POETRY.
HYMN TO THE STARS.
AY! there ye shine, as erst ye shone,
In one eternal ‘hour of prime ;’.
Each rolling, burningly, alone,
Through boundless space.i-30'} C'0Um10SS lime-
Ay! there ye shine, the golden dews
That pave the realms by serziplis trod,
There, through your echoing vault‘, diffuse
The song of choral worlds to God.
Ye visible spirits! bright as erst
Young Eden’s birthright saw ye shine
On all her flowers and fountains first,
.— Ye sparkle from the hand" divine:
Yes! bright as then ye smiled to catch
The music ofa sphere so fair,
To hold your high immortal watch,
And gird your God’s pavilion there.
Gold frets to dust; yet there ye are;
Time rots the diamond ; there ye roll
In primal light, as if each star
Enshrined an everlasting soul,
And do they not? since yon bright throngs
One all enlightened spirit_own,
Praiml there by pure sidcreal tongues,
Eterne, glorious, blest and lone.
Cotill men but see what ye have seen,
Unfoldawhile the shrouded Past,
Froii all that is, to what has been ;
The géfzmce how rich, the range how vast!
\ Thebirth of Time : the rise, the fall
Sf em KY}?-1.~_“x_uri~rls, ages flown;
'1'!”-’_~‘es’ clues’ ‘°"£=es, arts, worships; all
The things whose echoes are not gone.
Ye s!\_v red Zoraster send
"1-115 soumto his mystic reign;
I A Ye savthe adoring Sabcan bend,
Theving hills his mighty fane;
Benea his blue and beaining sky,
He )rshipped at your lofty shrine,
And dmed he saw, with gifted eye,
Thdodhea’d in his works divine.
And tl'e ye shine, as if to mock
Thihildren of an earthly sire:
The sm, the bolt, the carthquake’s shock,
A _ Thed volcano’s cat’ract fire :
Drotn, famine, plague, and blood, and flame,
Allature’s ills and Life's worst woes,
Are nght. to you; ye smile the same,
Aucorn alike their dawn and close.
Ay ! ere ye roll, emblems sublime
_ Ofm whose spirit o’er you moves,
’ . -Beytl the clouds of griefand crime,
T Stishining on the world he loves.
I‘-or one scene to mortals given,
Th more divides the soul and sod
Phauon proud heraldry of Heaven,
Yo burning blazonry of God.
3, From the Parlor Jlfaguzine.
QN )NE \VIIO HAD NEVER LEFT IIIS
\ HOME.
~ 1-‘non Tm: L.'l’I‘I.\‘ or CLAUDIA.\'.
Tm. fields, that were his early joy,
Still please his eye, with age though dim,-—
That home, his world while yet a boy,
.ls still, blcss‘d lot, a world to him.
‘ Years have rolled on, at. Time’s cotnmaud,
And still his little cot hath smil’d ;
‘ ‘Though now his stalfindcnts the sand
On which he tottcrcd when a child.
Content, he hecds not I“ortune’s changes,
Nor fates of conquerors, nor kings ;
O’cr no untroddcn realms he ranges,
He drinks of no forbidden springs.
From treacherous seas, no wealth he draws;
His peace no trumpet.’s clang alarms ;
, .
The I ormn mcets—he hath no cause;
Harmless he lives, and free from harms.
Unknowing aught that cities own,
0: Grandeur’s smile, or Miscry’s sigh,
\Vhat boots it? he hath better known
The beautiful of Earth and Sky.
No Consulates his years design,
No Calendar computes his hours;
ut Autumn’s chronicled in wine,
nd pranksomc Springtime writ in flowers
lay one dial measures still,
Its simple rule he nc’er forgets—-
His Phtebus rises from you hill,
Beneath yon neighbor hill he sits.
The sturdy oak, whose shade he loves,
_He well recalls a sapling slim;
IIe is coeval with the groves,
- And feels his trees grow old with him.
‘e blcst! Though old Verona’s pride
strange as is the torrid zone.
.mooth Beuacus’ flowery side,
Pharaoh’s Sea, to thee unknown.
Time nor ill nor sorrow bring,
Small need hast thou of sights like these,
he seest thv childrcn’s children cling,
And climb about their grandsire’s knees.
\Vho scales the Alps, or skims the ocean,
Still toiling, still irnmers’d in strife,
DIore than thou dost, may know of motion,
Thou, haply, more than hc—oflife. A. A. L.
STANZAS.
MY soul, they say, is hard and cold,
- And nought can move me :
Perchance ’tis so ’mid'life’s wild whirl—
But, oh I on L’-eauty’s hp my girl,
’Twill melt like Clcopatra’s pearl—
Then love tnc——love me !
I would not climb Ambition’s heights
That soar above me ;
I do not ask thee to bestow
Or wealth or honors on me now,
Or wreathe with laurel leaves my brow,
But love mc—love me !
Oh, .l’ll gaze on thee till my fond
Fixed glances move thee:
Love's glances sometimes the coldest warms-
Pygmalion on a statute’s charms
Uazed till it leaped into his arms-—
Tlieti love mc—love me!
”‘£)iuANoE Iiv _I_{EA_L LIFE.
