into hangings for the walls, or woven in with the flexible canes with which the island abounded, in order to form the roof of these sylvan huts. Anticipating privations, they had brought with them the instruments of industry, and seeds of various kinds, to guard against the probable deficiency of wild fruits. It was René's own precaution that had stocked the vessel with these articles, and it was owing wholly to his discretion and management that his followers were not discontented at finding themselves dependent upon their own hands for support in this Eden of loveliness and repose. The sunny skies, the delicious climate, the deep stillness, the fair forms of vegetable magnificence that everywhere met their eyes, the tints of the earth hardly less beautiful than those of the sky, the freshness and verdure produced by the streams that watered this lovely isle, brought a calm to their bosoms which they had ceased to hope for on the civilized side of the Atlantic.

In a few months the settlement began to wear an air of comfort. In the rear of each cottage, or rather bower, was an extensive garden. René and his daughter were unceasing in their efforts to promote order and harmony in the little community. It was by them that the gardens were laid out, and the seeds planted. Eléonor taught the women to weave the palm leaves and light bamboos into a variety of household ornaments; she assisted them in the care and instruction of their children, and found in these simple pleasures the peace which the world had banished from her heart. By degrees the women began to lose that awe which her air of grandeur, her delicate beauty, and that indefinable something which a superior education casts over its possessor, had inspired. They loved while they reverenced her. They delighted to listen, as at morning and evening she read to them from the holy volume; and the fervour with which, when it was closed, she dwelt upon the peace, the joy, that waited upon obedience to its heavenly precepts, gave her a powerful ascendancy over the minds of her simple auditors. To their children she was an object of affectionate idolatry. The gentle graciousness with which she noticed their little attempts to please, the sweetness of the voice which never addressed them but in the language of kindness, and the soft glance of her dark eyes, were a sufficient reward for all their infant efforts to be good.

How happily did the days of the adopted children of the wilderness go by! The mildness of the climate prevented their feeling any of the rigours of winter, and the cool sea breezes and redundant shade mitigated the burning heat of the summer's sun. The beach was the scene of their pleasures. Rustic seats were constructed just above the highest reach of the tide, to which the aged repaired at evening to watch the sports of their children,

or indulge in the thoughtfulness which the view of the glorious image of eternity always inspires. The young wandered close to the edge of the sea, delighted to see the waves approach as if to kiss their feet, then, starting back, escape their touch; and sometimes the loud laugh was heard, as some unwary one was suddenly covered with surf. Here a stout boy dragged a sylph-like sister in a car formed of basket-work, while other children were borne proudly along in palanquins formed of the bamboo, and curtained with the gorgeous plumage of the birds their nets had taken. When wearied with these amusements, the young girls sat down beside their mothers, and wove coronals of flowers and berries, sportively commanding the youths who watched their progress, to climb the hillocks that lay behind the beach in search of brighter or sweeter blossoms. How happily their days went by!

Laudonniere had often expressed to Eléonor his surprise at finding the island so entirely uninhabited. For some time after his arrival, he had been in constant apprehension of the approach of the Indians, who, he knew, had abundant reason to hate Europeans; but as time rolled on and he saw nothing of them, he presumed that they had withdrawn to the interior on the arrival of the first settlers. Constant employment, and the care which the colony required, had prevented his making any excursions beyond three or four miles from the settlement; but now that all things were arranged for comfort and pleasure, he indulged himself in long walks along the borders of the forest. In these rambles Eléonor was often his companion. The clearness of her judgment had been so often proved, that Réne felt a confidence in her opinion seldom merited by the young, and she became his wisest and dearest counsellor.

It was on a lovely morning in October, that Laudonniere and his daughter wandered far from the settlement, following the margin of the beautiful stream called by them, in allusion to the month of their arrival, the river May. Led on by the softness of the air, and the luxuriant verdure of the banks of the stream, they pursued its course till they suddenly found themselves on the borders of a cultivated plain. The blue smoke of a distant hamlet was rising in the stillness of noonday. A small enclosure just before them, caught their attention. Both started, both grew pale. A slight elevation of the earth, with a cross at its head and foot, told them they beheld the burying place of Catholics.

