by the presence of the guard, found so many things she wanted to arrange and take with them, that the third day arrived ere she reported every thing ready to start. So inconsistent are the feelings of woman, that Francisca, who for several months had thought of naught but Willis, and looked forward to the time when she again might meet him as the dearest boon of her life, now that an opportunity offered of being constantly with him for several days, without overstepping the bounds of propriety, hung back with dread; yet in the bottom of her heart she was glad that no excuse offered for her longer postponing the step. Willis, who had called personally upon them but once since the day of the insurrection, pleading his duties as the cause of his absence, when he learned they were ready to start, came in his gig to take them off to the schooner. The Maraposa's appearance had been much altered since she came into the bay; advantage had been taken of the three days to repair all the damage that had been caused by the Scorpion, and, in honor of the fair passenger she was about to receive, instead of the coat of black with which she had been covered, she was now painted pure white, with a narrow ribbon of gold around her, and the Portuguese flag was flying from her main-gaff. So charmed was Francisca with the beautiful appearance of the vessel, that it nearly overcame her repugnance to going on board; and the behavior of Willis, who, though perfectly courteous and kind in his manner, was reserved, dissipated the remainder of her scruples; and it was with feelings of pleasure at being near him, and able to hear his voice and see him, and with a presentiment that her love would not always be unrequited, that she stepped upon the deck. The distance from Havana was only about three hundred and fifty miles, but a succession of light airs and calms prevailing, it was five days before the schooner accomplished the passage. During these five days, many and various were the emotions that agitated the breast of Francisca; now she was all joy, from the pleasure afforded her by Willis's presence, then a sickening anxiety would overcome her joy, for fear her love would never be returned, when some word, look, or tone of Willis would make her imagine that he did love her; and for a little while she would be perfectly contented, until the thought of their speedy separation, and the fear that Willis might not confess his feelings, with the uncertainty of their again meeting, would cast a heavy cloud over her spirits; and when they passed the Moro Castle, on entering the harbor, she could not determine whether she had been very happy or very miserable for the last few days. that it was not his proper appellation. She had some curiosity to know why he was in command of an armed vessel, but he did not mention the subject, and delicacy prevented her asking him. The duenna was restrained by no such scruples; and having become intimate with Mateo, endeavored by all manner of inquiries to get at the history of his captain, for she had some suspicion of the state of her young charge's feelings; the mate, however, was afflicted with a spell of taciturnity whenever she commenced about the captain, though upon all other subjects he was very communicative; and all the good dame was able to learn from him was, that the schooner was a Portuguese man-of-war, and that the captain was a young American, high in the confidence of the government, who had been sent out to the West Indies on a special mission of some kind, he did not know what! This account would have been likely to excite the doubts of one conversant with maritime affairs, but with Francisca and the duenna, it passed current, without a suspicion of its falsity. Willis's mind, during this short passage, had been likewise subject to many struggles; when he first saw Francisca, his knowledge of the sex had enabled him to form a correct opinion of her character, though he had sought her out at the governor's, with no other intention than that of passing an agreeable evening. The respect with which she had inspired him, involuntarily compelled a softer tone in his voice, and more point and feeling to his conversation than he had intended. His course of life had, for several years, excluded him from any very intimate intercourse with the refined and virtuous of the other sex; and to be thus brought in close conjunction with one eminently lovely, and whom he knew to be intelligent, gentle, and pure, gave a direction to his thoughts, and cast a shade of happiness over his feelings, that had been foreign to them for a long time; and knowing from the expression of Francisca's eye, and an indescribable something in her manner, that she entertained partial feelings toward him, he could not help loving her, and pictured to himself the