strong that its motive was erroneous. When Pierre and his son reached Paris, and demanded admittance at the splendid mansion which had been the residence of one of the proscribed noblesse, and of which Charlotte's lover had become possessed during the unsettled state of property in the capital, they were immediately, on telling their names, conducted into the presence of its usurper. It was the policy of this bad man to be always obsequious to the common people; and he was now doubly so to those men whom he had observed narrowly on the night the chateau was pillaged, and thought he discerned in the savage joy with which they aided in the work of destruction, and the deep curses they lavished on the owner, and on aristocrats in general, that they were fitting tools for the times. He believed that he could employ them to advantage, whether a mob was to be inflamed, an enemy denounced, or a murder committed. They were, however, at that moment in no humour to be cajoled, and assailed him with a torrent of the vilest abuse, while they brandished long knives which they had hid under their garments, and threatened to dispatch him instantly if he did not immediately produce the girl of whom they had come in search. Thus confirmed in his opinion of their ruffianly qualifications, he condescended to soothe them by an assurance that they should immediately see Charlotte, and learn from her own lips whether she had any cause of complaint. He then led them through a sumptuous suit of apartments to one more gorgeous than the rest, where they found the unfortunate girl reclining on a couch, dressed in the most expensive and gaudy fashion of the day, and surrounded by the most luxurious appointments, many of which, though she admired them as pretty toys, she did not even comprehend the use of. But, to be brief; her father and brother were so much dazzled and gratified by seeing the apparent mistress of so much slendour, that they were easily persuaded to join the good citizen in deriding the old fashioned and slavish ceremony of marriage, though the father thought proper again to brandish his knife, and accompany the action with a threat in the event of her ever being cast off. But this was a supposition at which the weak-minded Charlotte smiled in scorn, as nothing less than high treason against that superlative bounty which had raised her to such a pitch of grandeur. Alas! where may we expect next to meet her?

But we must now return to Jaques and his family, who had heard nothing of Charlotte for several months, save that her father and brother had seen her, were content with the situation, and had themselves determined to remain in Paris. Unsatisfactory, and indeed grievous, as this account was of these kind-hearted people, they endeavoured in some measure to console themselves, by hoping that Charlotte might one day be convinced of her error, and return to them; and they resolved to receive her with open arms, as a stray sheep restored to the fold. What, then, was their horror, when they learned from a person who had just come from Paris, and who knew her, that the man with whom she lived had shared the fate of the head of the faction to which he had attached himself, and was guillotined; that no one knew what had become of Charlotte, but that her father and brother were both in the prison of the Conciergerie, charged with being emissaries of her late lover! For a day or two after these tidings reached him, Jaques appeared restless and miserable, but he was not long in determining what to do. He hoped, that if he could now find Charlotte, he would be able to extricate her from the maze of

vice and wretchedness in which she must, without his interference, be for ever involved. He thought of her as he had last seen her-weak, vain, and degraded, but still innocent of heinous crimes. He thought of her former preference for himself, and he felt that he owed it to that unrequited preference-to the memory of her mother, who was the unwearied friend of his childhood-and to humanity itself, to make every exertion to save her.

The disinterested and benevolent Marianne could not but approve of her husband's determination to seek his unfortunate cousin, though she shuddered while she embraced him at parting, at the dangers to which he would probably expose himself.

It was night when Jaques reached Paris, but there was none of that stillness there which is its natural concomitant. At that hour, all was hushed in the little hamlet he had left. In his own cottage, his aged father-in-law was enjoying, on his pillow, the rest and peace which is the reward of a well-spent life, and an approving conscience; his dear Marianne was sleeping the sleep of innocence, with her infant in her bosom. But here the contrast was most appalling-the drums beat-fire-arms were shot off-screams and oaths, and discordant laughter, met the ear-greyhaired old men were joining in the street brawls and drunken revels; and, in place of the care and tenderness of her decent matron, who soothes her child to its quiet slumber, mothers were seen hurrying to and fro with their infants, through the night air, apparently insensible to their wailing appeals. All was heart-sickening to the sober and reflecting Jaques, and he hastened in search of the unfortunate Charlotte: but all he could learn

