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which he was brought upon trial, four of the eight judges who constituted the court, were of opinion that the crimes of murder and piracy were so blended together in the libel, as that, by convicting the prisoner of the one, they must convict him of the other also: the president and three other judges were of a contrary opinion, but not being the majority of the court, the prisoner escaped the punishment due to murder, greatly aggravated by circumstances attending it, three of the persons being near relations of the prisoner, and the other a boy, who seemed to have been killed, only to prevent discovery; the temptation to the act being the obtaining of the money which the crew had received at Boston, for the earnings of their vessel the year preceding.

"In common times, where there are violent marks of guilt of so horrid a crime, there is danger of prejudice so strong as not to admit of the weight justly due to circumstances which might tend to favour the person charged with being the perpetrator; but the prejudice arising from civil discord seems to predominate over all other prejudices to which the mind of man is liable.

"From the first knowledge of the account given by the prisoner, that the crew of a boat from a large schooner had committed the act,

some of the heads of the sons of liberty took part with him, and professed to make no doubt of its being a man of war schooner; and the governor was charged in the public prints with too critical and severe an examination of the prisoner, whose innocence, it was said, would appear. He was often visited in prison by some of the most active persons in opposition; and the people were taught, that, although pirates had been tried by a special court of admiralty, in this and other colonies, for fourscore years together, they had, nevertheless, been all this time deprived of the rights of Englishmen, a trial by jury, and brought upon trial before a court consisting wholly of crown officers, and many of them employed in the colonies for unconstitutional and oppressive purposes. And there was too great an appearance of a pleasing satisfaction, from the prisoner's having escaped punishment of a murder, which may be ranked among the most atrocious ever committed." p. 417-422.

In conclusion, we recommend the "History of Massachusetts Bay" to every person in England and America, who feels an interest in the cause of Freedom, convinced that, whatever may have been the opinions of the writer, the work cannot fail to be productive of unmixed good.

THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.

My child, my child, how couldst thou fade I might have mark'd in beauty's height Beneath a mother's smile?

Oh, God! that death should even make
Its pageantry beguile!

Like dew upon the withering flower
I mark'd the hectic bloom,

Yet never dreamt there dwelt beneath
A summons to the tomb.

Oh no, such radiance in those eyes,
Such brightness seem'd to blaze,
One moment-then the livid hue
Of death's sepulchral gaze!

I might have seen, I might have felt
The warning sent from Heaven-

I might have known such brightness ne'er
To earthly-born was given.

45 ATHENEUM, VOL. 9, 2d series.

The feverish accents spoken;
But who, when sweetly sounds the harp,
Could guess its strings were broken?

I might have known, I might have felt,
How frail each fleeting dream,

The flower once cropp'd can ne'er survive,
Though freshen'd by the stream.

But oh! I never would believe,
What soine had dared to tell,

I would not think those smiling lips
Could utter one farewell!

And oh! my child, years, years have flown,

And life's decay is mine,

And many a sun hath bow'd beneath

Affection's hallow'd shrine.

Yet still, when blithest soars the song
From freedom's festive bower,
I ever hear the knell, the grief
Of thy sad funeral hour!

Of thy sad funeral hour! my child!
When every hope had flown:
Now every breeze but sadly brings
The thought, that I'm alone.

And oft alone, in eve's sweet calm,

With raptured gaze on high,
I think in each warm cloud I may
Thy fleeting form descry.

But no! ah no, I gaze in vain,
Where mortal eyes intrude,
Then turn away to drop the tear
In utter solitude!

THE DREAMER.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

There is no such thing as forgetting possible to the mind; a thousand accidents may, and will, interpose a veil between our present consciousness and the secret inscriptions on the mind; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains for ever.-English Opium-eater. REST from thy griefs!-thou art sleeping now; The moonlight's peace is upon thy brow: All the deep love that o'erflows thy breast Lies, 'midst the hush of thy heart, at rest;

Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell,

When Eve through the woodlands hath sighed farewell.

Rest!-the sad memories that through the day

With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay;

The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead,

That bowed thee, as winds bow the willow's head;
The yearnings for voices and faces gone ;-
All are forgotten! Sleep on-sleep on!

Are they forgotten? It is not so!

Slumber divides not our hearts from their woe;
E'en now o'er thine aspect swift changes pass,
Like lights and shades over wavy grass:
Tremblest thou, Dreamer? O Love and Grief!
Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed-up leaf!

On thy parted lips there's a quivering thrill,
As on a lyre ere its chords are still;

On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye
There's a large tear gathering heavily;

A rain from the clouds of thy spirit press'd!--
Sorrowful Dreamer! this is not rest.

It is Thought, at work amidst busied hours;
It is Love, keeping vigil o'er perished flowers.
-Oh! we bear within us mysterious things,
Of memory and anguish unfathomed springs,
And passion, those gulfs of the heart to fill
With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still!
Well might we pause ere we gave them sway,
Flinging the peace of our couch away!
Well might we look on our souls in fear;
They find no fount of oblivion here!

