occupations, let her engage in these, rather than remain destitute of any pursuit. But why are we necessarily to doom a girl, whatever be her taste or her capacity, to one unvaried line of petty and frivolous occupation?"

But the best argument for Female Education, and the one which selfishly speaking should weigh most with men, is to be found in the following lines.

"The education of women must be important, as the formation of character for the first seven or eight years of life seems to depend almost entirely upon them. It is certainly in the power of a sensible and well educated mother to inspire, within that period, such tastes and propensities as shall nearly decide the destiny of the future man; and this is done not only by the intentional exertions of the mother, but by the gradual and insensible imitation of the child; for there is something extremely contagious in greatness and rectitude of thinking, even at that age; and the character of the mother, with whom he passes his early infancy, is always an event of the utmost importance to the child."

There is a sly hit too at that absurd jealousy of women upon the part of ignorant men, who cannot bear the thought of the "lords of creation" losing their presumed rightful supremacy.

"As it is impossible that every man should have industry or activity sufficient to avail himself of the advantages of education, it is natural that men who are ignorant themselves, should view, with some degree of jealousy and alarm, any proposal for improving the education of women."

But it is sagely remarked, that such men need be under no apprehension, for,

"That after parents, guardians, and preceptors have done all in their power to make everybody wise, there will still be a plentiful supply of women who have taken special care to remain otherwise; and they may rest assured, if the utter extinction of ignorance and folly be the evil they dread, that their interests will always be effectually protected, in spite of every exertion to the contrary."

NOTES ON THE MONTHS.

JUNE.

"It was the time of roses,

We plucked them as we passed."

THE rose, England's favourite flower and emblem, is now in bloom, festooning the cottage porches, and peeping in at chamber-windows, clothing the humble cot in beauty, and making the flower-garden beautiful as a vision of paradise. The grass is now thick in the meadows, and is browsed by the kine udder-deep, The steer stands leaning over the hedge, lowing to his fellows. The doves fill the woods with their cooing, and the lark can scarce get out his full song for joy. The very bushes echo, and the birds seem full of the most joyous thoughts. Here is a picture from Tennyson, full of the spirit of love and June:

"

'Up the porch there grew an Eastern rose,
That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught,
And blown across the walk. One arm aloft-
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape-
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood.

A single stream of all her soft brown hair Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the flowers Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering Lovingly lower, trembled on her waistAh, happy shade-and still went wavering down, But ere it touch'd a foot that might have danc'd The greensward into greener circles, dipt, And mix'd with shadows of the common ground! But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom, And doubled his own warmth against her lips, And on the beauteous wave of such a breast As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade, She stood, a sight to make an old man young.' We must now leave this book with some reluctance- Not only the rose, but the sweet honeysuckle blooms and with the recommendation to our readers to look further along the old winding highways, and in the woods, claminto the thoughts and sayings of Sydney Smith for them- bering up the trunks of the hoary old oaks, and perselves. There are many passages we would willingly fuming the air with its rich odour. The woods are have quoted, but for their political tendencies, which beautiful now, and it is delicious to stroll or drive along would have made them out of place in a strictly literary under the shade of the trees, covered with their bright periodical. Such, for example, are the records he has young green, when the sun is throwing his quivering rays left of distinguished men, who were contemporary with through the leaves, robing them in all their beauty. In himself. Pitt, Grattan, Burke, Canning, Lord Mel- the wild forests, of which there are still a few beautiful bourne, and many others, have sat for their portraits, specimens in England, such as Sherwood and the New and are graphically sketched in this volume; but, unfor- Forest, June is in all her glory. Through the gnarled tunately for our purposes, their personal traits are so avenue, a deer is seen bounding across your path. The mixed up with their political creeds, that it is impossible dense masses of foliage meet above your head as you to separate them. Sydney Smith was an excellent judge penetrate into the forest recesses, and you think of the of character, whether of books or men, but he was a solemn rites of the old Druids, who performed their myswarm partisan, and that gave a species of bitterness to his teries beneath their shades. The gloom and the silence political sketches, which makes them approach nearly to are palpable; and from the brilliant sun you have wancaricature; but, with all their exaggeration, there is an un-dered into twilight. Before you there is only the gaunt mistakeable likeness to the originals.

