ravings of his disturbed imagination, and shuddered to think of what horrors-but for a providential coincidence he might have added to the history of human wo. At length Mr. Franklin was allowed to take a drive. It is scarcely necessary to say that he called on the ladies. Mrs. Clifford, previously apprized of his intended visit, at the sound of the bell, accidentally remembered that she had left her scissors up stairs. So Franklin found Caroline alone. "You are very, very pale," cried the greatly agitated girl, her eyes filling with good, honest tears, as she gave him her hand. He raised it to his lips. "I beg your pardon, Miss Clifford.” But, like Beatrice, she seemed to hold it there again with a fervor which even the modest Franklin could not wholly misunderstand. "I owe you more than my life," cried Caroline, with such a look as she had never bestowed upon him before. "And yet," cried Franklin, "you fraudulently withhold from me the only payment in your power." "Nonsense-what payment, cried she, blushing deeply. "Your dear self!" answered Franklin, in a timid voice. "Then you must collect your debt, as other hardhearted creditors do-by force." "In that case," rejoined Franklin, with a boldness which astonished himself, "an execution must issue, and proceedings commence directly. Mrs. Clifford, having found her scissors, just then entered the room, but not before the ardent lawyer had performed the threatened duty-not quite so harrowing a one as that attempted by Mr. Jennings, though it led to the same result, viz., she was obviously transported, and, as it turned out-for life. Nor is this all. Old Mr. Blake had learned how the land lay from Mrs. Clifford, and he resolved to make the young people reparation. He owed it to them in all conscience. They were married in about six weeks; and when the ceremony was over, a parcel was brought in, directed "To Mrs. Franklin, with the compliments of Messrs. Blake, Blanchard & Co.," which, on being opened, was found to contain a superb Cashmere shawl-thirty yards of the £12 lace, and a neat mahogany box, with a coronet of diamonds for the young criminal. Mr. We wont go into the history of the ladies' objections to accepting these costly testimonials. Blake pleaded almost as eloquently as Franklin had done, till at last Franklin "put his foot down," as I recommend all young husbands to do on such occasions, and showed Mr. Blake who was master. Nor was this all either. A number of years afterward, when Mr. and Mrs. Franklin had returned to New York, and while the fond wife and happy mother was one day profoundly engaged in arranging a highly ornamented and curious little cap, her husband entered with a letter, and read as follows: To MRS. CAROLINE FRANKLIN. London, Feb. 10, 184-. MADAM,-It has become my duty to inform you. that, by the will of the late Mr. Blake, of the firm of Blake, Blanchard & Co., you have become entitled to his blessing, and a legacy of £2500 sterling, which, upon proving your identity, you can either draw for on me, at thirty days, or have remitted in any other way you desire. I have the honor to be, madam, very respectfully, your obedient servant, JOHN LOCKLEY, Solicitor, No.- Russel Square. A FUNERAL THOUGHT. BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. WHEN the pale Genius, to whose hollow tramp Hushed, and o'erburthened with a nameless fear, When the breath flutters, and the senses swim, And the dread hour is near! Though Love's dear arms might clasp me fondly then, Hallow at last the still, unbreathing clay- But in the awful silence of the sky, Upon some mountain summit, never trod Through the bright ether would I climb, to die Afar from mortals, and alone with God! To the pure keeping of the stainless air The soul, which wrestled with that doom of pain, Would guide it upward to the glorious track, Nor the keen pangs by parting anguish wrought, Turn its bright glances back! Then to the elements my frame would turn; In the slow storms of ages waste away! MOUNTAIN that first received the foot of manGiving him shelter, when the shoreless flood Went surging by, that whelmed a buried world I see thee in thy lonely grandeur rise I see the white-haired Patriarch, as he knelt O'er the gorged And furrowed soil, swept forth a numerous train, While, mixed with song, the sound of countless wings, The sun drew near his setting, clothed in gold, Then burst an arch of wondrous radiance forth, Spanning the vaulted skies. Its mystic scroll Proclaimed the amnesty that pitying Heaven Granted to earth, all desolate and void. Oh signet-ring, with which the Almighty sealed His treaty with the remnant of the clay The wild floods may come- And earth be wrecked: What then?-be still, my soul, His truth, thine Ararat, will shelter thee. SPIRIT-YEARNINGS FOR LOVE. BY MRS. H. MARION WARD. cold LOVE me, darling, love me, for my wild and wayward heart, | But if-oh, God! it cannot be—but if thou shouldst grow Like Noah's dove in search of rest, will hover where thou art; Will linger round thee, like a spell, till by thy hand caressed, It folds its weary, care-worn wings, to nestle on thy breast. Love me, darling, love me! When my soul was sick with strife, Thy soothing words have been the sun that warmed it into life; Thy breath called forth the passion-flowers, that slumbered 'neath the ice Of self-distrust, and now their balm makes earth a Paradise. And weary of my jealous love, or think it over-bold Or if, perchance, some fairer form should charm thy truant eye, Thou 'lt find me woman-proud and calm, so