No. 17.-VOL. I.]

THE ELOPEMENT.

How significant, though quaintly simple, the phrase " the course of true love never yet ran smooth." In the upper and middle, and even in the "lower" classes, marriages in general, are contracted, with a due regard to the interest of the respective parties. If, in high life, "the gentleman's marketable grove falls in love with the lady's marriageable lawn," in middle life, the young demoiselle's thousand pound portion is monstrously enamoured of the juvenile bachelor's well-stocked shop, and so on. If we graduate the scale, so as to comprehend the humblest members of the community, unless we except mendicants who are said to marry for the mere merriment of the matter.

All such provident marriages are too cold and prudential for Cupid's recognition; too unruffled in their course for true love, which delighteth in hair-breadth escapes and deeds of enterprize.

All romantic loves, all lovers worthy the novelist's conception, all loves which belong to the heart, when it is tenated by

"Passion's host that never brook'd control," are Cupid's own, full of stratagem, and abounding in marvellous incident, strange in their origin, chequered and teeming with deep interest in their progress, and oft agreeable in the denouément.'

Let us imagine the preliminaries of a trip to the mansion of the clerical Vulcan of Gretna Green, who forges love's fetters, and then let us think on the perilous hazards of the road.

Young miss deeply enamoured of a generous gallant, is thwarted in her wishes by the vigilance of papa, who discovers every conceivable objection to the suitor, merely because he chances to have neither grove, lawn, well-lined purse, or estates in abeyance. The poor baffled prisoner of a father's suspicions, debarred from the privilege of holding an interview with him who has her heart, and, moreover, watched in all her movements by some officious menial of an old maid, tired of her captivity, and resolves on being at liberty. The lady's admirer is also "bent on mischief," of the venial kind. If young miss be resolved on bold stroke for a husband," young master be

a

comes a knight-errant in his way, and vows to die or conquer.

In most families of respectability, there is to be found some pretty little maid in her last teens, blooming and beautiful, dreaming of the joys of wedlock, never at home, but when in secret communion with the gipsey fortune-teller; a dame who can minutely note, in all "the perfection of prophecy precise," the color of the "young man's hair," ," his height to "a t," and other particulars of importance, to the wife expectant. Such pretty little maids, uniformly evince a deep sympathy with the young love-sick miss, become confidants, and convey those pocket-pistols of Cupid, called

billets doux, to and from the lovers. Hence, as

signations are made, and elopements arranged. An appointment by moonlight is made for the ostensible purpose of an interview, but on the part of the suitor, at least, as a step towards flight, for he takes care, on such occasions, to "strike the iron while it is hot," and have a chaise and pair in waiting. We fancy a lover meeting his Desdemona by moonlight, and coaxing her through wily persuasions into a resolve, to fling off allegiance to paternal despotism, seize the present moment, and fly. When prose is found too dull, he resorts to poetry, the language of love, and sings

Now while the dull are dreaming. love!
The moon is brightly beaming, love!
And you, my heart,

How can I part,

While my light in your eye is gleaming, love! The young miss listens to the soft persuasion; and "expressive silence" gives consent. Away the lovers fly at love's speed; and, when the heiress is missed in the morning, the father and, perchance, the brothers follow at double speed. Now "comes the tug of war," "the race is to the swift." But if, perchance, the lovers vehicle should break down, and the fugitives be overtaken, what sad disasters too oft ensue; disasters more easily conceived than described.

We once heard of a gay chevalier, a knight, chivalrous as any of the olden day, who, never worsted in the martial conflict, vowed to be vic

There seems somewhat incongruous in the association of these words, but our meaning is obvious from

the text.

[PRICE TWO-PEnce.

torious in love. The chivalrous lover induced his fair one to fly, bnt, knowing that pursuit would be almost instantaneous, took due precaution.

