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TEIiMS.v PEE ANNUM IN ADVANCE. ‘•’ SKfnMi VEAII. MU7 .H IWLE NO.ir. t mmm mi tb uimw, tm ams mb scsimcss,- mb m mm&L wmumu. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. FONTHILL. BY WM. GILMORE SIMMS. Author of‘The Yemassee,’ ‘Guy Rivers,’ Ate. ‘‘Fonthill” is the name of the beautiful ] lace upon the Hudson River, where Mr. Edwin Forrest, the great American actor, is erecting his stately gothic mansion. The ver es which follow, were written on the occasion of a visit to the place in company with its distinguished proprietor. It is possible that the writer would not have cared to publish them, but that the name of Mr. Forrest has be n recently eoupl and in the public mind with a painful notoriety, in which he has suffered much inoro censure than he deserved Mr. Forrest is a g nth man ot very great powers, and of passionate impulses, which correspond in strength and volume with those powers. Laboring—whether correctly or not—under the sense of an injustice suffered abroad, he has permitted his impulses to speak in a language of warm h and violence, which, it is probable tint, in calmer moods and mo ments, he will himself be as likely to regret as his friends. Rut his impulses are all m tgnani mous aid generous, and they must bes t oil against his errors. At least, we must remem ber, that one never more stands in need of friendship, than in the moments of his The verses which follow need no fa*, th r exiTi nation. The powers of Mr. Forrest are un questionable. It is not ncecssjuiv to say to the reader that they arc of a sort <™y to find their just exhibition in the wilder and more passion ate parts of tragedy. We must not complain of the giant who can upheave mountains, that he has not the dexterity to pitch \ eas through the eye of a needle. I. A single day finds food for years,— And thus, from memory’s store, We glean the pleasant thought which cheers, When pleasant days are o’er ; Mcthinks, when Manhood's pride is gone, And age, in mere oblivion, And dream, begins to poro— If then allow’d, 1 still shall gaze, Rack, on these bright October days. 11. llow gay the sun that wajnn'd our skies — llow softly cool the air ; While groves, in bright Autumnal dyes, Made all the landscaj c fair ; With rustic homes at every view, And willows great, an avenue, Magnificent as rare, By meadowy slopes, and o’er the plain, That gradual sweli'd, to slope again! 111. We leave this noble route, and wind Through sinuous paths, until A wider realm of view wo find— A forest-keeping hill: Broad spreads the various picture round, Ben*ifch the sun, without a bound, And nature, O! how still, As if, from all the world apart, She brooded o'er her own wild heart. IV. Far ns the eye may stretch, the heights, With villas white are crown’d ; Great terraces, where Prije delights The humblo to confound ; And quiet vales, where Peace secure, Keeps ever low, with open door, As willing to be found ; While sunny tracts the fields unfold, Whore Labor turns his turf to gold. V. Sonorous murmurs from below, Persuade the eager eye, And bright, in ever-lapsing flow, The Hudson wanders by ; A thousand gay whifco vessels gleam, Mor vex his proud paternal stream, That, still, in majesty, Sweeps by each guardian palisade As murmuring at its gloomy shade. VI. Down, ns to seek his waves, we glide, And lo ! the grouping towers, Where, emulous of Norman pride, Our host his home embowers:— Well-ehosen home—well-plaun'd design— Significant, in every line, Os his own Norman powers ; Mighty and fearless—strong and high— If lone, because of majesty ! VII. Even at the glance, my thought recall'd His struggles from the first; By adverse Fortune long enthrall’d, By care, for conquest, nurs’d ; Then, with a manhood all his own, A genius rare, to manhood grown, Through all its bonds he burst, And, with a will to match his pow’rs, Rose firm, and greatly, like his tow’rs. VIII. Thus triumphs, ay, the unyielding will—. Thus glorions soars the soul of might; A sleepless throb, a secret thrill, Still warning, arming, for the fight! What’s toil but sfcrcngt h—what hope but aim- What poverty !