himself to take from the gypsey store; and with this pipe, of which he well knew the use, he hoped to recommend himself to charitable villagers. He looked at the horizon, and saw the Montblanc of the Caucasus at a distance; and a caravan drawn by camels with a load of salt, offered him a guide to Cherson. Their advance was slow, but the drivers were pleased with their new acquaintance; and he, wrapped in a sheep-skin, with a staff made of two arrows, rode or limped amongst them till they entered Cherson. He passed the gates with as eager expectation as if he had hoped that every inhabitant must know the name of Frankenstein. Every one did seem to know it, and he heard it clamoured in all the streets by a crowd whose force urged him to a square where a Russian regiment was assembled to witness the execution of its commander. "He is sentenced," said one of the spectators, "because he absented himself on a false pretence of seeking his father among the wild hordes, where, they say, the old man hid himself when he escaped from our new Russian mistress. But the Bashaw, Potemkin, knows of no duty that a soldier has except to stab and rob; therefore the young man comes here to die."-The signal of preparation was given, and Frankenstein came into the centre of the square. As he knelt to receive his death, the old man of the forest burst through the ranks and threw his arms around him. What a witness in favour of the condemned son! Even the prejudiced judge of a Russian court martial melted when he heard how this unhappy father had suffered the long cruelty of a Tartar horde, and abandoned himself to despair in the woods, till the sight of an innocent child redeemed him from savage solitude. When he told of her courage in releasing him from prison, her bountiful provision for his journey, and fond trust in that beloved name which she had given him as a guide, his son felt the recompence of the former self-denial, and the rich joy of an acquittal produced by such means. But neither the elder nor the younger Frankenstein forgot the miserable fate to which their benefactress was probably consigned; and both rejoiced when a treaty between two Circassian princes and the Cossack chiefs of the Crimean frontier, furnished some Russian officers with a pretence to visit a spot from whence the young man might easily make an excursion to the Tartar village. He was too well ac quainted with Suwarrow's Catechism to regard any fatigues or deprivations; and providing himself with a swift horse, a quantity of coins and silver trinkets as bribes, and a wide cloak, he joined the cavalcade of the cossack delegates.

Nothing (says an eye witness) could be more splendid than the spectacle by the banks of the Kuban. The officers of the cossack troops rode in the van on superb horses, glittering in embroidered housings, towards the tent of the Circassian princes on the water's edge. Their Ataman appeared in front, bareheaded, in a vest of blue velvet, with sleeves and trousers of scarlet cloth, richly jewelled and brocaded. His tunic, lined with blue silk, fell back from his shoulders, showing his breast covered with chains of gold, his rich sash and costly pistols. His boots, like those of his officers, were of red leather, and his sabre's broad sheath of red velvet shone with rubies and torquoises. This splendid figure approached the awning of the Circassion princes, whose savage and squallid attire seemed to rebuke the Cossack's theatrical magnificence. Their heads were shaven, their legs bare, and the worn-out sleeves of their jackets shewed the shirt of mail which covered them. The chief whose surrender was to be the price of the treaty, lay stretched on a plank behind them, covered with wounds, but with an immoveable serenity in his grim and tanned features. A young girl was imployed in fanning the musquitos from his face with a branch of green laurel. Her attitude, and the fine con

trast between her youthfully soft form and the stern vigour of manhood, drew Frankenstein's attention. The Chiefs told him they had bought her a few days before from a gypsey salesman, but doubted the success of their purchase, as she refused food, and was fading daily. Frankenstein instantly offered the aid of Howard, the Englishman, whose skill as a physician was then so celebrated in this territory, and whose curiosity had induced him to witness the meeting of the Tartar Chiefs, and the Circassians. His persuasions, and Frankenstein's promise of a coffee-cup set with diamonds and a pipe of porcelain, induced Lilla's purchaser to transfer his prize; and when her veil was raised to allow Howard's benevolent examination, he saw hidden near her breast the silver book, which never left it. She returned to Cherson happy beyond all measure of happiness, and was given by her father whose life she had saved, to the son whose name she had treasured so devoutly. They saw the fulness of public justice in the fate of Potemkin and Howard. The powerful favourite of the Empress, the enemy and prosecutor of Frankenstein, was removed from his splendid coffin in Cherson, and thrown into a ditch by her son Paul's commands: while the obelisk which marks Howard's grave is still honoured by every traveller.

GEORGIAN SLAVES.

We witnessed a melancholy scene the few last days we were here: there arrived one evening four shabby-looking, ill-dressed Turks, attired some-what like soldiers, and an elderly knave better clad, though no better looking than the others. These people brought with them eleven Georgian girls, the remnant of between forty and fifty, as we were informed, whom they had stolen or kidnapped from their parents on the confines of Georgia, they were brought to be sold as slaves or mistresses to such wealthy Turks as could afford to bid high sums for such unfortunate victims. These poor girls were lodged in the cells contiguous to ours; they were mostly between fifteen and twenty years of age: two were younger being about twelve. They were all exceedingly pretty, with black sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks, long black hair, and very fair complexion, giving a very strong contradiction to the account which Volney writes of the Georgian and Circassian women, were he says, that their fame for beauty arises more from the fancy of travellers, heightened by the difficulty they have always found to get a sight of them, than from any real merit they possess in this respect. The prices which were demanded and offered for these girls is the best proof of the estimation in which they are held by the Turks, especially when it is known that these people are allowed a plurality of wives. We were present at the bidding for one girl by a rich Turk, when fourteen purses, each purse being five hundred piastres (18.), were demanded, and although he offered ten, they would not abate one para; the poor girl, who was about fifteen, standing up all the while, and hearing the dispute about her purchase. They were all taken out four different times, and conducted through the town to the rich Turkish houses to be viewed and bid for, the same as any other merchandize; and on two occasions considerable parties of the principal inhabitants came to our khan, and examined and bid for the unhappy creatures at the door of their cells; they being obliged to stand up in a row. while their several merits were discussed by the rival bidders. We saw several candidates for purchasing, of upwards of fifty years of age, while the friendless object of his choice was only fifteen. The diet of these poor unfortunates,

