ter and assistance: but first I made my poor girl more comfortable, if gathering up the straw into a close heap under her head, and covering her with the coarse rug or mantle, could be called comfort; and then, in an agony, rushed out into the open air.

The earliest dawn, which had partially broken upon the stormy sky, enabled me to discern, at a little distance, a small hut or cabin, whence the light proceeded which I had not been mistaken in imagining I had perceived. As far as I could see, this, and the shed I had just left, were the only dwellings of man near: they stood upon a broken rock which overhung the sea. The hope of obtaining succour gave wings to my feet, though, when I attempted to walk, the pain was excessive, for I too was bruised and wounded: but it mattered not; I thought only of Helen, and, guided by the light, made haste towards the cottage, which was distant about one hundred yards.

Misfortune abolishes ceremony; and, perceiving, from the sound of voices, that the inhabitants were yet astir in the house, I raised the latch, unbidden, and entered what seemed to be the cottage of a fisherman. The room, though small, was scrupulously clean, and neatly furnished: a bright fire was blazing on the hearth. The appear ance of the place seemed to promise a friendly shelter; not so the countenances of its inhabitants. By the side of the fire sat an old man and woman, decently clad in the provincial dress; the features of both were singularly stern and hard, and they rose not, neither testified surprise at my intrusion. I had therefore to speak in French, as well as I could, and tell them of our calamity. "We are English," I said— “English!" interrupted the austere old man, for the first time breaking silence, and speaking in pure good French. "Wife! do you hear this? Thank God, our prayer is granted, and our vow shall be fulfilled! Go, stranger, and clamour elsewhere: I have no aid for you!"

"But," cried I, passionately, "I am shipwrecked and wounded, and have lost every thing, and my daughter is dying hard hard by; dying of cold and weariness. Give us shelter and dry clothing; and I promise you an ample reward, so soon as I can send to Marseilles."

"What I will not give I will not sell," replied the old man, in the same cold and unmoved tone. "Go back to

your daughter; I have brought you both from the shore, and given you a light and a garment. What would you have more? Go!"

"But, good heavens! have you no mercy no human feeling? You, my good woman, may have been a mother yourself. You may-"

Of

"Ay," cried she, bitterly, rising and confronting me face to face; "I hare been a mother! Listen to me--I had a daughter. My husband, there, was captain and owner of the fairest ship that sailed out of the port of Marseilles. I sailed with him, and my child, who was then eighteen, and fifty times as fair as your pale girl-she was to be married when we returned. Well, our vessel was wrecked on the western coast of your island; the rocks were crowded with people; but they put no boats out nor came to save the poor perishing wretches who shrieked for aid, even in the struggles of death. the crew, we three were alone saved, with what treasure we could bear about us; and your people helped us vastly ! They rifled us of our money, and tore the rings from the ears and fingers of my Rosalie, and broke open our chests, while my husband and I were too weak and wounded to resist their plunder, and knew not a word of their language to complain. And my Rosalie they left on the cold wet sand in her swoonleft her for an hour, with the spray dashing over her; and then two rude men brought her rudely into the hut where they had laid us, (believing we were dead,) wounded, and crushed, and pale, and bleeding: yet they searched her for money, and she, old man! she died that night! and they buried her in their churchyard.

"It pleased God, however, that we both recovered, though none cared for us, nor restored us the money or the clothes they had robbed us of. We begged our way through the country, through a land of strangers who hated our nation. Even the very children jeered at us as we passed thein, and the magistrates put us in prisons and stocks. But, at last, thank God! we got home; and we bound ourselves with a solemn vow, as your people had dealt with us, so to deal with you, should ever a like chance happen. That vow we have broken already, this night. Here" (giving me a bundle from a clothespress) "is clothing: and here" (handing me, as she spoke, a crust of black bread and a cup of water) "is food. Go, old man! and, as you sit by your dying

*

daughter, remember the tale I have told you."

It was in vain to make further entreaty: the inexorable old woman, when she had ceased, returned to her seat; nor could prayer, or the anguish of a distracted father, extort another word from her. It was in the chill sickness of despair that I turned away from the door, which I heard immediately and closely barred behind me ; and, with the wretched food and raiment I had received, hastened eagerly to the shed where my beloved child lay. The churlish aid had been given too late for the feeble spirit had left its clay in my absence; and I sat alone, in my agony, beside her dust, till the morning dawned.

MARS DISARMED.

BY THE AUTHOR OF LILLIAN.

AY, bear it hence, thou blessed child,
Though dire the burthen be,
And hide it in the pathless wild,

Or drown it in the sea:

The ruthless murderer prays and swears;
So let him swear and pray;

Be deaf to all his oaths and prayers,

And take the sword away.

We've had enough of fleets and camps,
Guns, glories, odes, gazettes.
Triumphal arches, coloured lamps,
Huzzas, and epaulettes;
We could not bear upon our head
Another leaf of bay;

That horrid Buonaparte's dead;-
Yes, take the sword away.
We're weary of the noisy boasts

That pleased our patriot throngs;
We've long been dull to Gooch's toasts,
And tame to Dibdin's songs;
We're quite content to rule the wave,
Without a great display;
We're known to be extremely brave;
But take the sword away.
We give a shrug, when fife and drum
Play up a favourite air;
We think our barracks are become
More ugly than they were;
We laugh to see the banners float;
We loathe the charger's bray;
We don't admire a scarlet coat;
Do take the sword away.

