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u The headsman ! here I have him—the headsman!” . 44 Death to the villain !” was re-echoed on nil sides; and from all four corners of the held the mob, who had dispersed to seek the object of their hate, rushed towards Franz.— When Lina’s brother saw himself the centre of a dense crowd, howling and frantic for j blood, he hurled amongst them the man whom | he dragged by the feet, with the words— -44 There is the headsman!” 41 Death to him!” hoarsely repeated a hun- 1 dred voices, and as many blows descended , upon the shrieking wretch, whose expostula tions and prayers for mercy were unheard in the mighty tumult, and whom the mob, blind ed by fury, easily mistook in the darkness for the delinquent executioner. His cries were soon silenced by the cruel treatment he recei ved ; in a few minutes he was dead, his clothes were torn from his body, and his face was disfigured and mutilated so as to be wholly unrecognisable. Leaving the mcb to their bloody work, Franz returned to his sister, and found her weeping and praying beside the body of her lover, whom she believed dead. On exami nation, however, he found Gerard’s pulse still beating. The violent blow he had received had stunned, but not slain him. Fresh wa ter thrown upon his face and chest restored him to consciousness, and to the caresses of : his dear Lina, speechless and almost beside , herself with joy at his recovery. When his j strength returned, the trio crept stealthily from the copse, and safely reached the town, where Gerard concealed himself during the evening ! in the house of his mistress. When midnight came, and the streets of Antwerp were desert ed, he betook himself, accompanied by Franz, to his own dwelling, and made his unexpected appearance in his father’s chamber. The old headsman, who lay broad awake upon his bed of sickness, weeping bitterly, and deploring the death of his unhappy son, deemed himself the sport of a deceitful vision when he saw the dead man approach his couch. But when convinced, by Gerard’s voice and affectionate embrace, that he indeed beheld his child in solid flesh and bone, his joy knew no bounds, and for a moment inspi red the young man with fears of his imme diate dissolution. “My son, my son!” he cried, “ you know not half your good fortune. Not only have You miraculously escaped a cruel death, but you are also delivered from the horrible em ployment which has been mine, and was to be yours. The accursed obligation that weighed upon our race ceases with life, and you, my son, are dead /” u And pure from the stain of blood !” joy fully exclaimed Gerard. ‘•Begone,*’ continued the old man, “and dwell far from thine unjust brethren. Quit Antwerp, marry thy good Lina, be faithful and kind to her, and heaven bless thee in thy posterity! Thy sons will not be bom to wield the axe, nor wilt thou weep over them as I have wept over thee. The savings of thine ancestors and mine insure thee forever from poverty; make good use of them, and be happy!” His voice grew weak with emotion, and died away in inarticulate benedictions. Ge rard hung upon his father’s neck, and stam mered forth his thanks. The events of the day appeared to him like a dream. He could not realize the sudden transition from the depths of despair to the utmost height of hap piness. For many years after these incidents there lived at Brussels, under an assumed name, the son of the Antwerp headsman, and his beautiful wife Lina. The old man’s blessing was heard, and when Gerard’s turn came to quit a world of cares for a brighter and better abode, brave sons and fair daughters wept around the dying bed of the Doomster’s Firstborn. SONG. All around and all above thee Is the hushed and charmed air, All things woo thee, all things love thee, Maiden fair! Gentle zephyrs perfume breathing, Waft to thee their tribute sweet, And for thee the Spring is wreathing Garlands meet. In their caverned, cool recesses, Songs for thee the fountains frame; Whatsoe’er the wave caresses Lisps thy name. Greener verdure, brighter blossom, Wheresoe’er thy footsteps stray, O’er the earth’s enamored bosom, Live alway. Whetesoe’er thy presence lingers, Wheresoe’er thy brightness beams; Fancy weaves with cunning fingers, Sweetest dreams. And the heart forgets thee never, Thy young beauty’s one delight; There it dwells, and dwells forever, Ever bright. a, a if & & a & okctcl)£3 of £ifc. For the Southern Literary dtazette. THE CONTRAST, “Procrastination is the thief of time.” I There are three aspects in which we may view events and circumstances, as we jour ney down the vale of years— painful , pleas ant and profitable. And there are some scenes which pass before the mind’s mirror, of so mingled a character, that we can scarcely tell how to classify them, for, like all else upon which earthly is impressed, they are made up of lights and shadows—sunshine and clouds. When, therefore, we cannot determine wheth er they belong to our painful or pleasurable emotions, it is well to ascertain how we may profit by the reflections which that mirror of the mind returns to our gaze, as we look upon it; and there are few subjects more full of improving moral, than the study of the char acters which pass before our view as we tread the “ world's wide stage,” and few les sons more salutary