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. . , - • • • ‘ .... - . . - - Sfflflßffl lUIHEMIT MIB TERMS, 82,00 PER ANNUM. IN ADVANCE. (Original }Mnj. For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE UNLOVED. “ My life is read all backward, And the charm of life undone.” Elizabeth liarrett Browning, Hope spans no longer with her iris tc ken, The darkened heaven of my dreams ; Life’s fairest promise to my soul is broken, — The Real is —no more the Ideal seems, And, bowing neath the shades of sorrow’s night, I dare not even pray— O! give me light! 1 list no more to Summer-songs of gladness; The Summer of my life is past, And Autumn daysbut deeper tinge the sadness, Now o'er the current of my being cast, And in my pain I crush the withered flowers, Which mock my heart with thoughts of hap pier hours. I had a dream—a dream of love and beauty, And blindly, madly trusted in its truth ! ‘Tis gone !—believing is no longer duty, So here I ca s t away the trust of youth, And, since I’ve trusted, dreamed and loved my last, Life is henceforth but memory of the past! Back to their source those tides are coldly rushing, Which lately tlowed so warmly from my heart; Larih’s icy atmosphere repels their gushing, And turns them backward whence they throbbing start, Sent forth o’er desert wastes, like Noah’s dove, My weary soul returns, unble.-t with love! W hy am I cursed with this unceasing yearning, Why there bright dreams of what can never be; Are all these warm affections but for spurning, That on this earth no beittg loveth nte? Why, longing tor the joys of love and home, Must I in loveless exile ever roam ? Sadly I list to sounds of pleasant voices, Since one iny captive ear no longer thrills ; 1 he song from beauty’s lips no more rejoices I’he heart which hopeless sadness fills: No more the music of vibrating wires, W ith love or joy my drooping soul inspires. Ambition points in vain to fields of glory, One word ol love were sweeter far to me, Than pages in my country’s proudest story, Or name upon the poet's roll could be: Life, aimless now, flows onward to its close, Its only earthly goal the grave's repose! •September, 18 —. (Original (fairs. For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE MAROON. A LEGEND OF THE CARRIBEES. BV W. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ. Author of “ The etc. \\ ith her whole soul set upon a fa vourite project, Maria de Pacheco was not a person to slumber or prove afraid, bhe was not less sure of herself than ot others. She knew the general char acter and temper of the Spaniard. She knew the spirit which prevailed among the crew of the Dian de Burgos.— i hough young and a woman, she had been by no means an unobservant spectator of the various events which had taken place on board since she had become an inmate of the vessel. Be sides. she was a sagacious student of character, as a e all women of any na tive intelligence. She possessed the faculty, which seems like an instinct, of seeing, as it were, at a single glance, into the moods of those around her. She knew that Velasquez, her master , was no longer the master in his own ship. She as well knew’ that Juan de Sylva was not very popular as his suc cessor. One event, which had taken place a few months before, now pressed upon her recollection, and suggested to her anew auxiliary in working outlier scheme. One of the lieutenants, or as he might be called in our time, a mate, was a Biscayan named Diego Linores. lie was a stout and somewhat surly fellow, habitually; and, in the exercise of his common character, had given a rude or insolent reply to Juan de Syl va, who had rewarded him for it, very promptly, with a blow upon the mouth. The dagger of the Biscayan would have answered the indignity, and was drawn for that purpose, when other parties interfered; and Juan, after the first feeling of excitement had passed over, sought, in various ways, and by various civilities—which he never made unnecessarily cheap —to atone for the rashness and folly of his act. The in terposition of Velasquez, himself, was finally addressed to the conciliation of the parties, since 1 )iego was a man not easily to be dispensed w ith. llis ef forts were apparently successful. The anger of Biscayan was seemingly sub dued, but it was in seeming only.