They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath-
How know we, if under the wings of Death?

FASHIONABLE VISITING.

THERE is nothing in the world

more wonderful than the pains which people take to make them selves uncomfortable. The desire displays itself in a thousand ways, in

the stiff stocks and tight boots of the gentlemen, and in the still tighter stays of the ladies. But in no in stance is this strange passion more conspicuous than in the VISITING

SYSTEM of modern times. A man marries, and takes a comfortable house in Spring Gardens,-one would suppose his object was to live there quietly and happily-to devote his mornings to the occupations which require his attention-to take a walk through the parks before dinner, and to spend the evening quietly and tranquilly at home. Nothing of the kind. He has scarcely lived long enough in his new habitation to find the way out of the drawing-room in the dark, when his lady thus addresses him" I think, my dear Frederick, that it is quite time for us to see some of our friends: we shall really be reckoned quite rude. I met my old Irish friend, Lady Killcomfort, yesterday in the Park, and she complained that she had seen nothing of us since we came to town. My cousins, the B's, too, are staying in Harley-street, and we must really have them. Then I told Capt. and Mrs. Tattleton, whom we met at the Opera on Saturday, that I hoped very soon to see them in Spring Gardens. Shall I send out a few cards ?"

are mistaken. On Monday we dine with General D'Escalade; on Tuesday, I have promised Amelia to take her to the Opera; on Wednesday, Lady Killcomfort gives her fancyball, (you know you said I should go as Psyche, Frederick); on Thursday, we are invited to a concert at Lord Braham's; and, on Friday, you know, my dear Frederick, you consented that I should give my first ball." "Did I, my Caroline ?" murmurs the languid, loving husband: "well, I suppose we must defer our visit to the country."

The week passes on-the General's dinner is superb-Amelia is delighted with Medea-Psyche looks more lovely than her beautiful prototype-Lord Braham exceeds himself, and even "the ancients" burn with envy-and at last arrives the

entful day of the "first ball."

Annoyed with the sound of hammers, and the perpetual tramp of upholsterers and their assistants, the wretched master of the house (if, indeed, he can any longer be so called,) quits the little study in which he had taken refuge, and saunters through the town for want of a home. He returns to dinner: he walks into the drawing-rooms; they are denuded of their carpets, and two of Greensill's men are fixing a magnificent chandelier. He seeks the dining-room; it is filled with horse-shoe tables, and a splendid cold supper. He asks where he is to dine, and is told there is some cold meat in the servants'hall. He retreats into his little study: his books are covered with crimson drapery, and the scholar's peaceful habitation is converted into a flirtingroom, hung round with a hundred pretty prints of" the Proposal," "the Acceptance," "the Love-Letter," and "the Forsaken." The hour arrives, and the crowds assemble. People whom he has half seen, and whom he has never seen, fill his rooms till they overflow into the galIlery, and cluster on the stairs. The torrent increases, and the terrified husband seeks his wife. "My dear love," he whispers," how many peo

The unfortunate object of this address, of course, grants an immediate assent; and on that day three weeks Mrs. is "at home" to one hundred and fifty of her friends. The fatal war of extermination (the extermination of all domestic tranquillity,) is now commenced. In revenge for dragging them from their peaceful homes, and exposing them to the suffocation of your crowded rooms, the parties injured invite you in return, and compel you (deserting the comfortable sofa, by your own fire-side,) to go through the same dreadful process. Engagement succeeds engagement, till, in the height of the season, the system reaches its climax. "Would you like, my love," says the dispirited husband, "to visit the country for a week or two: suppose we set off on Monday ?" "I should like it very well; but I fear our engagements will not permit it." thought," replies the sighing husband, "that we had no engagements for next week." "Indeed, I fear you

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ple do you expect? Our rooms are quite full already." "To tell you the truth," she replies, "I have invited three hundred, expecting that only two-thirds of them would come; but I declare I think they are all here already. But never mind, my dear Frederick, it is going off very well.-Count Altenberg! I am very glad to see you. My dear Mrs. Percy, how do you do? When did you leave the Hills? Mr. Alfred Percy has just passed. When did you hear from Capt. Percy? We expect Lady Jane Greville to-night; but I have not yet seen her." Delighted and delightful, the lady of the house thus shines with undiminished brilliancy through the evening, while her unfortunate husband is sighing at the recollection of his formerly peaceful hearth.