Eléonor first broke the silence into which this unexpected sight had plunged them. "Alas!" she exclaimed, "how perverted is the mind of man! How fatally does he abuse the best gifts of Heaven, when this holy symbol, this sign of love and salvation becomes the signal for mistrust and apprehension. The cross should only tell of the pride of life and

Laudonniere answered not; the whole truth flashed upon his mind in a moment. He remembered well having heard, before he left France, that a Spanish colony had been founded a few years previous, on an island within or near the tropic of Cancer, but from the situation he had chosen, he had imagined himself many degrees north of a people far more intolerant than those from whom he had fled. His fair hopes were dashed to the ground. Dark and undefined ideas of danger crossed his mind, and, sickening with the conviction of the futility of that darling scheme which had led him over the vast Atlantic, he was hurrying from the spot, when his steps were suddenly arrested by the appearance of a group of men who had watched his progress along the bank. One among them, of noble and commanding figure, advanced. At sight of Eléonor he removed his hat and plume, and respectfully addressed them in the Spanish language. René's imperfect answer in the same, drew from the Spaniard some courteous expressions in French, after which he inquired by what chance it happened that two persons of their appearance were wandering on the island. A few words served as an explanation on both sides, and René departed with Eléonor, the Spaniard promising to visit his settlement on the following morning. Nor did he fail; the beautiful face, the graceful form of the bright creature who had thus suddenly burst on his gaze, haunted his dreams, and early on the morrow he repaired with several of his followers to the southern side of the island, throwing the peaceful hamlet into great agitation by their warlike air and dress.

Their courtesy was painful to René. He felt they could not long be friends, and he would rather have fallen into the lair of wild beasts than into the hands of his fellow men. There was a fierceness in the eye of Pedro Melendez, the commander, that told how little mercy might be expected, should any disagreement arise between the settlements; and his haughty bearing, his imperious tone to his followers, awakened in the minds of the unfortunate French, the most gloomy presages. Eléonor shrunk with horror from his bold glances, and beheld his daily visits with increasing disgust. To shun him was impossible; in their open dwellings no place of retirement was to be found. Her only security was in her father's presence; but there were hours when the fields and gardens required his attention, and Eléonor found herself compelled to listen to language at which she had no right to be displeased, for it was that of honourable love. He sought hers in return. He wooed her as he would have done a daughter of some proud house in his own land of pride; but Eléonor recoiled from him with insurmountable disgust. Instances of his

part of his colony, and the very first whisper of his voice was hateful to her.

The subject of their different opinions had never been touched on. Each had his own reasons for avoiding it, but Melendez began at last to think that the time was come when he might seize on their heresy as an instrument for accomplishing his purpose. He arrived at the settlement one morning just as they were celebrating the funeral of a child. He paused till all had quitted the spot except Laudonniere, who still lingered beside the grave.

"I do not see," said Melendez, "the cross at the head of that grave."

"It is not our custom to place it there," said René calmly.

"You are Lutherans, then?"

"We are."

"I suspected it;" and Melendez strode hastily down to the beach, where Eléonor was walking, plunged in deep and painful meditation. The object of it stood suddenly before her. Triumph gleamed in his dark eyes. "You are Lutherans, heretics, obnoxious to the holy church, and by the orders of our king it is my duty to exterminate all such from this island. But, beautiful Eléonor, the fate of your countrymen is in your hands. Be mine, enter the bosom of the church, and you and yours shall be taken under our special protection."

It was not the cold and decided language in which Eléonor spoke but the look of loathing with which she withdrew her hand from the Spaniard's passionate grasp, that sunk deep into his revengeful heart. All that could appal her gentle nature he urged to intimidate her; but springing from his side Eléonor flew rather than ran, till she reached the hut where the women were assembled, and, busying herself in their occupations, endeavoured to forget the dreadful threats that still sounded on her ear.

Several days passed on, and she saw nothing of Melendez. He appeared at last, and in the sinister expression of his ferocious countenance, his victim read her fate. She screamed as he approached from behind a thicket. "You are mine," he exclaimed exultingly.

"No, no," she shrieked loudly, losing all self-command; "kill me, but talk not to me of ever being yours."

"Their blood then be on your head."

He left her with these savage words ringing in her ears. Their full import did not burst on her till he was out of hearing, and then what a horrible struggle convulsed her frame. "I, I alone can save them; but at what a sacrifice! Oh! that the ocean had swallowed us up, rather than have cast us on this fatal shore! Oh! that some native worshipper of idols had offered me as a propitiation to his gods! But to fall into the hands of Catholics,

enter the bosom of the church, adopt again the errors which my fathers have renounced! Never!"

Eléonor remained long in doubt as to the expediency of informing her father; but the dread of his being taken by surprise impelled her to disclose all the apprehensions that preyed upon her mind. Long, and gloomy, and ineffectual were his meditations, and bitter his despair as he felt that man was indeed the common foe of man. In the forest the nobler animals knew their kind; instinct preserved them from the desolating fury which waited on intellectual differences.