—if sworn for fame, The wing still spreads in flight! This truth confess’d, that they who own The sov'ran soul, can reach the throne ! IX. We scaled the castled heights, and stood Vpon its eagle crest; llow sweet below spread vale and wood, llow calm old Hudson’s breast! Rut prouder thoughts and wilder druams, Even such as make the Pout’s themes, When most his muse is blest, Rose in our soul', as we survey’d The drama's realm of light and shade. X. Its feudal chief—its Roman sire, Ry him who sliow’d them best, arose : Lear’s phrenzied pride, Othdlo’s ire. And Damon’s love, and Hamlet’s woes ; Companions these —of the-e we sj ake ; The actor's pasdon, nil awake, Each true ideal shows, — As deeply studud, secret thought, V itli love, made clenr the shape he sought. XL Endow’d, the souls of men to know', Each,hidden motive home to tra- e ; Hope’s dawning light, joy’s overflow, And passions wild art! m&d’ning race, — With man the same in every age ; We i miglit’st thou, Forrest, con the page Which pictures human guilt or gra e ; With powers to imp the f. aturts shown, And make the hero’s and eds thine own. XII Thy stately Norman turrets sq eak The strength and bold.e-s of thy aim ; Rut all their eloquence were weak, To show thy upward toll for fame; What cares beset thy youthful | ower? — How hard thy task—how lone thine hours— I low near thy grie. so shame ! Could these but sj eak. thy tow'riug dome Were monument as w 11 as home! ’ • -I'rrja . ‘M Vi/’ _ V Jr"'*.'*. - -'W • •• , ■ V THE SMUGGLER'S LEAP. A STORY OF THE PYRENEES. “Oh! there's not in this wide world,” I exclaimed, quite unintentlAtally quoting Tom Moore ; “ there never has been, nor I ; can be again, so charming a creature. No j nymph, or sylph, or winged Ariel, or sy- j rcn with song and mirror, was ever so fas ] cinating—no daughter of Eve so pretty and ] provoking!” This apostrophe, which certainly ap pear.*, now that in cooler moments 1 recall I it, rather rhapsodical, was not uttered viva . ] voce , nor even sotto voce, seeing that its ob- ] ject, Miss Dora McDermot, was rid ing along i only three paces in front of me, whilst her j ! brother walked by my side. It was a mere j mental ejaculation, elicited by the surpass- j ing perfection of the aforesaid Dora, who assuredly was the most charming girl I had ever beheld. But for the Pyrenean scene ry around us, and the rough, ill-condition ed mule, with its clumsy side-saddle of dis colored feather, on which she was mount ed, instead of the Spanish jennet or well bred English palfrey that would best have suited so fair an equestrian, I could, with out any great exertion of fancy, have dreamed myself back to the days of the McGregor, and fancied that it was Die Ver non riding up the mountain side, gaily chattering as she went with the handsome cavalier who walked by'her stirrup, and i who might have been Frank Osbaldistone, only that he was too manly-looking lor ; Scott's somewhat effeminate hero. How ! beautifully moulded was the form which ; her dark green habit set oil to such advan tage; how fairy-like the-foot that pressed i the clumsy stirrup; how slender the fin | gers that grasped the rein! She had dis ] carded the heavy riding-hat and senseless • bonnet—those graceless inventions of some I cunning milliner, and had adopted a head dress not unusual in the country in which she then was. This was a beret or fiat cap, woven of snow white wool, and sur : mounted by a crimson tassel spread out over the top. From beneath this elegant i coiffure her dark eyes flashed and sparkled, j while her luxuriant chestnut curls fell over I her neck, the alabaster fairness of which made her white head-dress look almost tawny. Either because the air, although we were still in the month of September, was fresh upon the mountains, oi else be cause she was pretty and a woman, and i therefore not sorry to show herself to the best advantage, she had twisted round her waist a very long cashmere shawl, pre viously pa fling it over one shoulder in the - ! manner of a sword-belt, the ends hanging down nearly to her stirrup; and this gave something peculiarly picturesque, almost fantastical, to her whole appearance. ’ Upon the second day of my arrival at the baths of St. Sauveur, in the Pyrenees, I had fallen in with my old friend and col i lege chum, Jack McDenriot, who was tak ing his sister the round of the French wa itering-places. Dora’s health had been del-, ieale; the faculty had recommended the ; excursion ; and Jack, who doted upon his ] only sister, had dragged her away from the gaieties of London, and biought her off to the Pyrenees. M’Dermot was an excel ] lent fellow —neither a wit, ngr a Solomon i —but a good-heart*! dog, who had been much liked at Trill. Coll., Dublin, where i he had thought very little of his studies, and a good deal of his horses and dogs.