threatened us."-"Fear not," replied Henry, "tis a woman;" and instantly there glided from among the trees an Indian girl, clad in the singular but picturesque habiliment of those islands; a muslin veil, concealing the whole face, except the eyes, which gleamed dazzling through the opening, and then descending was wrapped in many folds around the figure. The simple robe suited the agile form and free motions of the child of Nature, who, approaching towards Henry, kneeled at his feet, and with humble yet earnest gestures seemed to beseech some favour of him. She would not speak, as though fearing to betray her mission; but pointing repeatedly to the woods, appeared to entreat him to follow her. Henry hesitated. Weimar dissuaded him from an act so hazardous as that of accompanying one of those savages, probably amidst pathless wilds, as the woods on that side were very ex- || tensive; and it was impossible to tell what dangers the variable and uncertain disposition of those islanders might yet be reserving for them. Henry, however, looked on the girl, and saw in the expression of her mild and imploring eyes no traces of bad faith, but rather of sorrow and anxiety."I will trust her," said he; "what should I fear? having a conscience I hope void of offence towards God or man: and some one in distress may require aid.-But this boy shall remain with you as a hostage, in case of my non-return." The savage observed his movement of quitting the child, and speaking in a low voice, in her own language, said—“ Fear nothing, strangers, while the boy is with you." Henry did not wish to disregard her intimation, and as the child clung to him he lifted the little Sambo from the ground, and entreating his friend to be under no apprehension, and engaging to return shortly, he yielded to the rapid movement of the girl, and entered the woods. It seemed indeed she chose the most intricate and unknown path; for never had Henry, in all his wanderings round the island, yet penetrated it. The beauty of nature, however, as he advanced, silently following his guide, increased at every step, and almost made him forget his situation-the thoughts of home, which had lately occupied him-all, but the solemn magnificence of these secret temples of the Creator, where, though man had never trod, it seemed as though some superior intelligences were worshipping him in spirit and truth, and that the deep low murmurs which breathed around were the music of their stilly voices. At length there was more the semblance of a path formed by human art, and soon a small building appeared, where the trees had been partially cleared, which at once announced itself as a hut of Indian and most beautiful construction. The heat of the climate rendering walls insupportable, this simple structure was composed only of the long and prickly leaves of the palm-nut, and sustained by pillars of the bread-fruit-tree. The effect of the picturesque little building, shaded by every species of noble and lofty woods which the luxuriance of vegetation here displays, was nearly unmarked by Henry, in his curiosity to know why he had been brought hither and to whom the hut belonged, as it seemed studiously secluded from man's view, and had never, even by a glimpse, been noticed by him in his excursions before. The girl paused to listen to the sounds which proceeded from the hut, and seemed the low prolonged wail of female voices. She then slowly approached, and the scene within was unfolded to the surprised senses of the missionary. Extended on mats, and with several native women clustered around her whose suppressed lamentations he had heard, reclined a female, whom, both from the ornaments she wore and her whole aspect, he recognised at once to be the wife of a chief. Her beauty was perfect, as far as Indian beauty can be so. veil was removed from her head to give her air, her eyes were closed, but her fine regular features, the light of gentleness and nature shed over her countenance, her long and dark hair, and the mild expression around her mouth, joined to the symmetry of her youthful form, rendered her lovely even to the view of a European. She seemed suffering from acute bodily or mental pain; and the tears which silently stole from under her fringed eye-lids, and her apparent insensibility to every object around, presented an affecting picture of total bereavement. At the sight of Henry The are forbidden by our blessed Master to do evil that good may come of it. He com accompanied by Sambo, one of the females eagerly whispered a few words in the mourner's ear. Suddenly she started-mands us to respect the sacred rights of her large dark lustrous eyes unclosed, shiuing through her yet flowing tears, and the masses of her jetty hair; she fixed them on Sambo, then starting, with one soft piercing cry of transport, from her couch, in an instant the mother and the child were locked in each other's arms, while the attendant females expressed their joy by the wildest gestures; and the silent missionary felt the tears coursing down his cheeks, while the happy pair indulged the sweet impulse of mutual affection. At this moment another and principal actor appeared on the eventful scene: the chief, Orazimbo, with several Indian followers, stepped