tomed to make that difficult voyage. Before leaving the Oura Mountains, which separates Ekatherinenburgh from Niejeni, the traveller embarks on the rivers, which run from these highlands, and flow towards the north. He continues in the boat until he reaches the Tobol, where he lands to cross the mountains. The road is neither very high nor very rugged; and when the mountains have been passed, the traveller embarks anew on the rivers which fall into the Wolga. Prascovia went on board of one of the numerous craft, which are employed to carry iron and salt into Russia, along the Tchousova and Khama.

The person, to whose care she was entrusted, spared her many troubles, during this long journey, which she could hardly have performed without such assistance; but, unfortunately for her, he became ill in passing the defiles, and was obliged to remain in a small village, on the banks of the Khama. Deprived again of all protection, she travelled, nevertheless, without any ill accident, till she reached the confluence of the Khama and the Wolga. From that place, the boats going up the river, are drawn by horses. During that passage, our traveller met with an unfortunate accident. One of those violent storms, which are so frequent in that country, had suddenly arisen, and the steersmen, endeavouring to put off the boat, pushed with all their strength a large oar, that supplied the place of the rudder, on the side where several persons were sitting. They had not time to turn it off, and three of the passengers, Prascovia included, were thrown into the river. She was immediately taken out of the water, and, happily, without any injury; but, reluctant to dress herself in the presence of so many persons, she retained her wet apparel, and took a violent cold, which, in the end, proved fatal to her existence.

The ladies of Ekatherinemburgh, having commissioned the person into whose care they had put their young friend, to make the necessary arrangements for the continuation of her journey from Niejeni, had not recommended her to any one in that city, where, in fact, she did not intend to stop, but now, in consequence of the accident which had befallen her companion, she found herself in Niejeni, without any acquaintance or support.

Opposite the landing place, on the banks of the Wolga, are

Pras

situated on the top of a hill, a church and a convent. covia immediately directed her steps towards the former, intending to seek, after her prayers, a shelter somewhere in the city.

When she entered the solitary church, she heard from behind the grate, female voices, chanting the concluding part of the evening prayers. She considered this as a happy omen. "At some future day," she thought, "if heaven prospers my enterprise, I shall also be invisible to the world, and have no other calling than to worship and thank my Creator."

sun.

On leaving the church, she stopped a while on the steps, to enjoy the splendid sight which meets the eye at that place, and which was then mellowed by the soft light of the setting Niejeni Novogorod is built on the confluence of the rivers Oca and Wolga, and seen from the spot where Prascovia stood, presents one of the most beautiful landscapes : our poor girl had no idea of so large a town, and she clasped her hands with admiration and amazement.

(To be continued.)

TO A LADY.

BY R. SHELTON MACKENZIE, ESQ.

I have seen thee-('twas a minute,
But an age of thought was in it.)—
A sunny flash-a glorious ray-
A beam too bright, too fleet to stay ;-
A galaxy of beauty's sheen,

Like what in my youth's dreams hath been,
Robed in a veil of gorgeous light

Peculiar, as a star-and bright!

- I know thee not-may never know
Who thou canst be that charmed me so :
May never meet thy looks again,
Among the crowded haunts of men :
May never see thy speaking glance,
Or whisper of the song-the dance,
As in that brief, sweet hour, when I
Hung on thy voice's melody.

I scarcely guess thy name,-but yet,
I think they called thee Margaret;
It matters not: why should I seek
To see again that roseate cheek?—
Those ebon-dark and graceful tresses,-
Thine eye that speaks-thy smile that blesses—
Thy happy innocence-that mind,

Where all of virtue seems enshrined?

No! deep within this sorrowing breast
Thy fadeless memory will rest,
Amid the thoughts of happier years,
Ere sorrow dewed my heart with tears!
There let thy breathing image lie
Amid these spells that cannot die;
Perhaps 'twill gild that settled gloom,
Hid in my smiles, which woos the tomb.

