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WHIM ILMMII amt TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. di'riginnl |*nrtnj. For the Southern Literary Gazette. TIIE BROKEN BOLT. ••James, the royal poet of Scotland, perished tie victim of a villainous conspiracy. It was j n resisting the approach of his assassins, that [l lr noble Catherine Douglas thrust her arm in to the bolt-rings of the door, and kept it thus fastened, until the brutal murderers broke the bone.” She stood within dark, frowning walls, Beside her prisoned king, Proudly, as when her beauty’s power, Was felt in courtly ring. Minstrel and bard, in burning verse, To thrilling harp had sung ; And the lofty, bannered hall, To her high praise had rung. A burning light was in her eye, A glory on her cheek ; Within her soul, a purpose high— Too high for words to speak. But shone the glory of its spell, O’er her beauty, pure and warm ; It nerved to deeds of daring bold, That young and fragile form. Li.-t! list! the words that part her lips ! Like inspiration given To priestess of some shrine of old— Interpretess of Heaven: ■•Gird up thy strength, my noble Leige, And rouse thy courage high ; Nor let thy princely heart grow faint, Nor shadow dim thine eye ; Though trait’rous lords, who owe thee faith, Are false to holiest trust, And seek to lay thy regal head, Dishonor’d in the dust! Brave hearts are gathered round thee here, Though few their number be : And the mighty King of Kings, Serenely smiles on thee. Shame ! hitter shame ! and deepest scorn, Shail the false hearts pursue ! While mercy beams from yonder heaven For suffering souls and true. They come ! They come ! Their brows are dark. With rage and passion deep ; And hurrying tread and angry oath, Their fearful purpose speak ! No craven cowards shall they find, Within our prison-hold: Thus may a maid of Douglas blood, Shew forth our spirit bold !” With bearing meet for royal dame, Siie trod the dungeon floor, And thust her fair and rounded arm Within the grated door. And, with a face like marble white, Yet firm as is the rock, She turned, and said, in calmest tone, “ ’Twill answer for a lock Alas! Her feeble arm saved not, The king, for whom she bled : The bolt so fair, was rudely broke, His blood was coldly shed ! And yet, not all in vain she stood, Sublimely there to die, In ihe glorious flush of youth, Martyr for royalty. For noble hearts, through coming time, Shall beat more brave and high, At thought of the heroic maid, For Right so glad to die. Down Beauty’s cheek shall steal the tear, That purifies the soul, — And self, —that never died for Love, — Yield to its soft control. ROSE DU SUD. <Jctobtr ath , 1850. flit Start; Ctlltr. From the London Family Herald. ALICE; OR THE RESCUE. CHAPTER I. “ Whither do you ride to-day, my dear said Mrs. Florence to her daughter, as the latter, attired in a hand s"ine equestrian dress, entered the par lour. “ 1 don’t know, mamma —just where the fancy of the moment takes me, replied the daughter, stooping to kiss her mother’s forehead, and then pro ceeding to arrange her riding hat before the mirror. ■’ Do not go far, my child. I never see you venture out thus alone without a presentiment that something is to hap pen.” “ But you have so many presenti ments, and all to no purpose,” gaily replied her daughter, “that 1 think we ‘■an afford to disregard them by this time. Vet, mamma,” she said, ap pioaching her parent again, and throw if'g a fair arm fondly around her neck, ” if it really alarms you, 1 will give up riding. 1 he widowed mother looked up fond ly at her beautiful child, and kissing her. said, “ No, no, Alice, you shall not deprive yourself of almost the sole pleasure left you. Pursue your daily rides. In this primitive district, so far removed from the high roads of com merce, there can be no real peril in ri ding out unattended ; it is an idle, fool i'h tear on my part; only as you were always accustomed in your dear father’s |il' y to have a servant when you rode, it seems odd to see you now without otle , that is all ; 1 dare say I shall soon m t accustomed to it, as to other sacri fices.” N ever think of it as a sacrifice again, ‘minima,” replied the beautiful girl. — •Nothing is a sacrifice to me, while I l |;lv e you left.” ” Rod bless you, Alice,” answerer the mother. “I am glad that, notwith anding our reverses, you can still keep }mir beautiful Arab.” Alice for reply put her arm around l”; 1 ’ mother’s waist, and drew her to the ‘Widow. A superb white steed ready ’ Po isoned, and held by the sole male •' 1 vant of the establishment, who of i,( iuted as groom and gardener both, stood pawing the earth in front of the Cottage. “is he not beautiful 1” said Alice, i fMiii iosaiMi. wwmo w utsmtobe. me sm mb aims, mb to mm&i iht&mms. enthusiastically. “I do believe, dear mamma, that, next to you, I love Arab better than anything on earth. How fleetly he carries me! llow boldly we leap the ditches and fences in our way ! Oh ! mamma, there is nothing so exhilarating as to gallop over the hills on a bracing October morning like this, and as you r ach each new accliv ity, catch a taste of the sea-breeze that drifts far inland, when the wind, as now, is from the east; and then to pull up on some lofty height, and see glimpses of the ocean away in the distance, with perchance a sail whitening its dark green bosom. Nothing, nothing makes the blood so dance in the veins, or fills the heart with equal exultation !” The parent looked up admiringly at her child as the latter thus