COBLENTZ.

The city of Coblentz, or Coblence, as it is indifferently spelled, takes its name from the position it occupies on the point of land formed between the Rhine and the Moselle-Confluentia. Its shape is triangular; on the opposite side of the Rhine is the celebrated fortress of Ehrenbristein, which frowns on the little town of Thal, at its feet. The ruins and ancient towers of this fortress, its ancient castles and towers make an imposing appearance from the quay of Coblentz. This view, with the bridge of boats thrown across the Rhine, the massy stone bridge which crosses the Moselle, and the numerous towers and spires which rise above the walls and buildings of the city, compose one of the most magnificent views that the imagination can conceive. The town is well fortified on every side.

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The churches of Coblentz, though numerous, are not very remarkable. The Beatusberg, anciently the Marterberg, is noted for its fortifications, but principally because one of the finest views on the Rhine is obtained from its heights. Coblentz has long been famous in history. It was the court of many of the Frankish kings, and of the emperors. Its old Roman fort became a royal chateau under the French dominion; afterwards a military barracks, and now a palace of justice. It stands on the banks of the Rhine, in the handsomest quarter of the town; and with the theatre and other public buildings surrounding it, confers an air of wealth and grandeur upon the place. Prince Metternich was born at Coblentz. The French who destroyed every thing they could not keep, did much injury in this neighborhood, and thus the poet has truly observed

"Peace destroyed what war could never blight."

OHIOPYLE FALLS.

The following notice of the Falls of Ohiopyle, of Youghiogany, was prepared for the forthcoming Gazetteer of Pennsylvania, by Dr. James Mease, of this city.

These falls, and the country around them, have a romantic appearance. A horizontal stratum of rocks, about thirty-five or forty feet above the level of the river, immediately below the falls, appears to extend under the hills to an unknown distance. The rock at the falls has altered much within thirty years, a part having been broken off during that time. On this floor of rock the water rushes along for some distance, and when within less than a quarter of a mile of the falls, the bed of the river becomes very rough, and the water tosses about the shelves of the rock in four irregular tumblings, of from three to five feet in fall. The river is there contracted from eighteen to sixteen rods in breadth to about four in low water, where it pitches over the falls in a broken column, about sixteen and a half perpendicularly, into a very deep hole, where the river again widens to ten or twelve rods for about the distance of 120 rods, where another rapid commences at the mouth of "Meadow Run," and

continues almost without interruption for several miles. The column of water passing over the falls in October, 1816, was about four rods wide and five or six feet thick; but when the river is very high, it may be fifteen rods wide and twenty feet thick. Below these falls the bed of the river is generally very narrow, confined between the hills, and sometimes rises in these narrow places to the height of more than forty feet above low water mark, while at the same stage of the water, the rise would not be more than ten or twelve feet at Connellsville, and about four or five at the Broadford, a few miles below that town. The rock that forms the bed of the river above the falls, appears to be the same range or strata as that over which "Cucumber Run" falls, in a smooth sheet, for about thirtyseven feet, and then enters a little below the commencement of the rapids, at about 120 rods below the falls of the river, or ninety rods below the mouth of Meadow Run. The rapids or strata, and but a short distance from the river. This trough is a gutter worn in the rocks, of several feet in depth, down which the whole current of the run glides with incredible force, for several rods, in a column of from five to six to perhaps fifty cubic feet in thickness, according to the height of the stream, in a drought or any great freshet. A circle of about a mile in diameter, around the Ohiopyle Falls, would include as great a seat for water-works as any in Pennsylvania. Any of these streams will afford a fall of from thirty to fifty or sixty feet in less than 100 rods. By cutting cutting across a neck of land, about ninety rods in distance, and not very difficult, the river will afford a fall of above 100 feet, and water enough the whole year for any quantity of machinery; but the roughness of situation will make the improvement of this site difficult and expensive. Near this place is a rock which may be formed into millstones, of a quality equal to French burr, and in quantity sufficient to supply all the western country. These are composed of a soft kind of sandy stone, that appears to be worn away by the water, a cool stream of which runs along the bottom of the cave.

