ments of a buried nation. The past, the present, and the future, did homage to him. The greatest of earth stood fixed and motionless in the worship-like so many Sculptured sovereigns about his rocky pedestal. He overtopped the mightiest-he overshadowed the most glorious, even as Napoleon Buonaparte himself overtopped and overshadowed the towering sovereignties of earth, when kings thronged his anti-chamber, and nations prostrated themselves in his path. Well-he died. And when he was dead and gone; dead as a door-nail, his worshippers waked up, and beginning to rub their eyes and look about them, found out that he was only George Gordon, Lord Byron, after all. And so they washed themselves, one by one, of his iniquities; and picked up the crumbs, which they had been casting at his feet, and gathering their robes about them and clearing their skirts from the dust of the retiring multitude, they marched off with a regene. rated look, a haughty step, and a Scotch bagpipe droning in their ears-wondering as they went, how they could have been so much mistaken.

Yes, he died-died just when the great and good public had come to the knowledge that he was poor; that after abusing Walter Scott for making poetry to order, at half-a-crown a line, he had been obliged to make poetry himself, for about the same price; to abandon the immutabilities, and wreaths, and crowns of inextinguishable fire, and a harp that thundered like a tempest among the mountains-for pounds, shillings, and pence, and the echoes of Albermarle Street! nay, worse-much worsethat he had already begun to write for nothing -and for a newspaper! and that Murray had been obliged to cast him off. Poor Byron! --poor, dear Byron! Well, and so, although he had been their idol so long as he wrote mysteriously and afar off, without the inspiration of "half-a-crown a line;" and while they, in their hearts, believed him to be one of the greatest scoundrels on earth, and the original of every cut-throat he had painted; and although he had now the reputation of being, at least, an altered man, having forsworn poetry, and devoted himself to the war that Greece had been waging, as with lighted thunderbolts, against the " gorgons, hydras, and chimeras dire," were mustered along her borders - yet, the moment he was dead the moment it was all over with him, and it was known that he died poor, and that his heart had been bequeathed to his countrythe "altar and the god sank together in the dust!" And although he lay in statefew, indeed, were they so poor to do him

that

reverence."

A motley crowd-just such as you may see at the opening of parliament, by the Lord

Chancellor in person, being furnished with tickets, poured into the house day after day, and being informed by the chief personage in attendance, that "his lordship had been salted down two days before," walked round the chamber where he lay, flourished their pocket-handkerchiefs, examined the furniture, lifted the hangings (rather unluckily in one case; for a friend of mine assured me that he saw, with his own eyes, one of the mourners lunching there, with a pile of bread and cheese before him, and a pot of beer,) let them fall in a hurry-walked out, dropped the shilling or the half-crown, as the case might be, and returned to their homes, all the better for having wiped off a long scoredischarged a solemn duty without much loss of time, and got their money's worth; and not a few, perhaps, to look into Lara, Beppo, Don Juan, or Childe Harold, for the first time. Was not this lying in state-and lying to some purpose?

The body-or, as the newspapers had it— his Lordship lay at Sir Edward Knatchbull's, M. P., in George Street. There was rather a pressure for two or three days. But of the many that I saw, by far the greater number appeared to be quite as much taken with the furniture, the crimson and gold drapery, the coronet lying upon the coffin-the room hung with black, and the candles burning dismally enough-as with the presence itself, and the awful inscription upon the urn, which held the heart, brains, etc. Some wondered at the plainness of the show-some at the tawdry coronet and escutcheons-which, sooth to say, were strangely of a piece with the coun terfeit melo-dramatic representations at a trumpery theatre. Others were greatly moved that he should have come into the world in January, 1788; and there were two or three ugly women, evidently crying for effect. They were all of a size-hideously alike, with red noses and goggle eyes. They made a business of it; walking about like a family of old maids gone to seed, and sopping their faces with their handkerchiefs, like so many hired mourners. Perhaps they were a part of the "performance"-furnished mourners, in a country where such things are done by the job, and the sign of a regular undertaker is "Funerals performed here." Why not "Funerals perpetrated here?"

