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At Vittoria a splendid victory was
gained over the French, and he was
left on guard

"The streets of the town," he remarks,
"were all bustle and confusion here cars,
filled indiscriminately with French, English,
and Portuguese, wounded, were convey-
ing their groaning brethren to the convents
allotted for their hospitals. The ground,
for nearly a square league, was covered
with the wreck of carriages, cars, chests,
and baggage; and here and there whole
fields were literally white with thickly scat-
tered papers.
In their search for money,
the soldiers had ransacked every thing, and
strewn out papers, returns, and official doc-
uments, that had been for years, perhaps,
accumulating You saw the finest military
books and maps trod under foot, and utter-
ly spoilt by the rain."

It would be perhaps difficult to se-
lect a more painful anecdote connected
with the battle of Vittoria than the fol-
lowing.-

"A paymaster had two sons, lieutenants in the corps in which he served. He was a widower, and had no relation beside these youths; they lived in his tent, were his pride and delight. The civil staff of a regiment usually remain with the baggage when the troops engage, and join them with t afterwards. In the evening, when this paymaster came up, an officer met him.

My boys,' said the old man, 'how are they? Have they done their duty? They have behaved most nobly, but you have lost

- Which of them?' "Alas! both; they are numbered with the dead.'"

It is to the honour of our gallant soldiery, that the bookseller in Vittoria, who had a good assortment of classic and French authors, declared that he had sold more books to the British in a fortnight, than he had for two years to the French constantly passing through the city.

Throughout the work before us we have seen the Spanish character drawn in the most favourable colours. Whether the following description of the Guerillas will be thought to confirm this is questionable. There seems in them that national taint of proud ferocious cruelty which so disgraced the Spaniards in America and in the Netherlands.

"In a village three leagues from Pampeluna I met with a very fine man, a native of Aragon, and a Guerilla.

He was

wounded in the leg, and of course, for a time, incapable of service. The circumstances of his situation, the fate of his fa

mily, and his language, will explain the nature both of the formation and the feelings of these guerilla corps better, perhaps, than him where he lived, and under whom he a far more detailed account of it. I asked served? Senor,' said he, 'I have no home, no relations, nothing save my country and my sword. My father was led out, and lage; our cottage was burned, my mother shot in the market-place of my native vildied of grief, and my wife, who had been ruined by the enemy, fled to me, then a volunteer with Palifox, and died in my arms, in a hospital in Saragossa. I serve under no particular chief. I am too miserable, I of discipline, and the delay of manœuvre. feel too revengeful, to support the restraint I go on any enterprise I hear off; if I am poor, on foot; if chance, or plunder, have made me rich, on horseback: I follow the boldest leader; but I have sworn never to dress a vine or plough the field till the enemy these Guerillas spoken of as irregular and are driven out of Spain.'-I have often heard lawless banditti, who only fought for and subsisted on plunder. It is true they did their enemies. They were not paid, and subsist on plunder, but was the plunder of deadly feelings of revenge, drove them to could not live without support. Feelings, exchange the plough and the pruning-hook free and haughty spirit rejected the idea of for the sword and the lance; and as their serving in the ranks as soldiers, in no way could they give up their time to war but by plundering where they conquered."

of victory, when the heart of every soldier must have beat high at the idea In the midst of our animating career of entering France with his triumphant destined to experience one of those incommander and army, our author was dividual reverses of fortune, which so often occasions private sorrow in the midst of public joy. Upon one of the mountainous heights on which his detachment was posted to defend the pass, they were surprised by a superior force of the enemy, and our young officer the same candour in the recollection of was taken prisoner. But he discovers this painful scene, as in his other rela

tions.

life to the care of a French officer, who exclaimed-"Un Francais sait reHe tells us, that he owed his He has entered into no further account of his adventures.-Here he leaves us, specter les braves," and embraced.— out regret, the lively, interesting relator, and we too will quit, though not withwith whom we have travelled through the last anecdote he has given us.—His so many pleasant pages, with almost most intimate and valued friend was

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On reading his "Stanza on the Silver Foot of a Skull mounted as a Cup for Wine."

BY THOMAS MOORE.

WHY hast thou bound around, with silver trim, This once gay peopled palace of the soul? Look on it now! deserted, bleached, and grim, Is this, thou feverish man, thy festal bowl? Is this the cup wherein thou seek'st the balm, Each brighter chalice to thy lips denies ? Is this the oblivious bowl whose floods becalm, The worm that will not sleep and never dies?

Woe to the lip to which this cup is held !
The lip that's palled with every purer draught;
For which alone the rifled grave can yield
A goblet worthy to be deeply quaffed.
Strip, then, this glittering mockery from the skull,
Restore the relic to its tomb again;
And seek a healing balm within the bowl,
The blessed bowl that never flowed in vain.

(Europ. Mag.)

THE SON AND HEIR.

