dered, she wandered from object to object, neither able to credit or reject the evidence of her senses. Suddenly she remembered, that in her native valley was a remarkable echo, which, in her light-hearted days, it had been her delight to awaken; and now, as if to prove the reality or fallacy of the scene that surrounded her, she began to sing one of her native mountain airs, of which the following are the words :

"Oh! dear to this heart is my own native home,
And the valley where erst I delighted to roam;
Dear the mist of its mountains. its dark rustling rees,
The plash of its fountains, and sigh of its breeze.
But oh! to this bosom more exquisite still,
Than mist of the mountain, or ripple of rill,

Is the love that once gladden'd this heart to its core.
Those fond hopes now blighted, to blossom no more."

She paused a moment, as if in expectation, and ere she could resume the strain, it was taken up and repeated, not by an echo, but by a dear and well-remembered voice; the words seemed an impromptu, adapted, perchance, to the situation and sentiments of the singer. They ran thus :

"Oh! dear were a desert, with thee for my home, With thee 'twere an Eden wherever I roam.

They force'd us to sever-in vain did we part,

Thine image for ever has dwelt in this heart.

The love that I've cherish'd thro' long joyless years

:

Has been sunn'd with my smiles and bedew'd with my tears; Stern fate's ruthless frown would have crush'd it in vain, With the bright dawn of hope now it blossoms again."

Pauline stood riveted to the spot, not daring to move or breathe, lest she should break the spell that enthralled her. The voice ceased, she turned; dared she trust her eyes? She beheld Conrad Stettin, in his ordinary Swiss attire, with his hunting spear in his hand, standing on one of the highest of the surrounding rocks. She uttered a cry of delight; he

sprung lightly from crag to crag, and in another second Pauline was in her lover's arms, murmuring, as she sank, half fainting, on his bosom, "Oh! if this be a dream, then let me never, never wake again!"

The lovers' transports may be imagined; all was soon explained, and Pauline learned from his own lips, that Conrad Stettin and the dreaded, yet admired, pacha were one and the same person, and that what she had half believed to be indeed her native valley, was but a part of the harem gardens, which it had been the amusement of the pacha's leisure hours, with much labour and expense, to have trained into this miniature resemblance of the spot dearest to him on the earth's varied surface. Pauline was deeply touched by this tender proof of her lover's affections, and still more so, by the more solid one he shortly after gave her, in yielding up the wealth, honours, and dignities, which he enjoyed, to share with her obscurity, and a humble, though happy, independence.

Conrad, during his residence among them, had learned sufficient of Turkish despotism to know that it would be worse than fruitless to solicit to be permitted to resign the charges and dignities he had so long held with honour to himself and advantage to his employers; and he therefore resolved to effect by stratagem that which he dared not openly attempt. Peace being concluded, the pacha intimated to those around him that he was going to visit a distant part of his government, and under pretence of travelling incognito, the better to discover the situation and disposition of the people committed to his trust, he took with him but very few attendants. He stopped but little till he arrived at the extreme verge of his dominions, where they bordered upon Hungary, and here he took up his quarters. From thence it was not difficult for him to make a moonlight excursion over the border into Hungary, where he was joined by the major and Pauline, and they all made the best of their way into their native country.

Conrad was shortly after united to his beloved and affec

were not a

tionate Pauline, and they established themselves in their own village. Conrad soon resumed his taste for the chase, and other rural occupations, which, together with a small income left to Pauline by her father, furnished them with all the comforts, and even many of what, in their humble sphere, might be considered the superfluities of life. As may be supposed, the kind-hearted inhabitants of little surprised, and not a whit less delighted, to see Conrad Stettin once more established among them, after so long an absence; and not a few conjectures were hazarded, and questions asked, as to what he had done with himself during those five years in which he had been supposed dead; to all of which Conrad simply replied by saying that he had been for some time a prisoner in Turkey, from whence he had at length contrived to escape into Hungary, where he had found his beloved Pauline and her guardian, and returned home with them, as they perceived; and with this account the good people were obliged to remain satisfied. E. M.

