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his tone softened. "Now is my heart inclined to pity thee." After a short silence, he proceeded;"I told thee that I had pledged myself to the ruin of his race-yet, for thy sake (for thou art the sole being whom for a long period I have seen near my threshold), for thy trust in the mercy of one whom men have shunned even like a beast of prey, I will"-He now threw himself on his knees, and a spasm shook his frame with horrid violence.-"Yes, I will forego my vengeance-go hence speedily ere I recall my pledge-but-but-grant me one return for this vast sacrifice. When thou callest my mercy to thy recollection, do not carry with thee the memory of my -branded humanity :-by one at least in the world's crowd, I would be remembered like my fellow-men, divested of my repulsive attributes-remembered with pity (which from thee I would not spurn) but not with scorn!"

Little more passed in the hut that night. The swift passage of a steed was heard in a hamlet which skirted the desert plain, and, ere morning dawned, the withered tree was dashed down by the tempest. The dwarf had quitted his hovel the door was swinging to and fro drowsily to the breeze; and the existence of the strange being who inhabited the hut, is now merely an exaggerated legend.

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"THERE was once (says an Irish storyteller) a man named Donagha Dee, who lived in a small cabin, not far from a forest, in the heart of Kerry. Ireland at that time was not so bare as it is now, but was covered with great forests, insomuch that it is said a squirrel might have traveled from Dingle de Couch to the city of Cork without once touching the ground. Now, you must know, that Donagha was a very poor man, and had a scolding wife, so that, between his wife and his poverty, he could scarcely ever get a moment's peace. A man might, perhaps, put up with a cross word now and then from a woman if she was pretty, or had any other good about her; but, unluckily, Donagha's wife had nothing at all to recommend her; for, besides being cross, she was as old and as ugly as the black gentleman himself; so you may well suppose they had but a dog-and-cattish sort of life.

One morning, in the beautiful month of May, Donagha was quietly smoking his doodeen (pipe) in the chimney-corner, when his wife, coming in from the well with a can of water, opened upon him all at once, as if there were a thousand beagles in her throat. 'You lazy good-fornothing stocagh,' said she, have you nothing else to do this blessed morning but to sit poking over the ashes with your doodeen stuck in your jaw? wouldn't it be fitter for you to be gathering brosna (fire-wood), than to be sitting there as if you were fastened to the sieshtheen (low-seat) with a twelvepenny nail?' All this she said and much more, to which he made no reply, but quietly took his billhook and went to the forest. I don't know what made him so quiet with hermay be he wasn't in a fighting humour, and may be he thought it best to get out of her way, for they say a good retrate is better than a bad fight any day. A beautiful fine day it was, sure enough; the sun was dancing through the trees, and the little birds were singing like so many pipers; so that it was like a new life to Donagha, who, feeling the cockles of his heart rise within him, took up his billhook, and began to work as contented as if he had nothing at home to fret him. But he wasn't long at work, when he was amazed at the sound of a voice that seemed to come out of the middle of the wood; and though it was the sweetest voice he frightened at it too a little, for there was had ever heard, he couldn't help being something in it that wasn't like the voice of man, woman, or child. Donagha,' said the voice; but he didn't much like to answer. Donagha!' said the voice again; and he then thought it would be better for him to speak. Here I am,' says he; and the voice answered, 'Donagha, don't be frightened, for sure I'm only St. Brandon, that's sent to tell you, because you're a good Christin and mind your duty, you shall have two wishes granted to you; so take care what you wish for. Och, success to you for one saint any how,' said he, as he began to work again, thinking all the time what in the wide world he might best wish for. Would he take riches for his first wish? then what should he take for the second? a good wife?-or wouldn't it be better to have no wife at all? Well, he thought for a long time, without being able to make up his mind what to wish for. Night was coming on, and so Donagha, gathering a great bundle of fire-wood up,

