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Chadstow, was even then instigating them to treasonable measures. Vaucler then persuaded the king to dispatch a secret commission to Curborough, where the family then resided, to satisfy his grace whether the fugitive princess were there, or, at all events, to possess themselves of the knight's papers. Sir Gilbert himself undertook to lull all suspicion, by proceeding to join the Black Priest at Chadstow, and by dispatching missives to Sir Oliver, which would withdraw him from Curborough on the night when the commission was to arrive.

(To be continued.)

the reader for a moment behind the scene, and to state that Sir Gilbert Vaucler, (one of the most accomplished traitors of a period when treason was a science), had quitted Calais at the request of King Edward, who was now little better than a suspicious tyrant, and who was anxious to employ the governor's Machiavelian talents in frustrating the numerous plots which already began to manifest themselves among his discontented subjects. In fixing on Sir Oliver Babington, whose wife was Vaucler's cousin-German, that archplotter had no other motives than those which a sordid cupidity of self-aggrandisement might be supposed to suggest. The knight's impetuous disposition THE POSTHUMOUS LETTERS OF seemed to offer a fair quarry for his pursuit. He had commenced a correspondence with him from Calais; and, ere the sagacious Priest of Chadstow was made aware of its extent, or could ascertain its object, Sir Oliver had committed to the traitor's keeping the dangerous discontents that were breeding in his bosom, and was more than half entangled in those snares, which Paul perceived would tax all his own circumspection, if not to loosen, at least to prevent their being closed round his brother to his destruction.

Vaucler, however, had soon a more definite motive for his conduct. The hatred between him and the young Duke of Clarence has already been alluded to, and almost the first tidings which he encountered when he reached Edward's court (then at Coventry), were those of the mysterious disappearance of the hapless Lady Anne Plantagenet.* This extraordinary event had for some time been anxiously confined to the precincts of the court, but Edward's suspicion, fomented by the Duke of Gloucester, pointed in secret to George of Clarence. Between this prince and the King, the wound of his recent revolt had been scarcely skimmed over, and various discontents smouldering in the breast of the unstable Clarence, had more than once blazed out into angry recrimination between the brothers. Sir Gilbert took his measures accordingly, and with great professions of his gratitude to Edward, which he swore was in his heart superior to every consideration of kindred, he avowed his knowledge of Sir Oliver's close intimacy with Duke George, to whom his son was a bosom friend, adding that the dangerous necromancer and Lollard, the Priest of

See Henry, Hist. Eng Vol. ix, p. 222.

HUGH DELMORE, ESQ.

LETTER V.
For the Olio.

I shall not pause to describe the magnificent scenery of the Isle of France, or its attractions and drawbacks; but content myself with observing that every inhabitant of Port Louis, gentle or simple, black, white and mulatto, vied with each other in hospitable and compassionate offices to our unlucky crew. Meanwhile, the captain (who, certainly, was not a man whom circumstances, however adverse, could depress) took every necessary step to secure the insurance effected on the wrecked ship and cargo, while he began to look about for fresh occupation for himself and crew. A small coasting brig, of about 120 tons burden, was hired by him; and in this wretched, crazy and scarcely seaworthy tub, we proceeded towards Calcutta. It was with feelings of no trifling pleasure that I beheld the long extended and superb buildings of this "city of palaces" burst upon the view, as our lumbering vessel lazily rounded the last bight of land between Garden Reach and the town.

Capt. Green, who now found me of too much importance to his own interests to be treated slightingly) took me with him to the house of a French merchant, his broker; where we both took up our residence.

"We cannot remain here for three or four months doing nothing," said the captain to me one morning (for he now adopted no measure without first, in his blunt way, consulting me); "the men, too, something must be done for them." -But trade happened then to be in a very depressed state; besides, it was the season of the year, the commencement of the south-west monsoon, when

the Calcutta merchants export as little as possible; and the probability, which Capt. Green so much deprecated, of our remaining some time in the country, seemed likely to be realized, when information arrived that the colony of the Cape of Good Hope was in a deplorable condition from the failure of the crops, and set the Bengal speculators on the qui vive to make the most of it.

A commercial house offered at once to freight a vessel with grain, if Captain Green would provide one; and a ship being soon after advertised for sale, the captain made proposals, and eventually purchased her. The reputation of the Reliance was in no great odour, which in some degree accounted for the extraordinary low sum for which she was purchased. She was, however, docked, and underwent a complete overhauling. After being thoroughly repaired and newly coppered, she proceeded to take in her cargo. The people who had escaped from the wreck joined her, and her crew was filled up by strangers.

