recklessly withdrawn But she had to contend with those who, from infancy, had been trained to the mountains; who

"Had roam'd the valleys with the browsing flock,
And leap'd in joy of youth from rock to rock;
Whose feet, o'er highest hills, would tame the hind,
And tire the ostrich buoyant on the wind."

In vain then she flew. The steps of her pursuers were already behind her -her burthen dropped from her relaxed hold,—and with one faint shriek, exclaiming, "Protect me, Heaven!" she fell senseless on the ground. Conrade and his lawless associates were at hand; and with the cruel delight of the tiger, when it springs on the antelope bounding over the plain, leaped upon their lovely and defenceless prey.

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Noon meanwhile had come. It was the usual hour of Gertrude's return from her tender task. Accompanied by her charge, who knew and obeyed her call, she was generally seen ascending the rising ground that lay in front of her father's abode, as the sun of mid-day fell full on the northern declivity of the glen. But to-day, one of the flock was observed—or another, bleating, as if it had missed a friend; and wandering here and there, without any voice to guide it, proclaimed unconsciously some melancholy catastrophe. Where is Gertrude?" was now the anxious cry, that resounded from the cottage to the farthest limits of the glen. "Gertrude, Gertrude," echoed from rock to rock; and the sound-so long had been the searchwas already dying on the breeze of evening. Some few of the scattered flock had returned.-The others were still feeding without a monitor to tell them when they strayed, and wondering that the accustomed summons no longer met their ears. All now was terror and dismay. Many, interested in the fate of one so generally beloved, were dispersed over all the adjacent hills-but when night approached, and their enquiries ceased, they had alike to lament the fruitlessness of their endeavours. One by one they revisited the abode lately so happy, but now the seat of mourning and woe: one by one, they returned to tell the same melancholy tale-that their lovely and beloved Gertrude neither in life nor in death was to be found.

PART. XII

"No, no, the radiance is not dim,
That used to gild his favourite hill;
The pleasures that were dear to him,
Are dear to life and nature`still.
But, ah! his home is not as fair,
Neglected must his gardens be:
The lilies droop and wither there,
And seem to whisper, "Where is she?"

FROM that moment—and days, and months, and years, in their slow round passed away-no tidings came. Time, untiring and heedless, still held his onward flight. Doubt and uncertainty involved the fate of Ger

trude. All that her parents could do was done to trace her-but all in vain. They had heard of the sudden appearance of Conrade's band in the neighbourhood on the evening preceding the mournful event. But from that hour nothing could be ascertained concerning them. They had had, so rumour said, some disagreement among themselves. Part, in consequence, had withdrawn to the Appennines, where they had united themselves with the banditti that infest those mountains. Others had removed, it was believed, to the most distant fastnesses of the Tyrol; while the remainder, it was thought, had combined with one of those ferocious hordes which render so dangerous the passage of that immense chain which separates France from the Iberian peninsula. Their leader, too, had vanished. Many were the apprehensions, many the surprises of all; but their fears were only uttered in whisper, their conjectures expired upon their lips. His father, indifferent to every thing, had gradually become scarcely human, and was at length swept away by the tide of time. His memorial had perished with him, or was remembered only as of a being who had been. On his dying bed, it was related, he had declared, that a child was living on whom would devolve his titles and possessions. Still, however, no heir claimed his domains; and they were in process of years annexed to the Imperial crown.

The glen, too, was changed. Happy it had once been, and peaceful. Morning had risen on it with smiles, as gentle as ever she shed on a world ravaged by sorrow, and stained with crime; and evening had lingered over it with a radiance, as soft as was ever poured upon her native isles. On every side was visible the hand of cultivation. Tree and shrub, herb and flower, knew their places, and adorned each in loveliness the sylvan scene. Now, all was desolation and decay. Distress and anxiety had brought its once blest inmates immaturely to the grave. Margaret first fell a victim. The melancholy intelligence we have previously alluded to had already given her frame a severe shock; and she soon sunk under the sad incertitude of her daughter's fate. Ellen, faithful to the close, never left her. She had nursed her infancy, had tended her maturity, and she watched over her decline. But agonizing as was the pang which tore the maternal bosom of Margaret, Religion shed upon her dying pillow a deep unruffled calm; and she laid her head upon the breast of Ellen-that breast from which she had first drawn the nourishment of life-and without a struggle or a sigh expired. It was not distinctly heard what last she uttered. Ellen thought it was, "Gertrude❞—her husband believed it was, "Jesus." But whether the parting moment was darkened by the recollection of her daughter's catastrophe, or brightened by the reminiscence of the Saviour's love, none ever doubted but her end was peace.