Midnight found René and his half distracted child still dwelling on their painful position; and many more hours elapsed before slumber calmed their agitated bosoms. Suddenly both sprang from their couches. A fierce red glare shone through the hut. The hamlet was in flames. Presently was heard the wild shriek of the settlers, who, rushing from their huts, fell into a more fearful danger. They were seized and made prisoners before a suspicion of the truth crossed their minds. A dreadful massacre ensued. The superstitious Spaniards, inflamed into fury by the harangues of Melendez, seemed bent on extermination; but their orders from their chief, commanded that Laudonniere, Eléonor, and five of the colony should be saved. The aged, the feeble, all perished by the sword.

Eléonor fell into a death-like swoon, and was carried off to the Spanish settlement before the rising sun beamed on the horrible ravages of the night. It was late on the following day before Melendez appeared. "My father! spare him, spare him!" was her wild cry, as the blood-stained Spaniard entered the hut.

"It is too late," was the cold reply; "follow me, and I will show you what those who refuse me obedience may expect.'

He dragged the miserable girl after him till her strength gave way, and she sunk senseless on the earth. When she opened her eyes, the first object that burst upon them was her father hanging from a palmetto! A tablet fastened to the trunk bore this inscription; "Not as to Frenchmen, but to Lutherans."

For many months Melendez waited and watched in vain for a returning ray of reason to the darkened mind of Eléonor. His own hand had destroyed the only object that had ever awakened in his breast the softer feelings of humanity, and as she alternately raved in uncontrollable violence or remained sunk in moody silence, tears, hot tears of remorse and despair, burst forth. His punishment was greater than he could bear; for the miserable victim of his cruelty evinced such horror at his presence, that he at last left her to the care of the women, who treated her with such unwearying tenderness, that by degrees the dark cloud rolled from her mind, the light of

memory flashed upon it, but all its purposes were dark and revengeful. Still silent, still gloomy, she sat apart from her keepers, cherishing in her outraged heart her fixed designs of vengeance. She dwelt upon the heroines of the Old Testament, till she imagined herself destined by Heaven to emulate their example. The cruel Jael, and the heroic matron of Bethulia, were ever in her thoughts, till her sleeping and waking dreams became a repetition of the horrible tragedy which had destroyed her

reason.

;

The Spaniards had taken the stand of the vanquished French, and fortified it with as much precaution as if they expected retaliation. The fort was just completed, when Eléonor was brought to it. Strong emotion seized her heart; she gazed wildly on its walls, and, raising her eyes to heaven, exclaimed "Trample upon them, Lord, in thy fury, till their blood shall be sprinkled upon my garments. Then turning from the fatal spot, she wandered unconsciously on for hours, till her attention was arrested by a white sail at a distance. A boat was approaching the northern side of the island. She stood in stupified surprise, till the sounds of her own language met her ear. She sprang forward and presented to the startled eyes of the commander of the vessel the pale and haggard features of his goddaughter. Dominique De Gourges was the earliest and dearest friend of Laudonniere. He had vainly urged the latter to relinquish a scheme from which he anticipated danger or death, and from the hour that news of his disastrous fate was rumoured in France, De Gourges was indefatigable in raising a force considerable enough to attack an armed colony. The desperate and adventurous, who found no room for action in their own country, soon joined themselves to him, and now he appeared at what he supposed the settlement of the Spaniards, breathing the sternest vows of vengeance. Long and frightfully faithful was the account Eléonor gave to the friend of her childhood, of the massacre of their countrymen; and, as she dwelt upon the insulting cruelty of her father's murder, a simultaneous cry of revenge burst from the assembly.

It was agreed that the attack on the fort should be made the next morning at day dawn, and for the first time, Eléonor entered the habitation of Melendez without a shudder. Her hair hung wildly over her shoulders, her feet were stained with blood, for in her rambles she trod unheedingly on shells and briars. Her emaciated figure, and wan, sunken cheeks, presented to the conscience-stricken Spaniard, his punishment as well as his crime. "Poor unhappy creature!" he exclaimed, as she shrunk into a corner, "it would have been mercy to have killed thee then; but this daily death, this drop by drop of suffering weighs even more heavily on my miserable heart than on thine." A tear fell from his eyes on the

hand which hung listlessly by her side, and for a moment shook her purpose; but the woman's feeling passed away, and she placed herself at a window to outwatch the stars, and hail with the first dawn of morning the arrival of the avengers. She had supplicated on her knees for mercy on the women and children, and extorted a promise from De Gourges that they should be protected-a promise he faithfully kept.

