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“Oh, I cannot-cannot die !” shrieked the miserable suppliant. And the marquis fell prostrate on the floor in the agony of his fear.

“Contemptible wretch,” cried the surgeon ; “take the life for which you have yielded everything-honour, virtue—the dignity of a man. I will stand surety with Marat that so base a foe can never harm the republic. Ho-patience there, my good friends.” And, going to the door, he spoke a few moments to the sans-culottes, who retired soon after. The life of the Marquis de Verneuil was safe for the present.

“Leave this house," he said, on his return to the dissectingroom ; " and I counsel you to leave Paris also. Your son shall be restored to his friends, or protected till they claim him. For years,” he added, “ I have longed for revenge; but you are not a man, and I cannot feel anger toward you. Begone! If you are in Paris in six hours from this, you may fall into the hands of those who may not have so true an appreciation of your soldierly qualities, Monsieur le Marquis, as the surgeon, Leonard Rosier."


When day hath fled, and sweet night hath come

Like a gentle bride;
When the queenly stars from their sapphire home

Walk with pride;
When the very air o'er the loving sea
Sleeps as a babe in tranquillity;
And the rays the shy young moon lets fall
Are a robe of beauty covering all-

Then we dart from the cloud
Heaven's silvery shroud-

Like rays of light,
And weave bright dreams
From the starry beams

For the things of night.

We nestle and creep in the glowing breast

Of the tender rose;
And we hide 'neath the lily's snowy vest

When the tempest blows;
And we cluster amid the violets sweet,
And sit at the royal tulip's feet;
And whisper fond tales to the cowslip's ear;
And sing to the woodbine clambering near.

Oh! with each young flower
In this magic hour

We sport and play;
For the birds and the bees-
The guardians of these-

Are fled till day.

We lie on the soft moth's downy wings

In the jessamine shade,
When the sunbeams caught in its odorous rings

To rest are laid:
And we lure the inconstant butterfly-
Like part of a rainbow wandering by-
To bear us away to the hidden buds
That bloom in the secret and lonely woods;

When we open each screen
Of protecting green

By the gentle gale;
And cradle each child
Of the woodlands wild

Till the bright stars fail.

On the slender grass, where like diamonds glance

The drops of dew,
Lightly as motes in the sun we dance

The whole night through:
And wherever the trace of our feet has been,
A circle of beauty and freshness is seen;
And wherever our kisses fall from the air,
The loveliest flowers are springing up there.

Our music quivers
In dimpling rivers

Through wood and plain ;
And our voice calls out
From the trees about

In the tinkling rain.

Where the beautiful maiden of earthly race,

As a wearied bird,
Rests in her holy and sacred place,

Our feet have stirred.
We have fanned our wings o'er her sleeping eyes;
We have made bright visions before them rise;
We have breathed on her lips till the warm rich blood
From her panting heart like a flame hath flowed:

We've hid in the locks
Which the summer wind rocks,

Till faint with delight:
On her bosom we've laid,
In her arms we have stayed

Till chased by the light.

We've gone to the nightingale's forest-hid nest,

And bid him awake,
Ard sing till the echoes all leap from their rest

By mountain and lake:
And we've called the gay lark from the laughing earth
To welcome the morn with his carol of mirth-
The eagle to soar with his dauntless gaze,
And bathe his proud breast in the glorious blaze:

And when daylight hath come,
And the stars from their home

Flee in a fright,
Then our joyance is done,
Till the hot seething sun
Yields again to sweet night!



She is no more, who bade the May-month hail ;

Alas! no more;
The songstress who enlivened all the vale-

Her songs are o'er;
She, whose sweet tones, in golden evening hours,

Rang through my breast,
When, by the brook that murmur'd ’mong the Howers,

I lay at rest.

How richly gurgled from her deep, full throat

The silvery lay!
Till in her caves sweet Echo caught the note,

Far, far away.
Thén was the hour when village pipe and song

Sent up their soir d,
And dancing maidens ligi tly tripp'd along

The moonlit gound.
A youth lay listening on the green hill-side,

Far down the grove,
While on his rapt face hung á youthful bride

In speechless love.
Their hands were lock'd oft as thy silvery strain

Rang through the vale;
They heeded not the merry, dancing train,

Sweet nightingale.
And thee they heard till village bells from far

Chimed on the ear,
And, like a golden fleece, the evening star

Beam'd bright and clear.
Then, in the cool and fanning breeze of May,

Homeward they stole,
Full of sweet thoughts breath'd by thy tender lay

Through the deep soul.



