the race of life on the earth as ye will be under it. Tear away every man from his heart that veil which the world has taught him to draw over those affections that were bestowed upon him by nature; look upon all as friends and brothers, sojourners in a land of joy and sorrow, and aid up the hill of life each poor straggler that tremblingly holds out his hand for assis tance. the hoards of those who have kept them closed at the cry of the wretched, and the voice of the distressed; who had turned away from the wants of their fellow-creatures, of the widow and of the orphan, to gaze fascinated on the indelicate spectacle of the ballet, to pour out tributes of praise, and heap around with beautiful and fragrant flowers that one who, one would have thought, must have withered their loveliness and shamed their purity. C-- surrounded by flowers, the modern Flora hung round with chaplets of nature's fairest tributes, worshipped by the debauché and the roué. Well may the adored of the ballet feel proud, and imagine herself equal to the unchaste goddess of old; well may she triumph, and say, "It's mine-I simple paragraph tell the tale of humanity-how truly did it pourtray the characters of the rich and of the gay; they sported their thousands, their jewels, and their more valued time, and their applaudings upon a woman, whose sole right to all was, that she displayed to the gaze of myriads, both to men and to women, that which in very modesty should be concealed. Wreaths of flowers nightly descended on her; the raptures of nobles and of high-born dames sounded in her ears; the elite of England, the grandest nation in the world, meet together to pay a tribute of praise to her who, after all, can do nought but twist herself into unnatural attitudes, and raise, by her unfeminine display, amid the melting strains of music, passions and feelings that lead to half the evils that fall upon her sex. Men of pleasure, who look upon the lowly as your prey because they are lowly, and who mind not the breaking of the fond heart, dimming the eye of light, and ruining the current of happiness for ever, because the object of your passion is clothed in stuff instead of satin; what say you to the stings that memory will bring back to you? Will you fly them? You cannot, can-earned it myself." Alas! how truly did this not. Too well I know that many a one who has sinned in his days of youth would amend his ways, and, if he could, would bring back peace where he had left woe; but there is a great bugbear that frights us all, the opinion of the world; we dare not stoop to do justice where we had crawled to commit sin; the man of wealth and of nobility dares not do justice to the one he has injured. Like some dark, dreary gulf, from which we start back horror-stricken, is the scorn of our kind; their mockery, their sneers, their ridicule, are like rolling waves of fire, that scorch as we come within their reach, and rather than brave the flames to do good, we would fly them to commit evil, and plunge deeper and deeper into the wild vortex of pleasure, that oblivion may erase from the spirit the remembrance of what has been done; but 'tis in vain, when the giddy round of gaiety begins to pall upon you, then will come reflection, aye, as surely as effect follows cause; and so surely will come each victim of injured innocence, each smile you have turned to tears, each light footstep you have caused to falter on its path, bringing with them the poisoned chalice of self-reproach. Then go mourn, then go hang over the grave of the one you caused to go down to it with a broken heart, and as you weep tears of blood over it, wonder that the maker of the bright and beautiful world does not bury you in its dust a cursed and unforgiven creature. I was turning over one of our daily papers the other day, when my eye lighted upon the following paragraph : * * "FINE ARTS: PORTRAIT OF****.-A very beautiful portrait of the above enchanting danseuse has just been published by Gambard, of Paris and London. * The adored of the ballet looks us full in the face, her eye and mouth beaming in good humour and conscious satisfaction at the success of her efforts to please. On the table are some of the golden tributes which her devoted admirers have offered to her shrine-a splendid tiara, set with countless jewels, inscribed, Gli Annicatori a 1843-a medal-London, 1840,' &c. The arm encircles the precious casket, and she seems to say in triumph, It's mine-I earned it myself.'"' Triumph! And ought she not to triumph, to be proud of having extorted gold-jewels-from And yet some, even amid the whirl of pleasure and of fashion, have hearts moulded in the goodliest shape, and which beat with the warmest and best feelings that adorn humanity, I was standing some time since at the door of the Opera House, and was witness to one of these sweet roses that render bright a wilderness of weeds. I was idly