from amongst the trees, and with a stately and grave air approached his absorbed bride. His majestic bearing and lofty form inspired authority, but his countenance had the mildness of his tribe: he gently separated the boy from the clasp of his mother, whose quiet despair was more felt than lamentations, as she buried her face in her veil, refusing to be comforted, or to look on aught, as her child was to be taken away. "Why, Manuma," said the chief, in a voice of expostulation, "have you seen the boy again? I gave him to this good man that he might learn to be skilful and powerful like the people of his nation. He will return one day a great and wise chief beyond all that have gone before him; and our spirits, in the land of shadows, shall exult in the fame and virtue of our son!" The bereaved and heart-stricken mother answered with the submission of her sex, but in a subdued and trembling voice"It is well! but when he is gone, make a grave for Manuma, for before many moons she will sleep peacefully, and dream she meets her child. But if this is a good man, and loves the God he says is so merciful, why does he take away my child? Good men make all happy, this is not good." The light of truth flashed from her simple words on the mind of the missionary. “Our God requireth mercy, not sacrifice," murmured he to himself. Coming forward, he addressed Orazimbo in his own language. "The words of your wife are true. We No. 75.-Vol. XIII. nature in this poor mother, and therefore I may not take your child with me across the wide sea. No blessing would attend our voyage, burthened with the cries of a despairing heart; but in my own land, far away, I will not cease to importune Heaven with prayers for the young Sambo, that he may become wise even unto Salvation.' Now, before I go, grant me this request, that I may have the happiness to see you restore the boy to the bosom that gave him birth.” "I now Orazimbo stood irresolute, and partly displeased, when the Indians around, understanding from the words of the stranger that he did not mean to take their young chief from them, but rather to restore him to his mother, whose grief deeply touched their untaught feelings, a cry of joy and admiration burst from their lips, and their chief, catching the contagion of their emotions, took the boy and laid him tenderly on his mother's bosom. Scarcely did she give herself a moment to embrace him, and bless his generous father, ere she sprang forward, and falling at the missionary's feet, exclaimed, with all the enthusiasm of her sex, see you are a messenger from Heaven, for what else could have inspired your heart with pity for one who has always opposed you? But I will do so no more. | Henceforth," added she, unconsciously using the words of scripture, " your God shall be my God, for he has seen my tears, and bid you give me back my boy, and let me bless him for it!" She raised her clasped hands and speaking eyes to Heaven in mental worship, and who could refuse to join her? Orazimbo-the young Sambo-and the Indians all kneeled in adoration; and Henry with streaming tears blessed the beneficent Providence which at last crowned his wishes, and was about to make him the instrument of good to hundreds of his fellow creatures. Some time after this affecting scene, one of a very different description was beheld on the same spot where the two friends walked and contemplated the ocean at the commencement of our narrative. Now riding majestically at anchor U on that ocean was seen a European ship -its gay streamers lightly floating on the morning air. That vessel had been freighted by many anxious hearts; for the faithful Bertha had braved the perils of the sea, protected by her brother, who commanded the ship, to join her betrothed husband. They brought letters from the superior of Vienna recalling him to a valuable cure in his native valleys, and affectionate entreaties from his duteous children urging his return. Before, however, leaving the island of the Pacific, some pleasing and solemn duties claimed him to perform them. On the shore rose a little church-the work of willing hands and the master-piece of Indian architecture-dedicated to the God of the Chris tians. Weimar on this happy morning proceeded to consecrate the simple altar which was then to witness the vow of Henry and Bertha. Afterwards, a still more affecting rite was administered: crowds of simple Indians, whose hearts God had touched, preceded by their chief Orazimbo, the beauteous Manuma, and the beloved Sambo, came gladly to receive the waters of life from the hands of Weimar and Henry. All of them the church could not contain, and outside knelt many Indian women, enveloped in their long veils, and raising their infants in their arms to receive the same precious baptism. And while the hymn swelled in the air from the chapel, the guns of the ship at intervals pealed back their joyous salute. The younger missionary, while he looked on his bride and these converted people, the children of his cares, felt that his wishes would no more stray beyond the ocean, but centre for ever within that solitary island of the wide Pacific. FLORENCE. A DOMESTIC SKETCH. Ir was about ten o'clock on the night || by the moon; and whose solemn