his breast-and when he breathed the much-desired words of pardon they were truly heart-felt. "At length, through the illness of my daughter, who was very unexpectedly thrown upon the benevolence of your wife, I obtained from your servant some information concerning the family to whom I owed so much, and discovered in the hand stretched forth to aid my child, the wife of my discarded brother. It would be vain to attempt a description of my emotions as I learned this fact. Joy that you were not forever lost, predominated-and then was added shame, and a consciousness of my own unworthiness to receive the benefits which henceforth you daily conferred upon me, as I felt that you must have recognized me-for I had given to your wife an account of my previous life. Each successive service lavished upon my family by your own, sunk like a weight of lead upon my heart, while as I saw how generously you repaid me for the evil I had committed against you, I longed to cast myself at your feet and supplicate forgiveness. But one thought deterred me. It was the fear that you might deem me actuated by interested motives-by the desire to leave my daughter at my death under the care of her now wealthy uncle. And so, for a time, I set aside the yearning for a reconciliation. But it returned with double force when this, which I know will be my last illness, came upon me, and I felt that I could not die happily without hearing from your lips a pardon for my misdeed." And by returning good for evil he had indeed "heaped coals of fire" upon the head of his brother. "From your birth, Harry, you were the object of my bitterest envy and hatred," was the confession of Walter Malcolm, "for upon you was freely lavished the love of that mother whose affection I had never possessed. She had been forced by her family into a union with my father while her heart was another's-and when her husband died and she was free to wed again, she married the one who had first gained her regard. This was the key to your superior claim upon our mother's love. I will not now blame her for the wrong of partiality, though it was the basis of my demeanor toward yourself. I should have had sufficient strength of mind to have resisted its influence-but in this I was sadly deficient. To the last hour of her life my mother's chief thought was of you. Yes, even in her dying moments her principal anxiety was for your future happiness, while there was but little reference to the welfare of her eldest child. When she was no more, and you came to dwell beneath my roof, I scrupled not openly to show the sentiments which during our parent's lifetime I was obliged to conceal. And I had now an additional cause of dislike. I secretly accused you of robbing me of the affection of my little girl, who, as you will perhaps remember, always manifested a The weeping Julie had stood by the bedside listendecided preference for your society. I did not reflecting attentively as her father spoke, one hand resting that my manner toward her was often cold and dis- affectionately in her uncle's, while the other was tant, and widely different from your own; and with clasped in that of his wife. Though scarcely six such feelings of jealousy concerning you in my years old when Harry Colman was dismissed from heart, it was scarcely to be wondered that I seized his brother's house, she had ever retained a vivid rethe first opportunity of ridding myself of your pre-collection of the event. She remembered how pas sence. Though I knew you to be guiltless of the fault for which I blamed you, I drove you from my dwelling, refusing from that moment to own you as a brother. Nor did I then experience the least remorse for the act—and during the years that followed I strove to forget that you had ever existed. sionately she had wept when told by her nurse that she would probably never again behold her favorite, and how indignant she had felt when they said that it was owing to his own naughty conduct he had been sent away-while her ignorance of the fact that her uncle's name was not the same as her father's prevented a recognition of him when they again met. "It was only within the past twelvemonth, when surrounded by poverty, and the victim of an incurable malady, that as I lay restlessly upon my bed, the Walter Malcolm survived a week after the scene memory of my cruel conduct toward my innocent just described. Having made his peace with earthly brother has pressed heavily upon my mind. Often objects, his last hours were devoted to solemn prehave I busied my brain with vain conjectures re-parations for a future state, looking trustfully for the specting your fate-whether you still lived-and if mercy of Him who listens kindly to the prayer of the you had escaped the whirlpool of crime and sin within which the young and unadvised are but too frequently engulfed. When I thought, as I sometimes did, that you might have fallen-my sensations were those of the most acute anguish, for I felt that the sin would all be mine, and that at the judgment day I should be called to the throne of God to hear him pronounce the fearful penalty for the murder of a brother's soul. penitent. His brother was constantly with him till his eyes were forever closed in the death-slumber; and from the day when the remains of her father were borne to their last resting-place, the orphan Julie found a home with her uncle, to whose pleasant hearth she was lovingly welcomed, while by every kind and sympathizing attention her relatives strove to alleviate the sorrow for a parent's loss, which at first seemed almost insupportable. BY MRS. L. S. GOODWIN. "Far out of the usual course of vessels crossing that ocean, they discovered an unknown island, covered with majestic trees. The captain, with a portion of the crew, went on shore, and after traversing its entire circumference without seeing a solitary representative of the animal kingdom, were about to return to their ship, when the skeleton of a man was found upon the beach, and beside it lay a partially constructed boat." BLEACHING upon the sands that pave An unknown islet strand, The music of her band, A clayey temple's ruin lies Of that grand pile a part Whereon the Architect Divine Displayed His wondrous art; Its tenant long since hath obeyed The summons to depart. Mysterious, as dire, the doom That cast a death-scene where Deep solitude converts to gloom What else were brightly fair: Perchance wild waves that made a wreck Giving his valiant comrades all Yon half-completed boat his lot In mournful tones doth tell; Upon that tiny cell, Which promised o'er the billows broad The worn one to convey 'T were better e'en the sea should whelm Than thus with want hold fray. Believe you not that in his pain, His agony of soul, Flew o'er the dark engirding main O how his sinking spirit yearned He mused how love with pining frame As on time's laggard wing there came Ah! who may