leave me let me die. I'd not reclaim a wavering heart whose pulse has once grown cold, To write my name in princely halls, with diamonds and gold. So love me, only love me, for I have no world but thee, And darksome clouds are in my sky-'t is woman's destiny; But let them frown-I heed them not-no fear can they impart, Love me, darling, love me! Let thy dreams be all of me! 66 BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF THE ROMAN TRAITOR," "MARMADUKE WYVIL," ETC. It has been gravely stated by an Italian writer of celebrity, that "the very atrocity of the crimes which are therein committed, proves that in Italy the growth of man is stronger and more vigorous, and nearer to the perfect standard of manhood, than in any other country." A strange paradox, truly, but not an uningenious -at least for a native of that "purple land, where law secures not life," who would work out of the very reproach, an argument of honor to his country. If it be true, however, that proneness to the commission of unwonted and atrocious crime is to be held a token of extraordinary vigor-vigor of nerve, of temperament, of passion, of physical development -in a race of men, then surely must the AngloNorman breed, under all circumstances of time, place, and climate, be singularly destitute of all these qualities-nay, singularly frail, effeminate, and incomplete. For it is an undoubted fact, both of the past and present history of that great and still increasing race, whether limited to the narrow bounds of the Island Realm which gave it being, or extended to the boundless breadth of isles, and continents, and oceans, which it has filled with its arms, its arts, its industry, its language—it is, I say, an undoubted fact, that those dreadful and sanguinary crimes, forming a class apart and distinct of themselves, engendered for the most part by morbid passions, love, lust, jealousy, and revenge, which are of daily occurrence in the southern countries of Europe, Asia, and America, are almost unknown in those happier lands, where English laws prevail, with English liberty and language. It is to this that must be ascribed the fact, that, in the very few instances where crimes of this nature have occurred in England or America, the memory of them is preserved with singular pertinacity, the smallest details handed down from generation to generation, and the very spots in which they have occurred, howmuchsoever altered or improved in the course of ages, haunted, as if by an actual presence, by the horror and the scent of blood; while on the other hand the fame of ordinary deeds of violence and rapine seems almost to be lost before the lives of the perpetrators are run out. One, and almost, I believe, a singular instance of this kind-for I would not dignify the brawls and assassinations which have disgraced some of our Southern cities, the offspring of low principles and an nregulated society, by comparing them to the class of crimes in question, which imply even in their atrocity a something of perverted honor, of extravagant affection, or at least of not ignoble passion-is the well-known Beauchamp tragedy of Kentucky, a tale of sin and horror which has afforded a theme to the pens of several distinguished writers, and the details of which are as well known on the spot at present, as if years had not elapsed since its occurAnd this, too, in a country prone above all others, from the migratory habits of its population, to cast aside all tradition, and to lose within a very few years the memory of the greatest and most illustrious events upon the very stage of their occurrence. rence. It is not, therefore, wonderful that in England, where the immobility of the population, the reverence for antiquity, and the great prevalence of oral tradition, induced probably at first by the want of letters, cause the memory of even past trifles to dwell for ages in the breasts of the simple and moral people, any deed of romantic character, any act of unusual atrocity, any crime prompted by unusual or extraordinary motives, should become, as it were, part and parcel of the place wherein it was wrought; that the leaves of the trees should whisper it to the winds of evening; that the echoes of the lonely hills should repeat it; that the waters should sigh a burthen to its strain; and that the very night should assume a deeper shadow, a more horrid gloom, from the awe of the unforgotten sin. I knew a place in my boyhood, thus haunted by the memory of strange crime; and whether it was merely the terrible romance of the story, or the wild and gloomy character of the scenery endowed with a sort of natural fitness to be the theatre of terrible events, or yet again the union of the two, I know not; but it produced upon my mind a very powerful influence, amounting to a species of fascination, which constantly attracted me to the spot, although when there, the weight of the tradition, and the awe of the scene produced a sense of actual pain. The place to which I allude was but a few miles distant from the celebrated public school, at which I passed the happiest days of a not uneventful life, and was within an easy walk of the college limits; so that when I had attained that favored eminence, known as the sixth form, which allows its happy occupants to roam the country, free from the fear of masters, provided only they attend at appointed hours, it was my frequent habit to stroll away from the noisy playing-fields through the green hedgerow lanes, or to scull my wherry over the smooth surface of the silver