COURAGE AND FILIAL AFFECTION OF MADEMOISELLE SOMBRIEL. In the time of the revolution in France, Mademoiselle Sombriel had been eight days with her father in prison when the unhappy massacres of September commenced. After many prisoners had been murdered, and the sight of blood, continually flowing, seemed only to increase the rage of the assassins; while the wretched inhabitants of the prison endeavoured to hide themselves from the death that hovered over them, Mademoiselle Sombriel rushed into the presence of the murderers who had seized upon her father. "Barbarians," she cried, "hold your hands, he is my father." She threw herself at their feet. At one moment she seized the hand lifted against her father, the next she offered herself to the sword, and so placed herself that they could not strike the parent but through the life of the child. So much courage and filial affection in so young a girl, for a moment diverted the attention of the assassins. She perceived that they hesitated, and seized upon the favorable opportunity; but while she entreated for her father's life, one of the monsters annexed the following condition: "Drink," said he, " a glass of blood, and save your father," She shuddered, and retreated some paces; but filial affection gained the ascendance, and she yielded to the horrible condition. "Innocent or guilty," said one of those who performed the function of judge, "it is unwor thy of the people to bathe their hands in the blood of the old man, since they must first destroy this virtuous girl. A general cry of pardon was heard. The daughter revived by this signal of safety, threw herself into her father's trembling arms, which scarcely had power to press her to his bosom; and even the most outrageous assassins were unable to restrain their tears. The father and daughter were then conducted in triumph out of the prison. THE WANDERER'S RETURN. (From the Forget me Not.) Of all the pleasures we experience in I have been a wanderer all my life, even from my very childhood until now, and have experienced more than once the extatic delight of meeting, after many years of prolonged separation, with those whose fate was interwoven with mine, as much by the tie of strong and mutual affection, as by the more formal bands of kindred and consanguinity. I have experienced something of the sadness of outliving many of my best and earliest friends, and of seeing those who were left to me sadly and sorely changed. I was born and nurtured in a spot so remote from what may be termed the superfluous refinements of life, that those among whom my boyish years were spent, retain even to this day a great portion of the simplicity, and all the hearty hospitality, of a secluded and pastoral people. Unlike the inhabitants of large and populous towns, where there can be but little of common interest or common regards, the inhabitants of the secluded place of my nativity were almost all friends as well as neighbours. Our little community was but one large family, the members of which were knit together by reciprocal ties of servitude, kindred, and attachment. They participated in each other's happiness; they sympathised in each other's grief, and a marriage was a source of joy, and death a source of sorrow to all. The first time I returned home I was but a boy, and then all was mirth and joyousness; the fatted calf was killed, and I was supremely happy; for the few changes which time had wrought were neither obvious or important-at least, I could not perceive them. At the second visit-and this was nearly ten years after the firstI found that time had been more relentless; many whom I had left in their prime had become visibly older; the scanty locks of the men were whiter, and the features of the women were shadowed out in a more sedate and calm complacency. This was the grave side of the picture; but it had its smiling aspect also; for those whom I left gamboling in all the happy mirth of conscious childhood were now blooming in the gaiety and gracefulness of jocund youth. Nearly twenty years again elapsed, before I had another opportunity of revisiting my native valley, and then sad indeed were the alterations which had occurred in my absence! Such as 1 had left well stricken in years had long been slumbering in the grave; some of the younger branches had also withered, and those that remained had sunk into the "sear and yellow leaf," and were different-Oh how different!-from the gay and joyous beings I had seen before, I saw no fair and well-known faces; I heard not the greeting of friendly lips; for a new generation had sprung up, and I was now a stranger in my own land. I went into the churchyard, and the spot where I stood was full of summer beauty. I looked upon the white grave-stones and read the names of many whom I had known in happiness and health. I thought of the sabbath mornings, when I had stood by the gate, and seen the path to the house of God crowded with the beautiful and the young; when I had beheld the seats all thronged and fair eyes glancing modestly to and fro with the interchange of silent and holy greeting, which passing among friends before the service begins. I thought too on those names I loved, and with whom I shared kindred and blood; and it was all I now could do; for I saw their The well-known landscape broke upon my view! But I must crave thy pardon worthy reader for detaining thee so long from the