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VOLUME I. | BY C. R. HANLEITER. P© E T Y □ | “ Much yet remains unsung.” THE SUMMER'S GONE! The Summer’s gone—and every flower That waved its beauties to the sun. Has bloomed its brief, but lovely hour, And shed its fragrance, and is gone. The Summer’s gone—and many a hope That budded with the early Spring, Has seen its blossoms brightly ope To wither like a blighted thing ! The Summer's gone—and many an eye That brightly shone, in tears are shrouded, And hearts that loved us withered lie, Or worse than this, by coldness cloudtd! The Summer's gone—hut soon again, Shall blush and breathe upon the air, The enamored flower, and paint the glen. Cut those 1 love will not be there ! JJJ_J SUDDEN AND SHARP DOOM. BY JOHN INMAN. It is hut seldom, of late years, that the community is startled by an account of pi racy in waters adjacent to lands of civiliza tion” ; and still more seldom tlmt the alarm such accounts are fitted toawaken, is height ened to horror by details of cruelty and bloodshed. But there was a time, within the memory even of the present generation, when tales of frightful atrocities, commit ted on hoard vessels navigating to and from the West Indies, were of very frequent oc currence; arid such were the numbers and audacity of the hucaniers infesting the vici nity of those islands, that the governments both of the United States and Great Britain deemed it necessary to employ squadrons of small vessels, adapted in size and speed and armament to this peculiar service, for the protection of their commerce and the des truction of the marauders. The latter most desirable object was in time effected, many piratical vessels being captured, and fearful numbers of the felons put to death, either in combat or by the gallows ; but while the evil was yet existing, deeds of enormity were committed, of which in some instances the details became known, while in many others they could only be conjectured, so frightful as almost to transcend belief—to excite a doubt whether a process could in deed exist so tremendous as to establish such affinity between the natures of man and demon. Such I would not horrify my readers by describing ; hut one case of pi racy, remarkable in its details, and most un expected in its termination, has appeared to me sufficiently interesting to deserve, with out being so dreadful as not to bear, narra tion. A good ship had taken her departure from the island of St. Croix, for New Yoik.— She had on hoard a large sum of money in gold, and two passengers; one a young man of eighteen or nineteen, returning from a winter’s residence upon the island, for the sake of health, the other a lovely hoy of seven, the child of the captain. Its mother had died at West End, of consumption, hav ing sought refuge from that fell destroyer of youth and beauty at too late a stage of its attack; and the captain was taking home this his only child, intending to place it in the care of its dead mother’s parents. This captain was a son of New England; still a young man, but eminently skilful in his profession, and even more remarkable for his moral than his professional excellence. Modest in speech and deportment, he was yet a man of consummate bravery, of in domitable firmness, and of. a conscientious ness not often exhibited either on sea or land. He hud heard of recent piracies, al though as yet they had not become so fre quent as in the progress of the next year or two, and when lie left port it was with con siderable anxiety on account of his child, and still more so on account of the treasure shipped on board his vessel, because it was not his own. His uneasiness had augment ed by the fact that his ship was neither arm ed nor strongly manned, as, when he left the United States, no cause for alarm of the kind had been known or apprehended.— Nevertheless, trusting in Providence and the good ship, and taking the precaution to conceal the gold wheie it would scarcely be found by any uninstructed seeker, he set sail, not with a light heart certainly, but with a steady and unflinching spirit. „ I have no skill in nautical description, and therefore shall not attempt a nautical account of wbat was said and done on board the Resolution during the first two or three days of her voyage ; only it is to bo remark ed that the wind she had was light, frequent ly dying away into a perfect calm, and that her progress from the locality of apprehend ed danger was so slow as to increase in no light measure the anxieties of the captain ; nor were these at all alleviated by the ru mors that reached him from the forecastle, of a bucanier who had given liis name a terrible notoriety by acts of excessive daring and cruelty, recently committed in the im mediate vicinity of the very latitude and longitude to which he found himself churn ed as it were, day after day. The name homo by this scourge of the seas—real or assumed—was Morgan; and brief as had & JFamtlg JLetosimpev: Srfcotctt to Hitcrature, atartculturc, JHertuuifcs, I39urTt(ou, jFoveteti ana Somtsttc StUtlUarftce, Kt . been his career, it had already been signal yzed, according to the stories current among the crew of the Resolution, by exhibitions of cold blooded ferocity never exceeded and not often equalled even by pirates. His vessel, a large but swift sailing