Affectation is to be always distinguished from hypocrisy, as being the act of counterfeiting those qualities which we might, with innocence and safety, be known to want. Thus the man, who, to carry on any fraud, or to conceal any crime, pretends to rigours of devotion, and exactness of life, is guilty of hypocrisy; and his guilt is greater, as the end, for which he puts on the false appearance, is more pernicious. Bu he that, with an awkward address, and unpleasing countenance, boasts of the conquests made by him among the ladies, and counts over the thousands which he might have possessed if he would have submitted to the yoke of matrimony, is chargeable only with affectation. Hypocrisy is the necessary burden of villainy, affectation part of the chosen trappings of folly; the one completes a villain, the other furnishes only a fop. Contempt is the proper punishment of affectation, and detestation the just consequence of hypocrisy.

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For the Saturday Evening Post.
LINES

Written upon reading the account of FRANCIS ABвотт, who passed some time in a secluded manner at Niagara, and who was drowned near the falls.

Stranger! what charm allured thee from thy home,
'Midst solitudes profound and vast to roain.
No heart to beat responsive to thy sighs,
No once loved form to meet thy longing eyes;
To cheer thee in the sad and trying hour,
When sickness reached thy solitary bower,
Oh what dark tale of wo was thine,

That drew thee hither from thy native clime.

Haply thou lovedst, and she to whom was given
Thy heart, thy all-save hope at last of Heaven;
She whose bright image flung its golden beams
Of happiness and love, o'er youth's fond dreams;
Haply was false-away in scorn thou cast
The illusive light that glittered on the past,
And sought to hide thy agony of soul,
Where constant still the mighty waters roll.

Or Stranger, did religion's light alone
Pourtray the glories of the Almighty One,
And woo thee thus to give, in early days,
Thy heart to love him and thy voice to praise;
For this to cast each earthborn wish aside,
The fond caress of sister or of bride,

For this to leave the paths in childhood trod,
And 'midst his wondrous works, adore thy God!

Oh was it so-or did the pomp of kings,
From which so much of human misery springs,
Which makes the poor man still with tears forego
The hard-earned sum, to swell a monarch's show,
While his poor babes around him cry for bread,
And want and sorrow sit beneath his shed;
Did thy soul faint at Europe's tyrant band,
And seek to rest at peace in Freedom's land?

What were thy musings in that awful scene,
Where Heaven's hand in mightiness has been;
Didst thou e'er dream, as still the dashing spray
Gleamed in the light of yon bright orb of day,
Formed by the union of the parted streams
Meeting in foam-did not thy dreams
View them as types of various nations cast
Forth from their homes to mingle here at last?

Or, didst thou view in nature's grand display,
The loftiest subject for a poet's lay;
A theme, another Milton to inspire,
To draw immortal verses from his lyre;
Or did thy thoughts to other nations stray,
And ponder o'er their glory and decay;
Of Tyre and Babylon-and Greece once free,
Now lost or sunk in abject slavery!

Whate'er thy musings on thy lowly bed,
The stars thou gazed on oft, their lustre shed;
Yon mighty Falls from precipices tost,
Still in the foaming deep abyss are lost;
Their sound disturbs thee not-the wave
The uloved in life was destined for thy grave,
And tho' the roar of waters never cease,
Vay st thou repose in happiness and peace;
May poet's lay-may sigh of maiden bright,
Sbreathed for thee--Niagara's Anchorite!

Written for the Casket.

The Sister of Charity.

The clear frosty twilight of a January evening had changed to gloom, and darkness had gathered the stilly veil around the sleeping city. The occasional roll of carriages returning from party, ball, or theatre, was become less frequent, and the cheerful hum of men's voices was hushed to silence. The bright watchers of the sky had kindled their eternal lamps in the intense blue vault of heaven, while a silvery fringe that edged the eastward announced the late rising moon, and lit the ice-bound river with a glittering lustre. The night was cold and cheerless, the snow was swept in masses along by a bleak north-west wind, which wailed around the corners of the streets with a hollow sound; even the merry sleigh-bells sounded less merrily than usual, for they were unaccompanied by the joyous laugh of the riders, who sat silent and chill, wrapt in their furs, and wishing themselves home. "Few and far between" were the passengers who still crossed the deserted streets, and they drew their cloaks closer when they met the ice blast, and speeded them away-all but one. In a wretched, obscure street, between Shippen and South, where one dim lamp only served to exhibit the squalid misery, and contrast its own lurid light with the pure radiance above, as it spoke the difference between earth and heaven, a female figure continued to pace the broken pavement with uneven footsteps, and though her slight form was ill defended from the cold by her scanty covering, she seemed not to feel the bitter wind which whirled around her, but leaned long against the solitary lamp--then painfully resumed her cheerless walk.

