"My dear child, farewell. Before this reaches you, I shall be no more. My wounds are mortal, but that concerns me little.Your friend is wounded and taken. He was alas, too late. Your information was true. But it is now finished. The day is lost, and with it, perhaps the freedom of our country. Farewell, Farewell, my child. Vittoria, Nov. 7, 1808. Vive Fernando. BUXEDA. My lady raised herself on one hand, and with the other seemed to brush away something that floated in the air before her eyes.— Rosina and I helped her to the bed-side. But she would not lie down, continuing to look wildly round until her eyes fell on Diego; when seeming to collect herself, she said, "Where is the letter I saw just now, Diego?" Diego stood like a statue, and knew nothing; but put it into her hand. She read it over and over again; every now and then putting her hand to and from her eyes, as if to sweep away something that interrupted the sight. At last, "Oh Diego!' she exclaimed wildly, "tell me when he died." "No one is dead, my lady," said he, scarcely intelligibly ; « but," and he paused and grew paler still; but, they are bringing the Colonel -tied with ropes to Ordunna, where, they say, he is to be shot this night." "Merciful God!" she uttered in a low tone, fixing her eyes above ; « and my uncle ?" "I saw him last, my lady, when he gave me this letter. He was then lying on the large table in the Posada at Vittoria. He also gave me his purse: there it is," continued Diego, throwing it on the floor, «and he said to me, God bless you Diego, you are the son of an honest man." Diego did The Saints deliver me, I did not know what to make of all this, but I plainly saw there was sorrow enough in it. Poor Rosina hung upon the lady Aminta's arm, and wept aloud. not move, but my lady looking strangely on him, took him by the neck, and kissed his forehead. Heaven deliver me, but I wondered at her; but when she turned round to me, and told me that I had married Godoi, and was a traitor, I trembled; for I saw that her wits were gone. Rosina tried to soothe her: « Do not you know your own Duenna, my dear lady?" said she. But so strange were my lady's looks, that Rosina trembled too. I took her hand, and went upon my knees. She raised me up, with a softened countenance, saying, "Come, let us go look for him." She was leading me to the door, when I entreated her to stop a little; she seemed persuaded, and turned towards the toilette, wreathing the hair that still hung from her neck, round and round her arms, Catching up some of the flowers and shrubs that we had brought in with us," Here," turned she to Rosina, giving her a rose," put that in your bosom, and wrap patience round the thorn. We will go now, my mother," she repeated, touching my face with some sprigs of the laurel which she had held in her hand; then suddenly starting, she threw them down, exclaiming, "No! I will have none of you. My mother told me in a dream last night, that you were aconite." "God save you, my lady," interrupted I; "it is night-pray, and go to bed."—"I am not dead yet," said she, why bury me? I am going to a wedding. Will you go too? If not, stay here, and I will send for you."-" Providence keep us all in our senses," thought I; then looking at her, oppressed by such a thought, I was overcome, and fell into violent hysterics. What happened for some time, I know not, but when I recovcred, I found myself in bed, and alone. There seemed to be a dreadful noise in the streets. I endeavoured to collect myself, and ran from room to room to find my unfortunate lady. A great light in the street, and the sound of a vast tumult drew me to the balcony. I saw the Colonel, lying in a cart, almost lifeless, and bloody, with his hands tied behind him. He was in the midst of soldiers, horse and foot. I thought that the Lady Aminta might have seen the same sight, and that it had driven her to despair. I looked among the crowd for her, but to no purpose. There was not a soul in the house. So finding myself unable to remain a moment longer in suspense, I ran out of doors, and made my way immediately towards the square. Seeing that I could not get through the crowd when I reached it, I went round to the Posada, where I might overlook it from the balcony. The door was not to be passed for the press of people. They were carrying in the Colonel's dead body. I now knew the meaning of the musketry I had heard as I was getting towards the square. I forced my way up after the body, into the great room. The moment they set it down, I discovered my lady coming towards it. She did not start at the sight, but sat down by its side without emotion; then lifting its eyelids with her fingers; "Do not you know me?" she sighed. "You used not to look at me thus !" Then pausing and casting her eyes up and down the body," Ah ! said she, shaking her head, "I see it has rained blood in Spain this day. On this she arose suddenly, and taking him by the hand, "Come with me, Walstein; I have laurels for you. Buxeda sent them by Diego." Then kneeling, she took her uncle's letter, and tearing it into little strips, stuck it in his hair, with a few green sprigs which she had kept in her hand. "And here are roses for you," as she pulled off the leaves of a rose, and threw them on his cheek. "But they will fade too; I will go and bring you lilies. Stop then," wept she, "stop, and do not move until I come again." "Alas! poor lady," continued the Duenna, "oppressed by the fate of her friend, her relation, and her country, her sole delight is now to wander about the roads and gardens, singing broken songs, and gathering shrubs and flowers. I attend close to her in all her walks, and have succeeded this morning in persuading her to come in and rest herself. For my part, I think it was Hea ven's mercy that deprived her of her wits. There she lies," said the Duenna, pointing to an inner room, "there she lies, poor thing, fast asleep, and may her sleep be refreshing; for she was the sweetest lady that ever eyes looked at upon Spanish ground." ART. X.