have done this fiend, fiend that I am! But thank Heaven she will not know me: my change of dress will prevent that mortification.'

At that moment Caroline turned to address her companion she smiled; and then she looked more like the Caroline he had seen at Heathdale; but the evanescent emotion was only lip deep, and it passed over her countenance like a moonbeam over the snow.

Carelessly she glanced round the house, when she met the full gaze of Belgrave. No change of dress could disguise him. He looked thin and pale; but still it was the archangel ruined. The beautiful features remained, though their bloom was lost. For a moment the deepest blush of indignation dyed her cheeks; but that faded, and she became deadly pale. She turned away her head, and when she again met the eyes of her lover the calm composure of her countenance was restored; yet the nervous convulsion of the lip betrayed the struggle of her soul. Belgrave could bear no more. He started up, and rushed from the house; and having reached his lodgings, he flung himself on a sofa and gave way to a flood of bitter and agonizing tears. At length he became more composed, and, hearing approaching footsteps, he drew the candles towards him, and snatched up a book which lay on the table by him it was a volume, which, had Belgrave studied more deeply, he would have found a chart through those paths where he had shipwrecked honour, virtue, and every Christian principle. His eye fell on those remarkable words: I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight-'

'Yes,' he exclaimed, 'I will go to my father; I will ask him to forgive the transgressions of a penitent; I will implore him to give me his divine assistance; and if a being of unspotted purity can pardon me, Caroline surely will.'

The footsteps had passed. Belgrave locked his door; and for the first time for many months he bowed

his knee in sincerity. He then finished his letter to Miss de Lisle; and the next morning he saw her. Caroline wept bitterly; but she loved and she forgave him.' She could never be happy without him; she might be so with him. A dangerous experiment in many cases, certainly: she was aware of this, yet she married, accompanied him to India, and was happy. Hackney, 1829.

THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT. Thou hast not fallen by the sword of the mighty, neither was thy blood on the spear of the brave.

Ossian.

'Twas eve! now hushed the clashing helmet's sound,
With all the clang and din of dubious war;
No more triumphant, o'er the embattled ground,
The coursers galloped with the rattling car;
All-all in solemn silence reigned around,

Save now and then some iron portal's jar,
Or when the wind, with hoarse and sullen roar,
Drove wave on wave on dark Euphrates' shore.
The Grecian chiefs, assembled round their lord,
In noisy revels passed the dreary night,
The bossy helmet, brazen shield, and sword,
No longer warned them to the bloody fight;
Here Alexander, god-like, is adored,

And all his deeds of grandeur brought to light,
How Belus' temple from the ground would rise,
And dip once more its summit in the skies.
With constant shouts the Persian courts resound,
So loud that heaven re-echoed with the noise,
No grief or sorrow fills with awe profound,

Or stops the banquet of increasing joys;

In sparkling wine the numerous chiefs were drowned,
And each with pride despised his country's laws,
Save great Perdiccas, who, that awful night,

In silence drear beheld the dismal sight.
Now Alexander revelled more and more,
Thoughtless of what he formerly had done

When in the self-same fit, in coldest gore,

He slew Parmenis and his valiant son, With noblest Clitus; years could not restore The fountain source of all the battles won, When gallant Memnon Persia's armies led, And dauntless sought the battle's gory bed. Still louder rose their shouts of joy elate,

As ebon night encompassed earth and main, Some here and there with haughty pride relate Their mighty exploits on the embattled plain; Here Alexander, mindless of his fate,

His chieftains eyed with looks of proud disdain, When on a sudden, with a thund'ring sound, The warrior tumbled senseless on the ground. Then terror spread, and anguish screamed affright, Whilst shouts resounded through the ancient hall; What dismal deeds were done that awful night! What murderer's bosom would not they appal ! Whole thousands, sickening at the dreadful sight, With deepest sighs the common grief condole, As when Troy's matrons saw their children slain, And slaughtered myriads scattered o'er the plain. Now on his bed the immortal hero lies,

And all his courtiers stand in silence round,
With frightful groans, and sad heart-rending sighs,
In every part, the Persian courts resound;
Through the proud city dismal murmurs rise,
And sad afflictions every where abound,
For him who from Mygdonia's city came,
In search of honours, and a deathless fame.
Still night rolled on, and darkness spread its frown,
Like awful death, o'er Ether's concave wide;
The envious chiefs around their lord sat down,
And saw Perdiccas o'er his ring preside;

Being asked to whom he left his kingly crown,
Unto the worthiest of my friends,' he cried;

When, with one look, and smiling brow,

His soul departed to the shades below.

