"Then, fool-wretched fool, I leave you to your fate," said he, in a voice whose tones I shall never forget. The light disappeared with a crackling noise, and I was left in solitude and darkness; yet with a more satisfied conscience than if I had trod the earth with unfettered limbs, but with a heart oppressed by a sense of guilt. Each toll of the death-bell went to my heart like a dagger, as the car on which I was dragged to execution came within sight of the scaffold erected in the public market place. Its long melancholy railings, and the fearful apparatus of the block and axe, struck a deadly chilliness to my heart. The guards, the populace, the buildings, swam before my eyes like indistinct and flitting shadows; nor did I recover my proper consciousness till I found myself on the scaffold, to which I had been conducted-the block before me, the executioner leaning on his axe at my side, and the death-hymn, for the welfare of the passing spirit, in the act of being chanted. They say that men can go to death with fortitude and calmness. To me this would seem to arise from the apathy of despair, from the almost congealing of the life-blood in the heart, which must soon cease to beat. The executioner assisted in taking off my coat and folding back my collar. I shrunk from him with instinctive horror as I felt his hands touch my neck. I knelt down before the block, and clasped my hands in the attitude of devotion. I took my last look of the earth and sky, and then closed my eyes, as I thought, forever. I know not if I prayed-I know not even if I thought. knew it was from the assembled multitude. I opened my eyes. A distant murmur was heard; it came nearer and nearer. Innocent, innocent! was the cry that burst on my ear. A thousand throats were strained with the cry, "Innocent, innocent!" A wild agitation pervaded the multitude, which opened like a cloven sea. Through the yielding mass a horseman lashed on his foaming and jaded steed with fury. When he reached the foot of the scaffold he threw himself hastily from his horse, and in another moment stood at my side. I gazed on the flushed but weak features of Franz Waldenburg! I fell senseless into his outstretched arms. The explanation given by Franz of his mysterious disappearing was short. On the evening he had quarreled with me, when he was returning to his lodgings, a person ran full against him, and exclaimed, "Mr. Waldenburg, here is a letter of importance for you.' Franz grasped it and hurried to the nearest inn to peruse it. It intimated that his presence was required immediately at home on some most important business. The evening mail was just setting out, and the horn had sounded for its departure. At the moment he was not in a mood to consider. He flung himself into the vehicle, and by next morning was more than twenty leagues from Gottingen on his way home. From whatever cause it may have sprung, at the village where he stopped he found himself far from well, so much so, that he was not able to proceed. The village Esculapius, after wisely shaking his head, under promise of making him well in a day or two, proceeded to bleed and blister him, so as to throw him into a fever, which brought him to the brink of the grave. For some weeks there was a struggle between life and death. In this state no information could reach either his home or Gottingen. In this period my impri sonment and trial had taken place. When he was getting better, he thought it unnecessary to render his friends anxious by letting them know of his illness. As for sending information to Gottingen, he thought it would be time enough when he returned himself. One morninga day or two before the doctor had pronounced him fit to travel-his landlord came into his room to ask about his health. "You will not have heard of that horrid business at Gottingen?” "No," said Franz, amazed, "what is it?" "A young gentleman to be executed for the murder of one of his fellow-students." Franz eagerly inquired the names. The landlord had forgot, but he sent for the newspaper in which the account was contained. Franz grasped the paper, and to his horror read an account of my condemnation for the murder of himself. "To-day, too!" he cried wildly, as he sprung from bed. "A horse, a horse!" he exclaimed, "for God's sake-quick, he is innocent. I am the person who is said to be murdered." The landlord was at first bewildered, but was soon put right. Franz thought not of his distress. In a few moments he was flying with the speed of lightning towards Gottingen; and, notwithstanding all his efforts, he was barely in timea few moments later and I would have ceased to exist. For the little time I remained in Gottingen I was the lion of the place. I dined with the civic authorities, an honor scarcely ever conferred except on the doctors of the university. Invitations showered on me from all quarters. Among the professors who paid me uncommon attention, I may name Drs. Dunderhead and Puddingkoft-the latter of whom was pleased to say, that many of his philosophical opinions regarding the operation of mind were illustrated by the facts of my case, and (but this was in confidence) that his private opinions on demonology were strongly confirmed.* It may be easily believed, that when Franz and I returned into Upper Saxony, Matilda did not receive me less kindly for the dangers I had undergone. She has long been my wife. Many years have elapsed since my escape from death, but during that time I have never heard of nor seen the old gentleman with the rusty-black velvet dress, queue, and enormous spectacles. ELEGY FROM THE SPANISH OF DON JORGE MANRIQUE, A POET AND PREUX CHEVALIER OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. ON THE DEATH OF HIS FATHER. ROUSE, slumbering soul! thy every sense And since the scene that meets our eyes To count each coming hour, 'twere wise, Our lives are rivers tending still Dr. Puddingkoft was of opinion that the absence of Franz was a device of the old enemy, since it was afterwards found that no such information as took him away was ever forwarded to him. He had also pretty strong suspicions that the son of Galen was in league with him, to say the least-in which profound and sagacious conclusions he will doubtlessly be followed by most of my readers. There meet the noble and the vile, And he a middle sphere who claim'd, The wight o'erworn with daily toil, The wealthy and the famed. This world's the path to our abode, Mark, all how valueless and vain Disastrous chances on them wait, Those famous kings of whom we read, Asleep, obey the Shepherd's call, The many mighty of our day, He too, alas! now owns thy might, How shone his wisdom 'mongst the wise, The voice of nations sounds his fame. THE