Judging by the funeral that followed, the latter were a much more suitable sign. There were mutes, and two or three-I forget how many-shabby pages-Oliver Twistish looking boys, chartered by the lump; a small procession a-foot; an old grey-headed man with a white wig, bearing a coronet on a crimson velvet cushion; a stately black charger, richly caparisoned-mourning coaches with six horses each, a very few private carriages, and half a score of empty hacks. And this was the end of George Gordon, Lord Byron;

could hardly suppress an exclamation of surprise, when she beheld, in one of them, Sir Basil Bellamour, a young gentleman reputed to be of princely fortune, who had been bred at the court of Charles II., and who had, previously to her leaving England, made application to her uncle, Sir Edmund Andros, for her hand. Regardless of her remonstrances, Sir Edmund encouraged his suit, which he continued to press with ardour; and on this account. she less reluctantly left her native isle, hoping thereby to rid herself of an annoyance, which daily grew more intolerable.

"Were it not for the wreath of blue smoke I see yonder," said the companion of Bellamour, as he seated himself at the foot of a tree," which I suppose rises from the hut of the labourer, where you have taken lodgings with as much complacency as if it were a palace, should not imagine that any breathing thing, save bears and monkies, inhabited within forty miles of here."

"As for bears, there are plenty of them, no doubt," replied Sir Basil, "but for the monkies, I will not vouch for more than one, that I see reposing very quietly beneath a

tree."

"Monkey or not, I tell thee, Basil Bellamour, thou hast come to this country on a fool's errand, and I, like a fool, have come to bear thee company."

"Not so, my worthy Jack. Marry, a single sight of my superb Indian princess, were, of itself, worth ten voyages across the Atlantic. Moreover, I will show thee, that I can twist that old stately governor, as easily as a chandler twists the wick of a candle."

Faugh! One would think that you had had your breeding in a chandler's shop. But I tell you, that this same stately old governor will keep so close a hand upon his niece's gold, that your eye will not even catch the sparkle of it; much less will you get a single piece of it between your fingers to lay over the rents of your broken fortune. Money is the object of both, in the game you play at, and one is as likely to be checkmated as the other."

"Thou hast been my shadow, Jack Morrice, for five years past, to little purpose, if thou dost not know that I can do as I say."

But you seem to forget that there is a niece who has a will of her own, not so easily to be twisted."

"I shall show thee the contrary of that. To me, the task is alike easy to please the girl of eighteen, and her grandmother of eighty. I can suit myself to all conditions, and to every sort of prejudice and whim. I can help the hungry peasant eat his coarse loaf, and wash it down with stale beer from a brown earthern mug, and smack and lick my lips after it; and when just returned

from the hungry chase, I can sit with the Frenchman an hour or more, and simper over the hind leg of a frog, with as satisfied an air as the pursy alderman sits in his stuffed chair over a tureen of turtle-soup. I can sing songs with the cavalier, and with the roundhead, psalms-can cry hurra for liberty till my throat is sore, and to God save the King,' can say amen. Didst thou never hear me sigh, and see me shake my head, when some brisk blade has slily snatched a kiss from a blushing lass? But I will tell thee, Jack, that my mouth watered all the while for that self-same kiss, as I have seen an awkward country boy's, as he stood gazing and longing while his sick grandame eat an orange."

"That was when you played the Roundhead to obtain old Ludlow's daughter, and a pretty demure little damsel she was, too."

"Pretty! That is a most contemptible word when applied to her. She was beauti ful! divine! Julia Andros, as far as beauty is concerned, is not worthy to be named the same day with her. Well, let her go-I could have won her if I would, and I would, if she had possessed the wherewithal to have repaired my fortune."

"She is married now."

"Yes, and to a hypocritical knave, that will turn up the whites of his eyes, draw down the corners of his mouth, and whine most sanctimoniously at the sound of a laugh or an innocent jest, and would, if he had his way, put the culprit in the stocks till his visage looked as rueful as his own. He is an honest knave, too. I had some dealings with him once, and since that, I would not trust him with a bushel of gray beans, without counting every one of them ninety and nine times."

"A compliment which, I dare say, he would most heartily reciprocate. But yonder approaches La Belle Sauvage-I will therefore be off, and for lack of more profitable employment, hunt bird's-nests.”

Stay a moment, and look at her. Marry, she has the air of a queen. I have half a mind to take her to England. A mock ceremony of marriage will be all that is necessary to make her willing to go with me."

Nay, Bellamour, you are too bad. If your conscience were not like the air, too elastic to be wounded, it would feel sore, only at the thought of deceiving so beautiful and innocent a creature."