schooner, was said to be strongly armed and manned; but there was one among the crew, so said report, whose character and conduct were specially dwelt upon as combining the ele ments of wonder and of horror. He was said to he of gigantic stature and hideous appearance, and the possessor of enormous strength, which, however, he never exerted in working the Vessel, but only in conflict where resistance was attempted. But the most extraordinary and revolting tale con cerning him was that his was the hand al ways employed in putting to death the un happy captives whom Morgan’s policy or cruelty refused to spare; and that in his horrible office of executioner he displayed a savage enjoyment not less inconceivable than frightful. He was known, the sailors said, by the title of Jack Ketch, bestowed on him as descriptive of his peculiar em ployment, and originating in the deep ab horrence with which sailors universally re gard the professional hangman, who in Eng land has been known as Jack Ketch from time immorial. The third day of the voyage was well advanced, a good breeze had sprung up, and Captain Fowler was congratulating himself on his escape thus far and the in creasing probability of ultimate safety, wdicn a sail was descried, just rising above the horizon. Soon it w r as made out to be a schooner, and rapidly approaching. Cap tain Fowler could not conceal his uneasi ness, ami ordered every rag of canvass to he crowded on his vessel; the stranger might he an honest wayfarer of the ocean, but he might also be the fearless Morgan. It was soon apparent however, that the schooner had the most speed, and the wind favoring her as much as it did the ship, the latter was sure to be overtaken. The only hope that remained, therefore, was in the peaceful and honest character of the pur suer; and this hope disappeared when, as the schooner hove full in sight, she was seen to be large though extremely sharp, with tall and raking masts, and an extraordina ry spread of sail, black ns night in the hull, her decks crowded with men, and that she had no flag flying. Captain Fowler looked round upon his scanty crew and with a groan abandoned the idea of resistance ; and when the pirate, for that such she was could not be doubted, fired a shotted gun over him, with the calmness of despair he ordered the ship hove to, and prepared for his fate. There were degrees of horror to he ex pected in the encounter of pirates; and Captain Fowler with his passengers and crew, endeavored to find some consolation in the hope that their captor was not the dreaded Morgan. But this hope soon van ished when a large boat from the schooner full of armed men, drew near the ship, and it was seen that the forward oar was pulied by a man whose height and huge propor tions left little room to doubt that he was the “ Jack Ketch” of whom report had spoken ; and suspicicion was changed into certainty when the boat came alongside, and this same giant stepped on board, followed by a middle size compactly built man of about forty, with light hair and smooth but sunburnt face, whom, with what seemed a mocking courtesy, he introduced as “ Cap tain Morgan.” There was nothing terrific or even for midable in the aspect of the dreaded free booter. His features were rather common place than otherwise, both in form and ex pression ; he was plainly dressed, and had about his person no weapons, not even a cutlass or a dirk. It was noticed, however, that his orders to his men as they took pos session of the ship’s deck were brief, and uttered in that quiet tone of authority which bespeaks the habit of command ; and noth ing could exceed the promptness with which they were obeyed. Not a man of the fif teen or twenty whom be had brought with him spoke or moved except as he command ed ; each man took in silence the station assigned by him; and Captain Fowler be gan to cherish a hope that after searching the ship and taking such portions of the cargo as might suit his fancy, Morgan would let them go unharmed, and hut little worse for the encounter. The gold he was sure could not he found, and he felt quite confi dent that the fact of its being on hoard was unknown to all except himself and the merchant from whom lie had received it. There was one exception to the orderly and disciplined conduct of the pirate ciew ; and this was in the demeanor of the huge fellow recognized by the captives as the Jack Ketch of the pirate schooner. It seem ed he was not included in the brief but effi cient orders of Morgan ; for he wandered about the ship’s deck, paying no attention to the proceedings of his captain or his comrads, and finally seated himself upon the windlass, where he amused himself with balancing one of the capstan bars upon the tip of his forefinger, as if utterly uncons cious of the purpose for which he had come on hoard, or of the business then in pro gress. Notwithstanding their anxiety and alarm, Captain Fowler and his passenger could not help watching this fellow with curious inter est ; and they found it very difficult to re concile his appearance and deportment with MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 5, 1842. the horrid office ascribed to him by rumor. His size and apparent strength were indeed enormous. In height he was about six feet and a half; of immense breadth in the