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tion often leaves the heart a bankrupt. Love in its iron age of disappointment becomes very degraded-it submits to be satisfied with merely external indulgencies a look-a touch of the hand, though occurring by accident-a kind word, though uttered almost unconsciously, suffices for its humble existence. In its first state, it is like man before the fall, inhaling the odours of paradise, and enjoying the communion of the Deity; in the latter, it is like the same being toiling amid the briar and the thistle, barely to maintain a squalid existence, without enjoyment, utility, or loveli

ness.'''

"Under the influence of love, we are suspicious even of ourselves. We shrink from making it the common topic of conversation. It is a feeling which admits of no participation. We would not, if we could, make converts, any farther than our admiration extends; and as there is no sympathy to be obtained by communication, no one at all acquainted with the world, or with the principles of human nature, would ever tell their love, were it not for the power which this passion possesses to overthrow the rational faculties, to blind perception, and to silence experience, holding the wise man captive in the leading strings of second childhood, and drawing him on from one folly to another, until at last he awakes from his dream, and feels, like the unfortunate bellows-mender, that he is wearing an ass's head. No sooner is the spell dissolved, than he turns upon his fellow creatures the weapons of ridicule, dipped in the venom of his wounded pride; he laughs the more in order that he may appear to make light of his recent bonds, and thus revenges himself for his own mortification.

"Those who are wise enough to profit by the experience of others, learn to keep silence on this theme, but it pervades their thoughts and feelings not the less. It is present with them in the morning when they awake, and in the evening when they seek repose. It is cradled in the bosom of the scented rose, and rocked upon the crested waves of the sea. It speaks to them in the lulling wind, and gushes forth in the fountain of the desert. It is clothed in the golden majesty of the noonday sun, and shrouded in the silver radiance of the moon. It is the soul of their world, the life of their sweet and chosen thoughts, the centre of their existence, which gathers in all their wan

dering hopes and desires. Here they fix them to one point, and make that the altar upon which all the faculties of the soul pour out their perpetual in

crease.

"Burns, who has written of love more frequently, yet with more simplicity and sweetness than any other of our poets, strikingly illustrates the potency of this sentiment in associating itself with our accustomed amusements and avocations. There was no object in nature which he did not find it possible to compare or contrast with the reigning queen of his affections; but the memory of one, above all others, he has immortalized in strains as touching and poetical, as ever flowed from a faithful recollection, a warm imagination, and a too fond heart."

"In glancing over the pages of this genuine bard of nature, we are every moment struck with the peculiar pathos with which he speaks of love. Read as an instance the following lines. 'Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Never met or never parted,

We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge
thee,

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage
thee.'

"Or,―

'Not the bee upon the blossom,
In the pride o' sunny noon;
Not the little sporting fairy,

All beneath the summer moon!
Not the poet, in the moment
Fancy lightens on his e'e,
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture,
That thy presence gies to me.'
"Or again,-

Altho' thou maun never be mine,
Altho' even hope is denied ;
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing,

Than aught in the world beside.' "And where in the records of feeling can we find a more affecting description of love and poverty contending against each other, than in the following song; the first and last stanzas of which I shall quote for the benefit of those who are too wise to think of love, who are too happy to have ever been compelled to take poverty into their calculations, and

who are consequently unacquainted with the fact that both together struggling for mastery over the wishes and the will, create a warfare as fearful and desolating as any which the human heart is capable of enduring.

'O Poortith cauld, and restless love,

Ye wreck my peace between ye; Yet Poortith a' I could forgive! An 'twere na for my Jeanie. O why should fate sic pleasure have, Life's dearest bands untwining? Or why sae sweet a flower as love, Depend on fortune's shining?