Sydney Smith was certainly not a philosopher in the true sense of the term, nor a profound thinker; but he was versatile, keen sighted, warm hearted, and well read; just the man to deal as he did deal with the expediences and practicalities of the day. He is a high sample of that class of mind, which unknown and unrecognised by the public, is influencing at once the leaders and the led, and which escaping the responsibility of originating, occupies itself with criticizing the productions of others; indicating their good points, their defects, and flaws, and showing what they want to adapt them to the present.

These unseen and unrecognised writers perform a part which is absolutely essential in an age like ours. They are "middlemen," so to speak, between the abstract thinker on the one hand, and the practical worker on the other; they reconcile the contradictions and the discrepancies of both, bringing them together to act, both in his proper sphere, for the attainment of objects which the time demands.

THE desire to be loved is human nature in its purity. It is the first impulse of the opening heart, and it lives and breathes in the bosom of all until the hour of death.

and bare trunks of the mighty trees, whose branches
spread out high above your head, like the arched roof of
some mighty cathedral. You advance, and the gloom
becomes less dense; you discern the graceful hanging
of the masses of foliage, and ah! here, once more, the
sun's rays stream down upon a golden patch of turf.
The trailing bramble appears, and the honeysuckle, and
pale woodbine, and the crimson foxglove, and the bright
sunny gorse, and once more you hear the lowing of cattle
and the whistle of the merry ploughboy. You have left
the dense forest behind you, and have emerged again
among the haunts of men. The lark's song, everywhere
the clearest and loftiest, peals through the air, and falls
upon your ear mingled with the sound of the distant
village-bells. A pheasant whirrs by, and anon a timid
hare leaps startled from her seat, and flies into the
neighbouring thicket. The sound of a tinkling rill cross-
ing your path falls gratefully upon the ear-
"A noise like of a hidden brook

In the leafy month of June
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune."

And do you not feel already the scent of the new mown hay,-for there, behold the mowers at work, their scythes tearing down heavy swaths of grass at every swoop,

while the bees are still grappling with the clover flowers and music for the ear! This is why this language, when to rob them of their sweets. Ah! you sniff up the air well spoken, strikes man like a thunder-peal, overpowers again a bean-field must be somewhere near at hand, and him with internal conviction, or irresistible evidence, or the lazy breeze comes floating along laden with its deli- enchants him like a magic potion, or rocks him into cious odour. And now you come upon a busy scene- moveless pleasure like a child charmed in its cradle by sheep-shearing by the banks of a running stream. The the touching refrains of its mother's lullaby. Hence it flock is collected by the river pool, and, one by one, is that man can neither create nor bear too much poetry; the struggling sheep are plunged headlong into the for, possessing him wholly by his soul and sense, exciting, water, where the washers receive them waist deep in the at the same time, this double faculty-thought by stream. There they undergo the unwelcome scour, after thought, sense by sensation, it exhausts him, it weighs which they are pushed forth into the shallow water, and him down too soon, like all too-exquisite joys, with struggling up the bank move away bleating to their a voluptuous weariness, and causes him to express, equally affrighted companions. The shearing is another in but few verses and brief time, all the innermost part of the process, full of life and bustle. This sheep-life and power of sentiment in his double organization. shearing used at one time to be celebrated by a great Prose addresses itself only to the mind; poetry speaks festival, in England. It was another sort of Harvest to the mind and the sensations at the same time. This Home, and was held with great pomp and jollity. It language, all mysterious, all instinctive as it is, or rather seems to have been as old as the time of David, who because it is mysterious and instinctive,-this language, came upon Nabal at the time of his sheep-shearing, will never die! It is not-as people have not ceased to when there was a great feast in his house, "like the feast say, in spite of the successive contradictions of all ages, it of a king." is not solely the language of mankind's infancy; it is the language of all the periods of humanity, simple and modest in the babyhood of nations, story-telling and marvellous as the nurse at the bedside of the child, loving and pastoral with young and pastoral people, warlike and epic with contending and conquering hordes; mystical, lyrical, prophetic, or sententious, in the theocracies of Egypt or Judea; grave, philosophical, and corrupting in the matured civilizations of Rome, Florence, or Louis XIV.; reckless and noisy in the epochs of convulsion and ruin, as in the year 1793; novel, melancholy, uncertain, timid, and audacious at the same time, in days of new birth and social reconstruction like the present! By-and-by, in the servility of mankind, sad, sombre, lamenting and despairing, breathing in its strophes mournful presentiments, fantastic visions of the final catastrophe of the world, or giving utterance to fixed and holy hopes of the resurrection of humanity under another form.