— The wound still rankled and might easily be re-opened. Maria de Pacheco saw more deeply into the secret feel ings of the injured person than either •1 uan or Y elasquez. She better knew the vindictive temper of Biscayan blood, w hich is perhaps much more tenacious ot its resentments, than that of almost all other Spaniards, all of w hom are vindictive. M ith the first inception of her own ” solution, she at once conceived that ‘his resentment might serve her pur pose hereafter, and had, accordingly, s °me time before, addressed herself to task of making a friend of the dis content. She sought him at periods a mum mumAk smmrn m mmww i. tm Ann mb mb m mumi* nysn. when the eyes of Juan were withdrawn Lom her. She sought him with an art which none possess in any degree to compare with her who has been tutor ed in the camp of the Zingali. She knew the habits of the Biscayan, could rejoice his ear with songs and ballads from the native province of Diego; arid frequently, even when she sang before V elasquez, she adroitly chose for her themes such as were familiar to the ears of the former. These still drew him, loitering nigh, to listen, as he tra versed the deck upon his midnight watch. Gradually, the parties came to speak together; and, by degrees just as insensible as those by which she had brought Juan do Svlva to believe in her newly-born affections for himself, she found her way into the confidence of Linares tin - another purpose. She fomented his hate for Juan; and, at length, when sure of this future purpose of the latter, she kindled the other’s fears for the safety of Velasquez. It would have been easy to a arouse Li nares to such a degree of fury, as to prompt him to rush upon and slay Ju an, with the hope, subsequently, of jus tifying himself before Velesquez; and such was the wish of” Diego;—but the more vigilant woman saw how futile such a proceeding would be. know ing how completely Juan was in the pos sesion of his uncle’s confidence. Be sides, of what use to her, in her desire to rescue Lopez de Levy a, that Velas quez should escape the design of his nephew ! “No! no! good Diego,” she said to the excited Biscayan—-‘this were only to destroy thyself. Would Velasquez believe either tin testimony, or mine, against J nan de Sylva ! Thou might'st si a) the one, but thouwould'st be sure to perish from the fury of the other.” ”1 know r not. —the crew ! “ “Soft! I understand thee! It is well that the men love thee. They should! Thou, in truth, dost all the business of the vessel—Velasquez incapable, and Juan de Sylva no seaman, and, 1 trow, but little of a soldier. Let then the treachery advance which thou can’st not arrest, save at thy own peril. It may be that Juan will repent —that he will not do the bloody deed which he meditates. All then will be as before, and our secret suspicions may sleep. But, it will be enough that we should keep proper watch, and if thou hast friends in the vessel ” Bhe paused. “1 hey are all my friends—they care nothing for Velasquez, now that he can do nothing; and they hate the insolence <*t‘ this Juan!” “Good! —then there will only need, if thou hast friends, that thou choose from among them, so that tw o or three of them may be ready with thyself to avenge thy captain should he meet foul play. Be ready, and I will counsel thee should 1 see farther tokens of this conspiracy.” The Biscayan was not superior to the inducements which she had adroitly insinuated rather than expressed. lie was made to behold, at the same glance, his revenge obtained upon the man who had subjected him to indigni ty, and the promotion of his selfish for tune-;. VIII. Maria had thus secured a second agent, and made a large step toward the attainment of her object. But the days passed, and the nights followed, and still nothing decisive, on the part of Juan, tended to confirm the assur ances w hich he had made to his wily confederate. She became anxious and apprehensive, particularly as the pas sion of the youth seemed to be cooling toward her. He was no longer com municative —no longer sought her as frequently as before. His manner was now hesitating, his brow clouded, and his whole appearance that of a man who was brooding over wild suspicions. But Maria was too much an adept to* suffer her ow n anxieties to be percepti ble, while she watched his with appre hension. Her doubts put on the ap pearance of womanly reserve, of dig nified pride, of feminine sensibility, so licitous to avoid exposure. But she was equally studious not to forego the exercise of any, the meanest of her at tractions. Her dress was carefully studied, and w ith the happiest effect; and if her brow was clouded, it was w ith sadness, the sweeter for the shade. She sang too, —never with more ex quisite freedom, or with more voluptu ous sensibility, than when she sat alone, in the darkness of night, upon the deck of the slowly moving vessel. This was the third night after the last inter view, which we have described, with Linares. She was suddenly joined by Juan de Sylva. She knew of his ap proach. but started with well feigned surprise, as his whisper reached her ‘ears. “ Thou hast thought me