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was on the very edge of that new dawn which “ In one another's arms they dyed, broke upon the world in the great discovery of
As wanting due relief," Fausl--his rival enjoyed all the advantage of that corresponding as it does with perhaps the most exquisite discovery-while he, on the contrary, felt all the description in the whole of Shakspeare's immortal tragedy;
the uncertainty attending their interment,evil that could be felt, by a person against whom
“No burial these pretty babes were employed weapons which he could not use,
or any man receives ;"and the full capacity of which he was consequently their uncle possessing himself of their inheritance, and the unable to estimate.
wretched pangs of remorse which he suffered prior to bis Note. We would take great pleasure in publishing the death, — whole of the famous hallad of the “ Babes in the Wood;" “And now the heavy wrath of God but we have only such portions of it at hand as are
Upon their uncle sell; printed in Mıs. Halsted's book. The tale, we believe, Yes, fearful fiends did haunt his house, however, is well understood. A father dying left two His conscience felt a hell;"infant children under the guardianship of an uncle; the together with the retribution which followed the crimeuncle, in order to come into possession of their prop- the death of his wife-of his sons—and the desertion of erty, which was very large, seduced them from the guar. his followers, dianship of their mother, who anticipated their fate and
“And nothing by him staid ;" parted with them with many tears and loud lamentations. The uncle afterwards, under pretence of sending them to the confession eventually of the surviving ruffian, and the see the city of London, entrusted ibem to the care of two premature death of the uncle himself, -all facts in a great prosessed murderers, with directions to put them to death. measure correct as regards the actual fate of Richard III., The man having carried them into a forest, was about to are very startling coincidences, to say the least, between execute his commission, when their beauty and helpless. the nursery legend and the reputed tragedy which is belieness softened his heart, and he contented himself with leav. ved to have been thus obscurely perpetuated.” ing them to perish in the woods. They died in the night, in each other's arms, and were covered by a robin-redbreast as we have related. The whole story bears a striking resemblance to what is generally believed of Richard's conduct with regard to his nephews, and was evidently designed as a political article. We give a few extracts. Speaking of the conduct of the mother on parting from
BY H. H. CLEMENTS.
Pearl of the heart's mysterious deep,
In whose pure realm thy breathings lie, Here is a striking resemblance between the conduct of
Soft as the dream of infant's sleep, this mother and that of Edward IV.'s widow, as represent
Or thought in high festivily. ed by Shakspeare on parting with her sons. Then (we quote from Mrs. Halsted's appendix,) it tells
Thou comest with new joy to lay us of “the avarice and ambition that tempted the uncle
Thy hand on the cold heart of care, to commit the crime, and its being perpetrated in so short
And fill the sunny aisles of day a time after their father's decease, and in ulter disregard of his oath to him,
With light such as they seldom share. “ He had not kept these pretty babes
Upon the soul thy yearning falls
Like summer winds on whispering flowers, But for their wealth he did devise
And from the buried past recally
The memory of her golden hours.
Thou roam'st the cold, wide world afar, • He bargained with two ruffians strong,
Clothed in the many hues of sound,
Triumphing, like the morning star,
Within its bright and azure bound. And slay them in a wood;"— the compunction felt by the iwo ruffians, as related by
The ritual of the sullen main, Shakspeare, in very similar terms to those in the ballad,
That lingers in the murmuring shell, “ So that the pretty speeche they had,
Repeats with many a solemn strain
The wondrous influence of thy spell.
The anthem the resounding sea,
Which all thy varied voices pour. “ Thus wandered these poor innocents, Till death did end their griefs;"
Like fires within the northern climes and so cautiously reported by the cotemporary ecclesiasti- That light our own with roseate glow, cal historian; the very attitude in which the children met Through earth's remotest bounds thy chimes their death,-
of love and beauty ebb and flow.
| With the sweet sights and sounds compare Which haunt these realms of upper air ?
THE FOUNTAIN AND THE ROSE.
BY MRS. MARIA G. BUCHANAN.
Deep in the bosom of the earth
A murmuring sound was heard-
The virgin silence stirred;
The pining waters could not rest.
From priceless gems were on them thrown,They panied for the fairy dreams
To earth's green surface known. 'Mid Nature's hid and mystic things
The Fountain welled its way,
Forth to the realms of day.
On the onfettered Spring -
Seemed vain imagining,
Was glassed the bright reality.