considering their sex, was of a character with the rest of their treatment, consisting only of a loaf of bread and a small piece of cheese twice a day, and although we were buying oranges at only two pars (a halfpenny) each, we never saw one amongst them all. Whenever the owners went abroad, they locked their charge up in the cells, and carried away the key. Being returned from one of their tours through the town, we heard some bitter lamenting in the cell next to ours, and found that it proceeded from one of the young girls being about to be sold, and consequently separated from her sister and companions. The mode of conducting these girls from town to town is on horseback; in this manner they had been brought from Georgia, being exposed for sale at the principal towns as they came along; they were now destined for Damascus, where it was thought a good mart would be found for them; they set out on their melancholy journey two days before we did.

THE VICTIM OF A BROKEN HEART.

Every one must recollect the tragical story of young Emmett, the Irish Patriot, which has been already given in the present volume; it is a tale too touching to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland, he was tried, condemned and executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was so young-so intelligent-so generous-so brave so every thing that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country-the elegant vindication of his name and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation-all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution.

But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossible to describe. In happier days, and fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervour of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy of his foes, what must have been the agony of her whose whole soul was occupied by his image! Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth-who have sat at his threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, from whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed.

But then the horror of such a grave! so frightful, so dishonored! There was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe the pangs of separation -none of those tender, though melancholly circumstances, that endear the parting scene-nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish.

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and gene

rous sensibility. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her lover. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul-that penetrate the vital seat of happiness-and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but she was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude. She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship.

She was prevailed on to go to a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay-to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and so woe-begone, as if it had tried to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for some time with a vacant air, that shewed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears.

The story of one so true and tender, could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead, could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependant situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he, at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably another's.

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless, decline, and at length sunk into the grave the victim of a broken heart.

SETTING IN OF THE MONSOON.

The shades of evening (says Mr. Forbe's in his Oriental Memoirs,) approached us as we reached the ground, and just as the encampment was completed the atmosphere grew suddenly dark, the heat became oppressive, and an unusual stillness presaged the immediate setting in of the monsoon. The whole appearance of nature resembled those solemn preludes to earthquakes and hurricanes in the West Indies, from which the east in general is providentially free. We were allowed very little time for conjecture: in a few minutes the heavy clouds burst over us.

I witnessed seventeen monsoons in India, but this exceeded them all, in

its awful appearance and dreadful effects. Encamped in a low situation, on the borders of a lake, formed to collect the rising water, we found ourselves in a few hours in a liquid plain. The tentpins giving way, in a loose soil, the tents fell down, and left the whole army exposed to the contending elements. An hundred thousand human beings, with more than two hundred thousand elephants, camels, horses, and oxen, suddenly overwhelmed by this storm, in a strange country, without any knowledge of high or low ground, the whole being covered by an immense lake, and surrounded by thick darkness, which prevented our distinguishing a single object, except such as the vivid glare of lightning displayed in horrible forms. No language can describe the encampment thus instantaneously destroyed, and covered with water; amid the cries of old men and helpless women, terrified by the piercing shrieks of their expiring children, unable to afford them relief. During this dreadful night more than two hundred persons and three thousand cattle perished, and the morning dawn exhibited a shocking spectacle.

Such was the general situation of the army, such the conclusion of the cainpaign. As secretary to the commanding officer, I was always one of his family, and generally slept in his tent. At this time he was ill with a violent fever, and on the commencement of the storm had been removed in his palanquin to the village. I endeavoured to follow him; but up to my knees in water, and often plunging into holes much deeper, I was compelled to return to the tent; there being left alone, and perceiving the water gradually rising, I stood upon a chair, to keep above its surface; by midnight it had risen above three feet. The shrieks of the surrounding women and children, and the moaning of cattle, especially of dying camels, was horrible. To increase my distress the pins gave way, and the tent fell upon me, when no calls for assistance could be heard. Providentially it was a small Indian tent, with a centre pole, round which it clung; had it been the colonel's usual marquee, of English canvas, I must have been smothered. At last finding myself nearly exhausted, I determined to make one effort more for my deliverance, in which I happily succeeded. Guided through the lake by tremendous flashes of lightning, after many difficulties, I reached the hut whether they had conveyed the colonel, and there found the surgeon general, and several other gentlemen, drying their clothes round a large fire in the centre: with them I past the remainder of this miserable night, among serpents, scorpions, and centipedes, which the fire within, and the heavy rain without, had driven from their hiding places. Several of our men were stung by the scorpions, and bit by snakes and centipedes; none fatally. The scorpion, though less dangerous than the malig nant serpents, inflicts a wound which, like that of the centipedes, is attended with inflamation and fever; his sting at the end of the tail he darts with great force at the object of his fury; the latter bites by means of strong forcepts at the mouth this reptile is more common than the scorpion, and more easily concealed. If the scorpion is surrounded by flaming spirits or burning embers, and can find no egress, he stings himself to death.

Such was our night: the next morning the camp exhibited a scene of woe; the train of artillery was sunk several feet into the earth, and covered by the water. To convey them and the stores to Dhuboy required the utmost exertion, and, with the assistance of elephants, could not be accomplished in less than seven days, although only a distance of six miles.