*

*

*

* How blest the humble cotter's fate ! He wooes his simple dearie; The silly bogles, wealth and state, Can never make them eerie. O why should fate sic pleasure have, Life's dearest bands untwining? Or why sae sweet a flower as love,

Depend on fortune's shining?'" "Where deference is paid to moral laws, and religious duties, love is regarded as the bond of domestic union, the charm which diffuses a secret, but holy influence over our domestic enjoyments. In patriarchal times, when men were dispersed over the face of the earth in separate families or tribes, love dwelt among them like a patient handmaid, ministering to their private comfort, but wholly uninfluential in directing their important movements. In the days of chivalry, when men, following the standard of false glory, maintained their possessions by force of arms, and sacrificed ease, honesty, or life, to the laws of honour and the adventures of knighterrantry, love was worshipped as a goddess, whose inspiration endowed her votaries with superhuman power, and whose protection was a shield of adamant. And thus, through the different changes of national character and customs, love adapts itself to all, luxuriating in the indulgence of artificial life, or sharing the drudgery of corporeal toil.

"Even in individuals, it is not going too far to say, that low notions of the nature and attributes of love, bespeak a vitiated mind, and show, like the trail of the serpent,' in the garden of Eden, that the principle of evil has been there. There is in its elevated nature, a character of constancy, truth, and dignity, which constitutes the essence of its being, and no pure eye can behold it robbed of these, without sorrow and indignation."

"Besides the love here spoken of,

poetry abounds in descriptions of that which assumes the sober garb of friendship, and which is perhaps of all others the most substantial support to the human mind, through the difficulties and temptations necessarily encountered in the journey of life. A friend well chosen is the greatest treasure we can possess. We have in such a friend the addition of another mind, whose strength supplies our weakness, and whose virtues render us ambitious of the same. We see frequent instances that men alone in the world-unknown, and unvalued, will commit errors, we might say vices, from which the well-timed warning of a friend would have restrained them, and stain their character with follies, for which, if a friend had blushed, they too would have been ashamed. All the endearing associations which enhance our pleasures, or console us under affliction, are centred in the name of friend. When the stroke of adversity falls upon us, the sympathy of a true friend takes away half its heaviness. When the world misunderstands our meaning, and attributes bad motives to what are only illjudged actions, we think (with what satisfaction those who have experienced the feeling alone can tell) that there is one who knows us better. When good fortune comes unexpectedly upon us, in a tide too sudden and too full for enjoyment, we hasten to our friend, who shares the overplus, and leaves us happy. When doubtfully we tread the dangerous path of life, misdirected by our passions, and bewildered by our fears, we look for the hand of friendship to point out the safe footing, from whence we shall bless our guide. When wounded, slighted, and cast back into the distance, by those whose fickle favour we had sought to win, we exclaim in the midst of our disappointments, 'There is one who loves me still!' And when wearied with the warfare of the world, and 'sick of its harsh sounds, and sights,' we return to the communion of friendship as we rest, after a laborious journey, in a safe sweet garden of refreshment and peace. There is unquestionably much to be done in the way of cultivating this garden, and maintaining our right to possess it; but it repays us for the price, and when we have exercised forbearance, and interchanged kind offices, and spoken, and borne to hear the truth, and been faithful, and gentle, and sincere, we find a recompense in our own bosoms, as well as in the affections of our friend."

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WHILE making a tour on the Continent, chance brought me to Vienna, that scene of romance, assassination, and mystery. In one of my evening strolls, my attention was arrested by the form of a beautiful female, tripping lightly into the church of St. Etienne; curiosity induced me to follow her, when I beheld her kneel before one of its altars, evidently in deep devotion. She had scarcely assumed the attitude of prayer, when a captain of the Imperial Guard, who, like myself, was struck with her extreme beauty, stepped forward; and, stooping, kissed her foot, which was remarkable for its symmetry. She instantly arose, and, with indignation and mortified pride beaming in her countenance, which, if possible, rendered it more beautiful than before, she, to my surprise, sought my protection. What was to be done? The appeal of beauty was irresistible;

VOL. I. (2.)

and gently placing her hand on my arm, I demanded who he was. By this time a crowd had surrounded us, amongst which was an inferior officer of his regiment, to whom he turned and spoke in an under tone, and then haughtily assured me his comrade would make every arrangement for any satisfaction required, and left the church. What was my astonishment at this moment, to find that the lady whose wrongs I had been advocating had disappeared! As we proceeded up the aisle, Percie, my valet, appeared. The thought instantly occurred to me, of making this faithful boy my confidant. I therefore acquainted him with the whole affair, and left him

to determine for the future. After I

left, it appears they repaired to the glacis, and arranged that, as the night was closing in, we should meet there in the morning at six. With matters left in this state, it may readily be conceived the night dragged heavily on; to conjecture the result was impossible.