and impressive than those we draw from the results of human conduct. | They are way-marks to guide to happiness, ; or beacons to warn from the shoals and quick ! smds of ruin, and the ship-wreck of the j heart’s best hopes. How solemnly, then, and j how delightfully, should we note what occurs I around us—feeling that these are sent by some other influence than chance , to be used for our future welfare. At a period not very remote from the pres ent era, I was cast by Providential circum ! stances, into a situation where 1 became ac | quainted with an interesting family: and as months rolled on, frequent, and at length, al most daily intercourse, revealed traits, and feelings, and principles, and dispositions, in | the different members of it, which deeply and i mysteriously absorbed my interest. And Time, in sweeping by, did not efface with his wing one feature of the scene. He seemed ; rather to leave more indelibly their impress upon my memory. At one moment, stirring up a flood of joyous thought, and at another, ■ darkening the fair landscape of life as the | sunlight of hope retreated before the clouds of apprehension. Os this interesting band, I shall sketch the history of but two —both gifted with that rich but responsible talent, intellectual strength— both well fitted to play a distinguished part in the drama of exist -1 ence, yet so different in destiny And where fore this difference in results, do you ask ? We reply, from difference in mental energy : The one, having deliberated on a course of i conduct and plans, satisfied of its correctness, j firmly and unwaveringly went onward , and ; not looking back, found himself at last on the summit of that eminence to which his I ) r outhful ardor had aspired—standing there in I his free and undimmed brightness, a living and speaking monument of the reward be stowed upon Perseverance. And whenever 1 his actions were the theme of criticism, they invariably drew forth the happiest anticipa tions of coming usefulness, and commenda | tions from the wise and good. Such was Edgar Stuart. There was another. To know was to love him, for all that was beautiful in character, or endearing in disposition, or exalted in j principle, or rich in intellect, were his. His “winning manners and pleasing address,” found their way to the hearts of all—and i never could that youthfully matured mind fail j to attract the interest and solicitude of those j who were admitted to its secret mines of gold en ore. With these gifts of Providence— ; gifts to be accounted for at the day of final reckonings, Henry Vinton seemed marked but for a career of brilliant action and holy influ : ence, for what need we for the first , but tal ent of no ordinary stamp, cultivated intellect, and manly principle?, and what for the last , but loveliness of temper, and a piety unsul lied? Why, therefore, did not Henry take 1 his station upon some commanding height, to be a “ city set on a hill,” an example and a beacon to all around him—inducing the young and the careless to follow him there ? Said I not, that shadows fell oft times over the brightest pictures of life, and that pain was mingled with the sweetest pleasures of ex istence ? Let me whisper , reader, for only as a warning would I breathe the sad truth, that there was one shade to dim the fair sketch. Henry Vinton had, alas! traced upon his char acter, amid so much that was excellent, the paralyzing trait, instability of purpose / And we know whose decree it is, that the “ unsta ble as water shall not excel.” Amid a thou sand schemes, all originating in virtuous, or el evated, or noble, or useful emotions, some were designed and commenced, and then abandoned long ere they were matured ! Was he urged to cultivate his decided talent for composition? he would in an apparently vigorous mood, quickly throw off’ from his ready pen words and thoughts, which would delight the heart and startle the mind of those who scarcely believed he could thus embody his feelings; but a moment’s interruption —a flashing idea of some other pursuit—the entrance of a com panion—the employment of an hour—and all those lofty imaginings were cast aside, and the vase which contained those beautiful gems was shattered to atoms, and its wasted frag ments could never be gathered again. In vain did affectionate solicitude hover over his path, striving, like some spirit of good, to fan with her expanded pinion those slumbering sparks of genius, and keep alive the flame which seemed expiring on the altar of the mind, under the chilling influence of Instabil ity. In vain did anxious friendship speak in “ the still small voice” of tenderness, and tell of the death-like spell which Indolence casts over the brightest mind. In vain did Con science, Heaven’s vicegerent, thunder in his ear, “To whom much is given, of him much will be required.” Slumber, the slumber of the mind, still hung over him, and “Another time I mean to he up and doing,” was the de lusive echo from his lips. Said I not truly, then, some remembrances of the passing scenes of life were painful ? For who would not weep to see youth, the harvest time of the soul, thus lost, thus misapplied, thus sad !ly misused. And what will compensate in : after years, for these unvalued hours? When I companions of inferior attainments, who start | ed with us