nessing the horse, were terrific. The roaring of the waters, the rushing of the rain, and the whistling of the wind, added to the intense darkness, occasionally dissipated by a flash of lightning painful to the eyes, all conspired to add to the magnificent terror of the scene.

"The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd.
That night a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand."

Fatigued as I was, I preferred resting on Joseph's coffin to again entering the heart-sickening chamber from which it had been brought. At last, "with weary steps and slow," we united our efforts, and raised the coffin from the ground. Our feet slipped, at almost every step, on the wet grass, and we consumed much time in conveying our sad burthen to the stable. To obviate a repetition of the difficulty we had just experienced in raising the coffin from the ground, we placed one end of it on a hay-rick, and the other on a small oat-chest, some three feet lower than the hay rick. Sambo, noticing the oblique position of the coffin, and that one of the posts of the stable was directly opposite to its lower end, dryly observed; "Massa, if Josey slip down here, he 'tave him head agin dis post." Unfeeling as these remarks of the untaught Sambo were, they had a good effect upon us ;-for exhaustion, fatigue, and the effects of our huge potations of brandy had so unnerved us, that, without something calculated to rouse our drooping spirits, we should have yielded to the powers of Somnus, and left our charitable undertaking incomplete.

As soon as the first rays of light appeared, G. M. and myself, leaving Sambo to guard the coffin, proceeded to the farmhouse, determined to obtain the waggon, if not the horse. The farmer was already stirring; but, on seeing us, he exhibited the most unequivocal symptoms of terror, and began to retreat, with great rapidity, to the house. We called to him repeatedly to stop, but he appeared by no means inclined to regard our injunctions, until we flatly told him, that we should take his horse and waggon, without permission, if he refused to hear us. Fully comprehending this hint, he at last stopped; but earnestly besought us to keep at a respectful distance from him. We complied with his humour; and after many sturdy refusals, which were only overcome by our threatening otherwise to bury the corpse in the midst of his farm, he consented to let us have the use of his waggon, provided we would sprinkle it well with

vinegar, after we had done with it: no entreaties nor threats could prevail on him to let his horse run the risk of catching the yellow fever, and, communicating it, perhaps, to all the other quadrupeds and bipeds of his household.

With much labour, we dragged the waggon from the farmer's yard to the stable; and, after putting my horse before it, we deposited the coffin within it. Sambo carefully covered the whole with straw, in order to prevent any suspicions as to the nature of the cargo which the waggon contained, and, after so many difficulties and delays, we at last got under way; Sambo leading the horse slowly onwards, and G. M. and myself following at some distance behind. We reached the church-yard without any particular observation; but found that the alarm had spread throughout the village the preceding day, and that one of the patriotic burghers had generously directed the sexton to make the grave six feet deeper than usual, and to send in the charge for the same to mine host :--all which had been done accordingly. As the sexton had not yet made his appearance, we determined not to wait for him, particularly as we found by the side of the grave two ropes sufficiently long to enable us to lower the coffin into its "narrow house." Slowly and silently did we remove the dead body from the waggon, and gradually lower it to the bottom of the deep grave, there to mingle with the dust of the humble dead, who tenanted this silent and sanctified spot.

"Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down,

Feel not a want, but what yourselves create,
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,
Whom friends and fortune quite disown!"

How many poor miserable wretches may have shared the fate of this unfortunate man; yet how few may there have been, whose intrinsic worth equalled his! His doom was sealed by the Eternal Judge, and he sunk into an early grave, unattended by friends, and not even inquired after by relations. He had been loved; and loved, too, by some fair creature, whose mind was highly cultivated. Where was she during his sickness and death? Was she living, or was she dead? Did fear for the danger she might incur in visiting him, or sullen despair at the recollection of her death, prevent Joseph from warning her of his state, ere he became unconscious? Mystery surrounded him, and still surrounds his memory. From the time of his death to the present moment, no inquiry has been made for him. The bundle that contained his simple wardrobe is still unclaimed; and the mysterious box, in which are the memo

rials of his love, still retains unbroken the seal placed on it by G. M. and myself. No tears have ever bedewed the green sod which covers his remains, nor has any stone been erected to perpetuate the memory of the spot. It would appear, then, that his friends had deserted him; and is it not probable that the object of his dearest affections had preceded him to the world of spirits, and left him solitary and alone in this world of wo, without one ray of joy to cheer his withering heart? The Supreme Judge of all flesh may have withdrawn him, in mercy, from a scene in which he had "nothing left to love or hate;" and the speedy termination of his earthly career may have been to him an emancipation from " the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to ;" and an introduction to mansions of eternal bliss, where he shall no more be severed from her he loved, forever.

"He there does now enjoy eternall rest

And happy ease, which thou doest want and crave,
And further from it daily wanderest.

What if some little payne the passage have,

That makes frayle flesh to feare the bitter wave?

