of this fleeting life which form the sum of his existence. The approach to it was by a winding road, shaded at intervals by straggling trees; while the abrupt turnings of the road she travelled, which on either side was occasionally hemmed by rude acclivities covered with brushwood and wild foliage, precluded a more extended prospect. At length the feeble traveller, unequal to the continued exertion, could no longer urge her progress, but staggering to a bank by the way-side, she sunk down upon it in a state of utter exhaustion and seeming despair. Reader, it was Agnes-that Agnes who was once the idol of a parent's love, and the pride and boast of their joyous hearts! That Agnes who was once all purity and innocence-all life and gaiety-all buoyancy and hope, now a miserable outcast, wasted and wan-dejected and despairing the victim of a misplaced love! But let us trace back a portion of her history. She had been deceived in the man on whom she had rested all her hopes of happiness. He but too successfully, as we have seen, decoyed her into his power, when instead of conveying her to the chapel to solemnize their union, he carried her by force to a cavern in a wood several miles distant from her father's house, where his real character was at once disclosed. The stranger who had seemed to his poor victim the soul of honour, was no other than a captain of banditti, who, charmed with the beauty of Agnes, whom he saw at the festival we have mentioned, and which he attended in disguise for purposes the reader will easily imagine, succeeded as we have described in gaining her affections. When Agnes thought of the adverse change in her prospects, which her present situation predicted, she could not speak for some time, but availed herself of woman's privilege, and wept in anguish. The robber, apparently softened by the sight, endeavoured to dissipate her unavailing tears, and spoke in words intended to soothe her grief, and reconcile her to her lot. One of the band, who were carelessly carousing at an oaken table, endeavoured to add to his principal's arguments, and to convince Agnes of her being in very fortunate circumstances, by roughly saying that many a girl as handsome as herself had, before her arrival, been happy enough to share the love and fortunes of his commander, and he did not see why she could not in her turn do the same. Agnes, as may be supposed, was filled with disgust by this disclosure of the villany of him who had thus entrapped her; and her former sentiments of love were almost instantaneously converted into as fervent hate. She recoiled from him in abhorrence, and declared her determination never to become the mistress of an outlaw and a libertine. Her captor's blandishments were now altogether laid aside, and he appeared in his natural character. With terrible menaces against the officious-tongued follower who had exposed him, he commanded the hapless Agnes to weigh well her situation, and by her own voluntary consent preclude the necessity of enforcing her to obedience. Surrounded by her captors, and without the possibility of escape, she in the end fell the victim to her betrayer's lawless passion, and henceforth drooped in unavailing sorrow. Time passed on, and she became a mother. Her infant boy became the solace of many an otherwise wretched hour, and served in a great measure to alleviate the misery of her situation. The outlaw bestowed no thought of kindness on his offspring; and if he spoke of it at all, it was to say that being a boy, it might one day form a brave addition to his troop. Crime had steeled his heart to human sympathies: his treatment of the unfortunate Agnes and her child became daily more brutal and oppressing; and she ceased not to implore the aid of Heaven to escape from the horrors of her situation. At length, taking occasion when the outlaws with their captain were absent, save one alone who was left to guard the cavern, she effected her escape while the robber slept over his cup, and with her infant charge set out for her long deserted home, to throw herself upon the forgiveness of her injured parents, and the mercy of Heaven. With unremitting toil did she pursue her way, till overpowered with fatigue and mental solicitude, she cast herself by the road-side as we have seen; her heart filled with the thought that she should be pursued, and perhaps recaptured by her ruthless betrayer. When she had for a brief space remained, wrapt in desponding melancholy, she was aroused by the tolling of a bell, which seemed to come from the chapel of the cemetery. Its tones were blended with the swell of human voices, apparently chanting a funeral dirge. Presently she observed a procession winding its way amid the trees which lined the approach to the burying-ground, following a coffin, borne on the shoulders of four men. Immediately behind an aged man moved with tottering gait, supported by a youth who seemed endeavouring to allay the old man's grief by kind and soothing words. The mournful train emerged from the sheltered road to full view, and entering the cemetery, stopped before a new-made grave, into which after the funeral service had been performed the coffin was lowered, and the earth and turf being replaced, the mourners all retired, save the old man and the youth we have noticed. The former threw himself upon the grave in a transport of agonising grief, which the young man attempted not to