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inclined to pay her much attention, and endeavoured to make himself agree able; but she shrunk from his attentions with feelings of disgust. He was not a man to be easily disheartened by the little hopes that could be entertained from the result of his first interview; so he still continued his views, and still flattered himself with hopes of succeeding. He had met with so few disappointments in his intercourse with the fair sex, that he imagined a simple girl would soon fall a willing victim to the shrine of his vanity. Of Captain Hughes he stood somewhat in awe; for his power was great-he was much beloved by the people, who to defend him and his daughter would have rallied round them in a mass; and his reputation for courage was unquestionable; therefore he did not venture inside his house. But he contrived to meet Mary in all her walks. She could not stir out the shortest distance without finding him by her side. He pretended the most ardent attachment and the most devoted love, to which she would not listen, and would not believe. At last, finding that all his expressions were attended to with a deaf ear, and all his vows and protestations taken very little notice of fearing to come to extremities with her father, and burning to possess the beautiful girl, he most generously, as he thought, made her an offer of his hand and fortune, which was refused as politely as possible.

She felt so much annoyed at his persecutions, that, although she had at first determined to keep them a secret, she told her father the whole particulars He advised her not to leave the house without him; and if he then attempted to annoy her, he should suffer for it.

When Walter Jones found all his expectations conclude with so little profit, that he had been actually rejected, he would hardly believe it. He thought it preposterously strange; and, from his experience in such matters, pronounced it a mere artifice of the sex. Finding himself deprived of the usual opportunities of seeing her, he determined upon having an interview with her father, to see what his powers of persuasion would do in his favour. Captain Hughes heard him out with as much patience as he could possibly assume. He then very civilly refused him for a son-in-law, telling him that his daughter was engaged, and even had her hand been free, Mr. Walter Jones was the last person in the world he should feel inclined to bestow her

upon; assuring him, at the same time, that he had heard of the annoyances to which he had subjectcd her; but if ever he caught him on his estate again, with any such intentions, his power as a magistrate, and his feelings as a father, would force him to be under the painful necessity of punishing him as he deserved. Walter Jones left the room vowing revenge.

Time passed on, and the last year was drawing to a close. Letters were received from college, in which it was stated that Edward Morris had received the highest honours of the university, and was looked upon as one of the brightest ornaments within its walls. He wrote to Mary a long and kind letter, in which he expressed himself as being overjoyed at the near approach of his happiness, and informed her of the day when she might expect him. Her anticipations of future joy were exceedingly great. Every preparation was made for his arrival; and it was arranged between the delighted fathers, that the union should take place the day after. All on the estate, with whom he was a general favourite, looked to his coming with feelings of the sincerest pleasure; and the day on which he was expected having got known, they determined to welcome him in a style worthy a descendant of the ancient Cymry. All but old Prichard participated in the general pleasure; and he was frequently heard striking melancholy chords from his harp, and giving prophetic warnings of approaching danger.

The day arrived, and Edward left the coach to hurry across the mountains. As he hastened on, with a light step and lighter heart, imagining the joy of his beloved one at their meeting after so long a separation, he came to a wild pass in the mountains, about a mile distant from the estate of Captain Hughes. It was a savage-looking place, the scene of many a fearful legend; a gloomy ravine, with no appearance of vegetation near it, save a few stunted trees. The dark and huge fragments of the rocky soil were shut in by an amphitheatre of desolate hills. Within a short distance, the waters of one of the wildest of the mountain torrents were seen leaping down a tremendous depth, with an uproar almost as great as the continual discharge of a piece of artillery.

Edward Morris walked on in the full joy of his heart, thinking of no evil and fearing none; when, just as he approached the centre of the pass, he was

surprised at beholding a man standing opposite to him, with a seeming determination to dispute his passage. It was Walter Jones. His day of vengeance had at last arrived, and he stood glaring at his victim with a fiend's malice. His dark eyes were flashing fire, and his look was like that of a savage of the wilderness in the act of springing on his prey.

"Edward Morris!" shouted the ruffian," your hour is come, and my revenge comes with it. You have dared to cross my path-to love the only girl I ever thought worthy of my favour. She rejected me - her father rejected me; and it was for you they did it. But my revenge shall be terrible, and you shall be its first victim. So, fool and madman as you are to have provoked my anger, breathe your shortest prayer, for you shall die."

"Not yet!" exclaimed Edward, leaping with the agility of a young snake upon his antagonist, and grappling him with a power that even the athletic smuggler found would be difficult to shake off. Long and deadly was the struggle. Walter had overcome all competitors at wrestling; for his superior strength gave him a powerful advantage. His heart was on fire with revenge and wounded pride. All the ferocious nature of his disposition came to his assistance, in the determination that his victim should die. Edward knew every foot of ground on which he trod; and although he was not so strong, he was more agile than his opponent. Besides, he struggled for life -for love-for all that was dear to him on earth; and, knowing what must be the result of the contest, all the energies of his soul were brought into action, and he strained every muscle with an exertion that seemed gigantic.

Walter, in an effort he made to throw his adversary, missed his footing, staggered, and fell.