was, that upon the apprehension of the man she had lived with, she had fled to her father, but what had become of her when he was taken to prison, no one knew. There was nothing for it, then, but to endeavour to learn from her father and brother, by means of the jailor, where she was. This Jaques well knew, was a hazardous experiment, but if he did not attempt it immediately, dangerous as it was, it might be rendered vain, by their lives being cut short. He therefore turned his footsteps toward the Conciergerie. While he was yet some distance from the prison, his passage was impeded by a dense and unruly crowd, from whose vociferations he learnt that they were waiting for their nightly pastime of accompanying the condemned prisoners to the guillotine. Presently the renewed shouts and agitating motion of the crowd informed him that the victims had ascended the fatal cart, and, in a few minutes, he beheld it on its way, while he was compelled, by the pressure of the multitude, to accompany them to the place of execution, and hurried almost to the very foot of the scaffold. Jaques's first determination was to shut his eyes, that he might not look on the bloody scene; but an indefinable curiosity took possession of him, and he raised his eyes just as two men were placed upon the platform. His very eyeballs seemed searched when the light of a lamp gleamed full upon the deep furrows of his uncle's sullen and ferocious countenance, while he sent forth a scowl of defiance on his executioners, as they dragged him forward, and uttered a brutal jest on the meetness of the father's taking precedence of his son. That son had hardly time to look on the ghastly features of his father, as his head lay on the boards of the scaffold, till the stroke descended that laid his own beside it. Jaques, whose wan and quivering features showed the agony of his soul, was at

that moment prevented from uttering an ejaculation of horror, which might have proved fatal to himself, by the frantic screams of a woman who was not far from him, and whom the mob were contending about-some crying out that she belonged to the men who had just suffered, and others contradicting this, while they derided her as one whose cowardly spirit disgraced a French woman, who ought to be able to look with joy on the execution of the enemies of the people. Jaques heard all this, and rushed forward to the spot, where he beheld the wretched Charlotte thus subjecting herself to the danger of sharing the fate of her father and brother. This danger became still more imminent, when she was presently recognized by a person near her as the mistress of a man who had lately been executed and the fearful cry of-"To the guillotine with her!-to the guillotine!" began to be raised. But just at that critical moment a fresh arrival of numerous victims attracted universal attention; and Jaques, seizing her firmly round the waist, dragged her through the crowd, while he endeavoured to soothe her by every means in his power; and, hurrying her through bye-lanes nearly emptied of their population, he at length succeeded in placing her in the house of a friend for the night. Jaques's first care in the morning was to procure a conveyance for himself and his wretched cousin, in which they that day reached his home. This was, however, rendered no light task to him, by the necessity it imposed of hearing her frantic ravings, in which she accused herself of the miserable end of her father and brother. When Jaques alighted at his own cottage, and Marianne flew to meet him, his pale countenance, his dark eyes sunk in their sockets, and the expression of melancholy pourtrayed in his whole frame told what he had suffered since she had parted from him—while the wretched Charlotte seemed to gaze with a vacant and idiot stare on all around, till roused, by some sudden recollection, into ravings of mad despair.

Poor Marianne looked upon her husband, and his unfortunate cousin, and her deep and silent tears flowed fast, as he related to her the dreadful story of his journey. This good young woman did all that was dictated by her sound sense and kindly feeling, to restore Charlotte to some degree of composure; but month followed month, and little change could be perceived, save that she did not express her remorse so violently in words. She, however, seldom tasted food, and seemed to loath the light of day; and grew pale, emaciated, and feeble; and that beauty which had been the primary cause of all her guilt and misfortunes, fled, and left behind it naught but a desolated ruin. It was in vain that she was visited by the Catholic priest of the district; the absolution he pronounced seemed to carry no comfort with it, and she soon sank into an early grave, the victim of cold-hearted vanity, and the other evil principles so early instilled into her by her wretched father. It was long before Jaques could conquer the melancholy left on his mind by the dreadful fate of his uncle and his family, and his heart sickened as he stood beside the premature grave of Charlotte; and, looking through time into eternity, meditated long on the fearful nature and prospects of vice; till the current of his thoughts gradually assuming a more placid and encouraging course, he thought of the blessings of virtue, and returned to his amiable wife, and his usual avocations, with recovered serenity. Nor was the quiet tenour of his life thereafter interrupted.