SECRET. SHE might not give one little sign, The mingled sounds too faintly come I hear the ponderous hammer beat; From cruel fate with bitter strife, But free from bounteous heaven descends All that endears, and gladdens life. Oh! let the bustling crowd forbear To ask how blest true love can be! They hate the joy they cannot share, Delight the ruin'd hope to see. The envious world can never brook A bliss its harder fate denies : Quick; ere it cast its withering look, Quick must thou seize the transient prize. Joy loves to glide, almost unseen, Midst silence and the stilly night; But where the traitor's eye has been, She heavenward wings her hasty flight. Pour from thy urn, thou gentle spring, In broader stream come sweeping by, Thy threatening waves around us fling, And guard this holy sanctuary. GALT'S LIFE OF BYRON." THE Complaints made of Moore's Life of Byron, as they are referred to in the preface of the volume before us, may be summed up in two objections: first, that it was too private; and secondly, too favorable. The phrase, "intrusion into private life," appears to us mere cant, as applied to a public character. Those on who come openly forward, to place the great stake of their lives opinion, must expect its exercise,— and the interior of a great man's life is almost as much general property influences the other; and it is unas his external, inasmuch as the one fair to repine, that the curiosity he himself has excited, he himself must ❤ The National Library, No. J. Galt's Life of Lord Byron. London, 1830. A gratify. A poet speaks of feelings, the sorrows of ugly children. child has quick perception, but no "While Lord Byron and Mr. Peel were at Harrow together, a tyrant a few years older, whose name was ******, claimed a right to fag little Peel, which claim (whether rightly or wrongly, I know not) Peel resisted. His resistance, however, was in vain : ****** not only subdued him, but determined to punish the refractory slave; and proceeded forthwith to put this determination in practice by inflicting a kind of bastinado on the inner fleshy side of the boy's arm, which during the operation, was twisted round with some degree of technical skill, to render the pain more acute. While the stripes were succeeding each other, and poor Peel writhing under them, Byron saw and felt for the misery of his friend, and although he knew that he was not strong enough to fight ****** with any hope of success, and that it was dangerous even to approach him, he advanced to the scene of action, and with a blush of rage, tears in his eyes, and a voice trembling between terror and indignation, asked very humbly if ****** 'would be pleased to tell him how many stripes he meant to inflict?' Why,' returned the executioner, you little rascal, what is that to you?' 'Because, if you please,' said Byron, holding out his arm, 'I would take half.'" 6 His marriage was the rock on which his whole after-life wrecked: to use Lockhart's expressive words, "If there be one curse which comes to earth direct as the crow flies, with all the steam of hell hot about it, it is an ill-assorted marriage." It seems to us a most affected delicacy, which in such a case would abstain from seeking grounds whereon to form an opinon, or expressing it when formed. Lord Byron was all his life before the public eye; and those who shared his celebrity, must share it whether as matter of vanity or annoyance. We think there is no sort of reproach to be thrown on Lady Byron's actual conduct; but the explanation of the whole is, that she had no love for her husband, none of that kindly and feminine affection which makes all the excellence it finds, and softens away the very faults it discovers. The fact that, on such slight grounds as those of late, she has not hesitated to throw the most odious imputations on the dead, shows at least how little of attachment or forgiveness enters into a temper whose seeming at least is cold and unforgiving. Mutual indulgence is the only safety of domestic content: such a wife might be perfectly irreproachable; but there are few men who would not be tempted to exclaim, Thank Heaven she is not mine! Beyond the chilling vanity of conquest, she seems to have neither appreciated nor admired his genius, and certainly had no love for himself: but the last summing up of conclusions is in the words of his servant Fletcher, "that her ladyship was the only woman who could not manage him." We have marked for quotation a series of miscellaneous extracts, as specimens of the spirit of the work, to which we now proceed. His Mother's Death.-" Notwithstanding her violent temper and other unseemly conduct, her affection for him had been so fond and dear, that he undoubtedly returned it with unaffected sincerity; and from many casual and incidental expressions which I have heard him employ concerning her, I am persuaded that his filial love was not at any time even of an ordinary kind. During her life he might feel uneasy respecting her, apprehensive on account of her ungovernable passions and indiscretions; but the manner in which he lamented her death clearly proves that the integrity of his affection had never been impaired. On the night after his arrival at the Abbey, the waitingwoman of Mrs. Byron, in passing the door of the room where the corpse lay, heard the sound of some one sighing heavily within, and on entering found his lordship sitting in the dark beside the bed. She remonstrated with him for so giving way to grief; when he burst into tears, and exclaimed, 'I had but one friend in the world, and she is gone.' Of the fervency of his sorrow I do therefore think there can be no doubt; the very endeavor which he made to conceal it by indifference was a proof of its depth and anguish, though he hazarded the strictures of the world by the indecorum of his conduct on the occasion of the funeral. Having declined to follow the remains himself, he stood looking from the halldoor at the procession, till the whole had moved away; and then, turning to one of the servants, the only person left, he desired him to fetch the sparring gloves, and proceeded with him to his usual exercise. But the scene was impressive, and spoke eloquently of a grieved heart;-he sparred in silence all the time, and the servant thought that he hit harder than was his habit: at last he suddenly flung away the gloves, and retired to his own room. Speaking of his peculiar temperament, Mr. Galt observes : "Lord Byron possessed that sort of irrepressible predilections-was so much the agent of impulses, that he could not keep long in unison with the world, or in harmony with his friends. Without malice, or the instigation of any ill spirit, he was continually provoking malignity and |