The air is now mild and warm, without the oppressive heat of July or August. The days are pleasant, and the evenings clear. White clouds, rimmed with silver, float along the sky in the sunshine, and the queen of night is brilliant in her beauty. Insects abound, flies increase, and sting the cattle as they stand whisking at them with their excited tails. The grasshopper clicks among the grass, and frogs leap about in myriads after a brisk shower of rain. The heat of the sun soon dries up the moisture, and the dust lies thick upon the highways. In towns, bricks look very red and hot, and we cannot help feeling an intense longing after the shade of trees and a walk through the cool grass. Water-carts are busily at work, and really look refreshing.

66

HOME AFFECTIONS.

The rough

"Now," says Leigh Hunt, a fellow who finds he has three miles further to go in a tight pair of shoes, is in a pretty situation. Now, rooms with the sun upon them become intolerable; and the apothecary's apprentice, with a bitterness beyond aloes, thinks of the pond he used to bathe in at school. Now, men with powdered heads (especially if thick) envy those that are unpowdered, THE heart has memories that never die. and stop to wipe them up-hill, with countenances that rubs of the world cannot obliterate them. They are seem to expostulate with destiny. Now, boys assemble memories of home-early home. There is a magic in round the village-pump with a ladle to it, and delight to the very sound. There is the old tree under which the make a forbidden splash, and get wet through the shoes. light-hearted boy swung many a day; youder the river Now jockeys, walking in great-coats to lose flesh, curse in which he learned to swim; there the house in which he inwardly. Now, five fat people in a stage-coach hate the knew a parent's protection; nay, there is the room in sixth fat one who is coming in, and think he has no right which he romped with brother and sister, long since, to be so large. Now, the old-clothes-man drops his alas! laid in the grave in which he must soon be solitary cry more deeply into the areas on the hot and gathered, over-shadowed by yon old church, whither, forsaken side of the street; and bakers look vicious; with a joyous troop like himself, he has often followed and cooks are aggravated; and the steam of a tavern- his parents to worship with, and hear the good old man kitchen catches hold of one like the breath of Tartarus." who ministered at the altar. Why, even the very schoolAt the end of the month, hay-making is general all house, associated in youthful days with thoughts of tasks, over the country, and the wains are seen bearing their now comes to bring pleasant remembrances of many ocheavy loads from the hay-field. The bloom of the fruit-casions that call forth some generous exhibitions of the trees is over, the procession of the months is hastening on, and already half the year is gone by.

