"Silence, shameless girl!" he cried, spurning her away. "I have done nothing to deserve this," she said. Rising with dignity, and drying her tears, she stood calm and composed by her lover's side. "Had I my sword by my side now," said Lord St. Roeben, in a voice almost choked with rage, "I would not leave this spot till I had made you repent your effrontery," and he gazed fiercely on Montley. "My lord," replied the latter, "I would neither permit you to employ your weapon thus, nor would I lift mine against you.' 66 Ha, ha," sneered the nobleman; "by my faith here is a fine, bold, honourable malapert! one who would fill his empty purse by imposing on the weakness of a wealthy but silly girl." The lover was about to make an angry retort, but he caught the imploring eyes of Lady Julia, and, biting his lip till the blood came, remained silent. "But," continued Lord St. Roeben, "take this intelligence to comfort you: I swear by my life that never shall my daughter's hand be yours! And, mark me, if I am aware that ever again you hold any intercourse with each other, woe be unto both. Come away, madam, I have that to say to you which I prefer speaking in a place somewhat more appropriate than this your sylvan rendezvous," and he laid his hand roughly on his daughter's arm. "I forgive all you have uttered against myself, my lord," said Forrests; but, I beseech, speak not harshly to Lady Julia; do not " 66 "Restrain your tongue, sir," replied Lord St. Roeben, "or it may bring my heaviest vengeance on you both." The maiden raised her finger to her lips, turned her eyes on the youth with a look the eloquent language of which spoke a thousand things, took a rose from her bosom unperceived by Lord St. Roeben, dropped it at Montley's feet, and left the little grove with her father. LIGHT AND SHADE. BY OLIVER SELWYN. "Dum eris felix multos numerabis amicos, LET a man be thought rich, and his sky will be clear; Well to do in the world? Then of friends you've no lack ; To the musical soirée, balls, whist, and all that. Your wife at bazaars will sit down at a stand, You'll be asked for permission your name to put down For the post of C. C., your good friend Latitat, Your wine's the most racy that ever was tasted, A cherub your babe-toadies say--and all that. Now I'll give you a touchstone for testing a friend— All that, and that's all! Let adversity come, And your sky will be clouded, your friends be struck dumb; To Coventry sent, you're a brute or a bore, If you venture to hint, you'll get that and no more. No more dining out! there's no dining alone, Your actions are passive, you do on compulsion, Who now doffs his hat as you pass? Man, you're needy! Gold's a very good thing, though the love of it's bad PENCILLINGS OF BOSTON. BY AN AMERICAN. THE day after my first arrival in Boston (about thirteen years ago) I gladly accepted the invitation of some friends who were desirous of showing me the oldest part of the city, and we finished by a walk through the North End to the ancient cemetery on Copp's Hill, so called from the ground having once belonged to William Copp, who made shoes for the early settlers. In America everything is ancient which has existed a hundred years; and there are gravestones on Copp's Hill whose dates are before the middle of the seventeenth century. In the year 1832, this primitive burialplace had not yet been touched, or rather spoiled, by the hand of improvement; and I saw it in all its original quaintness. On the high and then rugged bank that descended from the outside of the eastern wall directly down to Charles River, were traces of a British battery, from whence, on the immortal 17th of June, they cannonaded across the water the glorious rebels that were defending Bunker Hill. This bank had in many places caved in, and the chasms were now filled with a thriving growth of weeds; including the purple and well-guarded tassels of the noli me tangere, emblem of Scotland, and the large white bells of the stramonium or apple-peru (as the Bostonians strangely call it), a plant that delights in waste grounds and rubbish, and rejoices in the vicinity of old bricks, old shoes, broken crockery, and oyster-shells. It is said that there is no weed so mean as not to be cultivated in some part of the world as a valuable exotic. American travellers have found the poke-plant and the mullein in European green-houses, growing in pots or tubs, and carefully watered and tended; the dark-red stalks and berries of the one, and the pale yellow blossoms and woolly leaves of the other, being greatly admired. Copp's Hill Cemetery was surrounded by a low wall, and we then entered at a turn-stile. All round the interior of this wall are monumental tablets inserted in the masonry; each one marking the spot where were deposited the mortal remains of some noted man of his day. The tablet that most attracted my attention was the first on the left hand of the south entrance. It is of white stone, and inscribed with only one single word, MARTYN, in large letters. Over this name is sculptured a blank shield, above which a star is ascending, and seeming to disperse with its rays a volume of clouds that appear to have gathered behind the escutcheon. I afterwards made many inquiries concerning this mys terious and dateless tomb, but could gain no information whatever. I was always told that no person now living remembered the time when it was not there. Very near this tablet a slab of black marble bears