The State House clock tolled midnight-she paused and listened to the strokes with a smothered agony until their last echo had died away, then, as if suddenly roused, walked rapidly down the street, and entered a low frame dwelling, which stood considerably back, and seemed to have been partly unroofed either by accident or age. The scene within exhibited poverty in its gauntest form-no carpet covered the broken floor, no fire dispelled the heavy damps which hung mildewed upon the wall, a handful of ashes remaining from the few chips picked up during the day, no longer threw out the slightest heat; a bench wanting a leg, a bulged tin bucket half full of ice, a small quantity of straw serving for a bed, and covered with a tattered piece of ragcarpet-these formed the whole furniture of this miserable abode. Stretched upon the squalid straw, and wrapt in sweet, unconscious slumber, there lay a lovely child; no sorrow nor care had yet dimmed the brightness of his cherub beauty, or blighted the infantine glee of his opening life; he smiled as he slept, as though a dream of heaven bound his closed eyes, and well figured he, in his innocent beauty, the love of a gracious God, gilding even the darkest scene of human misery. The woman knelt down by the boy, and casting off her calash, bent earnestly over but did not kiss him; there was a fearful contrast in the wild, woworn expression of her countenance, and the sinless calm of the sleeping infant-yet she was beautiful; in her large, dark, prophet eye, there was a spell of loveliness-a dream of soul-fraught beauty-pure, passionate and high; on her lofty brow there was a mind, a majesty enthroned, that hardly left the beholder power to mark its exquisite formation-but her eye was sunken now, and the very hues of life had forsaken her cheek; her form, though moulded in perfection, was wasted by want, and her pale lips had been kissed by the frost till warmth had almost left them. As she knelt, a tress of her dark hair fell over the infant's face, and as the icicles with which it was frosted melted with the warmth, he stirred and shivered. The mother arose and undid the cloak, which, tattered as it was, but covered a gown more ragged still, and folded it over him.

"It could not buy you bread, my child," she murmured, " for the hearts of men are harder than the mill-stone; yet it may keep you from this bitter cold. Oh, God! what to me is cold or hunger; I can bear all but thy cries, my blessed one-my own!" Her last words seemed to awaken some agonizing thought, for she sprung up and wrung her hands in wild emotion.

"He will wake and cry for bread, and I have none to give him! God of Heaven! didst thou not make man in mercy? Have pity upon a mother's anguish; give me bread-bread for my

child!"

"Ada!" said a voice beside her. "Ada!"

She turned slowly round, and gazed, with lips parted and eyes fixed, as by fascination, on the speaker. A man of low stature and heavy proportions had entered unobserved, and stood by her, muffled in a large cloak and slouched cap. "Ada!" he repeated, "listen to me, and I will give you bread for your child!"

"Who are you that speaks?" she said, in low

tones.

"Who?-have you, then, forgotten me? I am, Ada, your friend or foe-your guardian angelor evil spirit-as you choose, as you determine."

"Julian de Vaux," said Ada, slowly, "what brings you here? Are you come to exult over the ruin you have made?"

You have rightly named me, Ada," said the stranger, dropping his cloak, "but not my errand. I come to you as a friend; beware you make me not your foe! I bear the olive branch; turn it not to the dagger's point!"

"Aye," she replied, bitterly, "I am no stranger to your tender mercies! Ere I knew you, I was happy and honored in my estate, beloved and blest with a father's love, surrounded with comfort and girt about by friends; you came like the blasting mildew and withered my joy, you poured the rank poison of your heart into my cup of happiness and turned it to gall; I am an outcast-a beggar-yet still I am above thee! Man! false hearted, cowardly, treacherous man-I scorn and defy thee! My soul was not made to stoop to thine!"

