of the two children, and blessed them in the name of the Holy Trinity; then kneeling on the earthen floor, while his daughter kneeled beside, holding one child to her bosom, and another by the hand, and perhaps there never was a more fervent prayer uttered at the footstool of mercy, than was there that evening expressed by a father Imploring forgiveness for his erring child. From that ime forth the good man's manner was again changed into his former cheerful and contented frame of mind. He visited his daughter four days in the week, and we all visited her occasionally, though privately, and there was not one in the village better seen to than the Minister's Annie.

The regiment to which Captain Ascot belonged had been for some years in Ireland, and during the whole of that period poor Anne and her children had been abandoned. He had deceived her by a sham marriage, which he had kept closely concealed from every soul of the regiment, and then left her a prey to grief, sorrow, and misery, and every agony to which the female mind can be subjected. But when he learned that the regiment was to return to the scene of his former injuries, he felt so awkward that he tried to exchange into a regiment on foreign service; but not being able to effect it in time, back to the barracks at the village he came with the rest, exactly two months after the reappearance of Anne.

The vicar sent for him to the field to expostulate with him privately, but licentiousness had steeled his heart, and he would only answer the good man in terms of abandonment. "Why, Mr Parson, you surely do not pretend to lay all the blame upon me? Women will have their way, you know,-and what is done cannot be undone. But do not go to be saying, that I have not behaved as a gentleman, for it is false. Quite false, I assure you! I am ready to give you the satisfaction of a gentleman, whenever you please ;-quite ready, I assure you! A gentleman can do no more than that, you know. So that since you think I have injured you, nothing more to do than just name your friend and your day ;-nothing more at all."

"Young man," said the reverend father, "I know my duty better as a Christian minister, than either to throw away my own life, and leave my family without a father, and my flock without a pastor, or to send you to your account with the blackest of sins on your head."

“O, thank you, my old fellow; but never mind the account, that's current you know. Quite ready, I assure you."

“Why, sir, how dare you speak in that way to me?" said the venerable divine, his eyes kindling with indignation,-"To me, whom you have injured in the tenderest part? To me, whose heart you have pierced with a wound a thousand times more cruel and severe than any that either your sword or murderous bullet could inflict? If you had one spark of the feeling of a gentleman or a Christian left, you could not hold up your face and speak to me in that profligate style. But I tell you that my daughter is your wife in the eye of Heaven, and before God and his holy angels you will be obliged to acknowledge her as such; and since you have neither honour nor sympathy left, the laws of our country shall compel you to make a provision for her as your wife."

“O, very well, ould one! Most nobly said, my brave ould worthy. The law is quite welcome, I assure you; but neither the law nor the gospel can compel a gentleman to give what he has not-ha, ha, ha! Quite right, ould one! Forward! Push on! Ha, ha, ha!"

The vicar was obliged to return home, grieved and shocked at the profligacy of the man of whom his daughter had made choice, and who still loved him, notwithstanding her deep injuries. It was evident that the law would compel him to make reparation, and to that the reverend father now resolved to apply. But Providence had otherwise determined the disgraceful affair to end, for that very day the whole story reached the ears of

the colonel, whose detestation of such an act recognised no bounds, save in chastisement. So that evening at the mess he soon gave the offender to understand that he knew him, and something of the injury he had suffered from his hand, while the other officers were astonished at seeing how Ascot sunk into silence, and cringed beneath the rod, so meanly does guilt and profligacy look when exposed to virtue and honour. Finally, the colonel told him that he occupied a seat at present which he had no right to occupy, for that he now knew him well, and his behaviour, instead of being that of a gentleman, was the conduct of a villain and a ruffian. The officers were confounded, and several of them sprung to their feet in order to ask an explanation, but Ascot only held down his head, and left the mess-room without speaking a word.

The consequence of this was a challenge and duel early the next morning. The meeting took place close at the back of the vicar's garden, that being the only quiet place near to the barracks, and at the first fire the aggressor was shot through the body, and the wound pronounced to be mortal. Colonel Allerbeck and the two seconds of course filed, and the surgeon, knowing nothing of the circumstances which had occasioned the quarrel, had the dying man conveyed into the vicarage, where he dressed his wound, and left him in a state of total insensibility, giving charge that he should be kept quiet, as without that there was no chance of life whatever.