shoulders, long armed, and slender in the waist; hut the expression of his face was that of good nature, and there was an inde cision in his movements, and a something in his physiognomy, which awakened the sus picion that his intellect was feeble. And this suspicion was correct. Silly Sam—for that was the name he bore among the pirates—was indeed an idiot; and instead of filling the sanguinary office ascribed to him, he was, in truth, one of the most harmless and kind hearted of human beings. His real name, bis origin and his tory were unknown ; it was believed, how ever, that he was of English birth, and there was some vague tale of cruelty exercised upon him in his childhood which had un settled liis reason. His enormous strength and his willingness to labor made him ex tremely useful on board of Morgan’s vessel, although he would take part in no engage ment ; and as he never required wages, or a share of plunder, seeming perfectly con tent with the food and clothing that were pro vided for him; and as he was ready moreover, at any time to do the work of any body that asked, he was a universal favorite among his fellows. To none of them, however, nor to Morgan himself, did he acem to have any personal attachment. The schooner was his home—the only one he knew*—and on board the schooner he remained, indif ferent alike to the companions he found there, and the business in which he was em ployed. The stern discipline maintained by Morgan forbade the attempt of any to play off upon Silly Sam those annoyances and petty torments to which his feebleness of mind would have exposed him in such a crew ; and even had it been otherwise, his great personal strength, equal to a success ful contest with half a dozen of his fellows, would have made them cautious how they provoked him to anger. Such was Silly Sam—the terrible Jack Ketch of Morgan’s rover, by report, but in reality one of the most innocent and inoffensive creatures that ever breathed the air. But to return from this digression. As soon as Morgan had so stationed his men as to lake complete possession of the ship, and satisfied himself that there was neither the means nor the purpose of resistance, lie turned to Captain Fowler, and touching his hat with a cool courtesy that contrasted strangely enough with liis proceedings, beg ged permission to examine his manifest. It was produced, and running his eyes over it, lie marked with a pencil such articles of the cargo us he thought proper to appropriate. The crew of the ship and some half dozen of the pirates, among whom was Silly Sam, were set at work getting np the selected eases from the hold, and into the boat fiorri the schooner; and in the meantime Morgan invited himself into the cabin, where he drew Upon the captain’s hospitality for a glass of wine and some other slight refreshments.— His manner was polite but distant, very much like what one might suppose that a post cap tain in the navy would he, while making a visit of inspection to a merchantman sus pected of having on hoard goods contraband of war. It was well fitted, however, to dis sipate the alarm and anxiety of Captain Fowler, who became every moment more confident that the pirate would be satisfied with the plunder he had designated, and that when all this had been removed into the boat, his unwelcome visiter would take liis departure without any display of cruel ty, satisfied that lie had got all there was on board the ship worth taking. He even be gan to accuse himself of injustice for be lieving the stories he had heard of Morgan’s cold blooded ferocity; and to look upon him as quite a generous and gentlemanly personage—for a pirate—altliough he could not repress a feeling of uneasiness, a vague emotion of terror, when his guest began to fondle the boy—the blooming Edward— and, taking him upon his kriee, twined his fingers among the curling ringlets of that dear head which the anxious father had so often pillowed upon his own bosom, and which his departed Mary had hallowed with a blessing in the last moment of her exis tence. Still not a word was uttered, not an inti mation of any kind was given, that seemed to justify apprehension ; and when word was passed below that the transfer of the chosen articles was completed, and Morgan returned to the deck, leading Edward by tlio hand, the captain followed with a heart greatly lightened, and in almost undoubting confidence that in a few minutes he should be left at liberty to pursue his course. The boat was still lying alongside, but laden with the plunder of the Resolution ; and Morgan directed all but six of his men to row back in her to the schooner, which, having taken in her sail, had fallen a mile or two astern, the ship slowly drifting to lee ward. Those wno remained were heavily armed, except Silly Sam ; and Morgan him self took from one of those ordered to the boat a cutlass and a pair of pistols, remark ing that they would he in the man's way while rowing, and ordering the boat to he brought back immediately to receive him and the others. Captain Fowler was disappointed. Tie had expected that the pirates would leave his ship at once, but lie easily satisfied him self by reflecting that the boat had really as much on hoard as she could carry, and that if Morgan’s intentions were dangerous, lie Would not have left himself with so small a number of followers. lie did not know the man with whom he had to deal. As soon as the boat had put off, Morgan ordered the ship’s crew to station themselves on the forecastle, and directed four of his own men, a pistol in each hand, to Maud guard over them. Then turning to Fowler, in whom this arrangement had excited a renewal of his fears, he said, in a cool, busi ness like way, yet with something like a sneer upon his countenance, “Now, Capt. Fowler, if you please, I'll trouble you for those fifty thousand dollars in gold that were put on board of your ship by Steinmark & Company.” Had a thunderbolt fallen up on his head, Fowler could not have been more astounded. The demand was fearful; the knowledge it exhibited still more so.