move in the least the stony confines of his ghastly prison. At length, faint and powerless, he became more calm, and resigned himself in absolute despair to the dismal fate of a slow and agonizing death by famine. The pomp of this world, the glorious hopes, the fevered longings of ambition and the splendours of universal empire, all vanished into nothingness, like the beauteous scenes penciled by the sunbeams on an evening sky; no wish of earth seemed to linger about his faintly-beating heart; his spirit turned to heaven and the gods for hope and consolation, and tears of penitence and remorse for the past, trickled like a summer fountain down his cheeks. But other thoughts came o'er his bewildered mind, and he wept afresh as he reflected on the bright blue heavens above, the sunny fields, the flowery groves, the songs of the birds, fluttering in light and liberty, and the city's happy and busy crowds, with all their joys and pleasures, while he was cut off from the land of the living, and numbered with the dead, yet doomed to endure all the horrors of conscious existence even in the grave. His agonies of soul and body returned with double force. Again he raved like one in whom the last gleam of reason hath expired in the gloomy whirlwind of madness. His temples burned as if encircled with fire, undefinable visions of ghastliness flitted before his sight, his brain whirled round and round, his thirst was insupportable, and wild with frenzy, he strove again to burst the bonds of the dark sepulchre, till he sunk from utter exhaustion into insensibility.

*

*

*

(Concluded at page 85).

THE INDIANS' REVENGE.

(From Washington Irving's Astoria).

As the party were proceeding up the Columbia, near the mouth of the WallahWallah river, several Indian canoes put off from the shore to overtake them, and a voice called upon them in French, and requested them to stop. They accordingly put to shore, and were joined by those in the canoes. To their surprise, they recognised in the person who had hailed them the Indian wife of Pierre Dorion, accompanied by her two children. She had a story to tell, involving the fate of several of our unfortunate adventurers.

Mr. John Reed, the Hibernian, it will be remembered, had been detached

during the summer to the Snake river, His party consisted of four Canadians, Gilles Le Clerc, Francois Landry, Jean Baptiste Turcot, and Andre La Chapelle, together with two hunters, Pierre Dorion, and Pierre Delauny; Dorion, as usual, being accompanied by his wife and children. The objects of this expedition were twofold; to trap beaver, and to search for the three hunters, Robinson, Hoback, and Renzer.

In the course of the autumn, Reed lost one man, Landry, by death; another one, Pierre Delaunay, who was of a sullen, perverse disposition, left him in a moody fit, and was never heard of afterwards. The number of his party was not, however, reduced by these losses, as the three hunters, Robinson, Hoback, and Renzer, had joined it.

Reed now built a house on the Snake river for their winter quarters, which being completed, the party set about trapping. Renzer, Le Clerc, and Pierre Dorion, went about five days' journey from the wintering house, to a part of the country well stocked with beaver. Here they put up a hut, and proceeded to trap with great success. While the men were out hunting, Pierre Dorion's wife remained at home to dress the skins and prepare the meals. She was thus employed one evening, about the beginning of January, cooking the supper of the hunters, when she heard footsteps, and Le Clerc staggered, pale and bleeding, into the hut. He informed her that a party of savages had surprised them while at their traps, and had killed Renzer and her husband. He had barely strength left to give this information, when he sank upon the ground.

The poor woman saw that the only chance for life was instant flight, but, in this exigency, shewed that presence of mind and force of character for which she had frequently been noted. With great difficulty, she caught two of the horses belonging to the party. Then collecting her clothes, and a small quantity of beaver meat and dried salmon, she packed them upon one of the horses, and helped the wounded man to mount upon it. On the other horse she mounted with her two children, and hurried away from this dangerous neighbourhood, directing her fight for Mr. Reed's establishment. On the third day, she descried a number of Indians on horseback, proceeding in an easterly direction. She immediately dismounted with her children, and helped Le Clerc likewise to dismount, and all concealed themselves.

Fortunately they escaped the sharp eyes of the savages, but had to proceed with the utmost caution. That night they slept without fire or water; she managed to keep her children warm in her arms; but before morning poor Le Clerc died.

With the dawn of day, the resolute woman resumed her course, and on the fourth day, reached the house of Mr. Reed. It was deserted, and all around were marks of blood and signs of a furious massacre. Not doubting that Mr. Reed and his party had fallen victims, she turned in fresh horror from the spot. For two days she continued hurrying forward, ready to sink for want of food, but more solicitous about her children than herself. At length she reached a range of the Rocky mountains, near the upper part of the Wallah-Wallah river. Here she chose a wild lonely ravine, as her place of winter refuge.