Sleep fled from Melendez that night. The evil deeds of his life all rose, a fearful panorama, to his mental vision. The clouds of passion or prejudice under which they had been performed, rolled away, and they stood in all their hideousness before him. Morning found him in an uneasy slumber, which had not settled on his eyes an hour, before it was dispelled by a tremendous discharge of fire-arms; and in the first pause, the stern voice of De Gourges thundered in his appalled ear, "Not as to Spaniards, but to murderers!" Rushing from the apartment, he flew to hide in some place of safety her to whom he had rendered life a burden. Regardless of her screams, he snatched her from the dangerous station she had chosen. At that moment the French fire recommenced, and, pierced by innumerable bullets, both fell from the parapet. In her last struggle, she had extricated herself from his grasp, and their lifeless forms were found at a distance from each other.

Time rolled on, and the native dwellers of the forest, the mild and inoffensive Indians, took possession of their island, now wholly abandoned by French and Spaniards. The forts were razed, the long grass waved over the site of the settlements, and more than a hundred years passed away, before more fortunate emigrants found on it a shelter from persecution, and a home for religious liberty.

THE MACREADY DINNER. I HAVE just returned from the dinner given to Macready at the Freemasons' Tavern. The hall, so celebrated for public "feeds," is a beautiful room of a very showy style of architecture, with three galleries, and a raised floor at the end, usually occupied by the cross table. It accommodated on this ocasion four hundred

persons.

As I had to hunt for my card over that number of plates, I was there early, and found the room half full. The seats were not yet occupied in my immediate neighbourhood, and looking at the cards upon the plates, I found Lover was on my right, Stanfield, the artist, on my left, Dickens (Boz) next to Lover; Jerdan, of the Literary Gazette, next to Stanfield, and Maclise, Stone, and the two Landseers opposite. It was a knot of artists. When I remarked to Lover that I did not know how I had merited a seat in such a neighbourhood, he replied, with Irish wit and

accent, "Sure, you're a Penciller by the Way."

From the peculiar object of the meeting to do honour to an actor for his intellectual qualities, and for his efforts to spiritualize and elevate the stage, there probably never was collected together in one room so much talent and accomplishment. Artists, authors, critics, publishers, and amateurs of the stage-a large body in London, made up the company. My attention was called by one of my neighbours to the singularly superior character of the heads about us, and I had already observed the striking difference, both in head and physiognomy, between this and a common assemblage of men. Most of the persons connected with the

press, it was said, were present, and perhaps it would have been a worthy service to the world had some shorn Samson, among the authors, pulled the temple upon the heads of the Philistines.

The cry of "make way!" introduced the Duke of Sussex, the chairman of the meeting -a stout, mild-looking, dignified old man, wearing a close black skull-cap and the star and ribbon. He was followed by Lord Conyngham, who, as Grand Chamberlain, had done much to promote the interests of the drama; by Lord Nugent, (whom I had last seen sailing a scampavia in the bay of Corfu,) by Sir Lytton Bulwer, Mr. Sheil, Sir Martin Shee, Young the actor, Mr. Milnes, the poet, "Mr. Fuzboz," of the Examiner, and other distinguished men. I should have said, by the way, that Mr. Macready followed next his Royal Highness.

The cheering and huzzas as this procession walked up the room were completely deafening. Macready looked deadly pale, and rather overcome. His wife, a very pretty young woman, leaned back in the Gallery and gave vent to her emotion in tears, and amid the waving of handkerchiefs and the stunning uproar of four hundred "gentlemen and scholars," the Duke placed Mr. Macready at his right hand, and took his seat before the turbot.

The dinner was an uncommonly bad one, but of this I had been forewarned, and so had taken a provisory chop at the club. I had leisure, therefore, to look about me, and truly there was work enough for the eyes. Maclise's head interested me more than any one's else, for it was the personification of his lofty, liberal, and poetic genius. His hair, which was long and profuse, curled in tendrils over the loftiest forehead, but about the lower part of the face lay all the characteristics which go to make up a voluptuous yet generous, an enthusiastic and fiery, yet self-possessed and well directed character. He was excessively handsome, yet it was the beauty of Massaniello, or Salvator Rosa, with more of intellect than both together. All in all, I never saw a finer face for an artist, and judging from his looks

and from his works, (he is perhaps twenty-four,) I would stake my sagacity on a bold prophecy of his greatness.