Let Portugal have rulers twain;
Let Greece go on with none;
Let Popery sink or swim in Spain,
While we enjoy the fun;
Let Turkey tremble at the knout;
Let Algiers lose her Dey;
Let Paris turn her Bourbons out;-
Bah! take the sword away.
Our honest friends in Parliament
Are looking vastly sad;

Our farmers say, with one consent
It's all immensely bad;

There was a time for borrowing,

And now it's time to pay;

A budget is a serious thing;

So take the sword away.

The materiel of this narrative is taken from an incident mentioned in the "Life and Times of De Foe."

And oh the bitter tears we wept,
In those our days of fame,-
The dread that o'er our heart-strings crept,
With every post that came,-
The home-affections, waged and lost
In every far-off fray,-
The price that British glory cost!
Ah! take the sword away.

We've plenty left to hoist the sall,

Or mount the dangerous breach;
And Freedom breathes in every gale,
That wanders round our beach.
When duty bids us dare or die,
We'll fight another day:
But till we know a reason why,
Take, take the sword away.

Repeating our favourable opinion of "The Gem," we pass on to gaze at the various hues of the

Winter's Wreath;

Edited by W. Roscoe, Esq.

which, for beauty of pictorial embellishment, and tasteful variety of articles, may be considered a summer bouquet. In this collection there are so many novel flowers to attract and rivet the attention, that we scarcely know which to transplant; however, we venture to interweave the following in our garland.

THE TRIAL.

FOUNDED ON FACT. Fiat Justitia.

THE trial of James Frankland was not yet over. His mother, his sister, and younger brother bent their knees in prayer for his deliverance, with an agony which momentarily increased. Every fresh arrival of some kind neighbour, with later news from the Court House, made them more and more afraid that even innocence, manifest as his appeared to their eyes, might be finally overborne by a weight of circumstantial proof, artfully and fraudulently piled together. By degrees these messengers of kindness came less frequently; and their words were less encouraging. For evidence of forgery, strong as presumptive evidence well could be, was rapidly accumulating against the prisoner; and finally closed with so exact an appearance of the consistency of fact, that in spite of his solemn and repeated denials of the whole charge, the able efforts of his counsel to rebut the direct bearings of the testimony, and his high charactereagerly and amply sustained by voluntary witnesses of the greatest respectability-a jury of his countrymen found him guilty of the capital crime, and sentence of death was recorded against him.

It was thought by many hard-hearted

in the judge to leave, from the moment after the verdict was pronounced, no hope of mercy for the criminal. To all representations (and many were made) of the value of the evidence in the prisoner's favour, it was replied "that the offence was too dangerous to society ever to be pardoned, and that his previous good conduct aggravated the guilt; since from his station and circumstances, he had no visible temptations to fraud. And yet," continued the judge, "guilty of deliberate felony, this man undoubtedly is-if ever a crime can be proved, which no one has been seen to commit."

The suspense in which the family of James Frankland had passed nine dreadful hours, was now terminated by the certainty of their doom of unutterable affliction. Mr. Vincent, the clergyman stood by the side of the widowed mother when she lifted up her eyes, and reading in them the question which her lips had no power to utter, he clasped her hand in his own, saying sorrowfully, "Commit your innocent child to the mercy of his God; for innocent, I feel assured, he is of the crime for which he is doomed to suffer!" She drew a long gasp of unutterable agony, and fell insensible on the floor. Her daughter, down whose pale and hollow cheek not a tear flowed, made no attempt to raise her, but kneeled at her side, gazing upon her features with a fixed and wild stare-rigid as a figure of stone. The boy, who had been praying with them, rushed to the bed-room once his brother's, and flung himself on the tenantless bed, groaning aloud in agony.

These wretched beings spent the night, immediately following the condemnation of one so deeply beloved, together. At length the morning dawned, bringing for them no comfort. James had wished to see his mother once more for the last time; but her reason seemed so nearly giving way under the crushing weight of her calamity, that the minister, who gave up his whole time to going from one to the other, succeeded in persuading him that it was better to spare her a trial which would probably destroy her life, or render her an incurable maniac during her remaining years. But the fortitude of affection, stronger than the grave, bore up his sister through the sorrows of their interview; and though they met only to cast themselves into each other's arms, while no word was spoken, they felt that to have been with

held from such a meeting, would have added bitterness to death. Silent, from feelings which choked all speech, and which none might venture to describe, she was at length obliged to depart; and it was only when he gave up her cold and quivering frame to the care of his unwearied friend, that he said,— "Farewell, my own dearest Agnes-for ever!"