in the journey of life, by their un j wavering pursuit of plans calculated to ad j vance them in the world, —prove a bless j ing to those who crowd with them the busy haunts of men, reaping their reward—we who have loitered on the way, will be still toiling up the rugged road, made rugged by our hav ing delayed to undertake its weary pilgrimage | in the strength and vigor of youth and man hood: and if we exercise perseverance enough even to attain, at last, the height we seek, we | shall find little there to do; for others, who ; have outstripped us in the race, will have | gathered the rich spoils of the world’s wealth’ ! and the world’s approval, and the world’s ad ’ miration, and perchance, leave nothing for us to achieve—all the places of usefulness filled, ! and we but moral blanks in a society in which i we might have shone “as lights in the firma | ment,” had we arisen up in our strength as “an armed man,” and taking the sword of Resolution in a virtue-nerved hand, gone forth determined to stay that greatest enemy of man, Instability of Purpose! Oh! Life is full of instruction. We may silently look on, as one, and another, and another, acts his part; before us—and gathering from each history of character the wheat which is good, fill the ! store-house of our own hearts with food to j nourish the soul in time, and make it health j ful for eternity. But if we permit indolence, or irresolution, to paralyze our energies, we too may pass onward without leaving a sin gle record of usefulness or greatness upon the tablets of society, and find in the Book of Re- j membrance, which will be opened on the great white throne, the fearful sentence—“ Inas-! much as ye have not used your talents and time, and influence, and opportunities, and energies, for the benefit of your fellow-beings on earth, ye have not used them for me, and must therefor bear the penalty of exclusion from my kingdom in eternity!” Reader, is Instability a trifle, either on Earth or in Heaven? Can that be a trifle on earth, which renders us beings who live without effecting a single purpose of life ? which blights the sweetest hopes which those who love us have wreathed around our destinies—which causes affection’s eye to be dimmed with sorrow, and affection’s lip to breathe the heart-felt sigh ? Or can that be a trifle in Heaven, which disappoints the de signs of God, who formed us to be his mes sengers of good to all who cross our path— his agents for the advancement of his glory —his guardians of the interests of men—his children by adoption and grace?—which forces from a merciful judge the sentence of condemnation, and the forfeiture of Paradise! Oh! reader, Instability is no trifle on earth, will he no trifle at the judgment-seat—no tri fle in the abodes of the blest! J. A. S. Jo reign Correspondence. For the Southern Literary Gazette. LETTERS FROM SCOTLAND.-NO. 5. Inverness, August 26th, 1848. My Dear R ., —Since my last letter was written, we have traversed the entire breadth of Scotland in these latitudes, passing up the beautiful Glen of Inverness, upon the waters of the Caledonian Canal, a distance of sixty miles —every one of which discovered to us some new scene of beauty or of grandeur.— This celebrated Canal, which unites the wa ters of the Eastern and Western seas, thus avoiding the hazardous passage of the Frith of Pentland, is in more than half its extent natural, composed of the waters of three lochs, which occupy a large portion of the Glen of Inverness. These lochs have been connected by an artificial channel, an under taking of considerable magnitude, but still presenting few obstacles, as the whole eleva tion of the line does not amount to 100 feet above the level of the sea. Passing from the pretty town of Oban up the beautiful Loch Linhee, we landed from the steamboat at Fort William, on the East ern shore of the Loch, and within the shad ows of Ben Nevis, the loftiest peak in the Highlands of Scotland, and, indeed, in Great Britain. It was our intention to leave the ladies of our party at the village, in the care of Mr. D., while Mr. H. and myself made the ascent of the mountain. We were advi sed, by the experience of former tourists, of the toil incident to the ascent, and were well aware of the fact that “ Seven miles its top points gradual from the This, however, was a trifling consideration, and we retired to rest with the satisfaction at having secured a favorite guide to the sum mit, who, in reply to our enquiry, if he thought the morning would be a fine one, re plied, “Oh aye, Ise na doot ’twill be a verra braw mornin’.” Alas for human calculations! When I awoke the next morning, and sprung eagerly to the dormer-window of my chamber, which was in the attic, and which looked towards Ben Nevis, not a trace of its giant outline was visible —for a thick heavy mist was dri ving in the direction of Glen Inverness, and the waters of Linhee were scarcely percepti ble through its grey shroud. I stood a mo ment, thoroughly vexed and impatient; checked in the next the ungracious humor, aud proceeded to the breakfast parlor, where I found H. talking to the guide. “Well, Sandy, your ‘braw mornin” turns out to be a raw one. You were out in your reckoning, my good fellow.” “Oh ay, sir, I’se gar’d mony a misjudge afore aboot the mornin’, for the skies arever 219