d of her invaders:
but thou art a hoary traitor! thy hands are stained with the royal blood
of the Goths, and thou hast betrayed thy country and thy God. Therefore, I
again repeat, man unknown! if thou sayest thou art Count Julian, thou
liest! My friend, alas! is dead; and thou art some fiend from hell, which
has taken possession of his body to dishonor his memory and render him an
abhorrence among men!' So saying, Pelistes turned his back upon the
traitor, and went forth from the banquet; leaving Count Julian overwhelmed
with confusion, and an object of scorn to all the Moslem cavaliers.

ON SEEING A LADY WEEP OVER A NOSEGAY.

Though plucked from off the parent stems,
The flow'rs forget to die,
When Beauty all their leaves begems
With tears from her sweet eye.

There is a heart which throb'd to-day
To see thee weep alone.
And longed to wipe those drops away,
Or make that grief its own.

PLUTARCH SHAW: 1844.

LITERARY NOTICES.

LITERARY REMAINS OF THE LATE WILLIS GAYLORD CLARKE. Parts Three and
Four. New-York: BURGESS, STRINGER AND COMPANY.

The reception given to our notice of this serial work in our last number,
has emboldened us to refer to the issues which have since appeared,
containing a copious variety of matter which will be new to great numbers
of our readers. One of the best evidences of the _naturalness_ and ease of
our author's writings, is to be found in the ready appreciation of them by
all classes of readers. Whether the vein be a serious one, or the theme
turn upon the humorous or the burlesque, it is not too much, we think, to
say that the writer takes always with him the heart or the fancy of the
reader. Without however pausing to characterize productions which bid fair
to become very widely and favorably known, we shall venture, under favor
of the reader, to present a few more extracts, 'which it is hoped may
please.' The following illustration of a night-scene at the Kaatskill
Mountain-House, on the evening of the Fourth of July, we can aver to be a
faithful Daguerreotype sketch, for we saw it with the writer:

'Take my arm, and step forth with me from the piazza of the
Mountain-House. It is night. A few stars are peering from a dim
azure field of western sky; the high-soaring breeze, the breath of
heaven, makes a stilly music in the neighboring pines; the meek
crest of Dia