took every opportunity of shewing her all those little civilities by which the female heart is often won. True love is diffident; therefore from the embarrassed manner with which she often addressed William, and the ease and freedom when conversing with his brother, might lead a casual observer to suppose she preferred the latter.

University creditable to their tal- the serpent in Paradise was watchents. Robert, the youngest, who ing to destroy them. Robert's was designed for the law, was attentions to Laurine were more placed as a student with an emi-obvious than his brother's; he flatnent barrister who resided in the tered her on every occasion in the neighborhood of St. Orne. A pri- most extravagant manner, and vate tutor, or rather intelligent travelling companion was appointed to attend William on his projected tour, and no facilities that wealth or influence could supply were spared to fit him for that station which he was hereafter to fill. The spirit of envy which in childhood had lain dormant in the bosom of Robert, as they advanced in life, became enkindled, on The death of Lady Ellwood was observing the superior advantages the first shock that had ever been which his brother enjoyed. These felt in the domestic circle of Sir feelings, however, he found it was William, and continued long to his interest to school under the hy-cast a gloom over that family to pocritical mask, as William had whom she was deservedly dear, always assured him that he should and that society to which she had be a joint sharer of his father's been an ornament. Soon Laurifortune, which he well knew a dis-ne was again left without a matercovery of his malevolence might nal protector, and to add to the sordeprive him of. There was another row which she nourished in private, circumstance that tended to in- she was soon to be deprived of the crease the acrimony of Robert society of William, who, as soon against his brother. William lov-as the last tribute of respect had ed the beautiful little Spaniard, who was now about sixteen years of age, with all the ardor his noble and susceptible heart was capable of, and who returned it with a warmth that convinced him he was dearer to her than a brother, for as such, had she been accustomed to consider them both. Robert also loved her, if, indeed, the mingled passions with which he regarded her, deserved that name; but his pride and avarice both forbade his wedding the unapportioned orphan, although he was determined no other should possess her.

The characters of William and Lauriné were congenial in every respect. He directed her studies and formed her taste by his own; they read, they sang, and they walked together, unconscious that there was one who like

been paid to the memory of his mother, was to take his departure from St. Orne. Sir William, who supposed there existed an attachment between Robert and Laurine, or believing that she felt embarrassed for want of a female companion, for the present, proposed placing her under the protection of Mrs Wayne, a widow lady, who resided a few miles from St. Orne. This was the last wish of his wife, who probably foresaw that the innocent Laurine would still need the guardian care of a mother. On conversing with Robert, on the subject of his love, he learned from that artful man that his affections were much engaged in her favor, but not so deeply as those of the lady were in his; he therefore promised that, should this union be necessary to the

happiness of his son, his consent would not be withheld.

at some future period, his blessing should await our union. William On the eve of the departure of was surprised at this welcome inLaurine, from St. Orne, Sir Wil- telligence, peculiarly as he rememliam found her tying up a luxuri-bered that his father had more ant woodbine that shaded a little than once intimated a wish that rustic temple that had been her he might wed a young heiress favorite retreat in her hours of whose estate was contiguous to happiness-she had been weeping; St. Orne. All noble as he is, he perceived it, and drew from the said he, he has sacrificed his amartless girl the sorrow she experi- bition to my happiness. Come, enced on leaving friends and scenes dearest Laurine, let us go to him so dear to her heart. He took-let me entreat him to consent her hand and exclaimed, dear Lau- to our immediate union, and then rine, I know the secret of your he will indeed have a daughter to bosom! I know the wish of my console him in the absence of his son! She started-be not alarm- son. No! cried she, it would be ed; at present, we must separate, ungrateful-we will abide his time. but should you entertain for each Swear then, said William, pasother the sentiments that you now sionately clasping her hands in his do, at a future period my blessing and sinking on one knee, swear shall await your union. The grate- with me before yon heaven, to ful Laurine, whose thoughts were unite your fate with mine when I all engrossed by the image of Wil- shall claim you, and receive my liam, clasped his hand with enthu- vow never to wed another. Lausiasm, and replied: And do you rine bent her fair brow upon the indeed consent to receive me as rustic altar at which her lover your daughter? I do! he said with knelt. Scarcely had they exchangemotion, and pressing a kiss on ed the promise of mutual fidelity her upraised brow, he led her to e'er they were roused by a loud laugh, and starting, beheld the face of Robert looking through the lattice. There was something wild and unnatural in his laugh. William advanced to the door but he was gone. When they met at breakfast there was a gloom upon the brow of Robert that illy accorded with the set smile that was ever upon his lips. Mrs Wayne was of the party, whose carriage was in waiting to convey Laurine to her new home. Sir William embraced her affectionately, and gave into her hands the chain, rings, and the casket of jewels, which it may be remembered were entrusted to his care by her father; the latter yet had never been unsealed. Laurine received them with emotion, as she painfully thought how desolate would have been her situation but for these

the hall.