spoke ; and indeed others, less favourably preju diced might have done the same. — Alice was one of those tall, aristocratic looking creatures, who, notwithstanding a certain slimness, realise, perhaps, the highest idea of female beauty. Her figure was of the lordly Norman type, and perfect in its proportions; while every movement was graceful, yet dig nified. Her face was of that almost divine beauty which we see in the Be atrice Cenci of Guido. The same daz zling complexion, the same blue eyes, the same golden hair; but combined with these also the same air of high re solve and almost masculine courage chiselled about the lines of the brow and mouth. Her countenance, always lovely, was now t.ranscendantly beauti ful, for it glowed with enthusiasm. Her mother, we have said, looked up at her fondly. Mrs. Florence, the widow of a Boston merchant, supposed to be a millioniare while living, but whose estate after his death scarcely yielded a surplus sufficient to allbrd his wife and only child a bare subsistence, was a woman of a loving, tender heart, but without any of that masculine strength of character which Alice in herited from her father. But for Alice the widow would have broken down under the loss of a dearly-loved hus band and the unexpected revulsion of fortune. It was Alice who comforted the despairing Mrs. Florence; who planned their removal to the economi cal district where they now lived; and who, by constantly* denying herself a thousand little accustomed luxuries, managed to make their scanty income suffice for their support. The widowed mother not only loved her as a daugh ter, but looked up to her unconsciously as an adviser. “ Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Flor ence, with a sigh, “ if you enjoy your rides—that is all! But lam sure 1 had rather be sitting here, looking at my flowers, than galloping over the finest country in the world. But you are just like your dear father, who was the boldest and most graceful rider of his day.” “ Good bye, mamma,” said Alice laughingly ; “if 1 stay to hear myself praised, 1 shall be spoiled.” With these words she broke from her parent, left the apartment, and was seen the next moment running lightly down the steps, daintily holding her riding-skirt up with her small, but heavily-gloved hand.— With the nimbleness of a deer she vaulted into the saddle, gathering up the reins with a firm hand, and nodding a gay adieu to her mother, was off’, her spirited steed scattering the gravel right and left from beneath his hoofs. “ Dear child,” said her mother, thus left alone, “ may heaven protect thee ! Yet it sometimes seems,” she added, with a sigh, “as if 1 were destined to lose my Alice. I love her too much to keep her with me. And yet, oh! Father in Heaven,” she continued, lift ing her eyes, now dimmed with tears “ spare Thou this, my only comfort on earth; temper the wind to the shorn lamb, and leave me something for which to hope!” CHAPTER 11. A succession of inviting views, one following another as hill after hill was surmounted, had lured Alice on, until, on reaching a lofty elevation, ahe was surprised to see an unknown view of the ocean rolling in at her feet. For the first time since she set out she be came aware how far she had gone. She drew forth her delicate little watch, one of the few relics of better days which she had retained, and was surprised to :ind that nearly three hours had elapsed since she left home. The country about her was entirely strange to her. Never before had she protracted her ride so far. She had not intended to be absent three hours in all, and she began imme diately to reproach herself, for she knew that long before she could return, her mother would be alarmed at her pro longed delay. Just then a young lad driving a waggon appeared in sight. She accost ed him, and asked the distance toB , in whose suberbs her mother’s cottage was located. The boy answered that the distance, by the high road, was twenty miles. “ Twenty miles !” said Alice, in despair. “ Surely there mast be some shorter road ?” “-Oh, yes, ma’m, there Is,” replied the lad, “to them as goes by the beach, it saves a matter of six miles.” “ And how do you reach the beach?” asked Alice. “ You turn off at the double house yonder, and keep down the lane till you come out on the shore ; then, fol low the beach as far as you can —it is three miles or so —when you will reach the high road again, just by Wallington Church.” “ Thank you,” cried Alice, too eager to get home to stop for further explana tions ; and, as she spoke, she gave her t irited steed a cut with the riding-whip, which made him spring almost from under her. The next instant she was galloping towards the lane that led to he sea-shore. The lad looked after her in stupid wonder; he had never seen anything half so beautiful or brave. — “1 reckon,” he cried, “that’s one of the circus riders, from Bosting, that Jim talks about.” The morning had been very clear, though the atmosphere, for more than twenty-four hours, had foreboded a storm. A bracing, north-east wind had been blowing the preceding night, as well as all day, and had been steadily increasing. Alice had not noticed this, however, until she drew up to speak to the boy. As she turned to descend to wards the ocean, the screen of woods and hills that had hitherto protected her was suddenly removed, and the violence of the gale almost took her hat from her head. She cared little for this, however, but stooped forward to breast the tempest, and dashed rapidly down the hill, knowing