pith and marrow of my tale. Perchance thou art thyself a wanderer from thy native land, and that land may be like mine own, far, far away, amidst green hills and smiling vallies. If so thou wilt readily pardon these doating rhapsodies; and if not, thou wilt please to place them to the account of the prating garrulity of a fond and foolish old man, who cannot commence his story without such a preface. And now to my history. Most persons who have visited North Wales have, I presume, sojourned awhile at the little town of Holmgrove, the rude capital of the wild county of Merioneth, a town by the way, which has most effectually resisted any very important innovation upon its ancient rudeness and simplicity. Most trifling in truth have been the improvemenss at Holmgrove. It is true nevertheless, that one small house on the northern side of the principal street has been superseded by a building of larger dimensions, embellished with the representation of an angel clad in robes of white and scarlet, and dignified moreover with a portico supported on pillars of cast iron. It is also true that a new town-hall has been recently erected by the river side, and that a peal of eight bells has been added to the square tower of the old church. But that which is destined to confer more particular immortality upon the place, is the establishment of a stagecoach, which performs its hebdomadal evolutions during the summer months, in little more than fifteen hours, from Shrewsbury to Barmouth, being a distance, gentle reader of sixty-four miles! These it must be confessed are, at all events, strong symptoms of that improving spirit which has gone forth amongst us, conquering and to conquer and which my learned friend, Dr. Hercules Pendragon, unhesitatingly attributes to what he calls the regenerating result of the French revolution. It was towards the close of a beautiful day in July 18-, that a gentleman tolerably good looking, but with extremely dark features, arrived at Holmgrove by the coach already referred to: Ile alighted at the Golden Lion, and entered the Inn with a friend who had been anxiously waiting his arrival. They spoke little till they entered the house, but when quietly seated in the blue parlour, the gentleman greeted the traveller with" Dear Anwyle, Ellis! -but you are strangely altered!" Do you think so Owen, replied the other, in a melancholy tone: "but it matters not; I am quite forgotten here by every one I suppose, or remembered only as the wild boy who broke his father's heart." His lips quivered, and a tear strolled down his sunburnt cheek, as he continued grasping his friend's hand convulsively while he spoke. "This is a bitter welcome, James, after so long an absence." "Now whence in the name of goodness, heard you this silly tale Ellis?" asked the other. "Is it not known to all your father's friends that you left the country at his express desire, that you might be out of the reach of the consuming idleness of this little town? and is it not known that you were doing well with your Uncle in London! Your father himself-and 1 was with him when he died-blessed his absent son, and thanked God for reforming him." Yes, yes I know he did," replied Meredith; "but I find here, as in every other place, that an evil report although false, is far more readily cherished than a good one, though true." Nonsense Ellis, bach! of whom learnt ye this cruel report as you call it?" "Why from the tallest of the two young men who sat with me on the coach." "Pooh! young Davies! and do you believe him? I wonder he did not tell you Cader Idris had been to Narmouth and back again since you left! He is one of the greatest dreamers I ever knew." "That may be, Owen; but I thought there was an appearance of great candour and good nature in his face and manners.' "Ay, ay, said the other, "he is good natured and good looking enough, but a most notorious dreamer." Now this was not altogether true. Such a report as was mentioned by young Davies, although false, did certainly exist, and James Owen well knew it, although he was anxious to spare the feelings of his friend, whose altered conduct, and perhaps what was infinitely more persuasive, whose good fortune he was pretty certain, would readily secure him the good will and esteem of his countrymen. Desirous therefore of changing the conversation, Owen asked-" And what think you of the old place, Ellis?" "I see no alteration in the houses, the mountains, the woods, and the green fields." said he; "but the faces are almost all strange to me- I miss those old friends whom I used to meet at my father's; but I cannot expect to find all as I left them twenty years ago. Death doubtless has been busy here. Old Williams, I understand is dead." He is; and your old flirt, his daughter, after a great deal of misfortune, is now doing well. "So I hear. Is she still single?" Ellis Meredith asked this question in a tone that was intended to convey nothing more than a common and a careless interest in the lady's welfare; but there was a tremour in his voice, and a colour on his cheek, which betrayed to his friend that there was other warmer feelings which prompted the enquiry. He replied accordingly; "She is, and doubtless intends to continue so. She has, to my certain knowledge, refused three most eligible offers; and unless you can prevail upon her, nobody else can, I am convinced." "I, James," said the other