of breaking billows; and, on gaining the seashore, he saw a black point on the stormy surface of the ocean, but he never saw the brave S― and his Arab more.

THE WINDS

BY MRS. GOULD.

We come! we come! and ye feel our might,
As we're hastening on in our boundless flight;
And over the mountains and over the deep,
Our broad invisible pennons sweep.

Like the Spirit of Liberty wild and free!
And ye look on our works and own 'tis we;
Ye call us the Winds; but can ye tell
Whither we go, or where we dwell?

Ye mark as we vary our forms of power,
And fell the forest or fan the flower,

When the hare - bell moves and the rush is bent,
When the tower's o'erthrown and the oak is rent,
As we waft the bark o'er the slumbering wave,
Or hurry its crew to a watery grave:
And ye say it is we! but can ye trace
The wandering Winds to their resting place?

And whether our breath be loud and high,
Or come in a soft and balmy sigh,
Our threat'nings fill the soul with fear,
As our gentle whisperings woo the ear
With music aerial, still 'tis we,

And ye list, and ye look; but what do ye see?
Can ye hush one sound of our voice to peace,
Or waken one note when our numbers cease?

Our dwelling is in th' Almighty's hand,
We come and we go at his command;
Though joy or sorrow may mark our track,
His will is our guide, and we look not back;
And if in our wrath, ye would turn us away,
Or win us in gentlest air to play,

Then lift up your hearts to Him who binds,
Or frees as he will, the obedient Winds

THE BELATED TRAVELLERS

BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

It was late one evening that a carriage, drawn by mules, slowly toiled its way up one of the passes of the Apennines. It was through one of the wildest defiles, where a hamlet occurred only at distant intervals, perched on the summit of some rocky height, or the white towers of a convent peeped out from among the thick mountain foliage. The carriage was of ancient and ponderous construction. Its faded embellishments spoke of former splendour, but its crazy springs and axletrees spoke of present decline. Within was seated a tall, thin old gentleman, in a kind of military travelling dress, and a foraging cap trimmed with fur, though the gray locks which stole from under it hinted that his fighting days were over. Beside him was a pale beautiful girl of eighteen, dressed in something of a northern or Polish costume. One servant was seated in front, a rusty, crusty-looking fellow, with a scar across his face; an orange-tawny schnur-bart, or pair of mustachios, bristling from under his nose, and altogether the air of an old soldier.

It was in fact the equipage of a Polish nobleman; a wreck of one of those princely families which had lived with almost oriental magnificence, but had been broken down and impoverished by the disasters of Poland. The Count, like many other generous spirits, had been found guilty of the crime of patriotism, and was in a manner, an exile from his country. He had resided for some time in the first cities of Italy for the education of his daughter, in whom all his cares and pleasures were now centred. He had taken her into society, where her beauty and her accomplishments had gained her many admirers; and had she not been the daughter of a poor broken-down Polish nobleman, it is more than probable that many would have contended for her hand. Suddenly, however, her health became delicate and drooping; her gaiety fled with the roses of her cheek, and she sunk into silence and debility. The old Count saw the change with the solicitude of a parent. We must try a change of air and scene," said he; and in a few days the old family carriage was rumbling among the Apennines.

Their only attendant was the veteran Caspar who had been born in the family, and grown rusty in its service. He had followed his master in all his fortunes; had fought by his side; had stood over him when fallen in battle; and had received, in his defence, the sabre-cut which added such grimness to his countenance. He was now his valet, his steward, his butler, his factotum. The only being that rivalled his master in his affections was his youthful mistress she had grown up under his eye. He had led her by the hand when she was a child, and he now looked upon her with the fondness of a parent; nay he even took the

freedom of a parent in giving his blunt opinion on all matters which he thought were for her good; and felt a parent's vanity in seeing her gazed at and admired.

The evening was thickening: they had been for some time passing through narrow gorges of the mountains, along the edge of a tumbling stream. The scenery was lonely and savage. The rocks often beetled over the road, with flocks of white goats browsing on their brinks, and gazing down upon the travellers. They had between two and three leagues yet to go before they could reach any village; yet the muleteer Pietro, a tippling old fellow, who had refreshed himself at the last halting place with a more than ordinary quantity of wine, sat singing and talking alternately to his mules, and suffering them to lag on at a snail's pace, in spite of the frequent entreaties of the Count and maledictions of Caspar.

The clouds began to roll in heavy masses among the mountains, shrouding their summits from the view. The air of these heights, too, was damp and chilly. The Count's solicitude on his daughter's account overcame his usual patience. He leaned from the carriage and called to Pietro in an angry tone.

„Forward!“ said he,,,It will be midnight before we arrive at our inn.“

,,Yonder it is, Signor," said the muleteer.

Where?" demanded the Count.

Yonder," said Pietro, pointing to a desolate pile of building about a quarter of a league distant.

That the place?

why it looks more like a ruin than an inn. I thought we were to put up for the night at a comfortable village"

Here Pietro uttered a string of piteous exclamations,

such as are ever at the tip of the tongue of a delinquent muleteer.,,Such roads! and such mountains! and then his poor animals were way - worn, and leg weary: they would fall lame; they would never be able to reach the village. And then what could his Eccelenza wish for better than the inn; a perfect castello à palazza and such people!

and such a larder! and such beds! His Eccellenza might fare as sumptuously and sleep as soundly there as a prince!"

The Count was easily persuaded, for he was anxious to get his daughter out of the night air; so in a little while the old carriage rattled and jingled into the great gateway of the inn.

The building did certainly in some measure answer to the muleteer's description. It was large enough for either castle or palazza; built in a strong, but simple and almost rude style; with a great quantity of waste room. It had, in fact, been, in former times, a hunting-seat for one of the Italian princes. There was space enough within its walls and in its outbuildings to have accommodated a little army.

A scanty household seemed now to people this dreary mansion. The faces that presented themselves on the arrival of the travellers were begrimed with dirt, and scowling in their expression. They all knew old Pietro, however, and gave him a welcome as he entered, singing and talking, and almost whooping, into the gateway.

The hostess of the inn waited herself on the Count and his daughter, to show them the apartments. They were conducted through a long gloomy corridor, and then through a suite of chambers open