1 [From the Western Metlrotli.-it ]
._‘vVE.‘TERN TALE OF TRUTH.
V Henry Lossley was the son of a gentle-
. "“‘.-51 Georgia who was in but moderate cir-
',m(_~,e_«;. He was reared in the general
of rearing children among the southern
. --—he received a tolerable education and
tnowledgc ofbook keeping, having_ spent
months in the house of N . In the
»;,,:of'A , In the nineteenth year of his
' Tire formed an attachment to Miss Mary
jiiirig, a young lady of‘ some accornplish:
is and great. personal beauty, but her patri-
-‘‘r was small. Mr. Lossley and Miss Lau-
vcrc frequently in each othcr’s company,
.very time they met their mutual attach-
‘~,incrcasr-tl. They often spoke of their
, Q‘) i for each other, and lamcnttcd that
' ~;;ispects were not such as to justify a con-
for life. Titus matters went on with
sevtzralycars till at length, finding it
bio for them to be happy unless in each
gttlzicty, they detcrrnmcd tocust their lots
., and ifthcy should not be able to move
" the world in the style they could wish
‘Wild at all events support themselves dc-
‘ so they were united by thattie which is
" sacred and endearing which can be for-
thix life.
into months after their union they did
-,jn sensible of their want of pecuniary
,)ut it soon became evident that they
',avc to gain support by their actual lil-
itl as it was also certain that in that
they couldnot do more than ttbtaill 3
i
1.,
I
,-la"!
J5
..
s_-."«f'4‘l°.5_.,_.
2 (97).? 2‘:
9o
”?
BY WEI. G. HYER.
VOL. 18.
out any settled home, to which they did not feel
willing to subtnit—it was thought best that Mr.
Lossley should travel into some new couutry——
get a piece of land—make some little improve-
ment on it—then return and carry out his com-
panion. Many were the anxious thoughts that
lilled their bosoms. The lmsband had his fears
lest he should fail in obtaining a pleasant home
for his beloved one whom he was about to leave
behind; and the wife already began to count
the months, the weeks and even the days she
should be left as it were alone in the world;
while on the other hand, they both looked for-
ward with pleasure to the time when in a new
country, growing with its growth and strength-
eniug with its strength, they should rise to a state
ofimportance in the world.
The time of separation at last arrived, and
Mr. Lossley, after embracing his best of all
earthly friends, gave the,partiug hand, and took
his journey, not knowing, certainly whither he
was going. He travelled to the state of Ken-
tucky, and was about contracting for a piece of
land in the neighborhood of where the town of
H is now built. He availed himself of
the first opportunity in order to let her know
where he was and what he was doing.
This letter never reached the beloved object
for whom it wasintendcd, but fell into thehands
of one whose name will be ‘revealerl in that day/.’
Sufiice it to say, there was one with whom Mr.
Lossley had been a competit.or. An answer
came—but not from Mrs. Lossley : it was ap-
parently from her father with whom he left her
during his absence. Oh, horrid letter! never
shall I forget its language :
“Drzan Sex.--Your wife took sick about a
week after your departure. At first we did not
entertain any fears concerning her. After some
days, her brain became allcctcd and she lost her
reason; and while in this situation, she called
every person who was in attendance on her and
came to see her, ‘I’IC)I/'_7/ !’ A short time before
her death she came to herself, and seemed to
have but one desire to live, ?L‘]L'fCfL ears to see
you; and her last sentence was, “O my dear
Ifen/ry .’ and shall I see him no more in l/(is life .7
and breathed her last.
On the receptionof this letter Mr. Lossley be-
came almost desperate. His whole amount of
earthly good seemed cut off at one stroke. He
made several attempts to answer‘ this letter but
it was impossible to write on such a painful sub-
ject. He bec.ame a solitary man—being in a
land of strangers-—and had no person to whom
he could unbosom himself; and though grief
is fond of company, yet he had to share his
alone. The thought of returning to the place
where he had so often beheld the fair face and
lovely form of his nowlost Mary, without being
able to seehcr, he cottld not bear and having
left but little behind save his companion that
was of any consequence to him, he gave up the
idea of returning. flithcr had be any disposi-
tion to settle himself; and finding that he sus-
tained his grief better when travelling than in
any other way, he wandered off without any
settled point ofdcstination. At length he found
himselfat the lead mines of Missouri. But yet
he beheld objects that reminded him of his loss,
which induced him to sink still deeper into the
bosom of the great forest; so he joined himself
to a company of for traders and shaped his
course for the Rocky Mountains.
It was the custom of the company to post ,a
watch at night, which was proposed to be ta-
ken by turns ; yet for some time Lossley volun-
teered his services every night, so that when his
companions were asleep, he would look on the
moon and stars, which once shone on him when
he, with his fair one hanging on his arm, used
to take theirevcning excursions. The scream
of panthers did not interrupt him, while for the
lameutation of the owl he had a particular fond-
ness, and rarely for months did he take his de-
parture from a camping place without leaving
the letters “M. L.” on some one of the hitherto
undisturbed trees ofthe forest.