The vicar, learning the circumstances, and who his guest was, wondered greatly at that singular visitation of Providence. Yet, in the true spirit of Christianity, he forgot all the injuries and insults he had received, and wept over the untimely fate of the imprudent young man, praying for him in the most earnest and fervent manner, as one just entering the dark valley of the shadow of death. He fevered and continued quite delirious; and the surgeon, who visited him twice a-day, having ordered him a nurse at the request of the mess, the Minister's Annie came of her own accord, and would not suffer any other to come near him; and, poor woman, for all the injuries she had received, she watched him night and day with many bitter tears-for woman's heart is ever prone to kindness, and yearns over all who are in deep distress, even though they be her enemies.

The captain continued in the most perilous state for the space of six weeks. But youth and a good constitution prevailed, and a favourable change began to be observed. All this time he was unable to be removed, and was attended in the vicar's house with as much care and concern as if he had been in the house of his own father and mother, and every day the reverend pastor prayed over him for the grace of repentance, forgiveness, and the recovery of his reason and bodily health.

The first thing that he appeared to take any notice of, was these prayers of the good man, which occasionally seemed to strike his disordered fancy with an undefined astonishment. He next began very frequently to fix his bewildered eyes on Anne, but from his incoherent expressions, it was manifest that he took it for a dream or vision. One day, while she was busied about him, and not taking notice of his looks, she was greatly astonished when she heard him saying to himself in an emphatic whisper, "The Minister's Annie! My own Annie! Alas! I wonder where she died."

It was a good while after this before he took any note of her presence, but it appeared that he had noted it; for one day she beard him whispering as before, "There it is again! There it is again! But her babies are not here. No, no, they have not come to heaven with her! Lovely as when I first saw her!" After this the worthy vicar caused his daughter to leave the house, and not come in sight of the sufferer any more; who, when he came to his senses, and understood in whose house he had been attended for the last two months, with such care and attention, that these had been the means of saying his life,

be any one particular in which a peculiar or distinctive character can be assigned to Italian traditions, it seems to be in the greater prevalence of classical ideas and allusions. As a modern Italian swears by the body of Bacchus, or the aspect of Diana, so in these antique fragments the lingering glories of a once influential mythology, strangely united with a modern faith, are continually observable. We think a specimen of Italian popular traditions may be amusing to our readers, and the one we have selected for the present is as bloody as the amusements of Muley Bugentuf.

THE BEGGAR WOMAN OF LOCARNO.

At the foot of the Alps, near Locarno, was an old cas.tle, belonging to a Marquis, the ruins of which are still visible to the traveller, as he comes from St Gothard; a castle with lofty and roomy apartments, high towers, and narrow windows. In one of these rooms, an old sick woman was deposited upon some straw, which had been shaken down for her by the housekeeper of the Marquis, who had found her begging before the gate. The Marquis, who was accustomed to go into this room on his return from hunting, to lay aside his gun, ordered the poor wretch to get up immediately out of her corner, and be gone.

The creature arose, but, slipping with her crutch upon the smooth floor, she fell, and injured her back so much, that it was with great difficulty she got up, and, moving across the room as she had been desired, groaning and crying sadly, sank down behind the chimney.

Several years afterwards, when the circumstances of the Marquis had been much reduced by war, and the failure of his crops, a Florentine gentleman visited the castle, with the intention of purchasing it, in consequence of the beauty of the situation. The Marquis, who was very anxious to have the bargain concluded, gave his wife directions to lodge the stranger in the same upper room in which the old woman had died, it having, in the meantime, been very handsomely fitted up; but, to their consternation, in the middle of the night, the stranger entered their room, pale and agitated, protesting loudly that the chamber was haunted by some invisible being; for that he had heard something rise up in the corner, as if it had been lying among straw, move over the chamber | with slow and tottering steps, and sink down, groaning and crying, near the chimney.

The Marquis, terrified, though he scarcely knew why, endeavoured to put a fair face upon the matter, and to laugh off the fears of his visitor, telling him he would rise himself, and spend the rest of the night with him in his room. But the stranger begged that he would rather allow him to occupy a couch in the adjoining room; and as soon as morning broke, he saddled his horse, took his leave, and departed.