happiness with which he could spend the balance of his life with such a companion; with eagerness would he have sought her affection, had he occupied that station in life he knew he was entitled to. But the dark thought of his present position obtruded itself. He was a slaver-an outlaw! and in the estimation of many in the world, worse than a pirate. His sense of honor revolted at the idea of taking advantage of the ignorance and confidence of an inexperienced girl, and inducing her to share his lot, even if he could have succeeded. He therefore treated Francisca with scrupulous politeness during the passage; and desirous of Francisca had addressed Willis by the name of removing the temptation from him, while yet he had "Brewster," the name by which he had been intro- strength to resist, landed the ladies as soon as perduced to her at the ball; and as he did not inform mits were received from the authorities, and accomher to the contrary, she had no reason to believe | panying them to Don Manuel's door, bid them fare well, without going in. Both Francisca and the duenna were very urgent for him to enter, if only for a moment, that Don Velasquez might have an opportunity of expressing his gratitude. The sudden return of Francisca greatly surprised her father and sister, who, after the first embrace, overwhelmed her with questions. She related all the particulars of the insurrection-her danger, and the great obligations she was under to the captain of the schooner in which she had come home; and her father was nearly angry at her for not compelling her preserver to come in with her, that he might have given him some evidence of his appreciation of the deep obligation he had laid him under; and he hurried off to find Willis, and tell him his feelings of gratitude, and endeavor to find some means of requiting him. getting cut to pieces by a little schooner, and you unable to return a shot. Faith, I don't blame you for hating the fellow so," said one of De Vere's friends. "Hate him! yes, I would give a thousand pounds to have him on the beach alone for half an hour. Every midshipman in port laughs at the Scorpion, and says her sting was extracted by a musqueto; but, by heavens! if I can't get a fight out of the captain, I will have the schooner as soon as she gets past the Moro."* Willis, who desired a personal encounter as much as De Vere, waited until he had finished, and stepping up to the group, bowed to the captain, and told him he had the honor of being Charles Willis, master of the schooner Maraposa; and that he would be happy to accommodate him with his company as soon as it would suit his convenience. He readily found the Maraposa, but Willis had not yet returned on board; and Don Veslasquez This sudden and unexpected movement startled waited until dinner time without his making his De Vere and his friends; but the Englishman soon appearance. Disappointed, he returned home, leav-recovered his composure, and struck by the appearing with the mate a note, earnestly requesting "Captain Brewster" to call upon him. After Willis had parted with Francisca, he found the loss of her society a greater denial, and more difficult to bear than he had imagined; and with his mind much troubled, he proceeded to a monte-room, to allay the distress of his feelings by the excitement of play. He staked high, but the luck was against him; and in a few hours all the drafts he had received from the purchasers of his last cargo passed from his pocket to the hands of the monte bank-keeper. This loss at any other time would not have disturbed him, for he made money too easy to place much value upon it; but now it caused him to feel as if every thing was against him, and in a state of mind ready to quarrel with the world, and all that was in it, he walked into the saloon attached to the monte-room, which was the fashionable lounging place of the city. Seating himself at one of the tables, he ordered some refreshments, and was discussing them, when Captain De Vere, accompanied by two other gentlemen, entered, and placing themselves at an adjoining table, continued the conversation they had been engaged in before their entry. Willis's back being toward them, he would not have seen De Vere, had not his attention been attracted by hearing the name of the Maraposa mentioned, when turning around, he discovered the English Captain. His first impulse was to get up, and by insulting De Vere, compel him to give satisfaction for the contumely he had heaped upon his name the night of the ball; but remembering his person was unknown to the Englishman, he thought he would first learn the subject of their conversation. "You only feel sore, De Vere, because the slaver dismasted you, and then played you such a slippery trick when you thought you were sure of her. By the Virgin! I