perhaps, the worst possible humour man ever enjoyed-as the phrase goes-he approached a small tuft of stunted foliage, which, as he neared it, was somewhat rudely and suddenly shaken-he stopped short. "Who's there?" cried he. No answer was given-but as he advanced three steps nearer the bush, a black man sprang from his hiding-place and bounded away before him—it was Louis himself-Dupres called to him to stop-Louis instigated by some undefinable feeling, still ran. Dupres followed him at the top of his speed, but he would not have caught him had not the foot of the slave tripped over a stone, which brought him to the ground. Dupres was up with him in a moment. "Rascal!" said Dupres," ungrateful rascal !—how dare you fly from me? rebel, traitor, runaway that you are." "No, massa-no," said Louis; "me no traitor, no rebel, no !" "It's false, scoundrel!" cried Dupres in a phrensy of rage; "you have carried off my slaves-you are in a conspiracy, a league against me, with the miscreants whom you have so often begged off, before." "No, massa-no," said Louis. "Do I lie, sirrah?" exclaimed the planter, striking him in the face. The blow (so wholly unexpected) brought Louis to the earth; but he was on his feet in an instant again, and again his master struck him-the blow was returned, and Dupres measured his length in the dust; he attempted to rise, but Louis throwing himself upon him, placed one of his knees on his chest so as to prevent his moving. "It's all too late now, massa, the blow has been struck. Hear me, massa, hear me me have loved you dearly, massa, dearly, like my broder-me work for you, me do all me can for you, me save you life, massa-but no good, no-massa bid me go, massa say me should be flog-six and twenty years have I lived-no lash ever touch me; but no, him too late now, all is over." "Let me get up," said Dupres, vainly struggling with his powerful opponent. "No, massa, not yet, massa," said Louis, drawing from his pocket a sharp-pointed two-edged knife. Dupres struggled again, but in vain. "Louis," said he, "forgive me, forgive me; I have been wrong." "No, massa, no," said Louis, " me forgive you, massa, but you will never forgive me. Oh, massa, massa! you do not know my heart! Poor Adele, massa-poor, poor Adele !" "She shall be yours," said Dupres. Look, massa, me no runaway-me could not bear to be flogged, least of all by your order, massa-me hide away to-day, to-morrow your birthday, and mine, massa-me thought you would forgive me then, then me should have come back and beg pardon; but no! no! him too late-me have struck my massa-massa hates poor Louis! No-no-him past now. Saying which, the faithful Louis raising his right hand above his head, struck the glittering blade which it grasped, with all his force into his heart, and instantly fell dead upon his master's bosom. Let not the reader ask what befel Adele-let him be satisfied by knowing that, that year's celebration of the "PLANTER'S BIRTHDAY" is remembered in the island to this hour. ISAAC MOSS; A STORY FOR SOME CHRISTIANS. OLD Isaac Moss was a golden Jew, Who liv'd by gen'ral dealing; At his window, folks would pause to view The various stock of fine virtù, Aye pil'd from floor to ceiling. This Isaac Moss amidst Jews did shine, And still on a fast from bread and cup He kept his creed and his shutters up, And Isaac haunted the synagogue, Yet scandal ran that no sadder dog "It's a wicked world!" said Isaac, meek- "It's a wicked world!" This Isaac knew— Each debtor would call him this and that(A sting the debtor uses ;) The Jew was calm-the debtor laid flat; For Isaac had heard that the adder's fat Was salve for human bruises. And Isaac, tho' bruis'd, grew whole apace, At ev'ry sale he would take his place, There Isaac would sit and meditate, Some scheme of rare concoction; They might bid for pearls--might bid for plate, Still Isaac would sit, unmov'd as fate, Sweet Patience at an auction! But soon would Isaac fidget and fume, His dearest friend, too, jostleWhen'er was put to the crowded room, The smiling face, or the face in gloom, Of Virgin or Apostle. It had been a task, to men who think To see the Jew now flutter, now shrink, And thus did Isaac leave gems and gold As things of poorest barter, To gather the saints both young and old, The eremite and martyr! Yet it often irk'd the Christian race, For ne'er was eye so true to its trust, And more; 'twas the Jew's exulting boast, Tho' Venus he bought as brown as toast, The wonders he wrought, a saint to save, And, possibly, with