she must live for me, 'and I for her, and not for a host of fools that have been stretched upon the Procrustean bedstead of fashion. They had just turned into Washingtonplace, when they were arrested by the harsh voice of a watchman:-" Come, Dovey, off to the watch-house; you'll be taking a cold

here."

A young female attempted to rush by them, bnt the watch had her fast. "No flurrying, dear, 'twon't do no good, so be quiet; we're used to sich birds.'

"Oh, sir, where do you mean to carry me?" she cried, with clasped hands. The light fell upon her face, and revealed that of Jane Bryant.

"Jane, Jane! can it be you!" exclaimed Lewis, flinging off the watch. She held out both hands, and nearly fell upon the pavement. It must be remembered, that she was not only suffering from mental excitement, but was also faint for want of food.

A carriage was procured, and to the inquiry of Frank where he intended to carry her, Lewis replied, "To my mother's." “Oh, no, no, she will spurn me from her door; let me go any where, George, into any hovel just to die. I feel that I shall die, and I would not trouble any one. Oh, what a foolish girl I have been! But I have no friend in the world but you, George." Lewis pressed the weeping girl to his bosom, and even Frank was affected.

Mrs. Lewis was alone, engaged in a book of devotion, when the door opened and her son entered with Jane. A single glance told the poor girl she had been in that very room before, and the impulse of her own impassioned heart prompted the very best thing she could have done. She threw herself at the feet of the lady with pale cheek and clasped hands. "Oh, ma'am, you once turned me from your door. I didn't know what for; indeed, I am poor and friendless, but nothing for which to blush. Let me work for you, let me die in your garret, but don't turn me out into this great, wicked city, where every one looks stern upon me." The tears gushed from her eyes, and she fell forward at the feet of the haughty woman. Mrs. Lewis glanced sternly and reproachfully at her son as he raised Jane from the floor and laid her upon the sofa, imprinting a kiss upon her pale brow. "George Lewis, I didn't expect this of you, much less that my own house-››

"Stop, mother, I beseech you. This child is innocent as a babe. You have heard me speak of her since my visit to Maine. Let me entreat, as you value my peace of mind, that you will treat her as a child."

"This from you, George; and to me! take a servant from the street-a-I don't know what, and treat her like a child! George Lewis, you strangely forget yourself,"

"Mother, mother, these suspicions are unworthy of yourself and unjust to me, to say nothing of the wrong to that friendless girl."

The tears had been swelling from beneath the lids of Jane, and she now arose from the sofa, for a new power awoke within her, such as she had not felt before. "What am I, that I should be the cause of discord between parent and child! Rather let me have perished in the street. I will go, lady, and the Father of the fatherless will protect me." The proud woman moved not or spoke. "Mother, would you, can you be so inhuman?" said George, roused to a goodly portion of his mother's own spirit. "If that girl goes, she goes not alone, and should I ever return, I return not alone." A bitter smile played over the face of the mother. "I have seen that look before now, boy; it has small terrors for me."

"Oh, George, George, it is your mother," said Jane, in a pleading tone. "You once called me sister, and I must not, cannot, be the cause of unkindness between parent and child. If I leave your house, ma'am, I have nowhere to go. I must starve or beg in the streets. I will not be burdensome; is there not anything I can do for you, that I may earn enough to return to my own home? There are many things I can de, and withal beside, ma'am, I will be more than servant to you; I will watch beside you in sickness, and might become a humble friend to cheer you in loneliness; and oh, ma'am, I shall be grateful for the slightest look of kindness."

The stern woman's lip quivered at this simple appeal, for she felt its truth, and the pathos of tone and look with which it was uttered. Perhaps, too, she might have felt how often she met "greetings where no kindness is," and longed for one sincere friend-for one who should be to her as a daughter. George saw the effect of Jane's simple eloquence, and forebore to interrupt it.

"Be seated, child," said Mrs. Lewis. "I must hear your story, Jane, and then we will see what can be done for you."