Early the next morning she repaired to the summer house to cut some scions from the favorite woodbine. William was there. Oh, my Laurine! cried he, must we part? soon, soon shall I be far from you-from all I ever loved: but when I think of leaving you, a foreboding of evil presses upon my mind. What may not transpire in the course of a year? should my father die you might again be thrown upon the protection of strangers! let me then fly to him and ask his consent to our union. He has already 'consented!" cried Laurine, breathless with agitation. It was here last night, that we met. He told me he knew all! more than my heart ever dared to acknowledge; he said that we must 'separate,' for the present, but that

appointment, and mortification, with regard to the matrimonial treaty in which he had been engaged in behalf of his son.

Stung by the unkindness of his

father, William felt more sensibly the claims of that gentle being on his affection, who now seemed to have no other friend, and, sending for a priest, they were united in the presence of Mrs Wayne, who pressed the weeping bride to her bosom, and promised to watch over her with the tenderest care in the absence of her husband. This sudden step had changed his views of the future, and he resolved to abridge the term of his absence; but the time which he appointed to meet his friend in London (who was to be the companion of his travels) had already expi

kind ends. The brothers at- deceived you; presuming that we tended her to the carriage, but had your sanction to our affection. Sir William was somewhat sur- Laurine is now my affianced bride, prised to see his eldest son occn- and no human power shall part py the seat which he supposed us! Sir William although partialwould have been claimed by Rob-ly convinced of the truth of this ert, who, as they departed, stood statement, returned home, agitaimmoveable, gazing, until the car-ted with conflicting pangs of disriage disappeared in the winding of the wood. Turning to his father, he then disclosed what he had witnessed in the summer house! accused Laurine of duplicity and falsehood, and his brother of clan-brother, and the injustice of his destinely seeking to supp at him in her affections. The father was outrageous; at first he could not be made to realize the fact. But he shall yield her, he exclaimed, she never can or shall be his. And yet, replied Robert, sarcastically, you consented that she should be mine! I have other views Sir, said Sir William for my eldest son, he knows them, and never until this moment have I had cause to believe them disagreeable to him, in consequence of which I have proposed him to the father of a lady, and he is accepted as her lover. Sir William, who was all mildness and vanity, when noth-red-he therefore hastened to St. ing occurred to thwart his wishes, now raged with the fury of a madman, (so mach are we influenced by the evil passions of our nature !) he flew to the dwelling of Mrs. Wayne, accused I aure and his son in her presence with what had been alledged against them. The poor girl shrunk beneath his flashing eyes, without daring to Painful indeed would be the defend herself from his unjust task to recount all the infamous charges, but William coolly as-and secret arts that were employserted more independence of spirited by the base Robert, to alienthau he had ever before evinced ate the affections of Sir William to his father. This lady sir, from his widowed daughter and said he, has long enjoyed your favor and protection; you were sensible of her worth, you taught me to respect her virtues, and my own heart prompted me to secure her love-neither she, or I, have

Orne, acknowledged his marriage, and bidding his father a hurried adieu, was soon distant from the home of his childhood, which it was his fate never again to behold! Soon after his arrival in London, he was seized with a violent illness that soon put a period to his existence.

her infant son-but virtue was at last triumphant, and the amiable Laurine became again a resident at St. Orne, and her child was its acknowledged heir. Sir William lived but to place him in that seat

le man died in want, but the villain Sebastian, who sought to rob his father of his fortune, was detected and punished with death. My father married a lady of wealth, in England, who still lives, but he died many years since without knowing the fate of his sister, the unfortu

of learning where his father au been educated, and breathed his last, commending him to the guardianship of his deceitful uncle, who had, for a while, successfully assumed the mask of affection for his young nephew. In him, our readers will recognize Charles Elwood, the young 'emigrant,' to whom they were introduced in the steam-nate Laurine, and it was by mere boat. This unfortunate young man accident of being educated at the after having remained the usual same University, that our relationterm at the University, returned ship to each other was discovered. home with a heart bounding with When we parted, my friend invieagerness to see his mother. Dur- ted me to pass a few months with ing the last year he had received him at St. Orne.-I went, and no intelligence from St. Orne, and found its heir in a cottage! but no reply to the letters he address- the sword of justice is not yet ed to her or his uncle. What then sheathed, and I am determined was his horror on entering the on my return to Europe to have well known hall of his fathers, to this affair legally investigated, if learn from a servant that his moth-I sacrifice my whole fortune; and er had died in a neighboring cottage about a year since! and that Robert Ellwood was recognized as the lawful heir to the estates and title of Sir William! this wretch, it seems, had proved, by bribery, that the parents of Charles were never married! the only witness to the union was Mrs Wayne, and she was no more. Friendless and pennyless what could he do? the law had decided against him and he was told he was not heir even to his father's name.