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tied it well, and, heaving it upon his shoulder, walked home. He was fairly spent with the work of the day, so that it was no wonder he should find the load on his shoulder rather too much for him; and, stumbling with weariness, he was obliged at length to throw it down. Sitting upon his bundle, poor Donagha was in great botheration; the night was closing in fast, and he knew what kind of a welcome he'd have before him, if he either staid out too late, or returned without a full load of firing. 'Would to Heaven,' says he in his distress, and forgetting the power of his wish, this brosna could carry me instead of my being obliged to carry it.' Immediately the brosna began to move on with him, and, seated on the top of it, he cut an odd figure; for, until he reached his own door, he never stopped roaring out a thousand murders, he was so vexed with himself at having thrown away one of his wishes so foolishly. His wife Vauria (Mary) was standing at the door looking out for him, ready to give him a good saleting; but she was fairly struck dumb at seeing him so queerly mounted, and at hearing him cry out in such a manner. When she came a little to herself, she asked him how he came to be riding upon a brosna; and he could not help telling her the whole story just as it happened. It was then that she was mad angry in earnest with him, to think that he would throw away his luck. Worn out and perplexed, he was not able to bear it, and at length cried out as loud as he could, I wish to Heaven, you old scold, that's the plague of my life, that Ireland was between us.' No sooner said than done, for he was whipped up by a whirlwind, and dropped at the northeastern side of Ireland, where Donaghadee now stands; and the same blast carried off Vauria, house and all, to its most south-western spot, beyond Dingle, and not far from the great Atlantic ocean. The place, to this day, is known by the name of Tig na Vauria, or Mary's house; and, when people would speak of places wide asunder, it has become a sort of proverb to say, as far as Tig na Vauria from Donaghadee.'

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walking in a pleasant village, "that in early
youth I used to spend some time here,
and I much wish to go over all my old
walks." "We shall gladly accompany
but,
you," replied the elder sister;
added the younger one, if you expect
to see as pretty walks as formerly, you
"" In-
will be painfully disappointed."-
deed! I should have thought that the
trees would have been so much grown,
that the country would have been greatly
"By no means; for so
improved.”·
many trees have been cut down, and one
large field so shamefully robbed of them,
that our walk there is quite spoiled: I
hate to go near it."-" But do go thither
once more, to oblige me, for I think I
recollect the field in question. Did it not
?"-" Yes: it is
belong to colonel L
his tasteless, selfish son, who has succeed-
ed to the property, and has cut down
those fine trees, and pulled down the
house, meaning to rebuild that, and erect
another house where the trees stood. Now
was it not a shame ?"-" No," replied the
lady, smiling at her young friend's angry
66 young
L prefers the
expressions;
useful to the ornamental; and there is no
harm in that."-"No harm in spoiling
the innocent amusement of a whole vil-
lage? Why could he not build his houses
elsewhere? If he had only cleared away
space enough for his own residence, one
might have forgiven him; but, from the
mere love of money, as it seems to me,
to cut down his timber, and spoil his own
prospect at the same time; indeed, I
never knew any thing more meanly avari-
cious, absurd, and barbarous." "But if he
spoils his own prospect as well as that of
others, he is at least impartial; and who
knows, Fanny, what happiness may be
A young married couple
the result?
may inhabit the new house, the erection
of which you cannot forgive; and domes-
tic bliss, and a fine family of children, may
ere long be found, where before nothing
appeared but mere ornamental trees!"-
"Nay, it may just as likely be hired by
an old bachelor or an old maid, or an
unhappy couple, or a disagreeable one
whom we cannot visit; for that must be
all chance," replied the young lady pet-
tishly. "True," replied her friend; "but,
as I am too much sobered in my feelings
by advancing years to give way to such
indiscriminate, and I may add, unchristian
censure as the sensitive young are apt to
indulge in, I cannot call this poor young
Lhard names, because he has thought
it right to make the most of his property;

THE OLD TREES AND THE NEW HOUSES;

OR,THE IMPROPRIETY OF HASTY JUDGE-
MENTS, by Mrs. OPIE; from the Win-
ter's Wreath.