smilingly, "am I a proper person to pour nonsense and flattery into a woman's ears." "Ay, truly, are you-a very proper person. Have you not got a good fortune, a good-looking face and a good house? and what want you more than a good loving wife? and who will suit you better than Ellen Williams? If all things be true, I see plainly that Bryntirion will not be long without a mistress. "Come, tell me candidly, Ellis, do not you still love Ellen a little ?" "A little, James? say rather, any thing but a little. Its now nearly sixteen years since I have seen her: but in all that time has she been present to my memory, and cheered me onward through all my toil. "In all my absence her sweet love A cheering ray of gladdeuing light." It may seem strange to you, that so long an absence has not cooled my youthful passion-for you know I loved Ellen before 1 left the countrybut it has on the contrary strengthened it, and the vows which were pledged at parting, have never for a moment been forgotten by me. Whenever my thoughts wandered to the green hills and valleys of my native land, she was always present; and even when oppressed with fatigue and weighed down by sorrow, one thought of her -such as I left her in her youthwould cheer my drooping spirits and raise me to extacy. I have associated with wealthier and it may be more accomplished women, but there was not one whom I could love; for I had previously given my heart to Ellen Williams. My only anxiety is to know if she still loves the truant Ellis." "Go then and ask her while I proceed to Bryntirion to see if all is ready for your reception. But stay, you don't know Ellen's house: it is that small quiet looking cottage among the trees, by the hill side yonder: so be off my dear Ellis, and may you speed well in your wooing." [TO BE CONTINUED.] Truth needs no colour, with his colour fixed, Shakspeare. SPANISH PEASANTRY. IN one of my walks, says the interesting writer of" Recollections of the Peninsula," after wandering along the rude and pathless banks of a clear mountain stream, which now leaped, now run, now rippled,now smoothly flowed along its ever-varying bed, I came to a romantic chapel, such a one as you often find in the Peninsula, a league or more from any human habitation. In the shade, near the door, I observed a small basket, apparently filled only with the most beautiful flowers; I approached to take one; when stooping, I beheld a lovely infant about a year old; it was dressed prettily and tastefully; though pale, I thought it slept, for its paleness did not appear as of death; it was however, cold and lifeless, yet it had nothing of the corpse, nothing of the grave about it. I kissed its delicate fair face, and thought not without a sigh, on its parents. A voice startled me, and turning I beheld a decent looking peasant woman, with an old man, and two or three children from ten to fifteen years of age.-"Are you the mother of this babe ?" said I; "Yes, Senhor." "I pity you from my heart." "How so, Senhor? To have borne and buried a christian, without sin, I look on as a blessing, and I praise the Holy Virgin that she has vouchsafed to take him to herself."-I gazed at the woman. Was this insensibility? or was it enthusiastic reverence for, and pious resignation to, the will of God?—I decided for the latter; for I saw her bend over her child with an expression of countenance rapturously affectionate. I knelt down, once more, to read its innocent features.-Yes, there was the charm: remorse, fear and doubt, could not be traced there. All was innocence, and purity, and truth."Your child," said I, "my good woman, is perhaps ere now, a cherubim in heaven." Senhor, you cannot be a heretic? "No, I am a Christian of another sect." "Ah you must be a Christian; I thought so, but the priests said you English were all heretics." 66 At Porthleaven, Mrs Cudlip, of a son. At Liskeard, Mr. R. Phillips to Miss Longmaid At Padstow, Miss B. Hawker to Captain B. Harvey At St. Breock, Mr. James Paynter to Miss Key IN APRIL. At Crowan, Mr. Holman to Miss Thomas At Gwennap, Mr. T. Michell to Miss S. Boase At Kea, Mr. T. Rowe to Miss Hicks At Redruth, Mr. R. Davey to Miss Michell. At Helston, Mr. Sleeman to Miss Gilson At Helston, Mr. T. Curry to Miss S. James. DEATHS-IN MARCH. At St. Ives, wife of Lieutenant Roberts, R. N. At Falmouth, Mr. Edey, Butcher At Liskeard, Mr. Hicks, Butcher At Falmouth, Mr. Chard, of the Pilot Boat Inn IN APRIL. At Scorrier, Captain J. Sims, aged 74 At Bodmin, Mr. S. Mudge At Lanteglos, Mr. T. Cossentine At Penzance, Miss P. Richards At Helston, Mrs. Reed, aged 65 At Portreath, Mr. W. James, of the Society of Friends At St. Day, Mr. I. Hawky At Launceston, Mrs. M'Mullan, aged 69 At St. Stephens, Mrs. Kingdom At Bodmin, the wife of Rev. G. P. Sandilands, AtHarrow School, being unfortunately drowned of a son. IN APRIL. At Poldice, the wife of Mr. T. Bawden, of a son At Chooshicks, the wife of Mr. R. Hicks, of a in Bathing, Charles William, only son of Sir Charles Lemon, Bart. of Carclew, aged 13 At Torpoint, Mr. C. Rickard At Fowey, Mrs. E. Gilbert, aged 66 At St Columb, Mrs. Rawling, aged 65 At Falmouth, the wife of Mr. Philp, Bookseller, At Falmouth, Infant Child of Mr. Bullocke. of a son. At West Looe, the wife of Mr. Lawrance, of a son. At Penryn, the wife of Captain Roberts, of a son Printed and Published by J. PHILP, Falmouth,and sold by most Booksellers in the County. |