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nity of coming to an explanation. The Duchess, as she went to her palfrey, conducted by the ever assiduous Henry, whispered in his ear: "Be of good heart, wait with patience till we return, and then you shall be happy."

The page was thunderstruck: her words thrilled through him: he could scarcely stand; and the gracious lady, seeing his extreme agitation, turned towards him her eyes, that beamed with infinite kindness, and reached him her hand to kiss. He fell on his knees, as he received the unlooked-for boon; and when he returned to his chamber, after the Duchess' departure, he was almost convulsed by the force and variety of his feelings. Did he understand her aright? His duty to his lord-could he forget it! Gratitude! Honour! Love! all these considerations worked in his mind with the fury of a volcano.

A message from his master and mistress gave him soon occasion to join them at the baths. "Well, you have now recovered your gaiety, my distrustful page," exclaimed the Duke, with an arch smile as he approached. The youth looked with consternation at the speaker. "The gentle Agnes was not obdurate, I dare say-approach, then, and thank your fair advocate here-the Duchess I mean: she it was who did a good office for you with her lovely cousin!"

Henry felt despair circling his heart, and freezing it, with each word of this address. His resolution was instantly taken, and this enabled him to preserve his calmness. His cheek was pale, but it changed not: his eye remained steady, as he made a common-place reply, and the Duke and the Duchess congratulated themselves on the restoration of the page's tranquillity.

The 18th of May was the birth-day of the Duchess: on that morning the rich cavalcade set out for the Castle of Kynast, meaning to celebrate the joyful festival by chivalrous sports. Henry rode by his mistress' carriage, on a beautiful horse which she had given to him that day twelvemonth. Every one remarked the paleness of his countenance; but an unusual fire sparkled in his eyes, and altogether he seemed to exult, rather than, as of late, to mourn. There was general satisfaction expressed at the happy change. The page's steed seemed determined that day to show his master to the greatest possible advantage. He went snorting with courage; sometimes playing disdainfully with the earth, which he struck with short bounds; then rearing as if in fury; then springing forward as if maddened by restraint, yet all the while proud of his rider's sway,

and never for one instant escaping, or seeking to escape, from the secret invisible power of his flexible practised hand. All eyes were fixed on the gallant youth, and above all those of the Duchess-who that day seemed to herself to feel an interest in him of a more remarkable nature than what she had ever before experienced-and which created something like an agitation in her heart for which she could not account. His pale face, his beaming eyes, rivetted her attention. She could not take her looks from them; and once or twice she uttered a short hasty cry of alarm, as the spirited charger appeared to expose his rider to peril. The page on these occasions bowed gracefully but seriously towards his mistress; and altogether he seemed like one who had suddenly acquired new and high privileges, which he was incapable to abuse, but proud of possessing.

A sumptuous banquet was given to the knights and retainers on the great lawn before the Castle; and, after this, Etha took her seat beneath a splendid canopy to witness the games. They were many and various, of an athletic kind, and in these the page distinguished himself, as he was wont-few could compete with him, either in agility or courage. The last trial of both now only remained: it had been ordered by the masters of the festival, that, to conclude the day's exercises, a prize of a golden chain should be awarded to him who should dare to climb the warder's lofty tower

The

overlooking the precipice on the brink of which the Castle stood-by the projecting stones of the external wall—a difficult and perilous task, which it was thought few would attempt, and perhaps none perform. conditions were, that the successful person (if any succeeded) when standing on the extreme parapet, should receive a goblet, filled with wine, from the warder's hand: that, thus elevated in the eyes of all, he should pronounce the name of his mistress, drink her health in the contents of the cup, and then, descending, receive the chain he had won from the hands of the Duchess herself.

Many young cavaliers made the attempt, but soon relinquished it. The danger and fatigue was too great. At last the trumpets announced that Henry of Chila was about to essay the enterprise. He was observed to look earnestly at the Duchess as he advanced to the foot of the rock. He was soon seen ascending; and, while the crowd held their breaths, under the influence of admiration and horror mingled, the adventurous youth gained the summit, and stood erect and firm on the fearful height. The warder held out to him the bowl filled

with wine; a shout from below greeted his triumph; the utmost silence then prevailed, for all burned with curiosity to hear pronounced the name of her who had gained the heart of Henry of Chila.

