I SET Out, one day, from Damascus, to visit Balbec and its ruins. My friend the Pacha had referred me to the charge of the Sheik Nasel, who was the chief of fifty Arabs. My people followed me at the distance of a day's journey.

We travelled on, sometimes in the night, and sometimes in the day; and the sun had thrice risen since my departure, when a messenger, mounted on a dromedary, sped forward towards our caravan. He addressed a word to the Sheik Nasel, who became troubled, and changed countenance. "What is the matter?" said I. 66 Nothing," he replied, and we proceeded on our route. Presently a second dromedary reached us; and the result much increased the depression evinced by Nasel. I insisted on knowing the cause of it.

"Well, then, Cid Milady," answered he, "since I must tell you, my father is pursuing me with a force three times superior to mine, and will shortly overtake us. He seeks my life, I am certain. The offence demands blood; but you have been intrusted to my care; and I will rather die than abandon you."

66 Make your escape; fly!" exclaimed I. "For me, I will sooner abide singly in the desert, than see you slain by your father's hand. I will await his coming, and attempt your reconciliation. In any case, Balbec cannot be far off; and the sun shall be my guide." With these words I quitted him. He sprang forward, and disappeared with his fifty Arabs.

I had been left alone, nearly an hour, with no other com pany than the animal that carried me, and no other protection than my dagger, when a cloud of dust showed itself in the horizon: horsemen approached at full gallop; and, in a few moments, Nasel was at my side.

"Honoured be the Cid Milady!" was his exclamation, "he* wears the heart of a warrior! All that I have pretended to him, has only been to prove his courage. Come, my ather is at hand to receive you."

*Forgetting her sex, in the hardihood and fearless bearing which sometimes almost concealed it, the wild Arabs were accustomed, it seems, to address Lady Stanhope in the masculine gender.

I followed him, and was welcomed beneath his tent, with all the state and ceremony of the desert. Gazelles and young camels supplied our repast; and poets celebrated th exploits of past times. I cultivated the alliance of their trib who, from that day, have loved and respected me.

AMONG the dwellers in the silent fields,
The natural heart is touched; and public way
And crowded street resound with ballad strains,
Inspired by ONE whose very name bespeaks

Favour divine, exalting human love;

Whom, since her birth, on bleak Northumbria's coast,
Known unto few, but prized as far as known,

A single act endears to high and low,

Through the whole land, to manhood, moved in spite Of the world's freezing cares,

to generous youth, —

To infancy, that lisps her praise, and age,
Whose eye
reflects it, glistening through a tear
Of tremulous admiration. Such true fame
Awaits her now. But, verily, good deeds
Do no imperishable record find

Save in the rolls of heaven, where hers

may

A theme for angels, when they celebrate

live

The high-souled virtues which forgetful earth

Has witnessed. Oh! that winds and waves could speak
Of things which their united power calls forth
From the pure depths of her humanity!

A maiden gentle, yet, at duty's call,
Firm and unflinching as the lighthouse reared
On the island rock, her lonely dwelling-place;
Or like the invincible rock itself, that braves,
Age after age, the hostile elements,

As when it guarded holy Cuthbert's cell:

All night the storm had raged, nor ceased nor paused,
When, as day broke, the maid, through misty air,
Espies, far off, a wreck, amid the surf

Beating on one of those disastrous isles.
Half of a vessel, — half, —no more; the rest
Had vanished, swallowed up with all that there
Had for the common safety striven in vain,
Or thither thronged for refuge. With quick glance
Daughter and sire, through optic-glass, discern,
Clinging about this remnant of the ship,

Creatures,

how precious in the maiden's sight!
For whom, belike, the old man grieves still more
Than for their fellow-sufferers ingulfed,
Where every parting agony is hushed,
And hope and fear mix not in farther strife.