enough employed, gazing upon the rank and beauty that were entering like devotees, to worship at the shrine of pleasure, when my eye fell upon a raggedly clothed female, leaning against the lamp-post, holding in her hand a few boxes of lucifer matches; poverty could not have offered a more unmistakable picture of wretchedness. I have said she was ragged, and that part of her dress which was not in tat ters could not have kept her warm even in an August evening; her face, thin and care-worn, still afforded some few traces of feminine beauty, but her cheek was pinched by hunger and broken-heartedness; and there was an apparent hopelessness of spirit in the gaze her eye that was now raised, now drooped, as she murmured out Charity." Alas! alas! it was murmured to those who were deaf to the voice of that charmer which would whisper to the heart, "Give." of by her she looked on them with a sigh, and then As the gay in their splendid dresses floated upon herself, and her spirit could have sunk into the ground for very shame beneath the feet of these high-born and wealthy. I was jus FIVE. (Imitation of a Scottish Jacobite Song.) BY W. G. J. BARKER, ESQ. The moment is nigh 'Tis no hour for the banquet, No time for the chase; For the banner of Scotland Unsheath each claymore. Like the streams of your mountains starting forward to offer my mite, when a car- | SEVENTEEN HUNDRED AND FORTYriage drew up, and a young and lovely woman descended from it; I could see by her bearing, and the crest on her carriage, that she was one of the noble of the land: the poor woman approached her that eye beaming with light, that cheek on which health and happiness had laid their damask touch; that step of light; that lofty brow, white as Parian marble, surmounted by a tiara of diamonds sparkling amid her long black tresses-surely, surely, all so fair outside must cover a holy and virtuous spirit, a good and tender heart. The destitute creature thought so too, for she advanced towards her and held out her boxes of matches to her; she knew they were useless, but they were her pleas for charity. The haughty beauty drew her magnificent dress around her, as though the touch of poverty would have soiled it. I saw a curl of contempt growing upon that lip, through which heaven might have spoken, and I trembled; but her look for an instant fell on that eye of beseechingness, on that figure of utter destitution, and that proud lip trembled with pity, and there came a blush of charity. Oh! it was so, so lovely, lovely as the first light of morning beaming on her cheek, andatear, I sawit glitter in that eye of melting softness which outshone the jewels that sparkled on her brow. She stayed in her course, drew her purse from her bosom-oh that gold could always find so dear a resting-place, 'twould never be a curse-and she gave several coins to the poor creature, with her blessing; then hurried away that she might not hear the thanks that she richly deserved. I could have fallen down and worshipped her; her kind words had fallen on the heart of her she had relieved, and she felt for a moment happiness, happiness that had long deserted her; and she departed with a thankful spirit, perhaps to give food to a husband and children. And she, that child of mercy-no, I will say nothing let every heart read its own pages, and the eloquence of words were as nothing. Let every hand be thus opened, and no need will there be to tell how much the reward to her own bosom when she lifted her voice to heaven that night, when she pressed her pillow, conscious of having done a good action in the sight of God. I have sadly wandered from my subject, but again I must ask pardon; I ask but pity, but charity for the lowly, the poor and the oppressed. Let me but know that I have awakened but one chord of mercy in the heart towards them, and I shall never regret having been asked whether "I was in the coal trade." August, 1845. ANSWER TO CHARADE IN OUR LAST. When Friendship's social chain unlinking, Like mist in the gale. From the face of your heroes The tyrant will flee, Look down from the sky, Still warm in their bosoms And ten thousand are wearing And arm for your King! On untiring wing! The gentle and brave! Remember stout Wallace, And Bruce's bold deed; The son of the German Will tremble for fear, When he finds Scotland holdeth Will fly from our land, Our own lawful King- Like fair flowers in spring! Ye chiefs bold and high- X. Y. Z. Banks of the Yore. GENEVIEVE. (From the French of Adolphe Siret.) BY ELIZA LESLIE. [The following story, taken from the life of the eminent German poet and novelist, Von Hoffman, appears to us worthy of translation, as evincing qualities of the heart calculated to increase the interest with which his works are generally read. It might truly be said of him, that everything human aroused his sympathies-that nothing concerning his fellow-man was deemed trivial by