would like to have seen you ance of Willis, in whom, to his surprise, he discovered a gentleman of refined manners, when he expected to meet a rough, rude sailor, returned his salute, and said "That the next morning at sunrise he would meet him on the sea-shore, six miles above the city, accompanied by a friend; and if Mr. Willis had no objection, the weapons should be pistols." Willis replied " that it was a matter of indifference to him, and if he preferred pistols, he was perfectly satisfied;" and with a bow he wished them good afternoon, and left the saloon. After Willis's departure, De Vere's friends commenced joking him upon his success, in having so soon been able to get an opportunity of revenging himself upon the dismantler of his brig. But on the eve of a deadly encounter with a determined antagonist, a man, no matter how brave, does not feel like jesting; and after engaging the services of one of the gentlemen for the morrow, looking at his watch, De Vere suddenly remembered a pressing engagement, and bidding his companions adieu, he went to Don Manuel's to spend another evening, perhaps his last, with Señorita Clara, to whom he was now engaged to be married. Willis, after leaving the cáfe, proceeded to the office of his agent, where business matters detained him until nearly dark. Attracted by the appearance of a splendid equipage that came driving from the other end of the street as he was about starting for his vessel, he looked to see if he knew the inmates, and discovered Francisca and her father sitting on the back seat. He would have gone on without speaking, but the recognition had been mutual; and the vehicle instantly stopping, Don Manuel got out, and approaching Willis with dignity and great kind *It is necessary for the condemnation of a slaver, to capture her when she has either negroes on board, or slaveirons and extra water-casks. These they always disembark before they come into port, and do not take on board until they are ready to sail. ness mingled in his manner, and deep feeling in his words, thanked him for his assistance and gallantry to his daughter; and begged Willis to point out some substantial method by which he could prove his gratitude, and told him he had waited all the morning on board the schooner to see him. The captain of the Maraposa replied, that the pleasure of being able to do any thing to increase the safety or happiness of a lady, amply repaid the trouble; and that he considered all the obligation on his side, for he had by that means enjoyed for several days the society of his daughter. "Your actions do n't tally with your words, señor capitan, or you would have come in this morning, and not have kept me so long from thanking you. But you must go with us now; no excuse will avail, for we will not take any-will we Francisca ?" "No, no! but el señor will certainly not refuse." The look that accompanied her words had more influence on Willis than all the old gentleman had said; and getting into the carriage, they drove to Don Velasquez's house. Entering the drawing-room, they found Clara and Captain De Vere, to whom Don Manuel introduced Willis as 66 Captain Brewster," of the Portuguese navy; the gentleman who had rendered such distinguished service to Francisca. Clara received him with much kindness; but De Vere's inclination was as cold and haughty as if he had been made of ice. During the evening the family treated him with the greatest attention and consideration, and seemed hurt at De Vere's reserve. But Willis, certain that his true character would soon be known, and feeling that he was deceiving them, though he had been forced into his present situation against his inclination, retired as soon after supper as politeness would allow, and promised Don Manuel to make his house his home, with the intention of never coming near it again. [To be continued. TO EVELYN. BY KATE DASHWOOD. "I had a dream, and 't was not all a dream." DEAR cousin mine, last eve I had a vision- There softly stole into the bright Elysian A glowing dream, like white-winged spirit stealing The sunset clouds were fading, and the light, Fell on the glorious page where wildly bright Of exile, and of home, breathed forth its soul of song- Then that sad farewell-hymn seemed floating on, Of spirit-music o'er the waters borne Bringing again Fond memories, and dreams of many a kindred heart, And then came visions of my own bright home- Far distant-who at eventide oft come, When to my quickened fancy love hath lent They come again-the young, the beautiful The maiden mild, The matron meek-whose soft low prayer doth lull The proud and fearless youth, with soul of fire! And then came thronging all earth's gentle spirits- Like angels to our hearts-thus they inherit Their blessed faith of Truth, and love for aye, My vision changed-those