Another and a fearful visitation came upon us :-the fatal and epidemic cholera. The effects of this disease are appallingly rapid. Its victims are often, in the morning, in the possession of sound health and spirits, by noon a loathsome corse, and an hour after sunset beneath the silent earth! Our people dropped off rapidly, the superstitious nature of Captain Green shrank from the melancholy task of night after night following the unfortunate seamen to the grave, and the sad duty devolved

on me.

A gloomy despondence came over the spirits of the survivors; their energies became paralysed, they looked upon themselves as saved from one to fall the victims of another and more inevitable calamity. A portion of this feeling extended to me-and as each night I saw the earth close over the mortal remains of my shipmates, I felt a sad and quiet presentiment that my turn was not far distant. At length, the disease attacked Harris. This man, since the wreck, had given way to the vilest species of intoxication. His naturally savage disposition became inflamed to absolute ferocity; he was the terror and abhorrence of the crew, over whom he exercised the most despotic tyranny. He knew my feelings towards him, and therefore I was much surprised, on going on board one morning, at being informed that Mr. Harris had been attacked a little after the preceding midnight by the fatal symptoms,

and had frequently and anxiously enquired if I had come on board ?"

Prompted by curiosity as well as compassion, for I must have been callous hearted indeed, to have recollected our animosities at such a moment, I immediately entered his cabin.

Extended on the deck, his head a little elevated by a pillow, laid the unhappy man. A shudder of horror ran through my frame when I caught the wandering and lurid glare of his eyes. The long meagre limbs, covered merely by a pair of light calico trowsers, were now extended in listless exhaustion, and anon writhed in agony, as the spasms came and departed. The swarthy hue and sullen scowl had given place to a lead-like and heavy tint, and an expression of shrinking and unutterable horror. He immediately recognized me, and a sudden pang convulsed his features: he turned his face away; but when he looked up, a strange calmness had succeeded to that sudden emotion.

Though I had said nothing, he had read my feelings in my looks, and said in a tone of calm bitterness:-"I see you shrink from me-ruffian as I have been-but I deserve it-I deserve it."

Inexpressibly shocked at his condition, and apparent inward misery, I would have denied any such feelings, but he interrupted me, and waving his hand with an impatient gesture, he proceeded in a voice in which pride yet struggled with the awful conviction of his danger:-"I deserve little at your hands, Mr. Purser-I have injured, insulted-grossly insulted you."

"Nay, nay, Mr. Harris," said I soothingly, you attach more importance to our little disagreements than they deserve."

"You are good, very good," said he, grasping my hand tightly," there is not one soul in the ship but yourself on whom I can depend for the fulfilment of my last wish. Amber and the captain, both will soon forget me and mine;"and the big tears unwillingly forced themselves from his rigid eyes, and rolled slowly down his face.

"Tell me," said I, "in what I can best serve you?"

"I will," said Harris. "My poor wife -yes, seared as my heart is, Mr. Purser, I yet love, yet tremble for her—you know what pay is due to me: will you see justice done to her,-my clothes, too,

and effects?"

"Nay, Harris," said I, interrupting him in my turn, you look only on the

black side of the picture; you will yet recover, and be happy in your re-union." He shook his head sadly, and earnestly went on-❝ Will you ?" and he paused, fixing his eyes anxiously on me. "I will be satisfied," said I. "I am-I am," said he, emphatically. A pause of some duration ensued: presently the lips of Harris moved, and his voice increased from a scarcely audible murmur, to accents, distinct indeed, but breathed, rather than spoken, in a subdued inward tone: "Yes, yes, the fatal vice has grown on me," and he pressed his hand to his forehead,-" to have sunk to this vile, this degraded state." He turned towards me, and with ghastly quickness proceeded-" Purser, avoid intemperance as you would the plague; let me warn you the horrid propensity will creep upon you, until it gains so fatal an ascendancy, that honour, reason

-But, psha!" added he, in a tone of appalling merriment-" it soothes a man in his wretchedness-drowns bitter thought in the waters of Lethe-it is at once his bane and antidote."

"This is horrible," said I, with a feeling I could not controul.

"I know I know," said he, hurriedly, " and it is fit our conference should end, you will remember?"

"As there is a power above," said I, "I will faithfully acquit myself of my promise, should there be occasion."

"Enough, enough," said he, "accept my heartfelt gratitude-my regret for my unworthy treatment of you-ah! I see you forgive me. May heaven prosper your undertakings," he shook my hand warmly," and now," said he, in a decided tone, "leave me."

I felt that it was best to comply, and, fixing on him a look of friendly compassion, I silently left the cabin.

Harris died the same day. I have at least the satisfaction of having done one good deed. I sought his widow on my return to London, rendered her a faithful account of my stewardship, and by my exertions procured her a trifling, but permanent, stipend, from a charitable in stitution, established for the relief of the widows and orphans of merchant seamen, Harris was the last victim to the cholera, which disappeared as suddenly as it had visited us, and in due time the Reliance was ready for sea.