Jane's cheek often changed from red to pale as she narrated the story of her sorrows, her sufferings, and dangers. When she told of the kind, worthy sailor, and showed the little pin in the form of an anchor, Mrs. Lewis actually shed tears, and George, through the whole, kept his face buried in his handkerchief. Her story was not without its effect. Mrs. Lewis was evidently much softened, and spoke with a degree of tender. ness totally unexpected. "Jane, if I should take you for my little friend, you wouldn't have anything to say to the servants, except to call upon them to attend you." "I would do just as you bid me, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to be troublesome."

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Mrs. Lewis shook her head and contracted her brow. Well, Jane, you will keep your room to-morrow, and we will see what can be done for you."

Jane shrank from this galling kind of dependence. "Let me be with you as a servant, ma'm. I shall be less dependent, and-and wound your pride less."

"No, no, Jane; I can do better for you. I must do better for you; you can be my companion and friend, I see you can; I see you can be trusted." Jane burst into tears, and George, the ever calm, quiet George, threw himself upon his mother's bosom and wept, he had become so like a boy again.

It was surprising to see how readily Jane adopted the manners of the society into which she was thrown; we mean the polish of it; for she never lost anything of her original truth and simplicity. She had only the accomplishments of polite society to acquire, and to a mind like hers these were but playthings. As the friend and youthful companion of Mrs. Lewis, she was welcomed every where, even by those who might have disputed her claims upon any other ground. It did cost Mrs. Lewis many a pang of pride to observe the every-day increasing attachment of her son for the poor orphangirl, gentle and loving as she was, and dear as she had become even to her own heart. We need not say, how often Jane wept in secret over her hopeless love, nor how the native dignity and delicacy of her mind taught her to avoid every thing like sanctioning an attachment so repugnant to the feelings of her benefactress.

She was sitting alone in her room, her head bowed upon her hands, and her face bathed in tears, when Mrs. Lewis knocked and entered. "Oh, I am so glad you have come," aaid Jane, rising to meet her. I was trying to go to your room, but I couldn't. I must leave you, my only friend; let me return to Maine." She spoke rapidly, as fearful she should not say it if she made a single pause. "Why is this, Jane? Are you not happy with me? Why do you wish to leave me?" Jane felt that all must be told, and yet how tell of that which calleth the ready blood to the cheek of the maiden as often as the secret is pressed home to her heart even in solitude. "Jane," said Mrs. Lewis, kindly, "is it George of whom you would speak? Do you love him, my child?"

"Oh, madam, when a child upon the banks of the Sebago, I might have dreamed of such a thing. I was ignorant then of the distinctions of society-of the omnipotence of wealth."

"And you have taught me, Jane, to disregard these distinctions; you have taught me the value of the affections-the wealth to be found in a sincere, gentle, and loving heart. Jane, for the two years you have been with me you have been more than daughter to me;

The next summer the keeper of a little tavern upon the Sebago was thrown into great consternation by the arrival of a plain, elegant carriage, and span of horses. The villagers stared with great diligence, after a very elegant lady, accompanied by a gentleman, who might be seen on every fine day angling in the clear waters of the beautiful lake. Conjecture was upon tip-toe, until one, more keen-sighted than the rest, declared it as his sober opinion, that the lady was no other than the pretty Jane Bryant, whose fate had been such a mystery; his penetration could be explained only from the circumstance of his once having been an admirer of the unfortunate girl.

Mystification was now at an end. Jane visited the old haunts of her childhood with undiminished zest, and gathered wild flowers in the very spots where she and her lover had gathered them years before; not forgetting the little brook where occurred the tragedy of the worn shoe. She had lost nothing of her early simplicity, her vivacity, and love for the beautiful in nature, with the refinements of polished life; and Jane Bryant, now Mrs. Lewis, was, by universal acclaim, pronounced by her former associates, a "perfect lady."

