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his prisoner more closely. The prior
t’this man has my father put to death. "He has not many minutes to live.
addressing the party who were assembled round:
“This,” said he, “though a sudden deed, is more like justice, than Spanish justice:
This unhappy man my friends, if convicted of the dreadful act he perpetrated would have escaped the arm of the executioner. The King,” he said these words in a lower tone, “dared not have put him to death.
iiusbands and Wives.
Let all who have experienced the bliss of a husband's love, or who have more sadly learned its value by its reverse, say whether indeed the devoted, constant love of a husband is not a blessing worthy to be prized and cherished. All know this happiness; but still more will the forlorn, the wretched, the broken-hearted who pine alone—who sit and weep, over times gone by; when the cold, neglectful busband, breathed to them of naught but love and constancy: when he, who once watched her every look and motion, and listened to each word in eager fondness, now leaves her, lonely, deserted, weeping perhaps, to cast his eyes of love on others; when he now leaves the once adorned and happy wife. As the tears fall silently down her care-worn face, does she not think with bitter envy of the lost possession of that treasure; the devoted love of a husband! Yes, yes; it was once her's, and she re. paid it, by the full gift of all the strength, the depth of woman's calm unchanging love! She gave her heart: her affections, her own soul; ah! too much perhaps, forgetfull of her God! and that gift which had been sought for and won, whore is it now? It is despised, neglected, cast asidel, She
stries to smile against hope; she tries to
hide a bursting heart under a placid brow; to seem happy, and thus she may chance to win back that wavering heart. But not he comes—he speaks in careless displeasure, in cutting sarcasm, or perhaps, still worse to bear, he scarcely speaks— he scarcely heeds her! It is too much! He sees her weep—he has seen her smile; in angry impatience he turns away mut: tering, “what folly!" and again she is lest to weep alone in bitter earnestness of 4 11. o Thus did the world notice and forget the two events: yet in the simple record of that marriage and that burial, there resided what might startle the volumptuary in the rankness of his lust, and what
bursting heart! Yes! let those who have known the bright reverse be thankful! Let them acknowledge their blessedness! Let them cherish and guard the precious possession, so soon, so easily lost.
L H F E. By walter landon, Esq.
“MAN,” says Sir Thomas Brown, “is a noble animal! splendid in ashes, glorious in the grave; solemnising nativities and sunerals with equal lustre, and not forgetting ceremonies of bravery in the infamy of his nature " Thus spake one who mocked, while he wept, at man's estate, and gracefully tempered the high scoffings of philosophy with the profound compassion of religion. Certain it is that pomp chiefly waits upon the beginning and the end of life: what lies between, may raise a sigh or wake a laugh, for it mostly partakes of the bitterness of one and the sadness of the other. “Who is married ?” said the gay and thoughtless Emma, as she took up that important chronicle of passing events, the daily paper. “Married, on Wednesday morning, at the residence of her father, in Wiltshire, the Honorable Lady Charlotte Howard, to Captain Beauclerk of the Royal Navy;” and the 1eader pass ed on. Six months afterwards the servant put into the same hands the same gazette. “ Who is dead?” said the fair querist, as she opened the expansive pages. “Died. on Wednesday morning, at the residence of her husband, in Wiltshire, the Honorable Lady Charlotte Beauclerk, in the 21st year of her age;" and the reader passed
the hermit might ponder in the loneliness
of his cell. I was at the house of feast. ing and at the house of mourning. I saw
the bride in the spring-blossom of her
loveliness, and beheld the narrow coffin *hat housed her till eternity.
There is a moral to the history of life, which no language has yet been able to bring out, and which, perhaps, no mind will ever be capable of embracing in its fullness. All our remarks, though struck out of the heart by impetuous anguish, sink in expression to the most commonplace. The sage explores the realms of thought, and the poet dives in the remotest depths of language, for adequate reflections, and they both come back to the simplest dialect of the street, as being all they can say. A grief falls upon us, whose magnitude, we think, might shake the world, and our fullest comment is a shake of the head. I stood in the abbey when the coffin of the third George was borne to its narrow vault. The longest and the brightest reign in any annals was concluded; all that could elevate and bless humanity, in the tributes of power, the offerings of wealth, the esteem of the wise, and the affection of the good, had waited on his life; and to dignify the closing scene, prince and peer, the lords of genius and the ministers of virtue were assembled in the imposing pomp of power and the majectic splendor of distinction. Yet, with all, how ordinary was that lise and how ordinary was that character | Focus of all the brightest rays that permeate the universe, he trod the common earth, a common man. To my thought, this history of a great good man, this record of power used and not abused, of merit always rewarded, excellence always protected, talent always fostered, and reli. gion always respected, spoke a profounder commentary upon the utter vanity of life than the glaring failures of a Charles or a Boabdil, I had pondered these things, and was now gazing on the mockery of the funeral pageant, and knew that a knell, was then sounding throughont England which would arrest the steps of the thoughtful, and melt the hearts of the feeling; yet what could I say, what could I even feel, commensurate with the demand of the scene 7 I stood by chance at a window in London, and saw the remains of Lord Byron pass by on their way to the parish church-yard. He who had spurned all accepted usage, and sedulously scorned established habit, was borne along like the humblest citizen to rest in an obscure grave, like the lowest peasant in the fields. He whose temper had defied a nation, and whose genius had held high war with truth and virtue, and come from the contest not ingloriously, was jolting along the street like the carcase of a dog, and what could man do? It is recorded of Merlin and Zoroaster, that as soon as they were born they burst into a fit of laughter—the quack and the philosopher. And in truth the world seems to be but a material sneer. Of God considered purely as Creator, every act and motion must be creative; I ima. gine that a smile awoke the angels from nothingness, and that man was laughed into being. Life seems perpetually bur. lesquing itself, and one half of existence is a running parody on the other. On the stage the farce succeeds the tragedy; off, they are mingled in alternate scenes. Immortal man! thy blood flows freely and fully, and thou standest a Napoleon; thou reclinest a Shakspeare it quickens its movement, and then lies a parched and fretful thing, with thy mind furied by the phantoms of sever! it retards its action but a little, and thou crawlest a crouching, soulless mass, the bright world a blank dead vision to thine eye. Verily, O man, thou art a glorious and godlike being ! Tell life's proudest tale; what is it! a few attempts successless; a few crushed or mouldered hopes; much paltry fretting: a little sleep, and the story is concluded: the curtain falls—the farce is over. The world is not a place to live in, but to die in. It is a house that has but two chambers; a lazar and a charnel—room vales for the dying and the dead. There is not a spot on the broad earth on which man can plant his foot and affirm with confidence, ''no mortal sleeps beneath!”
The Type roR Macsycophant—The most foolish thing in the world is said to be, “to bow to the rich till you're unable to stand erect in the presence of an honest man.” MIND Your Own Business.—One of the consequences of good breeding is a disinclination, positively a distaste, to pry into the private affairs of others.
Our next number will commence with an original tale—(The Marriage Certificate)—by the author of Mary Morris, the Groomsman, &c. It is a tale founded upon facts of peculiar interest. It will be continued through seven or eight numbers.
With this number closes the third volume of the “Visiter,” and in commencing a new volume, we shall endeavour to make such improvements as can. not fail to meet the approbation of its numerous and
Runaway Match, the
The Widow Cured
Uncertainty of Health
Wanderings of Cain
Lite - -
I he Grove - - - -
The Last Day - - .
She never Smiled again - • -
The Constant Lay - - -
The Storm King . . . . . . .
Edward Morton - - - -
I wish he would Decide - - - -
The Soul - - -
On the Loss of a Ship