— An Irishman, to he sure, occasionally a ; slight touch of the brogue was perceptible in his talk ; but from this, his sister, who had been brought up in England, was per- , fectly free. Jack had a snug estate of three thousand a year; Miss Dora had twenty thousand pounds from her mother, j She had passed two seasons in London; and if she was not already married, it was ; because not one of the fifty aspirants to her J hand had found favor in her blight eyes, j Lively and high-spirited, with a slight turn for the satirical, she loved her indepen-1 dence, and was difficult to please. I had been absent from England for j | nearly two years, on a continental tour; | and although I had heard much of Miss McDermot, I had never seen her till her! brother introduced me to her at .St. Sau- j i veur. I had not known her an hour, be-[ ! fore I found myself in a fair way to add another to the list of the poor moths who had singed their wings at the perilous light ;of her beauty. When McDermot, learn ; ing that, like themselves, 1 was on a de sultory sort of a ramble, and bad not mark ed out any particular route, offered me a seat in their canine, and urged me to ac-1 company them, instead of prud.ently flying from the danger, I foolishly exposed my self to it, and lo! what might have been] anticipated, came to pass. Before l bad ! been two days in Dora's society, my doom ; was sealed : I was her slave, the slave of ] her sunny smile and bright eyes—talisman , more potent than any lamp or ring that i djinn or fairy ever obeyed. A foitnight had passed, and we were at j B . During that time, the spell that ! bound me had been each day gaining strength. As an intimate friend of her] brother, I was already with Dora on the | footing of an old acquaintance ; she seem-; ; od well enough pleased with my society,! and chatted with me willingly and famil-1 larly ; but in vain did.! watch for some; ] slight indication, a glance or an intonation, j ! whence to derive hope. None such were | 1 perceptible ; nor could the most egregious , ! coxcomb have fancied that they were.— ] | We once or twice fell in with other ac-! | quainlances of her’s and her brother's, and ! j with them she had just the same frank, j friendly manner, as with me. I had not] sufficient vanity, however, to expect a wo man, especially one so much admired ass Miss McDermot, to fall in love at first ] sight with my humble personality, and 1 patiently waited, trusting to time and assi duity to advance my cause. Things were in this state, when one j morning, whilst taking an early walk to j the springs, I ran up against an English ] friend, by name Walter Ashley. He was | the son of a country gentleman, of mode- i rate fortune, at whose house 1 had more than once passed a week in the shooting season. Walter was an excellent fellow. 1 and a perfect model of the class to which j he belonged. By no means unpolished in his manners, he had yet a sort of plain bon hommie, which was peculiarly agreeable and prepossessing. He was not a univer sity man, nor had he received an educa- j tion of the highest order—spoke no lan- ] gunge but his own with any degree of cor rectness —neither played the fiddle, painted pictures, nor wrote poetry. On the other hand, in all manly exercises, he was a pro-1 ficient; shot, rode, walked and danced, to perfection ; and the fresh originality, and pleasant tone of his conversation, redeem ed any deficiency of reading or accomplish- ] ment. In personal appearance he was a | splendid fellow, nearly six feet in his boots, strongly, hut, at the same time, symmetri- ] cally built; although his size of limb and I width of shoulder rendered him, at six and twenty, rather what is called a fine man, : than a slender or elegant one. He had the i true Anglo-Saxon physiognomy, blue eyes, and light brown hair, that waved rather than curled round his broad, handsome ’ forehead. And then, what a mustache the • fellow had! [He was an officer in a crack 1 yeomanry corps.] Not one of the com ; posite order, made up of pomatum and 1 lampblack, such as may be seen saunter ; ing down St. James’ street on a spring as-j ternoon, with incipient guardsmen behind 1 them—but worthy of an Italian painter or ■ Hungarian hussar —full, well-grown, and glossy. Who was the idiot who first set 1 afloat the notion—now become an estab ] lished prejudice in England—that mus ] taches were unseemly ! To nine faces out of ten, they are a most becoming addition, increasing physiognomical character, al most giving it where there is none, reliev ing the monotony of broad, fiat cheeks,; and abridging the abomination of a long ; upper lip. Uncleanly, say you I Not a ] bit of it, if judiciously trimmed and train-1 ed. What, sir! are they not at least as j proper-looking as those foxy thickets ex ] tending