that her course, when she once reached the beach, would bring the wind on her back. She scarcely looked up until her horse’s hoofs, ceased to clattsr on the rocky descent, struck the firm smooth sand of the beach; but when she did, and for the first time gazed seaward, she could scarcely restrain a cry of alarm, courageous as she was. Low, leaden-coloured clouds driving rapidly in from the eastward, had com pletely shut out the sunshine, and in volved the entire scene in gloom. Be neath this foreboding sky the wild waves were trooping onward towards the beach, mountain-high, and every where whitened with foam. Still, after a moment’s reflection, Alice saw noth ing to fear. The lad knew the country well, as his words showed, and he would not have recommended this road to her if there had been danger. And how could there be danger ? She might get wet, if came on to rain, but that was all; and, to recompense for this, what was more glorious than the sight of the ocean iu a storm ? These were her hasty reflections, as she drew in her rein, and hesitated ; then, urging on her steed, she started for a gallop along the beach. For a mile she maintained an un broken pace. The smooth road under foot, the breeze that would have been too sharp for anything but a gallop, and the roar of the tremendous surf that broke beside her, gave a wild exhilara tion to the spirits of the bold rider, which all can comprehend who have been, like her, on horseback, amid the raging of the elements. On, on she dashed, her veil flying behind her, her cheek flushed with excitement. Sud denly a jutting rock presented itself, to the foot of which the billows nearly approached. She did not hesitate.— Something told her that a clear road lay beyond ; and, with a word of en couragement to her half-affrighted lmrse, she dashed through the waves wetting the hoofs of the smoking steed. She was not mistaken. The cliff she had just passed formed the southern end oi a deep noTsesnoe-itß'e uiueniu tion of the coast; and now a wide, evel beach, about two miles in extent, opened before her. This beach was terminated, at its northern extremity, by a high rock, that rose like a wall more than two hundred feet above the sands. Alice’s first look, after she had scanned the beach, was at this cliff, to see if the road beneath was passable. To her joy she beheld a long stretch of sand, with boulders scattered here and there between the foot of the rock and the sea ; and on a second scrutiny, she saw a plainly defined water-mark,traced by the sea-weed by the last tide,at least three hundred feet distant from the precipice. “ Now, Arab,” she said, exultingly, at this sight, “fly, fly my brave friend, and we shall be home before the din ner-hour after all. Behind yonder pro montory lies the spire of Wallington, and from thence it is scarcely an hour’s gallop to the cottage.” The noble animal seemed to under stand her, and to have participated both in her momentary fear, and in her pres ent joy ; he spurned the sand with his rapid hoofs, and fairly flew along his path. Half the distance had already been traversed, when Alice, who had been watching in proud admiration the scud whitening the ocean everywhere, turned her glance towards the promontory. — What was her horror to behold the wa ter-mark already obliterated by the ad vancing tide, which boiled and foamed around the huge boulders now fast dis appearing ! She had forgotten to esti mate the influence of the gale in throw ing in an unusually high surf, as also to reflect that, as the beach was com paratively level, a very small rise in the tide would submerge it; but both these things now rushed upon her mind, and, brave as she was, she turn ed pale with terror, as she checked her horse. “ What is to be’done?” she cried aloud, involuntarily. “At the rate at which the tide is coming in, the foot of the promontory will he impassable by the time I reach it. I will retrace my steps,” she said, with instant decision ; “that is my only chance.” She turned her horse’s head as she spoke, but what was her dismay when she beheld the road by the southern promontory already buried in the wild waters, that breaking at its foot, threw’ the spray half way up the precipitous ascent. Escape, by either way, she saw wasimpossible. The reins dropped from her hands, which she clasped to her face, “Oh ! mother, mother,” she cried, “who shall break to you the tidings ? Who shall dare carry my drowned corpse to your door, even if the ocean should cast it ashore?” But it was not in the nature of Alice to submit silently to death, while even a ray of hope remained. The promon tory ahead was yet unreached by the waters, and, if she spared no time in pushing forward, it might not be en tirely impassable. Even though the tide should be at its base, Arab could swim, and a bold rider might force him through. At any rate this was the on ly prospect of escape. Blaming her self for her momentary halt, by which precious moments had been lost, she urged her faithful animal to his utmost speed. Arab darted forward like a gull shooting down the wind, and Alice, with CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, OCT. 19, 1850. pale cheeks and compressed lips, await ed the result. Swifter and swifter the gallant steed swept over the sands ; but nearer and wilder came the advancing tide to the foot of the ciiff. Alice saw, with breath less horror, that the waves would cover the path before she could reach it; but nevertheless she pressed on with the high resolve of a courageous heart, that