stillness of the 25th of March, 18—, that a chaise and four stopped at the door of a splendid mansion in Arlington Street; the front of which was a blaze of light from the brilliantly-illuminated apartments; and the hurrying of servants to and fro, with the arrival and departure of carriages, denoted that the mistress of the mansion was at home." The stranger who alighted from the chaise was a young and handsome man, in a military undress. He paused, on entering the hall, at seeing the indications of gaiety and mirth which everywhere surrounded him: and when the servant, who took him to be one of the expected guests, inquired his name, he replied, "No matter, tell your master a gentleman wishes to see him; and shew me into a room till he arrives." The servant replied, "I am afraid, Sir, we have scarcely a room unoccupied at this moment; and it will be difficult to detach my master from his company—but I will see." The stranger followed, till he was ushered into a small but pleasant room, looking backwards on the Park, which was lighted and quiet repose, afforded a strong contrast to the glare, and pomp, and confusion, which reigned within. The servant having left him, his reflections seemed to be of a mixed nature; for one moment he paced the room with rapid strides, whilst his brow appeared clouded with gloomy forebodings; the next a smile of joy and hope irradiated his expressive features, as he looked through the window, into the Park, which appeared to call up the remembrance of scenes of by-gone happiness, not unmixed, even at the moment, with pleasurable associations. At length, he paused and looked around him, and then it seemed that he missed something which had erst been familiar to him in that apartment, where it was evident he stood not for the first time. "How is this?" he said, scarcely conscious that he was giving utterance to his thoughts—“ My father and mother's portraits both removed, and their place occupied by those of strangers! What can this mean?" Before he could think of any reasonable solution to the question, the door was thrown open, and an elegantly-dressed man entered. The young officer looked up-but his eyes encountered no familiar features-they met the gaze of an entire stranger, who motioning him to be seated, requested to know his business-apologizing for any abruptness in his manner, as he was in haste to return to his company. "I am afraid," said the newly-arrived, "here is some, to me, I fear, sad mistake. Pray is this the house of Sir Edward Bernard ?" "Thanks, thanks;-I will accept it. I will remain here, if you will allow me, and compose myself before I retire to rest. In the morning I shall be better able to act." "Consider yourself quite at home," rejoined Mr. Henderson :-" order any thing you want, the servants shall have directions to attend you. Excuse me now; I will see you again shortly." When left to himself-Horace paced "It was; but it is now my home; and the room for some time in an agony of my name is Henderson." "And my parents!" exclaimed Horace Bernard, for such was the name of him who now stood as a stranger in the home of his fathers. "I really am sorry that I can give you no satisfactory information respecting them. I have been only a short time in England, and purchased this house of a Mr. Eustace, who had not long been its owner. I have heard that its ancient possessors, the Bernards, are living somewhere in the environs of the metropolis, not altogether in that station which their rank demands, but which their fallen fortunes, I regret to say, will not permit them to occupy. I am truly sorry," he added, perceiving the émotion of his auditor, "to distress you thus will you remain here for the night? Either join the company, or a private room shall be prepared for you; in the morning every assistance I can give you shall be at your service." : "Thanks for your kindness, my dear Sir; I really know not how to act. Five years ago I left my parents in this house, the possessors of a splendid fortune, and return to find them-outcasts-fugitives -to hear that they are fallen from their rank and station, and existing perhaps in penury. O, you will pardon a son's feelings! I am most wretched." grief. At length, completely overpowered with fatigue, and the effects of his emotion, he threw himself into an arm-chair by the fire, where sleep soon visited him; it was not, however, a calm and refreshing slumber: his convulsive starts and frequent exclamations, proved that busy fancy was at work, tormenting his sleeping, as his waking thoughts, with the ideas of his family degradation. "Be comforted, my father!" said a beautiful girl, whose air of high birth, but ill accorded with the meanness of her attire, or of the apartments in which the person whom she addressed was reposing on a settee, the poor remnant of the splendour of other days; whilst a lady, in whose countenance resignation seemed struggling with despair, supported his head, and the speaker, kneeling at his feet, bathed his hand with her tears;"Be comforted, my father! surely the bitterness of our sufferings must be past; and better days are yet in store for us. I had a delightful dream last night. I thought my brother was returned, and brought with him wealth, which