ORIGIN OF TURBANS.

Turbans, a Turkish hat, or ornament for the head, of fine linen, wreathed into a bundle, broad at the bottom to enclose the head, and lessening for ornament towards the top. The custom of wearing it had this origin: the barbarous people having the Grecian army once at a great advantage, at or near the hill Thermopyla, there was no other remedy, but some few must make good a narrow passage, while the main body of the army might escape; which some brave spirits undertook, and knowing that they went to an inevitable death, had care of sepulture, of old much regarded; wherefore each of them carried his winding sheet wrapt about his head, and then, with loss of their own lives, saved their fellows. Whereupon, for an honourable memorial of their exploits, the Levantines used to wrap white linen about their heads, and the fashion so derived upon the Turk.-Sir Henry Blount's Voyage.

DUKE HUMPHRY.*

A TALE OF THE ABBEY OF BURY ST. EDMUNDS.

BY MRS. ANN ROLFE,

AUTHOR OF THE WILL, OR TWENTY-ONE YEARS," &c.

The vesper bell chimed as they hurried along
With the silence and pomp of a funeral throng
To the chapel, where followed the stern devotee,
Who never rejoiced like the hearts of the free:
Penitence, vigilance, fasting, and prayer

Had steeled his lone bosom 'gainst things that are fair.
The chapel was lofty, and spacious, but cold,
Hung round with fine paintings delightfully old;
Huge pillars supported the roof, and between
Tripods, all gorgeously mounted, were seen;
The pavement was stone, but so finely designed
That beauty itself no such richness could find.
The approach to the altar was covered all o'er
With crimson and gold—and each gothic door
Was studded with jewels so precious and rare,
You'd have thought that Aladdin's fam'd lamp had been there;
In branches of silver lights blazed night and day,
Of vases, and urns, such a splendid display,
That no brotherhood seemed so wealthy as they.
On golden supporters were placed side by side
Our own blessed Virgin, and Jesus who died;
The Apostles in sculpture, as large as the life,
His Holiness' portrait, to keep all from strife,
A cross of pure diamonds for those to embrace
Who came to confess in that sacred place.

And there, in that chapel, those holy men knelt,
But none could pourtray to the world what they felt;

Humphry, Duke of Gloucester, was imprisoned and murdered in the Abbey of Bury St. Edmunds, about the year 1447.

They shook, and looked darkly, and gave to the sight
Shrank features more pale than the dim tapers' light,
With a scowl of distress, a grin of despair,

As of hopes overthrown by the pressure of care.
But, hark to that sound! 'tis the clashing of steel,
'Tis the tramp of the soldiers, that came to reveal
Some secret momentous :-the Abbot appears

Half palsied with fright, and the weight of his years;
"Who knocks?" he enquired, " like th' brigands ye meet,
Are ye come with rude scoffs to this hallowed retreat?”
"Admit us, ye sainted," they shouted, "we bring
Despatches, sent hither in haste by the king."
The gates open wide, the warriors rush in

With eyes flashing fire, and beards on their chin,

As they swore, by their swords, they were wet to the skin;
The rain had descended in torrents, they said,

That its floods seemed to threaten a watery bed;
But now we are safely arrived, my good fathers,
A truce to your prayers, let us look to your larders:
We are rogues that delight in the freshness of wine,
As well as those things on which princes should dine :
The feast is our motto-the sabre and spear

Are for those who presume to famish us here.
The Abbot, 'midst riot and revelry's strain
Perused the despatches again and again :

His brow became troubled, his breast heav'd a sigh,
He smote it-oh, God! must he die, must he die!
Shall wretches deride him, and number his hours,
And treachery cut down the sweetest of flowers!

A warrior approach'd, with a step firm and proud, But his cheeks were as pale as if wrapped in his shroud : He shook from his temples his beautiful hair,

He took off his helmet, and left his head bare;

Ungloved his white hands, which he crossed on his breast, I'm ready," said he, "for my pillow of rest."