"He left me some two hours since," said Audeley, carelessly, "and he has crossed the scent in seeking me; I trust no harm is done,---the hound is mine."

"Yours! where got you him-say-speak-there are none other of the race in England! He must be descended from Old Talbot's stock-where got you him?" The hard features of the old forester worked violently ;— suddenly a flash of recollection gleamed across his features,--" oh God," he cried, "my master, my master,"---he threw himself at his feet, clasped his knees and sobbed aloud---not an instant, however, was he in that position, ere Audeley had raised and clasped him to his bosom, and mingled his tears with those of his servant and friend. "My dear, dear master,--happy days are come again. The estates are yours-Old Oliver, heaven bless him,--or the preserved them for you-and you will rebuild the old hall, and marry Lady Helen.”

"Marry who marry the wife of Stephen Hertford? Old man, your joy has made you mad."

"No wife," returned the other, no widow, but your own betrothed and faithful"

"Where---where?--I charge you on your allegiance--on your life,---unless you would see me a maniac before your face, say where," gasped Audeley, excited beyond all thought of philosophy, of pride, of aught, except allpowerful, all-engrossing love-love never forgotten-cherished amidst the wild deserts of the west---knit to his very life in the fierce struggles of European warfare---discouraged, hopeless, yet ever present-ever omnipotent love.

"When the castle was burnt, we fitted up the lodge for her as best we might, and there"

"No more, if you love me,---lead on and that quickly."

The casements were set wide open to admit the first balmy breathings of the spring,-the matted creepers, which every where curled around the stonework with their fresh green leaves, quivered in the light air, and seemed to murmur their anticipations of sunshine and summer, and increasing beauty. The same breeze fluttered among the ringlets, and soothed the languid form, of one, who looked forth on the genial morning from her fevered couch, with prospects, alas! how different! she saw the face of nature gay with the earliest blush of vegetation,-she noted the promise of the budding shrubs-of the bursting flowers-of the new-born animals-of the myriad tribes of winged life, called forth to activity by the unwonted softness of the season. She saw that they were fair and happy, -she knew that to these all present joys were but a foretaste of a fuller maturity,—that the swelling leaves would spread into the rich garment of the woodland, that the blossoms would fill the universal air with loveliness and perfume, that the insects would bask and glitter in the warmer noon, that the beasts of the field or the forest would grow in strength, and vigor, and grace,-that the great sun himself would mellow into more perfect day. And while these inanimate, or soulless things are drinking health and happiness from the growing year, is not the light already fluttering in her lamp on the verge of extinction? Will her brow be fairer, her bloom more transparent, as the days and months roll onwards? Alas! the brown

tresses-here and there tinged with a paler hue,—the sunken yet still beautiful features, the complexion too fair for health, and then, that ominous bloom, that

-hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead,

Of her consuming cheek the autumnal, leaf-like red," spoke but too audibly the doom. The summer may warm the soil,--the birds may carol, as love or joy inspires them,-the herbs may shake their thousand odors to the air--but the sun will shine, the birds will sing, and the grass grow, above the fair bosom, now vibrating to the high passions, the warm affections, the sublime devotions, which can at moments raise the children of earth so near to heaven. In past years the world held not a happier heart, than that which beat within the breast of Helen Arnold. The liveliest smile, the readiest tear,-the soul speaking from the eye even sooner than from the tongue,-the candor which thinks no ill of others, dreads none for self,--the pure love, reposed on an honored and honorable object,-happy in requited affections and in the long perspective of golden hopes, had all been Helen's. She lived too long; she saw

-rich dream by dream decay,

All the bright rose leaves drop from life away."

She lived to see all friends vanish; some false, some fled, many fallen, on the bloody field or bloodier scaffold. She lived to know that he, to whom she had surrendered her virgin affections,-for whom she had kept a widowed heart--who had been severed from her, with a broken spirit amidst vows of endless attachment,-had forgotten,--forsaken her.

His last interview was all passion and despair; yet twenty long summers, twenty dreary winters had passed away without a line-a token-a message! Her earthly trials were near their term-yet a few more weeks or days of pain and sorrow, and the wicked will have ceased from troubling, the weary will be at rest.