"He is about to utter the name of Agnes," said the Duchess to one of her ladies-and as she said this she sighed. "He has done a dangerous feat for her," she added.

Henry raised the cup in his right hand: the sun was setting, -its rays flashed upon him horizontally, kindling the fair locks that streamed about his face, disordered by the exertion of climbing. He stood like a divine messenger, about to communicate the will of Heaven to mortals. The silence grew more fixed and deep. Not a breath was suffered to

escape.

"I drink," exclaimed he, with a loud voice, "to my mistress-to her whom I love-to Etha, Duchess of Liegnitz-wife of my most honoured and esteemed master the Dukewhom I have ever served with fidelity, and to whom in the moment of death I declare my gratitude."

A piercing shriek was uttered by the Duchess, as she turned away her head; for too well she foresaw what was about to happen. The Duke sprung forward, exclaiming, "In the name of God! hold!" A loud cry of Jesu Maria! was the next instant set up by the whole multitude, and the body of the unfortunate page lay mangled and lifeless on the stones beneath the Castle wall!

Deep sobs and stifled screams were heard to come from under the canopy; and a sad agitation and hurried moments prevailed there amongst the attendants. The Abbot of Lambus advanced towards the corpse, crossing his hands over his breast, and exclaiming in a trembling voice, "To his poor soul may God have mercy!" -"To his poor soul may God have mercy,' was solemnly ejaculated by the crowd, as with one voice; and the echoes in the mountains around were thrice heard to repeat the word "mercy." The Duke ordered the remains of his page to be collected for burial in the ducal vault at Liegnitz; and masses were celebrated at Warmbrunn for the soul of the departed. London Mag.

MODESTY.

Not to unveil before the gaze
Of an imperfect sympathy

In aught we are, is the sweet praise
And the main sum of modesty.
COVENTRY PATMORE.

MY COTTAGE.

BY PROFESSOR WILSON. "One small spot

Where my tired mind may rest and call it home. There is a magic in that little word;

It is a mystic circle that surrounds

Comforts and virtues never known beyond
The hallowed limit."

SOUTHEY'S Hymn to the Penates.

Here have I found at last a home of peace
To hide me from the world; far from its noise,
To feed that spirit, which, though sprung from earth,
And linked to human beings by the bond
Of earthly love, hath yet a loftier aim
Than perishable joy, and through the calm
That sleeps amid the mountain-solitude,
Can hear the billows of eternity,
And hear delighted.

Many a mystic gleam, Lovely though faint, of imaged happiness Fell on my youthful heart, as oft her light Smiles on a wandering cloud, ere the fair moon Hath risen in the sky. And oh! ye dreams That to such spiritual happiness could shape The lonely reveries of my boyish days, Are ye at last fulfilled? Ye fairy scenes, That to the doubting gaze of prophecy Rose lovely, with your fields of sunny green, Your sparkling rivulets and hanging groves Of more than rainbow lustre, where the swing Of woods primeval darkened the still depth Of lakes bold-sweeping round their guardian hills Even like the arms of Ocean, where the roar Sullen and far from mountain cataract Was heard amid the silence, like a thought Of solemn mood that tames the dancing soul When swarming with delights;-ye fairy scenes! Fancied no more, but bursting on my heart In living beauty, with adoring song I bid you hail! and with as holy love As ever beautified the eye of saint Hymning his midnight orisons, to you I consecrate my life,-till the dim stain Left by those worldly and unhallowed thoughts That taint the purest soul, by bliss destroyed, My spirit travel like a summer sun, Itself all glory, and its path all joy.

