coarseness of manners, which they held to be ridiculous in his station: and an objection to drunkeness, which in a landlord, was absolutely unnatural: could these faults of temper so far operate as to render him melancholy, or, as they termed it, crazy?

The wife turned a deaf ear to such suggestions; to her he was always kind, and at a period of suffering she could remember no faults. Driven from the idea that the evil arose from bodily disease, by the assura ce of several medical men whom she had consulted, she listened eagerly to the advice of those among her neighbours who lately joined the Wesleyan Methodists, and more especially to one good old man whom she had long respected for his piety. But, alas! no suggestion or exhortation, no example of sinners turned from the error of their way, of the conscience-striken soul finding peace, and the mourner learning to rejoice, had any effect as offered by the humble teacher. The invalid heard all he said with a patient but abstracted air, and in perfect silence, and at length arose, saying, "you are a good man, and I thank you sincerely; but you are not the man to help me."

"I must get a clergyman, a really learned man," said the wife, not without recollecting certain stories of witch craft, as told by her grandmother in her days of childhood, which resembled this extraordinary case,

A gentleman for whom her husband had always shown much respect, gladly obeyed her summons. He was an elderly man of benign countenance and kind manners, and, in the soothing gentleness of his address, for a few moments the impertability of countenance assumed by the invalid gave way; tears came into his eyes, his heart throbbed with agitation; but when he spoke, it was only to say, as before, "Sir, you are very good; but, dear heart! you are not the person who can help me." It was in vain to enquire who that person was; for determined silence now sat on his lips, and with the exception of words "I wish," which seemed to burst from him involuntarily, and to be checked the mo

ment he heard them, many weeks succeeded in which he never spoke. Yet even then his countenance showed tha his mind was perpetually employed; there was an inward muttering, as of thoughts too terrible to be uttered, and an apparent intenseness of meditation on some awful subject, distinct from religion, since it evidently admitted of no consolation. and could be blended with no other object.

In the autumn he began frequently to leave his own house, and go out to walk alone, more especially during tempestuous nights, to which he seemed to listen with a kind of desperate pleasure. Never did his feet turn toward that path which led to the habitation of man; but with quick strides he hastened to lose all traces of his fellow-creatures, on those wild heaths and rocky glens, where his strange gestures, or his incoherent soliloquies, were necessarily unnoticed. Often would his wretched wife follow him at a distance, alike moved by fear of the danger he might encounter, or that which he might intend against himself; and as often would she return in the utmost eagerness to elude discovery, since he forbade her interference in terms of terror. He would come back before day-break, exhausted, but calm ; creep to his bed, and, if he believed her to be asleep, bend kindly over his wretched partner, and sometimes shed scalding tears upon her face often would he kneel, and then deep groans burst from his bosom, but no articulate words of prayer escaped him. At this period, the severe weather he encountered, and the long rambles he took, gave the idea to many, that nothing less than the preternatural strength attributed to madness, could have sustained him; and it was evident that the colds caught in her nocturnal guardianship had (together with her anxieties) ruined the excellent constitution of his wife, who was evidently in a consumption. This opinion gave way as the spring advanced, from its becoming certain that his strength also was completely exhausted, that his shrunk and withered form would not much longer sustain the conflict.

Perhaps a sense of weakness render

ed him at this time as averse to being alone, as he had previously disliked society; even now he preferred his own little daughter to any other person. To his diseased imagination, apparently disturbed by supersutious terrors, the child appeared a kind of guardian angel, whose protecting presence secured him from the evils of apprehension and the appalling sense of a fearful solitude. The closing of a door in haste, the creaking of a sign-post, and more especially the sound of wheels near the house, harrowed up his soul, as if with fearful visions and terrible alarms.