— He could not deny that the gold was in his keeping; it was clear indeed that denial would be useless. Give it up he would not, he the consequences what they might, for it was the property of another ; yet there was every reason to believe that should Morgan’s search for it prove unsuccessful, torture, if not death, would be inflicted Upon himself to wring from him the disclosure These thoughts darted like lightning through liis mind, and with ar. inward groan lie murmured, “Father in Heaven protect my child !” Morgan waited a few moments for ifts answer, hut none was given. Then his brow grew stern, but still he preserved his calmness of voice and manner as he said, “ Will it please you. Captain Fowler, to give up the gold, or must 1 wring it from you ?” Fowler cast his eyes despairingly around him, but there was no help, no manner of deliverance. He remained silent; and in truth lie knew not what to say. The true character of the man into whose power he had fallen was revealed to him, even in the threat just uttered, and he felt that if there was no hope in resistance, there was none in supplication. “Once more, and for the last time,” said Morgan, “ I demand the gold. If you do not give it up, and quick ly, 1 will find a way to reach it, more terri ble than even your imagination has ever pictured.” Still no word from Fowler. lie was nerving himself to die—to undergo tor tures worse than death. The trust confided in him he would not violate. But the tor ture was indeed to be applied in a mode and form, as the pirate truly said, which had never been present to his imagination. At a signal from Morgan, the captain was seized by Silly Sam and the other of Mor gan’s followers, his hands tied behind liis back, and the rope which bound them fas tened at the other end to one of the belay ing pins of the quarter railing, with a ‘slack’ of about three feet, so that he could move in a semi-circle having about that length of radius; the passenger, being evidently in delicate health, and not likely to make any very powerful attempt at a rescue, was left at liberty. The crew, as has already been said, were prisoners, in some sort, upon the forecastle, guarded by four of the hucaniers, each of whom could make sure of two with his pistols, in case of their making any hos tile movement. Thus the parties on board the ship were in two divisions; the sailors and their guard occupying the narrow space forward—w hile Morgan end his two follow ers, Captain Fowler, the passenger and the child, were on the quarter deck. Poor Edward looked on with amazement at the binding of his father; his little bo som heaved, liis cheeks were flushed with anger, and tears were gathered in his trem bling eyelids. He gazed at Morgan for a moment, as if to divine his purpose, and then rushing to his father leaped to his neck, around which lie clasped his little arms, hid ing his face in that bosom which was his nightly pillow. Fowler kissed him fondly, and, anxious to spare his boy the sight of those cruel suf ferings of which he expected to be the vic tim, earnestly begged Mr. Anderson, the passenger, to take him below and keep him there. Anderson moved a step forward, to comply with this request, hut Morgan bade him halt, and there was no alternative for obedience. Such was the situation of the parties —Fowler bound, the child clinging to his neck, Anderson standing near the cabin door, and Morgan between, with his two subordinates—Sam leaning against the mizen mast, his vacant countenance express ing no emotion, or even cognizance of what was passing, while ho still umused himself with tiie handspike which he hail taken up when he first came on board the Resolution. “ There is yet a moment for mercy.” said Morgan to Captain Fowler; “ will you give me the gold 1” A shudder passed through the captain’s frame, but he gave no answer. “ Take the boy from him, Harris !” said the pirate; and it was done, though no? without some difficulty. “Strip him!” Fowler started as if shot, and n pang of keenest agony thrilled liis frame, as the ter rible purpose ot his tormentor flashed upon his mind ; for it was Edward at whom Mor gan pointed when his last brief command was uttered. “Monster!” he exclaimed, “you will not, you cannot Ire so cruel!