I do not wish to mention how the following pages came into my possession. I scarcely know to whose history they relate but have at times imagined to that of an Earl of A-1, whose story bore some resemblance to the circumstances here mentioned. These papers, few as they are, seem evidently imperfect, and were, I should think, hastily and carelessly written. I have inquired in vain after those which are wanting, for the conclusion is certainly abrupt and unsatisfactory.

I

August the 1st, A. D. ****. DO heartily thank my God, that I have at last determined to write down in detail many circumstances connected with the event which has made my life on earth a state of shame and misery. I am a less wretched creature than I have been; but there is no rest for my wounded spirit, till it shall please the blessed God to take me from this world. I dare to hope that death will take with my poor mortal body, the load of guilt and anguish which now lieth heavy on my spirit. I found not this hope in myself; I knew not of it, till I read of one who washeth with his blood the guilty conscience; who with his searching spirit visits the loathsome chambers of the heart; and although his light showeth there sins long forgotten, or all unobserved till then, each one bearing a visible form and substance; yet there is a peace that the world knoweth not, which cometh often where that purest light had shined long. Do I dream? or hath not this light, this sacred peace, come into my sad heart? the light and peace are but one spirit, but the nature of that spirit is such, that, till it hath purged from the sight its dull and mortal mists, the soul seeth nothing but its dazzling brightness. Then gradually doth the light take unto itself a form, even that dove-like form which descended visibly

on the head of the meekest and holiest son of man.

What I am about to write, I wish to be seen; I would make my story a warning to others. I would wish my crime to be known, my memory to be execrated in this world, if by means of my example the remorse which I feel might be spared to another; if the remembrance of my guilt might cool the boiling blood, and stop the mad fury, of some individual whose disposition may resemble mine.

Cyril.

My youth was passed in the thoughtless and extravagant gaiety of the French court My temper was always violent; and I returned home one morning, long after midnight, frantic with rage at some imaginary insult which I had received. My servant endeavoured to speak to me as I entered the house, but I repulsed him violently, and rushed up to my room. I locked the door, and sat down instantly to write a challenge. My hand trembled so much that it would not hold the pen: I started up and paced the room : the pen was again in my hand, when I heard a low voice speaking earnestly at the door entreating to be admitted.— The voice was that of my father's old and favourite servant. I opened the door to him. The old man looked upon me with a sorrowful countenance, and I hastily demanded the reason of his appearance. He stared at me with surprise, but spoke not: he walked to the table where I had sat down, and took from it a letter which in my rage I had not noticed. It announced to me the dangerous illness of my father; it was written by my mother, and intreatingly besought me instantly to return to them-Before dawn I was far from Paris. My father's residence was in the north of England. I arrived here only in time to follow the corse of my beloved father to the grave.

Immediately on my return from the funeral, my mother sent to me, requesting my attendance in her own apartment. Traces of a deep-seated grief were fresh upon her fine countenance, but she received me with calm seriousness. Love for her living child had struggled with her sorrow for the dead; and she had chosen that hour to rouse me from the follies, from the sins of my past life. My mother was always a superior woman. I felt, as I listened to her, the real dignity of

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Christian matron's character. She won me by the truth, the affection, the gentleness of her words. She spoke plainly of my degrading conduct, but she did not upbraid me. She set before me the new duties which I was called upon to perform. She said, "I know you will not trifle with those duties. You are not your own, my son; you must not live to yourself; you profess the name of Christian, you can hold no higher profession. God hath said to each of us, My son, give me thine heart." Have you given your heart and its desires to God? Can you be that pitiful creature-a half Christian? I have spoken thus, because I know that if you have clear ideas of your first duties, and do strive to perform them, then will your relative duties be no longer lightly regarded. Oh my son, God knows what I feel in speaking to you thus in my heaviest hour of affliction, and I can only speak as a feeble and perplexed woman. I know not how to counsel you, but I do beseech you, to think for yourself, and to pray earnestly to God for his wisdom and guidance." Before I left my mother's presence, she spoke to me also on my master passion, anger, mad ungovernable rage. She told me that even in the early years of my childhood, she had trembled at my anger,she confessed that she had dreaded to hear while I was absent, that it had plunged me into some horrid crime. She knew not how just her fears had been; for had not my father's death recalled me to England, I should probably have been the murderer of that thoughtless stripling who had unknowingly provoked me, and whom I was about to challenge to fight on the morning I left Versailles.

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My mother did not speak to me in vain. I determined to turn at once from my former ways, to regulate my conduct by the high and holy principles of the religion I professed, and to reside on my own estate in habits of manly and domestic simplicity.

About three years after I had succeeded to the titles and possessions of my forefathers, I became the husband of the Lady Jane N- -e, and I thought myself truly happy.