violate by useless remon strance. The most tumultuous feelings agitated the breast of Agnes as she beheld this heart-rending spectacle, and by an intuitive impulse overcoming her physical weakness, she succeeded in gaining the spot where the sad scene was acting. With trembling anxiety she waited till the old man should raise his head from the grave, and the horrid suspicion of her heart be eradicated or confirmed. At length the mourner slowly raised himself from his recum bent position, and clasping his hands together, seemed engaged in secret prayer. A loud scream from Agnes startled him, and he beheld her stretched on the ground with her infant beside her. The young man ran to her assistance, and raising her in his arms uttered an exclamation of surprise, which brought the aged mourner to the spot. On beholding the insensible form of Agnes he gave a loud cry, and clasping her to his breast, kissed her with the most frantic wildness of demeanour. She gradually recovered her consciousness, when seeing herself in the old man's arms she uttered a piercing shriek, and threw herself on his neck. It was her father, and the youth who stood beside them was Ernest Lubeck, her rejected lover. "My child," said Waldeck, while his tears fell fast, 'my repentant child, welcome to thy father's heart once more. Thou art restored by bounteous Heaven to be yet the solace of my age. Thy poor mother has gone, my child! Thy loss bore heavy on her heart, and grief became her destroyer. But we will not speak of this, thou hast already suffered too much. There-grieve not so wildly; take comfort in the knowledge of your parents' entire forgiveness;" and he wept afresh. Oh, my father!" cried Agnes, "the hand of Heaven is upon me. Lead me to my mother's grave, that I may pour out my soul in one long sigh of anguish, and prayer for mercy!" The old man complied, and the unhappy Agnes threw herself on the new-made grave, kissed it with fervour, and gave vent to the sorrows which filled her heart to bursting. Her father stood convulsed by contending emotions, and suddenly giving a convulsive shudder, grasped the young man's arm for support, exclaiming, Agnes, Agnes!" She instantly arose and ran towards him with anxious solicitude. My child," he exclaimed, "I feel I am dying-bring me thy poor babe, the fruit of thy transgression, that I may bless thee and it before I leave you for ever." The young man placed it in his arms. "May the Almighty bless thee and thy hapless offspring, and guard you from all future ills-and may He forgive thee as does thy dying father." He gave the infant to its mother, and leaning on his youthful companion, a strong shiver passed through his frame,-he was a corpse! The revulsion of feeling from the depths of grief to the sudden transports of joy was too much for his enfeebled frame, and he fell its victim. At this moment a muffled figure entered the cemetery, who had watched from the road the scene we have been describing, and concealed himself behind a monument, near enough to the group to hear their words. Agnes gazed at the fixed features of her dead father with feelings not to be described. She took his hand with trembling eagerness, and pressing it to her heart, as if to allay the fearful tide of suffering she endured, exclaimed, "My father, speak to me-speak to thy erring child, to say you still live to bless her with your love!" "It is vain, Agnes," said the youth, tenderly placing the body on the grass, and kneeling beside it, "he is no more." Have I murdered "What, dead! lost to me for ever! them both ?" Then, as if sudden frenzy had seized her brain, she exclaimed wildly, "My parents, you shall be avenged! Hence with all thought of love to the fiend who has wrought this destruction! Though the father of my child, I will deliver him to the hands of justice, and proclaim him to the world the wretch he is!" "Say you so ?" cried a voice, "this shall prevent thee;" and the stranger's dagger was buried in her heart. She fell with a loud cry, and catching the form of her assassin as he retreated from her, exclaimed, "It is my betrayer! He has finished the fell work of destruction! Have mercy! -my child!" She ceased; and falling on the body of her father, yielded up her spirit. Monster! assassin !" cried the bewildered youth, rushing after the murderer with the hope of securing him. It was in vain the robber had succeeded in reaching the road, and, remounting his horse, was in an instant beyond the chance of capture. : * Guilt, though it flourish triumphantly for a time, never escapes the vengeance of offended Heaven. The mur. derer of the family of Lindorf, after a brief career of crime and lawless pleasure, died on the scaffold. Ernest Lubeck after having followed to the grave the ill-fated Agnes and her hapless sire, retired to a secluded spot, taking with him the poor orphan, whom he determined to adopt, and rear in the paths of virtue and honour, that he might prove in mind and heart all that his unhappy mother was, before she fell the victim of a misplaced love. G. A. R. A FEARFUL TRAGEDY. THE French, by landing at Killala, had induced the population of Mayo to rise in rebellion, and after early success, and subsequent defeat, the hopes of the insurgents were altogether extinguished by the defeat and surrender of the French at Ballinamuck; and, after the surrender of Killala to the king's forces, the hour of retribution came