above.

the eminence, they ventured to look down on the houses beneath them: one by one the tapers had been extinguished, and the cheerful song, and the wild and joyons carrol, were hushed. All lay in one dark and heavy mass of obscurity, and the sleep of the grave seemed to rest on the inhabitants. O'Halloran cast his eye round, and beheld the fatal guest whom he had harboured, standing on the very summit of the mountain: his cap had fallen off, and his cloak and loose hair streamed wildly on the breeze; his hands were stretched forth, and his eyes, beaming with more than mortal brilliancy, were fixed on the planets which were silently rolling in the canopy Again O'Halloran bent his glances upon the town, and far and wide as he could see, water was welling and welling as though the springs of the earth had broke loose. Suddenly the stillness was dissolved; the bands of sleep burst asunder; the bells rung violently, and lights were seen flashing to and fro, from house to house, and from room to room. Dreadful was the scene that now presented itself to the senses of the appalled family on the hill: the houses were sinking rapidly, and the water was level with the windows on the second stories: the shouts and screams were terrific, and they sounded as the loud cry of wretches whose hearts rung with the last kuell of hope. The upper windows were dashed open, and bands of the inhabitants issued forth on the tops of the houses, and tossed their arms in harrowing despair, as they beheld retreat cut off on every side. Lower and still lower sunk the buildings, till the waters were even high as the very roofs. At that juncture, hundreds Alung themselves into the stream, and, struggling with their fate, vainly endeavoured to make towards the land. In one place a father, encircled by his children, was buffetting the tide, and in another a husband clasping his wife, tried to save her from the danger that surrounded them. But it was indeed vain! The power that invoked their destruction, defeated their exertions; and every soft, sweet tie of kindred was swept into an inevitable ruin. One fearful gurgling shriek arose from the town; O'Halloran's brain felt as if spinning round; he shut his eyes, and pressed his hands tightly on his ears, to close out that sight of woe, that shriek of wildering despair: it sounded again on the breezes of night, and then all sunk into stillness, broken only at intervals by a faint plash in the water, as a hand or arm rose to the surface, and waving for a moment

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sunk heavily in the stream. After the lapse of a short time, O'Halloran and his wife and mother again ventured to gaze upon the scene! All-all was gone! and where a town had reflected the beams of the last evening sun, a dark, deep lake was now stretching its sullen waters! Long silvery streaks of light in the horizon betokened the dawning of morning; and as the thick clouds of night rapidly rolled into the west, the distant hills were illumined by the first early rays of the day. O'Halloran looked round for the stranger whose fearful vengeance had called down the ruin; but he was gone, and the breeze only waved the tall weeds where he had stood. A pious ejaculation broke from the lips of O'Halloran, and he prayed with a deep and ardent and burning intensity for the souls of the deceased. When he had concluded, he rose from his knees, and taking the hands of his companions, turned his steps far from that scene of destruction which, to this day, is knowu by the name of LOUGHMORN. Sept. 1824. E. S. C***Y.

A LOVER'S DAY, OR VICIS SITUDES OF TWELVE HOURS!

(From Ackermann's Repository.)

THE clock had just struck twelve as young Ernest de Cronstadt turned into the public walk, where, when the weather was fine, the beautiful Madame de Waldemar was accustomed to take her morning walk. He took a few turns, looked round anxiously, then threw himself into a seat, with his eyes fixed in the direction that he knew she must take; but yet she came not. At any other time he would have supposed that her absence was accidental, but he was then too unhappy to be reasonable; and well skilled in the art of self-tormenting, he contrived in a few moments to convince himself, that his Amelia was the most perfidious of women, and himself the most abused of men.

That our readers may be acquainted with the premises from which he drew this comfortable conclusion, we must go back a little in our tale. It was now six months since Ernest had offered his Vows at the shrine of the young and beautiful widow of the old Baron de Waldemar. Young, handsome, and amiable, Ernest would have found little difficulty in recommending himself to Amelia, had she not thought that she saw in his temper a strong tendency to jealousy; and as the happiness of her life during her former marriage had been sacrificed to this direful passion, she dreaded placing herself once more under its domination. Ernest owned his fault, but he promised, nay swore, to banish it for ever. "But have you the power?" said Madame de Waldemar doubtingly.----" No, dearest Amelia," relied he; "but you have."--"I! how so?" "Promise but to be mine, and secure in your faith, jealousy will be banished for ever." Amelia hesitated. Ernest redoubled his vows, and at length she agreed to put him upon his probation, but still without fixing a time for their union.

For three months all went very well : it is true, that Amelia, strictly speaking, gave her lover no cause to be jealous; but she was naturally lively, mixed much in the world, and was accustomed to receive the homage of the other sex with the good-humoured ease of a woman conscious, without being vain, of her beauty. Ernest would rather she had shunned all homage but his own, and though he never presumed to remonstrate ith her on the subject, he was often

observed to bite his lips, and to colour and turn pale alternately with anger, when he saw her smile upon the adorers who daily hovered round her. Amelia, however, shut her eyes upon these little infractions of their treaty, and all went well; but a circumstance occurred the night before, which had blown the spark of jealousy to a flame in the heart of Ernest.