I do not desire to set forth the harrowing details of the execution-the preparation on the scaffold-the assembled multitude or the unshrinking deportment of the sufferer. It was over. Life was extinct in the breast of the gifted being, who, throughout his brief existence, had discharged its duties kindly and nobly, and whose innocence was almost universally believed in the teeth of overwhelming proof; and many went from the sad spectacle to their homes, deploring the cruelty and defects of a law, which judged such a man worthy of death. The minister, who had only left the afflicted to afford the last succour and consolation to the dying, desired to avoid all publicity in conveying the body to the house of mourning. It was deposited, by his directions, in strict privacy-in a room near to the place of execution; whence he meant to accompany it to the residence of the afflicted family, as soon as the dusk of the evening should conceal the procession from the gaze of the idle and curious.

But

At the appointed hour, a few friends who had known him from childhood, and whose strong love and trust were unshaken by the trial and sentence, attended to bring home the dead. the shell, which had contained the remains, was empty. The body was not to be found. Nothing remained but the linen cloth which had been throw over it, and which still covered the place where it had lain; and the men and the minister stood looking at each other in petrified amazement. Their subsequent search, conducted with the utmost keenness and activity, failed to elicit anything leading to a discovery. Mr. Vincent tasked his best judgment and feelings, to prevent the bereaved family from coming to the knowledge of this misfortune, for the present; and endeavoured to gain time for the further prosecution of an enquiry, in which he was not destined to be successful.

At no great distance from the place of execution, was the abode of Mr. Tesimond, a gentleman not less eminent for generosity and benevolence, than

for an ardent pursuit of knowledge in his profession, which was that of a surgeon. We leave it for our readers to deter mine by which of these he was moved; when, by a rapid and dexterous manoeuvre, he caused the body of James Frankland to be conveyed to his dissecting room, with a celerity and secresy, that set all scrutiny at defiance. It was not until an hour past midnight, that he ascended his private staircase, and, taking the key from his pocket, cautiously opened the door, and entered the apartment where he had locked up the body of the man who had been executed the day before, and whose unaccountable disappearance had caused such astonishment. It was now his turn to be astonished. The sack, which had contained the body, lay empty on the floor, and he stood surveying it in mute surprise, and perhaps other feelings not altogether agreeable. A slight noise behind him made him turn his head, and he saw the figure of a man entirely naked; it rose from a chair on which it had been sitting, and advanced towards him. He had firm nerves, and was the reverse of a timid man; but his heart sank, and his knees trembled for a moment-- it was but a moment; for the being proved itself corporeal, by addressing him in incoherent language, evidently under impressions of strong delusion and fear ful excitement. The man prayed for mercy,―said he suffered death unjustly in the world he had left, and finally dropped on his knee, in the fervency of his supplication.

The whole truth now flashed like lightning on the mind of Mr. Tesimond, he saw, in an instant, that it was one of those cases of resuscitation, of which so few are upon record; and knew that it must have been owing either to the imperfect fastening of the noose, or to the body having been cut down prematurely. He determined, however, that innocent or guilty, the victim of the law should not be hung a second time. To all intents and purposes, he had once suffered death; and evidently imagined himself to be translated to the world of spirits. While he is concealed in the house of Mr. Tesimond, until retirement, kindness, and judicious treatment, gradually restore his bodily and intellectual health, we return to his family.

Mr. Vincent was sitting by the mother, some hours after the remains of her son were missing, painfully conscious that he should not be able, much

longer, to keep the circumstance from coming to her knowledge; when he was summoned away by a written message. Apparently the business was very urging, for he arose, in considerable perturbation, and hastily left the house.

In about an hour and a half, he returned! and dismissing every body but the widow and her daughter, he was closetted alone with them a long time. What passed at that conference was not known; but the mother of James Frankland, afterwards manifested the most entire resignation, under the heavy affliction she had sustained; and the dim eyes of Agnes began to be lighted up with somewhat of their former brightness; it was even said that she was overheard humming the air of an old ballad, that James had been fond of hearing her sing, but I cannot vouch for the truth of this. The family continued to inhabit the same neighbourhood for a few years, and then suddenly quitted it; without telling their neighbours whither they went.

More than twenty years had elapsed since this event, and it was almost universally forgotten, when some affairs, of great interest to his fortunes, called Mr. Tesimond to Amsterdam. He was pausing to bestow an intent survey on the Stadthouse, when he was accosted by a middle-aged person, of gentlemanly dress and bearing, in terms of the most eager and cordial delight. He was astonished-was entirely at a loss

and might have remained so; but the stranger called him his preserverhis best friend under heaven; and fairly led him away, vi-et-armis, to a large and handsome house, where he introduced him to his wife-to his mother, now very aged; and sent for his sister, who was married to a wealthy citizen, to help to enjoy what he called the happiest hour of his life. "You see me," he said, "opulent, respectable, and with as little to disturb me as generally falls to the lot of humanity. And may the Giver of all good, repay to you and yours, a thousand fold, the happiness of which you have been the instrument, in preserving the life of James Frankland!"

RHINE SONG OF THE GERMAN
SOLDIERS AFTER VICTORY.
BY MRS. HEMANS.

"But I wish you could have heard Sir Walter Scott describe a glorious sight, which had been witnessed by a friend of his !-the crossing of the Rhine of Ehren-breit-stein by the German army of Liberators on their victorious return from France. "At the first gleam of