reached them when the clattering of horses' hoofs | that a kind of "l'envoy" should ever be added, was heard between the intervals of the roar of and to such demands the poor author must the thunder, and in a few seconds more the perforce obey. But yet we hold, that if a DUTY, lightning flashed on the helmets of a body of it is in truth a pleasant one. We hold that it is sbirri, who were seen advancing at headlong rather an honourable debt due to the reader speed. who has accompanied us on our long or short voyage of romance; and the longer the journey they have trodden with us, the greater is the debt of gratitude due from us. "In the name of the Republic I summon ye to surrender," cried a voice, as the horsemen halted within a few pace's distance in front of the pirates. The flash that streaked the heavens revealed the features of Durazzo. "Never!" replied the pirate chief, nearly choked with fury and despair. "Save me, oh save me, in the name of Heaven!" shrieked Eleanora, now waking up to a short consciousness, renewing at the same time her vain struggle to escape from the nerrous bonds that held her. The crew gathered ominously around their chief, looking deadly enmity at their opponents, and resolved to die in his defence rather than surrender; and their sabres flashed in the forked lightnings that played around them. Spurring forward his fiery barb, and followed by his horsemen, Durazzo charged into the midst of the reckless crew. Pierced with bullets, his noble animal fell dead from under him; and such was the murderous execution of the pirates, that nearly all the assailants were dismounted by the first discharge of their pistole; nor was it returned, for Durazzo had given especial commands to use the sword only, for fear of injuring Eleanora. Extricating himself quickly from his slain steed, Durazzo rushed to the mêlée. The combatants now fought hand to hand in desperate strife. Covered with wounds, the pirate chief still forcibly clasped the almost senseless form of Eleanora, and she felt his warm blood slowly trickling down her bosom. Many a foe had he stretched lifeless on the beach ere the arm of Durazzo encountered him. "Let the Marchesa free, and thou shalt escape," sued the latter. 46 "Only in death," shouted the chief, aiming a stroke at his adversary. Falling on Durazzo's corslet, the sabre snapped off at the hilt; dropping it immediately, a poignard had replaced the broken weapon, and ere Durazzo could wrest his hand, he had buried its deadly point in the heart of Eleanora! At the selfsame moment a stroke from the sabre of one of Durazzo's followers brought the pirate down, and the forms of both Eleanora and her victim fell lifeless on the gory pebbles together, the arm of Adro clinging round the former with tenacity not even conquered by death. Amid the tempest's roar, and while the raging surf bathed their bodies with its foaming brine, a voice, rising above the wild crash of the element, seemed as though hoarsely moaning— "Retribution !" Our romance shouldhave ended, could we have willed it, with the word "retribution;" but it seems to be the general demand of "gentle readers" In order, therefore, to free ourselves from all vengeance dire" and all the rigours of the various Acts of Parliament for punishing debtors, in perspectu, we will proceed to "sum up," and relieve the good, kind reader of any suspense (if she, he, or they feel any). But we are constrained to fit on our brows the horrible encircle of the ominous "black cap," for death has found nearly all the personages in our little eventful romance "guilty," and hath shewed no mercy. The remnant of the desperate crew who survived the death of their commander, seeing that it was worse than useless to resist, dashed into the surf and gained their barge. Durazzo was too horrorstricken at beholding the untimely fate of Eleanora to give orders to pursue them, and so they escaped. Liguria never more beheld this ferocious band; their devastations and cruelties were never afterwards heard of in the Mediterranean. In the voice of the tempest alone might their destiny be recorded; their fate was buried in the mighty ocean. * The evening of the day which followed this melancholy catastrophe was calm and lovely as the sleep of innocence. Its decaying beams beheld the gorgeous funeral of Eleanora Spinola proceeding to the church of Santa Annunziata, and the ritualless burial of the pirate chief and those of his crew who had fallen, without coffin or ceremonial, on the beach where they had perished. For a week following, masses were celebrated in the church for the soul of Eleanora, while in a splendid sarcophagus lay the remains of her who had thus met the punishment of her perfidy, from the hands of him who had sworn to love and protect her; of him to whom she herself had vowed to remain faithful till death. Round the pallid brow of the still lovely Eleanora, some ministering hand had entwined a chaplet wove of the purest white roses, which only are found in parts of Italy. Oh! beautiful features! the marbleness of thy look even in death is angelic. Who would think, from