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With his goblet bigh in his stont hand tossed,

The baron shouts aloud : • 'Tis a bitter shame that our booty's lost

By the rain-drops of the cloud”'

'So pledge, my bold retainers all!'

Ĉried he, with a fearful oath; "Since HEAVEN is deaf, on the FIEND I call;

Fair sky and the Fiend: pledge both!'
Cup rang to cup as the revellers sprang

With a wild shout to their feet;
And a deafening peal of thunder rang,

As heaven to earth did meet.

Still faster flowed the crimson tide

Of the wine in the banquet-hall, When an out-stretched cup at the baron's side

Was held by a stranger tall. 'I drain thy pledge,' said the stranger-guest,

From the deep wine-cup to-night;: 'Tis but a right bold pledge at best,

And will bring fair skies with light.'

The baron looked from his chair of state.

And he saw the feast was done;
For of all his two-score guests that sate,

There now remained but one.
The o'erturned cups and flagons tall,

And the board all splashed with wine,
And the heavy breath of the stout men, all

Confessed the potent vine.

He filled the cup of the stranger-guest,

As they sat at the board alone,
And pledged again with a bacchanal jest.

As the castle-bell tolled one!
"What ho! my warder, seest the sky

Do the rain-drops fall as fast ?
Up! up once more to the turret high,

And see if the storm be passed !

* Hold !' said his guest; 'and stand we high.

And look on the cloudless night! Said I not so, that a fair blue sky

Should come with the morning-light ?' The golden sun with its cheerful beams

Shone bright in the festal hall; It flashed on the o'erturned cups, and gleamed

O'er the armor on the wall."

It unsealed the eyes of the bacchanal throng,

That were stretched by the festal-board: They started up and searched full long

For a sight of their absent lord. High up the winding turret-stair

l'he trembling warder led; On the last broad step, o'er the threshold bare,

Lay the baron, stark and dead!

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Lockhurst Seminary, July 18, -. DEAR EMILY: In one short week I shall be at home, bidding an eternal farewell to schooldom, but I trust not to school-books. Imagination and affection have already borne me over the coming seven days, and I am with you in your quiet home and in my own, which has long been no home to me. When I think of my almost orphan condition, of the mother I have recently lost in my departed Aunt Mary, of the almost forgotten faces of my brother and sisters, I cannot wait the wearisome flight of the hours and days, but long inexpressibly to be folded to the hearts of those who are at least bound to me by the ties of relationship. Five years from the paternal roof is a long time to look back upon; but to me those years have been fraught with so much happiness, that their flight has only been too swift. Yet it is this very retrospection that weighs heavily on my spirits. The superior advantages I have enjoyed; the friendships I have formed; the approbation for which I have earnestly toiled; and more, far more than all, the delightful vacations with Aunt Mary; the remembrance of her goodness, her purity, her love; and now—it is very wicked to feel and say it—all incentive to action seems gone for ever! While she lived, my early love was supplied; the love I pined for, she freely gave, and in the realization of its serenity, I dreamed of no change. But she is dead! and without the support of her sympathy, I must go forth to perform my duty in an over-clouded path-way. I believed the agony of our last parting would ever remain unequalled; but now that a vacation unbroken by studious hours is almost here, and she has passed away for ever, I feel that I have not before appreciated my loss. And yet, Emily, how can I sorrow when I know she is happy? How can I hesitate to fulfil new duties inspired by her treasured counsels? I shall not hesitate. The associations of years will be severed in one short week, never again to be united. It is a great consolation to know that my sister Agnes has returned from Europe, and is settled so near home. Although so many years older, there has, you know, always existed between us a more than sisterly regard, notwithstanding our separation from one another. How we used to feast on her letters, when you were here, firing our young imagination with visions of Italy and France! And you, too, dear Emily, I shall see often; at least every Sabbath; when I shall satisfy the eyes that have not gazed on you for months, by looking at you during the whole service, which procedure will doubtless elicit a reprimand from your clerical father. When I think and talk of that dear village of Beverley, my spirit is drawn irresistibly over these two hundred miles of space, folding every one of you in a close embrace, blessing you again and again. Yet how many hours must pass ere I can whisper a ‘God bless you' in your ear!

