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tected from further injury, till her shattered mind regains something of its natural strength: so take her arm. Cato.” “I afeared, massa. S'pose she bite me, den I run crazy bout the country like her den who take care of de farm, and do ebry ting dat I do" "Nonsense!" said I, "what injury can a poor weak woman with a child in her arms do you? silly fellow." "Guy, massa, she got a child too?" "Yes” replied I, “don't you see it under her cloak?" "I neber look at her; but where de fader? Is de child your's, massa?"

The simplicity of the question, as well as its abruptness, surprised me, and I actually wore the semblance of guilt for a moment. I hesitated what to answer till my faculties regained their power, when I assured him that the child was not mine.

"What for, den, massa, you run so far for catch him? Sure we got plenty women home for scold and scrub." "Take her home, sirrah!" cried I, weary of his impertinence, and beginning to be sensible of my imprudence in thus suddenly changing a hot for an intensely cold atmosphere. A chill was creeping over my frame, and my toe gave me a severe twinge, that rendered me rather testy. Cato terrified at my manner, as well as my words, so far subdued his fear of the crazy woman, as he called her, that he took hold of her arm, and attempted to lead her, towards the house. But she misconstruing his purpose, shrunk from his hold, and falling on her knees, held up the baby carefully wrapped in a blanket, and entreated him, as he hoped for mercy on his death bed, to show some to her babe, and spare her life.

"Chaw," cried Cato, "I not going to hurt you, nor de baby. Come along to where a rousing fire, good supper, and bed be given you." "No, no," cried she, "I will not go with you, leave me here, and God will feed me, as he does the young ravens.” "Guy," replied Cato, "you tink God send manna down from Heaven dis cold night for you? Why it freeze 'fore it get half way to de ground. Consider manna not good for eat now like when de children of Israel eat him in de wilderness. He only good for doctor-stuff now-s'pose you sick, he make you well;-come along vid me." "Take the child, Cato," whispered I, and she will follow it." "Dat berry good notion, Massa." cried the honest negro, whose apprehensions had scarcely subsided, "cow always follow de calf."

"So saying, he took the infant out of her arms, and ran off with it to the house. The unfortunate mother, contrary to what I had expected, sunk on the ground in strong convulsions. Half distracted at the misery I had thus caused, I attempted in vain to raise her from the ground, and I was compelled to witness agonies of which I had not before even had an idea, having never seen any person in fits. I was therefore ignorant in what man

ner to treat her; and when I beheld the blood flowing from her mouth, and found her hands so firmly clenched that all my efforts to open them proved ineffectual. I almost execrated myself for the misery I had thus produced. I fancied she would expire every moment. and her death I should ever impute to my rashness. My feelings at this time were indescribable. I had, by forcing her child from her arms, struck at the vital spark. Her child was perhaps the only object she had on whom to rest her affections; he was her all in this life; and I had torn him from her protecting arms, even while she was in the act of imploring mercy. The action was cruel-my conscience smote me. I threw myself on my knees beside the dying mother, whom I now perceived, as her hat was off, to be young and handsome. A profusion of light brown hair hung in natural curls down her back, and partly shaded her face. I put my arm under her head, and as the paroxysms had nearly exhausted her strength, she lay on my bosom very calmly. In this situation Cato found us, he having left the child in Dina's lap, and hastened back to ascertain my situation, fancying the crazy woman had expended her rage on me.

"My G-d, massa, how de poor thing's mouth bleed! I declare she has almost bit her under lip off. Dare say, now, when I tell you how mad folks bite, you only laugh at me. S'pose she catch me, she tear me all to pieces." "Well, well," cried I, "no comments now; but assist to carry the unfortunate woman to the house, for both she and I are almost perished with the cold. She cannot have many hours to live: let them be passed under a sheltering roof." We were now joined by Flora, Cato's daughter, a bouncing wench, about five and twenty. She had been visiting in the vicinity, and now made her appearance. Having heard our voices, she had, on coming forward, learned the difficulty we were in. I really apprehended our united strengths would scarcely have enabled us to carry the dying girl to the house. But the robust Flora soon obviated the difficulty. She confined her hands by rolling her up in her own cloak, and then catching her in her arms, carried her without difficulty to the house. A short time brought us to the door.

"On the

"Where I put de poor thing, master?" said Flora. sofa in my study" replied I. "What me go in dare," cried Flora, laughing, as she laid Adeliza on the sofa; but her smiles soon changed to tears, for we discovered that the head of the sufferer was severely bruised in several places, and her teeth had cut their way through one of her lips. "Great God, forgive me the injury I have done this defenceless women!" said I, just as Tabitha and Julia entered. "What, brother," cried Tabitha, "and are you the father of the child?" "Yes," said I, mentally, though loud

enough to be heard, "I will be a father to her; she shall eat of my bread, and drink of my cup, and be unto me as a daughter." "Then you are not the actual father of the child, brother?” said Tabitha. "Why, Tabby," said I, "Do you take me for her seducer as well as her murderer?" The poor maniac now unclosed her eyes; but all consciousness was fled. Flora had put her feet and ankles into a bath of warm water. Hannah and Dinah unclasped her hands, and were bathing them with warm vinegar, while Julia besprinkled her lips with milk and water. "Great God!" exclaimed Julia, as the face was cleaned of blood, "can this be Adeliza Belmont? Heaven protect me, it is indeed her very self! Poor, dear, unfortunate girl, where have you been thus long? or what has reduced you to this situation?" "I did,” said I, mechanically, "by taking her child from her, and thus throwing her into fits." "You, Grandfather!" exclaimed Julia, "I don't believe you ever saw ber till this night." "Certainly not, child," said I, "But it was my cruelty threw her into fits." "Guy, massa sartainly got bit to-night," whispered Cato. "Him not right here," pointing to his head. "Has she had fits?" enquired Julia. "Yes," replied I, and very severe ones too." Then we had better administer some laudanum to quiet her nerves," said Julia. "Bless you, Miss Julia, dont give de poor thing dat nasty laudlum, for it kills every body dat takes too much of it." You are right Dinah," said Julia, "So we'll be careful not to give her too much."