Nor will the musing penance of the soul,
Performed by moonlight, or the setting sun,
To hymn of swinging oak, or the wild flow
Of mountain-torrent, ever lead her on

To virtue, but through peace. For Nature speaks
A parent's language, and, in tones as mild
As e'er hushed infant on its mother's breast,
Wins us to learn her lore. Yea! even to guilt,
Though in her image something terrible

Weigh down his being with a load of awe,
Love mingled with her wrath, like tender light
Streamed o'er a dying storm. And thus where'er
Man feels as man, the earth is beautiful.
His blessings sanctify even senseless things,
And the wide world in cheerful loveliness
Returns to him its joy. The summer air,
Whose glittering stillness sleeps within his soul,
Stirs with its own delight: the verdant earth,
Like beauty waking from a happy dream,
Lies smiling: each fair cloud to him appears
A pilgrim travelling to the shrine of peace;
And the wild wave, that wantons on the sea,
A gay though homeless stranger. Ever blest
The man who thus beholds the golden chain
Linking his soul to outward Nature fair,
Full of the living God!

And where, ye haunts

of grandeur and of beauty! shall the heart,
That yearns for high communion with its God,
Abide, if e'er its dreams have been of you?
The loveliest sounds, forms, hues, of all the earth
Linger delighted here: here guilt might come,
With sullen soul abhorring Nature's joy,
And in a moment be restored to Heaven.
Here sorrow, with a dimness o'er his face,
Might be beguiled to smiles-almost forget
His sufferings, and, in Nature's living book,
Read characters so lovely, that his heart
Would, as it blessed them, feel a rising swell
Almost like joy !-O earthly paradise!
Of many a secret anguish hast thou healed
Him, who now greets thee with a joyful strain.

And oh! if in those elevated hopes
That lean on virtue,-in those high resolves
That bring the future close upon the soul,
And nobly dare its dangers;-if in joy
Whose vital spring is more than innocence,
Yea! faith and adoration!—if the soul

Of man may trust to these-and they are strong,
Strong as the prayer of dying penitent-
My being shall be bliss. For witness, Thou!
Oh mighty One! whose saving love has stolen
On the deep peace of moonbeams to my heart-
Thou! who with looks of mercy oft has cheered
The starry silence, when, at noon of night,
On some wild mountain thou hast not declined
The homage of thy lonely worshipper---
Bear witness, Thou! that, both in joy and grief,
The love of nature long hath been with me
The love of virtue:-that the solitude
Of the remotest hills to me hath been
Thy temple:-that the fountain's happy voice
Hath sung thy goodness, and thy power has stunned
My spirit in the roaring cataract!

Such solitude to me! Yet are there heartsWorthy of good men's love, nor unadorned With sense of moral beauty-to the joy

That dwells within the Almighty's outward shrine,
Senseless and cold. Ay, there are men who see
The broad sun sinking in a blaze of light,
Nor feel their disembodied spirits hail
With adoration the departing God;

Who on the night-sky, when a cloudless moon
Glides in still beauty through unnumbered stars,
Can turn the eye unmoved, as if a wall

Of darkness screened the glory from their souls.
With humble pride I bless the Holy One
For sights to these denied. And oh! how oft
In seasons of depression-when the lamp
Of life burned dim, and all unpleasant thoughts
Subdued the proud aspirings of the soul-
When doubts and fears withheld the timid eye
From scanning scenes to come, and a deep sense
Of human frailty turned the past to rain,
How oft have I remembered that a world
Of glory lay around me, that a source
Of lofty solace lay in every star,

And that no being need behold the sun,

And grieve, that knew Who hung him in the sky.
Thus unperceived I woke from heavy grief
To airy joy: and seeing that the mind
Of man, though still the image of his God,
Leaned by his will on various happiness,
I felt that all was good; that faculties,
Though low, might constitute, if rightly used,
True wisdom; and when man hath here attained
The purpose of his being, he will sit

Near mercy's throne, whether his course hath been
Prone on the earth's dim sphere, or, as with wing
Of viewless eagle, round the central blaze.

Then ever shall the day that led me here
Be held in blest remembrance. I shall see,
Even at my dying hour, the glorious sun
That made Winander one wide wave of gold,
When first in transport from the mountain-top
I hailed the heavenly vision! Not a cloud,
Whose wreaths lay smiling in the lap of light,
Not one of all those sister-isles that sleep
Together, like a happy family

Of beauty and of love, but will arise
To cheer my parting spirit, and to tell
That Nature gently leads unto the grave
All who have read her heart, and kept their own
In kindred holiness.