messengers of light, Then trooped they o'er our fairy-land, when night They peeped in buds and flowers, with much suspicion, And then they scattered far and wide, and sought And toilsome paths, to strew with garlands wrought- From all the brightest and the fairest flowers And some were thoughtful, and removed the thorns- Some traveler, wandering ere the morning dawns, Thereon with his worn sandals; others planted And some were roguish fays-right merry elves, And ofttimes stole away "all by themselves," And there employed their most unwearied powers What ho! the morning dawns! the orient beams Lo! flee the fairies with the first young gleams But fadeth not that vision from my soul, And blest, like thine, is every gentle spirit Like angels to our hearts! such shall inherit, That pure and radiant light, whose holy rays A PIC-NIC AT WHITE LAKE. BY ALFRED B. STREET. "A pic-nic! hurrah! just the thing. Will the girls go?" "They are all crazy at the idea that is, all that I've seen." "CONTINGENT or executory remainders, whereby no present interest passes, are, where the estate in remainder is limited to- (how warm it is) to take effect either to a dubious and-uncertain-person or-upon-either to a dubious and uncertain person, or (conscience, how sleepy I am) upon a-a-dubious-and-uncertain-event-to take effect-round and invite our ladies, and be off in an hour." "Then let us speak to Lavigne, and Hull, and Murray, and Williams, and so on, and all bustle Away we both go, and in a short time the boys are all notified, the girls all invited, and the arrangements all made. either estate in remainder-is-contingent or executory remainders whereby-no-" woods-birds -sunshine-moss-green-leaves-crash-bless me, Sir William Blackstone, Knt., one of his majesty's At three P. M. we start from "Hamilton's stoop," Justices of Common Pleas, flat upon his reverend as usual. Williams, with his wife, in his neat little face, (wig and all) shocking! Well, all I can do by wagon; myself and lady in the gig, and the rest in way of apology, will be to raise the learned knight a huge, lumbering two-horse conveyance, with a from his unbecoming posture, and-how tedious range of seats, and clattering, when in motion, like this law is! I really thought a moment ago I was a hail-storm. Up the broad village street (to wit, in the woods; but, alas! I was only dozing. My turnpike) we merrily go-by the Episcopal Church, office to-day appears very dull. That book-case, surrounded with its mountain-ash trees (amidst with its rows of Johnson's, Cowen's, and Wendell's which even now stands our respected "Dominie," Reports, Chitty on Bills, Comyn on Contracts, Bar-gazing at them with the affection of a parent-for bour's Chancery Practice, et cetera―this desk he planted them there with his own hands)—through piled with papers tied with red tape-these three or four yellow chairs-that spectral broom in its dark corner and this spotted spider on my one window, industriously engaged in weaving a large wheel-like web over two of its upper panes really I begin to be sick of them. I'll see what is "going on" out of doors. What a golden day. The sky is of a rich, tender blue, with here and there a soft pearly cloud sleeping in its depths, like snow-flakes on a bed of violets. And the sunshine, what a rich, deep blue it has. I think I'll take a walk. Those woods, out there beyond Fairchild's pond, seem beckoning to me; and the village offers as little variety as my office. There are two or three idlers on Wiggins' tavern stoop a cow and three geese are feeding quietly in the green lane that runs to "our barn," past my office-beside the barn stands my gig, clean and glittering, from the just suspended efforts of "Black Jake"-a couple of stage-drivers are tarring the wheels of one of the huge red coaches that run regularly between Bloomingburgh and Monticello the captain is on his way to the "corner well," for a pail of water-an old horse is grazing on the "green" near the court-house-and a "team" or two are standing by St. John's store. Let me see-which way shall I go! up the turnpike, or down to the "Big Rock." But, hey-day! here comes Mayfield in great haste. "Well, Mayfield, what's in the wind now?" the outskirts of the village-past the fence of pineroots, wreathed in every imaginable shape, like twining serpents-and in a short time we are toiling up the steep winding pitch, called "Jones' Hill.” The sunshine is sweet, although somewhat warm, and there is now and then the downy touch of a breeze upon our foreheads. We glance at the stretch of wood and meadow, backed by a low, blue line of hills, which meets us at the summit, and then bowl down the slope into the hollow. "Kinne's Hill" next taxes the endurance of our steeds; but we reach the top, and look around us. How beautiful is the scene! What