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The Wanderer's wounds being cleansed, and dressed as well as our surgical skill could suggest, Tabitha sent in nightclothes, and I quitted the apartment. "Golly," said Cato, "I neber believe massa leab his study to de women. S'pose Hannah begin to scrub, what him do den?" "Pho, you fool," said Dinah, to whom he had addressed this observation, "What for she want to scrub dare?"-Julia now entered the parlour, and prepared some panada for the Wanderer. "Do you think she will live, Julia?" said I. "We must hope for the best," she replied. "She appears weak and exhausted; Hannah thinks she has not eaten any thing since this morning. I am preparing some food to administer, previous to giving her the laudanum; and this night, by your permission, I will pass in the study. Adeliza cannot be removed, and I will watch by her; should her reason return, it will be more soothing to meet a friend than a stranger." "God bless you, my love," said I, "But keep Flora with you in case of danger!" So I intend, sir," said Julia, and away she tripped with the bowl of panado.

The boy slumbered, for Dinah, although she hated laudanum, had a strong prejudice in favour of Godfrey's Cordial, and had

given him sufficient to make him sleep till morning. While Dinah was informing me of this, and shewing me how nicely she had fixed the old family cradle, which Tabitha had carefully kept in the garret for twenty-eight years, Flora entered with a broad grin on her countenance. "What now, Flora?" said I, "You seem very much pleased." "Nothing, master, only Mrs. Hannah wants the hand-brush to scrub up the carpet." "Surely," exclaimed I, "not in my study? Go back, Flora, and tell her, I swear by all the Gods, if she puts a brush on my room shẹ shall quit this house forever!" This alarmed the trio of scrubbers; and the study remained in statu quo. Julia now returned with her bowl empty, and pronounced her patient better. The cradle was carried into the study, and we all retired for the night.

FOR THE AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

ISAAC.

YOUTH AND OLD AGE.

"I came to the place of my birth, and said, the friends of my youth where are they! and echo answered, where are they !"

When the summer day of youth is slowly and silently waning away into the night-fall of age, and the shadows of past years grow deeper and deeper as life wears to its close, it is pleasant to look back, through the vista of time, upon the sorrows and felicities of earlier years. If we have a home to shelter, and hearts to rejoice with us, and if friends are gathered together around our firesides, the rough places of our wayfaring will be worn and smoothed away in the twilight of life, whilst the sunny spots we have passed through grow brighter and more beautiful. Happy indeed are those, whose intercourse with the world has not changed the tone of their holier feelings, nor broken those musical chords of the heart, whose vibrations are so melodious, so tender and touching in the evening of age. As the current of time winds slowly away, washing along with it the sands of life and wasting the vigour of our greener years, like the stream that steals away the soil from the sapling upon its bank; we look with a kind of melancholy joy at the decay of things around us. To see the trees, under whose shade we sat in earlier years, and upon whose rinds we carved our names in the light-hearted gayety of

boyhood, as if these memorials of our existence would long sur vive us; to see these withering away like ourselves with the infirmities of age, excites within us mournful but pleasant feelings for the past, and prophetic ones for the future. The thoughts occasioned by those frail and perishing records of younger days, when the friends, that are now lingering like ourselves upon the brink of the grave, or have long been asleep in its quiet bosom, were around us buoyant with the gayety of youthful spirit, are like the dark clouds, when the storm is gone, tinged by the farewell rays of the setting sun. In these recollections of former times the past and the present meet together. We go back again into the valley of youth, we gaze upon the vestiges we left behind us then, and tread in the footsteps we trod in before. We remember the thoughtlessness and hilarity, the summer and sunshine of boyhood, the hopes and fears, the aspirations and revelries of youth; and we may remember too, that those whose hearts were lightest, and whose hopes the fairest, were sooner than others summoned away to the desolate and voiceless halls of death.

Of those that were around us in the spring-time of life, and went hand in hand with us through the Summer journey of youth, all perhaps have parted from us on the verge of manhood, each to pursue a separate path towards his own destination. This parting may have been the last time we beheld them, from whom we never before parted. We recollect the farewell pressure of the hand, the countenance of hope and sadness, and the melancholy voice whose tones we now think had something prophetic in them, that told us we were never to meet again. They had gone to distant climes, had become strangers in strange lands, felt the chastenings of adversity, and found rest from the toils and troubles of life in the repose of the tomb.

When we hear of the death of friends, when we know that those who loved, and were loved by us, have gone before us into the vale of death, and have fallen asleep upon the bosom of the earth, never to waken, the thousand endearments and tendernesses, that had wound unnoticed around our hearts, and strengthened with the lapse of years, are broken and withered away, though hardly without severing the chords of the heart with them. We call to mind their gentleness, their forgiv ing kindness and benevolence towards us; and with these come the reccollections of our own pride, our own revengeful thoughts, and the swellings of our hearts against them. But our repentance is too late, our tears unavailing, our sorrow unnoticed! The flame of their being is quenched, the lamp of their existence is gone out, and they have passed away from us into the land of silence. There is something within us that shrinks from the cold heavy hand of death! Nature struggles