-No Fiction; or the Test of Friendship: a Narrative founded on recent and interesting facts. Baltimore: 2 vols. price § 2. OUR distant readers expect from us some account of the multitude of new books which daily meet their eyes in the pages of our city papers; and we endeavour to gratify them, when we find any thing really worth their notice. This curiosity is most readily and most generally excited by the title of a new novel-the delight of all readers-both young and old, grave and gay. The singular title at the head of our page would seem to imply a story-it is therefore asked on all hands-Is it a Novel? If a Novel mean a fiction, the author says it is "No fiction.". If a Novel means a new story-then it is a Novel, for the book contains a story, with a beginning, middle, and end, and powerfully sustained throughout. If this intimation should induce our readers to take it up, the result will probably be, that the serious will read it, every page with delight and edification, whilst another class, will run their eye from page to page to pick out the story, and will declare at last that the whole is overstrained! To apologize for this anticipation, we must now tell them that the staple of the book, is deep, genuine, religious reflection. We are not ourselves, very fond of this mode of conveying religious instruction. Let us sit down to theology under its own proper name—and let us have a Novel for a lighter hour, always premising however, that piety should be the governing principle of every Novel to which we would give our sanction. Perhaps no writer of Novels has deserved more respect than Mrs. West for this characteristic of her works. All her best characters are religious. "No Fiction" bears the stamp of truth, at least so far as the incidents are concerned-they are exceedingly interesting, but neither romantic nor surprising; all flow easily, and naturally from the circumstances. The actors are few, and they act like human nature-but some of them we fear, are made to speak and feel as human nature seldom does. Douglass and Lefevre were friends. Both were young, and alike possessed of a taste for literature, for the grand and beautiful in nature-and an ardent desire to improve their minds, and increase their religious knowledge. Douglass was a settled christian. Lefevre of more susceptible temperament, but with the most honourable and upright intentions, often mistook passion for reason and fell into her snares. His falls, his affections, his recoveries, and the noble and unconquerable attachment of his friend, form the entertainment prepared in this “Nar rative. Lefevre's account of his first leaving home, to go into business in London, will be read with sympathy by every mother. "Of my residence and relations I need say nothing; and the events of my boyish life would scarcely have any thing to distinguish them from those of most boys at the same period of existence. Perhaps the first occurrence that is worth mentioning, is my departure from the maternal roof. I retain, and shall ever retain, a lively impression, of the feelings of that day. I seem to hear the stage-coach rattling up the paved street. I seem to feel my mothers's kissesfirst impressed in the parlour-then renewed in the passageand finally repeated on the steps at the door. I fancy I see her standing on the spot where we last embraced; the tears running down her cheek, as she said, My dear Charles, beware of the snares of London !'-and then, as we separated, clasping her hands and looking towards the heavens, regardless of spectators, earnestly exclaim, God Almighty keep my child!" Vol. 1. page 38. . Having been soberly educated, the habits of his young acquaintances in the Metropolis were somewhat shocking to his feelings. "Perhaps one of the worst effects of this intercourse was, that it begat light thoughts of religion and of the sabbath. Ι well remember the feelings of one sabbath, which I had devoted to recreation and amusement; and which, as my companions insisted, were so needful after the confinement and labour of the week. I returned, in the evening, to my dwelling, more fatigued than by the duties of any common day, and dissatisfied with pleasures which my heart told me were mixed with sin. I retired to my chamber. Former days came to my mind. The words of my mother Beware of the snares of London!' sunk in my heart. I sighed I thought I would beware in future-I kneeled down and prayed to God to be my keeper. "Must I tell you, my friend, how soon these impressions were removed, and my vows broken!-that they were often renewed, and as often violated, with more carelessness of the consequences each time !—so that I know not what I might have been at this moment, but for a season of affliction." His early principles however, are sustained by a timely acquaintance with Douglass, assisted by two excellent people with whom he lodged, who are thus finely described "Mr. Russell was unusually tall, portly, and of fine presence; with such an appearance of strength and dignity as to excite unmixed awe in the mind, had it not been united with a remarkable expression of meekness and benevolence in his countenance. His dispositions were habitually calm, contemplative, and devotional. He had become almost "the man of one book;" that book was the Bible; and on this he seemed rather to feed than to speculate. Religion with him was not so much an object of pursuit, as the element in which he constantly dwelt. Its influence appeared to raise him above this life; and you would have thought him unconnected with earth, had it not been for the affection he discovered as a husband, a father, and a friend. He passed through the world as a pilgrim, ignorant of its cunning, and unruffled by its uproar; and, if, in his passage, some events had power to agitate the surface of his passions, like the deep sunk well, he seemed to contain beneath, those fresh springs of happiness which were inaccessible to all external accidents. On the whole, there was something highly apostolic about him. Frequently, after Douglas and Lefevre have witnessed his serene and heavenly piety, rendered impressive by a majestic figure, crowned with locks bleached to the whiteness of snow by the hand of time, have they repeated these beautiful lines of GoldSmith: "Like some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm: Mrs. Russell, on the other hand, appeared the contrast of her husband. Her person was short, but by no means unpleasant. Active, generous, susceptible and communicative, she readily se |