LAMARTINE'S THOUGHTS ON POETRY. So long as man himself survives, can his finest faculty be extinguished? And is not poetry that faculty? Since it constitutes all that is divine within us, it cannot be defined by one word or a thousand words. It is an incarnation of all that is most precious in the heart of man, and most holy in his spirit, of all that is most sublime in the aspect of nature, and most melodious in her tones. It is, at the same time, sentiment and sensation, mind and matter, and this is the reason that it is a complete language-the language which, above all, appeals to man through his entire humanity-an idea for the spirit, sentiment for the soul, image for the fancy,

noble traits of human nature. There is where he learned to feel some of his first emotions. There, perchance, he first met the being who, by her love and tenderness in life, has made a home for himself, happier even than that which his childhood knew. There are certain feelings of humanity, and those too, among the best, that can find an appropriate place for their exercise only by one's own fireside. There is privacy of that which it was a species of desecration to violate. He who seeks wantonly to invade it is neither more nor less than a villain; and, hence there exists no surer test of the debasement of morals in a community, than the disposition to tolerate, in any mode, the man who invades the sanctity of private life. In the turmoil of the world let there be at least one spot where the poor man may find affections and confidence which is not likely to be abused.--Dr. Hawkes.

THE OWLS DON'T LIKE THE LIGHT.

DEDICATED TO THE OPPONENTS OF NATIONAL EDUCATION.

SLUMBERING, Nature lay

In the calmness of earth's first night

Not a sight that gladdens the day,

Not a sound that blessed the light

Westward the white stars rolled,
Eastward the heavens grew grey,
Then stained with a rosy flush,
Then crimsoned with mounting day;
But hark! what screechings dire
The golden morning fright,
Hoots and shriekings vile ?
"The owls don't like the light."

There's joy in the cock's shrill crow

With which the morning rings-
There's gladness on every bough

Where the young thrush, waking, sings;

Showers of rapture rain

From every cloud on high,

Where, scaling the purple dawn,
The lark thrills up the sky;

But hark! what screechings dire
The gladness of Nature fright,
Hoots and shriekings vile ?
"The owls don't like the light."

Look wherever you may,

In river, or air, or earth,

Life is in love with day,

'Tis all delight and mirth;
Roses, that hueless hid

Away in the dusky gloom,
Are blushing their praise to-day,
All colour and sweet perfume;

But hark! what screechings dire
The general gladness fright,
Hoots and shriekings vile?

"The owls don't like the light."

Buttercups throng each lawn

Rich with the daisies' snow,
And primros'd woodland banks
Hide violets laughing below;
Butterflies, through the sun,
Flit, and flicker, and gleam-
Rooks are cawing above-
Beetles shine in the beam;
But hark! what screechings dire
The general gladness fright,
Hoots and shriekings vile ?
"The owls don't like the light."

Gladness the light of day

To all but your owls may bring ;
Only for night are they-

They can they shout and sing!

All things else may hail,

With hymnings, the shining sun;
They at his glory hoot-

And his glorious lustre shun;

Hark to their screechings dire,
Screamings for gloom and night,
Hoots and shriekings vile!

"The owls don't like the light."
W. C. BENNETT.

DIAMOND DUST.

He who is left to himself has many difficulties to struggle with; but he who is saved every struggle is in a still more unfortunate position.

THE atmosphere of moral sentiment is a region of grandeur which reduces all material magnificence to toys, yet opens to every wretch that has reason the doors of the universe.

ODOURS-the silent voice of nature, made audible by the nose.

SPOONS and skimmers you can make lie undistinguishably together, but vases and statues require each a pedestal for itself.

No orator can measure in effect with him who can give good nicknames.

VICES, like shadows, towards the evening of life grow great and monstrous.

FLOWERS not unfrequently have been found buried beneath the snow; but it is cold work digging for them, and few care to take the trouble.

MEN become as strongly attached to others by the benefits they render as by the favours they receive.

Sown thoughts grow to things, and fill that field, the world.

EVERY man ought to aim at eminence, not by pulling others down, but by raising himself; and enjoy the pleasure of his own superiority, whether imaginary or real, without interrupting others in the same felicity.

