lovely daughter Clara, to whom he hoped, immediately on his coming of age, to be united.

This was the last time I saw him, but the remainder of his career, so different from what had been anticipated, was related to me by another of our class-fellows, who had had the opportunity of witnessing its termination. He had gone to Paris, but not finding the Courtenays there, after lingering in that pleasure-multiplying capital, had proceeded to Marseilles with the intention of proceeding to Sicily, which they had originally intended to visit; here also no tidings of the party he most wished to meet reached him, and with no little chagrin and disappointment he returned to England. But almost immediately on his landing, he learned that Sir Everard had followed him to Paris, and he resolved to retrace his steps. He once more reached the capital of France, but he found the doors which he expected would have almost flown open to give him admittance, closed against him, and a letter, signed by the idol of his affections, begging in the most earnest terms to cease his attentions, yet denying that her sentiments towards him were changed, without accounting for the apparent inconconsistency, almost drove him to desperation. Every attempt at an interview proved abortive, and every letter he sent was returned unopened. Irritated and perplexed, without a friend in whom he could confide; and with almost too much pride to confess even to his father, to whom he wrote weekly, the disappointment he had met with, poor Fitzgibbon fostered with his sorrow the seeds of a consumption, to which he had at a very early period of his life appeared predisposed. But the truth at length burst upon him. Sir Everard had fallen a victim to the knaves who frequent the Salons of Paris, and his whole fortune, with that of his daughter, had been lost by him at the Ecarté table. Unable to bear with fortitude this reverse, and cursing his own folly at being the dupe of a set of villains, who had thus plundered him of all, had robbed his child, and reduced them both to beggary, he had persuaded her to write the letter, (indeed she required but little intreaty), and as soon as he could arrange his few affairs, he left Paris, for what place no one could tell.

In vain were Fitzgibbon's enquiries, from place to place he wandered during two or three years, more like a disembodied spirit in search of rest than aught human; and when at length he flung himself despairing into the arms of his parents; it was but to learn the destruction of his hopes, and the shipwreck and loss of the Courtenays, in a dreadful storm off the western coast of England. After this news never did he smile again, until that moment, when his last breath pronounced the name of Clara, and his pure soul winged its flight from its carthly tenement, for the mansions of enduring peace and felicity.

Brief and uninteresting as this outline may be, it has often brought to my mind the conviction that there are many of us, whose happiness, while it does in some measure depend upon our

selves, is frequently regulated and controlled by circumstances over which we have no power, and that in many instances where we would blame others for imprudence, had we been placed in the same situation, it might have been our fatality to have acted in the

same manner.

Before I left England I visited Merton church-yard, and forgot not to shed a tear to the memory of my old school-fellow.

*K.*

CONVICT SKETCHES.
No. I.

"The Convict Ship."

A golden cloud on a purple sky,
Floating where is not another nigh,
Is not more beautiful, scarce more bright,.
Than yonder bark with its wings of light,
Quietly, calmly, breasting through
The boundless ocean of chequered b
Who would suppose that a thing s
Carried beneath its wings of light
Exiles, from country and kindred's wept,
For lands where their fathers never slept,

Their woes unheeded, and their fate unwept.
Ah! thus it is that the fairest things,

Rob us of Hope's imaginings!

Onward she comes; and the setting sun
Heralds the news that the day is done.

The well-known time when their narrow cell,
Illumined by rays that image well

The hopes that within such bosoms dwell,
So wan, so few, that the light they throw
Reveals but a gloomy glimpse of woe,
Is peopled again;- and corroding care,
And reckless mirth that defies despair ;-
A Babel of hearts commingle there.

Ah! there they mingle :-they whose crimes
Have steeped them in guilt a thousand times,
They who from childhood to manhood grew
Villains in heart, and action too,

To whom no spot upon earth is dear;
To whom no friend upon earth is near;
Who at exile shed no bitter tear;

Who have left behind them a hated name,

Of scorn unheeded, and reckless shame;
Who bear to yon shores restrained, not raised
The passions that Deity's form debased,
Hearts that will neither break nor bend,
Nor prayers nor praises to Heaven send :---
Yes there they mingle; --they, whose crimes
Will ripen to madness in warmer climes,

And they who beneath a genial sky

Will pine, and waste, and in exile dic.

Hark! the soft breath of twilight bears,
A sound that mirth and strife declares,
The lurid sunshine and murky sky,
That apart both charm and fix the eye.
But conjoined bespeak the tempest nigh.
O! yes! their mirth is near akin

To storms that in sunshine smiles begin!

Hark again! there comes across the sea,
Music sounding merrily,

That leads the light-hearted seamen's mirth,
The dance and the laugh, and the merry glee,
That gladden awhile the solemn sea,
And make it to them more dear than earth,
With its thousand joys, and its happy home,
And its hearts with affections that never roam.
Unseemly youth! but as thoughtless done,
Their mirth and their hearts are far from one.

A monarch may over a blazing pile
Revel, and dance and pipe the while,
But o'er ruins of mind more solemn far
Than mouldering palace and temple are,
Still'd must the throb of pleasure be,
And silent the laugh of lenity,
For who would vanity's altar rear
For the dungeon or the sepulchre?