from jaw-bone to temple, which j you yourself, each morning of your life, 1 take such pains to comb and curl into ] ;shape 1 i Delighted lo meet Ashley, I dragged him I ] of! to the hotel, to introdace him to McDer- 1 mot and his sister. Asa filend of mine, j they gave him a cordial welcome, and we passed that day and the following ones to- i ; gether. I soon, however. I must confess, , j began to repents little having brought my ] j handsome friend into the society of Dora. She seemed better pleased with him 1 altogether liked—nor coub! I wonder at it. Walter Ashley was exactly the man to i please a woman of Dora's character. She | was rather of a romantic turn, and about j I him there was a dash of the chivalrous, ] well calculated to captivate her imagina i tion. Although perfectly feminine, she was r an excellent horsewoman, and an ardent ] : admirer of feats of address and courage, j and she had heard me tell her brother of Ashley’s perfection, in such matters. On] his part, Ashley, like every one else who ] saw her, was evidently greatly struck with i her beauty and fascination of manner. 1 I cannot say that I was jealous; 1 had no] right to be so, for Dora had never given me j encouragement; but I certainly more than ; once regretted having introduced a third j person into what—honest Jack McDermot i counting, of course, for npthing—had pre-; viously been a sort of tete-a-ietc society.— i began to fear that, thanks to myself, my ] j occupation was gone, anJ Ashley had i j got it. It was the fifth day after our meeting I j with Walter, and we had started early in ! the morning upon an excursion to a neigh j boring lake, the scenery around which, we i were told, was particularly wild and beau- j , tiful. It was situated on a piece of table ; j land on the top of a mountain, which we j j could see from the hotel window. The j ] distance was barely ten miles, and the road j ; being rough and precipitous, McDermot, j Ashley and myself,- had chosen to walk : rather than to risk our necks by riding the ! j broken-kneed ponies that were ollered to ] us. A sure-footed mule, and indifferent | 1 side-saddle, had been procured for Miss I ; McDermot, and was attended by a wild-! ] looking Bearnese boy, or gossoon, as her ] brother called him—a creature like a grass hopper, all legs and arms, with a scared I'countenance, and long, lank, black hair, [ hanging in irregiflar shreds about his face. There is no season more agreeable in the ] Pyrenees than the month of September. — People are very apt to expatiate on the de , lights of autumn, its mellow beauty, pen j sive charms, and such like. I confess that, i in a general way, 1 like the youth of the j year better than its decline, and prefer the ] bright green tints of spring, with the sum j mer in prospective, to the melancholy au ] tumn —its russet hues and falling leaves— -1 its regrets for fine weather past, and anti- I cipations of bad to come. But if there be any place where I should he tempted to reverse my judgment, it would he in South ern France, and especially its Western and central portion. The clear, cloudless sky, j the moderate heat succeeding to the sultri : ness, often overpowering, of the summer months, the magnificent vineyards and mer ry vintage time, the noble groves of chest- I nut, clothing the lower slopes of themoun ] tains, the bright streams and flower-span gled meadows of Bearn and Languedoc, render no part of the year mpre delightful in those countries, than the months of Sep j tember and October. As before mentioned, Dora rode a little in front, with Ashley beside her, pointing i out the beauties of the wild scenery through i which we passed, and occasionally laying | a hand upon her bridle to guide the mule over some unusually rugged portion of the almost trackless’ mountain. McDermot and I were walking behind, a little puffed ;by the steepness of the ascent; our guide, j whose name was Cadet—a name answered to by every second man one meets in that part of France—strode along beside us, , like a pair of compasses with leathern lungs. Presently the last named indivadu | al turned to me— “ Ccs messieurs veulent-ils vour le Sautde lou ConlrebanJtstc /” said he, in the barba j rous dialect of the district, half French, half Patois, with a small dash of Spanish. “Lo Saul du Contrebandicr, the Smng-, gler’s Leap—what is that!” asked Dora, who had overheard the question, turning round her graceful head, and dazzling us —me, at feast—l y a sudden view of her lovely face, now glowing with exercise and the mountain air. The Smuggler’s Leap, so Cadet informed us, was a narrow cleft in the rock, of vast depth, and extending for a considerable distance across a flank of the mountain.