down on the poor misguided people, and the curse of martial law, domiciliary visits, and free quarters, wasted all around. There is a village in the Laggan not far from Downpatrick, and the young and able of that community had, in the general rising, gone out,—and why should not they, when told by their betters, in whom they entirely trusted, that their country and their religion called them to the field? They had been at the taking of Killala and Ballina, and were active-as all Roman Catholic Mayo wasin defeating General Lake at Castlebar; and now they had come home to reap their corn, and their wives and families had given God thanks, that, with but one or two exceptions all had returned safe, and the wise and prudent had asked what good had been gained by all this ruxtion, and the answer still was, "It's well it's no worse;" when the hard word came one day, as the wholevillage population were out stooking the oats, that the army from Killala was coming, that the terrible Frazer fencibles were at hand, hard, stern, plundering men, who gave no quarter. Of course, the men's consciences told them that as insurgents they were amenable to the law, and their fears urged their flight-but where? The red coats were too near to give them time to flee to the mountains, and so they made to the cliffs. Here, often these young and active men were accustomed to go a fowling, and along the great precipice of Downpatrick, pluck the young sea bird from the ledges of the rock, rob the sea pigeon's nest, or surprise the young seal in the recesses of Poolnashanthana. In pursuit of these wild sports, their practice was, to let themselves down by ropes, and, trusting to the steadiness or vigour of their companions above, to hang along the face of the cliff or descend to holes and caves otherwise inaccessible. On this occasion, they recollected the Poolnashanthana, and aware that the tide was out, considered that they might safely resort to the ledge of rock that remained for some hours uncovered below, and there stay concealed until the soldiers had scoured their village and retired, under the conviction that their victims had escaped. Accordingly, they, to the number of twenty-five, took an active and able-bodied woman with them; and, by means of her holding a rope from above, all successively descended the chasm, and seated themselves on the rock, while the woman went back to the village, having received strong injunctions to return and draw them up again, when the army had gone away, or at any rate before the tide should rise and cover their resting place. It may be imagined the suspense of these poor men; they were near enough to hear in the still autumn day, the musket shots; they thought of their houses fired, their corn in flames, their cattle driven off, and, what was worse than all, their defenceless women abused.“ The day wore away, and the westering sun sent its slanting beams more and more faintly down the chasm: the tide was coming in fast, the ripple became a wave as it boomed in, and rose gradually The woman went, but returned not; frightened out of her so as to touch and cover their feet. But why go on? wits by the fury and licence of the soldiery, she forgot her trust, and fled away towards the inland hills; the army had retired, night came on, and the tide rose to its accustomed limits, and it covered higher than any human head that populous rock; and when another sun arose, and the women and greybeards of the doomed village came to Poolnashanthana, they could see some corpses lying dry and bloated here and there in the caves and chasms; others had floated out to sea. The sun has seldom shone on a more melancholy sight! But it avails not to continue the subject,-a generation of the males of that poor hamlet was swept away, and at this day not an old man is to be found there.-Otway's Sketchesfin Erris and Tyrawley. ORIGINAL POETRY. THE WORLD HAD FAITH. THE world had faith in days of old, And countless pilgrims sought the East to greet The world had faith, when priest and prayer The Saviour's tomb owns Moslem sway; THE STARLING.-The starling is a bird which is seen in Britain during the winter in great flocks, but for the most part leaves us in the spring and summer. Like the parrot, it has the power of imitating sounds. "My parents," says M. Trimolt, "had a starling that of his own accord imitated a variety of tones, after hearing them often. When my sister was an infant, the starling paid a great deal of attention to her screaming and began to imitate it, till by daily practice he learned to counterfeit the cry with the utmost accuracy. When my sister's crying-years were past, strangers would often be surprised at the sound, and look round to see what child might be making such a noise. The same bird also learned to imitate the trumpet. A troop of cavalry was stationed in the town, and in the evening the trumpet blew not far from the house. The starling listened so attentively, that in a few weeks he could perform the whole of the evening music with all its pauses and changes of time; though it was indeed a great exertion for his voice." LOVE'S TELEGRAPH.