streaming black shadows are cast by every object; what a soft gloss is on yon emerald meadow, and how far the pointed shade of that solitary hay-barrack is cast upon its rich surface. How the light gleams upon the fencescatches upon the acclivities-bathes the tips of the scattered chimneys, and stripes half the bosoms of the distant hills. How it touches in here, and streaks out there, and settles in a broad space of deep yellow in another place; for, be it known, that at four o'clock of a summer afternoon (just the hour that we are upon "Kinne's,") commences the time for witnessing the effects of the now slanting sunshine. But I must not stay here forever admiring views and effects, particularly as my horse, "Old George," is dancing up and down as if his hoofs were encased in hot iron. So I ease the reins, and "I say, squire, how would you like a pic-nic at down we dash toward the Mongaup, which we White Lake this afternoon?" soon see flowing, sweet and cool, in the shadow ness mingled in his manner, and deep feeling in his | said; and getting into the carriage, they drove to words, thanked him for his assistance and gallantry Don Velasquez's house. to his daughter; and begged Willis to point out some substantial method by which he could prove his gratitude, and told him he had waited all the morning on board the schooner to see him. The captain of the Maraposa replied, that the pleasure of being able to do any thing to increase the safety or happiness of a lady, amply repaid the trouble; and that he considered all the obligation on his side, for he had by that means enjoyed for several days the society of his daughter. "Your actions do n't tally with your words, señor capitan, or you would have come in this morning, and not have kept me so long from thanking you. But you must go with us now; no excuse will avail, for we will not take any-will we Francisca ?" "No, no! but el señor will certainly not refuse." The look that accompanied her words had more influence on Willis than all the old gentleman had Entering the drawing-room, they found Clara and Captain De Vere, to whom Don Manuel introduced Willis as 66 Captain Brewster," of the Portuguese navy; the gentleman who had rendered such distinguished service to Francisca. Clara received him with much kindness; but De Vere's inclination was as cold and haughty as if he had been made of ice. During the evening the family treated him with the greatest attention and consideration, and seemed hurt at De Vere's reserve. But Willis, certain that his true character would soon be known, and feeling that he was deceiving them, though he had been forced into his present situation against his inclination, retired as soon after supper as politeness would allow, and promised Don Manuel to make his house his home, with the intention of never coming near it again. [To be continued. TO EVELYN. BY KATE DASHWOOD. "I had a dream, and 't was not all a dream." DEAR Cousin mine, last eve I had a vision- There softly stole into the bright Elysian A glowing dream, like white-winged spirit stealing The sunset clouds were fading, and the light, Rosy and dim, Fell on the glorious page where wildly bright "The Switzer's Hymn" Of exile, and of home, breathed forth its soul of song- Then that sad farewell-hymn seemed floating on, Of spirit-music o'er the waters borne Bringing again Fond memories, and dreams of many a kindred heart, Dim cloistered in my bosom's shrine apart. And then came visions of my own bright home- Far distant-who at eventide oft come, When to my quickened fancy love hath lent They come again-the young, the beautiful The maiden mild, The matron meek-whose soft low prayer doth lull The proud and fearless youth, with soul of fire! And then came thronging all earth's gentle spirits- Like angels to our hearts-thus they inherit Their blessed faith of Truth, and love for aye, My vision changed-those messengers of light, Then trooped they o'er our fairy-land, when night They peeped in buds and flowers, with much suspicion, And then they scattered far and wide, and sought And toilsome paths, to strew with garlands wrought- From all the brightest and the fairest flowers And some were thoughtful, and removed the thorns- Some traveler, wandering ere the morning dawns, Thereon with his worn sandals; others planted And some were roguish fays-right merry elves, And ofttimes stole away "all by themselves," And there employed their most unwearied powers What ho! the morning dawns! the orient beams With glory bright, Lo! flee the fairies with the first young gleams Of rosy light; But fadeth not that vision from my soul, Where its soft teachings e'er shall hold control. ་ And blest, like thine, is every gentle spirit That ministers Like angels to our hearts! such shall inherit, That pure and radiant light, whose holy rays |