speak the bitter pangs That exile's bosom knew, As, day by day, and hour by hour, To ply their wonted task, at length, His form was stretched, bereft of strength. Haply his latest wish besought 'Mong kindred dead to lie; But fate denied the boon, and death Seized him 'neath stranger sky; While mercy drew a mystic veil 'Twixt him and friendship's eye. REMINISCENCES OF A READER. OH! the times will never be again BY THE LATE WALTER HERRIES, ESQ. As they were when we were young, When Scott was writing "Waverlies," And Moore and Byron sung; When "Harolds," "Giaours" and "Corsairs" came To charm us every year, And "Loves" of "Angels" kissed Tom's cup, While Wordsworth sipped small beer. When Campbell drank of Helicon, And did n't mix his liquor; When Wilson's strong and steady light Had not begun to flicker; When Southey, climbing piles of books, When Rodgers sent his "Memory," To give "feeds" and invite all; When James Montgomery's "weak tea" strains Enchanted pious people, Who did n't mind poetic haze, If through it loomed a steeple. When first reviewers learned to show When Blackwood was as young and lithe When Gifford, Jeffrey, and their clan, Could fix an author's doom, And Keats was taught how well they knew To kill à coup de plume. Few womenfolk were rushing then To the Parnassian mount, Apollo kept no pursuivant, To cry out " Place aux Dames:" In life's round game they held GOOD hands, Oh the world will never be again To show the march of mind. THE GIPSY QUEEN. BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER. [SEE ENGRAVING.] POWER, consequence, importance, greatness, are relative terms; they denote position or attainment, comparable with some other. And hence a queen is a queen at the head of a band of gipsies as much as if she sat upon a throne, at the head of a nation whose morning drum beats an eternal reveille. It was therefor, and for another cause yet to be told, that I lifted my hat with particular deference when I opened suddenly upon the head woman of a gipsy tribe, as I was passing through a small piece of woodland. Though, truth to say, I had been looking at her for some time, an hour previous, as she was giving some directions to one or two of her ragged and dirty train. Now I had known that woman in other circumstances. I had seen her in the family, had heard her commended by the men for her graceful movements, and berated by the women for exhibiting those movements to the men, and being as free with her tongue in presence of her female superiors as she had been with her feet before her male admirers. But neither the admiration of the men nor the rebuke of the women produced any effect. All that this woman received from a long sojourn with the people of the village, was a little loss of the darkness of the skin, and a pretty good understanding of the wants and weaknesses of society. Everybody knew that she had been left in exchange for a healthful child-and some years before it had been discovered that the healthful child would be worth nothing to the gipsies, and the gipsy girl would, at the first opportunity, return to her "brethren and kindred according to the flesh." And such was the skill which she manifested on her return, such her ability to direct, such her knowledge of the wants of the villagers, and her power to take advantage of these wants, that she became the head of the tribe with which she was associated, and might have directed numerous tribes, could they have been collected for her guidance. I could not learn that there was much of a story connected with the life of the queen, much indeed that would interest the general reader. But she was a woman-and her heart, a mystery to the uninitiated, would, if exposed, have been worth a world's perusal. A woman's heart-alas! how few are admitted to loose the seals and open that secret volume! How very few could understand the revelation if it were made. I could not, I confess; and it is only when a peculiar light is thrown upon here and there a page, that I can acquire even a partial knowledge of what is manifested. The Queen of the Gipsies, though elevated by right, and sustained by knowledge, was no less a woman than a queen. She could and did command male and female, old and young. She was treated with all that marked distinction which, even among her rude people, continues to be paid to preeminence. And while she sought to do the best for all, she received all this homage with that ease, and that apparent absence of wonder, which denote the right to distinction-this was a part of her queenly character admirably sustained, natural, easy, dignified. But the queen was a woman. I had heard her give orders, which sent certain of the most active of the young, male and female, to the other side of the village, and then she gave employment to the old and the young in the moving hamlet, and seeing the first depart, and the last busy, she left the camp, and took her way through the wood. I followed her and traced her rapid steps to the burying-ground of the town, which stood a distance from any dwelling. Seating myself out of view, I saw the queen walk directly to a recently sodded grave, upon, which she looked down for a moment, and then clasping her hands wildly above her head she threw herself with a subdued cry upon the grave. I was too far from her to distinguish all the words of her lament, but they were wild and agonizing. After a short time the woman arose, and said with a distinct, clear voice, "With thee and for thee I could have endured the mockery of their boasted civilization, and suffered the ceremonies of their tame creed. With thee and for thee I would have foregone my native tribe and my hereditary rights. So persuasive was thy affection that I could have forgotten-or at least would not have boasted-that I was of the glorious race that knows no manacles of body or of mind, but what it chooses to impose. But thou art gone, and with thee all my attraction to the idle, wearisome life of thy race. I have returned to my people, and I may lead them, and power and activity may for a time weaken my agony. I need no longer sacrifice my love for my race-but yet one sacrifice I will make, and thy grave shall be the altar. With thee my heart is buried. To thee do I here swear an eternal fidelity-and year by year will I lead my tribe hither, that I may pour out my anguish upon the sod that rises above thee. And I may hope that such devotion may lead the spirit that made our race for future happiness as for present freedom, to give thee back to me when I enter on my world of changeless love and glorious recompense." Kneeling again, the Gipsy Queen kissed the grave. and gathered a few blades of grass and one or two flowers, shook away the tears which she had let fall upon them, and placing them in her bosom turned and left the burying-place, and proceeded toward the camp. I left my position by the other route, and |