WHEN only between sixteen and seventeen, Lafayette was married to the daughter of the Duke d'Ayen, son of the Duke de Noailles, and grandson to the great and good Chancellor d'Aguesseau: and thus his eondition in life seemed to be assured to him among the most splendid and powerful in the empire. His fortune, which had been accumulating during a long minority, was vast; his rank was with the first in Europe; his connexions brought him the support of the chief persons. in France; and his individual character-the warm, open, and sincere manners, which have distinguished him ever since, and given him such singular control over the minds of men -made him powerful in the confidence of society wherever he went. It seemed, indeed, as if life had nothing further to offer him, than he conld surely obtain by walking in the path that was so bright before him.

It was at this period, however, that his thoughts and feelings were first turned towards these thirteen colonies, then in the darkest and most doubtful passage of their struggle for independence. He made himself ac quainted with our agents at Paris, and learned from them the state of our affairs. Nothing could be less tempting to him, whether he sought military reputation, or military instruction; for our army, at that moment re

treating through New Jersey, and leaving its traces of blood from the naked and torn feet of the soldiery, as it hastened onward, was in a state too humble to offer either. Our credit, too, in Europe was entirely gone, so that the commissioners (as they were called, without having any commission), to whom Lafayette still persisted in offering his services, were obliged, at last, to acknowledge, that they could not even give him decent means for his conveyance. "Then," said he, "I shall purchase and fit out a vessel for myself." He did so. The vessel was prepared at Bordeaux, and sent round to one of the nearest ports in Spain, that it might be beyond the reach of the French government. In order more effectually to conceal his purposes, he made, just before his embarkation, a visit of a few weeks in England (the only time he was ever there), and was much sought in English society. On his return to France he did not stop at all in the capital, even to see his own family, but hastened, with all speed and secrecy, to make good his escape from the country. It was not until he was thus on his way to embark, that his romantic undertaking began to be known.

The effect produced in the capital and at court by its publication was greater than we should now, perhaps, imagine. Lord Stormont, the English ambassador, required the French ministry to despatch an order for his arrest, not only to Bordeaux, but to the French commanders on the West India station; a requisition with which the ministry readily complied, for they were at that time anxious to preserve a good understanding with England, and were seriously angry with a young man who had thus put in jeopardy the relations of the two countries. In fact, at Passage, on the very borders of France and Spain, a lettre-de-cachet overtook him, and he was arrested and carried back to Bordeaux. There, of course, his enterprise was near being finally stopped; but, watching his opportunity, and assisted by one or two friends, he disguised himself as a courier, with his face blacked and false hair, and rode on, ordering post horses for a carriage, which he had caused to follow him at a suitable distance, for this very purpose, and thus fairly passed the frontiers of the two kingdoms, only three or four hours, before his pursuers reached them. He soon arrived at the port where his vessel was waiting for him. His family, however, still followed him with solicitations to return, which he never received; and the society of the court and capital, according to Madame du Deffand's account of it, was in no common state of excitement on the occasion. Something of the same sort happened in London. "We talk chiefly," says Gibbon, in a letter dated April 12th, 1777, "of the Marquis de Lafayette, who was here a few weeks ago. He is about twenty, with a hundred and thirty thousand

livres a year; the nephew of Noailles, who is ambassador here. He has bought the Duke of Kingston's yacht, [a mistake,] and is gone to join the Americans. The court appear to be angy with him."

Immediately on arriving the second time at Passage, the wind being fair, he embarked. The usual course, for French vessels attempting to trade with our colonies at that period, was to sail for the West Indies, and then, coming up along our coast, enter where they could. But this course would have exposed Lafayette to the naval commanders of his own nation, and he had almost as much reason to dread them as to dread British cruisers. When, therefore, they were outside of the Canary Islands, Lafayette required his captain to lay their course directly for the United States. The captain refused, alleging that, if they should be taken by a British force, and carried into Halifax, the French government would never reclaim them, and they could hope for nothing but a slow death in a dungeon or a prison-ship. This was true, but Lafayette knew it before he made the requisition. He therefore insisted, until the captain refused in the most positive manner. Lafayette then told him that the ship was his own private property, that he had made his own arrangements concerning it, and that if he, the captain, would not sail directly for the United States, he should be put in irons, and his command given to the next officer. The captain, of course, submitted, and Lafayette gave him a bond for forty thousand francs, in case of any accident. They, therefore, now made sail directly for the southern portion of the United States, and arrived unmolested at Charleston, South Carolina, on the 25th of April, 1777.