that benevolent and excellent man.] A youth named Francis (it was said he had no other name) was in the service of a printer to whom Von Hoffman confided his works, more especially his very popular "Tales of Fancy." The young man was nineteen years of age at the time our story commences; he was well constituted in mind and body. His noble countenance beamed with frank benevolence, and with that perfect serenity which a pure conscience can alone impart. He was tall and finely formed; his dark eyes were soft and lustrous, notwithstanding the determined expression of a brow on which firm thought was seated, and his head, adorned with natural thick curls, parted on either side after the manner of the German students, was perfectly classical in its outline. His dress was plain and simple, with the exception of a bright crimson neckcloth embroidered in white, which stood out like gold on copper from the russet garments of the workman; there was nothing remarkable in his costume. But Francis loved this handkerchief, he had a pride in it. It had been the gift of Hoffman whose genius he venerated. "Mr. Hoffman," said the youth, advancing to the author, "I have brought you some proofs of the miscellaneous and imaginative pieces." "Ah, many thanks, Francis; 'tis the third sheet." "No, Sir, the fifth." Really, how you work! Well done, Francis! you will certainly get on-you are a clever felÍow. When do you want this proof?" "As soon as possible, if you please, Sir." "Well, wait there; amuse yourself in the meantime by looking over these vignettes of Dümarter. I shall have done immediately." And, in fact, in a very few minutes Hoffman held out the manuscript to the young printer, saying "Here, Mr. Francis, is your work; good morning to you." "Farewell, Sir." Yet Francis lingered near the door, silent and embarrassed, not daring to interrupt the labours of his patron, who seemed to have resumed them with all his wonted energy. Five minutes had thus elapsed, when Hoffman, raising his head, exclaimed Francis, what is your trouble?" "It is a deep, a real grief!" 66 'Is it possible, my friend! you, whom I have always seen so cheerful. What can you want?" "Much!" said the youth, with a sigh. "Alas! and I am poor. Yet I will-" "It is not your money, Sir, that I have need of-it is quite another thing; but since you will kindly hear me, I will open my very heart to you. Yes, I will confess to you, Sir; love, love is the cause of my sorrow, my despair." "Oh," murmured Hoffman, "it is o love." "What, Sir, only love! Have you ever known, have you ever felt it—you, who speak thus of a power strong enough to make man forgetful of all else beside? That charm, that fascination, which makes us forget that anything but virtue exists-in whose sweet, sanctifying presence crime is unknown! and yetand yet-" After this burst of passionate feeling Francis sank on a chair, hid his face in his hands, and only replied after Hoffman had pressed him several times to explain himself, with assumed indifference. "Hear me, Sir; I shall endeavour to speak with coolness, and to speak as becomes a man, on this painful subject. I love, and am beloved, by a young girl of seventeen. She is beautiful, beautiful as the fairy-spirit of the virgins you have described so bewitchingly in one of your own tales. Wher I speak of the love of this maiden, I speak of a thing as sacred, as real, as pure, as certain, as the love of your own mother for you, her son! I can trust to a word, to a look of love from her, as I can trust to my own honour; for when once such a being loves, she overshadows with her own purity the object blessed with her affection. Well-you must hear me out-in presence of this heavenly purity, so late as yesterday, I had a vile, an atrocious thoughtpardon me, Sir, but we were alone, and I was so overwhelmed with my blind passion as to ask her to elope with me; and, in the world's parlance, I called this a proof of love! justice, truth, and would not name it dishonour! I was wild, culpable, no doubt; but Genevieve rose with dignity from her seat, and demanded, with a solemn voice-If such a request could be dictated by love to her, or respect to the laws of God, who commands us to honour our parents? No, Francis,' she continued, you must first give up your God, and your mother, before you can counsel me to an act so unworthy a Christian maiden!' I threw myself at her knees. I implored her pardon, but my chains are rivetted a hundred fold by her resistance. I must make her my wife, or die a thousand deaths." "In the name of all that is wonderful," cried Hoffman, impatiently, "what prevents your doing so?" "What!” cried Francis, "everything. Her mother, my master, every one. Do you know what they say to me? You to think of marriage! without means, without money!' Miserable wretches that we are! When united by the voice of God, he asks-' Have you love?' Man asks- Have you money?' "It