He wasted nearly two years amongthe north-
western Indians. The hardships_ he encounter-
ed, dangers through which he passed, all had_a
tendency to call off his mind from former sor-
rows, and the females, that he sometimes look-
ed upon were so unlike his Mary, that by the
time be returned to Missouri, he had in some
degree regained his former cheerfulness. But
no sooner did he enter the settlements where he
beheld the fair faces and graceful forms than a
recollection ofhis departed glory returned. But
the roll of years at length wore away his grief;
finding at last an object on which he could place
his affections he again entered into a married
connect.ion. From the time that he left his
companion in Georgia, till he married his so-
cond wife, was about five years.
But what shall we_ say about Mrs. Lossley-
for strange to tell, she still lived. \Vccks,
months, and years had rolled by, but had brought
her no tidings of her absent husband, post odi-
ees were cxamcd—but no letters came. His
name was looked for in the public prints; but
none could be found. Travellers were inqttircd
of, but to no avail. Not a word could she hear
Uflliln. At length she gave him up as dead,
and conceived ofhis death in many ways; at
one time .-the would fancy that. she could see his
bones at the bottom of Sonic stream irt whitzh he
had been drowned in attempting to cross; again
she could see him in some lonely spot—-murder-
Ctl by I‘Ul)l)CI'S, 01' tlt:Sll‘0yC(i by India“ violence ;
and at other times she \vott‘itl"{‘;m¢;y that She saw
him languish on some foreign liisd ;‘und afici-
a severe and lingering illness fell into the grave
among strangers. A lll()llS1llltlt_i”j05 51,0 ](',},](L.,]
on the way she saw him depart, and mum-“Cd
him dead till time had dried away her tears.
After the lapse of seven long ycfts and more
since the departure of Mr. Lossley, l\]jr. Starks
offered his hand in marriage to Mr.-. ]‘J05Si(,y
and as it was firmly believed by l’l(d'.s(,-][' 3",]
friends that Mr. Lossley was (lead, tun Mn
Starks being a gentleman worthy of lfq-1 Sim
accepted the offer and they were married"
At this time, Mr. Lossley was living win,
his second wife in the State of Missouri, ‘\v'l‘e;~e
he continued to live for something like cigltt.c‘vu
years. About fourteen years after his lllZ1l‘I‘l‘tl.,r_r.‘s.
cltildrcn a son and a daughter. The daughter
was the eldest, and took charge of her father’s
house-—iJ3ut a litt.le more than three years after
the death ofhcr mother, she married and mov-
ed to North Alabama, and her father and little
brother went with her.
In the mean time Mrs. Starks had lost her
i|l_|3ij;j”d and liitlior, and having but one child,
thgn 3 mile daughter, she rctnoved to North
Alabama, also, to 1‘CsitI_{2 wit.h an aged uncle
who was living in that part of the country; so
that Mr. Lossley aml Mrs. Starks liccamc neigh-
bors—and they again became. acquainted with
each other as (fol. Losslray (wllltilt title he h:._nl
obtained when among the fur-traders) and ]Wr.9.
Slur/.:.s'. They soon formed an attachment for
each other, and Col. Lossley eventually olfered
her his hand in tiiarrittgfl. Wllitrll Sllc ¥1Cf-'€}t1C‘tl-
"lSl(:ll(.‘(:, and at last in old age, be with-
if
his second wife died, and he was left with twosd
PRINCIPLES A-ND MEN.
$2 PER.ANNUM.
NOHEVVALK, TUESDAY, JULY 7, 1835.
their intercourse they both took great care never
to mention any circumstances of their first mar-
riage; and both passed for having been married
but once. They had both been so very cautious
on ‘this subject, that the slightest acquaintance
was not discovered until the night before the
marriage was to have been solemnized. Per-
haps the sacred fount of their fortner sorrows
was scaled too deep to be readily broken up again
by either of them.
The night before marriage, as they were
conversing alone, the Colonel remarked that
he expected to be a little frightened on the
next evening-—saying that with him the older
the worst—for, said he, whenI was married the
lirst time, I was not so much embarrassed as
when I was married the last! to which Mrs.
Starks replied by saying—then you have been
married ta-ice it seems. The Colonel at first
tried to change the subject of the conversation,
bttt soon found that would not do; and knowing
it would have to come out sooner or later, he
went into a detail of all the circumstances con-
nected with his first marriage, giving names and
dates. This was a subject on which the C010-
nel was eloqucnt. I-Ie remarked that his long
lost Mary was not out of his mind for one hour
at a time ; owing to that fact, he often spoke of
her to those who never heard of her, and could
not enter into the conversation with him. He
went on to state that she was Raehael—his first
choice——the companion of his youth. Having
taken hold upon his feelings at such an early
age, the impression was indcllible, and a recol-
lcctiou ofhcr name never could be erased from
his mind; and though said he, I have passed
through the town, the country, and the dreary
wilderness—through winter, through summer,
and friends and focs—-wthrough health & afflic-
tions—through smiles and frowns—yet I have
ever borne, painted upon my imagination, the
image of my lamented Mary. Here the mists
began to gather in the eye of the Colonel, and
for a few moments a death like silence prevailed.
At length looking upon his intended bride, he
saw that she had been taking a more than usu-
al interest in the relation be had been making.