more than repaired our losses: and I again saw joy lighted up in the eyes of yourself, and of my dear mother; and the smile of happiness once more played over your pale features. Who can tell but some such providential event is about to happen?" "No-no-my child: there is no joy for me; no comfort, but in the grave. Your brother's return I dare not look for; Horace dropped his head upon the table, and gave way to a burst of sorrow, which Mr. Henderson would not interrupt. After a few minutes' pause, he said, "I cannot think of intruding my griefs upon a stranger-I have friends in London-"-for oh! what misery have I not caused "But it is now too late to find them, nor are you in a frame of mind to traverse the streets of the metropolis in search of them. Let me beg of you to accept my offer. A room shall be instantly prepared, if you prefer solitude." . him! And bitterly have I been punished. The anguish which my proud heart felt, but would not own, when he left his home, first drove me to the gaming-table as a refuge from despair :-there I lost all; your fortune, your brother's, my wife's my kind, my affectionate Emily's -all were risked; and all lost. And now, we owe even the shelter of this rude hut to the kindness of her, for whose sake my Horace is banished from his home, and from his country; to her, whom, in my days of affluence and pride, I spurned from me, and charged my son never to marry on pain of my curse!" able. He avoided the company of myself and Montmorency; was frequently absent from his rooms-seemed to be altered in temper and disposition, and to have discarded all his amiable qualities. Time brought no change for the better; on the contrary all his bad propensities appeared to increase, and at home as well as at college, the change in Charles Digby became matter of lamentation and regret." "But what of Montmorency?" said "He still continued my intimate friend, my loved associate, and the attachment between him and Louisa seemed hourly to strengthen. Alas! that such a fair prospect should have been so bitterly blighted! "Nay, do not agitate yourself by these reflections, my dear Edward," said Lady Bernard, for it was that unfortunate sufferer who spoke, "let us thank God that || Lady Bernard. a friend was found, who has preserved us from the worst of human ills-utter destitution. And doubt not but Horace will return, and all will be well. But you have never yet told us why you so strenuously objected to the marriage of Horace and Miss Montmorency; come, if the subject be not too painful, tell me why you refused to receive as a daughter one who would grace a coronet ?” "The subject is a painful one, my love; but you have a right to know why I acted as I did: why, even now, I shrink from Marian Montmorency as I would from a deadly serpent, though she is unoffending; she is innocent, let who will be guilty. But you shall hear my story. "You will be surprised Emily, when I tell you, that I had a sister." "A sister!" "The time was drawing near for our leaving college, when one night a riot, attended with much injury to the persons and properties of the townsmen, occurred between them and a party of the collegians; in which the latter were not only the aggressors, but, instigated by one of their leaders, they committed such outrages, that no other course could be pursued, than to enforce the statutes against the offenders. The principal was Charles Digby. He came to me and Montmorency to implore us to bear testimony that he was in his room during the evening; which, he said, would be the means of saving him from ruin, from expulsion. Our hearts bled for the misery his disgrace would bring upon his family; but we could not consent to purchase his escape by forfeiting our own honour. He left us, vowing vengeance; he was expelled, and from that hour I have never seen him!" "Yes, a sister; good as she was beautiful, an angel of benevolence and love. I loved her, she was dear to my heart, as the blood that circles in my veins, and I was to her brother-father-all; for we lost our parents at a very early age. We were left to the guardianship of Sir Everard Digby, and I was sent to Eton, and from thence to Oxford, with young Charles Digby; whilst my sister remained under the maternal care of his mother, who fulfilled to her all the duties of that relation. Henry Montmorency was our companion, our friend at school, and at college; he accompanied us home at the vacations; and noticing a growing attachment between him and my darling Louisa, I fondly anticipated the day when we should be brothers in name as we already were in heart. After we had been some time at college, I began to "Eustace!" exclaimed the latter;-" my notice conduct in Charles Digby, which,|| bane-my destroyer; the monster who to me, was painful and unaccount-lured me to the gaming-table, and there "Yes! you have seen me often, and my vow has been fulfilled!" These words, which caused all the inmates of the cottage to start from their seats, were uttered by a man, who, during the conversation here related, had entered the apartment unobserved, concealing himself within the shadow of the door, and who now came forward, and confronted Sir Edward Bernard, casting upon him a look of deadly malignity. |