does its utmost even in moments of des pair. The critical point was still more than two hundred yards distant, when a tremendous breaker hurled itself against the base of the cliff, flinging its white, cold spray up the face of the rock as high as the yard arm of a first rate man-of-war. Another and another wave followed, submerging the sands entirely, and half-burying even those of the boulders that lay close in by the cliff'. Yet still Alice urged on her steed. Snorting wildly, Arab would have shrunk back, but his mistress, encour aging him with her voice, pushed him at the pass. A breaker had just spent itself, and was receding; she thought this a favourable moment,and she struck her steed sharply with her whip. He sprang forward gallantly, and had al ready passed what she thought the crit ical point, when, to her despair, she saw that the waters bathed the feet of the cliff for at least fifty yards farther on. Her hopes sank within her. She felt the blood coursing back to her heart, and her heart itself seemed to cease beating. A chill of horror overcame all her nerves ; yet mechanically she urged Arab forward. A second break er, however, thundering in at this mo ment almost swept the faithful animal from his feet, and nearly flung Alice from the saddle, her hat falling off’in the concussion. No longer able to keep her seat unassisted, she grasped the neck of her steed mechanically with her right hand, while, with distended eyes, she gazed on a third billow that was now roaring towards her. On came this mountainous wave, towering, tow ermg, towering, until its dark and glis tening front rose almost perpendicular ly overhead. Alice was breathless with horror. Suddenly a speck of foam appeared at one extremity of this long wall of water; it ran swiftly along the top, curling over as it advanced, and then with a roar as of a hundred bat teries the huge mass plunged headlong, burying steed and rider from sight in a whirlwind of foam. A wild, shrill scream of a woman, lost in the shriek of a horse iu his last agony, rose above the howling of the wind, and the cry of the frightened gulls; and then, ail was overwhelmed iu the thunder of the breaker. i Hfrir-iv ill. On the morning of that day a plea sure yacht, the property of a young Bostonian of fortune, was returning from the last cruise of the season. — The experienced pilot saw, in the gath ering clouds eastward, the impending storm, and advised that all sail should be made at once for the nearest har bour. Accordingly the helm was put up, and the course laid for Wallington Bay, which happened to be under the lee. A gay party was on board of that yacht. Fortune had showered her gifts on all present, but on none more than on Arthur Mordaunt, the owner of the dashing little craft. As he sat now in the midst of his guests, towering half a head above the tallest, with his hand some and intelligent countenance light ed up with the excitement of conversa tion, he presented the beau ideal of manly beauty. The sailor’s dress in which all were attired, particularly be came Mordaunt, especially the low, Byron collar, which revealed a throat that might have come from the chisel of Praxiteles. “ I wonder you have never married, Mordaunt,” said one of his friends, lighting a fresh cigar. “ Honestly, I believe you would be far happier ; you were made for that sort of thing ; only we should lose this pleasant yachting, and faith I should be sorry for that.” “ You need not be alarmed, my dear fellow,” replied Mordaunt. “ 1 shall never marry until I am really in love ; and I have yet to see the woman who will permanently touch my heart. Flir tations one has by dozens ; but love is a different matter.” “You are fastidious !” replied anoth er of his guests. “ Who does not know that?” inter posed the first speaker. “ What dwel ling is so recliercht as Mordaunt’s bach elor establishment? What horses are so choice 1 what yacht is so beautiful ? The fact is, Mordaunt wants a wife who shall be more than mortal ; so 1 think our bachelor yachting is likely to last till he dies of old age.” “ Oh ! 1 should not give up yacht ing,” replied Mordaunt, laughing, “even if I were married, though, perhaps, 1 should be more select in my invitations, for I would take iny wife along with me.” “ The deuce you would ?” cried sev eral, in a breath. “Yes; and there’s the point,” an swered Mordaunt. “ When I marry, I want a wife who is both beautiful and brave ; one who can grace a ball room, yet is not afraid to back a horse or steer a yacht ” “An amazon, in short,” cried all, with a roar of laughter, “what the Pa risions call lionnes “ Oh, no, no!” said Mordaunt. — “Above all things 1 detest the lionnes. I knew one in Paris, who swam for a bet with another in the Seine—she was a perfect human monster, neither man nor woman —faugh ! it makes me an gry to think of her. Now, my taste is for a woman who is feminine at all times, but yet is not a coward; one who can share my passion for out-of-door exercises, yet not cease to be a lady. There are plenty of such in England ; but here, too frequently, our females are either hot-house plants or flaunting sun-flowers ” “And, by George !” said one, inter rupting him, “ yonder goes a horsewo- man who is bold enough, and, as well as 1 can judge at this distance, beauti ful enough too. I would not be in her peril for a thousand dollars.” All eyes followed the direction of the speaker’s finger, and beheld, at the dis tance of more than a mile, a solitary female on horseback, riding under the cliffs, along