the name and epitaph of William Clarke, whose mansion in the North Square was one of the shows of the city, as indicating the style in which a wealthy Bostonian merchant enjoyed his wealth a century ago. The inscription on the tablet of Mr. Clarke is encircled with a wreath of flowers, fruit, and corn, beautifully carved in alto-relief, and surmounted with the crest of the family, a swan with a crown on its head, and a chain round its neck. A large number of the other tablets were also decorated with armorial bearings; an additional evidence, that among the Puritan founders of New England were many who, having a tinge of noble blood in their veins, were not averse to "the boast of heraldry," though they abjured the "pomp of power." A large portion of the ground on Copp's Hill Cemetery is occupied by graves, which "A middle race of mortals own, Men half ambitious, all unknown." But the tombstones are remarkable for their old dates and quaint devices. They are of black slate, and, of course, the "angels, epitaphs, and bones," are engraved on them in white. In most of the inscriptions the spelling is very antiquated-for instance, ye is used instead of the article "the ;" and v instead of u, and vice versa. You see "heaven" spelt "heauen," and "gracious," "graciovs "—also double lls and capitals in abundance. The prevailing ornament on these old gravestones seems to be a winged skull, outlined with mathematical precision, the head forming a complete circle or globe, and having a wing growing out at each side, just where the ears should have been. In all these skulls the nose is an exact triangle, the eyes two exactly circular holes, and the mouth a large square-cornered aperture with enormous teeth, of size proportionate to a double row of bricks, marked with alternate lines in true brick fashion. On some few of these slate-stones is rather a more tasteful decoration, representing a tall slender urn beneath an extremely scanty willow tree. On others are two broad flat-faced cherubs, and on some there is a long thin angel blowing a long thin trumpet. These angels and cherubs all seemed to be genuine roundheads, with straight, stiff, puritanic hair; looking as if it had been cut and trimmed by the old Yankee method of an empty pumpkinshell laid on the head as a guide to the scissors in making an exact even circle before and behind and above the ears. Among the old slanting gravestones that were half sunk in the earth and nearly hidden by weeds and long grass, I found one that seemed the most ancient of all. Having pulled aside the dock-leaves and nettles that obscured the inscription, I read on it the name of Grace Berry, 1625. This much puzzled me, knowing that the settlement of Boston did not commence till 1630. I was afterwards told that the date was originally 1695, but, to excite the surprise of the Boston antiquarians, and to create (as it did) an antiquarian controversy, a mischievous youth had taken a chisel and gone into the cemetery one moonlight night, and, by a slight alteration in the figure 9, had changed it to a 2, converting 95 into 25. In the north-western part of this cemetery is a large brick tomb, covered with a slab of brownish stone, which looks old and coarse, and in a very ill-worded inscription denotes that the principal members of the Mather family are interred beneath. ""Tis the tomb of our fathers," comes in awkwardly among the names and death-dates of Increase Mather, Cotton Mather, and Samuel Mather. While standing near the spot where moulders the dust of Cotton Mather, it is impossible not to reflect on his unrelenting persecution of those unfortunate beings whom he designated as the Salem witches. Who can read his Magnalia and not wonder whether he was indeed so great a fool as to believe in all the gross absurdities and palpable impossibilities that he relates as facts or so great a knave as to affect that belief? And yet we are told that, except in his hatred of the Quakers and his persecution of the witches, Cotton Mather was a wise and charitable man. It may have been even so; for strange, indeed, are the inconsistencies of human character. But we have no account of his having, in after life, testified any compunction for the part he had taken in this the darkest passage of the colonial history of Massachusetts. How unlike that of Cotton Mather was the conduct of Judge Sewall of Salem, who had presided on the bench during the trials for sorcery that disgraced the year 1692, and who had pronounced sentence of death on the victims. When the frightful excitement of fanaticism and superstition had passed away, and reason and humanity had resumed their empire, he was one of the first to regret the part which he had taken in it through his official situation. Sixteen years afterwards, one Sunday at the close of public worship, Judge Sewall left his seat and advanced towards the pulpit, where he handed up to the minister a paper which he requested him to read aloud to the congregation, desiring them all to remain and hear it. This paper was an acknowledgment of sincere recantation and deep repentance for having, in his capacity of judge, sentenced to death so many innocent people. He stated that he now believed himself to have acted at that time under a delusion, which had seemed contagious, and which on its first appearance should have been checked rather than encouraged by those who had power and influence to repress it. He said that remorse had soon |