"I expected and can forgive this passion," replied De Vaux, coolly, "a woman's words must have their way, and I have weathered their storms too long to be discontented now; but let this end it, for"-and his brow darkened as he spoke" it is ill playing with the lion's wrath, or sporting with the consuming fire."

"The lion's wrath!" repeated Ada, scornful

171

ly, "the raving tiger, or false hyena, were the apter likeness; the consuming fire! Now, by the God of Heaven! the deceiving vapor which burns over rottenness and corruption better resembles thee!"

"Even as you please, lady; the one comparison suits equally well with the other, for the tiger can devour, and the ignis fatuus leads to destruction: now to business. Ada, from the first hour I saw you in your father's house I loved you. You saw, and scorned my love!-let it pass, I could have forgiven that; but the man I most loathe, most hate, upon this earth-the man whom I would sink to the deepest hell-him, him you chose to load with the rich treasure of your affections, and pour upon his head the virgin sweetness of your love! Douglas Bellis was my favored rival!"

"Thy rival! out upon thee, base reptile!-I shame to hear thee join thy name with his !"

"You married him," continued De Vaux, without noticing her interruption, except by a quick contraction of the brow, "it was well, at least you thought so; but you did not dream that the bloodhounds of revenge dogged your footsteps. He was poor, I was rich-he was disliked and contemned, I favored and trusted by your father-yet you married him; I warned you not to awake a hatred which would pursue you to disgrace, desolation, and death-yet you married him and scorned me."

"Even as now, I scorn thee!" began Ada, haughtily; but De Vaux caught her arm, and pressing it firmly, said

"Silence, fool! the tempest of my rage but sleeps; awake it not, or it will overwhelm you in its fury. I repeat, you married Douglas Bellis, and your father swore a fearful oath never to see you more; who prompted that oath and fed his anger? 1. Your husband vainly tried for employment; who circumvented him? I. He flew to the gaming table; who urged him to spend his last cent while his wife and child were starving? Why, I--I did it. You are now in desolation and disgrace: death is still wanting to my oath-choose you whether it shall be fulfilled!"

There was a deep pause. Ada did not answer; her eyes were bent upon the ground, and so still, so motionless, was her form, that she more resembled a rare piece of statuary than a living, breathing creature. De Vaux's eyes were rivetted upon her with a triumphant smile; he seemed to gloat upon her beauty, faded as it was, and exult in the evident anguish of her manner. At last he spoke again, and if imagination may picture the probable tones of the Arch Tempter, those of De Vaux's might well resemble them in their fiendish triumph.

"A few words more, Ada, and then decide upon your fate for ever! Listen to, and mark me well; your father accompanied to the theatre to-night the woman he is about to marryyour name was mentioned, and I spoke of you with feigned compassion. Ada, he swore a fearful oath, that even were you dying at his feet, he would thunder in your ears the anathema of his curse; nay, turn not away, for you must hear me. I parted from your husband, in the lowest resort of gamesters and swindlers; he had toiled the livelong day for a paltry sum-he staked and

face this wintry blast, without protection from the weather. Ada, are these the props on which you'lean? Leave them, and trust to me. I love you still, and will replace you in affluence and joy."

Ada had listened to his words in motionless silence; a crimson color had gathered on her cheek, and her dark eyes flashed with living fire; for a moment, it seemed as if the fierce convulsion would have slain her, but she calmed suddenly, and advancing slowly towards him, she fixed her proud eye full upon him, and answered in proud tones of dignity.

"Julian De Vaux," she said, "you have seen and know many things; but the human mind you know not, in its purity and power! This hovel is my glory, and I am prouder of these rags than of a gorgeous palace and a diadem of gems. Begone! and learn from me that the free spirit stoops not to paltry circumstances, and that 1 scorned thee not more in exaltation than now I do, amidst poverty, famine, and desolation!"

The tones of her voice rang high and proud as she pronounced her bold defiance, and her form seemed to dilate with a majesty of mind. But ere Julian De Vaux could answer, the child stirred, and suddenly becoming conscious of the cold, he commenced a piteous cry, "Oh, mother, I am cold and hungry! give George some bread,

mother?"