He then broke the silence by saying, “you must
forgive me for the kind remembrance I bear for
the beloved companion ofmy youth.” VVhile
he was uttering this sentence, Mrs. Starks swoon-
ed away, and would have fallen from her seat
had not the Col. supported her. \Vhile she lay
in this death-like state, many were the reflec-
tions which passed through the mind of Col.
Lossley. First supposing, that as he had for a
time kept this secret from her, and at last di-
vulged it without intending to do so, it might
have a tendency to destroy her confidence in him,
or cause her to fear that his affections were so
much placed upon the memory of his first wife
that it would be impossible for him to love her
as he ought.
These and many other thoughts of a like kind
rushed through his mind, and be but awaited
the return ofthe power of utterance on the part
of Mrs. Starks to hear her renounce him forev-
er. But, oh, how mistaken were his fears! no
sooner aroused from her swoon than she threw
her arms around his neck, and restingher head
upon his bosom, sobbed like a child, crying out
“Oh my husband! my husband!” The Col.
being much astonished, inquired rather hastily
what she meant? \Vith a countenance still
beaming with joy and suffused with tears, she
exclaimed with a voice half-choked with utter-
anee, “Iam your Mary! your longlost Mary! and
you aremy Henry whom I have mourned as dead
these twenty years.”
The joy then became mutual. That night
and the next day were spent in relating the cir-
cumstances which had transpired with them
during their separation, and in adoring the Prov-
idence that had brought. them together. On
the next evening those hidden to the marriage
attended. The parson came-—but there was
no service for him to render. The transport-
ed couple informed the company, that they
had been lawfully married upwards of twenty
years before, and in explanation gave the above
brief outline of their history.
HISTORY OF ENGLAND.
LADY JANE GRAY.
Ambition punished, sel-dom excites pity; but
can a tribute of comrniseration be refused to a
beautiful woman, only seventeen years of age,
who laid her head upon theblock to expiate the
ambition of another? Suchwas the fate of La-
dy Jane Gray! A crown had no attractions for
her—she had no desire to reign! It seemed as if
this unfortunate and lovely young creature felt
her feet slip on the very steps ofthat throne
which the Duke of Northumberland forced her
to ascend. A warning prescntiment told her
that a life of quiet seclusion was the only means
she had of escaping a violent. death. She long
resisted the fatal counsel ofhcr fatherin-lav;
but she wasdragged on by her evil dcs-tiny.
Lady Jane Gray, born in 1537, was the grand
daughter of Mary Tudor, sister of Henry VIII.
This princess, being left a widow by the death
of her husband, Louis XII. King of France,
and having no children by this marriage, re-
turned to England and married Brandon, Duke
of Suffolk, whom she. had long loved, and who
was Lady .Ianc’s grandfather. The subject of
this memoir, when she was scarcely sixteen,
married Lord Guilford Dudly, fourth son of John
Dudley, Duke of Northumberland. Lady Jane
Gray was beyond tncasure lovely; her features
were beautifully regular, and her large and mild
eyes were the reflection of a pure and energetic
soul, though peaccful and unambitions. She
had a strong passion for study. especially of ab-
trusc science. Though young, she had acquir-
cd vast learning, and was deeply read in the an-
(zients; she was very fztntilinr with Greek, and
extremely partial to Plato. Living at one of
her cottntry seats, she divided her time between
her books and her lmsband, until political events
ofhigh importance troubled her peaceful mind
and destroyed her happiness.
Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset. Pro-
tector ofEngland, exercised over that. country a
espotic sway to which the nobles would no lon-
cr submit. The latter, equally disgusted with
l pride of Thomas Lord Seymour, the Pro-
lQ—or’s brother, applauded the Duke of Nor-
!-l|”h,_l»crlaml when he succcdcd in successively
l‘<-‘mhiniiig these two favorites from the ]{ing’s
l’CV5‘“"., and Northumberl'-J.nd thought himself
l’f!Plll"'\*‘\_\\\'llCl1 he was only loved on account of
1113 h1l“‘t._l to the Sevmours. Edward VI., a
‘Veflk fllllitsicltly child, who could ill bear the
‘V‘-"8!!! (’fl!° crown that encircled his palid brow,
i1lW?l)’S lmsik vcd his favor upon those near his
1’Cl">'0'?- 3”‘! iorthumbcrlat'n.l succeeded Somer-
5<—'l-- B“! ‘be!’ e\v fiivoritc, fearing, and with
£00‘! "C350": ll he should not long retain this
Siilllmlv 35 “'0 1.‘ g might die, and was indeed
‘he!’ !l.Y!”gs l!'!"”'lt only sixteen years of age,
°l“l"l")"-‘(ls Wll-ll Cwsitlcrztlilr: address, the preju-
his sister Mary, the Catholic; and representerl
in an equally unfavorable light, Elizabeth,
daughter ofthat Anna Boleyn who was con-
demned and executed for adultery. Could then
the crown of England, he asked, be placed up-
on a dishonored biow, or the welfare of the Eu-
glish nation be entrusted to an intolerant fana-
tic? Nortlrumberland was a man of ability:
he shook the timid conscience of Edward, who,
fearing Mary’s violence, and prejudiced against
Elizabeth, 'ehanged the order of succession, and
designated as his successor, Jane Gray, the eld-
est daughtc-’r' of Henry Gray. On the Kings,
death, Lady Jane was, through the exertions of
Northumberland, proclaimed Queen. In vain
did the lovely young creature entreather father-
in-law to allow her to retain her freedom; the
obstinate Duke, always at the head ofintrigucs,
determined to gain his point with her whom be
deemed a child. ‘Shall it be for nothing,’ said
he, ‘that I have caused the daughters of two
queens to be declared illegitimate in order to
place the crown on the head of my daughter-im
law ? No indeed !’ The ambitious old man
sent for the princesses Mary and Elizabeth to
London, without informing them of the King’s
death, which he kept concealed. But Mary be-
ing acquainted with Northuml)erlari(l’s projects,
escaped the snare ; and steel made her triumph
over the obstacles which he placed between the
throne and herself. Steel !—steel, flames. and
scaflblds, were about to constitute the la\vs of
Mary the Catholic—ot Mary the bloodthirsty !