Just then the Fountain heard a sound,
As sweet as zephyr ever gaveWith earnest eye it looked around
The margin of its own pure wave, A lovely lower was bending nigh,
Crimson as smile of sunset sky-'Twas from its lips of purest flame, These low, mysterious, accents came : “List, Fountain, List !" the sweet voice said, As low the flower bent its head, “Oh! listen to my warning lay, Fast comes the golden car of day, And if upon thy placid stream Its dazzling glories brightly gleam, They'll wake those rays of burning fire, A wild unrest, a strange desire. This little spot where now thou art, No more can hold thy yearning heart; Adown the mountain's rugged steep Thy swollen waves will wildly sweep; On, on they'll rush, 'till far away They join the billows' madd’ning play. But, Fountain, thou wilt never meet, In all thy rovings, spot so sweet As that where now thy waters rest, The stars are mirrored on thy breast, The trees above thee shadows spread, The flowers their odours round thee shed ; Each gentle thing, each murmur sweet, Is gathered in this calm retreat ; If from the Sun-God thou wouldst hide Thy lambent waves-at morning tide I and my sister flowers will hold Above thy breast our cups of gold, Our emerald leaves will form a shade, His brightest beams cannot invade, Until that peaceful hour returns, When spirits light the starry urns, And love and silence seem but made To haunt the green sequestered shade." As the rapt Fountain looked and listened, Within the Rose's eye there glistened A dew-drop tear, and from her breast, ('Twas gentle July gave it birth,) A fragrant sigh stole softly forth :How could it leave a place so blest ?
As twilight flung her modest veil
Upon the brow of day, And the crimson cheek of the West grew pale,
It mourned, the vanished ray; Unheeding, that the Star of Eve
Shone brightly on its breast. What spells did jewels ever weave
To soothe the heart's unrest?
Oh! as in awe the Fountain gazed
Upon the regal Night,
What glories met its sight:
In murmurs low the Fountain spoke,
Oh! this, the raptured Fountain thought,
And thoughts, as pure as moonbeams bright,
To mar the sacred rest,
Of woman's virgin breast.
THE HUNTER OF LOST RIVER.
Oh! think not I could ever pine
There are many smaller valleys lying beyond the mountains which make the wesiern limit of the great valley of Virginia. For instance, in the counties of Berkeley, and Morgan, are Back creek,
Sleepy creek, and Cacapon valleys, not to speak of many still smaller, which channelled by mere rivulets, narrow in places into glens, sometimes indeed into ravines. This alternation of mountain and vale extends along the western side of the great valley, very generally, from the northern to the southern line of Virginia.
One of the prettiest, and most fertile, of these subordinate valleys is that of Lost River. It commences near Brock's gap in the county of Shenandoah, extends twenty-five miles in a northern direction, and terminates at the foot of Sandy ridge, under which the river disappears, to rise again, Three miles farther on, as the head-spring of the Cacapon. The name “Lost River'i suggests the idea of a great chasm, and of the plonge and mysterious disappearance of a turbulent siream into it. We are apt to imagine something like the strange picture which Coleridge has given us in Kubla Khan :
Night came again—can I tell the tale ?
“And from this chasm, wilh ceaseless turmoil seelhing, The crimson cheek of the Rose was pale,
As if this earth in fast ibick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacied liver. Thus, like that Fountain in the earth,
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion, Love has its hid and mystic birth.
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Toen reached the caveros measureless to man
And sank in lumult to a lifeless ocean."
Whoever imagines aovibing so grand of Lost Walered by dew's of Modesty;
River, will find the reality very disappointing. It The stars of Hope shine fair above
has indeed its spring-head, course, and termination The newborn fount of virgin love;
all amongst mountains, like the “sacred river Of Joy, the fresh and budding rose
Alph,” but there is no "seething," and there are Upon the wave its shadow throws.
no “caverns measureless to man." An inconsid. erable stream rising quietly, running in no remark-, spokes, and Nelly, assuming a prim look, lurped to able manner, and sneaking away. at last, through face the young coupíryman. a number of liiile holes in the ground, with a noise “Is it ihee, Jobin ?"? no louder than a gorgle—his is all that Lost River “ I have some doubis as to that, Nelly." really is. I need scarcely say, afier ihis, that the As to what, John ?" historian of the valley, my old friend Mr. Kerchi- “As to whether or no I am John Carper.” val-a rare lover of traditions, and as earnest an “Thee is in a gay humor this morning, John." itinerant as ever bunted out natural curiosities-- No, Nelly, only out of my head with thinking is a little byperbolical ia calling Lost River "a of you. But listen to me for a litle while. I stupendous evidence of the all-powerful arm of left Broad-brim salting his caule in the hills, and God."