SONG AIR, ROY'S WIFE.

BY MISS 2. C HURLEY, OF NEW YORK.

OH! 'tis sweet when dawn is breaking,
When from sleep we are awaking;

Sweet to feel that ONE is near

The insence of the heart to hear.
"Tis sweet to feel a wish to pray,
To utter thanks for mercies given,
And sweet to know, that angels bear,
Our aspirations up to Heaven.

Oh! 'tis sweet, &c.

Yes 'tis sweet as day advancing,

Rippling streams seem'd sportive dancing;

Sweet to hear while on the wing

Each warbling bird its offering bring.

'Tis sweet in broad meridian day

To feel the grandeur and the power,

Of Him who sheds celestial ray

That earth from heaven effulgence borrowed.

Oh! 'tis sweet, &c.

'Tis sweet to feel at day's declining,

When darken'd shadows round us hover,
An arm of mercy veils the light,

An unseen eye, still watches over

That unseen hand which guides our way,
The still small voice our path directing,
While angels from the courts on high
Commission'd wait, our sleep protecting.

DEDICATORY ADDRESS,

Before Maine Lodge, No. 1, I. O. O. F., July 24th, 1844.

BY BRO. CHARLES HOLDEN.

RESPECTED BROTHERS:

To the humane and philanthropic, there has been scarcely an improvement made, in all the wonderful ones of the last fifty years, that more commends itself to those who reflect upon them, than that made in practical diffusive BENEVOLENCE.

It is true, that the last fifty years have been wonderful, astonishing, for

the improvements, in a great many respects, that have been witnessed during that period of time. How the mind of man admires, as it contemplates what has been done to elevate the condition of the world, in the last half century! The advances made in the use of steam-the perfecting of the art of labor-saving the improvements in the modes of education-in enlightened views of human government, and of the nobility of man-the spread of the principles of human liberty, and the development and proof of the ability of man to govern himself. These, and many other achievements of the immortal part of man, characterise the last fifty years as one of the most important eras recorded on the page of history.

Time would not serve me, and it does not come within the design of this brief Dedicatory Address, to take even a bird's-eye review of the wonderful discoveries and improvements of the last half century. It is not with this design that I have alluded to them; but to bear my testimony to this truth-that in all the wonderful advances in knowledge and truth, made during that time by human means and suggested to man by the goodness of his Great Father, there has been no one more prominent, useful, or beneficent, than that which has enlarged the heart of the philanthropist, and swelled his ranks. There is no characteristic of this signal age more striking than this one: that man has ceased to regard himself solely, and begun to look at the human family as his brothers and his sisters-as his sons and his daughters. He has begun to inquire if there is not something else for him to do, in this world of suffering and sorrow, besides folding his arms in reference to philanthropy, with the selfish apostrophe of him of old-"soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years, take thine ease."

What has been the result of this new and blessed bias of the human mind? This looking away from self, for a little while, into the neighborhood, hamlet, village, or city, to seek out objects to whom to do good? to alleviate misery, to cheer the drooping spirits of the mourner-to change the scanty garment of poverty for one of warmth and comfort: in brief, by that universal elixir of life, SYMPATHY, to lift the clod from the soul -to restore the desponding to himself and the world, by cheerful wordз and solid acts of kindness? What has been the result? is it asked? it not all around us, obvious to the weakest sight? Do not its praises issue from every mouth-and above all, are they not felt where they should be, in the hearts of the wretched and down-trodden! in the hearts of the widow; the orphan; the father, who saw, in his despair, nought but clouds above and around him, as impervious as the bucklers of the stout warriors of olden times?

Is

Every School District now, has its noble spirits, who have banded together to do their fellows good. And from these little sections it enlarges and spreads over the country-increases in design and vastness, until, what with individual benevolence, which "letteth not the left hand know what the right doeth"-and what with the numerous and various Associations, having for their object the good of their fellow-man-this may be denominated, with great propriety and truth, the Age of Philanthropy! An appellation more honorable and to be praised, than was ever won by all the achievements of all past ages, by those nations whose ruling motives have been only for national aggrandisement-the enlargement of their borders by means of war and all its devastating concomitants.