Father is here already, and will remain through the examination. For his sake, I trust I shall receive some prize. He is much pleased with my improvement, and is glad I am so willing to go home. Yet he does not often trust himself to speak of it, for the subject touches too nearly on sorrowful themes. Yesterday we rode out to Beechnuts, and I took a last farewell of Aunt Mary's grave. Father was exceedingly affected. It pained him, he afterward told me, that two sisters who had been so attached in life, should in death be so far separated; my mother lying among her husband's ancestors in the church at Beverley, and Aunt Mary in the new cemetery at Beechnuts. But what matters it, when we know their spirits are united, never again to be parted? Father does not often speak of my step-mother; he evidently desires me to form an unbiased opinion of her; but how is this possible, when all I remember of her is indelibly imprinted on my mind? I was only eight years old when my father married, but I recollect as if it were only yesterday, that the first change she made in the arrangements of the household, was to order my dear mamma's portrait from the parlor to the garret; and how my sister Agnes hung the picture with a gauze curtain, going up every day to gaze upon the loved face, and often to weep bitter tears! I can never forget the passionate rebuke of my high-spirited brother, nor the heart-rending tears he shed when his passion had subsided. Dear, but reckless boy! For many years he has known no home but the ocean; the wild winds and waters have long been to him a mother's voice and bosom, and ambition his only friend, and, I fear, his God. Alas! alas! for the selfish interest that robbed a loving heart of society and affection. Assuredly, in the day of coming judgment, he who refused even a cup of cold water to a little one, will be accounted guilty of a great transgression. Father tells me that Margaret has grown quite pretty, and almost as tall as myself. I cannot reconcile this with the fragile child who followed my foot-steps like a shadow. The dear girl sent kisses to me, and thereby I know that the fountain of affection that gushed so freely in her childish heart, bursts forth as generously as then. Elfie's miniature was sent me last year, and father says she is not changed. Mother sent her love to me, and cheered by this favorable auspice, I can look forward with a more serene mind. Allow me to thank you most sincerely, my dear Emily, for the kindness you have manifested in forbearing to speak of things that might annoy me. I cannot express the comfort it has given me to pour out my whole heart to you, well knowing you will not misrepresent or reveal any of its musings. You have evinced a characteristic delicacy in avoiding all unpleasant things that you knew took place at Poplar Hill; nor have I failed to notice the cautious manner in which you speak of my weturn home. You so often ask the question, “Does not your own heart draw you homeward o' that my wavering mind was soon shamed of its cowardice. Since father came, I have scarcely looked at him without a self-reproach. His health has not improved during the last year; and though you may not remark it, there is to me a sadness in his voice and an abstractedness in his manner, quite unusual. How frail human nature shrinks before the contemplation of a new

duty! Who can tell whether I shall walk rightly in this new path? Who can foresee the temptations, the dangers, the guilt, that may lie before me? If you, loved Emily, might be with me constantly, I should have no fear. Your gentleness and quietness, as antidotes to my hasty temper, might accomplish wonders. It is singular that I did not imbibe some of these characteristics on the principle of absorption. Give me an opportunity of so doing by meeting me in the parlor at Poplar Hill next Friday afternoon. You will not disappoint me, Emily, for I shall not feel at home if your loving smile does not greet me.

Thank your papa for the papers he sent me; and tell Charlotte I am coming home to realize her bright anticipations for my future. Father has come for me to walk with him, so I must close this somewhat lengthened letter. Most sincerely I remain

Yours always,

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It is still the same weapon: the truth is quite clear,
Quoth the doctor; but young ACADEMICUS here

Another like weapon disclosed :
*It is made of the old blade and handle,' quoth he:
'Pray tell us, Professor, what knife this may be?'

It is plain the professor was posed !

T be fudge Papers:



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AFTER all, except in some few instances, I am not very partial to literary ladies : they almost always bring to mind the female astronomer, who, after applying her nocturnal telescope for a long series of months, declared her only object was to discover if there were men in the moon.'


I HAVE hinted at the literary tendencies of Miss JEMIMA FUDGE. Like most literary ladies, she keeps a journal, in which a great deal of pent-up tenderness overflows. Very much of that sort of tenderness which afflicts ladies of a certain age, would, if put in print and distributed in the leaves of a popular magazine, dispose people to tears. It is fortunate for people that it does not so appear.

We have tears enough of our own, I think, without finding them started by every distracted lady who chooses to take a pen. There are griefs seaming the texture of every mortal's life; and dispirited ladies have no right to think, or to say, with their hands on their bosoms: 'Every heart has its own bitterness ;' as if the proverb applied to them, and no body else. There is, in fact, an immense deal of affliction, and an immense deal of sentimental affliction in the world, which needs only to be ripped open to make a very bloody show. But a better way of treating it is, to poultice with common-sense, and to follow this up with a strong plaster of duty; and in a month's time the evil is cured : or, what is as well — is forgotten.

But cousin JEMIMA was not of this way of thinking: she loved to fancy her little tweaks of sensitiveness were the irradiations (so she called them) of a delicate nature; and she nourished them, and fondled them accordingly, as many a weaker man or woman has done before her, and, it is to be feared, will continue to do, till the crack of doom. It is surprising what a magnificent growth of griefs our own fancy can germinate, if it be only set in that direction! It is frightful to contemplate the unmitigated personal woes which play before the vision of a poeticallydisposed young lady, dancing and gleaming every twilight, like sheetlightning in a bad atmosphere.

As I said, the best way to disperse it all, is to set about some healthful, honest, hearty work, though it be no better than darning stockings for the children of a ragged-school.

Miss JEMIMA, instead, wrote verses; and when rhyme failed, wrote in her journal. There she unbosomed herself; there she strewed passion, VOL. XLII.


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