-If a gentleman wants a wife, he wears a ring on the first finger of the left hand; if he be engaged, he wears it on the second finger; if married, on the third; and on the fourth if he never intends to be married. When a lady is not engaged, she wears a hoop or diamond on her first finger; if engaged, on the second; if married, on the third; and on the fourth if she intends to die a maid. When a gentleman presents a fan, flower, or trinket to a lady with the left hand, this on his part is an overture of regard; should she receive it with the left hand, it is considered as an acceptance of his esteem; but if with the right hand, it is a refusal of the offer. Thus by a few simple tokens, explained by rule, the passion of love is expressed; and through the medium of the telegraph, the most timid and diffident man may, without difficulty, communicate his sentiments of regard for a lady, and (in case his offer should be refused) avoid experiencing the mortification of an explicit refusal. There are a great many ridiculous things in this countryfor instance, there are thousands of daughters, whose mothers have been raised in a kitchen, and their fathers in a horsestable, who would feel insulted if asked if they had ever made a loaf of bread or washed out a pocket handkerchief! They like to prate of "good society," "mixed company," and BROTHERLY LOVE IN ROOKS.-One fine evening, says Dr. Percival, I placed myself within view of a rookery, on the banks of the Irwell, near Manchester, and marked the various labours, pastimes, and movements of the society. The idle rcoks were amusing themselves by chasing each other, and made the air resound with their discordant voices. In the midst of these playful exertions it unfortunately happened that one rook struck his beak against the wing of" family dignity!" another. This rook, being lamed, fell into the river. A general cry of distress ensued: the birds hovered with every expression of anxiety over their distressed companion. En-nagement pursued in boarding-schools, the opprobrium which couraged perhaps by their cries, and possibly directed by their advice, he sprang into the air, and by a strong effort reached the top of a rock which projected over the water. Now the cries of joy were universal, but the wounded bird, attempting to fly to its nest, dropped again into the river and was drowned, amidst the mourning of its brethren. AMBER.-Amber is a very elegant half transparent substance, of a yellow or white tint, much used for ornaments, and, when dissolved, in the manufacture of varnishes. It is sometimes found in clay pits in England, but the longest celebrated is that which is thrown upon the coasts by the Baltic sea. Poland, Silesia, Bohemia, Saxony, Sweden, Denmark, Prussia, and Germany, all produce it. It is uncertain whence amber is formed; some imagine it to exude from trees, some to be formed by the ants, some to be a species of bitumen. Within some pieces, leaves and insects are found included, and these are never in the middle, but always near the surface. Of the insects which have been originally enclosed, some are plainly seen to have struggled hard for their liberty, and even to have left their limbs behind them in the attempt: it is no unusual thing to see in it a stout beetle, wanting one or perhaps two of its legs, and these legs left in different places. This accounts for our finding legs or wings of flies without the rest of their bodies, in pieces of amber; the insects having escaped at the expense of leaving those limbs behind them. Drops of water, and beautiful ferns and mineral substances, are also discovered in it. Electricity was first observed in amber, and is called after the Greek word for it. BOARDING-SCHOOLS.-Were a judicious system of ma has so long attached to them, would not only be removed, but they might be made the means of improving the general health of the pupils, and of correcting even the scrofulous constitution; they would thus become the source of much future bencfit to the children and of happiness to their parents.-Sir James Clark on Consumption. THE HARVEST MOUSE.-The smallest of British quadru peds is supposed to be the harvest mouse, hitherto found only in Hampshire, and which is so diminutive, that two of them put into a scale, just weighed down one copper halfOne of the nests of these little animals was procured penny. by Mr. White. It was most artificially platted, and composed of wheat blades, and perfectly round, about the size of a cricket ball. It was so compact and well filled, that it would roll across a table without being discomposed, though it contained eight young ones. This wonderful cradle was found in a wheat-field suspended in the head of a thistle. Vol. I. of the New and Pictorial Series of the LONDON SATURDAY JOURNAL, price 6s. 6d. handsomely bound in cloth, is now ready, and may be had of all Booksellers. LONDON: W. BRITTAIN, PATERNOSTER ROW. Edinburgh: JOHN MENZIES. Glasgow: D. BRYCE. Dublin: CURRY & Co. Printed by J. Rider, 14, Bartholomew Close, London. ILLUSTRATIONS OF HUMANITY. No. XXXVIII.