is but too true!" cried Hoffman; "is there no possible means?" "Alas! none. My master has warned me that if I marry he will dismiss me. Genevieve's mother has plainly acquainted me with her determination never to receive a son-in-law without a fortune; and it is as impossible for me to proffer riches as it is to forget my love. Now, best, wisest friend, advise me, tell me what I must do? but above all, do not say a word on the subject of giving up Genevieve! anything else I can listen to." Here the youth, overcome with his grief, leaned his head on his patron's shoulder, and looked with bursting eyes into his friend's sympathizing face, in which he could read the tenderest pity. "Are you very sure, Francis, that Genevieve's mother will not permit your addresses?" "Read, Sir, and judge for yourself." Thus saying Francis drew a letter from his pocket, and presented it to Hoffman; it ran thus: "MY BELOVED, I weep as I write, for I am more than unhappy. My mother will never receive you as her son-in-law. Oh! Francis, were I alone in the world I could die; but we are one, and two lives would be sacrificed-for to thee I would belong by the holy bands of marriage, or to the grave. Since we cannot, then, be united in life, oh! that we might in death; and thus we may yet be happy, in spite of earthly sorrow and disappointment. Let us, then, first fulfil our duties towards heaven, and then meet there to part no more. "GENEVIEVE." "How! what!" interrupted Hoffman, "you contemplated, then, not only for yourself, but for another, the deepest, the most deadly crime that of suicide!" "I know it," said Francis, with bitterness. Hoffman was absorbed in the most painful reflections. He spoke not, so profound was his reverie, for many minutes. At length he seized Francis violently by the arm, and leading him to the door, said "Go, Sir, and tell Genevieve's mother that Hoffman has sworn to unite you to her daughter. Farewell: linger not!" The door is closed on Francis, who, wild with joy, runs to Genevieve's house, whilst Hoffman, reseating himself at his desk, exclaims-"That poor young fellow's honest love has quite overcome me. He shall be married to his Geneviéve." It was not without some difficulty that Francis found his way to the home of his beloved. Joy had so troubled his perceptions that he took many a wrong turning before his arrival. The object of his thoughts, however, did not come to meet him, as formerly, with her face of innocent joy; the house had a mournful aspect, and that deep silence reigned within, which generally denotes some domestic misfortune. In vain did Francis look around for some one of whom to make inquiries; all was desolate. At length he ventured to push open the door of a little chamber which overlooked the landingplace; he enters and beholds Genevieve's mother so absorbed in reflection that she is quite unconscious of his presence. "Madam !" stammered Francis. "Well, you are here, Sir, are you? after I had forbidden-" "God alone, Madam, has a right to forbid us to love." "Leave the house immediately, you insolent fellow! or take the consequences of my just indignation." "Madame Herrmann, I shall not leave the house but as your accepted son-in-law! Francis is now rich, and can afford to raise his head as high as your own, and aspire to be the husband of your daughter, without offending either your pride or your cupidity. I am rich!" "And pray what riches, may I ask, have you to offer my daughter?" asked Madame Herrman, in a mocking, incredulous tone. "The protection of the greatest man in Germany-of Mons. Von Hoffman!" The old mother could scarcely contain her indignation. The hope of a fortune, which Francis had thrown out, had vanished, the natural selfishness of the woman broke out, and she furiously reiterated her commands that Francis should leave the house. The latter, far from obeying this injunction, took a chair, and established himself upon it with the air of a man determined not to be ejected. Whereupon the old lady, snatching up her hat and cloak, turned with an air of triumph towards Francis, and said "I shall soon send you one who will force you never to put your foot inside these doors again." A feeble voice here broke in on the dialogue: it was that of Geneviève, and soon, like one of Hoffman's own elegant creations, she appeared, pale, spirit-like, adorned but with her flowing locks, and that beauty, of which not even grief and suffering could deprive her, she tottered forward, repeating, "No, no, it is in vain, my mother: I cannot, will not be the bride of Müller!" and would have fallen, had not Francis sprung forward, and catching her to his breast, exclaimed in triumphant accents, "Geneviève, my beloved, you are, you shall be mine! Hoffman has sworn it to me! Hoffman will protect our love!" Hope revived within the heart of the young girl, and its own rosy hue once more coloured her pale