night kept watch at the arsenal, heard one loud, long shriek, rise from the bosom of the river, and. mingle with the blast. He looked steadfastly over the swelling waters, and beheld by the, lightning's gleam, human faces lifted for an instant above the flood. He listened and looked again; but heard only the sullen gush of the river, as it rolled on in blackness, and saw only the ragged rocks that shoot up through its bosom.

At an early hour on the following morning, the chapel of Sainte Anne was crowded with hundreds of spectators, anxious to witness the profession of the young novice. Many a fair face was turned up in prayer at the minor shrines: many a young Breton endeavoured to penetrate, with his keen glance, the sanctuary that lay beyond the garnd altar. The chapel was fitted up with unusual splendour. Relics of miraculous virtue covered every shrine: massive crucifixes of silver were ostentatiously displayed; and innumerable perfumed tapers, and censers filled with incense, sent up a rich odour to heaven. For a time, the multitude remained in silent expectation. Several of the attendant priests, in gorgeous sacerdotal robes, knelt before the grand altar, momentarily crossing themselves with devout gesticulations. At length, a priest entered from the nunnery, and held some conversation, in an under tone, with his

brethren. While he spoke, a general stare of surprise and dismay was visible on the countenance of all who heard him, They crossed themselves more frequently than ever, and piteously turned up their eyes in consternation and wonder. The congregation were impatient to obtain a solution of this mumery; but an habitual reverence for the place and the performers, restrained any indecorous expressions. At length, the most venerable of the holy fraternity advanced, and, in a voice of trepidation, stated, that a mysterious circumstance had occured to postpone, if not altogether to prevent, the ceremony which his hearers had congregated to witness. The novice had been spirited away during the night: whether by the agents of heaven or hell he could not take upon himself to decide; but he sincerely trusted, for her own sake, and the honour of Sainte Anne, that she had been esteemed worthy of the special interposition of Heaven, as there was good reason to conclude that her sojourn on earth had terminated. Her veil, and part of her drapery, had been discovered adhering to the thorns and brambles that vegetated in the crevices of the precipice at the extremity of the garden; and various other circumstances conspired to strengthen the supposition, that she had found a grave in the Rance. The congregation listened, in mute amazement, to the priestly harangue; crossed themselves sympathetically with the speaker; and then hurried out of the chapel, in order to give unrestrained vent to the conjectures and regrets which such an extraordinary incident was calculated to awaken. .

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The fate of Renée Duchastel remained a mystery to the inhabitants of St. Servan for ten days, At the expiration of that period, the waters of the Rance gave up their victim. Her corpse was washed ashore on the western bank of the river, near the little village of Dinar; and, on being identified, was carried, under the superintendance of the priests, to the convent of Sainte Anne. Some ungenerous doubts were promulgated respecting the mode in which she had met her death; but the sisterhood, alarmed for the credit of their establishment, declared that she had on many occasions, manifested a tendency to somnambulism ; and every sincere christian, therefore, was bound to believe that she had wandered into the garden in her sleep, and from thence inadvertently stepped over the cliff into the river. A swarm of priests supported this asseveration with all their influence, strenuously avering, she had died in the odour of sanctity; and, as no person who trembled at the idea of excommunication dared to gainsay them, her remains, after having received all the purification, that religious ceremonials could effect, were interred in the adjacent cemetary, where a black cross still marks her grave. But of her English lover no trace was ever discovered, Man knows not where his limbs decayed: whether they gorged the monsters of the deep, in caverns covered eternally by the waves; or were stripped by birds of prey, in some solitary bay of that tide-worn coast. He who narrates their tale of love and death, was a friend and confederate of Edward; the companion who, on that eventful night, acted as steersman of the ill-fated bark in which they perished, and the only one of all on board who escaped the grasp of death. The boat was staved and overwhelmed at the instant that her prow touched the rock. The survivor heard but one shriek-the shriek of Renée-ere he found himself struggling companionless in the torrent. A stout and expert swimmer, he combated successfully with the tide;

NO. XXXIV.-VOL. III.

and, by great exertion, reached the shore. Apprehensive of the consequences, should the share he had in this disastrous enterprise be discovered by the authorities, he sought shelter with an English gentleman, resident at St. Servan, to whom he was partially known; and through this friendly interposition, was enabled to elude detection, and satisfy the police regarding his mysterious arrival in France. The melancholy termination of his friend's adventure naturally prepossesed him against the country in which it happened; and he availed himself of the earliest opportunity to depart. He remained long enough, however, to ascertain that all search for the body of Edward was in vain; and to see the last obsequies celebrated over the grave of hapless youth and beauty. Tales of a Pilgrim.

Adien! enjoy the pleasant hours,
Find other hearts to fling away;
Thy life is in its time of flowers,
Gather May-garlands while 'tis May!
Oh till thy dreary day draws in,

And Winter darkens o'er thy heart,
And Memory's phantom forms begin
To take a wounded spirit's part,
Adieu !

Adieu! thy beauty is the bow

That keeps the tempest from the sky, And all too bright upon thy brow,

A sign that must so surely die!
These drops--the last for thee-are shed,
To know that there will not be one
To love thee when its light is fled,

To shield thee when the storm comes on!
Adieu!

J

Adieu! oh! wild and worthless all,

The heart that wakes this last farewell!
Why for a thing like thee-should fall
My harpings like a passing bell?
Why should my soul and song be sad?
Away; I fling thee from my heart,
Back to the selfish and the bad,
With whom thou hast thy fitter part!
Adieu!

Adien! and may thy dreams of me
Be poison in thy brain and breast,

And hope be lost in memory,

And memory mar thy prayer for rest! Why seeks my soul a gentler strain? For thee my heart be henceforth mute,— Never to wake thy name again, Thou stranger to my love and lute! Adieu!

A FAMILY GROUP.

A SKETCH.

"BEHOLD that jolly-looking farmer and his family approaching up the green lane that leads from their habitation, that old substantial-looking farm-house yonder, half embowered in its guardian elms.

T