THE worthless and offensive members of society, whose existence is a social pest, invariably think themselves the most ill-used people alive, and never get over their astonishment at the ingratitude and selfishness of their contemporaries.

THE man who likes widely, for the most part, likes truly.

PRESS, the steam engine of moral power, which, directed by the spirit of the age, will eventually crush imposture, superstition, and tyranny.

PRIDE, purse-pride, is the besetting sin of England, and, like most other sins, brings its own punishment, by converting existence into a struggle, and environing it with gloom and despondency.

MERE art perverts taste, just as mere theology depraves religion.

UNLESS a tree has borne blossoms in spring, you will vainly look for fruit on it in autumn.

PRIDE is a vice whose name is comprehended in a monosyllable, but in its nature not circumscribed by a world.

EXPERIENCE is the offspring of varied emotions; we acquire it by the seductions of hope, and by the inductions of reason, and by the fluctuating transitions which occur between a sigh and a sneer, a smile and a tear.

Ir there is room for but one virtue, or for one vice, the virtue should be strong, and the vice weak.

THE beautiful in art is the beautiful in nature moulded by humanity.

REVENGE,—a momentary triumph, of which the satisfaction dies at once, and is succeeded by remorse; whereas forgiveness, which is the noblest of all revenges, entails a perpetual pleasure.

AFFECTATION cannot excite sympathy. How can you feel for him who cannot feel for himself? How can he feel for himself who exhibits the artificial graces of

THE highest panegyric that private virtue can receive is the praise of servants; for however vanity or insolence | studied attitude? may look down with contempt on the suffrage of men

undignified by wealth, and unenlightened by education, Printed and Published for the Proprietor, by Jons OWEN CLARKE, (of No. 8,

it very seldom happens that they commend or blame without justice.

Canonbury Villas, in the Parish of St. Mary, Islington, in the County of
Middlesex) at his Printing Office, No. 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street, in the
Parish of St. Bride, in the City of London, Saturday, June 1, 1850.

THE MIDNIGHT SURPRISE.

A STORY OF THE HUNGARIAN CIVIL WAR. THE clock of the little town of Gonyo had just sounded midnight. At this moment a young Austrian officer, sheltered behind the parapet of a long terrace which skirted the castle garden, seemed plunged in a depth of thought unusual for the military man to indulge in; though it must be confessed that the situation and the hour were strongly provocative of contemplation.

The beautiful sky of Hungary stretched its azure dome above his head. The sparkling of the stars, and the mellow light of the moon, revealed the outlines of a delicious valley which stretched away far as the eye could reach. About a hundred yards beneath him lay the quiet town of Gonyo, at the foot of the rock on the summit of which the castle was built. Far along the valley rolled the broad Danube, its winding waters reflecting here and there the moon's silver light. The castle was lit up. The glad sounds of dancing, music, and mirth, reached the young officer's ear, mingled with the ripple of the river as it washed along the northern base of the castle rock.

The castle belonged to an old Hungarian noble, who now lived there with all his family. The flames of civil war had for some time ravaged this extensive country towards the East; Kossuth and his compatriots had rolled back the tide towards the frontiers of the Austrian Archduchy, until on the approach of the immense allied forces of Russia and Austria, Georgy and Dembinski had retired again towards the heart of their wild land, fighting their way desperately, and leaving Klapka with a strong force in the impregnable castle of Komorn. The entire country in the neighbourhood was now occupied by the Austrian troops, a detachment of which was posted in the town of Gonyo, over which our young officer was the chief in command. News had that day arrived in the castle, unknown to the Austrians-for the whole population detested them-of a brilliant victory won by the Hungarians in the east over the Russian army of Luders, and the garrison of Komorn had made another brilliant and successful sally, inflicting tremendous loss on their adversaries. A new hope sprung up in Hungarian bosoms, and the "dear old country" seemed still destined to survive as an independent state. The old Count Pfalsky was one of those Hungarian nobles who had not yet

[PRICE 1d.

openly declared himself, but he was strongly suspected by the Austrian Government, and it was thought that he only "bided his time."