a laggard, Maria.” “ Nay, I have suffered no disappoint ment. I had no hopes of thee, Juan!” He was piqued. “That was because thou did’st not know me. But I have been busy in mv task. It is not that lam irresolute that lam slow. It is because 1 would be sure. It is not known to thee, per haps, that Velasquez hath valuable pos sessions in Spain. These w ill serve us hereafter, my Maria, when we shall tire of the sea. I have secured the papers which conduct to these. The key of his coffers is at my girdle. And now, — but, hark thee, —continue thy ballad. It has beguiled his fancies, and he is about to join us to be nearer thee. There! His bell sounds. I will bring him forth, and—dost thou heed me, Maria?” His hand trembled with with an icy chillness, as he laid it upon her wrist. Her own grew chilled with a sympa thetic consciousness of what he de signed. “Thy song! Thy ballad!” he mut tered convulsively as he left her, and, almost unconscious of what she did, she resumed, in accents that slightly faltered, the ballad of “Belerma,” one of her favourite songs, which she had probably learned fiom a purer source than that of the Zingali camp. “Quando vio aquel corazon Estando en el contemplado, De nuevas gotas de eangre Estaba todo banado.” W hich may be thus freely rendered: “ When the precious heart before her Lay all open to her view', As it conscious of her presence, It began to bleed anew.” Ihe voice ot \ elasquez—a voice that had once been equally rich and power ful—now feebly joined its accents with hers, as he tottered forth from the ca bin. supported on the arm of his ne phew. and sank into si seat which had been prepared beside her. Her tones subsided into silence as he approached. “Nay, stop not,” said he; “let me hear thee—l come out only to hear thee, for l feel not so well to-night— not well, not happy, Maria mine. Thv voice will persuade me to a better spirit, though it sounds more sadly than is thy wont to-night; and that ballad—methinks, beauty mine, thou would st never grieve over my heart, as the lovely damsel, Belerma, mourn ed over that of Durandarte.” And he sang feebly— “ Corazon de mi renor, Durandarte muv preeiado, En los amores diehoso, Y en baiallas desdichado.” She continued silent. “Sing for me, Maria—deny me not;” he said entreatingly. “ I know not that 1 shall ever ask it of thee again. I feel as if a sentence had gone forth upon me. 1 feel as if I had done thee w rong! My heart tells me that 1 have wronged thee. It thou wilt sing for me now. 1 know that thou forgivest me!” “Thou should’stnot give way to such fancies, uncle mine,” said the nephew; “methinks, thou art looking better to day than thou hast done for months past; and know I not that thou hast al ways been fond of Donna Maria, even as the good knight, Durandarte, was fond of the true maiden, Belerma.” “ Ah! J uan, but Velasquez is no Du randarte, to find his way to the heart of a fair maiden. These days bring forth no knighthood such as his. Who is it walks behind us? Methought I heard a footstep?” “It is none but the page, Gomez,” said the nephew, in somewhat hurried accents. A thrill ran through the veins of Ma ria, as she remembered that the page, Gomez, was the creature of Juan, and the person who, as a spy upon her ac tions, first discovered the strong inti macy between herself and Lopez de Levya. The tones of Juan betrayed to her something of his purpose, and she gathered from them the conclusion that he meditated the performance of his crime that very night. Her heart smote her. She felt her own crimi nality; but she loathed the tyranny of Velasquez, as much as she did the cold and cruel selfishness of Juan; and it was only in the death of both that she could possibly hope to extricate, from his desolate condition, the unhappy Lopez, whom, if she did not actually love, she did not loathe, and for whom every sentiment of humanity required that she should suffer the bloody game of Juan to go on. But she looked round, at the inquiry of Velasquez, aid while she detected Gomez near them, she was also enabled to discover anoth er and a taller form, among the sha dows beyond him. In this person she fancied she saw Linares, and suddenly she commenced the Hymn to the Vir gin, plaintive and touching, of the dying knight, Baldwin: “ O Santa Maria Senora, No me quieras olvidar, A ti encomiendo mi alma, Plegate de la guardar, En este trance muerte, Esfuerzo me querais dar, Pue3 ales tristes consuelas Quieras a mi consolar. Y a tu preciosa Hijo, Por mi te plega rogar, Que perdone mis pecados, Mi alma quiera salvar.” CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, MAY 18. 