It was a pitiable but interesting spectacle to see this man, in the very prime of his life, wasted to a shadow, and bending with the tremours of premature old age, walk out leaning on the shoulder of a child of seven years old. To this child early sorrow had given premature powers of thought, which were united with uncommon beauty, and that simplicity of manner incident to her situation. She watched every turn of her father's sunken eye, and never did it glance on a flower she did not gather, or a plant on which little Mary could not make some observation. If a bee was heard to hum in the young blossoms, she would repeat her hymn of the "little busy bee," relate the story of every fable she remembered in her spelling-book, and woo him with a thousand endearments to ask her the questions of Catechism. At other times, she would lead him to his withered myrtles, and his broken gates, and playfully chide his neglect; then spring forward to show where the grass was most promising, and prophesy a fine hay-time. When every effort failed to rouse attention and elicit pleasure, she would throw her arms round his neck, kiss his pale forehead, and, as the tears streamed down her rosy cheeks, exclaim, "Have you not one word for poor little Mary?"

Sundays were now especial days of sorrow for both Mary and her distressed mother, who considered it her duty to send her daughter to church, about a mile distant; and the child grieved that neither parent could go to the good place, and ask God to comfort them. One sabbath morning in the beginning

of May, the father was become so weak that he fainted whilst dressing, on which account Mary remained at home to nurse and amuse him. During the time she sat with him, the often repeated words, "I wish," again passed his lips, and the quick ear of infancy now excited by unusual anxiety, thought that in the murmured sounds which followed, he said, "I wish-I were hanged!' and in great horror Mary cried out, "Oh! father, father! you are wicked-you frighten me."

The wretched man burst into tears, and wept abundantly, as one bowed down by new sorrow. Often did he clasp his hands, and apparently try to beg a blessing on the head of the child who had innocently reproved and deeply wounded him; but as often did he interrupt himself, as if scorning bis own efforts; and finally he put her from his chair, and covered his face, as if afflicted with shame not less than

sorrow.

Mary was grieved to the heart to see him suffer thus; but she conceived it her duty to relieve this burst of sorrow, as she had tryed to do often before, by diverting his attention, and therefore went to the window to make observations, and said to her mother, who was entering the room, "I see all the people who are coming from church: there is a very pretty carriage, with two gentlemen in it, and they both look out of the window toward our house."

"It is the Rector of

and his

Curate, who have been doing duty at our church: he was there last year at this time," answered the mother, mechanically.

"I remember him, and I love him," replied Mary," because he said, father did right not to give old Anak Osborne any more liquor."

"Dont speak of poor old Anak, child," said the mother; "it is a twelvemonth this very morning since I rose from my bed to see his dead body brought in. James Green is below, and has just reminded me of it."

"James Green is a fool, a wretch, my worst enemy!" cried the sick man, with energy and strength that made his hearers start with astonishment;

but in another moment he sunk back in his great chair, shaking in every limb. Cold drops of sweat hung ou his brow; his strained eyes seemed gazing ou vacancy with terror indescribable; his hands were clenched, and his lips quivered with a convulsive motion, as if from pangs amounting to agony.

The wife, believing him seized with death itself, dropped on her knees before him, and with inarticulate words and sighs that spoke the intensity of her grief and pity, tried to pray for his departing spirit; but in a few moments she found that he had taken hold of her clasped hands, and was drawing her towards him. "Mary, my beloved Mary, the time is come! Thou shalt know all. Send this moment for the Rector; you know he is a justice of the peace-he only is the right sort of minister for me. Oh! send for him instantly." The wife, bewildered with terror and distress, gazed on him earnestly, in the persuasion that the madness of which her neighbours had so often hinted, had now really arrived; but she listened in vain for the ravings of delirium. With all the little strength that remained to him, but in few words, the unhappy man continued to urge her to send for the Rector, as constantly repeating, “because he is a justice of the peace"

This was the very reason why the wife would have preferred any other ⚫ clergyman; for she had, in common with many persons in her station, a kind of awe of the office, which induced her to feel that she could not throw open the sorrows of her long harrassed spirit to one so much above her. But the demand was imperious: nor could she look in the countenance of him so long dear to her, without being conscious that his requests were nearly at a close. Mary was therefore dispatched to the house of a neighbour, who was going to the afternoon service, and undertook to bring his worship when that was over.