Ellen, enfeebled as she had long been, and worn out with attendance on her child, soon followed her to rest. She would not remain under the roof of Arnold, however, though earnestly intreated to do so. "No," she said; "I must return and die, where my husband and my baby died. And under the same tree that overshadows them, there also will I repose. It may perhaps, she would observe, be a woman's thought-but I wish, united as I was to them in life, and undivided from them as I shall be in death, that we may rise together, and go hand in hand to judgment.”

Nor did Arnold long survive. Bound up as he was in his wife and child, his bereavement seemed to snap, as it were, instantaneously the ties that held him to existence. He had had his sorrows; but he believed them

sent in mercy; and he saw now himself descending to the grave with joy. The prospect of his rest was sweetened by the troubles he had met with. His voyage had been over a stormy ocean; but the haven he was approach. ing was sheltered from every wind that blew. He died and was buried. One little mound covered him and his partner, and beneath its verdant covering they were again stretched in unbroken slumbers side by side.While the remembrance of their melancholy story lived, the spot was yearly visited by the neighbouring peasantry, and trimmed afresh, and strewed with flowers. Tradition tells, also, that some maiden of the hills was appointed, on the occasion, to sing a dirge in memory of the lovely Gertrude ;-whose name, though now almost obliterated in the lapse of time, was for ages handed down among the simple natives of the wilds of Switzerland. The mothers prayed that their daughters might imitate her virtuous example; nor were these unwilling to be considered as treading in the steps of the fair, but hapless, Shepherdess of the Mountains.

STANZAS.

Oh! mourn not for her, who beneath the cold billow
Now tranquilly rests, all her wanderings o'er;
In silence she sleeps, the wave for her pillow,

And lulled by the breezes that come from the shore:
Oh! weep not for her, for each pleasure had vanished,
Each hope which she cherish'd, had pass'd to decay,
And the cares of affliction each fair dream had banished,
And chased all the bliss of her young heart away.

As bright as the dew-drops, that sparkle on flowers,
Was the first fragrant moment "love's witchery" came,

The sunshine of happiness beam'd on her hours,

And fondly she deem'd that its light would remain;
But falsehood the sweetness of life soon involved,
And deceit from her bosom made happiness sever,
Too soon the bright hopes which she cherish'd had faded,
And sunk in the whirlpool of sorrow for ever.

She ask'd not for life, for no charm was remaining,
But sought for sweet rest and repose 'neath the wave,
And many a maiden, her mem'ry retaining,

Will oft breathe a sigh o'er her watery grave;

Then mourn not for her, who beneath the cold billow,
Now tranquilly rests, all her wanderings o'er,

For silent she sleeps, the wave for her pillow,
And lull'd by the breezes that come from the shore.

G. I.

THE SENSITIVE MAN.

THE Pythagoreans, in their doctrines of morality, declared, that human nature partook of those propensities which are common to brutes; but that besides those, and the passions of avarice and ambition, it was susceptible of virtuous impulses and impressions. Observation bears witness, that in the degrees both of this susceptibility, and of feeling, men differ so widely from each other, as almost to appear like beings of a distinct species: the obtuse, or insensible man, not only being an entire stranger to the refined emotions and delights of his more sensitive fellow-creatures, but being also apparently unprovided with any faculty for comprehending them.

The Sensitive Man possesses a strong and fertile imagination, a delicacy and intensity of feeling, much benevolence, and not a little irritability. He enters into every pursuit with ardour, and is a total stranger to apathy. He has the power of discerning the sublime and beautiful, wherever they are to be found; and no sooner does he discern, than he is enamoured of them. He is full of sympathy, entering incontinently into the feelings of his associates; touched by whatever is affecting, charmed with all that is agreeable. A tale of woe wrings his heart: he has not patience to hear it out, but is ready instantly to impoverish himself for the relief of the distressed. At the narration of dreadful accidents, the expression of his countenance would lead one to imagine, that he was the chief sufferer; and on hearing of a surgical operation, he turns as faint as if it were being performed on himself. If he encounters a funeral procession, he gazes wistfully on the mournful train: he does not ask whose remains are being carried to the tomb, or what are the names of the attendant mourners. He knows that a spirit has departed, he sees that a family is bereft: what more then is needed to fill his breast with anguish, and to make his eyes overflow with tears?

