me, who was always ready to do any thing that might procure his safety; being well assured in my own conscience, though he sought to absent himself till the Spanish fury was over, yet, as he always said that no misery should make him disloyal to his king or country, and although Mannourie," (a French quack through whose means Raleigh feigned sickness in order to gain time to write his apology,)" in his declaration, sets down, that Sir W. Raleigh should to him in private speak ill of his majesty, yet I must protest to my last hour that in all the years I followed him, I never heard him name his majesty but with reverence."

The king's declaration accuses Raleigh of treasonable intercourse with a French agent, which he denied at his death in the most solemn and earnest manner; but both Captain King and Raleigh were unfortunate in the persons they employed to further his escape, for Stukely after receiving a bribe and even lending a hand in the design, betrayed his kinsman, who, in the act of escaping, was apprehended and again committed to the tower-to leave it but for execution. The misfortunes that so rapidly succeeded each other in the latter years of Raleigh's life, make the strongest appeal to our compassion; and when we consider the energy of mind he displayed in bearing them, and the fortitude and heroism of his death, we cannot nicely weigh his offences against his merits, and we are compelled to admire him more than perhaps in justice we ought to do. With the death of Elizabeth his prosperity, which had been so great, also died, and we may unite it in our imagination, with the death of his rival Essex-thus making a poetical moral for the action which leaves an indelible stain upon the character of Sir Walter Raleigh. His life has been written by several hands, and yet we think it has never been done justice to;

there are circumstances to excite every species of enthusiasm, and to give occasion for the dissertations of those least susceptible of keen sensibility. His prowess in the field, where, as Bacon expresses it, "being more sensible of a little heat of the sun, than any cold fears of death" he once cast off all his armour and fought in his shirt, contrasts singularly with the philosopher writing a treatise on the soul, or so successfully exerting his knowledge of chemistry as to invent a medicine, which was still in high esteem in the reign of Charles II. He certainly possessed the rarest union of qualities, and was one of the most extraordinary men of any age; his tale, though a thousand times told, must always interest, and is calculated to stimulate to reflection and exertion, while it excites all the wild interest that belongs to romance, and leaves the impression which arises only from a true story.

It was a beautiful summer evening, when Susan Lee left her father's vicarage to visit a sick girl, who resided at some distance from the wood behind the church at Linthorn. The sun was low in the sky, and its red and slanting rays streamed brightly through the rich foliage, lighting up many a long and winding glade of the now dark and silent wood: the shadows of twi

light were deepening over the scene, but the gentle Susan was a fearless girl. The stillness and the gloom of night were not dreaded by her. For the last week, her walk had been through Linthorn wood, and, although she had left home at a later hour than usual, this evening, James Allen accompanied her, and James Allen was her father's old and trusty servant; one whom she had seen daily since her childhood.-Susan had passed the wood, and the waving corn-fields beyond; she was walking quietly down a long and narrow lane, shadowed by the interlacing branches of the tall elms which extended along its sides, and gazing upon the distant horizon, where the rich hues of sun-set had faded into one pale hue of clear cold amber, while every green tree and hedge-row had acquired a prevailing and blackened colour. Susan Lee loosened the string of her large straw hat; for the day had been sultry, and the fanning air felt delightful, as it met her face and stirred the soft rings of hair that hung round her neck. She walked on; musing, as she walked, in a mood of pensive and dreamy pleasure. Suddenly a man leapt down from the hedge, and stood still, at a few yards before her. Susan stopped too; she could not help doing so; she turned her head half-terrified, but James Allen appeared very near. Susan walked on, but trembled a little, as she passed the man, and yet she stole a glance at his countenance; the little light, which still remained, shewed nothing peculiar in that countenance. When Susan was leaving the cottage of the sick girl, she recollected another cottage, where her presence was hoped for by an afflicted family. "We will return home" said she to her servant "by the road. The distance is but little farther: I wish to visit poor widow Martin." Although it was as dark as summer nights generally are, when she reached home, Susan

did not regret her long dark walk, for she had made "the widow's heart to sing for joy."

Susan's father had been vicar of Linthorn but a few months when she took the walk I have just mentioned. The character which their conduct has since established among the parishoners was then scarcely known. Susan Lee had resided at Linthorn about five years, when, as she sat alone one cold autumn evening, James Allen entered the room, and told her that a dying man had sent to entreat that she would come to him. Her father was in London; Susan went down to speak herself to the person who had brought the message; he was an old whiteheaded man; his only son was dying, and, while he spoke of his child's danger, he wept. "There were years in that child's life," he said "which might have been, he feared, years of wickedness. He had left home, a strong hearty man, he had come back changed indeed, and he cannot die, Madam," said the old man," he cannot die, till he has seen you." Susan hesitated and looked at James Allen; the old servant had taken down the lanthorn. "I will go instantly," said Susan-Susan went forth in the dark cold night, to visit the hut of the dying man. One deep dull mass of clouds skirted the horizon, and shrouded the whole sky; their path lay through the wood, and, although the trees were nearly leafless, the gloom of the wood seemed quite impenetrable. The narrow path was scarcely visible by the partial gleam of the lanthorn, and the cutting wind swept through the forest, while the very stems of the trees seemed to bend beneath its force. All around her was dreary and dismal, yet Susan walked calmly, but not cheerfully, for she was visiting a dying man. The path now turned away by the banks of a rushing stream; they passed over a narrow foot bridge, and then walked about a quarter of a mile, over an open heath,

and arrived at a lone hovel. A dim light twinkled at the upper casement, and, as Susan entered, she heard a faltering step descending the shattered stairs. A very infirm old woman appeared: the light which she carried threw a fitful gleam on her thin and wrinkled face wet with tears.

Susan waited a few minutes, and then, at the old man's request, she followed him to the chamber of his son; she approached the low bed on which the dying man lay. "Lift me up, father!" said he―The old man placed the candle on a table near the bed, and with difficulty raised his son, propping up his head with the tattered clothes which lay beside him. "Now, father," said the man "will you leave me alone with the lady?" A faint feeling of horror crept through the gentle girl's heart, as she saw the old man quit the room, and listened to his feet, till they sounded on the last stair. The dying man looked round the room, and, in a low voice, requested Susan to close the door. She trembled, as she did so, and, half unwillingly, returned to his bedside. The man fixed his eyes earnestly on her face: Susan drew back, but looked upon the countenance before her. There was no particular expression on the features; they were thick and heavy, and their expression was a dull blank. "You wished to see me" said Susan, and knew not what more to say; "I did, I did," said he. "Promise me, Lady, not to leave me, till I have told you what lies so heavy on my heart. Promise, do promise me." "I promise;" said Susan, and, putting down the Bible, which she held, on the table, she opened the sacred volume, and sat bending over it. She lifted up her eyes as the man began to speak, "I cannot die in peace" said he, "till you forgive me, till you pray for me. Your forgiveness, and your prayers, may gain me