-THE FASHIONABLE MARRIAGE. MARRIAGE! What a world of meaning there is in the word. Though only consisting of two syllables in pronunciation, and three in orthography, it is, in a practical sense, one of the most important words in the English language. The happiness or misery of millions is wrapt up in it. Matrimony is the real radical reformer after all. It is the most powerful moral agent in the universe. It produces marvellous results in its subjects, no matter to which sex they belong. To enter the wedded state is like entering a new world; it is not only like commencing a new era in one's existence, but actually constitutes the beginning of a new existence. It is the initiation to a state of being of which the parties had no previous conception. The single man undergoes a mighty change the moment he becomes a husband; and the young miss, perhaps, a still more extensive transformation of character when she has become "the wedded wife" of some enamoured swain. Every thing in their altered position is novel. Their views of the duties and obligations of life are changed. Their notions, habits, and pursuits are all altered. They now feel that they are no longer to live exclusively or principally for themselves, but for each other. They are, morally speaking, a sort of Siamese twins. Their sympathies and objects; their pains and their pleasures, are, or ought to be, the same. The marriage mystic ceremony has formed a bond by which their earthly destinies are indissolubly linked together. It is a fact which very possibly has never struck the mind of the reader, that husband and wife must either be both happy or both miserable. You never see one of the parties happy while the other is wretched. You never yet met with a truly happy husband, if the wife were really miserable; nor, on the other hand, with a truly happy wife with a really wretched husband. This is a bint which, it is to be hoped, will not be lost either on those who have passed the matrimonial Rubicon, or who may have it in contemplation to enter into the wedded state. Let the former, the husband as well as the wife, and the wife as well as the husband,—ever recollect that in studying to promote the happiness of each other, they are promoting their own; and let the latter, before crossing the threshold of the marriage sanctorum, resolve, from a principle of selfishness, if from no higher or more generous consideration, to study each other's happiness in every possible way. The husband who renders his wife unhappy, insures by that very act his own misery and the wife who makes her husband wretched, strikes a heavy blow, which cannot possibly fail of effect, at her own felicity. Though marriage be incomparably the most important social contract into which human beings can enter, we every day see persons, in all ranks of life, and in every diversity of pecuniary circumstances, rushing recklessly into it. They look upon matri mony as if it were an everyday matter, and think no more of approaching the hymeneal altar than they would of entering a place of public amusement. They form a matrimonial contract with much less care and circumspection than they would exercise in the purchase of a horse or dog. We are liberal in our denunciations of the extraordinary nonchalance which Byron displayed in the choice of a partner in life. And yet not one whit more absurd or criminal was his conduct in commissioning Moore to negotiate for a wife to him, pledging himself to accept of any one whom he would recommend, than is the conduct of thousands who form alliances on the impulse of the moment, and without any knowledge of each other's temper, disposition, and principles. They soon find out their mistake. A few weeks, or a few months at farthest, suffice for the discovery of their folly. And the worst of the matter is, that in the immense majority of cases, the discovery, even though thus early made, is made too late.. The mischief is done, and cannot be repaired. We are told by a celebrated writer on the tender passion, that love forms an essential part and parcel of woman's existence-that, in other words, from the moment of her emerging into womanhood, until she has attained her fiftieth year, her affections are constantly occupied with one or other of the opposite sex. Equally true is it, that young ladies are constantly thinking of, and earnestly panting after, the matrimonial state. Men have various objects of ambition: women have only one, and that one is marriage. All their thoughts, all their intrigues, all their scheming, all their actions, have the promotion of the one grand object-getting comfortably married-in view. It seems to them the end, as it certainly is the aim of their existence. The youthful mind invariably associates happiness with marriage. Both parties hurry into the matrimonial state in high hopes of finding in that state a kind of heaven upon earth. Marriage, where there is a similarity of disposition in the parties; an intimate acquaintance with each other; sympathy of feeling; unity of pursuit and purpose, with the possession of pecuniary competence, certainly does prove productive of greater happiness than is to be derived from any other earthly source. But when we remember the innumerable instances in which an opposite state of things obtains, what need is there for wonder that so many matrimonial unions are found to be the prolific source of unspeakable misery? But a truce to speculations of this kind. Our pictorial illustration, had we confined ourselves within a legitimate range of observation, would have referred rather to the marriage ceremony than to matrimony itself. The nuptial ceremony is performed in a different manner in different countries. There is even a great difference in the manner of its celebration in England and Scotland. In the latter country the bridegroom comes under no obligations to take his spouse for better or for worse. The Scotch law is satisfied when it has elicited or extorted, as the case may be, an admission that he is willing she should |