the beach. Mordaunt seized the spy-glass, and took a long look at Alice, for she it was. “ She is as beautiful as an houri,” he said, shutting up the telescope, “and as brave as Zenobia. But she is in immi nent peril; the tide is making so fast that it will soon render the promontory ahead impassable, and return by the way she came is already cut off by the waters.” “Good heavens ! what is to be done?” cried another, who had meantime been using the glass. “We must put about,” said Mor daunt. “W e are already to leeward of the point, and shall have some difficul ty to beat up, at least in time to assist her ; but we must try.” The pilot here ventured to hint that the yacht might be beached, if any such hazardous experiment was tried. “I don’t care for the yacht,” said Mordaunt, “but I think there is no dan ger. We’ll beat up till we get towind ward of the point, when I’ll take the life boat, and leave you ; two of the crew will answer my purpose. As sure as there is a heaven, that courageous girl, unless we do this, will be drowned.” “ And even that can’t save her,” said the pilot. ‘l'he yacht, however, was put about, and lying close to the wind, soon began to regain precious ground. As she plunged into the high-seas, every spar straining and timber creaking, the cheek of more than one on board blanched ; but no one ventured to remonstrate.— All felt, witli Mordaunt himself, that the duty to attempt a rescue demanded the risk. “Ah ! she sees her danger now,” cried one, “she stops —she looks back—she hesitates; and now she has decided, for she dashes forward, even fleeter than before.” “Gallant creature!” cried Mordaunt, “she is worth risking a dozen lives for. Most of her sex would have stopped, paralysed with terror, till the tide was upon her ; but she sees her only chance, and loses not a second in availing her self of it.” The most breathless suspense now ensued. The yacht .and Alice were rapidly approaching each other from opposite points. The former, however, was still comparatively far from the promontory, when the first breaker cut off the escape of Alice. no nTv7t**r, icu aixv/uauiit ? eagerly, “.lack, you and Bill accom pany me; we must trust to our oars.” “How rolily she dashes at the pass,” cried one of his friends. “Did you see that cut with the whip? There, she seizes the opportunity when the wave has receded ; she thinks there are* but few yards to pass instead of that long stretch of sand ; ah ! now she beholds the real extent of the peril —there, a breaker nearly buries her —no! she still holds on, but her hat is gone —she cannot longer control her affrighted horse—good heavens, that roller has buried her for ever !” An awful silence succeeded these breathless words. The life-boat was not yet laanced, and Mordaunt still re mained on deck. He was pale with excitement. Every eye was fixed on the spot where Alice had disappeared; but an age seemed to pass before the huge breaker rolled backwards. At last, the receding waters discloosed the steed struggling in the undertow ; but his fearless rider was gone. Her hat alone was seen floating out in the breakers. “It is all over, you can do no good,” cried several; “that sea will drown you, Mordaunt.” By this time the boat was rocking aside, and her crew stood ready for their leader, if he determined to go. “ 1 will recover her body at least or die,” said Mordaunt,as he leaped aboard the slight cockleshell. “Give way,my lads.” The little craft shot off, and held stubbornly on its way, now appearing, dow disappearing, as the huge billows sank and rose between it and the yacht. We shall leave the latter and follow Mordaunt. Nearly ten minutes elapsed before the boat reached the vicininity where Alice lmd disappeared, a period that seemed an hour to Mordaunt. The surf was now breaking high all around the promontory, and this, combined with the boulders scattered about, rendered approach to the spot perilous in the ex treme. When as close in as it was deemed prudent to go, Mordaunt half arose and looked around. “ Yonder is the horse ; poor fellow he is dead,” he cried, after a moment. “He has drifted past the point and into Wallington Bay. We must seek there for the lady too ; for a strong current seems to set in that direction. Ha; what is that? A skirt floating on the water —it is she—now, a hundred dol lars a-piece, lads, for doing your best — give way, give way !” The stout oaken oars almost snapped, so sinewy were the efforts of the row ers, and the boat shot rapidly forward. Promptly Mordaunt neared the inani mate form,whose identity was no longer doubtful. Utterly careless of danger, for but one thought now possesed him, that of rescuing the body, in the hope that life might not yet be quite ex tinct, he steered the boat right in among the breakers,following the helpless form of Alice. He approached the body, and at tempted to grasp it; but it eluded his effort, and the boat, no longer steered by a skilful hand, whirled over. In stantly Mordaunt and her crew were struggling in the breakers. But the men, as if anticipating what would have been their leader’s commands, grasped at the cords that hung from the sides of the craft, and thus held her firmly ; while Mordaunt, luckily a bold and powerful swimmer, dived after the dis appearing figure of Alice. He was fortunate in grasping the skirt of her dress almost immediately; but the next moment, anew breaker over whelmed them, and both disappeared from sight. Meantime, however, the boat and her crew had been carried in on the preceding surge ; and the boat having been righted dexterously, was now heading the breakers, to go in search of Mordaunt. The men soon caught sight of their leader, as, holding Alice with one arm, while, with the other he steered his way, he rode inward on a third breaker. The boat shot like an arrow towards him ; he grasped one of her ropes; and, on the instant, the crew sprang out, dragging her towards the beach. The manoeuvre was execu ted so skilfully and rapidly that, when the fourth breaker rolled in, it did not submerge the party, nor was the under tow afterwards sufficient to carry them out again to sea. Before a fifth surge could overtake them, they were safely landed on the dry beach. CHAPTER IV. Fortunately, a farm-house was in sight close to the shore of the bay, and thither Mordaunt hastened with his in animate burthen. Alice, to all appear ance, was lifeless ; but he reflected that persons, who been in the water even longer than she had, were some times recovered ; and he was resolved not to despair until every effort at re suscitation had been tried in vain. As he gazed on the pallid face that rested on his shoulders, he said involuntarily aloud, “Surely so much loveliness can not perish thus.” One of the men had run before to announce the accident, so that when Mordaunt approached with his burthen, the farmer’s wife and her two daugh ters were standing at the door with anxious faces. “ This way—this way,” cried the dame, opening the door of the best chamber, which, as customary in that section of the country, was on the first floor, “poor dear creature !—God grant she may yet have life !” It would be impossible to describe the anx : ety with which Mordaunt paced up and down the wide hall of the old house, while the females of family were engaged in their sacred task of en deavouring to resuscitate the inani mate Alice. Minute after minute elapsed, yet hothing was heard from the bed-room. It seemed to Mordaunt as if an hour had passed, when the door was at last opened. “Whatnews?” he cried,springing for rlaino’e harwl “ She does !” was the answer. “ Thank God !” cried Mordaunt, and his nerves, overwrought by the inci dents of the morning, gave way ; for a moment he felt the weakness of a woman, and he turned away to hide a gush of tears. When Alice had sufficiently revived to be sensible, her first inquiry was after her mother. She told her name, and begged that someone might be sent for her parent. Mordaunt, who watched still outside the chamber-door, offered to gallop himself on the service, if a horse could be found. The dame said there was a spare beast in the stable, and fortunately a good one; at which Mordaunt saddling the animal, himself left the house on his errand. When he reached the cottage of Mrs. Florence his horse was all in a foam, lie flung himself off and hurried in.— What was his astonishment to recog nise, where he had expected to see a stranger, the intimate friend of his de ceased mother, the widow of his father’s old partner! But his surprise was not greater than that of Mrs. Florence. Alice, however, was the first thought of the parent. Already alarmed by her daughter’s protracted absence, the wet dress of her visitor aroused all her ma tnnn I TP{l IN “My child !” she cried. “Oh ! Mr. Mordaunt, do you come from my child?” “ She is alive —and in no danger,” said Mordaunt, and then in a few rapid words he told his errand. Before half an hour, a carriage had been procured, and Mordaunt was accompanying Mrs. Florence to see her daughter. That evening, Alice was sufficiently recovered to sit up. Her mother had brought part of a wardrobe with her, and the patient, attired in in a neat neg lige dress, which made her all the more lovely from its reminding the spectator of the danger she had escaped, waited to receive and thank Mordaunt. The latter had been meantime to Walling ton, where his yacht lay at anchor, and had exchanged his wet, sailor’s attire, for the simple dress of a gentle man When the door opened,and Mordaunt entered,the blushes that dyed the cheeks of Alice rendered her beautiful beyond comparison. She looked up at Mor daunt, with eyes beaming unutterable grattitude, but unable to find words, she burst into tears. “She is nervous yet,” said Mrs. Flor ence, drawing Alice to her bosom.— “Why, my dear child, where is all your courage ?” But Mordaunt was scarcely less com posed. He trembled like a leaf as he took the hand of Alice; and these tears destroyed what little self-com mand he had left. When next Alice looked up, and her eyes tremblingly met his, his own dropped before her gaze. Ah ! whore was the bravery of either 1 Love had made both cowards. The great peril they had that day shared together, combined with Mor daunt’s admiration for her bold spirit, stood in the place of months of intima cy, and they already loved. It was nearly a year, however, be fore Mordaunt was allowed, in due course, to woo, to sue for, and to wed Alice. And a happy couple they have made ! Their splendid mansion is seen in the most fashionable street of Bos ton, and their country-seat overlooks the ocean from one of the choicest spots THIRD VOLUME—NO. 25 WHOLE NO 125. in the vicinity. Every luxury in short that wealth can bring is theirs. Nor is this all. The most perfect sympathy reigns between them. Alice is still as bold an equestrian as ever, and has be come as resolute a sailor as her hus band ; but she is not the less the belle of the ball-room, or, better than all, the tender companion of the social hearth. (ititrrnl tßrlcrtir. THE IGNIS