Oh the misery of a great dinner! Having survived the dreadful interval between your first arrival, and "dinner is on the table," you are desired to hand the Dowager Lady O'Flaherty down stairs. Seated between her Ladyship and the senior Alderman of Farringdon Without, what a situation is yours! As you sit down the dreadful conviction flashes across your mind, that you are imprisoned, without the slightest chance of being let out on bail, for the full term of four hours. In vain do you direct your attention and conversation to the Dowager Lady O'Flaherty. There is no sympathy between you

66 common of talk"-no "debateable land." You have never visited Ballyslattery; to you the Phoenix Park is a mere sound; and even Merrion-square conveys not the definite ideas of magnificence, with which her ladyship desires to impress you. On your other side, the prospect is still darker. Before you have exchanged five words with the Alderman, you are involved in the history of the new "Joint-stock Carrion Company," and you suspect, with horror, that you are seated next to a member of Butchers' Hall. Having impartially bestowed your common places on your right hand and on

66

your left, there is no other refuge than silence, and in sulky taciturnity, you cram and blaspheme your feeder." With what feelings of bitter regret do you think upon the fried sole and boiled leg of mutton of yesterday, which you enjoyed in the freedom and obscurity of your own little dining-room, far-far removed from all dowagers and aldermen! What inward vows do you make, that, when once released from your present odious thraldom, you will never in future subject yourself to it again, But no; the world will have its martyrs; fresh invitations are given and accepted, and the hateful system is continued to the last.

Surely, in no country was that sys tem ever carried to such a ruinous excess as in ours. We are never satisfied unless we entertain, in a handsomer manner than our neighbours, and fiud at our tables, persons in whom it is a condescension to appear there.

"Men would be angels, angels would be gods." Mr. A. rests not till Sir B. C. promises to dine with him; and Sir B. C. insists upon entertaining Lord D. His Lordship is uneasy till the Duke of E. pays him his long-promised Christmas visit; and his Grace of E., in the last resort, petitions for the countenance of royalty. For distinctions like these will people sacrifice their time, and their money, and their indepeodence, led on by the powerful passion of making themselves uncomfortable.

What should a sensible man do? Take the oath of abjuration, Ab jure, renounce, deny, and detest, as utterly abominable and uncomforta ble, all great dinners, evening parties, routs, riots, and other unlawful as semblies. When he wants to see his friends at his own house, let him invite a party of four, or (at most) of six, to dinner. If he wishes to see his friends at their houses, let him make them do the same. Let him never permit his wife to be at home," for she is "never less at home, than when at home." Let him pay off Chiffonier and Squab, the upholsterers. Let him cut Lady

Killcomfort, and retreat before the advances of General D'Escalade. So shall he never find his drawing

rooms uncarpeted, his dining-tables covered with a cold supper, or his study filled with flirtations.

A

CORSICAN HONOUR.

VARIETIES.

SINGULAR circumstance has lately taken place in the Island of Corsica, which strongly indicates the character of the ruder inhabitants of the island. Two soldiers of a French regiment, stationed at Ajaccio, having deserted, their Colonel, in pursuing the pleasure de la chasse, met with one of the mountain shepherds, who acquainted him with the spot where the two soldiers had sought a retreat. The man was immediately rewarded for this intelligence by a gift of four Louis, and the colonel despatched a party in search of the delinquents, who were apprehended, conducted to headquarters, and tried by a court-martial, and condemned to death. The relations of the shepherd becoming acquainted with the circumstance, assembled, and pronounced that he had for ever dishonoured his family by receiving the price of blood; they seized and bound him, and, on the day and hour when the unfortunate soldiers were shot at Ajaccio, the same death was inflicted by them on the shepherd.

After the execution of the two military offenders, a priest (who had been obliged by the mountaineers to confess and shrive the shepherd. prior to his quitting the world) appeared upon the parade, and returned to the colonel the four Louis, in acquainting him of the mode adopted by those who had employed him to avenge their injured honour.

THE BLIND BOOKSELLER OF AUGS-
BOURG.

fully against the melancholy privations he was doomed to sustain, and to procure, by his industry and intelligence, a respectable and comfortable support for a large family dependent upon him. His library consists of more than eight thousand volumes, which are, of course, fiequently subject to change and renewal; but, as soon as he acquires a new stock, the particulars of each book are read to him by his wife, and his discrimination permits him to fix its value; his touch, to recognise it at any period, however distant; and his memory never fails him in regard to its arrangement in his shop. His readiness to oblige, his honesty, and iuformation on books in general, have procured him a large custom; and, under such extraordinary natural disadvantages, he has become a useful, and haply will render himself a wealthy member of the society to which he belongs.

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The name of this insect, in most European languages, has given it a character which causes a feeling of alarm even at the sight of it. WhethPerhaps one of the greatest curi- er or not they ever did enter the huosities in the city of Augsbourg is a man ear is doubtful—that they might bookseller, of the name of Wimprecht, endeavour to do so under the influwho had the misfortune to be born ence of fear, is very probable; and blind, but whose enterprising spirit this, perhaps, has been the origin of has enabled him to struggle success- their name, and the universal preju

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