the heavenly smile that still remains on thine inanimate face, that thou wert otherwise than sleeping, and thy thoughts wandering amid happy dreams? Who would think that thou didst die in aught but peace and innocence ? Two months beheld Doria cured of his dangerous wound, and restored to his former health. By slow degrees the fatal events were broken to him! 1 The characters of men are not always revealed moments, of majestic beauty. Kneeling by his unless by some strong and unexpected circum-, side was the form of one whose silver hair stance, which creates a crisis as it were, an epoch mingled with the coverlet, into which she had in their existence. So was it with Doria. Of a pressed her face franticly to hide the struggles noble and open mind, a free and perhaps care- she endured. A moment more! and she raises less disposition, and yet the inheritor of feelings it, and with one despairing look towards the warm and passionate as the sun of his own sky, prostrate form, she falls with a wild cry. In that by the force of circumstance his life had been cry the spirit had passed away for ever. The one dream of sunshine till he beheld Eleanora. | form on the couch was that of Doria! he was Possessing everything that earth could yield, dead. His weary spirit had fled from this heavy the passions of his nature had not been as yet region of vanity and sorrow to the blessed realms aroused. His tastes inclining to the cultivation above, "where the wicked cease from troubling, of the fine arts, music and painting had been his and the weary are at rest." He had at last chief delights; and these had led him to seek | obtained peace in the that companionship within himself that in any very great reverse of fortune ever yields a soothing comfort to the heart. Possessing, therefore, a cultivated mind, his days passed in quiet and tranquillity till he beheld (and fatally, most fatally for him) Eleanora Spinola. Then it was that the first great change came over him; then it was that his mother feared much, from the natural impetuosity of his character. But she did not consider the new-born love that awoke these symptoms would in time allay their force. Music and painting had now lost their charms for him; they were both neglected. He would roam about the neighbourhood of the Villa Spinola for the most remote chance of beholding its mistress even for a moment. She then was married, but not one guilty thought had entered his breast. His love was so pure, so holy, that it might be said to be almost an ideal passion. But Eleanora became a widow, and then the thought came that she might yet be his; and with that blessed thought came visions of happiness and peace. We have seen the wreck of those visions; and now it was that the fine character of Doria stood out boldly in relief. On hearing of her death, and after the shock it created he seemed almost to bear it with calmness and resignation, and endeavoured to seek consolation in the soothing and beautifying influences of religion. But did he suffer the less? No! his calmness was the passiveness of despair! to him and to his God only was known the bitter and ceaseless strife within him. The love of Eleanora (for none knew the real facts of the pirate's history) was to him a sweet vision, pouring balm into his heart; it was the loadstar of his life, and he would would sit and muse on her for hours together with mingled sweet and bitter thoughts, from which he was with difficulty aroused. For him the love of woman in future was an idle dream; for him the world and its pleasures were a blank. Meanwhile his eye grew dim, his cheek pale and attenuate, and he seemed the wreck-and a noble one he was of his former self, and rapidly hastening "to that bourne from whence none return." * Precisely one year from the time we have just related, and in a noble and lofty room in the Palazzo Doria might be seen a crowd of weeping domestics round the costly hangings of a couch, on which lay extended a form, even in its departing "Palace roof of cloudless nights! Which art now-and which wert then! Of acts and ages yet to come." FREEDOM FROM LOVE IS DEATH. BY CALDER CAMPBELL. "Love hath no freedom. Who is free?" No answer made she, but her gaze "Then better were it we were parted!" She rather wept than said—a silent shower Be free! Leave me to weep, alone, by mine own "Alas!" quoth I," the Rhine itself, transfusing I Thy Rhine as 'twill; but with thee let me its tide!" A REMEMBRANCE. BY THE HON. JULIA MAYNARD. do remember well that once I knew, watch A halo round us all; and the fair wing tempt. Money-gatherers are not all on a par with | excited, we desire to awaken ridicule and con one another in evil; like other members of a class in society, they have their degrees of quality according to the motives which induce the gold-loving propensity; among them we find bad, worse, and worst sets of people; alas! that we cannot say, good, better, best; since bad is the best at last. For instance, there are your downright misers, the curmudgeons, who hoard wealth simply for its own sake, and not for the fancied importance it may give them