"You will sail in a day, I suppose," I observed to the captain, when the preparations for our departure were completed.

"Monday, please God," said he, rubbing his hands.

Ah, well! I wish you a pleasant voyage," said I, quietly. Green looked at me with a face exexpressive of the utmost astonishment. "It is best," said I, "that I should be at once explicit, "I cannot forget, Capt. Green, the mortifications I was subjected to in the Glyceria, and am therefore unwilling to expose myself to a repetition. I have an offer from a house here, and here I shall remain."

"Surely," said Green, "surely you do not intend to leave me at this juncture, you cannot-"

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Nay, Sir," said I, "I am under no engagement to you; I am master of my own actions, and shall act as I deem most conducive to my interests."

"But what am I to do in London!" said the Captain in unfeigned alarm. "The insurance-the papers

"That Sir, will be your business," I replied, inwardly triumphing at thus humbling my late tyrant. "I shall no longer submit to be treated, too, with contumely and insult."

He caught eagerly at my words. "You shall have any pay in moderation;" then in as insinuating a tone as his harsh voice was capable of being modulated to, he added, you will be but second to me in the ship." "And swing alongside the servants," said I, resentfully-" no, no—”

A flush of anger deepened the bronze of his cheek, but he stifled it, "you are over harsh mutual prejudice blinded us―――"

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"But I was the only sufferer."

"You interrupt me,” said he harshly, we now understand each other."

I smiled meaningly; evidently annoyed, he proceeded, "you shall have a cabin, all that you can desire; I expect from you in return but your own legitimate duties."

"In that respect I never failed,” said I, quietly.

It had never been my serious intention to leave him, and I had obtained all I desired. I therefore advanced no further objections. A mate, in the room of Harris, was provided, and we proceeded to sea in the month of July, the very height of the South West Monsoon. We had been out but three or four days when we discovered that the ship was in a very leaky condition. Our new mate too, conducted himself in so unseamanlike and shameful a manner, that Captain Green was obliged to deprive him of his command.

H.D.

Notices of New Books.

Italy; a Poem. By Samuel Rogers. London: Cadell, Jennings, &c. This volume is all fascination and beauty, almost every page contains a charm that might be dwelt on for hours. There is scarcely a scene possessing the least interest from north to south of this luxurious, smiling soil, but what is vividly portrayed, either by the poet's genius or the painter's skill: whether it be the tottering ruins of former pride, the superstitions of a lascivious people, or the burning cone in noxious vapours wrapt, here all is pictured with glowing truth. Indeed, so numerous are the beauties of the work, that we find it quite an impossibility to attempt in our brief space any thing like a description of them, or the splendid efforts of Stothard and Turner, which adorn our author's labours: we must, therefore, rest content by giving a few random extracts. The following interesting narrative has pleased us much, it exhibits the evil that has often attended a conviction on circumstantial evidence.

MARCOLINI.

It was midnight; the great clock had struck, and was still echoing through every porch and gallery in the quarter of St. Mark, when a young citizen, wrapt in his cloak, was hastening home under it from an interview with his mistress. His step was light, for his heart was so. Her parents had just consented to their marriage; and the very day was named. Lovely Giulietta!" he cried, "and shall I then call thee mine at last? Who was ever so blest as thy Marcolini?" But as he spoke, he stopped; for some thing glittered on the pavement before him. It was a scabbard of rich workmanship; and the discovery, what was it but an earnest of good fortune?"Rest thou there!" he cried, thrusting it gaily into his belt. "If another claims thee not, thou hast changed masters!" and on he went as before, humming the burden of a song which he and his Giulietta had been singing together. But how little we know what He the next minute will bring forth! turned by the Church of St. Geminiano, and in three steps met the watch. murder had just been committed. The Senator Renaldi had been found dead at his door, the dagger left in his heart; and the unfortunate Marcolini was

A

dragged away for examination. The place, the time, every thing served to excite, to justify suspicion; and no

sooner had he entered the guardhouse than a damning witness appeared against him. The bravo in his flight had thrown away his scabbard; and, smeared with blood-with blood not yet dry, it was

now in the belt of Marcolini. Its Pa

trician ornaments struck every eye; and when the fatal dagger was produced and compared with it, not a doubt of his guilt remained. Still there is in the innocent an energy, a composure,—an energy when they speak, a composure when they are silent, to which none judge delayed for some time to procan be altogether insensible; and the nounce the sentence, though he was a near relation of the dead. At length however it came; and Marcolini lost his life, Giulietta her reason.

revealed itself, the real criminal in his Not many years afterwards the truth last moments confessing the crime; and hence the custom in Venice, a custom that long prevailed, for a cryer to cry

out in the Court before a sentence was passed, "Ricordatevi del povero Marcolini!"*

Great indeed was the lamentation throughout the city; and the judge, dying, directed that thenceforth and for ever a mass should be sung every night in a chapel of the Ducal Church for his own soul and the soul of Marcolini and the souls of all who had suffered by an unjust judgment. Some land on the Brenta was left by him for the purpose: and still is the mass sung in the chapel; still every night, when the great square is illuminating and the casinos are filling fast with the gay and the dissipated, a bell is rung as for a service, and a ray of light seen to issue from a small gothie window that looks towards the place of execution, the place where on a scaffold Marcolini breathed his last.

