hose works, despite all suppression, will never die.

J. W.

CHARLES BLOUNT.

Look with me through the dark vista of 150 years of clouded history.
Throw your mind across the bridge of time, for we are about to visit
a tragic scene--a scene which might be depicted by a poet--so much of
beauty, of truth, and of goodness, all blasted by the perjuries of the
priest. Yonder, in the dim library of an ancestral mansion, embowered
amid the woods of the south, close by the gurgling waters which beat an
echo to the stormy breezes--those breezes which will never more fan
his cheek--that water where he has often bathed his limbs will be his
rippling monument. The shady moonlight of an August evening is gilding
the rich pastures of Hertfordshire; the gorse bushes have not yet lost
their beauty, the pheasants are playing in the woods--woods that so
lately resounded with laughter--laughter ringing like a bell--the music
of a merry heart. Withdraw those curtains which hide the heart-struck
and the dead. Above you is the exquisite picture of Eleanora, gazing
into the very bed at that form which lay shrouded in nothingness. You
see the broad manly brow--even now the brown hair rises in graceful
curls over that damp forehead. The lips are locked in an eternal smile,
as if to mock the closed eyes and the recumbent form. Is it true that
pictures of those we love are endowed with a clairvoyant power of gazing
at those who have caressed them in life? If it is, then on that August
night the wife of Charles Blount was watching over his bier.

But who is that pale form, with dishevelled hair and weeping eyes,
with an alabaster skin stained with the blue spots of grief? The rapid
upheaving swells of that fair bosom tell of affection withered, not by
remorse, but by superstition? See her how she nervously grasps that
dead man's hand, how she imprints kisses on his lips! Her hair, which
yesterday was glossy as the raven's, is now as bleached as the driven
snow; to-day she utters her plaintive cries, to-morrow she hastens to
join her lover in the tomb. This is a sad history. It should be written
with the juice of hemlock, as a warning to Genius of impatient love.

While the fair girl watches by the couch of the suicide, while from the
painted canvass Eleanora gleams on the living and the dead, while the
clouds of night gather silently over that ancestral hall, around the
drooping com on the bold sloping park, and the clear blue river--all