"PERHAPS you are aware," said a lady
to two young friends, with whom she was

1

and you must own, my dear girl, that, had he committed an immoral action, you could not have spoken of him much more severely than you have now done, or seemed to dislike him more."

Her young companion blushed at this reproof, and looked so distressed, that her elder sister said, "Do not mind what Fanny says; she often speaks without thinking, and I am sure she wishes young L no harm."-" Certainly not," replied Fanny; "but I wish him no good for spoiling my favorite walk: however, as I never saw him, and know nobody who knows him, what I say is from my own feelings merely, and should therefore go for nothing, as the phrase is.”—“ I shall say no more on the subject," said her reprover, as I quit this country tomorrow for Portsmouth, and am going to leave England for many years. But if I should live to return, dear Fanny, perhaps I may find my picture realised; and you, sobered in your judgement, by having a few more years over your head, may be willing to admit that young L

may be a worthy man, though he has cut down useless trees, in order to make room for useful houses."

The lady sailed for India, and at the end of ten years returned to England. As she felt a strong wish to revisit the scenes of her youth, she soon directed her course with her two friends to the wellknown paths; and at length they reached the long-remembered field, where she found two large good-looking houses, at some distance from each other, which had been built since she went away, and where the trees had once stood. She also saw gardens, tastefully laid out in gravelwalks and shrubberies, with orchards behind the houses. "What a charming new creation this is!" cried she; "what an improvement on the old field, even with all its fine trees! Surely my friend Fanny must be reconciled to the loss of them now."-"There she is to answer for herself," replied the person spoken to; and the lady turning round, saw the fair Fanny changed from a blooming slender girl into a handsome portly matron, and her elder sister with her, leading two beautiful children.

The lady smiled archly, as she shook hands with Fanny, and pointed to the houses; and the latter also smiled, blushing as she did so, with a look of great meaning. "See there!" said the lady from India; "what improvements and fine new things are these! Surely, my

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dear friend, you are by this time quite reconciled to poor young L"-"Yes, that she is," answered her sister; "and those are not the only pleasing novelties which you have to become acquainted with. There are two of them (pointing to the children), and there are more in that house, the building of which Fanny was resolved never to forgive."-" But I trust she knows better now.' “Oh, yes; and she is quite a convert to your opinion, and would not have the trees back on any account. Now, with your leave, I will introduce you to the owners of the house, who, I may say without offence to Fanny, are as happy as possible, and have children, who are quite as fine and flourishing as ever her former favorites were, and quite as ornamental (she now thinks) to her evening walks."— "I am glad she has retracted her opinion," replied the lady from India; "but whose sweet children are these? '—"Henry L's."-" And to whose house are you leading me?"-"To Henry I's. That which he originally built for himself, he has given up to his mother and sisters, and he now lives in this, having changed Fanny's aversion into warm approbation, by making her, seven years ago, its happy mistress."—"It is even so," said Fanny, coming forward to receive her friend's congratulations, and welcome her to her pleasant abode. "Oh! Fanny, you little foresaw- " "No, but it seems that you foresaw a great deal; and you will readily believe that I have often recollected your reproving words." "Reproving words! what were they?""You very properly censured the young for forming hasty unreasonable opinions and severe unchristian_judgements.""Aye, poor L

I remember you

had no mercy on him then."- "No, but I am now delighted to own that my husband was always wiser than myself; and, while I am deeply thankful for the unmerited happiness which I enjoy, I fully intend to teach my children, that we ought never to judge hastily or harshly of the conduct or motives of others, but to be more especially on our guard against the temptation to censure their actions, when they interfere with our own gratifications, and have a tendency to abridge our own self-indulgence."

THE TRIALS OF LIFE, by the Author of De-Lisle.

