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endeavoured to obtain from the neighbors a description of the person of Mary Burton ; but few of them had ever seen her, and the account of her given by those few did not in his opinion coincide with the appearance of the stranger. Unable to get a sight of the ob,ect of his search by day, he again resumed his evening rambles, in hopes of meeting her at night. He went regularly every evening to the old place of appointment; but in vain. At last, when his impatience and curiosity had become stimulated to the utmost, a note was one day thrown into his window, containing these few words : “Tam near Wolver Hollow, at a friend's house. Come to me, and all the mystery shall be explained.--Amy Roosevelt.” This was doubtless sent by the unknown. Delancey did not hesitate. The idea, that this was Mary Burton, he had for some time treated with contempt, and at all events no danger could result from his visiting the stranger, whoever she might be, at a farin-house, at a distance from the city. Early the next morna ing he set off for Wolver Hollow without mentioning to Ury any part of his intentions. He was unwilling to encounter the reproaches of his friend, the more, perhaps, because he knew that he deserved them. On entering the tavern at the Hollow, he found a letter there, directed to himself, which contained an accurate description of the road which led to the farm-house of which he was in search. It was situated about six miles from Wolver Hollow in a lonely and sequestered valley, on the northern side of the hills that run from the western towards the easteru extremity of Long Island. Amy received him with a witching smile that banished the last remains of his suspicion. To leave no room, however, for deception, he determined to ask her frankly, if her name was not Mary Burton, and to watch her countenance as she replied. She answered his enquiry with such perfect self-possession that Delancey no longer entertamed the slightest doubt. If he had, her exquisite beauty and her charming sprightliness would assuredly have lulled more reasonable suspicions. To tell the truth, Delancey was so compietely mastered by his senses, so thoroughly blinded by his peruicious passion, that he ceased even to feel any desire to learn the truth. It was enough for him that her face and her form were more beautiful than he had ever beheld before ; tbat her eye and her lip, her voice and her step were so many sources of resistless fascination :

-he cared little for her name or her bistory. Why need I dwell on the etlects of the witcheries of youth and artful beauty upon a young man of Delancey's temperament and uncalculating disposition ?-Three fieturn, my

weeks and more (during which Amy, on some pretext had left him for two days) were now elapsed, and Charles bad not once thought of his friend.

The road from the farm-house to the nearest village was very seldom travelled, and the severity of the weather (for winter had set in) had completed the entire seclusion of their retreat. He was sitting one day by the side of the beautiful Amy, when a countryman stopped at the door and inquired for Charles Delancey. Startled at this inquiry, he went out, and received from the hands of the man a letter, which he immediately perceived to be from Ury. He opened it, in the presence of Amy, with a trembling presentiment of some disaster. It was dated a fortnight back, and contained but this. friend, instantly. My life, my honor is in danger. The conspiracy, as I ought to have foreseen, has been detected ; the blind fury of the citizens is directed against the Catholics, and I am charged with being a chief instigator of the plot. God and you alone know my innocence. Haste then, Charles, for your testimony and the packet are enough to save your friend from perhaps the scaffold or the stake !Struck with horror at this disclosure, Charles stood an instant motionless, and then searched convulsively in his bosom for the packet. It was not there! The fearful truth flashed upon his mind. This was Mary Burton, and she must have destroyed it. With the vio. lence of desperation he seized her by the arm, and threatened her with instant death if she did not tell what she had done with it. The girl laughed impudently in his face. Rill

me, poor dupe, if you are so disposed, for be assured, I have not left the packet where it will be found after I am dead. But now, thank God, it is too late, Ury is hanged and I am revenged.” So saying, she laughed again with an expression of fiendish malignity; while Delancey shuddering at the thoughts of the reality of her declaration, seized his bat and rushed out of the house into the road. As no horse could be procured nearer than Wolver Hollow, there was no other alternative than for him to run there with all possible speed. At Wolver Hollow he learned that that was the very day fixed for Ury's death; that all the horses in the place had been already secured by those who had gone the day before io New-York to witness the execution; and the landlord was beginning to relate to De lancey with great sangfroid the particulars of the trial-how the rascally priest begged a week's respite, in order, as he said, to send for a witness, his dear friend, whose evidence be said would save his life--when Delancey, unable to repress any longer bis impatience, which now amounted to perfect agony, set oli on foot, although the snow was many inches deep. No