The head of Ada sunk upon her breast, and the rich glow faded from her cheek, while over the brow there rushed a flush of unutterable thoughts. She ran to the boy and folded him closely to her breast. De Vaux followed her. "That is eloquence which surpasses mine. Ada, your child must starve or your pride stoop to turn pauper, and be supported by parish alms, if you continue madly to refuse my offered friendship. Be wise in time, and take wealth and love from my hand!"

threw a rich glow across the fretted icicles, like the smile of love kissing away the tears of beauty-yet Ada sat motionless as when De Vaux had left her, clasping her boy to her breast, as if its frozen surface could impart the warmth she did not feel. Her husband had not returned the livelong night, and well she knew the cause; he could not bear to witness the misery which he had made; disappointment had first driven him to the gaming table, and desperation kept him there. At last a black woman, who lived near, and who often assisted Ada with a kindness that shamed many a fairer skin, came in and persuaded her to give her the child in charge, while she herself should try to sleep.

"We hab a fire and some Johnny cakes, missis."

"Ay, take him, and God bless you, Savannah," said Ada, hurriedly, "I-yes, I will sleep awhile; one kiss, my child-it is for you thattake him Savannah."

In a few minutes more Ada had left her miserable dwelling, and wrapt in her ragged cloak was quickly traversing the streets towards Eighth and Chesnut; her limbs were stiff with cold, and her tender frame exhausted with want and suffering; but her indomitable spirit quailed not, sorrow and despair seemed but to unwind the hidden chains of her fortitude, and she passed through the gay crowds with whom she once mixed without a single sigh given to her lost happiness. At last she turned into the wellknown street, and beheld the house where so many years she had lived in innocence and joy, through which her gay laugh had so often rung in its glee, and which she had left pursued by an enraged parent's curse. Her steps faltered at the sight, and she leaned in sudden faintness against the rails. "Perhaps he will again spurn me from him-perhaps he will repeat his awful curse, and bid me see his face no more. Oh! just God, awfully hath my disobedience been visited, pursue it not unto the second and third

ther's neck; Ada clasped her hands wildly above her brow-then passionately threw herself upon the dingy floor at his feet.

"Julian De Vaux!" she gasped in bursting emotion, "you have wished to humble and subdue me; I am humbled to the very dust-1 am kneeling at your feet for mercy-have pity on my agony, and give me bread for my child!"

De Vaux smiled. "What needs this passion, Ada; it is I, not you, should kneel; for you it is who deprive the boy of food. Come, throw away this folly, and"

He would have raised Ada in his arms, but she put them proudly back, and motioned him away; her agony was too powerful for words, and De Vaux saw that he must await the collapse of her present excitement. He turned to the door"Ada, I leave you an hour to determine; listen to those cries of hunger, and if you can bear them unmoved, blame yourself, not me, for the murder of your child! To-morrow night I will again be here."

Hour after hour passed away, and the first gray streaks of morning light began to tesselate

innocent, my beautiful-and I can die in peace!" At the moment a dashing sleigh drew up to the door, and several gay visitors stept out. Ada knew them well; they had often flattered her beauty and extolled her accomplishments, yet they entered the house as smiling as ever, though they knew she was an outcast and forlorn.

"Get up, good woman," said one of her father's pampered menials, "you must not sit blocking up the steps."

"Oh, my father!" murmured Ada, as she dragged away her frozen limbs, " your servants have plenty and to spare, while I am perishing with want. Alas! I have indeed sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy child!"

For several hours did the unfortunate woman watch an opportunity to gain admittance; visitors succeeded to visitors and party to party; all went out laughing and gay, and once she caught a glimpse of her father's face as he handed some ladies to their carriage, and the wind blew his silvery hairs over his lofty brow. Her feelings were wound to the highest pitch of excitement, and hardly could she refrain from rushing forward and falling at his feet in the open street. At last his own carriage drew up, and she saw that soon her last hope of seeing him would be gone; so dragging down her calash over her burning temples, she ascended the steps, and endeavored to pass the waiter who was standing there.

"What is your business?" asked he, preventing her.

To see Mr. Grenville," faltered she. "You can't see him now, he is going out to dine with Mr. B., of the Bank," replied the man, imperatively.

"But I must see him, and who shall prevent me? Do you not know me, Washington? Aye, now you do-let me pass, for I will see my father." "Lord ha mercy! Miss Ada! you musn't, any how!-Mercy! me! your pappy wont see you, no how!"