Elland.

JOHANNES S.

*The ancient name of Macedonia.

MONTESQUIEU AND THE BOATMAN

A YOUNG man, whose name was Roberts, posted himself at the ferry of Marseilles, till some one should enter his boat, that he might carry him over. A per300 presently came; but, as Roberts had not the air of a boatman, was going again, saying, since the boatman was not there, he would find another. I am the boatman,' said Roberts, where do you wish to go?' 'I would be rowed round the harbour,' said the passenger, to enjoy the fresh air of this fine evening; but you have neither the manners, nor the air of a mariner.' 'I am not a mariner,' replied Roberts, and only employ my time this way on Sundays and holidays, to get money.' What, are you avaricious at your age?' 'Ah, sir,' said Roberts, if you knew my reason for thus employing myself, you would not suspect me of so mean a vice.' Well, row me where I have desired, and be so good as to tell your reasons.'

I have only one, but that is a dreadful one ;-my father is in slavery.'

In slavery?'

'Yes, sir; he was a broker in Marseilles, and, with the money which he and my mother, who is a milliner, had in many years been able to save, he purchased a part in a vessel that traded to Smyrna. His desire to enrich and make his children and his family happy, was so strong that he would go in the ship himself, to dispose of his property to the best advantage; they were met and attacked by a corsair, and my father, among the rest, was carried a slave to Tetuan. His ransom is a thousand crowns; but, as he had exhausted almost his whole wealth in that unfortunate adventure, we are very far from possessing such a sum. My mother and my sisters work day and night, and I do the same; I am an apprentice to a jeweller, and I endeavour, as you see, to profit likewise by the Sundays and holidays, when my master's shop is shut. I intended to have gone and freed my father, by exchanging myself for him, and was just about putting my project in execution, when my mother, coming to the knowledge of it,

assured me that it was impracticable and dangerous, and forbad all the Levant captains to take me on board.'

And do you ever receive news of your father? Do you know who is his master at Tetuan, and what treatment he meets with?'

་

His master is intendant of the king's gardens; he is treated with humanity, and his labour is not beyond his strength, as he writes. But, alas! where are the comforts he used to find in the society of his dear wife and three beloved children?'

'What name does he go by at Tetuan?'

His name is Roberts; he has never changed his name, for he has no reason to be ashamed of it.'

Roberts; and his master is intendant on the king's gardens ?'

Yes, sir.'

I am affected by your misfortune, and I find your sentiments so noble and so virtuous, that I think I dare predict a happier fate to you hereafter; and, I assure you, I wish you all the happiness you deserve. At present, I am a little thoughtful, and I hope you will not think me proud, because I am inclined to be silent: I would not be thought proud to such men as you.'

When it was dark the passenger desired to be rowed to the shore, and as he stepped out of the boat he threw a purse into it, and ran off with precipitation. The purse contained eight double Louis d'ors, and ten crowns in silver. This generosity made the most lively impression upon Roberts, and it was with grief he beheld him run from him so swiftly, without staying to receive his thanks. Encouraged by this assistance, the virtuous family of the Roberts' redoubled their efforts to relieve their common parent, and almost denied themselves sufficiency of the most ordinary food. Six weeks after, as the mother and two daughters were sat at dinner over a few chesnuts, bread, and water, they saw Roberts, the father, enter. Imagine their joy, their transports, their astonishment! The good old man threw himself into their arms, and thanked and kissed