I have no doubt but I shall yet see Charles Ellwood enjoying the rights of the heir of St. Orne. F.

AMERICAN HERMITESS.

SARAH BISHOP is a person of about fifty years of age. About thirty years ago, she was a lady of considerable beauty, with a competent share of mental endowments and education; she was possessed of a handsome fortune, but was of a tender and delicate constitution; she enjoyed but a This is the story of my friend low degree of health, and could be whom I found in the little cottage hardly comfortable without conwhere his mother died. Suddenly stant recourse to medicine and hurled from the pinnacle of afflu- careful attendance; and was often ence and honor to poverty and heard to say, that she dreaded no disgrace, most unmerited, all he animal on earth but man. Dispossesses is about 500l that was gusted with men, and consequentraised on his mother's jewels. ly with the world, about twentyWith this small sum he was deter- three years ago she withdrew mined to quit a country whose herself from all human society, laws had cast him from society, and in the bloom of life, resorted and seek his fortune in this land to the mountains which divide Saof freedom. My own story is lem from North Salem, near New easily said, this young man has York, where she has spent her stronger claims on me than mere days in a cave, or rather cleft of friendship, he is my relation! Ithe rock. As you pass the southam the Grandson of the Count D'ern and elevated ridge of the

mountain, and begin to descend ornament. When she discovered

our approach, she exhibited the appearance of a wild and timid animal, she started and hastened to her cave, which she entered, and baricadoed the entrance with old branches pulled from the decayed trees. We approached this humble habitation, and after some conversation with its inmate, obtained liberty to remove the palisadoes and look in; for we were not able to enter, the room being only sufficient to accommodate one person.

We saw no utensil either for labor or cookery, save an old pewter basin and a gourd shell, no bed but the solid rock, unless it were a few old rags, scattered here and there; no bed clothes of any kind, not the least appearance of food or fire. She had, indeed, a place in one corner of the cell, where a fire had at some time been kindled, but it did not appear there had been one for some months. To confirm this, a gentleman says he passed her cell five or six days after the great fall of snow in the beginning of March, that she had no fire then, and had not been out of her cave since the snow had fallen. How she subsists during the severe season, is yet a mystery; she says she eats but little flesh of any kind; in the summer she lives on berries, nuts and roots. We con

the southern steep, you meet with a perpendicular descent of a rock, in the front of which is this cave. At the foot of this rock is a gentle descent of rich and fertile ground, extending about ten rods, when it instantly forms a frightful precipice, descending half a mile, to the pond called Long Pond. In the front of the rock, on the north, where the cave is, and level with the ground, there appears a large frustrum of the rock, of a double fathom in size, thrown out by some unknown convulsion in nature, and lying in front of the cavity from which it was rent, partly enclosing the mouth, and forming a room: the rock is left entire above, and forms the roof of this humble mansion. This cavity is the habitation of the hermitess, in which she has passed the best of her years, excluded from all society; she keeps no domestic animal, not even fowl, cat, or dog. Her little plantation, consisting of half an acre, is cleared of its wood, and reduced to grass, where she has raised a few peach trees, and yearly plants, a few hills of beans, cucumbers, and potatoes; the whole is surrounded with a luxuriant grape vine, which overspreads the surrouning wood, and is very productive. On the opposite side of this little tenement, is a fine fountain of excel-versed with her for some time, lent water; at this fountain we found her to be of a sound mind, found the wonderful woman whose a religious turn of thought, and appearance it is a little difficult to describe: indeed, like nature in its first state, she was without form. Her dress appeared little else than one confused and shapeless mass of rags, patched together without any order, which obscured all human shape, excepting her head, which was clothed with a luxuriancy of lank grey hair depending on every side, as time had GIOTTO, an Italian painter, deformed it, without any covering or signing to draw a crucifix to the

VOL. I.

entirely happy in her situation; of this she has given repeated proofs by refusing to quit this dreary abode. She keeps a Bible with her, and says she takes much satisfaction, and spends much time in reading it.

C.

FIRST PAINTING OF THE
CRUCIFICTION.

18