1850. \\ hich in an English idiom we may render thus: “ Holy Mary, thee beseeching, Lo! my soul in anguish cries, Take it to thy holy keeping, Grant thy mercy ere it dies. In the death-trance quickly sil king, To thy throne for help I flee, In my hour of terror drinking, Consolation still from thee : From thy precious son entreating, Pardon for my past career ; And the soul its doom awaiting, Rescue from its mortal fear.” IX. She had two objects in choosing this hymn. It was the appropriate chant of Velasquez—equally for his lips and ears—at that moment of his impend ing peril; and she cherished the human hope that, as in the previous song, he would join his voice with hers, and thus utter the proper prayer to Heaven, just when it would most become his lips. Her quick instincts led her also to believe that Linares would receive it as an intimation that the time was approaching when it would be necessa ry for him also to act. But Velasquez took no part in the Hymn. His head sank upon his breast as she proceeded, and he seemed to drowse. “ Dost thou sleep, uncle?” demanded Juan. He looked up when addressed, and, in the imperfect light, it could be seen that the eyes of the invalid were full of tears. “The Hymn saddens though it soothes me, Maria. Why didst thou choose it? Tet 1 blame thee not. 1 would 1 could sing it with thee. 1 strove, but the voice failed me, and my heart felt strange as if w ith a sudden sinking. I remember me to have heard that Hymn, the last night that 1 slept in the dwelling of my poor mother, Juanita. 1 was innocent then! I was a lad! There was a woman who was blind, — they called her Dolores, — she sang it often beneath our windows, but I did not w r eep to hear it then as 1 do now. et I remember it well. 1 knew the ballad all by heart, and could have sang it with her; but l had wilder fancies, and 1 mocked the tenderness of her Hymn with a gay ballad of some bolder spirit, i could not mock her now r . Thy voice hath soothed me, Ma ria, but sing to me no more to-night. I feel as I would sleep. Juan, give me thy arm.” The nephew started to his feet. Ma ria would have offered an arm also, but Juan repulsed her. “ Not thine!” he answered, in accents not so low but that Velasquez heard them. “And why not hers, Juan?” “She lacks the strength! Here is Gomez.” “Maria lack the strength! Is she not well, Juan! or am I so much fee bler than before? It must lie so! 1 feel it so! Well! Give me help! Gomez be it, then.” A cold sweat covered the face and forehead of Mania de Pacheco, as she beheld the officious Gomez start for ward at the summons of Juan. She saw Velasquez grasped by them, as if for support, on either side. The w ords of the latter— “ It is very dark—go'st thou rightly Juan?—rushed through her very brain with a dreadful import, the more terri ble and startling, as, having herself re ceded toward the cabin, she did not see them approach. Then she was con scious that someone stood beside her. It was Linares, followed by another. She grasped his arm. “Now! now! Linares!—lt is doing! Hence! Quick! God have mercy!” A plunge, and a most piercing shriek, were heard while she was speaking. Linares started forward. There was a sudden uproar in the ship. The alarm was given, and the men were running to and fro, while a crowd gathered on the side w here the deed had been done. Another scream from the waters—a scream of agony—a cry for help, and then the stern accents of Linares pre vailed over all others. “Murderer of thy uncle, —bloodv traitor, —I have caught thee in the act!” “Away!” cried Juan de Sylva,— “and to thy duties. Behold in me thy captain!” “Never!” was theory from the crew. “Diego Linares!” ‘‘The heavy hand of Linares was upon the shoulder of the culprit. His confederate Gomez was in the grasp of an equally powerful assailant. The proceeding had been too well devised — the action too prompt—to suffer the cunning Juan to escape by any subtle ties. and he was already given to un derstand that the fate to which he was doomed, was that to w hich his uncle had been already consigned. In the suddenly aroused sense of danger which he felt, his impulse was to call for Donna Maria. “She is here!” cried Linares. ‘1 he proud woman had recovered all her strength of soul and courage, and the conviction that the hateful and ma lignant spirit whom she had once fear- ed. was now wholly in her power, she felt an exulting sense of pleasure in be ing able to discard the veil of hypocrisy which she had so successfully worn.