— Ft owed its name to the following incident: Some five years previously, a smuggler, known by the name of Juan le Negre, or Black Juan, had, for a considerable period, set the custom-house officers at defiance, j and brought great discredit on them by his success hi passing contraband goods from Spain. In vain did they lie iuambushand set snares for him ; they could never come ] near him, or if they did, it was when he was hacked by such a force of the hardy I ! desperadoes, carrying on the same lawless | ] traffic, that thedouaniers were eilher forced I I to beat a retreat or got fearfully mauled in j the contest that ensued. One day, ho.wev- ] er, three of these green-coated guardians of j the French revenue caught a sight of Juan j alone and unarmed. They pursued him. I j and a rare race he led them, over cliff and [ j crag, across rock and ravine, until at last they saw with exultation that lie made j right for the chasm in question, and there i ihey made sure of securing him. It seem , ed as if he had forgotten the position of the cleft, and only remembered it when he got ] within a hundred yards or thereabouts, for j then he slackened his pace. The doua niers gained on him, and expected him to • desist from h s flight, and surrender.— 1 What was their surprise and consternation when they saw him, on reaching the edge of the chasm, spring from the ground with lizard-like agility, and by one bold leap I clear the yawning abyss. The douaniers . uttered a shout of rage and disappointment. ] and two of them ceased running ; but the ] third, a man of great activity and courage, j and who had frequently sworn to earn the j j reward set on the head of Juan, dared the | j perilous leap. He fell short; his head was j ; dashed against the opposite rock, and his horror-struck companions, gazing down in- i to the dark depth beneath, saw his body ] I strike against the crags, on its way to the I bottom of the abyss. The smuggler cs ] caped, and the spot where the tragical in- I cident occurred, was thenceforward known ] us “Le Sant (hi Contrebandicr .” Before our guide had finished his narra ] tive, we were unanimous in our wish to ; visit the scene, which we reached by the time he had brought the tale to a conclu i sion. It was certainly a most remarkable ] chasm, whose existence was only to be ac i counted for bv reference to the volcanic agency, of which abundant traces exist in | Southern France. The whole side of the mountain was cracked and rent asunder, ] forming a narrow.ravine of vast depth, in ] the manner of the famous Mexican barran- ] ] errs. In some places might be traced a sort ; ; of correspondence on the opposite sides; a ] recess on one side, into which a projection j on the other would have nearly fitted, I could some Antaeus have closed the fissure. ] This, however, was only here and there ; j generally speaking, the rocky brink was worn by the action of time and water, and the rock composing it sloped slightly down wards. The chasm was of various width, but was narrowest at the spot at which we reached it, and really did not appear so very terrible a leap as Cadet made it out to be. On looking down, a confusion of j ] bush-covered crags was visible, and now ; ] that the sun was high, a narrow stream j 1 was to bn seen, flowing like a line of sil- j • ] ver, at the bottom—the ripple and rush of the water, repeated Wb the echoes of the ravine, ascending to our ears with a noise like that of a cataract. On a large’ frag ment of rock, a few yards from the brink, ( was rudely carved a date, and below it two j letters. They were the initials, so our guide informed us, of the unfortunate dou j anier who had there met his death. We had remained for half a minute or ; ; so, gazing down into the ravine, when Ash j ley, who was on the right of the party, ; I broke silence. “Pshaw!” said he, stepping back from ■ the edge, “that's no leap. Why, I'll jump across it myself.” 