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At

last the day dawned, and, repairing to the spot appointed, with Percie as my second, if necessary, we there found the two soldiers in waiting. I was anxious to offer every explanation, and urged the singular situation in which I was placed; but nothing short of an exchange of shots would satisfy. Being supplied with pistols, we took our stand; and at the instant we were about to fire, a bullet from a rifle, fired by an unseen hand, went through my antagonist's heart: he sprang from the earth and fell on his back, and in a moment we were surrounded by several armed men. One of them, whose dress and demeanour were superior to the others, stepped forward, and urging me to forego my surprise for the present, invited me to breakfast, assuring me, at the same time, all should be satisfactorily explained. He then gave a signal to his attendants, who, it appears, were provided with horses, and we rode to the mansion of my new friend. I had scarcely entered when I found Percie at my heels.

"What do you want, Percie?"

He was walking into the room with all the deliberate politeness of a "goldstick-in-waiting."

"I beg pardon, sir, but I was asked to walk up, and I was not sure whether I was still a gentleman."

It instantly struck me that it might seem rather infra dig. to the chevalier (my new friend had thus announced himself) to have had a valet for a second, and as he immediately after entered the room, having stepped below to give orders about his horse, I presented Percie as a gentleman and my friend, and resumed my observation of the singular apartment in which I found myself.

The effect on coming first in at the door, was that of a small and lofty chapel, where the light struggled in from an unseen aperture above the altar. There were two windows at the farther extremity, but curtained so heavily, and set so deeply into the wall, that I did not at first observe the six richly-carpeted steps which led up to them, nor the luxuriously cushioned seats on either side of the casement, within the niche, for those who would mount thither for fresh air. The walls were tapestried, but very ragged and dusty, and the floor, though there were several thicknesses of the heavy-piled, small, Turkey carpets laid loosely over it, was irregular and sunk

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various articles I could not at first distinguish. My host fortunately gave me the opportunity to gratify my curiosity by frequent absences under the housekeeper's apology (odd, I thought, for a chevalier) of expediting breakfast; and with the aid of Percie, I tumbled his chattels about with all necessary freedom.

"That," said the chevalier, entering, as I turned out the face of a fresh coloured picture to the light, "is a capo d'opera of a French artist, who painted it, as you may say, by the gleam of the dagger."

"A cool light, as a painter would

say!"

"He was a cool fellow, sir, and would have handled a broadsword better than a pencil.”

Percie stepped up while I was examining the exquisite finish of the picture, and asked very respectfully if the chevalier would give him the particulars of the story. It was a full length portrait of a young and excessively beautiful girl, of apparently scarce fifteen, entirely nude, and lying upon a black velvet couch, with one foot laid on a broken diadem, and her right hand pressing a wild rose to her heart.

"It was the fancy, sir," continued the chevalier, "of a bold outlaw, who loved the only daughter of a noble of Hungary."

"Is this the lady, sir?" asked Percie, in his politest valet French.

The chevalier hesitated a moment and looked over his shoulder as if he might be overheard.

"This is she-copied to the minutest shadow of a hair! He was a bold outlaw, gentlemen, and had plucked the lady from her father's castle with his own hand."

"Against her will?" interrupted Percie, rather energetically.

"No!" scowled the chevalier, as if his lowering brows had articulated the word, "by her own will and connivance; for she loved him."

Percie drew a long breath, and looked more closely at the taper limbs and the exquisitely chiselled features of the face, which was turned over the shoulder with a look of timid shame inimitably true to nature.