In conversation he is full of spirit and vivacity: he speaks without guile or premeditation: there is a glow in his language, an energy in his manner, Which show that he is in earnest. If any one seems at a loss for a word, the Sensitive Man is uneasy for him; but in endeavouring to prompt, he only increases the awkwardness of the hapless wight whom he intended to assist, and causes himself to be looked upon as forward and impatient for his pains. Should any insignificant person be present, who is treated with the scornful airs of greater personages, the Sensitive Man feels the insult as if offered to himself, and from that moment he addresses his attentions in a more particular manner to the unfortunate object of contempt.

To the theatre he goes to witness the first appearance of some unpractised candidate for Thespian honours. He trembles before the curtain is drawn up; and when the performer appears, a cold perspiration bedews his forehead: he applauds vehemently, to cheer the debutant on his entrance; and when all is hushed, he listens with breathless anxiety for the first sentence. His countenance instinctively assumes all the varied expressions of the actor's. If a hiss is heard, the sensitive auditor is alarmed: if the performer is faulty, he pities him: at the same time that no one suffers so painfully as he from the exhibition of faults, which no one can so readily detect.

Though he be favoured with the surest indications of genius; though versed in all the depths of learning; and polished with every graceful accom

plishment; his excessive timidity and apprehension will sometimes throw a veil over them all,* and he will almost dread to exhibit his utmost capabilities, for fear of being chargeable with undue confidence and ostentation. He is consumed with an internal fire, of indescribable ardency, at the very time when the superficial and unobservant decide within themselves, that he is a strange, phleghmatic, frigid sort of creature. If he hesitates, it is not for want of feeling or of thought, but on account of the superabundance of both. Solicited by a profusion of beautiful imagery, he knows not how to decide upon the most appropriate in his haste he utters the last he should select, or, perhaps, two or three commingled; while the cold hearer wonders what can confuse him, and sets him down for a man of weak judgment and barren imagination. But let him retire to his tranquil study, and shut the door upon the distracting impertinencies of the world: there his mind, being left free and at ease, unfolds its varied treasures; and his conceptions, being invigorated with good sense, and arranged with the nicest discrimination, ere while come forth to astonish, delight, and edify mankind. Yet if an attempt be made to force his genius, to dictate what range he is to take, or restrict him to times and forms, he shrinks from the trial; he makes a feeble effort, which, if not abortive, is much less productive than the heedless exertions of less gifted, less susceptible individuals.+

The Sensitive Man is actuated by many fine springs, of which the common herd of men know nothing, he is also exposed to many annoyances which others disregard. The sight of a disproportioned building; the din of discordant sounds, "all jingling out of time;" the jostling and incivilities of the busy multitude, are sufficient to disgust him with the town, and drive him for enjoyment into the country. There he may wander through sequestered vales, or along the margin of some peaceful stream, having his eyes charmed with an infinity of pleasing objects, his ears regaled with the sweetest effusions of natural harmony, and his every sense and faculty absorbed in lofty meditations. I should not desire to cross his path at such a moment; for were I to interrupt his contemplations, even though he had been occupied in devising schemes for my happiness, I should receive but supercilious looks, testy exclamations, short answers, and hints to be gone. There is a natural tendency to impatience in the ultra-sensitive, which those certainly deserve to experience who officiously or inconsiderately interfere with his peculiarities, but which none can regret so bitterly, and none more sincerely desire to subdue, than the possessor. The thought of saying an unkind word, of using a peevish tone, or of wounding in any way, the feelings of another, fills him with uneasiness and self-dissatisfaction. To expiate his offence, he overwhelms you with apologies and good

* He who shone as the Father of Roman eloquence, never commenced an oration without feeling a secret emotion of dread, and evincing symptoms of timidity. + Addison, before the arrival of King George, was Secretary to the Regency, and in that capacity was required to send notice to Hanover that the Queen was dead, and the throne vacant,-a task which would not have seemed difficult to an ordinary scribe. But Addison was so overwhelmed with the greatness of the event, and so perplexed in the choice of expressions, that the Lords, thinking it no time for heeding the niceties of criticism, called Mr. Southwell, a Clerk of the House, and instructed him to despatch the message. Southwell presently wrote what was necessary, in the common form of business, and valued himself upon having done that which proved too difficult for the learned Secretary.

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