"Jack, thou art turning moralist. Better turn divine, and when we return to England, I will make interest to procure a living for thee."

Orraloois paused at the meeting of the waters, beneath a stately oak, whose branches hot far across the larger stream, breaksing, by the light, dancing shadows of their leaves, the golden sunshine that slept upon its bosom. Julia, who knew by her

fórm and dress, that it was the girl whom she had seen in the morning, would hardly have recognized her by features, sparkling as they now were with joy and animation.

"My sweet flower of the forest! my lovely fawn of the hills!" exclaimed Bellamour, as he advanced to meet her.

She bounded forward to meet him, lightly and gracefully as the animal to which he had compared her, and even Bellamour, for a moment, quailed before the light of those eyes, which, with looks confiding and full of love, were raised to his face-a face handsome enough to have ensnared a more guarded and a less artless heart, than beati n the bosom of this daughter of the wilderness.

"You see that I have kept my promise," said he, as he bent over her.

She felt his warm breath, as it wandered among the flowers of the coronal that graced her brow, and the conversation she had held with Lucy flashed upon her mind. An unquiet expression came to her eye, but it flitted away like the shadow of the dark bird, which that moment, unheeded by her, flew across her path, as the voice of Bellamour, softer and more insinuating in its tones than before, repeated, "You see that I have kept my promise, dear Oraloois."

"You have," she replied, "but the days of thy absence have been like years. A dark cloud has folded me in its bosom, and I could not see the brightness of the sun. The sounds that used to be most joyful, had a voice of mourning. The song of the robin and bluebird, warbled among the chestnut boughs that shade my father's dwelling, no longer sent a thrill of joy through my heart, as it roused me from my morning slumbers."

"But you will be happy now," said he in a tone soft as before, yet expressive of exultation at the power he had over her affections. "Yes, with you, but do you see yonder bright cloud, graceful and beautiful as the canoe as it glides over the blue waters? It will soon pass away, and will not like that return."

"Go with me, Orraloois-I shall not then need to return."

66

Why should I go?" said she, with a deep and solemn earnestness. "It was the voice of my doom that I heard in the winds, and in the rustle of the green leaves. It told me that I should soon die. When the leaves fall, they will find my grave."

"If I take you hence, where the dismal sounds of the wilderness cannot be heard, these dark and wild fancies will vanish."

"No! no! In the midnight stillness, when even the wind folds its rustling wings and sleeps, and no sound can come to my ear, then do I feel the cold breathings of that voice round my heart."

"I will not listen to these melancholy forebodings. They are nought. Go with me,

and thy light step will echo in the gilded halls of stately palaces. This robe shall be exchanged for one brilliant with flowers of gold and sparkling gems; while the jewels that shall adorn your queen-like brow, shall every one of them beam with a lustre, bright as the eyes that look up to yours, when you bend over the clear fountain. Will you not go with me? Say nay, and I shall know you do not love me." As he repeated these last words, he clasped a necklace, brilliant if not valuable, round her neck.

The eyes were tearful that she raised to his, yet they beamed with a soft and sunny radiance. "Your words," she replied, "fall softly on my heart, as the flowers fall on my morning path, which my maidens love to strew before me. They bring for me a bright dream, but it will soon float away, and never grow to reality."

Bellamour could not suppress a smile at the simplicity, that could perceive no reason why a high-born Englishman should not marry the daughter of an Indian chief. Although Orraloois did not fathom the full meaning of that sinister smile, there was something in it that sent a pang to her heart. Bellamour perceived that it had produced a painful impression, and hastened to say, "Your father need not know it. I will procure a priest, who will perform the holy ceremony in private. Will that satisfy you, my sweet forest-flower?" he inquired, touching her glowing cheek with his lips. will is mine," she replied, but the words had only escaped her lips, when with a wild piercing shriek, she threw herself upon his bosom.

"Your

The object of her alarm, at the same instant, caught the attention of Bellamour. Directly opposite them, cowering behind a rock that nearly screened him from observation, was Ossinneepoo, the direst and most revengeful passion burning in his eyes, which were fastened upon Bellamour. The string of the bow, which he held in his hand, was already relaxed: the arrow was sped. Orraloois, by shielding him she loved, had received her death-wound. Bellamour, who had darted aside, the moment he discovered the young savage, bearing her with him, knew not that she was wounded, until, through faintness, relaxing her hold, she murmured,

Lay me by the mountain stream, that I may taste its waters, and look once more on your face before I die."