She soon entered London, with prayers on
her tongue and vengeance in her heart. In vain
did Northumberland resist her; he was vau-
quishcd, deserted by every one, and together
with Lady Jane Gray and his son, Lord Guil-
ford Dudley, imprisoned in the Tower.
Poor Jane Cray !——shc had resisted her fath-
er-in-law’s only wishes to yield to them and die
after a reign of nine days! for the unfortunate
and lovely woman reigned no longer. Scarce-
ly had she placed upon her head that crown so
fatal to the touch-—which falls but to drag the
head of kings with it-—ere she was shut up in a
dungeon, soon to lay her head upon the block !
Alas! she had a prescntiment of her fate, when
she refused to exchange her diadem of flowers
for the regal crown of England. ,
Meanwile, Mary considered that the death of
Nortlnunberland alone was enough to appease
her vengeance and secure her peaceful posses-
sion of the throne. Lady Jane Gray and her
husband were confined in the tower of London ;
in the same place as that Elizabeth, who was
destined at a later period to show the world that
a woman may become a sovereign. For a time,
Mary suffered Lady Jane Gray to live. because
she thought that being queen of England both
by right and force, she -might reign in future
without taking away the lives ofhcr enemies.-
But StlCll.J§€l_l't”t‘ll1C dreadful consequences of vio-
lence, that, when once adopted, the only one
left open is one of bloodshed ;‘arrd to deviate
from it then is impossibiei ’
Mary was a Catholic. and a bigot; and being
betrothed to Philip of Spain, she was anxious to
offer a nuptial present worthy of him who was
one day to become the father of Don Carlos.-
She therefore commanded that all her subjects
throughout England should submit to the Sec of
of Rome; and as the English then professed the
Reformed Religion, and were attached to it, Ma-
ry directed also that scaffolds should be erected,
and piles of fagots raised for burning heretics.
On the issuing of these orders, insurrcctions
broke out in every part of the kingdom. The
Queen shuddered whenever she heard the name
of her sister and cousin; she stormed with rage
at the people who called for Lady Jane Gray;
and to silence them—to answer their call—she
threw them the head of that unhappy lady!
Poor Jane! Thou wert dragged from thy
peaceful retirement to be placed against thy
will upon a throne, and to fall into a dungeon!
The Ministers of vengeance and fanaticism are
now come to drag thee from thy prison, and force
thee upon a scaffold.
Mary was alarmed at the cries of sedition ut-
tered by the people. Lady Jane and her hus-
band were brought before an iniquitous council,
who condemned them both to die; and the May-
or of London having begged that a public ex-
ample might be made, obtained that Lord Guil-
ford Dudley should be executed in public. The
unfortunate nobleman, on his sentence being
communicated to him, requested an interview
with his wife. She refused to see him, but
wrote him a letter to the following purport:
Do not let us meet, Guilford—we must see
each other no more until we are united in a bet-
ter world. \Ve must forget our joys so sweet.
Guilford—our loves so tender and so happy.-—
You must now devote yourself to none but seri-
ous thoughts. No more love, no more happi-
ness here upon earth !—we must now think of
nothing but death! Remember. my Guilford,
that the people are waiting for you. to see how
a man can die. Show no weakness as you ap-
proach the scaffold ; your fortitude would beg0v-
ercome, perhaps, were you to see me. You
could not quit your poor Jane without tears ; and
weakness must be left to us women. Adieu,
my Guilford, adieu! be a 1nan—be firm to the
last hour-—let me be proud of you.”
Guilford died like a hero, and Jane was proud
of him. Ah! it was not from weakness that
this noble minded creature refused the crown :—-
she was happy with her books, her affection, and
her beloved husband, under her own arbours of
flowers. It was the absence of happiness, in a
crown, not its weight, that alarmed her.