He first "by money's magic," knocked up a match between a pretty milliner and his own servant, a knowing lad, and insisted on their taking a trip to Gretna, to get married. The knight arranged that the milliner and himself should set off in the last carriage, and his own fair love and the servant start in the first, and that all should be married on their meeting at Gretna.

The father, foaming with rage and vowing vengeance, soon eyed the carriage containing the knight and the pretty milliner, and, at once, booked his daughter, captive. But how was he startled on seeing his daughter's suitor in companionship with another lady fugitive!

After apologising to the knight for his abrupt appearance and unconscious mistake, and fancying all right, that the folks at home had merely quizzed him, he returned to encounter new mortifications.

The sequel is obvious; the knight gained his point, and papa was outwitted.

Our beautiful print of this week reminded us of the preceding anecdote.

"TWILL BE A SIGH FOR THEE! C. E. HOUGHTON.

Yes I can feel, and keenly feel,
The pangs of slighted love;
Yet never shall my tongue reveal
The anguish that I prove.
Grateful for what I once possessed
My constant heart shall be:
And all the love within my breast
Be sacred still to thee!

And when no more by grief oppressed
The grave shall shelter me;
E'en then, if aught could break my rest,
"Twill be a sigh for thee!

F.

THE HOSTAGE! A FRAGMENT.

BY R. C. B. SEN.

Lord Eric left his castle's hall
And vaulted on his steed,
Bound on an errand dire withal,
To make an hostage bleed!
Loud and long his charger neighed,
As onward he advanc'd ;

From out the path not once he stray'd
But gaily forward pranced.
Deep sorrow clouded Eric's brow,
And alt'red much his mien;
Yet frequent might the lurid glow
Of bitt'rest hate be seen.
The errand he was bound upon
Unpleasant was to him,
For plighted troth, however won,
Should not be broke, I ween.
Not so with Eric's dearest friends,
At least he held them such,
That they should thus on faith turn end,
Did grieve the poor full much.

The umpire gain'd-the hostage claim'd,
Was given to his foe;

His weighty chains at once proclaim'd
His suff'rings and his woe.

Pale was the youth who hostage was,
And heavy were his eyes;

Still might be seen, when near the fosse,
Their flashing with surprise.

The castle reach'd, an owlet screech'd,
As if 'twas siezed with pain;
A bullet from Lord Eric reach'd,
And stretched it on the plain.

In silence pass'd they thro' the gate
Of Warkworth's ancient tow'rs;
Oft times the place where maidens sate,
Or culled its fairest flow'rs.
The dungeon keep disclosed its steep
Recesses to the view;

Its humid walls, and steps full steep
Bedeck'd with noisome dew.

Now to the youth he spake, forsooth,
Or mutt'red this address;

I'm sorry for thee in good sooth,
And pity thy distress.

Your friends have broken faith, young sir,
Tho' much it doth me grieve
To tell you so; make no answer,
But listen to my shrieve.

As hostage for their plighted troth,
You're in my possession;
Therefore, altho' I am most loth,
I'm deaf to intercession.
Your life as forfeit must be paid
Before to morrow's dawn,
Unless you do consent to aid
My wishes to perform.

Your pray'rs with me will nought avail,
Your friends have broken troth!
Then did the youth, with visage pale,
Make answer thus, full wrath.
Think not the fear of death will make
Thine hostage recreant turn,
Or that your threat'nings will him shake,
No, thus I do them spurn.

While speaking, from his arm he drew
A scarf both rich and rare;
Which, rending first in twain, he threw
At the revengeful peer.

Thou dost reject my lenity,

And scorn my proff red hand; Dost court my just severity,

Will link not with my band!

This scarf is all thy friends shalt have
To mind them of thy fate;
No monument upon thy grave,

Thy length of life to state!
Bethink thee, youth; how sad to be
Thus cut off in thy bloom-
Be wise for once-be ruled by me-
Nor headlong rush to doom!
Lord Eric, you have heard my say,
My purpose shall not alter;
Fully prepared, by dawn of day,

Death will not make me falter.
Lord Eric strode with moody brow
From out that dungeon keep,
Repenting much his hasty vow
Had called revenge from sleep.
The mother of that youth had been
Object of Eric's love,
Till Edrid ent'red on the scene,
She did his suit approve.