came down to have a word or two with you. This On an insiep, if I may so speak, of the moun- is what I have to say ; I love you, and you love tains, west of Lost River, and wiibin a few huo-me"dred yards of il, lived in the year 1781 a substan- “Thee is not overstocked with modesty to say tial Quaker named Joshua Blake. His house was a as much as that.” log cabin of one story, divided into two large rooms “Come, Nelly : you know that I am only speakby a great cenual sione chimney. The roof wasing the truth. It is not so long since you gave me of clap-boards, held in their places by poles pinned to understand that you did love me ; to be sure you across them. A long porch fronted the river. In did not say so, which, as an honest girl, I think this porcb, hanging from pegs driven into the hewn you might do wii hovi doing any harm—but you did logs of the cabin, were generally ranged the Qua- enough, and I kissed you, which made it a bargain. ker's saddle, the side-saddle of his niece, Nelly Now Nell, I am as grave as the lean parson at Blake, sels of plough or wagon harness, linsey Morefield; so put off that pretty bantering humor, hunting-frocks, and other minor articles of house- and hear me like a true-hearted girl as you are. I wifery, or farm-thrift. Here, too, Nelly Blake's have tried 10 live wil hout you, but I find it isn't spinning-wheel had its permanent summer-place. possible. Old Broad-bı im has three hundred pounds A few young and vigorous apple and other fruit of yours whiih be must give up when you are trees flanked the house. A wide meadow lay in married, or come of age. Now he puts himself front, between the foot of the hill and the tree- between you and me, and gives me the cold shouldskirted river; and on the line between bill and er, because if we are married, the law will make low-ground, just within the yard enclosure, was a him give up the money. You are hardly eighteen; range of bee-gums, whose busy occupants, at the three years are an age to wait ; besides, something date of my story, were in full enjoyment of the may happen 10 keep us from ever getting married. apple-blooms. In the rear of bis rude, but com- Now, Nelly, let Broad-brim have the ihree hunfortable dwelling-house, Joshua had expended bis dred pounds, and let me have you—or you have enlire stock of taste in the ereciion of a barn, with me—it is i he same thing. I will work for you, high black gables, painted into a persect blaze of and we will never miss the money. It would buy Dutch red.
calile to bring money in again, but I and SharpIt was late in April, 1781, that Nelly Blake, nose here can find yon venison enough, and keep the liitle Quakeress, worked at her spinning- the wolves from the sheep, and yon can spin the wheel on the porch, in the sunshine of a very wool, and sing at your spioning.
How I should pleasant morning. Whilst she worked away, intent like to hear you singing in my cabin, Nelly!" The only, as it seemed, opon her thread and the filling speaker had by this iime left his position outside of of the coil to the spindle, a young countryman, the porch, and stood very near the Quakeress. dressed in homespun, came to the bannister at her - Nelly-dear Nelly,” he said in a coaxing tone, back, and leaning an arm on it whilst the other held as he took her hand, “ do say yes-give up the a rifle in its curre,
looked at her for some minutes money to Broad-brim, and be my wife at once : be wiibou leitiog his presence be known. A tall, my dear little wife. I will take such good care of brindled dog, with a sharp nose and feai hered tail, you, and love you so much.” stood at bis heels, as moijooless as if he had the "John Carper," said the girl, become now quite ere to be quiet. Forward passed the Quakeress grave, “ thee knows very well that ibere is love beviib a spring of the insiep, and a bend of her pretty iween us. If uncle Blake will take the money, and Deck, back she came, her livle feet fairly iwink- thee will take me without it-here is my hand. But ling as ankle passed ankle, her bust expanded, and John, uncle Blake will hardly do so wicked a thing. her dimpled chin thrown up; whilst the surly wheel, He will be ashamed to rob the child of his brother. shining from a dismal groan to a furious roar, ac- He will be ashamed to take the money; and not companied with such variations her coming and generous enough to give it up before the end of going. lo ihe midst of this din which her indus- the three years. I am afraid that thee will have try made, she heard her name called. The wheel to wait for me. Is that so hard to do John ?" stopped with a clatter of the check-stick upon its “ Hard ? yes, Nelly, impossible. If you love
me, and Blake is such an old hunks as to refuse has not the skill to make moccasins like the slimthe offer to take the money, and give you up, run fingered lad. There is the difference between the away with me, We can ride in a night to More. track of Girty and such as thee would make, that field-be married-come back-beg Broad-brim's there is between the tracks of a buck and an ox." pardon-go to house-keeping, and be as happy as “ Hum!" grunted John, not much pleased with the bees here in the apple blossoms. Say the word, the illustration. Nell, or if you mean yes, but can't say it for smoth- “ But this is not all,” continued Nelly; “ I pickering the crying fit that makes your eyes looked up this knife at the spring.” Here she pulled a away from me, turn your mouth a little, and let knife from the pocket of her dimity apron. “I me kiss you."
knew it at once as Girty's knife. He bought it " It is a grave word, John, to speak between a of the pedlar when he came on his rounds, last fall, kiss and a cry.