pleasure. An Anthony torn, with faded pig, Moss buys, not worth a whistle; He buys a rag "not fit for a mat;" So cries his wife in dudgeon; Moss rubs and cleans, and behold! his cat, The best of critics, jumps, bouncing at Carp, salmon, trout, and gudgeon! Enough of praise to that able Jew We've thought and writ-and spoken: Enough; his goods were "better as new," And brighter, fairer, costlier grew, If once well torn and broken. Our story runs, that this worthy soul, The sale, th' effects of the best of scamps A wight, far-fam'd for his midnight tramps, Not Robins himself, whose treacle tongue Alack, 'tis sad, when the sacred hearth Is throng'd by public wonder; And the thousand things that made its worth To manhood's thought, and to childhood's mirth, Are shar'd by civil plunder. 'Tis enough to touch the coarsest mind, At our homestead, men like Moss to find, But men of rapine must still be fed ; The lambkin still for the wolf is bred, A truce to humdrum sentiment-look! Another lot, and another too, Doth Isaac gladly grappleYou ne'er could meet so lucky a jew, Tho' you search'd the Min'ries thro' and thro', And Houndsditch and Whitechapel. The sale goes on-and all eyes are bright; A cross so large, that in very truth, And, oh! 'twas a wondrous scene to view, And biddings rise, and in Isaac Moss The hammer falls, and the cross is sold- Doth rush to the street, and scream and scold, "Alack! what ails thee, poor, aged one?” "Hast lost thy wife-hast lost thy son?" "Oh, Moses!" cries Moss, "I'm quite undone "Tis worse than death or stealing!" "Nay, what's the matter?" "I've lost-I've lost," Cried Isaac, almost choking, "A crucifix! Why, thou stubborn jew; What wouldst thou, if not scoff it? Say, what would crucifix be to you?" And Moss made answer, still weeping dew, "A pretty piece of profit. "I knew, in a minute, what 'twould bring, For what is to be made by't." "Oh! wicked Jew!" cries the decent wight (His indignation howling)— Who shines a self-deem'd jewel of light, If his sabbath face be lacker'd bright, Tho' all the six days scowling. Who still conforms to all prudent shows Who still will talk of his precious creed SKETCHES OF ILLYRIA, ITALY, AND THE TYROL.* BY THE REV. G. R. GLEIG. CHAP. IV. A storm-Night journey-The monks and ladies—The cave of Adelsberg-Trieste as seen after nightfall. THE traveller to or from Italy who makes Trieste one of the haltingplaces in his wanderings, will scarcely omit to visit the cave of Adelsberg; beyond all comparison, the most extraordinary thing of the kind which is any where to be met with throughout Europe. As my young companion and I devoted more than the time usually allotted by strangers to an examination of the cave, and as the whole of our little excursion seems even at this distance of time, to have been full of interest, I do not think that I shall draw very severely upon the patience of others, if I venture to describe it somewhat at length. I plead guilty to the charge on all such occasions as this, of being to the utmost of my poor ability an economist of time. Money, if you squander it away, may be gathered up again; that is to say, by practising a severe and protracted economy, you may make amends for a passing extravagance: but time once lost, either at home or abroad, can never be atoned for. Accordingly as days were becoming very precious with us, and in the ordinary course of events, three would be required to accomplish our intended design, we made up our minds to adopt Moore's receipt for lengthening them-in other words, to travel by night, both in going and returning-and so to reduce the expenditure of hours, available to purposes such as that which was before us, to the lowest possible amount. And we fell into the project the more readily, because our kind friends, Sir Thomas and Lady Sorrel assured us, that the intervening space between Trieste and Adelsberg was, in a picturesque point of view, singularly uninteresting. Having dined, therefore, with an hospitable countryman (a pleasure which was afforded us daily during our residence in Trieste), we returned to our hotel one evening about nine o'clock, and in an hour afterwards, the carriage which we had ordered to be in readiness, drove up to the door. We had heard a good deal of the Bora, or furious wind, which at uncertain periods sweeps over this country; and against which, when it comes in the fulness of its might, neither man nor beast can venture to make head. It was our good fortune, for so I must account it, to behold that night a