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4 withstanding in her system; and to the con stancy of a martyr added something of ihe wilfulness of a bigot. Indeed, it was hinted by patrons arid patronesses of white charities, lhat European objects had not their/mV share in her benevolence. She was pre-eminently the friend of the blacks. Howbeit, for all her sacrifices, not a lash was averted from their sable backs. She had raised discontent in the kitchen, she had disgusted her acquaintance, sickened her friends, and given her own dear little nephews the stomach-ache, without sav ing Quashy from on Jcut of the driver’s whip, or diverting a single kick from the shins of Sambo. 1 ler grocer complained loudly of be ing called a dealer in human gore, yet not one hogshead the less was imported from the plan tations. By an error common to all her class she mistook a negative for a positive princi ple ; and persuaded herself that by not pre serving damsons, she preserved the Niggers; that by not sweetening her own cup. she was dulcifying the lot of all her sable brethren in bondage. She persevered accordingly in set ting her face against sugar instead of slavery, against the plant instead of the planter; and had actually abstained for six months from the forbidden article, when a circumstance oc curred that roused her sympathies into more active exertions. It pleased an American la dy to import with her a black female servant, whom she rather abruptly dismissed on her arrival in England. The case was consid ered by the Hampshire Telegraph of that day as one of great hardship; ihe paragraph went the round of the papers, and in due time attracted the notice of Miss Morbid. It was pre cisely addressed to her sensibilities, and there was a “ Try Warren” tone about it that proved irresistible. She read, and wrote, and in the course of one little week, her domestic estab lishment was maliciously but truly described as consisting of “two white slaves and a black companion.” The adopted protegee was, in reality, a strap ping clumsy Negress, as ugly as sin, and with no other merit than that of being of the same color as the crow. She was artful, sullen, gluttonous, and above all so intolerably indo lent, that it she had been literally “carved in ebony,” as old Fuller says, she could scarcely have been of less service to her protectress. Her notion of Free Labor seemed to translate it into laziness, and taking liberties; and, as she seriously added to the work of her fellow servants, without at all contributing to their comfort, they soon looked upon her as a com plete nuisance. The house-maid dubbed her “a devil,” —the cook roundly compared her to “a mischivus beast as runs out on a herd o’ black cattle;” —and both concurred in the policy of laying all household sins upon the sooty shoulders—just as slatterns select a col or that hides the dirt. It is certain that short ly after the instalment of the Negress in the family a moral disease broke out with consid erable violence, and, justly or not, the odium was attributed to the new-comer. Its name was theft. First, there was a shilling short in some loose change,—next, a missing half crown from the mantle-piece,—then there was a stir with a tea-spoon,—anon, a piece of work about a thimble. Things went, nobody knew how—the “Divil” of course excepted. The cook could , the house-maid would , and Diana should , and ought to take an oath, de claratory of i nocence, before the mayor: but as Diana did not volunteer an affidavit like the others, there was no doubt of her guilt in the kitchen. Miss Morbid, however, came to a very dif ferent conclusion. She thought the whites who could eat sugar were capable of any atro city, and had not forgotten the stand which hail been made by the “pale faces” in favor of the obnoxious article. The cook especial ly incurred suspicion ; for she had been noto rious aforetime for a lavish hand in sweeten ing, and was accordingly quite equal to the double turpitude of stealing and bearing false witness. In fact, the mistress had arrived at the determination of giving both her white hussies their month’s warning, when unex pectedly the thief was taken, as the lawyers say, “ in the manner,” and with the goods up on the person. In a word, the ungrateful black was detected in the very act of levying what might be called her “black mail.”