But ere that hour
Of awful triumph, I do hope that years
Await me, when the unconscious power of joy
Creating wisdom, the bright dreams of soul
Will humanize the heart, and I shall be
More worthy to be loved by those whose love
Is highest praise:-that by the living light
That burns for ever in affection's breast,

I shall behold how fair and beautiful

A human form may be.-Oh, there are thought. That slumber in the soul. like sweetest sounds Amid the harp's loose strings, till airs from Heaven

On earth, at dewy nightfall, visitant,
Awake the sleeping melody! Such thoughts,
My gentle Mary, I have owed to thee.
And if thy voice e'er melt into my soul
With a dear home-toned whisper,-if thy face
E'er brighten in the unsteady gleams of light
From our own cottage hearth;-O Mary! then
My overpowered spirit will recline
Upon thy inmost heart, till it become,
O sinless seraph! almost worthy thee.

Then will the earth-that oftimes to the eye Of solitary lover seems o'erhung With too severe a shade, and faintly smiles With ineffectual beauty on his heartBe clothed with everlasting joy; like land Of blooming faëry, or of boyhood's dreams Ere life's first flush is o'er. Oft shall I turn My vision from the glories of the scene To read them in thine eyes; and hidden grace, That slumbers in the crimson clouds of even, Will reach my spirit through their varying light, Though viewless in the sky. Wandering with thee, A thousand beauties never seen before Will glide with sweet surprise into my soul, Even in those fields where each particular tree Was looked on as a friend-where I had been Frequent, for years, among the lonely glens.

Nor, 'mid the quiet of reflecting bliss, Will the faint image of the distant world Ne'er float before us:-Cities will arise Among the clouds that circle round the sun, Gorgeous with tower and temple. The night-voice Of flood and mountain to our ear will seem Like life's loud stir:-And, as the dream dissolves, With burning spirit we will smile to see Only the moon rejoicing in the sky, And the still grandeur of the eternal hills.

Yet, though the fulness of domestic joy Bless our united beings, and the home Be ever happy where thy smiles are seen, Though human voice might never touch our ear From lip of friend or brother;-yet, oh! think What pure benevolence will warm our hearts, When with the undelaying steps of love Through yon o'ershadowing wood we dimly see A coming friend, far distant then believed, And all unlooked for. When the short distrust Of unexpected joy no more constrains, And the eye's welcome brings him to our arms, With gladdened spirit he will quickly own That true love ne'er was selfish, and that man Ne'er knew the whole affection of his heart Till resting on another's. If from scenes Of noisy life he come, and in his soul The love of Nature, like a long-past dream,

If e'er it stir, vield but a dim delight,

Oh! we shall lead him where the genial power Of beauty, working by the wavy green

Of hill-ascending wood, the misty gleam
Of lakes reposing in their peaceful vales,
And, lovelier than the loveliness below,
The moonlight Heaven, shall to his blood restore
An undisturbed flow, such as he felt
Pervade his being, morning, noon, and night.
When youth's bright years passed happily away
Among his native hills, and all he knew
Of crowded cities was from passing tale
Of traveller, half-believed, and soon forgotten.

And fear not, Mary! that, when winter comes, These solitary mountains will resign The beauty that pervades their mighty frames, Even like a living soul. The gleams of light Hurrying in joyful tumult o'er the cliffs, And giving to our musings many a burst Of sudden grandeur, even as if the eye Of God were wandering o'er the lovely wild, Pleased with his own creation;-the still joy Of cloudless skies; and the delighted voice Of hymning fountains-these will leave awhile The altered earth:-But other attributes Of nature's heart will rule, and in the storm We shall behold the same prevailing Power That slumbers in the calm, and sanctify,

With adoration, the delight of love.