1 “For heaven's sake,” cr ed Dora. “Ashley!” I exclaimed, “don’t be a 1 fool.” But it was too late. What mad impulse possessed him, 1 cannot say; but Certain 1 am, from my knowledge of his character. • that it was no foolish bravado or school boy desire to show off, that seduced him to ■ so wild a freak. The fact was, but for the depth below, the leap did not look at all , formidable —not above four or five feet— ; but in reality it was a deal wider. It was ■j probably this deceitful appearance, and perhaps the feeling which Englishmen are apt to entertain, that for feats of strength and agility, no men suipass them, that con vinced Walter of the ease with which he could jump across. Before we could stop him, he took a short run, and jumped. A scream from Dora was echoed by an exclamation of horror from McDermot and myself. Ashley had cleared the chasm, and alighted on the opposite edge, but it j was shelving and slippery, and his feet, slid from under him. For one moment it appeared as if he would instantly be dash ed to pieces; but in falling, he managed to ! catch the elge of the rock, which at that ] place formed an angle. There he hung by 1 his hands, his whole body in the air, with- ] out a possibility of raising himself, for be low the edge the rock was smooth and re-’ ceding, and even could he have reached it, ! he would have found no foot-hold. One j desperate effort he made to giasp a stunted j and leafless sapling that grew in a crevice j at not more than a foot from the edge, but ! it failed, and nearly caused his instant de-’ struction. Desisting from further effort. , he hung motionless, his hands convulsive- ] ly cramped to the ledge of rock, which af- j forded so slippery and difficult a hold, that his sustaining himself by it at all seemed a j miracle, and could only be the result of uncommon muscular power. It was evi- j dent that no human strength could possibly I maintain him for more than a minute or two j in that position; below was an abyss, a hundred or more feet deep ; to all appear- j ance, hfe last hour was come. McDermot an I I stood aghast and help-1 less, gazing with open months and strained ] eyeballs at our unhappy friend. Wha’ could we do ? Were we to dare the leap, j which one far more active and vigorous; than ourselves had unsuccessfully attempt- ] ed ! It would have been courting destruc- i tion, without a chance of saving Ashley, j But Dora put us to shame. One scream, i and only one, she uttered, and then, gath- ] ering up her habit, she sprang unaided from j her mule. Her cheek was pale as the whitest marble, but her presence of mind I was unimpaired, and she seemed to gain courage and decision in the moment of peril. “Your cravats, your handkerchiefs!” | cried she, unfastening as she spoke, her ■ long scarf. Mechanically Mc- Dermot and myself obeyed. With the speed of light and a woman's dexterity, she knotted together her scarf, a long silk cravat which I gave her, McDermot's hand kerchief and mine, and securing—how, 1 know not--a stone at eilher extremity of the rope thus formed, she threw one end of it with sure aim and steady hand, across the ravine and round the sapling already j referred to. Then learyng forward, till 1 j feared she would fall into the chasm, and j sprang forward to hold her hack, she let go j of the other end. Ashley's hold was al- j ready growing feeble, his fingers were torn ] ’ by the rock, the blood started from under ] j his nails, and he turned his face towards ] us with a mute prayer for succor. At that j j moment the two ends of the shawl fell 1 against him, and he instinctively grasped j itliem. It was a moment of fearful sus | pensc. Would the knots so hastily made resist the tension of his v^eight! They did so; he raised himself by strength of wrist. The sapling bent and bowed, but his hand was now close to it. He grasped it; another powerful effort, the last effort; of despair, and he lay exhausted and al most senseless upon the rocky brink. At ] the same moment, with a cry of joy, Dora j fell fainting into her brother's arms. I Os that day’s adventures, little remains ]to tell. A walk of a mile brought Ashley ! to a place where a bridge, thrown over the ravine, enabled him to cross it. I omit his thanks to Dora, his apologies for the alarm he had caused her, and his admiring eulo my of her presence of mind. Her manner [of receiving them, and the look she gave him when, on rejoining fcs he took her hand, and with a natural and grateful cour tesy that prevented the action from appear l ing theatrical or unusual, pressed it to his lips—were anything but gratifying to me, whatever they may have been to him.