She saw her husband leave the Tower and
proceed to the place of execution. She prayed
a long time for him; her own turn then came.
and she prepared for death. Mary, desirous of
increasing her sullcriugs, prctend__ed to convert
her, and offered to pardon her if she Would ab-
jure the reformed religion. But with a sweet
smile of sadness, she refused. For at that time
what was life to lter?—notlting but a vast soli-
tude through which she would have to wander
alone and dcsortetl. She preferred death lg
For three days she was assailed by the impor-
tunities ofCatholic priests, who thought they had
shaken her faith, Jane made them no reply,
but continued her prayers. llaving written the
last letter ofadieu to her sister, the Countess of
Pt3tr_1l)t'ol{c, she took olfhcr mourning, dressed
herself in white, had her long and beautiful hair
cut oil by her female attendants, and walked
boldly to the place of execution. \Vhcn, how-
ever. she saw the sparkling of the steel axe, she
turned pale. She knelt, prayed again, lifted up
her eyes and looked to the heavens!—then plac-
ing her head upon the bloclia she received the
stroke that conferred upon her a crown ofwhich
no human passions could deprive her—-the crown
of martyplom !
This \_'as the third time in London, within.a
period oftwenty years, that the blood of a queen
had stained the scallbld. The reign of Eliza-
beth was to present a fourth act of the same tra-
NO. 3.5.
ttll, what its death to any one who has lost every
thing that makes life valuable? But Cather-
ine, separated from the world in which the man
she loved still lived, must often have prayed to
God to give her the sleep of the grave.
Catherine Grey had married the Earl of Pem-
broke ; but their union had been so unhappy that
both demanded a separation, and their marriage
was dissolved by a judicial act. She then be-
came the wife of the Earl of Hcrtford, who set
out'for France, leaving her pregnant. Catha-
rine Gray being ofthe royal blood of Tudor, her
marriage without the consent of her sovereign
was imputed to her as a crime; and on ascend-
ing the throne, Mary, as happy to inflict punish-
ment as another would have been to show cle-
.mency, condemned her to imprisonment forlife.
The Earl of I-lertford on his return from France,
was also sentenced to imprisotmicut, and the
Archbishop of Cantcrburydcclarcd the marriage
null and void. Nevertheless the Earl protested
against the sentence ofthe Archbishop, as well
as against that of his otherjudges. He loved
Catherine with the tcnderest affection ; and still
looking upon her as his wife, bribed the keeper
of the tower and obtained access to her prison.
Catherine. became a mother a second time ; and
Mary persecuted the Earl of Hertford with _all
the vindictive hatred of a Queer) whose author-
ity is despised, and of a woman already past the
age ofinspiring love, who cannot forgive young
people for their superiority in this respect. The
Earl’s accusation consisted of three counts :
First, ofhaving seduced a princess of the royal
blood ; secondly, of having violated a state pri-
son; and thirdly, of having approached a wo-
man from whom the law had separated him.—
He was condemned to a line of five thousand
pounds sterling for each offence. He paid the
fifteen thousand pounds, and after a long confine-
ment. consent.cd to sign a voluntary act of sepa-
ration from Catharine; but not until after a long
struggle, and a resistance which bore ample tes-
timony of the strength of his attachment.
The unfortunate Catharine Gray died in pri-
son, in 1562, after a long and painful captivity.
Like her sister Jane, she was learned and fond
of study. Both were young and lovely, and the
fate of both showed that royal birth is no securi-
ty against misfortune.
pnlaces of kings as well as the peasant’s hovel;
and arms loaded with jewels often hear the chains
of captivity. Poison is sometimes drank in a
cup of gold. and the crowned head severed by
the executionefs axe!
TI-IE IVIORALEST.
[From the Portland Couricr.]
MY BIRTH-DAY.
This day I amjust sixty years old. I know
not the reason, ‘but the return of my birth day
affects me very differently from others; an un-
definable feeling of sadness comes over me, and
I am unfit for the cares and duties of t.he world.
It may be superstition—it may be folly; but it
ever seems to me that on this day more than
any other in the year, the spirits ofthe loved
and the lost are hovering around and trying to
win my thoughts entirely from this world, and
fix them on the scenes of another. However
this may be, on this day I never feel prepared
to mingle in the active scenes of life. I feel
more than ever that my homeis not of this world,
and I experience a mournful pleasure in the
thought that every year brings me nearer to that
home from which there will be no removal.
For hours Ihave been seated here by the win-
dow, and the lunn of many‘ voices--the merry
laugh of children—thc distant lowing of cattle
have fallen upon the car, my thoughts have been
insensibly carried back to the scenes of my own
childhood; and as the last rays of the setting
sun faded from my view on this my birth day,
a sense of utter desolation came over me, and
the fountain which I thought sealed forever was
opened. It is not often that an old man can
weep, and when tears are permitted him, be ex-
periences a pleasure of which the young know
little; he seems to be carried back to the scenes
of his youth, and memory calls before him a
thousand beloved forms and hallowed associa-
tions. Memory! I have often thought it the
greatest blessing bestowed on man. How often
does it alleviate the sorrows of the past, brighten
the prospects ofthe futttre, and relieve the tedious
present. The old man, when he looks back on
his weary pilgrimage, feels a melancholy pleas-
ure as he calls to mind the ardent aspirations—-
the delightful, though unreal hopes, and the
warm friendships ofhis youth. They seem to
him like the ornaments of the desert, and as he
thinks long and steadfastly upon them, the green
hills ofhis youth are presented to his view; the
friends of other days are around him—he hears
the merry laugh—he sees the smiling faces, he
feels the warm kiss of love, and a smile plays
upon his care-worn check as he reflects how soon
he shall be with the loved of his youth.