She had, fortunately, a buffalo robe and three deer skins; of these, and of pine bark and cedar branches, she constructed a rude wigwam, which she pitched beside a mountain spring. Having no other food, she killed the two horses and smoked their flesh. The skins aided to cover her hut. Here she dragged out the winter, with no other company than her two children. Toward the middle of March, her provisions were nearly exhausted; she therefore packed up the remainder, slung it on her back, and, with her helpless little ones, set out again on her wanderings. Crossing the ridge of mountains, she descended to the banks of the WallahWallah, and kept along them until she arrived where that river throws itself into the Columbia. She was hospitably received and entertained by the WallahWallahs, until the time when the canoes passed.

On being interrogated, she could assign no reason for this murderous attack of the savages; it appeared to be perfectly wanton and unprovoked. Some of the Astorians supposed it an act of butchery by a roving band of Blackfeet; others, however, and with greater probability of correctness, have ascribed it to the tribe of Pierced-nosed Indians, in revenge for the death of their comrade, hanged by order of Mr. Clark. If so, it shews that these sudden and apparently wanton outbreakings of sanguinary violence on the part of savages, have often some previous, though, perhaps remote provocation.

THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL; OR, A JUDICIAL TRIAL BY COMBAT.

BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

(Concluded from p. 64).

With this determination the duchess

was fain to comply. Proclamations were accordingly made, and heralds sent to various parts; but day after day, week after week, and month after month elapsed, without any champion appearing to assert her loyalty throughout that darksome hour. The fair widow was reduced to despair, when tidings reached her of grand tournaments to be held at Toledo, in celebration of the nuptials of Don Roderic, the last of the Gothic kings, with the Morisco Princess Exi lona. As a last resort, the duchess repaired to the Spanish court, to implore the gallantry of its assembled chivalry.

The ancient city of Toledo was a scene of gorgeous revelry on the event of the royal nuptials. The youthful king, brave, ardent, and magnificent, and his lovely bride, beaming with all the radiant beauty of the east, were hailed with shouts and acclamations whenever they appeared. Their nobles vied with each other in the luxury of their attire, their splendid retinues and prancing steeds; and the haughty dames of the court appeared in a blaze of jewels.

In the midst of all this pageantry, the beautiful, but afflicted Duchess of Lorraine made her approach to the throne. She was dressed in black, and closely veiled; four duennas of the most staid and severe aspect, and six beautiful demoiselles, formed her female attendants. She was guarded by several very ancient, withered, and grey headed cavaliers; and her train was borne by one of the most deformed and diminutive dwarfs in exist

ence.

Advancing to the foot of the throne, she knelt down, and throwing up her veil, revealed a countenance so beautiful that half the courtiers present were ready to renounce their wives and mistresses, and devote themselves to her service; but when she made known that she came in quest of champions to defend her fame, every cavalier pressed forward to offer her his arm and sword, without inquiring into the merits of the case; for it seemed clear that so beauteous a lady could have done nothing but what was right; and that, at any rate, she ought to be championed in following the bent of her humours, whether right or wrong.

Encouraged by such gallant zeal, the duchess suffered herself to be raised from the ground, and related the whole story of her distress. When she concluded, the king remained for some time silent, charmed by the music of her voice. At length; “As I hope for salvation, most beautiful duchess,” said he, "were I not a sovereign king, and bound in duty to my kingdom, I, myself, would put lance in rest to vindicate your cause; as it is, I here give full permission to my knights, and promise lists and a fair field, and that the contest shall take place before the walls of Toledo, in presence of my assembled court."

As soon as the pleasure of the king was known, there was a strife among the cavaliers present, for the honour of the contest. It was decided by lot, and the successful candidates were objects of great envy, for every one was ambitious of finding favour in the eyes of the beauti. ful widow.

Missives were sent, summoning the nephew and his two uncles to Toledo, to maintain their accusation, and a day was appointed for the combat. When the day arrived, all Toledo was in commotion at an early hour. The lists had been prepared in the usual place, just without the walls, at the foot of the rugged rocks on which the city is built, and on that beautiful meadow along the Tagus, known by the name of the king's garden. The populace had already assembled, each one eager to secure a favourable place. The balconies were soon filled with the ladies of the court, clad in their richest attire, and bands of youthful knights, splendidly armed, and decorated with their ladies' devices were managing their superbly-comparisoned steeds about the field. The king, at length, came forth in state, accompanied by the queen Exilona. They took their seats in a raised balcony, under a canopy of rich damask; and at sight of them the people rent the air with acclamations. The nephew and his uncles now rode into the field, armed cap-a-pie, and followed by a train of cavaliers of their own roystering cast, great swearers and carousers, arrant swashbucklers, that went about with clanking armour and jingling spurs. When the people of Toledo beheld the vaunting and discourteous ap. pearance of these knights, they were more anxious than ever for the success of the gentle duchess; but, at the same time, the sturdy and stalwart frames of these warriors, showed that whoever won the victory from them, must do it at the cost of many a bitter blow.