Thee must not be so swift and a little before uncle Blake druve the lad away. peremptory with me. My duty is not clearly be- What advice, John, does thee give in these matfore me.
The thread is tangled. Give me a little ters ?" time, John. We can speak of this when thee has My advice, Nelly, is that you keep in-doors, sounded uncle Blake upon the matter of giving up unless it is pleasant to have the lad asking you to the money. Thee must leave me now.” be his squaw. I can't see any danger of worse.
After some farther speech, and a kiss, John Car- The Indians have not come in on us for ten years; per called to his dog Sharpnose, who had gone off since the peace was made with the chiefs. They on a foraging expedition amongst the outhouses, are killing and stealing on the Ohio again, but it is shouldered his rifle, and was about to depart. Nel- a long way from there here. Smith, the surveyor, ly, however, called him back.
is to be at my cabin to day ; but I will take Sharp“John,” she said in a low tone, “ I have my trou- nose to-morrow, and scout in the hills until I learn bles to day; and thee seems to me to be a fitting something of the lad." person to communicate them to."
" There is another matter, John," said the Qua"Speak out, Nelly.”
keress, but then paused, and seemed to consider Thee remembers the Indian boy, Girty ?" very busily for a minute. “ To be sure.
I remember all about hiin, from Speak it out, Nelly, like an honest girl." the time that drunken scoundrel, old Girty, brought “Does thee know anything of the movements him in and bound him prentice to Blake, to the time up the river? Uncle Blake is riding to William Broad-brini gave him a beating and drove him off. Mace's, and elsewhere, in a very unusual manner. Old Girty was the arrantest white rascal west of I heard him tell William Mace, who was here last the mountains, and the boy's mother was a squaw; night, that the young men must fight it out here, so that, if young leather-face didn't deserve the if they were interrupted, but that the movements beating, there is nothing in blood."
ought to be very quiet, and the companies ought to " He did deserve the beating, John. But does get down over the Blue Ridge, and join the true thee not know the cause of it? The boy showed men in some county there; that Cornwallis was in me disrespect.”
William Mace laughed and called “ How? I never heard of that."
uncle Blake the fighting Quaker,' but uncle said " He asked me to be his squaw, John,” said that it was for putting down arms that arms were Nelly with a laugh and a blush.
taken up, and besides, that he had no idea of fight“ The infernal copper-skin--the leather-faced ing himself. What is the meaning of it all, John ?" rascal! Why didn't you tell me all about it, before John Carper laughed. “For a knowing man, I he ran away? By the"-
must say that Broad-brim is working into a conside"Thee should not swear, John, and there is no rable difficulty. You remember the twelve Philadeluse to be so savage. But this is what I have to phia Quakers that Congress sent to Winchester, say: I think young Girty has come back, and is hi- because they were so hot in preaching against our ding in the neighborhood.”
fighting, * that at last it looked as if they were Carper pricked up his ears, as did his dog Sharp- ready to fight us for fighting?"
The dog had shown a singular attention at the calling of the Indian boy's name.
Some of our politicians, when measures go against " Why I think that the lad is here," continued ther, are as ready with their “ protests” as notaries public.
But the most extraordinary case of protesting on record is Nelly, “is this : I went this morning to the syc- furnished in the conduct of Mr. Fisher, one of these arrested amore spring, to fill uncle Blake's pitcher; I saw, Quakers. “ Among the prisoners were three of the Pemin the mud the print of a moccasin."
bertons, two of the Fishers, an old Quaker preacher named “ But I wear moccasins myself, Nelly, and was Hunt, and several others, amounting in all to twelve, and at the spring yesterday.
with the druggist and dancing master, fourteen. One of the
Fishers was a lawyer by profession. He protested in his Nelly looked down at her hunter's feet and laugh
own name, and on behalf of his fellow prisoners, against ed. “Thee has a larger foot, John—as well be- being taken into custody by Col. Smith; stated that they fits so strong and large a person. Besides thee had protested against being sent from Philadelphia ; that