A hasty step startled her,- -a low tap at the door-it was opened almost before her voice had given permission,-and in the full sunshine stood the tall form of Audeley. She gazed long and wildly on his noble lineaments. "Have you too forgotten me, cousin Helen." "Oh God!--It is-it is himself!" She rose to throw herself upon his bosom,--her limbs trembled,—— the room reeled around her,---her eyes were darkened. The revulsion of her feelings had overpowered her frail nerves, and enfeebled constitution--

A few hours later, in the same apartment, on the same cushioned sofa, the windows closed against the damps of evening, a bright log crackling and sparkling on the hearth; lay Helen Arnold--listening in breathless attention to the deep tones of him, she loved more than all the world beside. "Tell me,” she said, “Audeley,―tell me of your wanderings, and your wars; of your perils, your sorrows, your joys; you say you have fought in the sanguinary struggle of German warfare, and wandered for years among the savage scenes of America. But why have you never written, never suffered us to know that you were yet on earth? I will not blame you, Francis,--why should I? Why should I stain the few hours, that are left to me, with grief or lamentation? But was it not cruel, to leave us to our lonely affliction, deprived even of the last wretched consolation, the knowledge that you were in life---in health---in honor?"

"To what end," he replied, "should I have written? What would it have availed to pour forth the yearnings of my spirit to the cold-hearted, or, as I then deemed, to the indifferent--nay, had I written, who would have cared to read the sorrows of an exiled, a dishonored traitor?

"You had a father Audeley,----a father who loved you even in his anger. You had friends as firm, and faithful, as man ever numbered. You had""All these," he broke in, "all these, and more---a father who disowned me, and discarded! Friends who in need and danger deserted the cause of him, whom they had followed in peace and prosperity! And forgive me, Helen, forgive me that I believed the hateful lie---a mistress---whom I adored as never man did,--for whose pleasure I would have sacrificed all here, and all hereafter,---who had forgotten her plighted faith, and withdrawn from me the sweet possession of hope, the only hope which could convert the world's cold wilderness to a garden of celestial bliss! I have sought-I have prayed for-I have courted death,—in all shapes the most abhorred of men; in the field, and on the flood-in pestilence that walks in darkness-in famine that smites at noon-day-and in each and all has your form been before my eyes-your voice sounded in my brain. I have battled with my spirit, I have striven to wrest the weakness from my soul, but it would not be. The bullet has whistled by me, harmless-the sword, merciless to those who wish for life, has spared me. I have reared a colony in the wilderness,—a colony that shall one day shame earth's mightiest kingdoms; I have been beleaguered in my log-built fortifications, with the yell of the blood-thirsty savage howling in my ears; I have seen my comrades perish in the protracted torrents of heathenish barbarity; I have seen the strong man reduced to the helplessness of the weanling infant, by hunger and despair. Yet I faltered not,―for that which was despair to them, had been a boon to me! I have borne all this---I have returned to look once more in cheerless sorrow on the hearth of my fathers, and the home of my childhood. Hope was dead within me—the spark has been quickened-quickened, but to be quenched forever. I believed you the bride of another—I heard that you were my own-through neglect, and sorrow, and desertion--my own true Helen! I flew to find you, and I have found you thus---Oh God! oh God! I have found you, dearer, truer, more adorable than ever, languishing by my unkindness, murdered by my cruelty---Oh fool! fool! weak, miserable, accursed fool."

The eyes of Helen Arnold gleamed with a wild and unnatural brightness, her pale cheek burned,-her heart throbbed so fiercely that her whole frame, and even the couch which supported her, was shaken by its palpitations. Her voice lately so weak and faltering, was clear and musical, as if decay had not consumed her organs.

"Mourn not for me, my beloved," she said, "I am happy! Oh how happy! Hope has ever been my refuge and support; even the hope of seeing you once again, the same, noble, glorious being, who gained my girlish love. Happy should I have been, to have seen you thus, even had your heart and your hand been another's. What then must be my rapture, to find you still my own, own Audeley. Tested by all trials which most search the heart; sorrow, absence, time, even fancied desertion! Tried, and how proudly triumphant! Proved, and how much ennobled by the proof! I have loved you ever in spirit and in truth,-but never, Audeley, never, as I

adore you now! Then mourn not for me, my beloved---I am going whither there are no more tears,-no more sorrow. If I have suffered here, I feel that my reward is to come. If I die, I know that my Redeemer liveth. We have loved much, and will not much be forgiven to us? We are parting, love, yet not parting; for what can separate the immortal? We are changing time for eternity; we are leaving all that is low, and base, and earthly in our nature, to live for ever in light, and love, and incorruption. If we have loved much on earth, how much more shall we love in heaven."