As the nephew and his riotous crew rode in at one side of the field, the fair widow appeared at the other, with her suite of grave, gray-headed courtiers, her ancient duennas and dainty demoiselles, and the little dwarf toiling along under the weight of her train. Every one made way for her as she passed, and blessed her beautiful face, and prayed for success to her cause. She took her seat in a lower balcony, not far from the sovereign's; and her pale face, set off by her mourning weeds, was as the moon shining forth from among the clouds of night.

The trumpets sounded for combat. The warriors were just entering the lists, when a stranger knight, armed in panoply, and followed by two pages and an esquire, came galloping into the field, and riding up to the royal balcony, claimed the combat as a matter of right.

"In me,” cried he, "behold the cavalier who had the happiness to rescue the beautiful duchess from the peril of the forest, and the misfortune to bring on her this grievous calumny. It was but recently, in the course of my errantry, that tidings of her wrongs have reached my ears, and I have urged hither at all speed, to stand forth on her vindication."

No sooner did the duchess hear the accents of the knight, than she recognized his voice, and joined her prayers with his that he might enter the lists. The difficulty was to determine which of the three champions already appointed should yield his place, each insisting on the honour of the combat. The stranger knight would have settled the point, by taking the whole contest upon himself; but this the other knights would not permit. It was at length determined, as before, by lot, and the cavalier who lost the chance, retired murmuring and disconsolate.

The trumpets again sounded-the lists were opened. The arrogant nephew and his two drawcansir uncles appeared so completely cased in steel, that they and their steeds were like moving masses of iron. When they understood the stranger knight to be the same that had rescued the duchess from her peril, they greeted him with the most boisterous derision.

"O ho, sir knight of the dragon!" said they; "you who pretend to champion fair widows in the dark, come on, and vindicate your deeds of darkness in the open day."

The only reply of the cavalier was to put lance in rest, and brace himself for

the encounter.

Needless is it to relate the particulars of a battle, which was like so many hundred combats that have been said and sung in prose and verse. Who is there but must have foreseen the event of a contest, where heaven had to decide on the guilt or innocence of the most beautiful and immaculate of widows?

The sagacious reader, deeply read in this kind of judicial combats, can imagine the encounter of the graceless nephew and the stranger knight. He sees their concussion, man to man, and horse to horse, in mad career, and in that Sir Graceless hurled to the ground, and slain. He will not wonder that the brawny uncles were less successful in their rude encounter; but he will picture to himself the stout stranger spurring to their rescue in the very critical moment; he will see him transfixing one with his lance, and cleaving the other with the chimo with a back stroke of his sword, thus leaving the trio of accusers dead upon the field, and establishing the immaculate fidelity of the duchess, and her title to the dukedom, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

The air rang with acclamations; nothing was heard but praises of the beauty and virtue of the duchess, and of the prowess of the stranger knight; but the public joy was still more increased when the champion raised his visor, and revealed the countenance of one of the bravest cavaliers in Spain, renowned for his gallantry in the service of the sex, who had long been absent in quest of similar adventures.

That worthy knight, however, was severely wounded in the battle, and remained for a long time ill of his wounds. The lovely duchess, grateful for having twice owed her protection to his arm, attended him daily during his illness. A tender passion grew up between them, and she finally rewarded his gallantry by giving him her hand.

The king would fain have had the knight establish his title to such high advancement by farther deeds of arms; but his courtiers declared that he had already merited the lady, by thus vindicating her fame and fortune in a deadly combat to outrance; and the lady herself hinted that she was perfectly satisfied of his prowess in arms, from the proofs she received in his achievement in the forest.

Their nuptials were celebrated with great magnificence. The present husband of the duchess did not pray and fast like his predecessor, Philibert the

wife-ridden; yet he found greater favour in the eyes of heaven, for their union was blessed with a numerous progeny ; the daughter chaste and beauteous as their mother; the sons all stout and valiant as their sire, and all renowned, like him, for relieving disconsolate damsels and desolate widows.

A VISIT TO FERNEY.

BY BRANTZ MAYER.

I was sitting by my window, enjoying the freshness of the early morning as the sun rose brightly over Lake Leman, and thinking of the traveller's task-where I should go that day-when, as Paddy says, "there kem a knock to my door," and a neatly-dressed coachman entered, with whip and hat in hand, and a kind supposition that "as monsieur was a stranger at Geneva, he would, perhaps, like to visit Voltaire's Château at Ferney, where he would be proud and happy to take me for the very moderate sum of five francs, et quelque chose pour boire."