But false alike to love and faith,

To Edrid she had giv'n

Her hand, but not her heart; so saith
Report. Eric had striven.

Ardent to prevent that union,

But vain his efforts were;
And nought availed communion
With the determined fair.

The scarf his hostage rent in twain
Told him of happier hours:
Of pleasure, unalloyed with pain,
Ör grief's relentless pow'rs.
But oh! how sadly had the scene

Been changed by sixteen years!
The offspring of his loved Helene,

E'en now for death prepares !
And he, who'd often sworn to her,
To aid her in her need;
Stood named the executioner,
To perpetrate the deed!
The bell did toll the morning hour
As sleepless he arose,
Hoping some benignant power
Would kindly interpose.

He reach'd the court-yard's ample range,
Where stood the youthful page;
His mien had undergone no change,
Unaltered his visage.

How now, young man? Lord Eric cried,
Why art thou here so soon?
At morning's dawn, the youth replied,
Thou bad'st me meet thy doom.
True, so I did-I had forgot-

Come, hasten men-prepare
The engines dread-such is the lot
My hostage here must share!
The obsequious menials hastily

Disperse, the racks t' obtain;
But hark! there's one most lustily
An entrance seeks to gain.
The peer himself, unto the gate,

Doth hie away with speed;
And there espies, with heart elate,
An herald on his steed.

AMERICAN LADIES.

A

The forms of the American ladies are generally distinguished by great symmetry, and fineness of proportion, but their frames and constitutions seem to be less vigorous than those of the ladies of almost any country in Europe; their complexions, which, to the south, incline towards the Spanish, are, to the north, remarkably fair and blooming, and while young, by far the greater portion of them are decidedly handsome. marked expression of intelligence, and a certain indescribable air of langour-probably the result of the climate-lend to their countenance a peculiar charm, to which it would be difficult to find a parallel in Europe. An American lady, in her teens, is, perhaps, the most sylph-like creature on earth. Her limbs are exquisitely wrought, her motions light and graceful, and her whole carriage at once easy and dignified. But these beauties, it is painful to say, are doomed to an early decay. At the period of twenty-four, a certain want of fulness in her proportions is already perceptible; and once passed the age of thirty, the whole fabric goes seemingly into decay. As the principal cause of this sudden decline, some allege the climate but I ascribe it more willingly to the great assiduity with which American ladies discharge their duties as mothers. No sooner are they married, than they begin to lead a life of comparative seclusion, and once mothers, they are actually buried to the world. At the period of ushering their children into society, they appear, indeed, more as respectable matrons; but they are then only the silent witnesses of the triumphs of their daughters. An American mother is the nurse, tutor, friend, and counsellor of her children. Nearly the whole business of education devolves upon her; and the task is, in many instances, beyond her physical ability. Thus, it is customary with many ladies in New England, not only to hear their children recite the lessons assigned to them at school, but actually to expound them, and to assist them in the solution of arithmetical and algebraic problems.

There are married ladies, who apply themselves to the study of mathematics and the classics, for no other purpose than forwarding the education of their children; and I have known young men who have entered college with no other instruction in the preparatory departments, than what they received from their mothers. But this continued application to the most arduous duties, the increasing care and anxiety for the progress and welfare of their children, and the consequent unreasonable confinement to the house and nursery, undermine constitutions, already, by nature, sufficiently delicate; and it is thus, by the sacrifice of health and beauty, that American ladies pay to their offspring the sacred tribute of maternal affection. No human being can ever requite the tender cares of a mother; but it appears to me that the Americans have, in this respect, obligations immeasurably greater than those of the inhabitants of any other country.