This occurrence, which occasioned much notice, made so unpleasant an impression upon intending purchasers, that not another enquiry was made; and at last, even the servants in the house becoming possessed with the notion that there was something dreadful in the room, the Marquis, with the view of setting the report to rest, determined to investigate the matter himself next night. Accordingly, in the twilight, he caused his bed to be brought to the apartment, and waited, without sleeping, the approach of midnight. But what was his consternation, when, on the stroke of midnight, he actually heard some inconceivable noise in the apartment, as if some person had risen up from among straw, which rustled beneath them, walked slowly over the floor, and sank, sighing and groaning, behind the chimney. When he came down the next morning, the Marchesa asked him how the investigation had gone on; and he, after gazing about him with wandering glances, and bolting the door, told her the story of the chamber's being haunted was true.

She was terrified out of her senses; but begged him, before making any public disclosure, once more to make the experiment coolly in her company. Accompanied by a trusty servant, they accordingly repeated their visit next night, and again heard, as the Marquis had done before, the same ghostly and inconceivable noise; and nothing but the anxious wish to get rid of the castle, cost what it would, enabled them to suppress their terrors in presence of the servant, and to ascribe the sound to some accidental cause. On the evening of the third day, when both, determined to probe the matter to the bottom, were ascending with beating hearts the stair leading to the stranger's apartment, it chanced that the house dog, who had been let loose from the chain, was lying directly before the door of the room; and willing perhaps to have the company of any other living thing in the mysterious apartment, they took the dog into the room along with them. The husband and wife seated themselves on the couch, the Marquis, with his sword and pistols beside him; and while they endeavoured, the best way they could, to amuse themselves with conversation, the dog, cowering down on the floor at their feet, fell asleep. Again, with the stroke of midnight, the noise was renewed; something, though what they could not discover, raised itself as if with crutches in the corner; the straw rustled as before; at the sound of the first footfall, the dog awoke, roused itself, pricked up its ears, and growling and barking as if some person were advancing towards him, retreated in the direction of the chimney. At this sight, the Marchioness rushed out of the room, her hair standing on end; and while the Marquis seized his sword, exclaimed Who is there?" and receiving no answer, thrust like a madman in all directions, she hastily packed up a few articles of dress, and made the best of her way towards the town. Scarcely, however, had she proceeded a few steps when she discovered that the castle was on fire. The Marquis had, in his distraction, overturned the tapers, and the room was instantly in flames. Every effort was made to save the unhappy nobleman, but in vain; he perished in the utmost tortures, and his bones, as the traveller may be aware, still lie where they were collected by the neighbouring peasants, in the corner of the apartment from which he had expelled the beggar woman of Locarno.

THE PILGRIM OF THE DESERT.
By John Malcolm.

THROUGH Sultry sand, and red simoom,
The Pilgrim seeks the Prophet's tomb,-
And treads, beneath the burning zone,
The grave of nature, gaunt and lone;
Where giant Desolation reigns,—
And o'er the pale and pathless plains,
Oft heralds of dismay and death-
The sands on the sirocco's breath,
In swift gyrations, wild and high,
Spin up in pillars to the sky,-
Like Titan phantoms round him form,
And chase his flight upon the storm;
Or, whelming all in traceless graves,
Roll-one wide wilderness of waves.
The noon is up-and blazing red
Upon the desert's burning bed,-
And heaven above, and earth below,
Are wrapt in one wide furnace glow.
Oh! water-water-now to quell
And quench the heart-consuming hell!
And lakes more lovely never shone,
Than those that woo the wanderers on;
But falser visions ne'er were given,
To glad the soul with gleams of heaven-
Then leave it deeper in despair-
Than the bright-fleeting mocker there,—

points of the poles and gaff-hooks. The sun is now quite low, and the barge is again secured in the best harbour within reach. The navigators cook their supper, and betake themselves to their blankets or bear-skins to rest, or perhaps light a large fire on the shore, under the smoke of which they repose, in order to avoid the persecutions of the myriads of moschettoes which occur during | the whole summer along the river. Perhaps, from dawn to sunset, the boat may have advanced fifteen miles. If so, it has done well. The next day, the wind proves favourable, the sail is set, the boat takes all advantages, and meeting with no accident, has ascended thirty miles, perhaps double that distance. The next day comes with a very different aspect. The wind is right a-head, the shores are without trees of any kind, and the canes on the banks are so thick and stout, that not even the cordelles, can be used. This occasions a halt. The time is not altogether lost, as most of the men, being provided with rifles, betake themselves to the woods, and search for the deer, the bears, or the turkeys, that are generally abundant there. Three days may pass before the wind changes, and the advantages gained on the previous fine day are forgotten. Again the boat proceeds, but in passing over a shallow place, runs on a log, swings with the current, but hangs fast, with her lee-side almost under water. Now for the poles! All hands are on deck, bustling and pushing. At length towards sunset, the boat is once more afloat, and is again taken to the shore, where the wearied crew pass another night.