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Those holy men, well might they faint with fear!

The once ancient and superb capital of the Genoese republic is thus described.

GENOA.

This house was ANDREA DORIA'S.

lived;

And here at eve relaxing, when ashore,
Held many a pleasant, many a grave discourse,
With them that sought him, walking to and fro,
As on his deck. 'Tis less in length and breadth
Than many a cabin in a ship of war;
But 'tis of marble, and at once inspires
The reverence due to ancient dignity.

Thine was a glorious course; but couldst
thou there,

Clad in thy cere-cloth-in that silent vault
Where thou art gathered to thy ancestors-
Open thy secret heart and tell us all,
Then should we hear thee with a sigh confess-
A sigh how heavy-that thy happiest hours
Were passed before these sacred walls were
left,

Before the ocean-wave thy wealth reflected,
And pomp and power drew envy, stirring up
The ambitious man, that in a perilous boar
Fell from the plank

The story of an avaricious patriot is told as follows:

MARCO GRIFFONI.

Marco Griffoni was the last of an

ancient family of royal merchants; and the richest citizen in Genoa, perhaps in Europe. His parents dying while yet he lay in the cradle, his wealth had acHere he cumulated from the year of his birth; and so noble a use did he make of it when he arrived at manhood, that whereever he went, he was followed by the blessings of the people. He would often say, "I hold it only in trust for others;" but Genoa was then at her old amusement, and the work grew on his hands. Strong as he was, the evil he had to struggle with was stronger than he. His cheerfulness, his alacrity left him; and, having lifted up his voice for peace, he withdrew at once from the sphere of life he had moved in-to become, as it were, another man.

He left it for a better; and 'tis now
A house of trade, the meanest merchandize
Cumbering its floors. Yet, fallen as it is
'Tis still the noblest dwelling-even in GENOA!
And hadst thou, ANDREA, lived there to the

last,

Thou hadst done well; for there is that with

out,

That in the wall, which monarchs could not
give,

Nor thou take with thee, that which says aloud,
It was thy country's gift to her deliverer.

'Tis in the heart of GENOA (he who comes
Must come on foot) and in a place stir;
Men on their daily business, early and late
Thronging thy very threshold. But when there,
Thou wert among thy fellow-citizens,+
Thy children, for they hailed thee as their
And on a spot thou must have loved, for there,
Calling them round, thou gavest them more
than life,

sire,

Giving what, lost, makes life not worth the

keeping.

There thou didst do, indeed, an act divine;
Nor couldst thou leave thy door, or enter in,
Without a blessing on thee.

Thou art now

Again among them. Thy brave mariners,
They who had fought so often by thy side,
Staining the mountain-billows, bore thee back,
And thou art sleeping in thy funeral-chambers.

The Piazza Doria, or, as it is now called,

the Piazza di San Matteo, insignificant as it
may be thought, is the most interesting place
in Genoa. It was there that Doria assembled

the people, when he gave them their liberty,
(Signonii Vita Doria); and on one side of it is
the church he lies buried in, and on the other,
a house, originally of very small dimensions,
with this inscription, " S. C. Andreæ de Auria
Patriæ Liberatori Munus Publicum."
streets of Old Genoa, like those of Venice, were
constructed only for foot passengers.

The

Alluding to the palace which he built afterwards, and in which he twice entertained the Emperor Charles V. It is the most magnificent edince on the Bay of Genoa.

From that time, and for full fifty years, he was seen sitting, like one of the founders of his house, at his desk among his money-bags, in a narrow street near the Porto Franco; and he, who in a famine had filled the granaries of the state, sending to Sicily and even to Egypt, now lived only as for his heirs, though there were none to inherit; giving no longer to any, but lending to all-to the rich on their bonds and the poor on their pledges; lending at the highest rate and exacting with the utmost rigour. No longer relieving the miserable, he sought only to enrich himself by their misery; and there he sat in his gown of frieze, till every finger was pointed at him in passing and every tongue exclaimed, "There sits the miser!"

But in that character, and amidst all that obloquy, he was still the same as ever, still acting to the best of his judg ment for the good of his fellow-citizens; and when the measure of their calamities was full, when peace had come, but

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