— She steadily advanced towards towards the clamourous group. “Speak for me, Maria;’ exclaimed the captive—“tell these men, —say to Linares, that, in what I have done, 1 have but obeyed thy wishes!” “As if my wishes should suffice to move the loving nephew to the murder of his first friend, and most loving un cle!” “Demonios! do I hear thee, woman!” He was grappled instantly and firm ly bv the vigorous Linares. A dozen willing hands were nigh to help him in the fearful deed which he designed. “Must 1 perish! Has my toil of blood been taken for such as these! Maria, dost thou indeed desert me! Speak! cried the desperate man— “ Speak! thou knewest my purpose— thou did-:t not disclaim my deed!” “1 know thee as a felon and a fiend— as one whom I loathe and scorn! Li nares. trust him not! lie who would keep no terms with one so confiding as his mother s brother, will keep no terms with thee. \\ hat said Ito thee before? Do thy duty to thyself and me! lie venge \ e!asquez, thy captain, recover the wretched Lopez de Levya from the isle where he was put to perish, and be the master of thy ship and crew !” “This then was thy scheme! De monios! that 1 should have been blind ed by this woman’s subtleties!” “ r lhou wast the victim to thy own \ unities—thy own quickness to crime— thy own coldness of heart!” said the proud Maria. “Oh! tongue of the serpent! dost thou sting me thus! But thou exultest too soon. Think’st thou that 1 have lived for such fate as this! with this wealth at my girdle—with so much of life in my possession—shall 1 lose life? No! of! there, ye base scum and offal— off! 1 e shall hang for this like dogs— -1 will!—” His own terrible struggles arrested his words, by w Inch they had been stimulated. lie had much to live for, and the unwilling spirit of youth was not to be resigned so easily to the sa crifice of those delights, for which he had paid such heavy price. His strength which was not ordinarily great, was that of desperation at the moment. — He fought with wonderful spirit and address, and it tasked three stout sea men so to recover the mastery over him, as to lift him to the side of the vessel to which the feeble uncle had been beguiled, and over which he had been suddenly thrown. Brought to the verge of the precipice, he succeeded in forcing himself back, so that his head only hung over the bulwarks.— Suddenly, however, the weight of the powertul Linares was thrown upon him; and the crack of the neck, as it was thrust down upon the sharp and narrow thwarts, could have been heard even above the spasmodic gurgle and horse scream of the victim, by which it was accompanied. The still quiver ing carcass which they committed to the deep, was no longer conscious of its fate. A second plunge declared the doom of the page Gomez, whose cries had been silenced by the stroke es a dagger, while his master’s death strug gles were most violent. Deep and drearv was the silence which followed */ on board the vessel. The rage of all parties was satisfied, and a certain, but indescribable fear was upon every heart. But none of the fruits of the struggle had been lost. A single hour had in effect rendered Maria de Pacheco, as had been promised by Juan de Sylva, the Mistress of the Dian de Burgos. A single sentence to Diego Linares de clared the present destination of the vessel. “ The Maroon —Lopez de Levya!” She was obeyed; the ship was brought about, and her prow turned once more in the direction of the desolate Isle of Lovers. Let us now return to our “ Maroon.” Three days upon his desolate island did not materially lessen its terrors, or increase its attractions, in the eyes of Lopez de Levya. He still shuddered, not less at its fanciful and unknown dangers, than at his isolation among them. But the necessity of looking about him—of looking upward, indeed, —of feeling himself in motion, and re alizing, as thoroughly as he could, the sense of life, as well its consciousness of suffering,—led him, at the end of this period, to make an effort, which, in his previous feeling of despair, he had never thought it possible he should make again. The nature, even of the constitutionally timid man, does not easily suceomb to fortune—does not usually,—except, perhaps, in the first moment of overthrow, yield itself sub missively to fate. The first moment of weariness which succeeds the con test, is, perhaps, the one of greatest prostration ; and, after that, the recu perative energies arouse themselves, and the sufferer, together. The very sense of abandonment is usuall y one of awakening and new resolve. This is one of the marked characteristics of the human nature. Indeed, the natural impulse of every free moral agent is resistance. To oppose, to struggle farther, —to contend to the last, and even where consciousness of the conflict itself fails.