I shall not continue this account of difficulties, it having already become painful in the extreme. I could tell you of the crew abandoning the boat and cargo, and of numberless accidents and perils; but be it enough to say, that, advancing in this tardy manner, the boat that Jeft New Orleans on the first of March, often did not reach the Falls of the Ohio until the month of July,-nay, sometimes not until October; and after all this immense trouble, it brought only a few bags of coffee, and at most 100 hogsheads of sugar. Such was the state of things in 1808. The number of barges at that period did not amount to more than 25 or 30, and the largest probably did not exceed 100 tons burden. To make the best of this fatiguing navigation, I may conclude by saying, that a barge which caine up in three months had done wonders, for, I believe, few voyages were performed in that time.

If I am not mistaken, the first steam-boat that went down out of the Ohio to New Orleans was named the "Orleans," and if I remember right, was commanded by Captain Ogden. This voyage, I believe, was performed in the spring of 1810. It was, as you may suppose, looked upon as the ne plus ultra of enterprise. Soon after, another vessel came from Pittsburg; and before many years elapsed, to see a vessel so propelled became a common occurrence. In 1826, after a lapse of time that proved sufficient to double the population of the United States of America, the navigation of the Mississippi had so improved both in respect to facility and quickness, that I know no better way of giving you an idea of it, than by presenting you with an extract of a letter from my eldest son, which was taken from the books of N. Berthoud, Esq., with whom he at that time resided.

"You ask me in your last letter for a list of the arrivals and departures here. I give you an abstract from our list of 1826, showing the number of boats which plied each year, their tonnage, the trips which they performed, and the quantity of goods landed here from New Orleans and intermediate places.

boats above the Falls I cannot say much about, except that one or two arrive at and leave Louisville every day. Their passage from Cincinnati is commonly 14 or 16 hours. The Tecumseh, a boat which runs between this place and New Orleans, and which measures 210 tons, arrived here on the 10th instant, in 9 days 7 hours, from port to port; and the Philadelphia, of 300 tons, made the passage in 9 days 91⁄2 hours, the computed distance being 1650 miles. These are the quickest trips made. There are now in operation on the waters west of the Alleghany Mountains 140 or 145 boats. We had last spring, 1826, a very high freshet, which came 4% fert deep in the counting-room. The rise was 57 feet 3 inches perpendicular.'

The whole of the steam-boats of which you have an account did not perform voyages to New Orleans only, but to all points on the Mississippi, and other rivers which fall into it. I am certain that since the above date the number has increased, but to what extent I can.. not at present say.

When steam-boats first plied between Shippingport and New Orleans, the cabin passage was a hundred dollars, and a hundred and fifty dollars on the upward voyage. In 1829, I went down to Natchez from Shippingport for twenty-five dollars, and ascended from New Orleans on board the Philadelphia, in the beginning of January 1830, for sixty dollars, having taken two staterooms for my wife and myself. On that voyage we met with a trifling accident, which protracted it to fourteen days; the computed distance being, as mentioned above, 1650 miles, although the real distance is probably less. I do not remember to have spent a day without meeting with a steam-boat, and some days we encountered several. I might here be tempted to give you a description of one of these steamers of the western waters, but the picture having been often drawn by abler hands, I shall desist.

LOCH SKENE.

By Thomas Tod Stoddart.

LIKE the eye of a sinless child,
That moss-brown tarn is gazing wild

From its heath-fringe, bright with stars of dew,
Up to the voiceless vault of blue.

It seemeth of a violet tinge,

Shaded under its flowery fringe;

For the dark and purple of moss and heather, Like night and sunset, blend together.

That tarn, it lieth on the hills,
Fed by the thousand infant rills,
Which are ever weeping in very sadness,

Or they smile through their tears, with a gleam of gladness.

You may hear them in a summer's hour, Trickling, like a rainbow shower, From yon rock, whose rents of snow Lie shadow'd in the tarn below. It looketh from the margin bare, Like a headstone in a churchyard fair; But the heavy heron loveth well Its height, where his own sentinel He sits, when heaven is almost done With the slow watch of the sun, And the quiet day doth fold His wings in arches of burning gold.

There is a lonesome, aged cairn, Rising grey through the grass-green fern; It tells of pale, mysterious bones, Buried below the crumbling stones;