in the world, who indeed would rather conceal than make a show of their riches: these we reckon among the worst, for the end which they propose to themselves is the worst, and the means which they employ to fulfil it are the worst. Then there are the many who take de light in gold for the dignity and respect the infatuated creatures imagine it obtains for them, who make a boast of their possessions, but still affect a shabby appearance in the world. Such, as being something superior to the first-mentioned, may be designated "the worse." Next come that numerous race who make riches their idol by reason of the figure it enables them to cut in public; these, while they persevere most untiringly in the procurement, spend lavishly with one hand what they gain with the other; we therefore style them the bad, for they are many degrees less blameable than the persons who scrape together, and lock up afterwards, being only guilty of the first offence. Of the few who make gold "A fountain, whence proceeds, A stream of liberal and heroic deeds," we have at present nothing to do; they are users and not abusers of it, and can have no fellowship either in name or character with any of the above. It is an individual who ranke among the second species whom we seek to introduce the reader, viz., "The Money-talker." But do not fancy for a moment that under this title we would depict one of those who talk of money affairs simply in the way of business; far from it; many who then appear wrapped up in £ s. d., shew, in hours of retirement, minds cultivated and philanthropic. The man who can prate of nothing beyond his own wealth, who is continually vaunting his earthly possessions, this is he to whom we would now direct attention; and for whom, if not already Contempt indeed he truly merits. What can be more contemptible than the mind which cau entertain no nobler ideas than such as are connected with the all-absorbing subject, gold? How meanly must that brain be furnished, which, beyond this, affords the tongue no other topic of conversation? Did the money-talker's mammon-worship simply consist in talk, our contempt would then sink into ridicule; but, like the lover, who is perpetually conversing of his mistress; or the gormandizer, of feasting; or the traveller, of his adventures; he is talking of that wherein his whole affections are placed, and aims at the same time to exalt self in the opinion of his listener; self, without a doubt, is a primary object of his love. If his heart were dissected, after the fashion in which the Spectator operates on the coquette's,* self-love and money-adoration would perhaps be found the only occupants; there is no room in its cavities for any such childish feelings as good-will for fellow-man, or love of mental acquirements; for he neither has delight in dispensing benefits, nor storing up useful knowledge by reading of otherwise he is rich, and can talk of his riches, and this is the ultimatum of his ambition; what learning could effect more? This calls to mind the anecdote in the Vicar of Wakefield, of George Primrose, who, when he offers himself as a master of the Greek language to the principal of the university of Louvain, is thus answered: "You see me, young man, I never learned Greek, and I don't find that I have ever missed it :-I have had a doctor's cap and gown without Greek; I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek; I eat heartily without Greek; and in short, as I don't know Greek, I do not believe there is any good in it." So with the money-talker; he is rich without knowledge, and therefore cares nought to enlighten his ignorance. All other topics of conversation, save that of money-matters, are to him distasteful; and well they may be, since his empty head-piece will not allow him to join in them. The illiteracy which some of the class exhibit beneath their gilt exterior is truly pitiable. We ourselves have read epistolary productions, emanating * Spectator, No. 281, by Addison. N from more than one money-talker, that would, with regard to their orthography and syntax, positively disgrace a school-boy of the lowest form. Yet these are the men who often succeed in obtaining respect and honour through their earthly career. "Oh, what a world of vile ill-favoured faults Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a-year," says Shakspere; and the saying continues but too true now-a-days, and will do so, as long as money is allowed to usurp the place of merit. The money-talker never loses an opportunity of introducing his subject; most absurd is the way in which he effects his object. "Have you seen the L paper of to-day?" says he to a chance companion. Pray, does "No," perhaps, is the reply. it contain anything particular?" "Oh, no! but they say Fairgrove Estate is for sale. Pretty estate that, very pretty estate," continues the money-talker. "I really have a great idea of purchasing it, and either selling a few loose thousands out of the funds, or my distant property in B-shire, for the purpose." Thus he has, in one short sentence, the gratification of communicating to his hearer, first, the fact of his having the power of purchasing such an estate; secondly, that he has large investments in the funds; and also that he is possessed of lands elsewhere. All this, perchance, without ever entertaining the least intention of carrying out his proposition. "Of course you've heard of the fire at the office of Messrs. F, the solicitor's," observes one of them to a friend. "Ah! indeed; and a sad affair it appears to have been," replies the person addressed. "Many papers of the greatest importance, I hear, have been destroyed." 