"Now!" cried Edward, with his knee upon his fallen enemy - "Now, who shall die ?"

"Thou!" shouted the ruffian, as he disengaged a pistol from his belt, which he had not possessed an opportunity of doing before, and discharged it in the breast of his triumphing foe. The ball went through his heart, and the dead body of Edward Morris fell upon his murderer. The survivor shook off the encumbrance, and looked upon his prostrate victim with a smile of most malicious satisfaction; then was proceeding to depart from the spot, when

he was alarmed at seeing the surrounding hills covered by a multitude of people, and men in different directions approaching him.

The kind-hearted peasantry of the district had made every preparation in their power to welcome the friend of their lord home to his native hills, and had set out to meet him, with the intention of bearing him home in triumph. They had proceeded as far as the hills that overlooked the spot where his last footsteps rested, and were in time to witness the conclusion of the mortal combat between him and his enemy. They saw a struggle between two men -a pistol fired, and one of them fall. The distance was too far to distinguish the features of the combatants, yet some there were among them who positively affirmed that one of them was him they sought. With some misgivings as to the result, some of the men separated into different parties, completely surrounding the ruffian. As they approached the scene of the murder, recognised the friend of their lord weltering in his blood, and discerned him who had done the deed, the brave Celts sent up a yell of horror and despair, which was answered by the hills around. With gloomy looks and scowling eyes they advanced upon the murderer, with the determination of exacting a just and horrible vengeance.

Walter Jones still stood with arms folded and lips compressed, revolving in his mind the extent of his danger. He knew he could hope for no mercy from the people who were pursuing him, and he saw there was but little chance of escaping from the certainty of their revenge. He was pausing to consider, and in the mean time his pursuers were gaining around. He was now completely enclosed on every sidehemmed in by all parties. Seeing no hope remaining if he stood still, he determined to make one effort for his escape, and rushed with all speed towards the end of the defile. Here he was met by a stout highlander, who threatened to fell him to the ground with a heavy club which he carried; at him he discharged his remaining pistol, and the Celt fell, cursing the dark eye of his enemy. He saw in the same path, at no great distance, several others making towards him at full speed. He turned off in a different direction; but had not proceeded far, when he found that a whole host of them would be upon him in a few minutes. He stood now upon a rock that overlooked the

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We cannot describe the feelings of Mary Hughes when the sorrowing and faithful Celts brought to her the dead body of him whose living form she had so eagerly expected. Like the painter, we will draw a veil over features we dare not attempt to delineate. She died. Hers was no lingering disease that eats into the heart as rust does into metal. Hers was a morbid earthquake, whose explosion burst asunder every feeling, passion, and affection of earthly humanity. She died of a raving brain and a broken heart; and her unhappy father followed her in the course of a few weeks. When his lord died, the blind bard was heard to sing his prophetic warning- but his voice was feeble, and the chords of his harp less powerful than they were wont. A few years passed, and that voice was silent for ever.

Fraser's Mag.

The Naturalist.

SINGULAR ACCOUNT OF A DOG.In the month of August, 1829, a gentleman residing a few miles from the metropolis, was called up to town in the middle of the night by intelligence that the premises adjoining his house of business were on fire. The removal of his furniture and papers of course immediately claimed his attention; yet, notwithstanding this, and the bustle which is ever incident to a fire, his eye every now and then rested on a dog, whom during the hottest progress of the devouring element he could not help noticing, running about, and apparently taking a deep interest in what was going on, contriving to keep himself out of every body's way, and yet always present amid the thickest of the stir. When the fire was go: under, and the gentleman had leisure to look about him, he again observed the dog, who, with the firemen, appeared to be resting from the fatigues of duty, and was led to make some enquiries respecting him. What passed may, perhaps, be

best told in its original shape of dialogue between the gentleman and a fireman belonging to the Atlas Insurance Office. Gentleman-(stooping down to pat the dog, and addressing the fireman.) Is this your dog, my friend? Fireman-No, sir, he does not belong to me, or to any one in particular. We call him the firemen's dog. Gentleman -"The firemen's dog!" Why so?Has he no master. Fireman-No, sir. He calls none of us master, though we are any of us ready to give him a night's lodging or a pennyworth of meat-but he doesn't stay long with any one-his delight is to be at all the fires in London, and, far or near, we generally find him either there before us, or on the road as we are going along, and sometimes if it is out of town we give him a lift. I don't think there has been a fire of any consequence for these two or three or it may be more years past which he has not been at. The communication thus made was so marvellous, that the enquirer found it difficult to believe the tale until it was confirmed by the concurrent testimony of several other firemen. None of them, however, were able to give any account of the early habits of the dog, or to offer any explanation of the circumstances which led to this singular propensity. A minute of the facts was made at the time by the gentleman, with a view to their transmission to some of the journals or periodicals which occasionally publish anecdotes of the natural history of animals; but other things interfered, and the intention was lost sight of. In the month of June, 1831, the same gentleman was again called up in the night to a fire in Camberwell-grove, and to his surprise and amusement, here he again met with "the firemen's dog" still alive and well, pursuing with the same apparent interest and satisfaction the exhibition of that which seldom fails to bring with it disaster, and oftentimes loss of life and ruin. Still he called no man master, disdained to receive bed or board from the same hand more than a night or two at a time, nor could the firemen give any information as to his ordinary resting place. The foregoing account, which is strictly true, (and its truth may be ascertained by inquiry of almost any of the regular firemen of the metropolis) has been withdrawn from the portfolio of the writer, in consequence of recent information that his four-footed friend was no more. The dog was of a mixed breed, between the terrier and the foxhound.