It is a blessed thing, the recollection of the
past. \Vheu the cold, calculating policy ofthe
world possesses the once wai-_n_1 licart—when the
affections are altogether bent on earth. when we
feel that we are selfish, and are conscious of our
unworthiness, how often are we checked in the
path of error, by the thought that we were not
once cold and selfish, and when wearied, sated
and disappointed, often we are amazed to think
how easily and how keenly we were once de-
delighted.
.’l‘lu'ough a large part ofmy life I have ever
made it a practice to keep a daily journal of_my
thoughts and feelings. I would advise all the
young to do the same; it will be a blessing to
their old age, How many things are treasuncd
up in the manuscripts before me, which had else
been entirely gone. True, these pages are
often the records of sorrows, and the traces of
tears, bitter tears are visible. But to my mind
there is pleasure in recollecting the sorrows and
misfortunes which were inflict_ed for rcproof and
correction, by Him who never: willingly afflicts.
Alas that our wills are so stubborn that nothing
but misery can bow them! Alas that we will
not learn by the experience of others and the.
word of Him who cannot deceive! and doubly
alas, that we should dare to murmur against the
wisdom and love of Him who ‘teinpeistlic wind
to the shorn lamb.’
Did we but view things as we ought,
This world would school each wandering tlrought
To its high state. I A
Nor is it an idle fancy, that makes us wish in
the beginning of the journey of life, to preserve
some of the liowors with which the pathwav is
strewcd. \Vc are conscious that we grow old ;
we feel that we are changing; we know that
others are changing, and we wish for some me-
morial that: will‘ remind us ofour former selves.
How often will a sentence, a line, a word, bring
vividly before. us the past! \Vbat~ a weight of
interest may licreafter attach to the little circum-
stances recorded! Fifty years hence, and how
gcdy.
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It is to be Ql)SCT\"(_}(i that during the whole of ,0-jg(;wa.l.d? m jmjcos C010”, um chmapmr Q“
“i .’--~ tl>‘i1-II]
Catherine Gray, t'}ou_ntcss of Pen‘-b-W‘
more to be piti_ed' than her sisu:r‘- . . i
t
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few oftlte uatn_es.hc_re mentioned. will be in the
‘Z, fthe living! Alas, how n1§_ny of_‘t_h;=.n1a»---
in ‘!'—° flag!-;.€t9,<t.<15se=:1s§ts1Zzitid3?fi’6w s1eer-
O.,'.' x-;,_-. . _‘_.>;. .,.,_4. ».x__:. L-. I u
. ‘ft’ ‘
--hi. I
Tears are shed in the’
The hand that is new writing, long ere that,
will be cold in death, and the heart which is now
warm with affection, and whose regular pulsa-
tions are the index of health, will have ceased its
operations forever. Ay, would that the young
could learn to chasten ‘their hopes and think of
this world as it really is, before they are taught
by bitter experience. \Vould that they could
feel as I do now, that though this world is bright,
beautiful, glorious to thc_m in youth, a shadow
will come upon it as the heart grows old; that
new feelings will awake, and the beautiful vi-
sions we form ofthe earth will melt into our an-
ticipations of that world to which we are hasten-
ing. Like me they will sigh for a quiet rest
with those that have gone before.
My birth-day! \Vhere, when life was‘ young,
Is now each promise which it gave? '
Hope’s early wreaths have long been bung,
Pale, faded garlands, o'er its grave.
\Vhere memory waters with its tears
Th_os_e relics of departed years. A
CmLmtoon.—The green bills, the joyous
gambols, the pure friendships of childhood, all
thrill through the heart. The ancient man sits
in the midst ofa generation thrice removed from
his own; he appears insensiblc to those around
him—he is deaf and participates not in their
joys; he beholds their sorrows with an unfeel-
ing eye. But why doeshe, at times convulsive-
ly grasp his staff-—and why does an unhecdcd
tear occasionally trickle down his furrowed
cheek! He is looking back—b.eyond the exis-
tence of the present generation; perhaps the
image of her who hath slept in dust for half a
century; she to whom his youthful heart was
gathered up appears before his memory as once
she bloomcd—-perehancc the mother who watch-
ed or wept. over his cradlcaud enhanced the joy-
ousness ofhis early life, is breathing in his ear——
or the bosom friend or companion of his youth-
ful wunderings, smiles upon him with the youth
and ardor he has so long been a stranger to :—
where are they '!——Auother people have grown
ep to maturity since their graves were first sod-
L en.
I>:nus'1‘r.v.—Mari must have occupation or be
miserable. Toil is the price of sleep and appe-
tite, of health and enjoyment. The very neces-
sity which overcomes our natural sloth is a bless-
ing. The world does not contain a brier or 21
thorn that divine mercy could have spared.--
\Ve are happier with the sterility which we can
overcotnc by industry, than we could be with
spontaneous and unbounded profusion.
The body and the mind are improved by the
toil that fatigues them: that toil is a thousand
times rewarded by the pleasure which it bestows.
Its enjoyments are peculiar, no we-altlr can pup-
chase them, no indolcnce can tastctlxctn. They
flow’ only from the exertions which they repay.