66 Yes, very likely,' says the money-talker, with an air that shews how little he cares for the sufferers. “A lucky thing for me, truly, it did not occur at B- 's. Some deeds there, relating to a small purchase I have just made, it would have been rather annoying to have lost. By-the-bye," he continues, "where can I buy a good fire-proof chest?" &c., &c. Here, good reader, you perceive his drift in mooting the subject of the fire, just to inform the other that he has enough of deeds to stow away in a chest; and that he has, moreover, lately vested some cash in "lands, tenements, and hereditaments," as the lawyers say. "Beautiful residence that of Lord V-8," remarks a fellow stage-coach traveller to a money-talker, as they rattle along the turnpikeroad, in front of a fine mansion and domain. 'Very beautiful," he echoes; "but he's not rich, sir; a poor man, if the truth were known." Youthful follies led to heavy mortgages, perhaps," observes the stranger with a smile. In reply to which the money-talker, by sundry inuendoes, but without communicating the real fact, contrives to make him understand how that Lord V—— keeps up appearances solely by pecuniary advances on the part of himself. The above we give as specimens of his style and manner of conversation, leaving the reader to judge of its intellectuality. The money-talker is seldom found a dealer in falsehoods, though he may improve on the truth now and then; this, perhaps, arises less from a love of truth than from the knowledge that even credulity has bounds. He no doubt fears, by employing the marvellous, he may altogether fail in producing the impression he desires ; lest men suspect his tale untrue, he takes care to "keep probability in view." The poorer his listener the happier is he; because, in his view, the dignity of self is raised in comparison with his superiority over the other in wealth. To enhance self is, as above remarked, his chief object. But whose respect, we ask, is it, he thus gains? Not the respect of those from whom it is really worth having-the virtuous, the honourable, the disinterested: it is from the vulgar, undiscerning multitude, he alone receives it, whence it comes with the smallest value. "Why honour the man whose chief merit's his purse?" very properly observes an anonymous writer in the Belle Assemblée for December last. Why indeed! Even if that purse has been filled by his own industry and toil, they have been misapplied, should its golden contents be afterwards misapplied also; since the paltry motives which induced them become apparent, and thus they lose all right to our praise. The respect which the money-talker obtains is, at best, of a poor description; it is attendant on the gold, and not on the man; a kind of transferable article, ready to be bestowed on any one who has money to recommend him. Let him be suddenly stripped of his worldly substance, and what then has become of this respect? Gone, all gone, like the riches that gave it birth. Should the money-talker be rash enough to introduce the old subject, he is either hemmed and hawed down, or styled a senseless driveller for his pains: he is no longer pointed out and stared at as the rich Mr. So-and-so, but must be content to sink into that obscurity which was, from the first, his proper "abidingplace." How different is the case of the vir tuous unfortunate who has once earned the applause of good men! his misfortunes, if he bears them manfully, tend but to excite additional respect. It is then that he feels in what the true treasures of the heart consist. Would that the money-talker could feel so likewise! And now we bid him "Adieu!" No wise man will deny that the healthiest moral condition is found where there is the most abundant happiness. Happiness is clearly the native, heavenly atmosphere of the soul—that in which it is “to live and move, and have its being" hereafter; and in proportion to its share of which, now and here, it makes tiest, most disinterested, and devoted-all unite in its heavenly growth. The divinest souls-the lofone testimony, that they have been best when happiest-that they were then most energetic and spon taneously devoted-least self-conscious. LIFE IN THE SICK ROOM. PHILOSOPHY; OR, A TRIFLE NO TRIFLE. BY H. E. A. E. "There is no real ill in bodily pain." So said Cowper-his exact words I have forgotten, but such meaning, I believe, they were intended to convey. I had, nay, have a friend who was fond of descanting in the same strain; and when opposed, invariably quoted Cowper to confirm and strengthen his position. This friend I speak