— She seemed no way displeased at the free dom. I was, most confoundedly, but that Walter did not seem to observe. The incident that had occurred, and Do ra's request, brought our excursion to an abrupt termination, and we returned home wards. It appeared as if this were doom ed lo he a day of disagreeables. On reach ing the inn, 1 found a letter, which, thanks to my frequent change of place, and to the dilatoriness of continental post-offices, had been chasing me from town to town during the previous three weeks. It was from a lawyer, informing me of the death of a rel ative, and compelling me instantly to re turn to Jgland, to arrange some impor tant concerning a disputed will. — The sum at stake was too considerable for inc to neglect the summons; and with the worst possible grace I prepared to depart I made some violent attempts to induce Ashley to accompany me, talked myself hoarse about fox-hunting and pheasant shooting, and other delights of the ap proaching season; b*it all in vain. His passion for field sports seemed entirely cooled; he sneered at foxes, treated pheas ants with contempt, and professed to be a-1 much in love with the Pyrenees as I began to fear he was with Dora. There was no thing for it but to set out alone, which 1 accordingly did, having previously obtain ed from McDermot the plan of their route and the name of the place where he and his sister thought of wintering. I was de termined, so soon as I had settled my af fairs, to return to the continent and pro pose for Dora. Man proposes and God disposes, says the proverb. In my case, I am prepared to prove that the former part of the proverb lied abominably. Instead of a fortnight in London being, as 1 had too sanguinely hoped, sufficient for the settlement of the business that took me thither, I was de tained several months, and compelled to make several journeys to the North of Eng land. 1 wrote several times to McDermot and had one letter from him, but no more Jack was a notoriously bad correspondent, and I scarcely wondered at his silence. Summer came—my lawsuit was decided, and sick to death of briefs and barristers, parchments and attornics, I once more found myself my own master. An appli cation to McDermot’s London banker pro cured me his address. He was then in Switzerland, but was expected down t he Rhine, and letters to Wiesbaden would find him. That was enough for me ; my head and heart were still full of Doca McDer mot ; and two days after I had obtained in formation. the Antwerpen steamer deposit ed me on Belgian ground. “McDermot is stopping here'?” I enqui red of, or rather affirmed to, the head wait er of the Four Seasons Hotel at Wiesbaden. If the fellow had told me he was not, I be lieve I should have knocked him down. “He is, sir. You will find him in tho Cursaal gardens, with Madame sazur.” Oil I started to the gardens. They were in full bloom and beauty, crowded with flowers and frauliens and foreigner* of all nations. The little lake sparkled in the sunshine, and the water-fowl skimmed over it in all directions. But it’s little I cared for such matters. I was looking for Dora, sweet Dora—Dora McDermot. At the corner of a walk, I met her bro ther. . “Jack 1” I exclaimed, grasping his ban,’ with the most vehement affection, - I am delighted to see you.” “And I’m glad to see you, my boy,” was the rejoinder. “I was wondering you did not answer my last letter, but I suppose you thought to join us sooner.” “Your last letter!” 1 exclaimed. “ 1 have written three times since L heard from you.” “The devil you have!” cried Jack.—■ “Do you mean to say that you did not get the letter I wrote you from Paris a month ago, announcing—” 1 did not hear another word, for, just then, round a corner of the shrubbery, came Dora herself, more charming than ever, all grace, and smiles, and beauty. But 1 saw neither beauty, nor smiles, nor grace ; all 1 saw was, that she was leaning on the arm of that provokingly handsome dog, Walter Ashley. For a moment I stood petrified, and then, extending my hand— “ Miss McDermot! ’ l exclaimed, i She drew back a little, with a spiile and 1 a blush. Her companion stepped forward “My dear fellow,” said he, “ there is no such person. roe to introduce you to Mrs. Ashley.” If any of my friends wish to be present ed to pretty girls with twenty thousand pounds, they had. better apply elsewhere than to me. Since that day, l have for- I sworn the practice. News from California.— The Crescent City arrived last evening from Chagres, bringing us one month’s later intelligence from California. The news is not very encouraging to the seeker after gold; but in a political point of view, it is of consi lerable impqr tance. It appears that the Hon. Thomas Butler King, of Georgia, is in SanFraircis co, making efforts to organise a State Gov ■ ernmer.t, in order to be ready next winter to have that territory admitted at once as a State into this Union, and thus avoiding a vast deal of trouble on the slaved que; tion. On the 19th ulf. he made a great speech at a meeting held in Por snouth i Square, on the subject.