As regards the morality and virtue of American ladies, it will suffice to say that they are not inferior to the English, who are universally acknowledged to be the best wives and mothers in Europe. The slightest suspicion against the character of a lady, is, in America, as in England, sufficient to exclude her from society, but, in America, public opinion is equally severe on men, and this is certainly a considerable improvement. Accordingly there is no country in which scandal, even amongst the most fashionable circles, is so rare as in the United States, or where the term 'intrigue' is less known and understood. I shall always remember the observation of a French gentleman, who could find nothing to interest him in Ameri

"Tis night-the suffering maiden sleeps,
Yet her's is not the rest which creeps
Like balm into the heart, and brings
Refreshment on the mornings' wings:
Consumption like a vampire drains
The warm blood from her violet veins,
Yet on her cheeks might still be seen,
Faint traces where the rose had been;
And tho' her eyes' bright fire had fled,
Her lips retain'd their vivid red;
At length the dying girl awoke,
And thus in faltering accents spoke:-
"Powers celestial! is this death-
And have I breath'd my latest breath;
Oh! no-my wandering reason brought
The strange delusion, and I thought,
My tired soul had wing'd its flight,
Far from this world of death and night,
To everlasting life and light;
And those dear forms which now I see,
Were angels hovering over me.

"Now draw that thickly folded blind, And ope' the lattice, mother, kind, And let pale Cynthia's silver shine, Gleam thro' the clustering purple vine, O'er my wan brow her trembling light, So pure-so spiritually bright. "Hark! what strange sweet sounds are these, Come whispering on the gentle breeze, So soft and low-they seem to say, 'Sister, here no longer stayKindred seraph come away.'

"Dull grows the moon-how dim and dark Seems all around my chamber-hark! Again, yet more distinct and clear, Those heavenly warning strains I hear. Ye heavenly choir! I come-I comeTake me to your spirit home; Oh! mother, dear, I faint-I dieKindred friends, a long good-by."

E. GREEN.

EXTRAORDINARY EFFORTS OF

MEMORY.

Esdras is stated by historians to have restored the sacred Hebrew volumes by memory, when they had been destroyed by the Chaldeans; and according to Eusebius, it is to his sole recollection that we are indebted for that part of holy writ. St. Anthony, the Egyptian hermit, although he could not read, knew the whole Scripture by heart; and St. Jerome mentions one Neopolien, an illiterate soldier, who, anxious to enter into monastic orders, learned to recite the works of all the fathers, and obtained the name of the." Living Dictionary of Christianity;" while St. Antoninus the Florentine, at the age of sixteen, could repeat all the papal bulls, the decrees of councils, and the cannons of the Church, without missing a word. The Pope Clement V. owed his prodigious memory to a fall on his head. The accident at first had impaired this faculty, but by a dint of application he endeavoured to recover its powers, and he succeeded so completely that Petrarch informs us he never forgot anything that he had read. John Pie de la Mirandola, justly considered a prodigy, could maintain a thesis on any subject, de omni re scribisi, when a mere child, and when verses were read to him he could repeat them backward. Joseph Scaliger learned his Homer in twenty-one days, and all the Latin poets in four months. Haller mentions a German scholar, of the name of Muller, who could speak twenty languages correctly. Our own literary annals record many instances of this wonderful faculty.

LAMENT OF THE FORSAKEN ONE.

Oh! faithless one, thy vows of love

Had all the sound, and force of truth; But oh how weak, how vain they prove, False hearted youth.

No more can love delusive shower

His pleasing phantoms, bright and fair, I fall, as falls a tender flower,

Nipt by the chilly hand of dark despair. Oh!, faithless one, alas! my heart

Revolts to call thee such a name;
But say, can you-who caused its smart,
A dearer claim?

No-yet my heart still owns thee dear,
And, breaking-heaves its latest sigh,
With this lament, oh! were you here,
'Twould surely soften thee to see me die.
T. W. C.