As the novel of De-Lisle met with a favorable reception from the public, the writer was encouraged to make another attempt in the same branch of literature; and the present work, we think, will not detract from the reputation which the former acquired. The materials of the story, though sometimes confused, are rich; the incidents, though too numerous, are frequently striking; the narrative is fluent and interesting, and the conversation is occasionally very spirited.

This work consists of two parts or tales, one of which relates to the family of the earl of Amesfort.-Adolphus Montresor, being placed under the guardianship of that nobleman, finds him a gloomy and repulsive being, a contrast to his fascinating wife, whose attractions are instantly felt by the young ward. After a short stay under his guardian's roof, the youth repairs to the metropolis with the peer's nephew lord De-Calmer,-and the two companions contract a regard for each other, although Adolphus, aware of the uncertain temper of his new friend, is alarmed at the symptoms of love shown by him for Emily Montresor. The departure, however, of this young lady for the country, and a promise made by her lover to advance no claims upon her until his affection had stood the test of a longer acquaintance, allay those apprehensions, which are afterwards more fully set at rest by an order for De-Calmer's military service in Spain. About this time a new character, Isabella Albany, is introduced, -a sensible and virtuous lady, whom every one respects, but no one falls in love with. She pays a visit at AmesfortPark, and there meets Montresor, for whom she conceives a strong but not acknowleged regard. An accident proves to her, and to all beside, that Montresor is inspired with a romantic love for the countess, and that his love is returned. The earl now dismisses the youth, but without any mark of resentment for the discovery just made. Two or three days, however, elapse before his departure, during which the countess is recovering from indisposition, and kept aloof from Montresor by the contrivances of Miss Albany. The following extract will show the state of affairs at this period.

"Two weary days Adolphus dragged on, not only without seeing the countess,

VOL. X.

but without any message from her, or any particulars respecting her health. The earl answered his enquiries in general terms, which were not more satisfactory than the replies of the servants. Every one seemed in league to torment him; some by their ignorance, and others by their wonder at his being so inquisitive. He thought lord Amesfort ready to appear obliged to any one but him for their anxiety for the lady of the house; and one old woman, who had been long on a visit, put the finishing stroke to his misery, by hinting, with a very important face, that, as her good lord did not appear alarmed, there were doubtless reasons for her ladyship's illness that would be far from distressing to him. Montresor had never before felt the emotion of hatred toward any living being, and he now turned abruptly from his officious informant, that his eye might not glare abhorrence on her. He longed for wings to transport him instantly from the castle.--Such was the power of imagination, that, when next he met the earl, he almost fancied there was on his countenance less than ordinary gloom. It was only for a moment; for, as he scanned those lines of thought, he felt they were not intersected with one solitary feeble ray of pleasure. The tranquillity that sat on his features was not that of repose, but of stagnation; and, when some transient motion ruffled the sullen stillness of the surface, it subsided instantly.

"The parting was not unkind; but Adolphus felt uncomfortable at his own coldness, with which he reproached himself, as being a sort of ingratitude; dissimulation of any sort was foreign to his nature, and to be otherwise than stiff and constrained was, at that moment, impossible. When he had left the room, he suddenly remembered something more he had to say, and returned. When he had quitted his guardian, they were both standing: a profound bow, on his part, and a half inclination from the haughty peer, had concluded the ceremony of taking leave. What, then, was his wonder, to find lord Amesfort, on his return, lying with his face buried on the sofa, uttering a faint moan, which was suffocated by rising sobs!-Have you hurt yourself, my lord?' he said.

"The earl sprang on his feet, as though he had felt a murderer's grasp; the tears trembled in his bloodshot eyes; but the wild sternness of his air seemed alike to

C

reproach them for falling on any one who dared to witness them. So much misery and so much anger united, shocked the already-oppressed Adolphus. He apologised for his intrusion more by gesture than words, and, with eyes bent to the ground, again sought the door."