The landlord remained silent for some time. He then asked for his dinner, which he ate, if not with appetite, yet with resolution, and then took a cup of hot elder wine, with the air

of one who had a duty to perform which would require all the energy he could muster. In his better days he had been remarkable for personal neatness; but it was many months since the last vestige of this quality left him, to the especial grief of his good wife, who now heard him with surprise entreat her "to make him look decent, by combing his hair and putting him on a clean cravat."

That hair was now white as milk, and the furrows of age marked the shrunken neck; yet, as no symptoms of disease appeared beyond general weakness, and it was especially evident to all around him that he was free from pulmonary affection, something like hope sprung in the poor woman's bosom, as she thus ministered to his wishes not less than his wants. "If he could open his heart to the Rector, if he could get comfort for his soul, doubtless his strength would return, he could yet redeem his affairs, and all would be well again; she should not be left with her children in sorrow and poverty."

But her kind offices, though performed by hands now feeble by long suffering, did not fill up the time, and a fearful restlessness, that threatened to dissipate the assumed strength of the hour, succeeded. Little Mary happily came back at this juncture; and for a few moments the fond eyes of the father looked upon her with delight: the joy was of short duration; for when she adverted to the time, and said "a carriage was advancing," he told her to go away in a tone so full of deep distress, and even horror, that the poor child was overpowered, and hung round him as if incapable of obedi

ence.

"Go away now Mary," said the mother, leading her to the door, "you shall come again when Mr. Wis gone." "No, no, no!" cried the father, "she must come no more, she must never look on me again; so come back and kiss me, child, once more, for the last, last time."

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

COMMERCI AT THE BATTLE

OF HERSAN.

Tuis young prince of the house of Lorraine was inexpressibly brave. On this occasion he headed the volunteers. Observing that a cornet of his regiment had lost his colours in the skirmish previous to the general engagement, he requested permission of the duke of Lorraine to take another from the enemy. The duke yielded to his intreaties. Commerci perceiving a Turkish ensign carrying a small standard at the end of a javelin, ran up to him, and when very near, fired his pistol at him. Having missed his aim, he threw away his pistol and drew his sword. The Turk seized this opportunity to plunge the javelin into his side, and as he was endeavouring to draw it out again, the prince seized the weapon with his left hand, and with his right cleft the Turkish officer's head. He then pulled out the javelin, carried the standard, stained with his blood, to the duke of Lorraine, and sent for his cornet, whom he thus addressed. "There, sir, is a standard which I intrust you with; it has cost me rather dear, and you will do me the favour to take better care of it than that which you suffered to be taken from you." This singular reprimand was almost as much admired as the action itself. Commerci recovered of his wound; and the emperor, Leopold the First, being made acquainted with the circumstances of this achievement, wished to see the Turkish standard. It was of red taffeta, with a crescent embroidered with gold in the middle. The Monarch ordered it to be preserved in a church, and the empress with her own hands made another pair of colors, and sent it to the prince, in the place of that which his company had lost Memoirs of Prince Eugene of Savoy

COLLEGE WIT.

AT a viva-voce examination in St. Luke's, I recollect Mr. Ashbridge, who was somewhat given to punning and other facetime, attacking Lynam

(now preacher at the Magdalene) with. "Can you tell me, Mr. L., who was king of Israel when Jonas was in the whale's belly?" "The Prince of Wales," said Lynam; which being delivered instanter, disconcerted the examiner, and gave to the former a character for repartee at least equal to that of the latter.

TRUTH.

(Magna est Veritas.)

TRUTH fairest virgin of the sky
With robes of light and beaming eye,
And temples crown'd with day;
O thou! of all the chernb choir,
Whose tonch awakes the sweetest lyre,
And chants the softest lay.

By holy Virtue's vestal flame,
By laurel'd Honor's stately name
And cheek-bedimpled love;
O lift from thy majestic head
The veil, that o'er its tresses spread

Which Doubt's pale fingers wore.

Thee chaste Religion's virgin breast,
And Hope with fair nuruffled vest,

Their lovely sister hail;
Simplicity with lilied crown,
And Innocence nutaught to frown,

Sweet Peace that loves the vale.