Philosophy was cheap, and the bargain quickly closed; so, after a delicious breakfast, (and I must here praise the "Eau de Gèneve" in a parenthesis), the carriage was brought up, and in a few minutes we were bowling along over a smooth road into the country. It is a peculiarity of Geneva that even in the very heart of the town there is, as it were, a coldness of circulation-a reserve and silence, as if Calvin were yet about to issue from some neighbouring door and frown upon anything like levity; but the barrier of the town once passed, and the traveller finds himself buried in the country with a quiet around him as perfect and uninterrupted as that of a mountain solitude. It is this which has made Geneva and the banks of her lake the favourite retreat of men of genius, tired of action or ambition, and seeking a home where they might, "in the lonely laboratory of their thoughts," form the noble works that would make their names eternal : mountain, plain, and water, the sublime and the beautiful, every where around them; solitude secured to them, and yet in the immediate neighbourhood of refined society.

Voltaire's château is about four miles from Geneva, and lies immediately over the Swiss frontier in France. The road leading to it passes through many farms and highly cultivated grounds of pleasure villas. The house is a plain two-story edifice, of convenient dimensions and

unpretending appearance, embowered in a thick grove, and approached by a noble avenue of lofty and ancient elms. The grounds, I understand, were laid out and planted chiefly by Voltaire himself, and are probably more remarkable for beauty, now that they are suffered to run riot in all the luxuriance of nature than during the days of the original possessor. The small, ill-furnished hall, the comfortless chamber with its pine bedstead and clipped curtains, its pictures, monuments, and inscriptions, have been so often the theme of travellers, that I will not describe them here; but as I stood in that narrow room, and saw the relics of the philosopher about me preserved as if he had but just gone to take his morn ing walk; the table where he wrote, the inkstand whence, so to speak, a revolution flowed, the bed where he dreamed, the walls that had witnessed his most secret moments, I felt that I was upon a haunted spot, and was glad when the foolish woman who acted as guide was called away.

Here, day after day he lived, cold, lonely, feared, unloved, unmoved by the motives of ordinary men, unexcited to sympathy by the misfortunes of his fel-. low-creatures, though nature appealed to him whenever he came to his door by her eloquent beauty and sublimity. He made no effort to render human life more tolerable or to exalt his species. There was no dignity in his character, for there was no nature; art had clipped his mind into the deformity of a Dutch gardener. He delighted to announce the evil with scrupulous exactitude, and yet as carefully suppressed the good, railing at everything without suggesting a remedy for the faults. Lacking imagination and passion, he devoted himself to a criticism of the foibles and errors of his race, but never felt enough to understand the workings of the human heart, and thus, without the two chief elements of originality, he was only great in littleness.

Is it, therefore, wonderful that we find his name mentioned without respect, and that his labours and character have been without a lasting result? What lesson has he taught, who was now the friend of liberty and yet the parasite of royalty; who turned history into romance and published it as authentic ; who, to shew his literary taste, scoffed at Shakspeare and laughed at the Italian poets; the builder of churches to God, and yet the reviler of his altar; and who passed a life of contradiction and sen

suality which would have been intolerable but for the wit with which he seasoned his vices or the sarcasm that withered opposition.

As I left the house and was descending the steps toward the carriage, a tall, respectable, grey-headed veteran met me with an offer of his services as cicerone. He was grandson to the gardener of Voltaire's day, and remembers the philoso pher minutely; but, from his extreme age, (I believe he is over one hundred), he must naturally, though still a hale and healthy man, mix up much that he has heard with his own recollections. He described Voltaire's personal appearance, his habits, his gaudy dress and equipage, with great accuracy; shewed me in his little cottage Voltaire's walkingstaff and embroidered satin cap, which he had left him in his will, judging, no doubt, that as curiosities they would yield the poor fellow a comfortable revenue; and told me several anecdotes of his intercourse with distinguished men, which I do not remember to have seen in print.

I dined in the village, and returned to Geneva in the afternoon. A short distance from town, I stopped upon an eminence. It was near sunset, and as I looked towards the lake, the sun was over my shoulder, and lighting up one of the loveliest scenes I remember. Immediately in the foreground there was the most abundant cultivation, vines and grain mixed up in rich profusion. From the spot where I stood, the ground sloped gently downward to the water, which was now one sheet of gold, with the shadows deepening at its edges, and covered with a hundred sails hastening to the city on its banks. As the eye penetrated southward, it encountered on the far horizon the sharp and rugged outline of the Savoy Alps, defined as by a pencil on the clear blue sky, while high above all towered Mont Blanc in proud pre-eminence. As I gazed, the sun sank behind the Jura chain, and the solemn colouring of night drew on, yet long after the tops of the other higher mountains had become gray and cold, the sun still shone on the brow of the old "monarch of mountains" crowning it as with a glory.

Evening closed, and I drove into town as the nightingale wailed out the first note of his "amorosi pensieri."

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and