The sensation produced by his appearance in this country was, of course, much greater than that produced in Europe by his departure. It still stands forth as one of the most prominent and important circumstances in our revolutionary contest; and, as has often been said by one who bore no small part in its trials and success, none but those who were then alive, can believe what an impulse it gave to the hopes of a population almost disheartened by a long series of disasters. And well it might; for it taught us, that, in the first rank of the first nobility in Europe, men could still be found, who not only took an interest in our struggle, but were willing to share our sufferings; that our obscure and almost desperate contest for freedom, in a remote quarter of the world, could yet find supporters among those, who were the most natural and powerful allies of a splendid despotism; that we were the objects of a regard and interest throughout the world, which would add to our own resources suffi cient strength to carry us safely through to final success.

FALL OF CATILINE.
BY PROFESSOR BARBER.

As if nature designed to contrast the calm beauties of an Italian sunset with the horrors of a moral tempest, destined to darken the Roman commonwealth, the evening which preceded the confederacy between Sergius Catiline and his associates was unusually serene. When the sun sunk amid the softened and varied tints which his retiring shadows had created, a gentle breeze from the northern shores of the Mediter Janean floated over the hill of gardens, wafting the rich perfumes of nature through the eternal city; the various aqueducts rippled in obedience to the wind which scarcely agitated their surfaces, while the moon, as she rose in unclouded majesty above the Aventine, lingered over the dome of her sacred temple, the guardian deity of the vestal virgins who were offering up their evening orisons. Silence reigned omnipotent; not a sound broke her repose, save the scream of the night-bird as he shrieked amid the timeworn pillars of the Capitol, the deep notes of the watchman who guarded the Codian, or the response of the sentry who proYOL, Í,

claimed the watch-hour from the heights of the Esquiline.

As night threw her sable mantle over the western side of the Janiculum, the officiating ministers in the Capitol retired within the portals of their respective temples, to propitiate the favours of the guardian deities of Rome by the accustomed sacrifices. It was at this interesting moment that two Roman ladies, elegantly attired, crossed the Publician bridge. As they passed onward in the direction of the Aventine, the elder of the two suddenly paused, and gazing on the clear waters of the Tiber, on which the moonbeams had cast the deep shadows of the Palatine, exclaimed, "Thou common grave of a monarch and a hero, how often have thy waters been polluted since their primal stream left the bosom of the Appenines; how often has the shuddering victim, hurled from the Capitoline, poured out his spirit as the sudden dash announced that thou hadst received the sacrifice, and thy current resumed its Shade of Manlius, beautiwonted course! ful yet awful is thy resting-place; the daughter of Jupiter smiles upon thee from the elysium of the Gods; and in the dark shadows

of yon mounts on the surface of the Tiber, she erects a monument upon thy grave!"

The fair speaker had scarcely concluded this beautiful apotheosis to the manes of her murdered countryman, when her attention was arrested by a vulture, which, after fluttering around the base of the Aventine, uttered a terrific scream and flew off in the direction of the Capitol.

This nocturnal and ominous visitant struck terror into the bosoms of the fair companions journeying to the temple of Diana. The younger, upon reaching the sacred edifice, implored the protection of its favouring deity. What was her astonishment when a sepulchral voice from within replied, "Happiness dwells not with the companions of guilt;seek to know no further;-the secrets of futurity belong to the gods!"