A dead faintness came over the unhappy girl; her eye had caught a figure on the stairs which blighted her hopes-it was De Vaux; his basilisk eye was on her, and a withering sneer was on her lip. Ada sunk hopelessly upon the steps as he advanced towards her.

"What, do we meet again so soon?" said he in his usual cold, sarcastic voice, "what would you here, fair lady?"

"Oh! for the sake of God!: "Of whom?"

"Alas!" said Ada, shudderingly, " you believe in none; but for the sake of humanity-as you were born of woman, and drew your earliest nourishment from her breast-as you hope for mercy in your utmost need-let me see my father!"

"I do not hope nor wish for mercy in my need," replied he, with a cruel smile, as though he mocked her agony, "yet you shall not say I denied your request. Here, Washington, let this lady pass to her father, and much good may the permission do her!"

"Mr. De Vaux," called a voice from within, we are waiting for you."

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Prostrate on the floor dropped the illfated Ada, her senses had reeled beneath the horrid denunciation.

"Oh, pity her!" exclaimed the young girl, stooping down, and parting the dark hair of Ada back from her pallid brow.

"Ha! beware!" said the old man, sternly. Then turning to De Vaux, continued, " see that woman taken away at once, for we are after our appointed time."

Short was the blissful trance that wrapt Ada in ignorance of her misery; she opened her eyes too soon--for they fell on the dark, hopeless countenance of De Vaux.

"Are you satisfied?" asked he, coolly.

"I will go home," exclaimed the wretched girl, raising herself with difficulty, "home! alas, I have none but in the grave."

66

Why do you thus struggle with your fate? Heaven and earth have forsaken you, and hell itself decrees you mine."

"My fate!" said Ada, springing up, "and gracious God, what fate thine? Man of guilt and horror-while steel can kill, or the waters swallow-never, never!"

De Vaux laughed. Ada could have borne insult, threats, or rage; but a laugh-it rung through her brain like the mockery of a fiend, and seemed to blight all hope, all feeling, with its cold, unnatural sound; it fell upon her spirit like an infernal spell-the tears in her burning eyes changed as it were to blood, weakness was instantly merged in strength, and her grief gave way to a fierce decided resolution. Impassive, cold and stern as himself, she arose to go; her eye no longer fell beneath his, but met it with a desperate firmness; even De Vaux shrunk from the high resolve and constancy graven on her marble features.

"Shall I see you to-night, Ada?" said he, with some hesitation.

"If you come, I shall be there."
"Will you give me your answer then?"
"I will."

"Farewell, then, until to-night," said De Vaux,

then"

your curse from me, for my punishment is greater than I can bear."

Mr. Grenville had advanced slowly as she spoke, followed by a young lady, and stood now before his kneeling daughter.

"Who is this woman, and who dared to let her in?" asked he.

"My father! do you not know this face? It is changed by famine and want, yet it is the same you used to caress and bless. This voice, though faint and broken now, was once sweet music to you ear. I have sinned against you, oh, my father! yet still I am your child; have pity on my despair."

"What!" said Mr. Grenville, sternly, "is your golden dream of love vanished so soon? Are your high notions of independence fallen so low? Away from me, I know you not; in the hour when you stole from my roof with the man I hate, you ceased to be my child; and be the heavy curse of your disobedience on your head, for ever and ever."

*

*

*

*

"and

*

then"- * "Almighty God! am I alive or dreaming? Can this be Ada, the affectionate, the gentle-or does a fiend assume her shape, and tempt to guilt? Is it her voice that speaks of death and blood, or is it all a horrid and unreal mockery?"

These words were uttered by by Douglass Bellis, the husband of the unhappy Ada, and seemed in reply to some fearful proposal made by her, for she stood with an extended arm and dark, contracted brow, like a Pythoness in the agonies of inspiration.

"Perhaps not," she replied calmly, " for I recognize nothing of myself in your picture. Oh! I am changed to a fearful being since last we met; not mine the guilt-not mine the punishment!"

Her husband gazed upon her with an awed and anxious look. The scene would have done honor to a Rembrandt's pencil. Strongly did the rosy glow of sunset contrast with the damp and stained floor on which it fell, as if a thing