"She loved him," continued our fierce narrator, who, I almost began to suspect was the outlaw himself, by the energy with which he enforced the tale, "and

after a moonlight ramble or two with him in the forest of her father's domain, she fled and became his wife. You are admiring the hair, sir! It is as luxuriant and glossy now!"

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"If you please, sir, it is the villain himself!" said Percie, in an undertone. Bref," continued the chevalier, either not understanding English, or not heeding the interruption, an adventurous painter, one day, hunting the picturesque in the neighbourhood of the outlaw's retreat, surprised this fair creature bathing in one of the loneliest mountain streams in Hungary. His art appeared to be his first passion, for he hid himself in the trees, and drew her as she stood dallying on the margin of the small pool in which the brook loitered; and so busy was he with his own work, or so soft was the mountain moss under its master's tread, that the outlaw looked, unperceived the while, over his shoulder, and fell in love anew with the admirable counterfeit. She looked like a naiad, sir, new born of a dewdrop and a violet." I nodded an assent to Percie. "The sketch, excellent as it seemed, was still unfinished, when the painter, enamoured, as he might well be, of these sweet limbs, glossy with the shining water, flung down his book, and sprang toward her. The outlaw- 99

"Struck him to the heart? Oh heaven!" said Percie, covering his eyes as if he could see the murder.

"No! he was a student of the human soul, and deferred his vengeance."

Percie looked up and listened, like a man whose wits were perfectly abroad.

"He was not unwilling, since her person had been seen irretrievably, to know how his shrinking Iminild (this was her name of melody) would have escaped, had she been thus found alone." "The painter"-prompted Percie, impatient for the sequel.

"The painter flew over rock and brake, and sprang into the pool in which she was half immersed; and my brave girl

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He hesitated, for he had betrayed himself.

"Ay-she is mine, gentlemen; and I am Yvain, the outlaw-my brave wife, I say, with a single bound, leaped to the rock where her dress was concealed, seized a short spear which she used as a staff in her climbing rambles, and struck it through his shoulder as he pursued !" "Bravely done!" I thought aloud.

"Was it not? I came up the next moment, but the spear stuck in his shoulder, and I could not fall upon a wounded man. We carried him to our ruined castle in the mountains, and while my Iminild cured her own wound, I sent for his paints, and let him finish his bold beginning with a difference of my own. You see the picture."

"Was the painter's love cured with his wound?" I asked, with a smile.

"No, by St. Stephen! He grew ten times more enamoured as he drew. He was as fierce as a welk hawk, and as willing to quarrel for his prey. I could have driven my dagger to his heart a hundred times for the mutter of his lips and the flash of his dark eyes as he fed his gaze upon her; but he finished the picture, and I gave him a fair field. He chose the broadsword, and hacked away at me like a man.

"And the result"-I asked.

"I am here!" replied the outlaw, significantly.

Percie leaped up the carpeted steps, and pushed back the window for fresh air; and, for myself, I scarce knew how to act under the roof of a man who, though he confessed himself an outlaw and almost an assassin, was bound to me by the ties of our own critical adventure, and had confided his condition to me with so ready a reliance on my honour. In the midst of my dilemma, while I was pretending to occupy myself with examining a silver-mounted and peaked saddle, which I found behind the picture in the corner, a deep and unpleasant voice announced breakfast.

"Wolfenis rather a grim chamberlain,” said the chevalier, bowing with the grace and smile of the softest courtier, "but he will usher you to breakfast, and I am sure you stand in need of it. For myself, I could eat worse meat than my grandfather with this appetite."

Percie gave me a look of inquiry and uneasiness when he found we were to follow the rough domestic through the dark corridors of the old house, and through his underbred politeness of insisting on following his host, I could see that he was unwilling to trust the outlaw with the rear; but a massive and broad door, flung open at the end of the passage, let in upon us presently the cool and fresh air from a northern exposure, and stepping forward quickly to the threshold, we beheld a picture which changed the current and colour of our thoughts.

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