Table Talk.

MOSAIC WORK.-The principal manufactory of mosaic is conducted on a grand scale, in the Vatican at Rome. Mosaic in general, and that which produces the finest effect, as in the imitations of paintings in St. Peter's, consists, as to the material, in nothing more than glass. In the manufactory at Rome, the material to work upon is so prepared as for there to be varieties of shades in colour to the number of eighteen thousand. It is always in one form, in square pieces, uniform in both shape and size, only larger or smaller according to the scale of what is to be produced. The little pieces are all put together in a block, with, I believe, some kind of cement, and then the surface of the whole is ground off and polished. The art consists in a just arrangement of the different parts, and in the choice of colours. When a facsimile of a painting has to be made, a mere mechanic in the business first puts the pieces together; and then an artist comes over it to make nice alterations. In making mosaics on a very small scale, such as the rings, ear-rings, brooches, and other trinkets that are sold in the shops at Rome, the pieces of different colour put together are so minute, and they are so closely joined, that it requires a strong light, and a good eye to discover the ingenious delusion. This art is of very ancient origin; but it is one in which the moderns have outdone the ancients beyond comparison.

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PICTURE OF A COUNTRY CHOIR.Suppose a clergyman inducted to a country living, of which he comes to take possession. The small church is crowded to hear the "new parson,' and the singers and performers are preparing in the gallery to make their best display. At the appointed time they commence. The first specimen he has of his choir is perhaps ushered in by a clarionet, which, though rather a favourite in country churches is the most hapless in untutored hands. This is commissioned to lead off, and after some dreadful hiccups on the part of the instrument, which is its infirmity when clumsily dealt with, the tune is completed, and the singing proceeds. The other instruments are introduced

The flute, And the vile squeaking of the wry-necked fife, and, it may be, breaking suddenly in with portentous thunder, after three or four notes spent in gathering up that

long clambering instrument, some unlucky, deep-mouthed bassoon. It may readily be conceived that these instruments, by their united clamour, will lay a sufficient foundation of noise, upon which the singers may raise their superstructure. This they proceed to do with their whole breadth of lungs, each striving to surpass his neighbour in vociferation; till exhausted with the exercise, they gradually cease, according to the tenure of their breath; the bassoon player, for the dignity of his instrument, commencing the last note rather later than the rest, and by a peculiar motion of his shoulders, pumping out the whole power of his lungs in one prolonged and astounding roar.

BRIEF ACCOUNT OF THE PLAGUE IN FORMER TIMES.-The Rev. Dr. Rudge, in a recent sermon on the cholera morbus, gives the following historical narrative of the ravages of the pestilence in former times:-" In the year 1349 it raged in England to such a frightful extent, as that scarcely a tenth part of the population of the country, of all classes, were left alive. The churches and church yards were insufficient to contain the dead; and in the metropolis it was found necessary to consecrate a large spot in West Smithfield as a burying ground, upon which houses are now erected, and which extended even over a part of the site on which the New Post Office has been built. During its prevalence, 50,000 persons were here interred. In the reign of the Emperor Vespasian, 10,000 daily fell victims to it in Rome alone; and this awful sacrifice of human lives continued for several days. In the year 1345, the pestilence was so general throughout the Christian world, that it destroyed more than one half of those whom the infection had seized. At Constantinople, in the reign of Justinian, 50,000 died daily. The African plague was no' less destructive in its march. Commencing at Carthage, it swept off in its course, in Numidia alone, 80,000; on the sea-coast of Africa, 200,000, together with 30,000 soldiers at Utica. In the time of Petrarch, such was its destructiveness in Italy, that, out of every thousand, not ten persons survi-` ved. In London, at the great plague, about a century and half since the present period, it has been estimated that more than 100,000 persons perished in the city and its environs. The disconsolate metropolis was nearly deserted. Trade entirely ceased, and the courts of law were shut."

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whilst under the shade of the venerable yew tree, its dark green foliage studded with innumerable crimson berries, a band of little children were indulging in their merry gambols. Suddenly, a horseman, wearing the dress mounted men-at-arms, rode up to the of a pursuivant, and followed by eight gate of the church-yard. This unexpected appearance somewhat astonished the villagers, who stared with wondering eyes upon the visitors; while the children ceased their sports, and approached to gaze upon the men-atarms and the dress of the pursuivant.

Throwing himself from his horse, the officer strode towards the church, closely followed by two of his attendants. At his approach, the rustics made 100m for him to pass, with a feeling akin to awe, which was increased by the large stature and embrowned visages of the two soldiers who followed at his heels. They arrived at the porch just as the bridal train were about to emerge from it, and the pursuivant cast a glance of enquiry at the figure of Archibald Mer

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