language can express the dreadful complication of miseries which he endured. The torments of remorse gave way, for a time, to feelings of bitter vengeance against the wretch who had deceived him; and both were swallowed up in one absorbing sense of fearful apprehension for the fate of his unbappy friend. He could not drive from his imagination the picture of the priest entreating a week's respite to wait for the arrival of a witness who was not to arrive until too late. He cursed his folly in having omitted to leave behind him some clue by which he might be found without delay. He cursed his mad and wicked infatuation in yielding to the artifices of a vile abandoned woman, and deplored the fatal indiscretion of having kept from Ury a knowledge of his weakness, or rather (as he now regarded it) his unpardonable profligacy.

The delay which the deep snow occasioned, working on his agitated feeling, threw him into a state of feverish excitement; and when he reached Flushing, he was so exhausted with the weight of physical and moral suffering, that he flung hinself upon a bench in the bar-room to repose a few moments, while a horse was preparing for bim. With breathless agitation and suspense he listened to the conversation of the idlers who had gathered round the door. “ At two o'clock," said one of them, " the old rogue will be strung up.” Delancey shuddered. He did not know the hour. He would have given the world to know, but he could not-durst not ask. He felt that deadly sickuess which accompanies suspense, when deep and desperate interests are at stake. The tavern clock was clicking by his side, but he trembled at the thoughts of looking up at it. He listened to the conversation of the countrymen again, hoping to overhear the information that he had not the courage to inquire for. One of the men looked up at the clock. Delancey watched his eyes and lips with indescribable anxiety. “One hour more," cried the man, "and the old fellow swings !” Delancey groaned and sunk upon the floor.–At that moment the horse was brought, and Charles felt at the intelligence his hopes revive within him. He rose with sudden vigor, sprang upon the saddle and galloped oil, pushing his horse at once to his utmost speed. Tbe jaded animal gave out and fell, when still two miles from Brooklyn. Exhausted as he was, Delancey ran the rest of the way with the swiftness of despair. He reached Brooklyn only to endure another cruel disappointment. The river was nearly stopped with broken ice, over wbicb it was impossible to drag a boat. He cried aloud in his desperation, and offered immense sums to some people who stood near him, if they would contrive to put him across the ferry, "Oh you need not be in any hurry,” saida tall stout boatman, with a loud and brutal laugh, “you can't get there in time to see him kick, for that will be in less than twenty minutes !” “Oh God! Oh God!” replied Delancey," do not speak to me that way! I'm bis friend, and I can save him, if I can only get across the river !” They stared at bim, but offered no assistance. Delancey rushed down upon the ice, and reached the middle of the river at the repeated hazard of his life. There was an interval of twenty or thirty yards of water. Without shrivking from the danger, he plunged in, swam, and reached the opposite brink of the floating ice. The masses were small and sunk beneath his weight. The water was excessively cold, and after struggling some time he began at last to feel its numbing influence. He shouted loud and long for help, but his voice at length grew hoarse, and then faint, and then failed altogether. Again, he made a desperate attempt to climb upon the ice; but the faithless fragments slipped from his grasp or sunk beneath his knee. With horrible distinctness, there was stamped upon his brain, the picture of his friend and benefactor-dying-dying an ignominious death-dying because he had left him to indulge a law. less passion. He made another violent struggle to get footing on the ice, but exhausted with the effort he fell senseless back into the water. The suffocating element passed over him, and he was drowned.-His innocent friend was strangled at the stake.