Is not short payne well borne, that brings long ease,
And layes the soule to sleepe in quiet grave?

Sleepe after toyle, port after stormie seas,

Ease after warre, death after life, does greatly please."

P. S. I am afraid that the foregoing story has nothing to recommend it but its truth. One of the sentimental ladies, mentioned in it, on hearing the particulars, took occasion to write some verses, which I add, having first carefully corrected the spelling.

THE UNKNOWN MAN.

Unwelcome, among unknown men, a stranger came to die ;
The mortal sickness at his heart, gleamed wildly in his eye.
In a rude hut, on wretched straw, they laid the sufferer low,
And blamed the tardy hand of death, that did its work so slow.
And when the spirit past away, with idle words and loud,
They laid him in a shallow grave, wrapt in his squalid shroud.
Nor even the public list of those, who from the earth had sped,
Told that another unknown man was numbered with the dead.

Where disembodied spirits go, he passed unwept, unknown,
And left behind nor name, nor fame, nor tear, nor funeral stone;
One only record was there found, for vulgar eyes to scan,
Which proved one tie had bound him to the family of man.

'Twas writ in foreign characters, and by a female hand,
And breathed of constancy and love, unshaken that would stand;
But she who traced the lines so fair, now knows not where he lies,
And if she live, and yet be true, in vain expects and sighs;

For even his hasty sepulchre is now remembered not,

And briars rank and clustering weeds have overgrown the spot;
And never can the tale be known of who the wretch had been,
Till, when the judgment trump shall sound, he stand among his kin.

WILD FLOWERS,

Wild flowers! wild flowers! I love you well,
For of life and liberty ye tell :

Of sunny fields and cloudless skies,

And the forest shade where the zephyr sighs!

Of the stream's smooth brink and the mossy tree,
Scenes where the sad heart pants to be.

When from the earth's dark breast ye spring,
How sweetly the birds their carols sing.
And oh! what a world of life and light
In beauty bursts on your raptur'd sight!
The green-clad earth, and the glorious heav'n,
Bright with the burning hues of even.

But torn away from your native glade,
Alas! how swiftly your beauties fade !
Ye cannot live in a foreign sky,

And away from your home ye droop and die.

Thus of youth and beauty, the brightest hours,
Soon fade like you, wild flowers! wild flowers!

A VISION IN VERSE.

"I had a dream, which was not all a dream."

I dream'd-it was a summer's eve :

The burning sun had sunk to rest :

But many a gleam of golden light
Still linger'd in the glowing west,

And seemed like thoughts of sainted friends
In pity to our weakness giv'n,

To sooth us while we stay on earth,

And lift our wishes all to heav'n.

I wander'd in a lovely place,

A fair and fertile garden ground,

Where trees and plants, and fruits and flow'rs,.
Their mingled fragrance wafted round;

And all that could delight the sense,
And fix and charm the wand'ring view,
With much for beauty, much for use,
In wild, but tasteful freedom grew.

Methought I was not there alone-
In such a place it were not well,
For what was e'er enjoyment worth
With no one near our joy to tell?-
But four or six were gather'd round,
A little varied company,

Of manly bearing, youthful grace,
And lovely woman's witchery.

And one there was-Oh! who has pass'd
From childhood's dawn to manhood's day,
Nor felt one star was wanting yet

To light and cheer his lonely way?
Long years may flit-his cheated eye
Be lur'd by many a transient gleam,
Ere, like that pleiad, lost so long,

His own lov'd star in beauty beam.
Yes-one there was-Oh! need there years
To melt the soul, and win the heart?
No-lips and eyes there are, whose charms*
Quick as the electric fluid dart;
Whose single look, or tone, or smile,

Fills all the soul with love's assurance,
And tells, as words could never tell,

Of truth that mocks at time's endurance.

Oh! there was One--in many a dream
Of early love, I'd met that eye,
And gaz'd upon its tranquil beam,
And felt its winning witchery;
And many a time that angel voice
Had breath'd upon my ravish'd ear,
And kindled high the glowing hope,
And driven afar the anxious fear.

That One was there-I heard, I saw
Those liquid tones, that beaming face,
That form with purest mind instinct,

And blest with ev'ry nameless grace;
And while within that garden's round,
In converse sweet, we seem'd to rove,
I look'd, I listen'd, and I dar'd-

Forgive the word-I dar'd to love.

I dream'd, and bliss was in my dream;
For oft, amid her accents mild,
In maiden loveliness she look'd,

And with an angel's sweetness smil'd ;
And many an op'ning flow'r she gave,
From love's own bow'r of beauty torn;
And one--I plac'd it next my heart-

She call'd the "rose without a thorn."

*The allusion here to some beautiful lines of Moore, (I believe in his Lalla Rookh,) as well as one or two others in his poetry, and that of Byron, will be recognized at once by the reader.