* The horror of Emilia, on discovering that the Moor had murdered her mistress, was scarcely greater than that of Miss Morbid ! She hardly, she said, believed her own senses. You might have knocked her down with a feather! She did not know whether she stood on her head or her heels. She was rooted to the spot! and her hair, if it had been her own, would have Stood upright on her head! There was no doubt in the case. She saw the trans fer of a portion of her own bank stock, from her escritoire into the right-hand pocket of her protegee—she heard it chink as it dropped downwards—she was petrified !—dumbfound ed !—thunderbolted!— “ annillhted ! ” She , §®®lf[a gIE El &illf§E &IE ¥ ©&BSIF TB. ■ was as white as a sheet, but she felt as if all j the blacks in the world had just blown in her face. Her first impulse was to rush upon the rob ber, and insist on restitution—her second was to sit down and weep,—and her third was to talk. The opening as usual was a mere tor rent of ejaculations intermixed with vitupera tion—but she gradually fell into a lecture with many heads. First, she described all she had done for the Blacks, and then, alas! all the Blacks had done for her. Next she insisted on the enormity of the crime, and, anon, she enlarged on the nature of its pun ishment. It was here that she was most elo quent. She traced the course ot human jus tice, from detection to conviction, and thence to execution, liberally throwing dissection in to the bargain : and then descending with Dante into the unmentionable regions, she painted its terrors and tortures with all the cir cumstantial fidelity that certain very old mas ters have displayed on the same subject. “And now, you black wretch,” she conclu ded, having just given the finishing touch to a portrait of Satan himself ; “and now, you black wretch, 1 insist on knowing what I was robbed for. Come, tell me what tempted you. I'm determined to hear it! I insist, I say, on knowing what was to be done with* the wa ges of iniquity !” She insisted, however, in vain. The black wretch had seriously inclined her ear to the ‘whole lecture, —grinning and blubbering by turns. The judge with his black cap, the counsel and their wigs, the twelve men in a box, and Jack Ketch himself—whom she as i sociated with that pleasant West Indian per -1 sonage, John Canoe—had amused, nay tick led her fancy; the press-room, the irons, the rope, and the ordinary, whom she mistook for an overseer, had raised her curiosity, and ex cited her fears; but the spiritualities, without any reference to Obeah, had simply mystified and disgusted her, and she was now in a fit of the sulks. Her mistress, however, persist ed in her question ; and not the less pertina ciously, perhaps, from expecting anew peg whereon to hang a fresh lecture. She was determined to learn the destination of the stolen money; and by*dint of insisting, cajol ing, and, above all, threatening—.for instance, with the whole Posse Comitatis—she finally carried her point. “Cuss him money! Here’s a fuss!” ex claimed the culprit, quite worn out at last bv persecution. “ Cuss him money! Here’s a fuss! What me ’teal him for ? What me do wid him? What any body ’teal him for?— Why for sure, to buy sugar /” A CHALLENGE IN THE BACKWOODS. It so happened that Major Campton was travelling in his own conveyance, and ac companied by his wife, during a pleasant day last summer, he came to a halt on the margin of a certain river, and shouted for the ferry man. In due time the indispensable gentle man was ready, and while enquiring the news of the day, he was suddenly smitten by anew thought, and dropping the paynter of the old scow, looked inquiringly into the Major's face, when the following dialogue ensued. “ Stranger, ain’t your name Major Camp ton ?” “ Yes sir, it is. What business have you j to transact with me ?” “ You are the very man I have long been wanting to see, for you must know that I am the “Bully of the North.” “ Indeed. What do I care for that ?” “ I’ve heard tell of that you are a famous fighter, and I should like to have you give i me a thrashing if you can.” “ Why, man, l have nothing against you, and do not want to make a fool of myself.” “But you shall, though, my honey; and you don’t cross this ferry until it is decided who is cock of the walk.” Remonstrance on the part of the Major was all in vain—the ferryman was determined to fight. The Major held a short consultation with his lady, who was, of course, in great trouble; but taking off his coat and unbut toning his straps, he stepped out upon a gras sy spot, and waited for the ferryman’s attack. To shorten a long story, the fight was a tedious one, and ended in the total defeat of the challenger, who presented in himself, af ter the struggle, an admirable picture of a misspent life, lie had strength enough