Thames, toward the scene of dark tra dition; and there to lap myself in thick coming fancies, half sad, half sweet, yet terrible withal, and in their very terror attractive, until the call of the homeward rooks, and the lengthened shadows of the tall trees on the greensward, would warn me that I too must hie me back with speed, or pay the penalty of undue delay. | without any apparent cause, almost completely embowered by the tall hawthorn hedges, and the yet taller oaks and ashes which grew along their lines, making, when in full verdure, twilight of noon itself, and commanding no view whatever of the country through which it ran, except when a field-gate, or carttrack opened into it, affording a glimpse of a lonely Now, as the story has in itself, apart from the ex-meadow, bounded, perhaps, by a deep wood-side. traneous interest with which a perfect acquaintance with its localities may have invested it in my eyes, a powerful and romantic character; as its catastrophe was no less striking than un-English; and as the passions which gave rise to it were at once the strongest and the most general-though rarely prevailing, at least among us Anglo-Normans, to so fearful an extent I am led to hope that others may find in it something that may enchain their attention for a time, though it may not affect them as it has me with an influence, unchanged by change of scene, unaltered by the lapse of time, which alters all things. On either hand of this lane was a broad, deep ditch, both of them quite unlike any other ditches I have ever seen. Their banks were irregular; and it would seem evident that they had not been dug for any purposes of fencing or enclosure; and I have sometimes imagined, from their varying width and depth-for in places they were ten feet deep, and three times as broad, and at others but a foot or two across, and containing but a few inches of water-that their beds had been hollowed out to get marl or gravel for the convenience of the neighboring cultivators. I propose, therefore, to relate it, as I heard it first from an old superannuated follower of the family, which, owning other, though not fairer demesnes in some distant county, had never more used Ditton-inthe-Dale as their dwelling place, although well nigh two centuries had elapsed since the transaction which had scared them away from their polluted household gods. But first, I must describe briefly the characteristics of the scenery, without which a part of my tale would be hardly comprehensible, while the remarkable effect produced by the coincidence, if I may so express myself, between the nature of the deed, and the nature of the place, would be lost entirely. In the first place, then, I must premise that the name of Ditton-in-the-Dale is in a great measure a misnomer, as the house and estate which bear that name, are situated on what a visiter would be at first inclined to call a dead level, but on what is in truth a small secondary undulation, or hollow, in the broad, flat valley through which the father of the English rivers, the royal-towered Thames, pursues, as Gray sang, The turf, the flowers, the shades among, But so destitute is all that country of any deep or well The lane by which I was wont to reach the demesne of Ditton, partook in an eminent degree of this character, being very narrow, winding about continually Be this as it may, they were at all times brimful of the clearest and most transparent water I ever remember to have seen-never turbid even after the heaviest rains; and though bordered by water-flags, and tapestried in many places by the broad, round leaves of the white and yellow water-lilies, never corrupted by a particle of floating scum, or green duckweed. Whether they were fed by secret springs I know not; or whether they communicated by sluices or side-drains with the neighboring Thames; I never could discover any current or motion in their still, glassy waters, though I have wandered by their banks a hundred times, watching the red-finned roach and silvery dace pursue each other among the shadowy lily leaves, now startling a fat yellow frog from the marge, and following him as he dived through the limpid blackness to the very bottom, now starting in my own turn, as a big water-rat would swim from side to side, and vanish in some hole of the marly bank, and now endeavoring to catch the great azurebodied, gauze-winged dragon-flies, as they shot to and fro on their poised wings, pursuing kites of the insect race, some of the smaller ephemera. It was those quiet, lucid waters, coupled with the exceeding shadiness of the trees, and its very unusual solitude-I have walked it, I suppose, from end to end at least a hundred times, and I never remember to have met so much even as a peasant returning from his daily labor, or a country maiden tripping to the neighboring town-that gave its character, and I will add, its charm to this half pastoral, half sylvan lane. For nearly three miles it ran in one direction, although, as I have said, with many devious turns, and seemingly unnecessary angles, and through that length it did not pass within the sound of one farmyard, or the sight of one cottage chimney. But to make up for this, of which it was, indeed, a consequence, the nightingales were so bold and familiar that they might be heard all day long filling the air with their delicious melodies, not waiting, as in more frequented spots, the approach of night, whose dull ear to charm with amorous ravishment; nay, I have seen them perched in full view on the branches, |