"I have given my life for yours," said she, "I looked not for so proud and happy a destiny."

After a hurried examination of the wound, he imagined that the arrow had penetrated to no vital part, and expressed his belief to Orraloois.

"You are deceived," she replied. "The ice of death is already in my veins."

Julia, who had witnessed the tragedy from her hiding-place, was already on the spot, every personal consideration being absorbed in anxiety for the young and interesting victim. Bellamour raised his eyes from the dying girl, at her approach, but without testifying or feeling any of the surprise, which her sudden appearance might have awakened on a less dreadful occasion. He disengaged one of the largest of the bright shells that ornamented her girdle, and handing it to Julia, requested her to procure some

water.

"Let it be from the mountain stream," said Orraloois, "I used to love to see its wild waters throw its foam feathers over the green turf, and among the sweet flowers by its side, and to listen to its merry voice, that seemed laughing at its own sport. I shall see and hear it no more."

"Orraloois, dearest," said Bellamour, taking the water from Julia, for he was reckless now that a high-born Englishwoman should hear him speak words of tenderness to an Indian girl--" Orraloois, dearest, will you taste the water?"

She eagerly drank it.

"I die happy," said she, raising her eyes, already growing dark with the mists of death, "for that eye is upon me, whose light is sweeter than that of the evening star to the weary hunter, when it shows himn the roof of his distant dwelling. It would give me joy," she added, after a moment's silence, "to look once more on the fair rose, who delighted to teach me the language, whose words awakened the first pulses of that dearer life which slept in my heart. Tell the old chief, my father, that the light of his eyes is departed, that she is gone to the spirit-land where her mother dwells, who stands ready to receive her." Her eyelids closed. "Beloved," said she, "farewell! the last sleep steals upon me."

The small fingers of the delicately formed hand, which were closed round his, grew cold and rigid. She had ceased to breathe.

"Lay her on the flowery turf," said Julia, "it is a fitting bed for one so young and beautiful."

It is during moments of strong excitement, more than at any other time, that the avenues of the heart are left unguarded, and that

gushes of feeling break forth and flow unchecked into their legitimate channels, over which, until then, we had kept a vigilant and successful watch, and which we imagined were fully within our control. It was thus with Edward Northington and Julia Andros. A few broken and passionate words, as, with others now assembled, they stood by the pale corpse of the Indian girl, and which, at another time, he would not have ventured to breathe into her ear, were listened to with an emotion, that assured him that the pure and absorbing passion, which seemed to be infused into the very life-pulses of his own heart, glowed in hers with a kindred intensity. Both felt, to an extent they had never before realized, that the low breathings of sorrow on the rich chords of the heart, awaken music, the deepest and the most thrilling; and that the dazzling halo, which Hope traces round joys, pictured in the far perspective, is, by its sacred influences, mellowed to the soft, ethereal hues of the sunbeam, when refracted by the tears of the cloud. They thought not then of the obstacles, which reason told them, when the hour of reflection came, would be opposed to their love, the course of which, when true, according to the poet, "did never yet run smooth."

Orraloois was buried beneath the turf where she now lay, and the low mound, thickly studded with flowers, long indicated the spot, where this lovely and innocent child of the wilderness slept.

Ossinneepo, who, as Orraloois had said, carried the heart of a hare in his bosom, the moment that he found that he was discovered by his rival, fled, even without attempting to send another arrow, and was seen no more amongst the people of his tribe.

Bellamour, who knew that all the fervent and treasured affections of the Indian maiden's young and guileless heart, were his, was more deeply affected by her tragic death, than any person, who had listened to his heartless remarks to Morrice, as well as his attempts to basely deceive her, would have been led to imagine, and for a time it maintained a salutary influence over his mind and conduct.

It was a rich autumn evening, and the beams of the declining sun, unobstructed by the lofty buildings which have since risen around the Province House, veiling it in premature gloom, shone with golden lustre on the panelled wainscot of polished oak, which surrounded one of the spacious chambers. The apartment was furnished in a style of magnificence unusual in the colonies, where, in addition to the difficulties common to every new country, with which the inhabitants have to contend, their genius and