On the same side were the Landseers, very quiet looking men, and Stone, the portrait painter, a merry-looking grenadier, and Laman Blanchard, the poet, with a face like a poet. Near me was Lover, the painter, poet, novelist, song and music writer, dramatist and good fellow-seven characters of which his friends scarce know in which he is most excellentand he has a round Irish face, with a bright twinkle in his eye, and a plump little body which carries off all his gifts as if they were no load at all. And on my left was Stanfield, the glorious painter of Venice, of the battle of Trafalgar, the unequalled painter of the sea in all its belongings, and you would take him for a gallant lieutenant in the navy, with the fire of a score of battles asleep in his eye, and the roughening of a hundred tempests in his cheek. A franker and more manly face would not cross your eye in a year's travel.

To

Mr. Jerdan, the Editor of the Literary Gazette, was just beyond, a tall, sagacious looking, good humoured person of forty-five. He was a man of very kind manners, and was treated with great marks of liking and respect by all about him. But directly opposite to me sat so exact a picture of Paul Pry as he is represented on the stage, particularly of my friend Finn in that character, that it was difficult not to smile in looking at him. my surprise, I heard some one behind me point him out, soon after, as the well-known original in that character-the gentleman, whose peculiarities of person, as well as manners, were copied in the farce of Mr. Poole."That's my name-what's yours?" said he the moment after he had seated himself, thrusting his card close to the nose of the gentleman next him. I took it of course for a piece of fun between two very old friends, but to my astonishment the gentleman next him was as much astonished as I.

The few servants scattered up and down were deaf to every thing but calls for champagne, (furnished only at an extra charge when called for a very mean system for a public dinner by the way,) and the wines on the table seemed selected to drive one to cham

pagne or the Doctor. Each person had four plates, and the dirty ones were to be put under the bench, or on the top of your head, or to be sat upon, or what you would, except to be taken away, and the soup and fish, and the roast and boiled and all, having been put on together, was all removed at one fell swoopthe entire operation of dinner having lasted just twenty-five minutes. Keep this fact till we are recorded by some new English traveller as the most expeditious eaters in Christendom.

Here end my croakings, however, for the speeches commenced directly, and admirable

they were. To the undoing of much prejudice got by hearsay, I listened to Bulwer. He is, beyond all comparison, the most graceful and effective speaker I ever heard in England. All the world tells you that he makes signal failures in oratory-yet he rose when his health was drank, and in self-possessed, graceful, unhesitating language, playful, yet dignified, warm, yet not extravagant, he replied to the compliments of his Royal Highness, and brought forward his plan (as you have seen it reported in the papers) for the erection of a new Theatre for the legitimate Drama and Macready. I remember once seeing a letter of Bulwer's in which he spoke of his hopes of eminence as an orator-and I would warrant his warmest anticipations in that career of ambition. He is a better speaker than Sheil, who followed him, and Sheil is renowned as an orator. Really there is nothing like one's own eyes and ears in this world of envy and misrepresentation.

Boz sat near Sheil at the cross table, very silent, as is his custom and that of most keen observers. The courtly Sir Martin Shee was near Bulwer, looking like some fine old picture of a wit of Charles the Second's time, and he and Young the actor made two very apposite and gentlemanlike speeches. I believe I have told you nearly all that struck me, except what was reported in the gazettes, and that you have no need to read over again. got away at eleven, and reached the opera in time to hear the last act of the Puritani, and see the Ellslers dance in the ballet, and with a look-in at a ball, I concluded one of those exhausting, exciting, overdone London days, which are pleasanter to remember than to enjoy, and‍ pleasanter_to_read about than either.-N. P. WILLIS's Letters.

EVERGREENS. BY PINKNEY.
WHEN Summer's sunny hues adorn
Sky, forest, hill, and meadow,
The foliage of the evergreens,

In contrast, seems a shadow.
But when the tints of autumn have
Their sober reign asserted,
The landscape that cold shadow shows
Into a light converted.

Thus thoughts that frown upon our mirth
Will smile upon our sorrow,
And many dark fears of to-day

May be bright hopes to-morrow.

MOTHER, WHAT IS DEATH? BY MRS. GILMAN.

"MOTHER, how still the baby lies!
I cannot hear his breath;

I cannot see his laughing eyes-
They tell me this is death.

My little work I thought to bring,
And sat down by his bed,
And pleasantly I tried to sing-
They hushed me-he is dead,

I