CRITICAL NOTICES. Blackwood's Edinburgh Maga- ble Magazine, and had, moreover, a zine. Number XCII. September. - most_prodigious circulation ; that When this Magazine first made its the Edinburgh and Quarterly Reappearance, the current of caprice views would soon be totally eclipsed set so strongly in its favor, that we by its splendors, and that every othwere for some time swept along by er star in the firmament of letters the crowd of its admirers. It was so would be quenched at the rising of delightful to find ourselves ameog a this luminary, and just twinkle in the multitude of happy readers, all ask- intervals of its return. We awaited, ing is n't it fine?' and all answer- with implicit faith, the foretold ex. ing 'Oh it's very fine.' In a little tinction of these outdazzled constelwhile, however, we began togrow ex- lations, and more than consoled ourceedingly fatigued with this unmean- selves with the reflection that all the ing interchange of approbation, and lights and lamps of science would be at last it even occurred to us, that put out only to be united in one blaze it was not so very fine after all. We of irresistible effulgence. But we think we should have come to this gradually began to believe that we conclusion sooner than we did, if the had been cheated by an enormous contributors themselves had not, to a humbug. For in spite of all its proman, declared that it was an admira- phets, the great Sun made its monthly revolutions without extinguishing furnishing forth a feast in which in a single star To be sure Christo- sulted worth and suffering freedom pher North, Timothy Tickler and are the delicacies that are offered to Morgan O'Doherty, bawled out to the admirers of this journal. us in the coarsest of Gaelic to see Tbat it may not be said, however, how nothing else was to be seen, our remarks are mere assertions but the fact was too palpable—there without proofs, we will briefly glance was the Edinburgh and the Quarter- over the contents of the last pumly and innumerable others, shining ber. The first article is a foulobstinately forth with • updiminished mouthed and bigoted attack upon heads.'

the Catholic religion, which is inTo speak seriously, we do think tended to alarm the British governthat the quantity of real talent ex- ment into rigorous persistence in hibited in the pages of this blustering its present system of intolerance. Magazine, makes a most ridiculous The assertion that the toleration of Tom Thumb figure when standing Catholicism is incompatible with by the side of its gigantic and mea- liberty, is a false and impudent slansureless pretensions. But this is not der, and the writer knows it; for he the worst. If the absence of powerful dares not even allude to the example writing and original speculations of America, where the greatest powere supplied by pretty trifling and litical and religious freedom exist, ingenious wit, we might even pardon united in perfect harmony and goodits folly and its flippancy for the sake will.— The next article is as sound of its amusing buffoonery. But the in literature as the first is in religion. fact is that, in the latter numbers Botta's American War is pronounced more especially, there is not, from “cold and meagre, alike destitute the first page to the last, one redeem- of interest and information.” That ing beauty to save them from the im- it should not be very interesting to putation of utter heartlessness and an Ultra-tory, we easily comprehend, profligacy. We appeal directly to but how it should be destitute of inthose wbose duties have compelled formation is more than we can bethem to wade through these volumes, lieve; for it at least informs this stickwhether they rise from their peru. ler for legitmacy how an insulted sal, improved by the acquisition of people may shake off their chains and one serious feeling, one virtuous spurn their tyrants from their shores. sentiment, one solitary generous We are, moreover, gravely told that emotion. That man's heart must in- Botta's adoption of an affected and deed be cold that is not chilled at long obsolete phraseology, is a proof the eternal repetition of anfeeling of the historian's-guess, gentle reasneers and ungenerous sarcasms, der--true grandeur of mind and directed against every thing that loftiness of soul! What would this calls for the sympathies of the phi- wise noodle then have said, if Ro. lanthropist. There is a tone of cold- bertson or Hume had written in the blooded persiflage pervading the last almost unintelligible language of volumes of this work, which we do Holioshed or Hall. The emasculated not think has ever, until now, dared and worn-out tongue of the Italians the scorn of the generous and the of this day!' Bah! It is possible that good. The sufferings of the Greeks, a writer so egregiously ignorant as the wrongs of the Catholics, and the to swallow the silly prejudices of the miseries of the poor, are made, with vulgar for so much gospel, should unprincipled effrontery, the objects undertake to tell his readers that the of their ridicule. The follies and language of Filangieri, Gioia, Bec. the vices of mankind no longer act caria, Veri, Romagnosi Alfieri, Fos. upon the languid patate of their colo, Parini, Racchetti, Paolini, and patrons. The obsequious caterers a host of others, is a worn-out and are obliged to stimulate satiety by emasculated language? After ha

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