The moon is risen, the stars are bright,
And by glory canopied reigns the night;
And silence walks o'er the sea-weed graves,
That lie deep beneath the whispering waves;
And in sleep the mirth and discord drowned
She hovers, the floating island round:
While one moment bright, now dimly seen,
Like a spectre ocean and sky between,
The vessel glides, a spot of rest,

On the boundless ocean's swelling breast!

Now is the time when those spirits awake,
That in silent night their courses take,
And away to the land they have sadly left,
True as the heart of its joy bereft ;

To the light of remembrance ever turns;
And before the shrine of unsevered hearts,

They utter the vow that knows no stain; And breathe the prayers that an exile may, Though from honor and happiness far away, And sigh to the hope that soon they may,

Unbound by infamy's galling chain,
Bury their sorrow where grief departs,

And the fever of bondage never burns.
And back they come to their prison there
To weep unseen the bitter tear,

To bear the rack of remorse and shame,
Of blasted hope and dishonored name,
And to sigh for freedom once possessed,
When the soul was not by crime oppressed;
The freedom of virtue that makes them crave
That their exile may be in the silent grave,

O! ye who by crime were never stained,
Who never the weight of remorse sustained;
Spurn not the fallen things you see,

Their lot is already misery:

And tho' all are doomed to a foreign clime,
All are not tainted tho' stained with crime:"

And tho' most their thousand crimes have donc,
There are many still who have but one-
And the crime they did may even be→
The offspring of true nobility.

Forget not that at least in Heaven's eye
We all make one great family.—
The mountain summit soars far and high
Beyond and above the vale hard by,

But the sun upon both shines bright and warm,
Alike they partake of the calm and storm,
And who shall compute how far they lie
From the fountain of light and purity?

ROB THE RED-HAND.

CHAP. IV.

J. N.

Terrified and amazed, Reginald knew not whether he was under the influence of a dream or not. He felt Rob's strong and sinewy grasp; and he saw, by the dubious light of the flickering candle, the prostrate form of his treacherous host. He felt, also, that he was carried along in Rob's arms, with as much ease as a maiden carries a young babe; and he soon breathed the fresh and pure air of the hill-side. This served to recall his scared and scattered senses; and he found himself unhurt and scathless. He requested to be put down, and his request was instantly complied with. He grasped Rob's hand. "My preserver!" he said, "How much do I owe you for this miraculous interference!"

"Aye, lad!" answered Rob, "Your young heart is grateful now :a time may come, when you may curse your preserver."

"Never-never! Robert Owen," and Reginald shed tears, for now that he had recovered from the immediate shock of the adventurer, he was strangely moved at his deliverance.

"Aye; weep-weep on, young heart! Thy tears are not tears of sorrow now. But what will save thee from the common lot of humanity, and make thee less wretched than thy fellows? I have saved thy life-and if that life be wretched, wilt thou not curse me for preserving it, when all the pangs of losing it was past? Another moment and '

"Forbear! Forbear!" exclaimed Reginald, as he placed his hand

before his eyes, as if he saw the dreadful scene again. He changed his tone, and enquired hurriedly about the Merediths.

"Ask nought of them, here. Let us hasten to some place of secrecy and safety; and you shall know all.”

"Tell me first-here-here, where I now stand, is Janet safe, and well ?"

"She is well-and safe-I hope." Rob said this faulteringly, and Reginald suspected that some danger hovered over his beloved. "Where is she?" he asked.

Rob looked up, surprised at the question. "Am I a fit person to hold a woman's secret?" he said. "But come! let us hasten onwards. Pursuit would end in bloodshed, and the morning is now breaking."

"I cannot-I will not-remain ignorant of Janet's fate! I will go directly to Glanwern and learn the worst at once.

66

Go to Glanwern! For what? To have your heart torn from its strings-to witness misery and woe, which you cannot alleviate— to intrude upon the sacred sorrows of agonized parents, and probe still deeper the wounds which have pierced their vitals!"

"What mean you? For God's sake, speak out, and tell me what these mysterious words portend!"

"Promise that you will not leave me to-night, and I will tell you all."

No! by Heaven-no!" exclaimed Reginald, his feelings excited almost to madness-"I will promise no such thing. You may go with me to Glanwern if you like-for go there I will.” 66 go with thee!" muttered Rob-" No-no-no!"

66

Well, then, here we part-Good-night!"

"But now he was at the point of death," muttered Rob, soliloquizing. The knife grazed his throat, and I saved him, when, these are the thanks, which I get!" He raised his voice, and while his dark eye flashed fire, he continued-" Ungrateful, self-willed boy! Go! Leave your preserver to his fate, and withdraw from him what he freely gave to you-his life. Go! and add a thousand-fold to your misery." He turned away as he spoke, and fled swiftly up the mountain, leaving Reginald, as may be imagined, in a state of mind by no means tranquil or enviable.

66

Strange, mysterious being!" thought Reginald, as he gazed on the vacancy which Rob's departure had left. What am I to think of him? Can he be implicated in this dreadful matter? He, who so boldly saved my life? Surely it cannot be. Impossible!—and yet his shuddering objection to go with me-God only knows! I am bewildered with doubt and terror, and know not what to think. However, I shall soon know all, for a quarter of an hour will bring me to Glanwern, and then"-he shuddered-descended to the beach, and, following its bending course, pursued his way hastily to Glanwern.

There is a soothing influence in the gentle rippling of the calm sea, as its quiet waves dash gently on the shore; and Reginald