This was the sight of a stranger in close and earnest conversation with Madame de Waldemar, when he entered her drawing-room the evening before; they were standing at a window apart from the company, and it was evident from the looks of Amelia that the subject interested her exceedingly. He thought she started at his appearance, and that there was something of confusion in the air with which she came forward and introduced the young stranger to him as her particular friend, Captain Sternheim. It was evident to the jealous eye of Ernest, that during the rest of the evening the young officer had more than his share of her attention; he even fancied that he saw some very significant smiles exchanged between them; in fine he returned home very much disposed to break his promise.

A sleepless night sent him at an earlier hour than usual to Madame de Waldemar, with an intention of coming to an immediate explanation. She was not up; he called again in an hour, and received the same answer. He knew, however, that when the weather was fine she rarely missed her walk; and as he was sure that she must have heard of his calling twice, he felt almost certain that she would meet him that morning. However, she came not; and after waiting till one o'clock, he was hastening to her house, when he was joined by an ac quaintance, who had been of the party the night before. "Did you observe," said this gentleman, "how delighted Madame de Waldemar was to see again her old friend Sternheim?"-" Have they then known each other a long time?" "From their infancy, and have always loved each other like brother and sister."

What a revolution did these words make in the feelings of Ernest: he seized the hand of his friend, and pressed it involuntarily; then recollecting himself, and covered with confusion, he hurried away, saying to himself, "What a fool I am! I should have utterly ruined myself by exposing my jealousy to her. How could I be such a blockhead? But it shall be the last time."

He hastened home, and throwing himself upon a couch, was lost in a

delightful reverie, when one of those public-spirited people, who attend to every body's business but their own, entered. "So," cried he, "we shall have the long-deferred wedding at last." ..." What wedding?"" Madame de Waldemar's. ". "Madame de Walde mar's! Heavens! is it possible?" "Very possible for a blooming young widow to marry again, especially to her first love. There is no doubt that Madame de Waldemar was secretly attached to Sternheim when her father forced her to marry the old baron, and every body wondered that he had not renewed his devoirs since the death of her husband: but no doubt he is come for that purpose now." Ernest clapped his hand to his forehead to hide his agitation, and the babbler hurried away, to repeat his tale elsewhere.

"The perfidious woman!" exclaimed Ernest: "this then was the reason she never would hearken to my solicitations for an immediate marriage. I will fly to her instantly, upbraid her with her falsehood, and bid her adieu for ever." He hastened to her house, and found General Sprotzler and his pretty daughter with her. The young lady had always appeared disposed to cast a favourable eye upon Ernest, but never before were her attentions returned: now intent only on piquing Amelia, he behaved with marked gallantry to Miss Sprotzler; and she returned his compliments with such interest, that the baroness, who had at first only smiled at the scene, became disconcerted. She grew pale, and looked so evidently unhappy, that De Cronstadt was touched in spite of himself. He reflected on the character of his informer; fancied that the news might not be true, and finally determined to tell Amelia what had passed, and learn his fate from her own lips. These thoughts made him fall into a fit of abstraction; and Miss Sprotzler, finding that she could not recall his attention, took her leave, accompanied by her father.

Before Ernest could commence his explanation, the most censorious old maid in Berlin entered, and he was obliged to hurry away to conceal his agitation. He determined, however, to return as soon as he had recovered himself a little; and he walked down a retired street at the back of the baroness's house, that he might take a few turns unobserved. As he passed the back of the house he thought that he caught a glimpse of Sternheim; but scarcely daring to credit his senses, he drew near, and, to his utter astonishment and dismay, he saw that it was indeed

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the captain, who at that moment was most fondly kissing a picture that was suspended by a black ribbon round his neck. De Cronstadt had just reason enough remaining to prevent him from rushing into the house, and taking vengeance on the destroyer of his happiness. He hastened home, wrote a bitter and eternal farewell to Amelia, and was upon the point of sending it, when he changed his mind, determined to go and upbraid her in person; tore his letter, and repenting as soon as he had done so, wrote another, which, after some deliberation with himself, he burned, and set out for her house.

It was then six o'clock of a clear cold December evening. Without exactly knowing why, De Cronstadt took the back way to the house of Amelia, and just as he had reached it, he saw the young officer come out, shutting the door cautiously after him, and supporting Amelia, muffled in a mantle that he had seen her wear a thousand times, and covered with a long veil. At the moment that he was putting her into a post-chaise, which was in waiting, her arm was seized by Ernest, who exclaimed in a frenzied tone, "By heavens, you shall not escape me!" Sternheim grasped him by the collar. "Hold! for the sake of heaven hold!" exclaimed the lady, but in a voice so different from Amelia's, that the astonished Ernest loosed his grasp; they darted into the carriage, and it was out of sight before he could take any means to satisfy his doubts.

"It was not Amelia," said he, as soon as he could breathe;" and yet, cannot she have disguised her voice?" This thought sent him round to the front gate with the rapidity of lightning. "I must see Madame de Waldemar."--"Sir, my lady is in the country." ."--"When did she go?"--" She is but just gone." Ernest groaned, and muttering execrations upon his own folly, and her perfidy, he hurried towards his home.