—is one of the earliest, as it is one of the most necessary develop ments, of the moral instinct. Com bativeness, indeed, is one of the most important of our moral qualities. It is one which. —arguing always the pre sence of a great and pressing necessity, —is, at the same time, continually counselling the means by which to con tend against it. Lopez de Levy a, though feeble, was not entirely wanting in the natural in stinct ; and, armed with the Spanish crossbow, and the shafts which had been accorded him—a spear, a knife, and one or two other implements of use and necessity, which might, in the event of exigency, be converted into v> capons—he now proceeded to explore his empire. A sense of his possessions was also rapidly beginning to make it self felt in his reasonings. That de lightful human instinct which, in the consciousness of sway, reconciles us so readily to all its dangers, was about to contribute its assistance toward com forting our Maroon in his desolation, lie was indeed a sovereign, though he commanded no subjects. Yet, the wild fowl which sped along the shore before his footsteps, or sprang aloft, wheeling in slow gyrations overhead, as he drew nigh their coverts, might be made to feel his authority as well as to minister to his wants. He could persecute, pun ish and destroy them, quite as certain ly, and certainly with less danger to himself, than if they were of his own species; and a sense of fierce delight at this conscionsness of his power to do mischief, was grateful to his heart, as it always is to that of the be ing who is himself peculiarly sensible to the influences of fear. lie was be ginning to regard with complacency a condition from which there was no escape. A t housand years might elapse, a Yclasquex had malignantly assured him, without suffering the prows of any European vessel to approach so nearly to his islet as to discover the existence of its lone possessor. He must make the most of that existence. He must hoard, must economize his resources, as well of thought and enjoyment, as of covering and food. He must not destroy his subjects simply to exercise his authority. His power must be sparingly indulged for his own sake and safety. He laid aside his guitar with care and tenderness, protecting it from hurt and exposure,by hanging it beneath the friendly palm trees where he had passed the night. In the first parox ysm of his despair and madness, con scious that this dangerous but delight ful instrument was connected with his present sufferings, he was about to dash it upon the bleak sands and tram ple it under foot, or cast it from him into the engulphing and surrounding sea. He knew not, himself, why he forebore to do so. Some tender re collection in his thought procured its safety ; —some conviction that it might minister to him in his wretched exile; —and the desperate passion which might have destroyed it, —was restrain ed. Yet bitter were the tears that he shed over it, as, arousing from the swoon that followed the departure of the vessel from his eyes, he found the cruel memorial still about his neck, where it had been hung by the mock ing hands of his enemy. With the subdued temper that followed the first feeling of his despair, the instrument became doubly precious, as it not only spoke of future solace, but reminded him of former enjoyments. It consti tuted one of the few moral links which connected him still with the great fam ily of man. He lacked the courage to part with any of his treasures, and the care with which lie secreted his favour ite instrument beneath the palm trees, was that of the tender mother, who leaves her infant for a while, solicitous of its comfort even while she has no fears for its safety; and sometimes looking back, not with any hope to see, but that her eyes involuntarily yield themselves to the course indica bv her heart. This charge disposed of, Lopez de Levya grasped his spear with as much martial dignity as he could command. He felt for his knife at his girdle, he slung the crossbow over his shoulder, and. ready for any event, he sallied forth to explore his empire. But though his territory was a small one, such as an adventurous spirit would have tra versed wholly, und surveyed thorough ly, in the course of a single day, our M; iroon was quite too timid, too cau tious in his footsteps, not to make it a work of longer time. Several days were necessary to his examination.— He proceeded slowly, and winding heedfully about, and probing every copse before he penetrated it, he first THIRD VOLUME.