Twe

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years had passed away, and every day endeared my sweet wife to my heart, but I was not quite happy. We had no child; I had but one wish; one blessing seemed alone denied the birth of a son. My thoughts, in all their wanderings, reverted to one hope the birth of a son-an heir to the name, the rank, the estates of my family. When I knelt before God, I forgot to pray that he would teach me what to pray for; I did not intreat that his wisdom would direct me how to use what his goodness gave. No, I prayed as for my life, I prayed without ceasing, but I chose the blessing.I prayed for a son-my prayers were at last granted, a son was born unto us a beautiful healthy boy. I thought myself perfectly happy. My delight was more than ever to live in the pleasant retirement of my own house, so that year after year passed away, and only settled me down more entirely in the habits of domestic life. My boy grew up to be a tall and healthy lad; his intellect was far beyond his years; and I loved to make him my companion, as much from the charm ing freshness of his thoughts, as from the warmth of my attachment towards the child. I learned to wonder at the satisfaction I once felt in mere worldly society, as I studied the character of my son. He was not without the faults which all children possess, which are rooted deep in human nature; but in all his faults, in all his deceits, and what child is not taught deceit by his own heart? there was a charming awkwardness, an absence of all worldly trick, which appeared then very new to me. I used all my efforts to prevent vice from becoming habitual to him; I strove to teach him the government of himself, by referring not only every action, but every thought, to one high and holy principle of thinking and act ing to God; and I strove to build up consistent habits on the foundation of holy principle. I was so anxious about my son that I did not dare to treat his faults with a foolish indulgence. I taught him to know that I could punish, and that I would be obeyed; yet he lived with me, I think, in all confidence of speech and action,

and seemed never so happy as when he sat at my feet, and asked me, in the eagerness of his happy fancies, more questions than I could, in truth, answer. I cannot go on speaking thus of those joyous times which are gone forever-I will turn to a darker subject to myself. While I gave up my time, my thoughts, my soul's best energies to my child, I neglected myself, the improvement of my own heart and its disposition. This may seem strange and improbable to some. It may be imagined that the habits of strict virtue which I taught to my son would, in the teaching, have been learnt by myself; and that, in the search after sound wisdom for him, I must have turned up as it were many treasures needed by my self. It would be so in most instances perchance; it was not so in mine.The glory of God had not been my first wish when I prayed for a son. 1 had imposed upon myself in thinking that I acted in the education of my child upon that sacred principle. It was honour among men that I looked for. I had sought to make my son every thing that was excellent, but I had not sought to make myself fit for the work I undertook. My own natural faults had been suffered by me to grow almost unchecked, while I had been watchful over the heart of my child. Above all, the natural infirmity of my character-anger, violent outrageous anger, was at times the master, the tyrant of my soul. Too frequently had I corrected my child for the fault which he inherited from me; but how have I done so ? when passionately angry myself, I had punished my boy for want of temper. Could it be expected that Maurice would profit by my instruction, when my example too often belied my words? But I will pass on at once to my guilt.

The Countess, my mother, had given to Maurice a beautiful Arabian horse. I loved to encourage the boy in all manly exercises. While a mere child he rode with a grace which I have seldom seen surpassed by the best horsemen. How nobly would he bear himself, as side by side on our fleet horses, we flew over the open country! Often, often do I behold in memory his clear

sparkling eyes glancing with intelligence; his fair brow contracted with that slight and peculiar frown, which gives assurance that the mind shares in the smile of the lips. Often do I see before me the pure glow flooding over his cheek, the waves of bright hair floating away from his shoulders, as he gallopped full in the face of the fine free wind.

My boy loved his Araby courser, as all noble-spirited boys love a favourite horse. He loved to dress, and to feed, and to caress the beautiful creature ;— and Selim knew his small gentle hand, and would arch his sleek and shining neck when the boy drew nigh, and turn his dark lustrous eye with a look like that of pleased recognition on him, when his master spoke.

My child was about eleven years old at the time I must now speak of. He usually passed many hours of the morning in the library with me. It was on the 17th of June, a lovely spring morning, Maurice had been very restless and inattentive to his books. The sunbeams dazzled his eyes, and the fresh wind fluttered among the pages before him. The boy removed his books,and sat down at a table far from the open window. I turned round an hour after from a volume which had abstracted all my thoughts. The weather was very hot, and the poor child had fallen fast asleep. He started up at once when I spoke. I asked him if he could say his lesson? He replied, "Yes," and brought the book instantly; but he scarcely knew a word, and he seemed careless, and even indifferent. I blamed him, and he replied petulantly. I had given back the book to him,when a servant entered, and told me that a person was waiting my presence below. I desired the boy, somewhat with an angry tone, not to stir from the room till I returned, and then to let me hear him say his lesson perfectly. He promised to obey me.-There is a small closet opening from the library; the window of this closet overlooks the stable. Probably the dear child obeyed me in learning perfectly his lesson; but I was detained long; and he went to the closet in which I had allowed him to keep the books belonging to

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