— Wreak your fury upon me, but spare tbe unoffending child ! If you have the heart of a man within you, let your savage Healing be with men, and leave helpless infancy in safety.” His frantic entreaties and his des perate struggles to break loose were equal ly in vain. Morgan looked on with a cold, relentless eye, while the fair back awl shoulders of the boy were exposed. That tenderfrarqe, those clustering etu is,on which his hand had but now tieefi laid in seeming kindness, the surpassing loveliness of that childish face, even now tvhen it was blanch ed with terror, the mute appeal of that im ploring look, and the fearful agony of the distracted father, might have stirred up pi ty, one would think, in the breast even of an inquisitor; but pity there was none in the heart of Morgan. He paused not fora moment in his savage purpose ; and to the prayers, the imprecations of Fowler, he vouchsaved no other reply than a simple de claration of the horrible alternative —“ The money or the boy !” And now poor Edward is ready for the sacrlice. At the command of his tiger hearted chief Harris piepaies a scourge of small hard twisted cord, with live or six distinct lashes at the striking end, and knot ted at intervals to give its blows the more effect. With cool, unsparing deliberation, Morgan laid aside his hat and turned up liis sleeves; and then, grasping the arm of the helpless child, hegaveonesbarp, hard stroke, every thong of that accursed whip cutting clear through the white and tender skiu. which in a moment was laced w ith stripes of sanguine hue. A shriek of torture burst from the lips of the unhappy boy ; one loud er and of more terrific agony, from those of the miserable father—but both were drown ed in a horrid yell, so feaiful, so appalling, that even Morgan started in amazement and affright, and dropping his instrument of tor ture, turned quickly round to see from whence it came. He turned and saw, and tlmt look was his last. Quick as lightning descend ed upon his head a mighty blow, and in an other instant he lay upon the deck, a quiv ering, mangled corpse; his skull crushed into a shapeless mass, ns if by the fall of a thunderbolt, freighted with vengeance, from the Heaven he had outraged. Tlmt fearful yell was uttered, liir.t more fearful stroke bestowed by Silly Sam. The shriek of the Suffering child, the sight of liis scored and bleeding body, had called up in the feeble mind of the poor idiot a terri ble memory of that cruel infliction of his own childhood by w hich his brain was craz ed ; and yielding to the desperateimjml.se of the moment-—that impulse which prompt ed icscne for the victim, and vengeance on the oppressor, identifying himself in years long past w ith the one and Morgan with the other, Le had swung aloft the ponderous bar, so providentially remaining in liis hands, and putting his whole giant strength into the blow, had struck the villain dead, even before he himself was conscious of the act. Fora moment all the spectators of this dreadful scene were paralysed with horror and astonishment. The first to recover pos session of their senses w;ere the four pirates stationed forward ; and they rushed to the quarterdeck to avenge their leader. Two of them fired at the executioner, hut their shots took no effect; and the sailors of the Resolution, arming themselves with wea pons like that with which the slaughter had been done, were so quickly upon them that before they could reach the slayer, tbe pro tection of ilieirovvn lives demanded a!! their care. .Anderson, with great jiresenee of mind, addressed himself first to the libera tion of Fowler. A desperate conflict en sued, but it was soon over. One of the pirates was knocked down, and the other four, seeing the odds so greatly against them, threw away their pistols, and begged for mercy. They were quickly seized and bound ; and after some little deliberation as to the course most exjiedient to he taken with them, hurried into one of the ship’s boats, with a single pair of oars, and the body of their felon commander, and left to make the best of their way to the schooner; Captain Fowler and with reason, that suspicion would be awakened, and instant pursuit be made, if the ship were getting under way while some of the pirates were known to he on hoard. Sail was then made upon the ship, and as night was now setting in, arid the wind still favorable, the rejoicing inmates of the Re solution entertained a strong hope of gain ing so much head way before the truth should be known on board the schooner, as would insure them against pursuit, especially as they would he favored by the daikness of the coming night; a hope which was for tunately realized. Silly Sam, who had been apparently stupilied by tbe contemplation of his own deed, as soon as the excitement which caused it had passed away, remained on hoard the ship, unconscious, as it seemed, of the departure of his comrades ; and it need scarcely he added that he received ev ery kindness, then and all his life after, from the grateful father whose child he had saved from cruel tortures, if not from death in n manner so strange and unexpected.— Gift (f 1543. A VENETIAN INCIDENT. In the earlier ages of the llepnblie which in the days of “ blind old Dandolo” had be come so illustrious that its aid was solicited by the most powerful nation of Europe, Isola Clivolo, one of the most desolate and uninhabited portions of the city of Venice, was the scene of an annual re ligious festival. One morning, the morning of the feast of the Purification, the Lngune was alive with ornamented gondolas, mov ing to the soft sound of music, and proceed ing slowly toward the point of the island | NUMBER 32. \Y. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR. where they were to lie moored (faring tjie joyous festival. The royal barge of Clenpafttf, silling down the Cydnus, was doubtless infinitely more splendid than the most gorgeofis of these Venetian gondolas; but it may be doubted whether beneath its gold-clotb can opy beat a happier heart than might be £>ond beneath either of the humbler pavilions.'— Agreeably to the custom at that time pre vailing in Venire, several betrothed parties, of wealth and high rank. Were proceeding to the Cathedral of Santa Maria Formosa, to give public celebration to their espousals. The blue waters of the Adriatic, who was not yet wedded to her island lord, were sparkling brightly beneath tbe cloudless sky of Italy, and everything in nature betoken ed a day of uiiinternqrtcd gaiety and love. “If this be a picture, as some say, of all our after life, what a joyous life it will be, will it nor, Bianca 1” w hispered one of .the happy lovers to the fair being at his side. “Ah ! hut, Leonardo,-* Yoo will call me su|)erstitious, 1 know; yet I cannot hut feel that there is a cloud gathering over us, and that the noonday will find me in tears.” “ Tears of joy they shall be, then, sweet Bianca, unless, indeed, thou art about tak ing upon dice irksome bonds.” “ Thou well knowest, Leonardo, that no woman ever went more willingly to the al tar than Igo there with thee. It is not this, believe me, which makes me sad ; but I do assure you, some undefined misfortune is ajiproaching us. My heart is like a baro meter, Leonardo, it instantly detects the coming of the storm.” “ Thou art a timid bird, fit only for the shelter of the cage. There thou eawst sing most sweetly, as 1 can testify, having often, in our luxurious summer evenings, steered my little barque beneath thy lattice, and lingered there to hear thee warldethy plain tive lavs. Ah ! they melted my heart, Bi anca !” ” And who was it that touched the soft strings of liis guitar in response, and tempt* ed me out tijinn the balcony, notwithstand ing my good nurse’s cautions against the evening damps ? Those were happy times, were they not, Leonaidof” “ Indeed they were ; and is not the pres ent time also happy V ’ “ Yes, were it not for the shadow of some approaching misfortune.” “ Fie on these njiprehehsions, Bianca.- They are but the illusions of thy deep sen sibilities. Certainly nothing can happen to disturb the joy of our bridal. Are We not, in the midst of friends, with a cloudless sky over our heads ? And surely all the angels in heaven would league themselves in thy defence, were any danger to threaten us.— Drive away these dark fancies, and be thino own gay self again.” As Leonardo finished these words, the gondolier sprang lightly upon the quay, while the friends that were awaiting them upon the island, crowded around with music and congratulations. One gondola after an other continued to arrive, until the whole company was collected upon the shore.— Preceded by bands of music and ranks of kiuclred, bearing in their hands a profusion of jewels and other bridal gifts, the lovers, two by two, promenaded towards the Cath edral. It wasa brilliant and beautiful procession. Youth, and loveliness, and gtiy attire; tbe strains of joyous melody, tbe glitter of over flowing caskets, the bloom of freshly gather ed flowers, all united to present one of the most dazzling scenes that had ever enliven ed that desolate retreat. They entered the beautiful church of Santa Maria ; and as gradually the numer ous assembly retired to the galleries, tbe bridal parties ajrproached the altar. Beside the patriarch, who was to perform the holy functions of Jiis office in uniting so many young and loving hearts in the only ties that were now wanting to complete their happi ness, sat the kind old Doge, Candiano, who had come out from liis palace to witness and sanction the ceremony. As his eye scanned the youthful group, on no countenance did it rest with a milder benignity than on that of the fair and gentle Bianca. She was tbe daughter of bis only sister, and dearly loved by him fur her tender and amiable disposi tion. lie observed the extreme paleness of her cheeks, w here usually the blush man tled in the hour of excitement; and saw al so that the veil which fell upon her bosom shook with the violent heating of her heart. Biit he attributed her emotion to omnity of the ceremony, and the deep feel iug which he was well aware lay concealed in her hrenst. t* The Patriarch arose—so also*!id the Doge —for at that moment, just while the solemn vows were about bursting from the lips of tqose loving and beloved ones, a loud tumult was beard at the gates of the Cflthedrak and almost before the citizens had time to turn their heads to learn the cause of the disturbance, a crowd of ferocious beings had j>enetrated the veiy sanctuary. . no* With screams of terroi the young brides clung to their lovers, who, unarmed, andw ken by surprise, could only shield them Up 1 on their bosoms, while the rest of tha eW zens huddled together in alarm, leaving*tha pirates to seize the costly ornaments which had tempted them to this rude assault. Bat not content with this, no sooner had they made sure of their more solid prize, than they wrested from tire arms of tlttiir grooms