—NO. 3 WHOLE NO. 103. assured himself against any possible danger from secret foes, before he made his search satisfactory'. His domain was equally ample and compact; not wanting in variety, but having its ele vations of rock, and its valley of ver dure and its long wastes and stretches of sand, in a comparatively close com pass. The islet was not, as it had been thought by Velasquez, a mere series of sand hills, raised up by the sea 1 the creation of its own contending billows. It was a solid rock, whose gradual as cent, nowhere rising into more than a very gentle elevation, admitted of the easy accumulation of sand and soil, which, in process of time, had, in vari ous places, received a covering of very green and beautiful vegetation. The shrubbery was rather close than lofty. Among the trees were the plantain, the cocoanut, the breadfruit and the ba nana. r lhe pine apple grew in gold and purple, unobserved by man; and slender vines, which shot out from the 7 _ i knotted and ancient bulbs, from cre vices of the rock, ran wantonly over the sides of sudden hillocks, which they garnished with blue clusters of the grape. Verily, our musician had an empire in truth. Velasquez little dreamed of the treasure he had given away in his malice. The sterile islet was a principality of fairy land, and Lopez de Levya grew more and more reconciled to life as he beheld the wealth which lay scattered around him. Ilis possessions were beyond his wants. Nature had made ample provision, and millions might have been found, among the needy and oppressed children of Europe, to whom a life of exile and isolation in such an abode, would have been the most acceptable boon of hea ven. Nor were these vegetable pos sessions all that came to Lopez with his empire. Tribes of small wild ani mals wantoned before his footsteps, scarcely seeming to fear his presence; and the nimble little marmozet of the tropics, with a petty, playful mischief, darting before him as he came, would fling the nuts from the tree tops, and chatter, in equal fun and defiance, at his sovereign authority. Our “Maroon” began to grow interested in his posses sions, and fate soon conducted him to other discoveries. His island, stretch ing away from north to south, was ex ceedingly long in proportion to its width. He had been landed at the northern extremity, at which point it had been impossible to conceive its di mensions, except from its width, and this had led to conclusions which gave j no reason to suppose its extent to be half so great as Lopez found it. At the close of the third day of his explo rations, lie had nearly reached its south ern extremity. He had found the land gradually to rise as he advanced, until, toward the close, taken in comparison with the uniform level of the sand and sea surrounding the spot to which he approached, and by which the island was terminated in this quarter, he dis covered w hat might be considered a moderate mountain. It was certainly a large and imposing hill, seen from the low shores or the waters which sur rounded them. Here, too, the groves thickened into something like a forest. Heated by his ramble, and somewhat fatigued, as the day was wearing to its close, he passed gladly for shelter into the shady recesses of its heights. He soon found himself in one of the cool est realms of shade which he had ever traversed. A natural pathway, as it seemed, conducted him forward.— Gradually advancing, he at length emerged from the thicket only to stand ! upon the brow of a rugged eminence which rose, almost perpendicularly, overlooking the sea. A small flat of sandy beach lay at his feet, which was evidently subject to overflow at the rising of the tide. Not half a mile be yond could be seen a small cluster of little rocks, just peering above the sea, scarcely bigger, it w ould seem, than so many human heads, which the waves covered at high water. Between them he could distinguish the boiling and striving of the billows, which sent up a sheeted shower far above the rocks with which they* strove. Long lines, stretching from several points and los ing themselves among these rocks, be trayed the course of strong currents which w r ere caused by the capricious whirlpools that lay within their em brace. The eye of Lopez took in all these objects, but they did not bound his survey. Stretching far beyond. — did he only fancy, or did he really be hold a slender dark speck which might be the outline of a shore corresponding w ich that on which he stood ?