of aimed at just so much philosophy as should enable him to walk the world unsullied by its follies, unswayed by its promises, unfearing its threatenings; but yet to mingle with the world, and to live in the world, was his plan of life, his favourite pursuit ; nay, his very hobby, on which he fain would ride in season and out of season. With these aspirations for singleness of heart and rectitude of purpose, perhaps a more arduous path than the world could scarcely be chosen, nor one that in itself contained greater contrarieties or more incitements inimical to these same feelings as fire to water, summer to winter, virtue to vice; but be that as it may, he entered boldly to the battle, to be by turns the victor and the vanquished. Not long after my friend had made his debut in his favourite sphere, "public life," I was shocked to hear he had sustained a heavy pecuniary loss, involving the greater part of his before handsome fortune. I called on him to tender all the assistance in my power; but alas! shorn as they were, his finances were still superior to my own. I found him grieved certainly, but not immeasureably so, and a few days reconciled him to his altered position, though it required a longer time and more strenuous efforts to allay the outraged feelings (it might be wounded vanity) caused by the revealment of the true character of those formerly his inseparable associates, who expressed sorrow for his misfortunes, but sheltered themselves under the fear that they could not, with justice to themselves, render any assistance. Even to this my friend soon became reconciled, consoling himself with the reflection, that had he better remembered the precepts of his instructors, and attended to the learned lore of those more experienced in the world's ways, he would have been more guarded in his actions, less exacting in his wishes, less romantic in his expectations, and his conduct would then have been more rational, and more in accordance with the world's habitual doings, and thus his own disappointment and chagrin less severe. I admired, I exulted in his admirable fortitude, and frequently adduced his behaviour as a proof that principle was a real and existing thing, and not the imaginary poetic fable that some scruple not to affirm it. My friend still possessed the necessaries of life, and, as he said, easily dispensed with some of its luxuries, the more readily and cheerfully, that his altered position had, while showing him the worthless nature of other companions, disclosed to him that he enjoyed the invaluable blessing which crowned heads have sighed for in vain-a true friend (meaning my humble self), and what he had given for that knowledge seemed to him but dross. I looked upon this magnanimity with admiring astonishment, and Mr. Parton became linked in my mind with everything good, noble, and estimable; the type of, nay, the very thing itself— "perfection." But much and intimately as I thought I knew my friend, I was again surprised on his account: this time, however, the affair, though in itself less serious, produced more lasting and momentous effects. I one day called on this prince of philosophers, as I had mentally dubbed him, while he was suffering under an agonizing fit of tooth-ache. How did I stand amazed to find that his own irate humour much exaggerated the disease! Vexed, mortified, indignant at this weakness in my idol, I attempted to reason with him on the trivial nature of the evil and its probable slight consequences, as compared with almost every other ill that flesh is heir to, and that there was, at the very worst, the certain remedy of extraction. He had hardly patience to hear me out before he burst into exclamations more passionate than polite, momentarily interrupted by stamps, shrieks, groans, and frightful distortions of countenance, which I ultimately found were intended to convey the intelligence that several dentists had refused to perform the operation, as too dangerous, though repeatedly desired to do so at all hazards. "And so," he continued, with childish petulance, more becoming a boy of eight than a man of eight-and-twenty, "I am kept a prisoner between these odious walls, from which I dare not stir but at the certain expense of a similar visitation. I never knew the troubles of life till now! I know, I am convinced perdition itself has nothing worse than this I suffer. Prate not to me of future consequences; do I not feel I would willingly purchase an hour's respite with whole years of life, were the thing possible!" I had heard of insanity, and that it would sometimes attack the wisest and the best. I trembled for my friend, and finding my presence did but irritate him, I was constrained to remove myself from his sight. Before however my mind could be at peace, I called on his usual medical attendant, and stated my fears and apprehensions with intense earnestness. How great was my astonishment at finding them received with a smile! I was about to utter a remonstrance, when the doctor mildly replied, "The tooth is firmly seated, and being at the extremity of the lower jaw, its forcible removal |