"Tell me, mysterious being," said the gentle supplicant, "what evil awaits Marcella? By what misfortune has she incurred the displeasure of the gods?"

"When the anger of the gods convulses the heavens, shall mortality dare to inquire into futurity?" responded the former voice. "Look upward and retire!"

Marcella directed her view to the heavens; a dark cloud was gathering in the north-west over the Campus Martius. It quickly enveloped the Capitoline and Palatine, and finally rested on the extreme eastern edges of the Esquiline and Coelius. The agitated girl had scarcely contemplated this awful change in the elements, when a peal of thunder that echoed through the caverns of the deep shook Rome to its centre; the clouds opened, and a brilliant stream of electric fire, passing from the north-east to the southwestern extremity of the city, wrapped the hills in the awful splendour of a terrific illumination.

"The gods have fired the city," said Marcella, and sunk senseless on the bosom of her friend. At this critical juncture, two Roman knights, attracted by the piercing cry of the companion of Marcella, hastened to her assistance.

"What maiden in distress thus contests with the thunder for mastery?" exclaimed the younger knight. A flash of lightning, at this moment, streaming through its cloudy fissure, revealed to his gaze the pallid features of the apparently lifeless Marcella.

"It is Marcella, by the immortal powers!" said he; then suddenly turning to a slave by whom he was attended, he commanded him to bear the senseless and beautiful burden to its home. As the slave was about to obey the mandate, the knight rushed frantically forward and arrested his arm. 66 Minion," said he, I knew not what I said; touch not the hem of her garment; it would be profanity." Then placing his hand on the bosom of the prostrate maiden, he

exclaimed, "Lovely and beloved Marcella, the waters of life yet flow from the fountain. Lest the lightning's flash should stop the current, Catiline shall bear thee to a place of security." Saying this, he gently raised the fainted form before him, and was quickly lost in thick darkness behind the eastern brow of the Aventine.

In another part of the city, Marcus Cicero had been awakened by the roaring of the Tiber, which, driven in opposition to its current, swollen beyond its banks, and rapidly rising on the Tarpeian, presented to the gaze of the horror-stricken consul the appearance of a sea without a shore.

As the wind howled around the pillars of the Capitol, the consecutive thunder-peals grew louder; while the lightning, more intensely vivid from the darkness which it rendered visible, streamed like the burning lava from a volcano, along the gilded roofs and brazen thresholds of which the hand of rapine had despoiled the temples at Athens. After offering up a prayer to the gods, Cicero commanded his lictors to summon the senators to a solemn council in the Temple of Jupiter Ammon, and throwing around him the consular robe, proceeded towards the Palatine. The awe-stricken senators, preceded by the torch-bearers, were already assembled on the steps of the Capitol, when the lictor announced the approach of the consul; and as the chief magistrate ascended they separated on each side, forming an avenue, in the midst of which he halted, and thus addressed the assembly:

"Fathers and Senators of Rome! need I offer an apology, illustrious countrymen, for thus summoning you, in the dead of our night, to meet me in the Capitol? No; I see you feel with me, that the occasion justifies the act. Never, oh, fathers, has such a night hung its darkened terrors over our devoted city-the Gods have poured upon us torrents of fire-and earthquakes have shaken our eternal hills. We have offended the Gods; some horrible misfortune awaits our city. I

propose to you, Fathers, that the Aruspices be summoned to join us in a solemn convocation in the temple of Jupiter; let the omens of the night be compared; if evil, let sacrifices be offered; let hecatombs smoke upon the altars; so shall the further displeasure of the Gods be averted from the city and commonwealth. Sacred father," said he, addressing the Pontifex, as the procession entered the portal of the Temple of Jupiter, was the evening sacrifice propitious-and what omens hast thou seen throughout this night of terrors?"

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Consul," replied the officiating priest, "I tremble to answer the inquiry. When the declining shadows of the sun sunk behind the Janiculum, we retired, as accustomed, to offer our evening sacrifice to the immortal