—miles of ocean lay between them, but in that unclouded realm of sunshine and of calm, objects might be seen from an eminence, such as that on which he stood, at a surprising distance. It was only in glimpses now that he beheld, or fancied, the object in his gaze. Some ; times it would utterly disappear, —but this might be from the continued and eager tension of his vision; —again ; would it grow out boldly beneath his j eyes; —but this might be in obe- dience only to the desires of hi: mind. Long and feverishly did he watch, and many were his conjectures as to the distant empire which his hope or his sight had conjured up. He tumeo away, and his glances rested upon thr smooth plane of yellow sand beneath his feet, which lay, inviting to his tread, glinting a thousand fires trom bits oi crystal, which reflected the now r waning sun-light. To this little esplanade which looked so exceedingly inviting our “Maroon” was persuaded to de scend from his heights, by finding a convenient series Os rude steps, which wound below —little gaps in the hill side, or fractures in the naked rock, which one might almost be tempted to imagine,—so admirable was the assist ance which they gave to the anxious footsteps, —had been the work of art. Following these, Lopez descended to the hard and sandy floor, and standing in the shadow of the rock, he once more looked forth eagerly upon the doubtful waste of sea. There still lay the empire of his desire. It was along and over those billows that he was yet to see the glimmer of a saving hope. Such was still his dream, and, seating himself upon the sand, he inscribed al most unconsciously the names of Spain, of the Dian de Burgos, and of the lowly hamlet in his own country, from which he had been persuaded regret fully to wander. Then followed rude outlines of the ship which had abandon ed him, and then, naturally enough, a portrait, something less rude, of the fair but passionate woman, for whose fatal love, he was suffering the dreadful doom of exile and isolation. His own name was written,but as quickly oblite rated, and musing over the melancholy’ record, his heart failed him, and he sunk forward, prone, upon the faint memorials which the rising waters would soon wash away forever. Thus he lay, moaning, for many weary min utes. till, all at once, a coldness fell upon him which chilled him to the heart, and aroused him to more imme diate apprehensions. The shadow of the hill beneath which he hiy’ was upon him. The sun w r as slowly receding from the heights. Startling tohisfeet,he turned to reascend the hill, and recoiled with a feeling little short of horror, as he beheld the huge mouth of a cavern yawning directly upon him. This cav ern was open to the sea. Its waters, at their rising, passing the little stretch of sand upon which he had lain, glided into the dim hollow, which now looked, grimly threatening, upon the easily alarmed spectator. The opening was not a very large one, but would easily admit of the passage of three or more persons at a time. Its lips were cover ed with a soft and beautiful clothing of green moss which made the darkness within seem yet more dismal. Long grasses, and thick shrubs and vines hanging over from above, contributed to increase the solemnity of its aspect, as showing the depth and certainty of its solitude; and the deep silence which prevailed within, added still more great ly to the impressive influence with which it possessed the soul of the “Ma roon.” while he timidly yet eagerly gazed upon the opening. At the first discovery of this domain of solemnity and silence, he receded almost to the sea. Tic was not encouraged by the stillness. A voice from within, theory of a beast, the rush of a bird s wing— had been more encouraging. His ad vance was very gradual,—but he did advance, his doubts being much less easy of endurance than the absolute presence ot a real cause; of apprehen sion. \V ith trembling nerves he pre sented his spear, and got his knife in readiness. The spear was thrust deep into the throat of the cavern, but it pro voked no disquiet within. Then, his hair erecting itself, and his heart rising in his throat as he advanced, he, at length, fairly made his way into the subterranean dwelling. There heshout ed, and the sounds came rolling back upon him trom so many hollow voices within, that he once more recoiled from the adventure, and hurried back in ter ror to the entrance. (Continued in our next.) Professional Acumen. —Dr. F., after getting home highly primed from a dinner party, was called out to see a lady, dangerously ill. “So,” said the Doctor to his man, “In Jove, 1 can’t go at all; il 1 do, you must lead me.’ He was led to a room where the patient lay stretched upon her bed. The doctor got fast hold of a bed-post with one hand, and with the other seized the lady’s wrist: but, alas! all attempts to note the pulsation were vain, and he could only mumble out, “Drunk, by Jove, drunk!” “Ah, madam,” cried the Abigail, as soon as the physician had staggered out, “ what a wonderful man! How soon he discovered what was the matter with you!” Course of Time. —Like an inunda tion ot the Indus is the course of time. \\ e look for the homes of our child hood —they are gone; for the friends of our childhood.—they are gone. The. loves and animosities of youth, where are they? Swept away like the camps that had been pitched in the sandy bed of the river.