She fell on his neck! her limbs were agitated for a moment, as if by an earthquake!--One long, long kiss !--

"Groaning he clasped her close, and in that act
And agony, her happy spirit fled."

It had been a fearful night on the deep. The sun was just struggling upwards through a bank of dense and murky vapor, while overhead the rack drove land-ward under the frantic guidance of the tempest. The huge waves rolled on in unbroken ridges, towards the ironbound coast of Ireland, with the fury derived from the swell of the boundless Atlantic. An inaccessible promontory of shivered granite towered, hundreds of feet, above the strip of sand, on which the surf thundered with a roar, that echoed leagues inland, mingled with the rocking blast, which wailed as if in mockery over the gallant hearts it had consigned to destruction.

The narrow verge between the precipice, and the stormy ocean, was strewed with shattered planks and cordage, broken yards and sails,---never again to swell with the breeze. Cast high and dry by some mightier billow, beyond the reach of its successors, lay a single body; a large dog couched beside it, now licking the cold face and hands, that had so often fed him, with a low wailing cry,---and now springing forward with a fierce bark, as the great gulls swept so low as almost to brush with their wings the face of his beloved master. The body was stretched on its back, with the feet to the waves, and the face to the frowning heavens; one hand lay on the bosom, a lock of dark brown hair, here and there tinged with a paler hue, twined among his cold fingers; the other clutched, in the last unconscious effort of the death-struggle, that weapon it had wielded in life, so gloriously and well. It was the body of Francis Audeley. He had gone forth on his return to those western solitudes, less lonely now, than the land of his birth-he had gone forth to perish.

"Tis well! their fate is bliss-far sweeter
That both should die, than one remain

To mourn-a solitary creature,

Through wearying, wasting years, in vain."

W.

The History and Antiquities of the Doric Race, by Carl Otfried Müller, Professor in the University of Gottingen. Translated from the German by Henry Tufnell, Esq., and George Cornewall Lewis, Esq., student of Christ Church. 2 vols. 8vo. (pp. 1080.) Printed, at Oxford, for John Murray, Albemarle-street, London. 1832.

THERE is perhaps no stronger characteristic of the age wherein we live, than the constant search after truth, and the unwillingness to rest satisfied with aught partaking of uncertainty or conjecture, which is becoming manifest, not only among the narrow circle of scientific and philosophical readers, but throughout the whole range of society. In all topics of a literary nature, whether relating to the political, or mental improvement of mankind,—to modern statistics, or to ancient history,—no more theoretical assumptions, no more wild speculations, no more assertions, however plausible or talented, will pass current, unless they can be proved almost to a demonstration. We see the reality of this observation daily and hourly growing upon our notice, whether in the senate house or the closet, in the graver labors of historians and naturalists, or in the lighter and more sparkling effusions of romantic, or even poetical composition. What deliberative assembly will submit to listen with decorum, much less with patience, to language however beautiful, to declamation however chaste, unless the object of the orator be to establish some truth, which may tend to correct the abuses of government, and add to the well regulation of political economy? Who will, in these days, sit down to study a history, which has nothing to offer, beyond a new disposition of the false and rhapsodical legends compiled from poets and mythologists of past ages, and handed down from generation to generation, a tissue of falsehood and folly?

Accordingly, in no respect has knowledge taken a wider stride than in this particular branch of literature. During the last century, the investigation of this science has been pursued by a method entirely new and distinct, and the results have been in the highest degree satisfactory; we allude to the application of statistics, geography, and averages,—whether as regarding duration of time, produce of soil, rate of population, or individual longevity, to the purposes of historical inquiry; in addition to these tests of the truth or falsehood of traditional, or even contemporaneous history, we must not omit to notice the light, which may be derived from architectural and topographical discoveries, and, even more than these, from the consideration of the affinities and origin of languages, and thence directly of the races and tribes which have composed those states, whose fame is still the admiration and wonder of the world.

Heretofore, they, who professed to write narratives concerning the events, epochs, and motives of earlier ages, have been little more than translators and compilers; occasionally favoring their readers with a theory of their own, in a case of clashing, or contradictory statements, and not very unfrequently deserting, or even falsifying their texts, to establish some favorite system. The consequence of this,-to quote from the preface of the book whose title heads our present article,-has been, that "the pages of early Grecian history are, in the works generally received in this country, occupied with a mass of puerile and incredible fables, purified in parts of their more glaring absurdities, and reduced to an apparently chronological order. These narratives have been borrowed from one historian by another, and