FATUUS. This wandering meteor, known to the vulgar as the Will-o’-the-Wisp, has given rise to considerable speculation and controversy. Burying grounds, fields of battle, low meadows, valleys and marshes, are its ordinary haunts. By some eminent naturalists, particu larly Willoughby and Ray, it has been maintained to be only the shining of a great number of the male-glow’ worms in England, and the piraustse in Italy, flying together—an opinion to which Mr. Kirby, the entomologist inclines. The luminosities observed in several cases may have been due to this cause, but the true meteor of the marshes can not thus be explained. We have but a fe*r authentic notices of its appear ance in this country of a recent date, probably owing to an extended system of drainage, and the careful cultivation of the soil. The. following instance is abridged from the Entomological Mag azine \ —“Two travellers proceeding across the moors between Hexham and Alston, were startled, about ten o’clock at night, by the sudden appearance of a light, close to the road side, about the size of the hand, and of a well-defined oval form. The place was very wet, and the peat-moss had been dug out, leaving what are locally termed ‘ peat pots.’ which soon fill with water, nour ishing a number of confervae, and the various species of sphagnum, which are converted into peat. During the pro cess of decomposition, these places give out large quantities of gas. The light was about three feet from the ground, hovering over peat-pots, and it moved nearly parallel with the road for about fifty yards, when it vanished, probably from the failure of the gas. The man ner in which it disappeared was similar to that ot a candle being blown out.” The ignis fatuus has not become so strange in various continental districts as with us. We have the best account of it from Mr. Blesson, who examined it abroad with great care and diligence. “ The first time,” he states, “ I saw the ignis fatuus, was in a valley, in the forest of Gorbitz, in the New Mark.— This valley cuts deeply in compact ’me wateroi ineinarsnis ierrugnrous, and covered with an irridiscent crust. During the day, bubbles of air are seen rising from it, and in the night blue flames are observed shooting from and playing over its surface. As 1 sus pected that there was some connection between these flames and bubbles of air, I marked during the day-time the place where the latter rose up most abundantly, and repaired thither during the night; to my great joy I actually observed bluish-purple flames, and did not hesitate to approach them. On reaching the spot they retired, and 1 pursued them in vain ; all attempts to examine them closely were ineffectual. Some days of very rainy weather pre vented farther investigation but afford ed leisure for reflection on their nature. I conjectured that the motion of the air, on my approaching the spot, forced for ward the burning gas, and remarked that the flame burned darker when it was blown aside; hence I concluded that a continuous thin stream of inflam mable air was formed by these bub bles, which, once inflamed, continued to burn, but which, owing to the pale ness of the light of the flame, could not be observed during the day. On another day, in twilight, I went again to the place, where I awaited the ap proach of night; the flames became gradually visible, but redder than for merly, thus showing that they burnt also during the day ; I approached nearer, and they retired. Convinced that they would return again to the place of their origin when the agitation of the air ceased, I remainded station ary and motionless, and observed them again gradually approach. As I could easily reach them, it occurred to me to attempt to light paper by means of them ; but for some time 1 did not suc ceed in this experiment, which I found was owing to my breathing. I there fore held my face from the flame and also held a piece of cloth as a screen; on doing which 1 was able to singe pa per, which became brown-coloured, and covered with a viscous moisture. I next used a narrow slip of paper, and enjoyed the pleasure of seeing it take fire. The gas was evidently inflamma ble, and not a phosphorescent luminous one, as some have maintained. But how do these lights originate 1 After some reflection, I resolved to make the experiment of extinguishing them. I followed the flame ; I brought it so far from the marsh that probably the thread of connection if I may so express my self, was broken, and it was extinguish ed. But scarcely a few minutes had elapsed when it was again renewed at its source, (over air-bubbles,) without my being able to observe any transi tion from the neighbouring flames, many of which were burning in the valley. 