specimen of its style of operation; not, indeed, as it had been described to us, both in Fiume and elsewhere, sweeping every thing before it, and rendering travel impracticable; but coming on as it were in an instant, and exciting no little alarm in the minds of those who knew better than we how much of evil might in a moment be occasioned by it. When we quitted Sir Thomas Sorrel's house, for example, the night was calm, and the sky cloudless. A moaning there was, indeed, from the sea, for which we could not account; because there was no breeze out to ruffle its surface; but the circumstance excited in us little else than a momentary surprise; which we expressed to one another, and forgot again, long before our preparations for the journey, were complete. Within a quarter of an hour, however, as we stood at the open window, wondering why the carriage delayed to arrive, our asto* Continued from No. ccxxiii., page 424. Sept.-VOL. LVII. NO. CCXXV. с nishment may be imagined, when without the smallest preparation as far as we could discern, a perfect hurricane seemed to break loose upon the city. The gusts of wind roared down the long straight streets, like blasts from a thousand gigantic furnaces. The sky, which we had seen clear and azure but a few minutes previously, was covered with dark clouds, from which, at rapid intervals, flashes of lightning darted, while the thunder bellowed its own terrific accompaniment, so as to be distinctly heard over the tumult of the hurricane. Moreover, all this occurred without the accompaniment which with us, in England, is usual in such cases-not a drop of rain fell. We were very much astonished, as may be supposed. Yet, when our driver entered the room to demand whether it was still our pleasure to proceed, we answered in the affirmativeleaving it to him to decide whether or not he would venture to face a storm of the extent and probable duration of which he must needs be a better judge than we. The honest fellow made not the slightest objection to set out. "We shall have rain by and by," said he, "and when the rain comes, the Bora soon moderates in its wrath." And he was right: for ere we could complete our few remaining preparations, and descend the stair, the heavy splashing of water on the pavement was audible. Such were the circumstances under which our journey began; and I must say that they were both welcomed at the moment, and have been remembered ever since as giving no trivial zest to the proceeding. For the music of wind and thunder is very exciting, and the illumination which is produced by frequent flashes of lightning, gives a majesty to the character of night under the most ordinary circumstances; whereas when shot across a scene like that which encompassed us after we had cleared the town, the effect is sublime. I have alluded elsewhere to the semicircle of hills beneath the shelter of which Trieste is planted. As we wound up the serpentine road by which that range is crossed, the deep dark ravines which skirted us on either hand, with the cottages and groves nestling in their lowest depths, became from time to time distinctly visible, only that a darker and sterner gloom might in a moment afterwards enshroud the whole; while by and by, as we mounted nearer and nearer to the ridge, the same process spread out beneath us castle and tower, street and alley, mole, harbour, shipping, and the wide sea;-all that they might come and go with the rapidity of a dream, and the splendour and the glory of some scene which is produced by the power of magic. Amid such a tumult as this, and under the pelting of a furious rain, we wound slowly onwards till the crest of the hill was gained; when our vehicle began to move more rapidly, and the storm, as if it had been designed to last no longer than we ourselves could have wished, Towered by degrees its tone. The flashes of lightning came at longer intervals, and the thunder grew more hollow and protracted in its sound; while the rain ceased, and the wind died quite away. Accordingly when the carriage stopped at the toll-house (the Douane as it is called in this country), where a process of examination was to be carried through, we had the satisfaction to perceive that the stars were once more shining in a cloudless sky. Of one remarkable change we were, however, conscious, and it was somewhat too violent to be agreeable. The intense heat under which we had heretofore suffered was entirely gone, and a keen, cold atmosphere had so completely taken its place, that we |