cheeks, while she looked on the glowing face of her lover, who turned to her mother, saying, "Ah, madam, could you have the heart to prepare a tomb for two creatures who love so innocently, so fondly?" "Müller shall decide that," she hissed forth in reply, with smothered rage. "And you," said she, turning to her daughter, "who seem to have so much power over this young man, pray order him hence. I am going to your future father-in-law's house; the servant Bridget can keep you company until my return." With an imploring look Geneviève obtained the departure of her lover, and Madame Herrmann set off to consult with her intended sonin-law's father. "Good morning, Master Bromberg! thou most sapient and discriminating of publishers!" said Hoffman. "I am come to talk with you about the publication of a new work." "Of your own?" said Bromberg. "Certainly, it is my own. Here is the half of the first volume: there will be four, and all shall be complete in forty days. I ask for it two hundred florins a volume. Is that too much, Master Bromberg? Just look at it.” The publisher refused to see the manuscript, saying, "Mr. Hoffman, I shall now pay you eight hundred florins for your book, and shall request the favour to publish the work which shall follow this. Bromberg cannot pay too much for the gratification of giving to the world the fruits of a genius so sublime as yours!" 66 "Tis well," replied Hoffman; "you have my word for it; you shall be my publisher; your money has a happy destination." Hoffman left the house with notes for eight hundred florins, and directed his steps towards the house of the printer of Kotzebue's Journal the same man who had warned Francis that, if he married, he would dismiss him. The visit was short, but satisfactory; our author threatened Francis's master to take away from him the printing of the journal, if he should persist in his unkind menaces towards the young man. It was agreed, before he left, that in case of his marriage the salary of Francis should, on the contrary, be raised, and that he should have constant employment. This done, Hoffman repaired to the house of Madame Herrmann: it was Geneviève who received him. "My sweet girl," said Hoffman, I wish to speak with your mother.” "She is from home, sir." "I shall call again; here is my name. Adieu!" When Geneviève had read the name so dear to her, the name of her lover's protector, quick as thought she is on her knees before him to whom she is to owe the happiness of her life. "Oh, sir, only tell me what you promised Francis! only let me hear from your own lips that I am not to be married to Müller-that you will unite me to my beloved Francis! I conjure you have pity on me!" Four hours had elapsed since Francis had left the chamber of Hoffman, yet the author had not stirred from his work, nor perceived the flight of time. So rapidly did his pen move, that one who knew him might be aware it was benevolence inspired the labour. The neighbouring clock sounding twelve arrested his attention, and he exclaimed, "Already twelve o'clock and my breakfast-where is it?" He cast a glance around, then his eyes rested sorrowfully on his work, and he cried out, "Fool that I am, to think of making others happy when I have not the means to provide myself with a breakfast! Fool! to promise a fortune to an artisan, without having a kreutzer for Müller, do you say?" cried HoffmanHoffman! Fool! I say again. Take Jaeger-"Müller Heigsten your husband, Geneviève ? read a chapter of Grundman, and then you shall nay, that can never be !" not require any breakfast; for is it not said, that science is the meat and drink of the philosopher?" Well-I certainly am very silly to forget-have I not two coats?-certainly one too many. Let us see; the Jew Gutbert will readily give me ten florins for one; I am rich, then -forward to breakfast, and then for the affairs of Francis and Geneviève." And here we have the great literary artist, taking his coat under his arm to sell it for ten shillings; while enveloped carefully in a handkerchief under the other arm, were the fruits of his morning's labour. Having breakfasted, he went to Bromberg, the famous publisher-a great admirer of Hoffman, and one of his school -who received him with much respect. At this instant Madame Herrmann entered, accompanied by her intended son-in-law. "You here! infamous wretch!" cried Hoffman, in a voice of thunder, addressing himself to Müller. "You have then forgotten your oath?" Müller fell on his knees at these dreadful words, and seemed crushed to the earth by some mysterious power, as he gazed, affrighted, at the unexpected appearance of Hoffman. 66 'Fly, deluded wretch!" cried Hoffman to him; " or in an hour the officers of justice shall have possession of your person." Müller sprang up at these words, and was never again seen in those parts. Hoffman, turning to Madame Herrmann, asked her with some asperity if she |