As he crossed the bottom of the street, a carriage was driving furiously towards him: the coachman called to him to take care, but he paid no attention. A blow from the pole of the carriage laid him senseless on the ground, and when he opened his eyes he found himself upon a sofa, and supported by Amelia. Yes, it was she herself hanging over him with looks so full of grief and tenderness, that to doubt her truth was impossible. "Ah, Amelia!" said he in a faint voice, "what have I not suffered in seeing you, as I thought, fly from me with another!" ---" And what have you not deserved to suffer, rash and suspicious man,” replied

she in a tone of gentle reproach, "for breaking your promise so solemnly given to me? Ah! if it was not for the danger you have just encountered, do you think that I could ever forgive you? And even now I know not whether I ought not to banish you from my sight for ever."

17

Our fair readers will have no difficulty in believing that De Cronstadt soon made his peace, and an explanation ensued that made him ashamed of his doubts.

Sternheim had just eloped with, and privately married, a young lady, the bosom friend and first cousin of Amelia: the young couple sought a temporary refuge with her, but the bride did not appear to visitors. Circumstances arose which rendered them fearful of pursuit, and they went to seek an asylum with another friend; at the same time Amelia, who was a great favourite with her uncle, resolved to hasten to his house, in the hope of procuring their pardun. A person more prudent or less ardent than our fair widow would have waited for daylight to commence her journey; but she said, and doubtless she believed, that she was impatient to exert her good offices for the new-married pair. Whether or not her benevolence was stimulated by the idea, that her abrupt departure would punish Ernest for his flirtation with Miss Sprotzler, we will not stop to enquire; suffice it to say, that her travelling-carriage quitted her house by the front gate almost at the same moment that Sternheim and his wife stole from the back door to the post-chaise which waited for them. In the hurry of depar ture Amelia bad forgotten something, and was returning for it, when Ernest received the blow from the pole of her carriage, which might have been fatal but for the skill of the coachman, who pulled up in time to prevent the wheels from going over him. One may well believe that the sight of De Cronstadt, insensible, perhaps dying, drove thoughts of the intended journey out of Amelia's head. She had him carried to her house, and sent immediately for medical assistance; but as he was only stunned by the blow, he recovered before the arrival of the surgeon to life and happiness. Time flew unheeded by the lovers, till Amelia casting her eyes upon the chimney-clock, exclaimed with great naïveté, "Good heaven! I had no idea it was so late. You must go now, dear Ernest, you must indeed.""Not till you have once more repeated the sweet assurance, that on your return"_"Ah! hush!" cried she archly; no more

all

promises, lest I remind you of your broken one."

At that instant the clock of the neighbouring church chimed twelve, and Ernest bidding adieu to his beautiful mistress, hastened home, to retrace in the fond security of present happiness all the vicissitudes of delight and despair which he had experienced in twelve hours.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A PICTURE.

Original.

The bandit sleeps; but see how tenderly
His Anna watches o'er his hasty rest;
See that ardent gaze she bends upon him :
Oh! many thoughts are mingling with that look,
Of friends afar, of home-but most of him.
Her lovely home was 'neath Italia's sky,
Where the sweet jessamine sheds its fragrance
Gemming the lowly thatch with silvery stars.

round,

Her life has been a promise fair but false,
Like some fair summer morn, when rosy clouds
And brilliant colours deck th' etherial arch
But, ab! too quickly vanish, cloud on cloud
Rolls by, and shrouds the bright expanse in
gloom:
So o'er her childhood, Happiness bestowed
Her fairy tints; but Misery quickly came,
She was a beauteous girl, in whose bright eyes,
And veiled each trace of joy in Sorrow's shade.
Truth, Love, and Innocence united shone.
Her parents doted on their lovely child,
And ripening years but added to her charms;
When Albert came and taught her heart to love.
She deemed him true, and listened to his tale.

His brow was open, and his dark eye flashed
With deep-felt tenderness; but yet at times
There was a glance she shrunk beneath, and
feared
She knew not what; but Love o'ercame her
fears.
Her father
Although a secret fear stole o'er his heart,
gave his long delayed consent,
And his voice faltered as he gave his blessing.
They wedded, and she knew not that she was-
A bandit's bride.-

Some months rolled happily away, at last
The truth burst on them;-ah! how sad the

scene.

Her mother's broken heart; a father's curse
Upon her husband, and his firm resolve
To see that husband of her love no more.
She would not quit him, and she left her home:

She fled her native land, and followed him.
Their home is on the Alps,-but Love can dwell
In lonely wilds, and he illumes their cot.
And does she now repent it!-no, tho' woe,
She shares his toils, and suffers all his cares,-
And busy recollection, will intrude
At times upon her thoughts,-yet love reigns
there,-

She has a woman's heart and woman's tenderness. M.

A merchant of Gottenburg has invented a machine which can manufac ture 10,000 nails in a minute. A patent has been granted to this mechanic, whose name is Umgewitz.