Falsehood! that oft usurps thy'day,
And casts upon the blemish'd ray

The poison of his tongue;
Oh! bid him from thy dazzling sight,
Shrink back into eternal night,
His kindred fiends among.

And in the horrors of his train,
Let Discord seek his yelling reign,
Nor haunt thy path serene;
While Guilt on every passing wind,
Starts pale and trembling from behind
With wild and wizard mein.

Then o'er thy fair and open way
Shall youth in artless frolic gay,

His heartfelt hymns increase;
While BRITAIN! raptured at the sound,
Shouts to her echoing shores around,
TRUTH! LIBERTY! and PRACK!

JUVENIS.

No. 17.

SYRIA.

PASHALIC OF AKKA OR SEIDE.

(From the Modern Traveller.)

(Continued from Page 75.)

It was under these circumstances that Ali Bey, the Conqueror of Mecca, turned his thoughts towards the conquest of Syria. The powerful ally which he had in Daher, the Russian War in which the Porte was engaged, the discontent of the population, all contributed to favour his ambitious project. Accordingly in 1770, he issued a proclamation, in which he set forth, that the Almighty having crowned his arms with a signal benediction, he felt himself called upon to employ them for the relief of the people, and in the repression of the tyranny of Osman, in Syria. At the same time he sent a body of Mamalouks to Gaza, who pushed on, and occupied Kamla and Loudd (Lydda.) Jaffa was divided into two factions; one party were for surrendering to the Egyptians; the other invoked the protection of Osman. The Pasha lost no time in repairing thither and encamped near the town; but, the second day after, tidings were brought of the approach of Daher, and Jaffa closed its gates against Osman, while, howethe latter was preparing for flight, a party of his troops, stealing along the coast, entered the town at a point where it was not defended by a wall, and sacked it. The next day Daher appeared, and not finding the Turks, he obtained possession of Jaffa, Ramla, and Loudd without resistance, and placed a garrison in each.

ver,

In the February following, Ali's favourite general, Mahommed Bey, entered Palestine, at the head of 500 Mamalouks, and occupied the coast so as to be in communication with the Sheikh at Acre. Having then effected a junction with 1200 Motoualis commanded by Sheikh Nassif, and 1500 Szaffadians (as Daher's people were called,) commanded by Ali the Son of Daher, they marched, in April, on Damascus. Osman, having had time

to prepare for their reception, had assembled on his part an army not less numerous and not better disciplined: he had been joined by the Pashas of Sidon, Tripoli, and Aleppo, and they awaited the enemy under the very walls of Damascus. The 6th of June is given as the date of the decisive encounter. The Mamalouks and Szaffadians rushed with such fury on the Turks, that the latter, terrified with the carnage, took to flight; the Pashas were not the last to save themselves and the allies left masters of the field, obtained possession, without resistance, of the town, the castle only excepted. That capitulated on the third day, and the place was to have been surrendered on the morrow, when the break of day brought with it the strangest of revolutions. At the moment that they were expecting the signal for its being given up, Mahommed all at once sounded a retreat, and with the Mamalouks turned his face towards Egypt. In vain Ali Daher and Nassif in astonishment demanded the reason of this unaccountable movement. The Mamalouk chief deigned no other answer than an haughty menace, and all decamped in confusion. It was not a retreat, but a flight; one would have thought the enemy was at their heels. The route from Damascus to Cairo was covered with baggage, ammunition, and other traces of the fugitives. This strange adventure was at the time, attributed to a false report of the death of Ali Bey; but the true solution of the enigma was, a secret conference held during the night in the tent of Mahommed Bey. Osman finding he could not prevail by force of arms, had recourse to the arts of seduction, and succeeded in inspiring the Egyptian general with jealousy of his own master, Ali Bey, so as to make him and his Bey resolve on their instantaneous return.

Osman reinstated in his capital, now recommenced hostilities, and, imagining that Daher, stunned with surprize at this unexpected turn of affairs, would be off his guard, meditated surprizing him in Acre. Hardly had he set out, when Ali Daher and Nassif, having information of his March,