to invent, and more ability uniformly to sus- appears, till the last, is an admirably drawn tain this character than any one of the vari- and finely sustained character-new-perety of masterly characters with which the fectly new to the English reader-often enwork abounds. There is, indeed, uncommon tertaining always heroic-and sometimes art in the manner in which his dignity is pre- sublime. The grey spirit, the Bodach Glas, served by his courage and magnanimity, in thrills us with horror. Us! What effect spite of all his pedantry, and his ridicules, must it have upon those under the influence and his bear, and his boot-jack, and all the of the superstitions of the Highlands. This raillery of M'Ivor. (M'Ivor's unexpected circumstance is admirably introduced. This bear and boot-jack made us laugh heartily.) superstition is a weakness quite consistent "But to return to the dear, good Baron. with the strength of the character, perfectly Though I acknowledge that I am not so good natural after the disappointment of all his a judge as my father and brothers are of his hopes, in the dejection of his mind, and the recondite learning and his law Latin, yet I exhaustion of his bodily strength. feel the humor, and was touched to the quick by the strokes of his generosity, gentleness, and pathos, in this old man; who, by-the-bye, is all in good time worked up into a very dignified father-in-law for the hero. His exolamation of Oh, my son, my son,' and the yielding of the facetious character of the Baron to the natural feelings of the father, is beautiful. (Evan Dhu's fears that his father-in-law should die quietly in his bed made us laugh almost as much as the bear and the boot-jack). "Jinker, in the battle, pleading the cause of the mare which he had sold to Balmawhapple, and which had thrown him for want of the proper bit, is truly comic; my father says that this and some other passages respecting horsemanship, could not have been written by any one who was not master both of the great and little horse. "I tell you, without order, the great and little strokes of humor and pathos just as I recollect or am reminded of them at this moment by my companions. The fact is, that we have had the volumes only during the time we could read them, and as fast as we could read, lent to us as a great favor by one who was happy enough to have secured a copy before the first and second editions were sold in Dublin. When we applied not a copy could be had; we expected one in the course of next week, but we resolved to write to the author without waiting for a second perusal. Judging by our own feelings as authors, we guess that he would rather know our genuine first thoughts than wait for cool second thoughts, or have a regular eulogium or criticism put into the most lucid order, and given in the finest sentences that ever were rounded. "Is it possible that I got thus far without having named Flora or Vich Ian Vohr-the last Vich lan Vohr! Yet our minds were full of them the moment before I began this letter and could you have seen the tears forced from us by their fate, you would have been satisfied that the pathos went to our hearts. Ian Vohr, from the first moment he ་ 'Well, let us hear it,' said my father-and | us, and for the pleasure you have given us- believe me, every opinion I have in this letter expressed was formed before any individual in the family had peeped to the end of the book, or knew how much we owed you. "Your obliged and grateful "MARIA EDGEWORTH.” STRANGE VICISSITUDES IN THE LIFE OF A NOBLEMAN.-Many years ago, says the St. Louis Republican, Baron Frederick Von Oertel whose family was one of the most independent and aristocratic in Saxony, fell in love with a poor girl and determined to marry her. He thus incurred the displeasure of his wealthy father, who, on learning of the proposed alliance, at once disinherited the young nobleman, and turned him from his doors. This sudden reverse exasperated and maddened the lover, and bidding a silent farewell to the home of his childhood, and without informing the object of his affections, he bent his course to this country. On arriving here, he joined the United States army and served ten years as a soldier. It is said that his bravery and true heroism on the fields of Mexico, won the admiration of all who had opportunities to observe them. At the expiration of the ten years' service, he returned to Germany to ascertain how the estate of his family was managed. He found that his parents were in their graves, and that the property was distributed equally among his brothers and sisters, himself being wholly overlooked and disregarded in the will. To add to his dark fortunes, he ascertained that the girl who was the innocent cause of his ruin, had married and moved away. Von Oertel's mind never fully recovered from the shock this intelligence had created. Wandering in reason, he returned to the United States, and came to St. Louis. Here he was prostrated by violent sickness for some months. When he convalesced he found himself entirely destitute of means. His pride was thoroughly broken down, and for a livelihood the Baron actually took to selling "bretzels," a kind of pastry in much favor with the Germans. He continued at this paltry but honest business, for sixteen or eighteen years, and gained the appellation of Bretzel Fritz." Three years ago, having saved up the snug sum of $900, and having met one of the opposite sex in whom he thought he could confide, and whom he believed would make him a good and faithful wife, though she was several years his junior, Von Oertel was married. One day, a few months afterwards, on going home with his basket, he found that his wife had eloped with a seducer, and not content with bringing her husband to disgrace, had taken his money and every thing of any value about the house, leaving him the possessor of a basket of bretzels and a dishonored hearth. The old man, for he/ was now fifty-three years of age, quietly bore his new grief, and again, with perhaps an imprecation on the false one, addressed himself to the one great task of his life-forgetting. "Bretzel Fritz" has been well known in St. Louis-a wrinkled, slow-paced, stooping old man with his basket on his arm and rarely a smile on face. In the last three years he has laid away $400, the profits of his little business. Yesterday he was buried, having been sick three or four weeks. Before he expired he benevolently bequeathed his small possessions to the orphan children of a poor man, well known to many of our citizens, who died about a year ago. And so ended the eventful career of Baron Frederick Von Oertel. A HANDSOME CONTRIBUTION.-A gentleman waited upon Jerrold one morning to enlist his sympathies in behalf of a mutual friend, who was in want of a round sum of money. But this mutual friend had already sent his hat about among his literary brethren on more than one occasion. Mr. -'s hat was becoming an institution; and the friends were grieved at the indelicacy of the proceeding. On the occasion to which we now refer, the bearer of the hat was received by Jerrold with evident dissatisfaction. "Well," said Jerrold," how much does want this time? ,, Why, just a four and two noughts will, I think, put him straight," the bearer of the hat replied. Jerrold. "Well, put me down for one of the noughts." THE NIGHT AFTER CULLODEN. BY WALTER THORNBURY. THE cherry-colored satin Moved with its peacock train, There was the Laird o' the Willow Glen, The yellow satin and the black, The dance was set, the fiddlers stood Swords blazed above his fearless head, Swords hedged the brave man round; The fiddler with a trembling rasp The trumpeter with quavering note The dancer, half-way through the dance, O, shame for twenty Jacobites "Good gentlemen," the stranger cried, God bless the day of spring!- He spoke with such a manly voice, The badge upon his head. The swords drooped down, and on their knees Some prayed and sobbed and wept: How franticly towards the door A dozen Tories leaped! The rakehells galloped down the strand, THE LAST POET. "WHEN will yo, oh ye Poets, Be tired of the refrain? In his azure track yet burns, One human face yet turns; One heart yet trembling lies; And reconcilement, glows; With starry seeds yet sows, Of the golden scripture knows; And one tired traveller heals; And yet the rose-bowers blow; As long as the grave and the cypress And yet one heart may break; The Lord yet holds creation His mighty hand upon, And looks with a smile thereon; Long hence, its bloom has shed, You would like to ask again, -Providence Journal. 17 ANASTASIUS GRUN. |