REISCELLANY.
LI'l'F.l‘.ARY OLD M.~uns.--There are, among
Literary Old Maids, some whom the intellectu-
al pursuits have so far purified from the calls of
passion, that they would scorn the intrusion of
Cupid,‘and spoil forever the beauty of his
‘Impcd wings with speckled plumes all dight,’
by emptying their ink—stands upon him did he
so much as dare to whi'.sper in their car, or draw
his‘ebon bow’ withinarm’s lcngthofthcm; and
there are others so fearful ofthcirsc-x’s weakness,
that they would, had they chance, trauslix his
little majesty with theirstccl pen, and tr wheth-
erhis iunnortality was proof against co d iron.
Othersthere are too, who have levelled the
‘tiny god’ by a well-aimed blow with a ponder-
ous folio, and others who keep him in check by.a
continued discharge ofchubby duodecimos; oth-.
ers who guard their chastity by a shield of old
calfskin binding, and others who trust their virs
gin honor to gildiug morocco leather: others
who constantly [latter the rosy boy, and so PFC?
vent him stringing his good how, or who blind
him with sugared compliment, and tints escape
his darts; others who steel their hearts nnd
freeze their blood by cold philosophy; others
who coagulate life's genialcurrcnt by swallowing
doses of political economy, so that should the
‘subtle poison’ be infused, it would produce no
effect upon the stagnant circulation ; others
who wrap themselves in the robes of metaphys-.
ics, and in hishoary covering dose away exist-
ence; and others who suffer their souls to wan:
der amongst the elements, or bury them in oys-
ter-shells, orin the hollow toothofa blegatheri-.
um ; others who lavish the whole sum of their
affection upon a butterfly’s wing or the color ofa
peony; and others whose love must be sought.
‘Ten fathoms deep’
in a coal-pit or a lead-mine ; others whose ‘soul's
treasure’ is encased in a block of granite, iron,
stone, or grey wuclte ; and others whose passions
and desires are llxed upon the ‘loves of angels,‘
the sons ofAnak, or the gigantic Cyclops ; others
whothink only of the loves of fairy elves, the
singing of the Troubadours, or the clashing of
spears in some gallant tourney; others whose
brains are turned with the fervid descriptions of
Sappho, Anacrcon, Bion, Moschns, and Tibul-.
lus, or of Horace, Ovid, or Virgil, and find the
approach ofa mere man without the adjuncts of
a poetical declaination, so different from the pic-
ture sketched out by their heated imaginations,
that he is repulsed as a monster. Thus are
Literary Maidens armed cap-a-pie against the
assults of love-—partly by having their minds so
much engatrcd with others matters that they are
unconscious of the existence of the ‘boy god,‘
and his shafts fly past them as little cared for
as the ‘idle wind.’
NA'run.\L lIis't‘onY.—lt may be considered
as a law, that these fish that swim near the sur-
face ofthe water have a high standard of respi-
ration, a low degree of muscular irritability,
great necessity for oxygen, die soon«—altn0.st
immediately, when taken out ofwatcr, and have
flesh prone to rapid decomposition. On the con-
trary, those lish that live near the bottom of the
water have a low standard ofrespiration, a high
degree of muscularirritability, and less necessi-
ty for oxygen; they sustain hfc long after they
are taken out ofthe water, and their fleslt re-
mains good for several days. The carp, the
tenth. the various _fl_at fish, and the eel, are seen
gaping and writhing on the stalls ofthe fishmon-
gers for hours in succession ;. but no one sees any
symptom ofmotion in the mackerel, the saltnon,
the trout, or the herring, unless present at. the
capture. These four last-nantetl, and many
others ofthe same habits. to be eaten in the
greatest perfection, should be prcpared for table
the same day they are caught; but the tnrbot,
delicate as it is may be kept till the second day
with advantage, and even longer withoutinjury;
and fishmongers generally are well aware ofthe
circumstance, that fish from deep water havethe
muscle more dense in struct.ure—in their lan-_
guage, more firm to the touch—that they are
finer flavor, and will keep longer, than fish drawn
from shallow water. The law referred to has
its origin in the principles of organization; and
though it would be difficult for the anatomist
to demonstrate those deviations in structure be:
tween the trout and tench which give rise to these
distinctions_ and their effects, it is only necessary
to make the points of comparison \_vide-1; to be
shred of the fact. Between a iish with a true
bony skeleton, the highest in organization among
fishes, and the lamprey. the lowest, the differen-
ces are most obvious. If we for a moment con:
sider the lamprey, which is the lowest in organ;
ization ofthe vertebrated animals, with onlv ‘:1
rudimentary vertebral column, as the s_tfp'pri5-‘ed
centre of zoological structure, and look frcm
thence up and down the scale of organization,
we at the extreme on one side arrive at rnan, to
Whom divisi.o,n of his stlltstancce would be de-
s,U‘t1Cti_on ; but _on the _oth_er, we come to pplv c,
the division ,of:which gives rise to new animals.
§_ach..p,osscs_sing attributes. not only equal to each
other, but_eq,ual- also to the animal of which
they piiavipusly fotpied but a small part."
E.
Norwalk Chronicler