REAL ECONOMY.

The Rev. Mr. Mattison was curate of Patterdale in Westmoreland, nearly sixty years; the income of his curacy for many years was 127., and never exceeded 18. per annum He married, and lived comfortably, and had four children (one son and three daughters). He buried his mother, he married his father, and buried his father; he christened his wife, and published his own bands of marriage in the church; he christened and married all his own children, and educated his son till he became a good scholar, and fit for the college; he lived to the age of 83, and died grandfather to 17 children, possessed of 10007. Dec. 31, 1765.

SONG.

The pearly dew is not more sweet,
To drooping shrub, or tree,
As the expiring sun-beams set,
Than is the thought of thee.
Though absent from thee, dearest girl,
I still can fondly trace

On mem'ry's page, each clust'ring curl,
Thy sweet ethereal face.

The blithsome lark hails not the morn, With greater joy or glee,

Than I, when'er my thoughts are borne
On fancy's wing to thee.

Thou art like some bright star to me,
That's beaming from above,
That fills my heart with extacy,
And melts my soul to love.

A HINT FOR BRIDES.

A. M.

A short time since a couple went to Thame church to be married. The ceremony went on as usual very well until the Minister came to the words, "with this ring I thee wed" when the bride, essaying to take her glove off her maiden hand for the last time, could not effect it. Whether it was agitation or heat, nervousness or perspiration, the leather clung to her hand as man and wife ought to do, and would not part company. The bride blushed and pulled, but in vain; the bridegroom (bold man!) laughed outright; so did the father; so did the mother; so did the bridesmaids; so did all the spectators, except the Clergyman, and he exclaimed, "I do not come here to be laughed at ;" and, shutting his book, left the ceremony half finished, the bride half-married, and the glove-half off. We add, for the satisfaction of the sympathisers, that the bride went to church next day with her hand uncovered, and the nuptial knot was then tied "as tight as a glove."

LYRICS BY NEMO. No. VII.

My bark lies idly on the wave,
Then urge me not to stay,
Nor linger, love! thy rover crave
His voyage to delay;

I promise thee this one trip o'er
If fortune on me smile,
Never again to leave the shore

Of this, thy native Isle.

Thou know'st that I would not deceive,
Or break my plighted vow,
And much it doth my spirit grieve,
To view thy clouded brow;
As the bright sun is to the earth,
So is thy smile to me,
When overcast, all thoughts of mirth
Far from my bosom flee.
Then banish sorrow from thy face,
Unloose these circling arms
Which lock me in a fond embrace,
Dispel those vain alarms;
Hark! hear ye not that signal hoarse,'
Come pealing o'er the main?
The fresh'ning breeze invites my course,
Quick to return again.

No. VIII.

Well, well, my Albert! I will strive
To check my flowing tears,
And keep the torch of hope alive,
In spite of doubts and fears;
Will see thee venture forth to roam
Upon the treacherous sea,
And in my rock-engirdled home,
Will watch and pray for thee.
Yet oh! forgive me, and indulge
This woman's heart of mine,
These thickly-gushing tears divulge
How wholely it is thine;
'Tis weakness, foolishness, I know
To murmur and complain,
But parting with thee, seems as though
'Twere rending it in twain.
Farewell! from morn till eventide,
And through the starry night,
O'er ocean's bosom far and wide,

I'll strain my eager sight;
And every sea-bird's wing shall seem
Like thy returning sail,

Of thee I'll think, of thee I'll dream,
Till life itself shall fail!

A noble lord who was aide-de-camp, visited the duke early on the morning of the battle of Salamanca, and perceiving him lying on a very small camp bedstead, observed, "his Grace had not room to turn himself:"-who, with a manner characteristic of himself, immediately replied, "when you have lived as long, and seen as much as I have, you will know that when a man thinks of turning in his bed, 'tis time to turn out."