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The great examples of Bacon, of Milton, of Newton, of Locke, and of others, happen to be directly against the popular inference, that a certain wildness of eccentricity and thoughtlessness of conduct, are the necessary accompaniments of talent, and the sure indications of genius. Because some have united these extravagances with great demonstrations of talent, as a Rousseau, a Chatterton, a Savage, a Burns, or a Byron, others, finding it less difficult to be eccentric than to be brilliant, have therefore adopted the one, in the hope that the world would give them credit for the other. But the greatest genius is never so great as when it is chastised and subdued by the highest reason; it is from such a combina

tion, like that of Bucephalus, reined in by Alexander, that the most powerful efforts have been produced. And be it remembered, that minds of the very highest order, who have given an unrestrained course to their caprice or to their passions, would have been so much higher by subduing them; and that so far from presuming that the world would give them credit for talent, on the score of their aberrations and their extravagances, all that they dared hope or expect has been, that the world would pardon and overlook those extravagances, on account of the various and manifold proofs they were constantly exhibiting of superior acquirement and inspiration. We might also add, that the good effects of talent are universal, the evil of its blemishes confined. The light and heat of the sun benefit all, and are by all enjoyed; the spots on his surface are discoverable only to the few. But the lower order of aspirers to fame and talent have pursued a very different course; instead of exhibiting talent in the hope that the world would forgive their eccentricities, they have exhibited only their eccentricities in the hope that the world would give them credit for talent.

Avarice begets more vices than Priam did children, and, like Priam, survives them all. It starves its keeper to surfeit those who wish him dead; and makes him submit to more mortifications to lose heaven, than the martyr undergoes to gain it. Avarice is a passion full of paradox, a madness full of method; for although the miser is the most mercenary of all beings, yet he serves the worst master more faithfully than some Christians do the best, and will take nothing for it. He falls down and worships the god of this world, but will have neither its pomps, its vanities, nor its pleasures for his trouble. He begins to accumulate treasure as a mean to happiness, and by a common but morbid association, he continues to accumulate it as an end. He lives poor to die rich, and is the mere jailer of his house and the turnkey of his wealth. Impoverished by his gold, he slaves harder to imprison it in his chest than his brother slave to liberate it from the mine. The avarice of the miser may be termed the grand sepulchre of all his other passions, as they successively decay. But, unlike other tombs, it is enlarged by repletion and strengthened by age. This latter paradox, so peculiar to this passion, must be ascribed to that love of power so inseparable from the human mind. There are three kinds of power-wealth, strength, and talent; but as old age always weakens, often destroys the two latter, the aged are induced to cling with the

greater avidity to the former. And the attachment of the aged to wealth must be a growing and a progressive attachment, since such are not slow in discovering that those same ruthless years which detract so sensibly from the strength of their bodies, and of their minds, serve only to augment and to consolidate the strength of their purse.

We should justly ridicule a general who, just before an action, should suddenly disarm his men, and putting into the hands of all of them a Bible, should order them, thus equipped, to march against the enemy. Here we plainly see the folly of calling in the Bible to support the sword; but is it not as great a folly to call in the sword to support the Bible? Our Saviour divided force from reason, and let no man presume to join what God hath put asunder. When we combat error with any other weapon than argument, we err more than those whom we attack.

None are so fond of secrets as those who do not mean to keep them; such persons covet secrets as a spendthrift covets money, for the purpose of circulation.

There are minds so habituated to intrigue and mystery in themselves, and so prone to expect it from others, that they will never accept of a plain reason for a plain fact, if it be possible to devise causes for it that are obscure, far-fetched, and usually not worth the carriage. Like the miser of Berkshire, who would ruin a good horse to escape a turnpike, so these gentlemen ride their high-bred theories to death, in order to come at truth through by-paths, lanes, and alleys, while she herself is jogging quietly along upon the high and beaten road of common sense. The consequence is, that they who take this mode of arriving at truth are sometimes before her and sometimes behind her, but very seldom with her. Thus the great statesman who relates the conspiracy against Doria, pauses to deliberate upon, and minutely to scrutinize into divers and sundry errors committed, and opportunities neglected, whereby he would wish to account for the total failure of that spirited enterprise. But the plain fact was, that the scheme had been so well planned and digested, that it was victorious in every point of its operation, both on the sea and on the shore, in the harbour of Genoa no less than in the city, until that most unlucky accident befel the Count de Fiesque, who was the very life and soul of the conspiracy. In stepping from one galley to another, the plank on which he stood upset, and he fell into the sea. His armour happened to be very heavy-the night to be

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