Such was the period at which the castle ball was held. During the whole of the evening in question, the eldest of the noble daughters of the family had regarded the young Austrian officer with an interest full of such marked sadness, that the sentiment of pity expressed by the maiden might well excite that reverie in which we have found him plunged. Liese was beautiful, and though she had three brothers and a sister, the possessions of the Count Pfalsky were sufficiently large to afford a rich dowry to Ludwig Richter. But how dared he to hope that the daughter of this old Count, so full as he was of all the pride of the Hungarian noble, could ever condescend to bestow his daughter on an Austrian soldier!

The Austrians were hated: they were so, not merely as interlopers and intruders, but as the agents of a tyranny against which all Hungary was in arms, and whose object it was to crush the independence and ancient liberties of their cherished country. Kossuth's energetic proclamations had fired the general bosom, and there were few homes throughout the wide extent of Hungary in which his patriotic utterances had not met with an ardent response. The district in this neighbourhood was very unsettled, and a general rising of the Hungarian population lying along the western frontier of Hungary might suddenly take place, by which the Austrian capital would be placed in serious jeopardy. Richter had accordingly been cantoned at Gonyo, to watch the neighbourhood, with a strong body of Austrian troops. His orders were, to be wakeful and vigilant, and despite the manifest interest which the young Hungarian beauty displayed in himself and his soldiers, the young officer kept himself constantly on the alert.

Walking along the terrace, and turning his eyes towards the quiet town and the surrounding country bathed in sleep, he puzzled himself by endeavouring to account for the friendship which the Count himself had seemed to display for him, and also for the anxious directions which he had that day received from the commanding-officer of the district, urging him to increased watchfulness and discipline; when, in a moment, his thoughts were dis pelled and all his curiosity was aroused by the sudden appearance of an immense number of lights in the town

beneath him. True, this was the eve of the festival of the patron saint of the place; but strict orders had been given, that very morning, that the fires were only to be lighted at the usual hour, according to rule. The castle alone had been excepted. He saw the gleaming bayonets of his sentries at their appointed posts; but the silence was fearful, and there was no sound to indicate that the Hungarian townsfolks were giving themselves up to the usual jollity and festivity of their annual fête.

In vain he endeavoured to account for this infraction of orders by the townspeople, and he hastened to the quarters of his men to ascertain that all was right. He sprung through a breach in the wall, in order to descend the rock, and reach the nearest picquet by the shortest route, when he fancied he heard the light steps of a female treading the gravel-walk above him. He looked round, but saw nothing. Turning his eyes in the direction of the river, he was struck by the sight that presented itself. | A little fleet of boats, the sounds of their sweeping oars already audible, had crossed from the opposite bank, and were fast approaching the landing-place.

A hoarse voice behind him whispered his name from the breach through which he had just passed, and on looking up he recognised the soldier who had accompanied him to the castle.

"Is it you, Herr Captain?" asked the soldier. "Yes. Well?" said the young officer, in a low voice, for his mind was now thoroughly roused to a sense of danger, and the necessity of acting with caution.

"I have just followed a man out of the castle, who came hereabouts with a lantern in his hand. A lantern is terribly suspicious, and I didn't see how this christian could need to light his tapers at this time of night. They would eat us if they could, said I to myself; and so I put myself on his track. And what do you think, Herr Captain? here have I just discovered, three paces off, in a corner of the rocks, a certain pile of faggots"

A terrible cry rose up from the town, and interrupted the soldier. A sudden flash at the same moment gleamed before the eyes of the commandant. The poor grenadier at that instant received a bullet in his brain, and fell dead. A bundle of straw and faggots suddenly blazed up, not more than ten paces from where the young man stood. The sound of instruments and laughter at once ceased in the ball-room. The silence of death, broken by a few occasional groans, suddenly succeeded the fête. A cold sweat broke upon the young officer. He was without his sword. He comprehended at once that his soldiers were all butchered. He saw himself dishonoured, and he lived! He fancied himself brought before a courtmartial; and then he glanced again into the depths of the valley. He was rushing forward, when the hand of Liese grasped his.