"But courage, father! let us out to sea —
A few may yet be saved."- The daughter's words,
Her earnest tone, and look beaming with faith,
Dispel the father's doubts; nor do they lack
The noble-minded mother's helping hand
To launch the boat; and with her blessing cheered,
And inwardly sustained by silent prayer,
Together they put forth, father and child!
Each grasps an oar, and struggling, on they go;
Rivals in effort; and, alike intent

Here to elude and there surmount, they watch
The billows lengthening, mutually crossed
And shattered, and re-gathering their might;
As if the wrath and trouble of the sea
Were by the Almighty's sufferance prolonged,
That woman's fortitude, - so tried, so proved, -
May brighten more and more!

True to the mark,

They stem the current of that perilous gorge;

Their arms still strengthening with the strengthening heart, Though danger, as the wreck is neared, becomes

More imminent. - Not unseen do they approach;

And rapture, with varieties of fear

Incessantly conflicting, thrills the frames
Of those who, in that dauntless energy,
Foretaste deliverance; but the least perturbed
Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he perceives
That of the pair, tossed on the waves to bring
Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, life, -
One is a woman, a poor earthly sister,

Or, be the visitant other than she seems,

A guardian spirit sent from pitying Heaven,
In woman's shape. But why prolong the tale,
Casting weak words amid a host of thoughts
Armed to repel them? - Every hazard faced
And difficulty mastered, with resolve

That no one breathing should be left to perish,
This last remainder of the crew are all

Placed in the little boat, then o'er the deep
Are safely borne, landed upon the beach,
And, in fulfilment of God's mercy, lodged
Within the sheltering lighthouse. Shout, ye waves.
Pipe a glad song of triumph, ye fierce winds!
Ye screaming sea-mews, in the concert join!
And would that some immortal voice, a voice
Fitly attuned to all that gratitude

Breathes out from floor or couch, through pallid lips
Of the survivors, to the clouds might bear,
(Blended with praise of that parental love,
Beneath whose watchful eye the maiden grew,
Pious and pure, modest, and yet so brave,
Though young, so wise; though meek, so resolute,)
Might carry to the clouds and to the stars,
Yes, to celestial choirs, Grace Darling's name!

EXERCISE CXIX.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF GRACE DARLING. Mrs. C. B. Wilson.

WHEN round her ocean-dwelling
Burst the rude tempest's blast,
While waves to mountains swelling,
Closed o'er the sinking mast;
Forth came the seaman's daughter,
Like Mercy o'er the wave,
Stemming that stormy water,
To succour, and to save.

The laurel for the warrior's brow,
Fame's glorious fingers twine;

But far more verdant did it glow,
Heroic maid, on thine.

And, ever, to thy deathless name
Shall hallowed memories cling,
More precious than the wreath of Fame,
Pure, bright, unperishing.

Thy firm, but woman's spirit shrank
From the homage of the crowd;
While pale decay thy life-spring drank,
And death thy beauty bowed.—
Now, sadly, round thy ocean-home
Mourneth the murmuring wave,
And, (hushed each angry billow's foam,)
Makes music o'er thy grave!

EXERCISE CXX.

FEMALE STUDIES. Mrs. Barbauld.

MEN have various departments in active life: women have but one; and all women have the same, differently modified, indeed, by their rank in life, and other incidental circumstances. It is, to be a wife, a mother, a mistress of a family. The knowledge belonging to these duties, is woman's professional knowledge; the want of which nothing will excuse. The acquisition of literary knowledge, therefore, in men, is often an indispensable duty: in women, it can be only a desirable accomplishment. In woman, it is more immediately applied to the purposes of adorning and improving the mind, of refining the sentiments, and supplying proper stores for conversation.

For general knowledge, women have, in some respects, more advantages than men. Their occupations often allow them more leisure: their sedentary way of life disposes them to the domestic, quiet amusement of reading: the share they take in the education of their children, throws them in the way of books. The uniform tenor and confined circle of their lives, make them eager to diversify the scene by descriptions which open to them a new world; and they are