how ever, to ferry the champion over the river; and when the Major offered to pay the ac customed fare, the latter held not out his hand, but making a rude bow. he exclaimed—“ Not a dime sir. Good afternoon.” —Lanmans Summer in the Wilderness. EPIGRAM....BY COLERIDGE. Your poem must eternal be, Dear sir! it cannot fail For, ’t is incomprehensible, And wants both head and tail. £l)c Southern (fclcctic. THE POETS. B V JIARYE. LEE. The poets! the poets ! Those giants of the earth; In mighty strength they tower above The men of common birth ; A noble race, —they mingle not Among the motly throng, But move, with slow ancl measured step, To music-notes along ! The poets ! the poets ! What conquests they can boast! Without one drop of life-blood spill, They rule a world’s wild host ! Their stainless banner floats unharmed From age to lengthened age, And History records their deeds Upon her proudest page ! The poets! the poets ! How endless is their fame! Death, like a thin inist, comes, yet leaves Ao shadow on each name ; But as you starry gems that gleam In evening’s crystal sky, have they won, in memory’s depths, An immortality! The poets ! the poets ! Who doth not linger o’er The glorious volumes t hat contain Their pure and spotless lore ‘l They charm us in the saddest hours, Our richest joys they feed ; And love for them has grown to be A universal creed! The poets ! the poets/! Those kingly minstrels dead, Well may we twine a votive wreath Around each honored head: No tribute is too high to give Those crowned ernes among men ; The poets! the true poets ! Thanks be to God for them ! CHEVALIER BAYARD. BY W M . GILMORE SIMMS. Charles was absent from Lyons some three years, making the tour of the realm. Mean while, our page prospered as we have seen— gradually passing into a premature manhood, and acquiring the trusts which belong only to that character. When the king returned to Lyons, there was naturally a resumption of all the courtly pleasures and pastimes which made him a favorite with his people in spite of his many royal deficiencies. Among the events which occurred to increase the anima tion of the Lyonese, after the return of the court, was the appearance among them of a celebrated Burgundian cavalier, named Claude de Y T audray. He was a knight of extraordi nary address in arms, who loved nothing bet ter than to display his ability. He demanded of the king a tournament, by which to occupy his young noblesse, and keep them from idle ness and rust. The king, whose piety didnot interfere either with his pleasures or his am bition, and who loved the sports of chivalry as becoming images of war, readily gave ear to the application. The tourney, as arranged by Claude de Vaudray, who was well skilled in all such matters, was to consist of several courses of knights on horseback, and com! s. between foot and horse, with the lance ;i battle-ax. Those who desired to prove tL courage and skill had nothing to do hut to enter the arena where the gentleman of Bur gundy‘had hung up his shield, awaiting the challengers; to touch it with the hand or lance, and send his name to the master of the tour ney. Our man-at-arms passed before the shields with momently-increasing interest. He stood before that, in particular, which belonged to Claude de Vaudray, with eyes of long ing and despondency. His meditations were sufficiently discouraging. To touch the shield was easy enough, hut the conditions of chivalry were such as to put entirely out of the question the claims of a gallant who could not appear in certain style and equipage.— Bravery was a ternj in that day of a two-fold signification. Tha knight must not only /;e, hut he must look brave; and the pomp and splendor of the exhibition made no small part of the attraction among the spectators. Our man-at-arms, with a small stipend nicely cal culated for his absolute necessities, was with out the means to furnish himself with the ap pointments proper to the combat. Armor, and fine clothes, and horses, were essential before he could presume to lake his station with the amhitous company which Claude de Vaudray had gathered around him. His mel ancholy drew the notice of one of his com panions. named Piere de Bocquieres, Lord of Bellabre —a gentleman, like himself, of the suite of the Count de Ligny, a very brave fel low, and one whom Bayard had inspired with a very warm attachment which continued through his life. “ What troubles you com rade? You seem thunder-struck,” said Bel labre. “ 1 feel so, ’’was the reply; “and this is the reason. Here, now, lam no longer a page. Our good lord hath