over, by deed of gift, the whole of his property to the supposed murderer.

In this account there seemed a strange obscurity of facts; for some made strongly to the crimination of Don Juan, and the last mentioned circumstance was of so contradictory a nature, as to throw the whole into perplexity; therefore, to compel the prisoner to a further elucidation of the case, it was thought proper to interrogate him by torture.

Whilst this was preparing, Don Juan, without betraying the least alarm, told his judges that it would save them and himself some trouble, if they would receive his confession on certain points to which he would truly speak, but beyond which all the torture in the world should not force one syllable. He said he was not the son, as it was supposed, of the merchant with whom he lived, nor allied to the deceased Josepha, otherwise than by the tenderest ties of mutual affection. That he was the son of a gentleman of considerable fortune in the Brazils, who left him an infant to the care of the merchant in question, who, for reasons best known to himself, chose to call him by his own name; he was taught to believe that he was an orphan youth, a distant relation of the person who adopted him; he begged his judges, therefore to observe that he never understood Josepha to be his sister. That with respect to the medicine, he certainly did give it her, for that she was sick in consequence of her pregnancy, and, being afraid of creating alarm or suspicion in her parents, had required him to order certain drugs from an apothecary, as if for himself, which he accordingly did; and lie verily believed they were faithfully

mixed.

The judges then asked him if he would swear that the lady did not die by poison? Don Juan, bursting into tears for the first time, answered, to his eternal sorrow he knew that she did die by poison. Was that poison contained in the medicine she took?-It was. Did he impute the crime of mixing the poison in it to the apothecary, or did he take it on himself? Neither the apothecary nor himself were guilty. Did the lady from a principle of shame, he was then asked, commit the act of suicide, and infuse the poison without his knowledge? He started in horror at the question, and took God to witness that she was innocent of the deed.

The judges seemed now confounded, and for a time abstain

"That guiltless sufferer," proceeded the monk, "who now lies insensible before my eyes, is the son of an excellent man, who was once my dearest friend. He was confided to my care when an infant, and my friend followed his fortunes to our settlements in the Brazils: he resided there twenty years without revisiting Portugal, remitting to me many sums of money on his son's account. At this time the treacherous idea of converting the property of my ward to my own use arose in my mind. I imparted these suggestions to my unhappy wife, who withstood them firmly for a time. At last, persuasion and menaces conquered her virtue, and we agreed to adopt the infant as the orphan son of a distant relation of our own name. At length the father of Don Juan died, and by will bequeathed his fortunes to me, in failure of his son and heirs. I had already advanced so far in guilt, that this temptation met with no resistance in my mind; and determined on removing this bar to my ambition, I proposed to my wife to secure the prize which fortune had placed within our reach, by the assassination of the heir. She revolted from the idea with horror; but at this time the agent of the deceased arrived in Lisbon, and, as he was privy to my correspondence, it become necessary for me to discover to Don Juan who he was, and also what fortune he was entitled to. In this crisis, threatened with shame and detection on one hand, and tempted by avarice aud pride on the other, I won over my reluctant wife to a participation of my crime, and we mixed that dose with poison, which we believed was intended for Don Juan, but which, in fact, was destined for our only child. "She took it, and we saw our daughter expire in agonies before our eyes, with the bitter aggravation of a double murder. Are there words in language to express our lamentations? Are there tortures, even in the reach of your invention, to compare with those we felt when our expiring child, with her last breath, blessed and forgave us, exacting from Don Juan a solemn promise not to expose her parents to a public execution, by disclosing what had passed? Alas-alas! we see too plainly how he kept his word! Behold he dies a martyr to honor!"

As the monk pronounced these words, the wretched Don Juan drew a deep sigh; but outraged nature could endure no more, and with a deeper sigh, his spirit fled for ever.

G. 28.

F

REBECCA IN PRISON.

The accompanying engraving represents one of the finest incidents in modern romance ;-that in which the Scottish novellist has placed before us the exquisite character of Rebecca, with a softened, yet deeper interest, than in any other of the pages of Ivanhoe. When she appears before us divested of the firmer traits of her character-but only because she is not called upon to exercise them -in all the subduing loveliness of angelic resignation, when torn from her father and her home; immured, without a female companion, in the abode of cruelty and superstition; when dragged, defenceless and unpitied, before the rude tribunal of military superstition; when condemned, almost unheard, to an agonizing death, for a crime that her soul knew not; when tempted, but vainly tempted, by the proud templar, with all the visions of romantic glory to alter the firm purpose of her soul-she could still with gentle resignation, forget all her sufferings and danger, and pour forth her fervours to the Father who is always present, the Judge who is always beneficent, and the Friend who leads us to the sure scenes of unsullied joy.

The period chosen by the artist is the one thus described by the novelist:-"It was in the twilight of the day when her trial, if it could be called such, had taken place, that a low knock was heard at the door of Rebecca's prison-chamber. It disturbed not the inmate, who was then engaged in the evening prayer recommended by her religion, and which concluded with a hymn we have ventured thus to translate into English.

When Israel, of the Lord belov'd

Out from the land of bondage came,
Her father's God before her mov'd,
An awful guide, in smoke and flame.
By day, along the astonish'd lands,
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands,
Return'd the fiery column's glow.
There rose the choral hymn of praise,

And trump and timbrel answer'd keen,
And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays,
With priest's and warrior's voice between.

No portents now our foes amaze,
Forsaken Israel wanders lone ;

Our fathers would not know THY ways,
And Thou hast left them to their own.

But, present still, though now unseen!
When brightly shines the prosp'rous day,
Be thoughts of THEE a cloudy screen
To temper the deceitful ray.

And oh, when stoops on Judah's path,
In shade and storm, the frequent night,
Be THOU, long suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light.

Our harps we left by Babel's streams,
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn:
No censer round our altar beams,

And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn.
But THOU hast said, the blood of goat,
The flesh of rams I will not prize;
A contrite heart, a humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice.

CHARLES V. AND THE COBBLER.

Charles V. Emperor of Germany, in his intervals of relaxation used to retire to Brussels: he was a prince curious to know the sentiments of his meanest subjects concerning himself and his administration; therefore often went out incog. and mixed himself in such company and conversation as he thought proper.

One night, his boot requiring immediate mending, he was directed to a cobbler: unluckily it happened to be St. Crispin's holiday, and, instead of finding the cobbler inclined to work, he was in the height of his jollity among his acquaintance; the emperor told him what he wanted, and offered a handsome gratuity; What, friend," said the fellow, do you know no better than to ask any of our craft to work on St.