Night and Morning. By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton, Bart., M.A. WERE we to congratulate an author like Sir E. Bulwer Lytton upon the continually-increasing circulation of his works, it would not be on the grounds of gratified personal ambition, that last infirmity of noble minds, but on the elevating influence that such an extension must necessarily argue in the mind and heart of society. We should congratulate him on the grounds that he had done his part to purify the morality and raise the intellectuality, not only of his own countrymen, but wherever his works had penetrated into other lands, and into whatever tongues they had been translated. We said, however, “an author like Sir E. Bulwer Lytton," yet we know of none who bears comparison with him. On the contrary, we fully believe that he stands single and alone in the wide field of literature. He it has been who has asserted the true rights and provinces of the imagination, not as presenting to us alone scenes of refined beauty, or as eliciting feelings of exquisite tenderness, but as combining the efforts of this the loftiest of the intellectual faculties with the highest purposes of humanity. Who, indeed, can contemplate the debasement of that vast mass of the population that is ever rushing, like ebbing and flowing tides, through our streets, and not feel that England, with all its greatness and its glory, still needs missionaries of mind as well as of faith to raise up the vast multitudes, not only of his countrymen but of his species, to the true but the lost level of their own birthright? Inherent sensibility and elevated imagination usually shrink, disgusted and repelled, from the contemplation of evils which it is Sir E. B. Lytton's highest honour to have entered the lists against. Refined intellect, lofty imagination, and pure humanity, seldom dwell in the same individual heart; and this triune endowment it is which has made Sir E. Bulwer Lytton single and alone in his character as an author.

To tear away the mask of false pretences, to prove that unpunished vice carries a dominant head while minor offences draw down penal condemnation, to show the falsehool of society by the test of true principles, to teach the feeling and thinking part of the community to feel and think for those who do neither for themselves, to rectify public opinion, to teach lawgivers to legislate so as to reclaim and not to destroy their fellow-men, to show that the affections are lights from heaven and not fires from hellthese are some of the high purposes which have animated and influenced Sir E. B. Lytton's pen as an author. That he has been eminently successful is witnessed by that increasing demand for his works which this new edition of one of his most popular and talented productions proves. “Night and Morning," so full of power, of pathos, of purpose, has ever been like a favourite child in a family where all are loved. The work is too well known to the world, and it has been too sedulously canvassed, for us now to enter critically into its merits; these are already too firmly established to be either disputed or displayed. Suffice it to say, that the present edition is one that brings the work within the means of easy purchase; that it is admirably got up, and graced by a spirited frontispiece and a pleasing vignette from Cattermole, and that it is in all respects a very eligible form of one of the most delightful of the works of one of the most delightful of authors.

The Young Christian's Companion ; or, a Series of Addresses

adapted to the Youth of both Sexes. By Mrs. AYERS, Authoress

of "The Ladies' Complete Arithmetician.” Second Edition. This is a little work of great merit. It is pervaded by the best spirit, and is well adapted to impress important truths on the minds of young persons. Mrs. Ayers is the proprietress of a flourishing seminary of high character for young ladies; and to that circumstance may doubtless, in a great measure, be ascribed the intimate acquaintance which she displays with the constitution and ankerings of the youthful mind. The little work is divided into fifteen chapters, each chapter briefly refers to a particular topic. As a specimen of Mrs. Ayers' pleasing and attractive manner we quote one chapter.

“There is a strong desire in most persons to be attached to some particular friend, in whom he can confide, of whom he can ask advice, and for whom he has the greatest esteem ; and this feeling operates most powerfully on the minds of the young. Yet there is, perhaps, nothing in which you will be more likely to be deceived than in the choice of a friend; there are so many deceptions practised in life in order to gain favour that you must not be deceived if you are frequently disappointed in your expectations.

“Perhaps you will say that none but the more advanced in life and experience are capable of giving any advice; in many instances this is very likely to be true. Yet, as the young rarely fail in making choice of some friend near their own age, in preference to all others, it is but right that you should make that choice with the greatest care and consideration.

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