The youth has an unexpected interview with the beloved countess." He forced his way into a grotto, where seated on a mossy bench, supported by Miss Albany, was the countess herself. He stood transfixed in silent astonishment. No gleam of satisfaction crossed his mind at the conviction of her recovery; for love is a selfish passion, even with the most generous dispositions: he was alive but to one feeling,' she might have seen me, and she would not!'-' Pardon my intrusion!' he said at last in a frozen accent, for he was too proud to make it a reproachful one: I am happy to see your ladyship out again;' and, bowing, he retreated hastily. His precipitation only retarded his progress through the overgrown brambles: he opposed his strength to the fragile boughs, which opened before him, and rebounding struck against his face. If you could be more patient, you would suffer less,' said the warning voice of Isabella. It was the tone of kindness and commiseration, not of taunting reproof; and he felt all it was intended to convey; yet at such a moment to talk of patience was an insult to his impetuous feelings, and he turned to her with a smile of scorn. She stood at the narrow and darkened entrance of the grotto, as if purposely to conceal her who rested within, or like some fabled deity placed there to guard her. There were at all times a peculiar grandeur and self-possession in her manner and air, which had often struck Montresor, but never so forcibly as now. -"Yes,' he said, unconsciously speaking aloud his thoughts, you are my barrier! -Only,' rejoined Isabella in the same under-tone, from guilt and misery.'

·

"The countess was like one stunned by the unexpected meeting with Adolphus. She buried her face in the withered moss, and was awakened to the consciousness of existence by the severity of the cold. She raised her languid head, and, perceiving Isabella, made a feeble effort to join her. Again the figure of Montresor was before her. 'Is it a vision?' she said, with the feeling of uneasy doubt with which we sometimes view beings in a dream. The unsettled expression of her countenance alarmed him, and he was grieved at her

evident feebleness of mind and body. Agitation and cold seemed so completely to have unnerved her, that her head sank on her shoulder, and she fainted; and Adolphus received in his arms the senseless form of one whom he idolised.' I beseech you,' said Miss Albany, earnestly,

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lay her on the bench, and leave us;' but she spoke to the winds. A long sigh broke the spell of insensibility, and lady Amesfort moved her lips, but without the power to speak.— If you will untie the pony,' said Adolphus, I will place her upon it; and, if you can then support her, I promise to leave you that moment. -Isabella flew to the animal, and brought it instantly as near as possible, anxious to shorten this interview. Involuntarily, the countess returned the pressure of the arms that supported her. O that this little spot of earth were our world!" said Adolphus. Would it not be a happy one, my love?'-'Too happy!' murmured the lady, forcibly extricating herself from his embrace, and looking round for Isabella. You cannot walk to her,' said he; but the sooner you get out of this cold place the better.' And she suffered him to carry her through the tangled entrance of the grotto, and place her in silence on her horse. Isabella impatiently threw her arm round her, and Montresor reluctantly withdrew his. The countess now laid her almost powerless hand on the burning brow of Adolphus, and said firmly, ‘God bless you, Montresor! whereever you go: but remember, we must meet no more! Never?' cried he, in a tone that wrung even the heart of Isabella. 'Never!' solemnly repeated the countess, with the strength of despair."

Montresor is still an object of interest both to his guardian and to the countess ; and, when he is endangered by an infectious fever, he finds himself, after recovering from a state of delirium, nursed by the object of his love in her own house. The old passion is thus renewed, notwithstanding the interference of Miss Albany, and a scheme of elopement, deliberately formed, is only prevented by the arrival of the peer, who, after a solemn remonstrance ineffectually made, puts an end to the intrigue by declaring that the lady whom Adolphus was seeking to seduce was his father's wife.

The hero goes abroad, to allay, by new scenes, the bitter sense of his disappointment. In the mean time, his sister Emily, shocked at De-Calmer's supposed desertion of her, and harassed by other mis

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