66

Fly!" she said, "my brothers follow me. At the base of the rocks you will find a swift horse. Go!"

She pushed him away. The young man, stupefied, regarded her for one moment; then, obedient to the strong instinct of self-preservation, which, in times of even the greatest peril, the brave man never loses, he fled in the direction pointed out, clambering down rocks, which until then perhaps, only goats had scaled. He heard the low cries of the pursuers close behind him, and the whistling of the bullets fired at him as he leaped from rock to rock; but he reached the valley in safety, found the horse, mounted, and disappeared with the rapidity of lightning.

An hour after, a whole regiment, accompanied by a strong cavalry detachment, and a convoy of artillery, were en route for Gonyo. The General himself marched at the head of the column. He was a man well known in the war of the Hungarian revolution for his relentless cruelty. The soldiers had been informed of the supposed massacre of their comrades by the Hungarian townspeople, and were eager to support him in any act of vengeance. The road was quickly traversed. Along the line of march, numerous villagers were found hastily assembling in arms. Their houses were fired, and the incipient rebels were shot and sabred on the spot without mercy.

By some singular mishap, the invasion of the town by the fleet of boats from the opposite bank of the river, had been abandoned. Some alarm had arisen among those on board, and the sounds of firing in the town were supposed to proceed from the sudden and unforeseen approach of a strong body of Austrian troops. They feared they might be cut off to a man, by some ambush lying in wait for them along the banks of the river. From some such cause of alarm, the boats' heads were turned down stream, and they soon disappeared in the darkness of the night. The town was therefore again taken possession of by the Austrian force, almost without resistance, for the townspeople were very imperfectly armed, and the greater part of the adult population was with the revolutionary army. Summary vengeance was of course inflicted upon those who were taken with arms in their hands. They were tried by drum-head courtmartial, and shot in the market-place. Having encamped a large body of his men in the open square, the General then proceeded with the remainder to the castle, and took military possession of it. All the members of the family were at once seized, bound with cords, and placed under a guard. In the meantime, the General ordered a repast to be prepared, and proceeded to consult with his Major as to the manner in which the castle prisoners (the leaders in this futile insurrection) were to be despatched. The result of their short deliberations was, that the hangman was ordered up!

Taking advantage of the time that elapsed before the serving of the repast, Ludwig Richter went to see the prisoners. He shortly returned into the presence of the General..

"I come," said he, in a subdued voice, " to ask for mercy"

"You!" replied the General, in a tone of bitter irony.

"Alas!" said Ludwig, "it is but a poor mercy. The old Count, having seen the gibbet erecting, hopes that you will change the method of execution. He entreats that, as nobles, they may be beheaded."

Well, be it so!" said the General; and it was an act of mercy from him, for he was not always so yielding.

They ask further, that they may be allowed the last consolations of religion, and that they may be freed from their bonds. They promise not to attempt to escape""I consent," replied the General; "but remember you are answerable for them!"

"The old man offers you his entire fortune, if you will but pardon his youngest son."

"Indeed!" said the General; "but all his estates are already confiscated to the Emperor" He stopped. A thought of some sublime act of cruelty passed across his features, and he added-" I will even more than comply with their wishes. I see the importance of this last request. Well! That he may secure eternal fame, and that Hungary may for ever remember her

In less than an hour he reached Raab, the head-treason and her punishment,-I give all the Count's quarters of the division, and at once presented himself to General Beckstein, the commanding-officer. He was admitted, and at once related the details of his horrible adventure.

property, with a free pardon, to that son who will perform the part of executioner upon the rest. Go! not another word!"

Ludwig was overwhelmed with horror.