made me a gentle man but i have not the means to appear as one. I long to touch ihe shield of Messire Claude de Yaudray but when 1 have done so, where am 1 to find the armor, and where the horses ?” Bellabre was something older than Bayard, and knew much more of the world. He was a bold fellow, with possibly a sly humor of his own, which did not always hesitate to to seek indulgence at the expense of his neigh bor. He answered his sorowful comrade with a smile, “Why should these doubts distress you ? Have you not a fat priest for a kins man ? Is not your great uncle the rich Ab bot of Esnay? We will go to him; and [ vow to God, if he won’t furnish us the means, we will lay hands on crosier and mitre."- This was a very irreverent boldness on the part of Bellabre; but the anxiety of Bayard to encounter the challenge prevented him from the indulgence of many unnecesary scruples. His companion made so light of the difficulty that he at once proceeded to smite the shield. We may imagine him to have done so with something of the spirit and force -of Wilfred of Ivanhoe. when he thrust the bright shaft of his lance, for the combat a I'outrance , against that of Brian de Bois Guilbert. The sensation was quite as great among the spec tators. “How, my friend Piquet”—for the surname of the king still clung to him— “ How!” exclaimed the master-at-arms, “will you, with beard not of three years’ growth— will you presume to fight with Messire Claude de Yaudray, one of the fiercest knights that you may hear of.” Admirable as they thought the youth in his bearing and ability, there were none who did not regard this bold ness as so much boyish presumption. But Bayard answered with laudable modesty—“lt is not from pride and arrogance, tny friend, hut that 1 desire to have a knowledge of arms, wherever I can, from those who can best be stow it. I would learn by little and little, and it may be that God may give me grace to do something which shall please the ladies.” The answer provoked the laughter of the king-at-anns, and delighted all who heard it. The noise of the proceeding soon ran through the court. Piquet had touched the shield of the Burgundian challenger. The Count de Ligny carried the tidings to the king, who rejoiced greatly, exclaiming, “By the faith of my body, cousin of Ligny-, your breeding of this boy will bring you honor, as my heart tells me.” The count, though pleased, was not without his anxieties. “We shall see what will become of it,” he replied : Piquet is yet very young to stand the blows of Mes sire Claude de Yaudray. But 1 had rather than ten thousand crowns that it should he so.” To touch the shield boldly did not by any means overcome the worst difficulty in the way of our champion. To procure the means for the adventure from the miserly grasp of his fatuncle was a toil from whichßayard shrunk naturally, with doubt and apprehension. He knew the niggardly disposition of his kins man, and how little he was sensible to the dee ■of chivalry. To have obtained the means from the Bishop of Grenoble, had lie been at h at, would have been an easy matter: — bit this Abbot ol Esnay ! Our man-at-arms turned to his comrade, Bellabre, who was by no means disposed to desert him at his need.. They went together to the abbot whom they found walking in his garden at Esnay, with one of his monks, and at his devotions. The news had already reached the reverend father of the audacity of his nephew in touching the sheild of Claude de Yaudray. He anticipated, accordingly, the mission upon which he came, and his reception, though warm enough, was any thing but cordial. “What!” said he r “you a boy but seventeen years old —hut three days ago a page—who made you so hold to touch the shield of Messire Claude de Yaudray ? You grow too presumptuous, and should be made to feel the rod again.” The youth modestly replied: “ I assure yon, my lord, it is not pride which has me do this, hut solely the desire to become worthy of my an cestors and yours. I beseech you, then, as the only near relative whom 1 have at Lyons, that you will furnish me with the means for this occasion. “On my faith,” said the rev erend father, “you get no money from me: the wealth of the church is for the service of God, and not to be wasted in jousts and tour neys.” The bishop looked inflexible, and Bayard blank ;’but Bellabre here took up the parole, and significantly reminded the reverend fath er that, but for the prowess of knighthood there had been no Abbey of Esnay to endow --that it was the military reputation, indeed, of his own ancestors which had obtained for