1 repeated the experiment tre quently, and always with success. The dawn approached, and the flames, which to me appeared to approach nearer to the earth, gradually disappeared. On the following evening I went to the spot and kindled a fire on the side of the valley, in order to have an oppor tunity of trying to inflame the gas. — As on the evening before, I first extin guished the flame, and then hastened with a torch to the spot from which the gas bubbled up, when instantaneously a kind of explosion was heard, and a red light was seen over eight or nine square feet of the marsh, which dimin ished to a small blue flame, from two and a half to three feet in height, that continued to burn with an unsteady motion. It was therefore no longer doubtful that this ignis fatuus was caused by the evolution of inflamma ble gas from the marsh.” The ignis fatuus of the churchyard and the battle-field we may conclude to arise from the phosphuretted hydro gen emitted by animal matter in a state of putrefaction, which always spontane ously inflames upon contact with the oxygen of the atmosphere; and the flickering meteor of the marsh may be referred to the carburetted hydrogen, formed by the decomposition of vege table matter in stagnant water, ignited by a discharge of the electric fluid, or by contact with some substance in a state of combustion. This wandering light has often been a source of terror to the ignorant, and has frequently se duced the benighted traveller into dan gerous bogs and quagmires, under the impression that it proceeded from some human habitation. The production of inflammable gases is one of the processes in constant ac tion in the great laboratory of nature, and extraordinary disengagements of combustible elements occur, though we are quite ignorant of the cause. In the middle of the last century the snow on the sumit of the Apennines appeared enveloped in sheets of flame; and in the winter of 1693 hay-ricks in Wales were set on fire by burning gaseous ex halations.— Gallery of Nature. From Household Words. THE PAIR OF GLOVES. “ It’s a singular story, Sir,” said In spector Wield, of the Detective Po lice, who, in company with Sergeants Dorton and Mith, paid us another twi light visit, one July evening; “and I’ve been thinking you might like to know it. “ It’s concerning the murder of the young women, Eliza Grimwood, some years ago, over in the Waterloo Road. She was commonly called The Countess, because of her handsome appearance and her proud way of carrying of her self; and when I saw the poor Count ess (I had known her well to speak), lying dead, with her throat cut, on the floor of her bedroom, you’ll believe me that a variety of reflections calculated to make a man rather low in his spirits, came into my head. “ That’s neither here nor there. I went to the house the morning after the murder, and examined the body, and made a general observation of the bed room where it was. Turning down the pillow of the bed with my hand, l found, underneath it, a pair of gloves. A pair of gentleman’s dress gloves, \rc\V\r rlif ir • ond innidn 4-U/> - “Well, Sir, 1 took them gloves away, and I showed ’em to the magis trate, over at Union Hall, before whom the case was. He says, 4 Wield,’ ‘there’s no doubt this is a discovery that may lead to something very im portant ; and what you have got to do, Wield, is, to find out the owner of these gloves.’ “ I was of the same opinion,of course, and I went at it immediately. I look ed at the gloves pretty narrowly, and it was my opinion that they had been cleaned. There was a smell of sulphur and rosin about ’em, you know, which cleaned gloves usually have, more or less. I took ’em over to a friend of mine at Kennington, who was in that line, and I put it to him. ‘What do you say now ? Have these gloves been cleaned V ‘ These gloves have been cleaned,’ says he. ‘Have you any idea who cleaned them V says I. ‘ Not at all,’ says he ; ‘ I’ve a very distinct idea who didn't clean ’em, and that’s myself. But I’ll tell you what, Wield, there ain’t above eight or nine reg’lar glove clean ers in London,’ —there were not, at that time, it seems —’and I think I can give you their addresses, and you may find out, by that means, who did clean ’em.’ Accordingly, he gave me the directions, and I went here, and I went there, and I looked up this man, and I looked up that man ; but, though they all agreed that the gloves had been cleaned, I couldn’t find the man, woman, or child, that had cleaned that aforesaid pair of gloves. “ What with this person not being at home, and that person being expect ed home in the afternoon, and so forth, the inquiry took me three days. On the evening of the third day, coming over Waterloo bridge from the Surrey side of the river, quite beat, and very much vexed and disappointed, I thought I’d have a shilling’s worth of entertain ment at the Lyceum Theatre to freshen myself up. So 1 went into the Pit, at half-price, and I sat myself down next to a very quiet, modest sort of young man. Seeing I was a stranger (which I thought it just as well to appear to be) he told me the names of the actors on the stage, and we got into conversa tion. When the play was over, we came out together, and I said, ‘We’ve been very companionable and agreea ble, and perhaps you wouldn’t object to a drain ?’ ‘Well,you’re very good,’ says he ; ‘I shouldn’t object to a drain.’ Accordingly, we went to a public house, near the Theatre, sat ourselves down in a quiet room upstairs on the first floor, and called for a pint of half and-half, a-piece, and a pipe. “ Well, Sir, we put our pipes aboard, and we drank our half-and-half, and sat a talking, very sociably,when the young man says, ‘You must excuse me stop ping very long,’ he says, ‘because I’m forced to go home in good time. I must be at work all night.’ ‘At work all night?’ says I. ‘You ain’t a Ba ker V ‘No,’ he says, laughing, ‘I ain’t a baker.’ ‘1 thought not,’ says I, ‘you haven’t the looks of a baker.’ ‘No,’ says he, ‘l’m a glove-cleaner.’ “ I never was more astonished in my life, than when I heard them words come out of his lips. ‘Y'ou’re a glove cleaner, are you?’ says I. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I am.’ ‘Then, perhaps,’ says I, ‘you can tell me who cleaned this pair of gloves ? “It’s a rum story,’ I says. ‘ I was dining over at Lambeth, the