We met-may never meet again ;-
I'll think of thee in joy or pain:
But thou already may'st forget
That thou and I have ever met.
Well-be it so it is my lot
To be unheeded or forgot;
Nor do I dare to hope, that thou
Keepest one memory of me now.

Yet, fare-thee-well! I pray that thou
May'st still shrine joy upon thy brow ;-
That mirth may wing the lightsome dart,
Thine eyes flash out into the heart;
That tears may never din those eyes-
Thy breast ne'er throb with sorrow's sighs ;-
That-unlike mine-thy fate may be
One cloudless noon of revelry.

Birmingham.

WOMAN.

Woman is nature's charming child,
The offspring of its happiest hour;
The world without her were a wild-
A waste without a flower.

THE TERRIBLE WARNING;

OR, BLOOD WILL HAVE blood.

A ROMANCE. BY ANN OF KENT.

(Continued from Page 77.)

CHAPTER III.

In scelus addendum scelus est.-Ovid.

Pearcy awoke in the middle of the night, and found his pains increased by an intolerable thirst: he called to Oliver, but received no answer. An untrimmed lamp glimmered on

the table, and just gave sufficient light to discover his faithful attendant lying before the door, his head unsupported on the floor, and stretched rather in the posture of death than sleep. He called to him in as loud a voice as his weakness would allow, but still to no purpose. He tried to leave his bed; but, finding his strength fail him, he threw himself in despondency back on his pillow. He lay thus for some time ruminating in his restless mind the late shocking event, the rescue of his Blanche, and plans of vengeance, when he was aroused by a noise at the other end of the room; presently a door, which had been fastened up, was gently forced open, and two ill-looking fellows entered, cautiously looking around ;-they advanced towards the bed where he lay. As one of them held up a lantern, Pearcy mechanically closed his eyes.

"He sleeps, observed one of the ruffians, in a gruff tone. "So much the better; we shall have less noise and fuss."

Ay, you are right," said his companion; this job is best done quietly, though there is no one near, if he did squall." "Curse the things," cried the other; "would you believe it, Martin? I have left the right tool behind now.'

"Just like you," growled Martin; "but it is no matter, this,-(striking a dagger which was stuck in his belt,) this will do the business, I'll warrant you."

"I tell you it wont do, replied the first; "he wishes no fresh wounds to be made: he has poisoned my dagger, and a stick into one of the old cuts, and he is a dead man in five minutes, and no suspicion."

Suspicion," muttered Martin, with a coarse fiendish laugh; "what need he care about suspicion? he has that already, I take it. Can't you now just hold a pillow over his mouth? I'll tear the bandages from his wounded side, and if my knife, here, don't find where his life lies, in one or two thrusts into the old cut, say I'm a botch, that's all." Well, as you will; but is that ass, Oliver, safe there?" Ay, mate, he is safe enough; I drugged his posset my

self."

Pearcy was a brave man, but, during this dialogue, which announced his immediate death, his flesh seemed to creep on his bones, his heart beat violently against his side, his throat and mouth became dry and husky, while a cold sweat stood on every limb; yet he preserved his presence of mind; he knew it would be equally as useless to call for assistance as to attempt to leave his bed, either would but accelerate his fate. He thought his only chance would be to endeavour to seize the weapon as descended; but, although resolved to struggle to the last with his murderers, he had no hope of saving his life, and prepared for his fate, by mentally addressing his Maker. In breathless suspense, and with a panting heart, he heard the ruffians approach him: he felt the breath of one, as he leant over for a cushion, and he heard the other's dagger grate upon the large buckles as he drew it from the sheath. At the moment, when he prepared to make a hopeless effort for his life, a noise was heard-they turned round

a figure entered at the door where Oliver lay-it gave a frantic shriek, and flew towards them. The ruffians let fall their light, and, with muttered curses, strode hastily from the apartment. The form, on which Pearcy had fixed his steadfast gaze, staggered towards the bed, and fell a lifeless body on his breast:-it was the Lady Blanche. With difficulty he supported her in his enfeebled arms, and, at first, thought that life had fled its lovely tenement for ever, and that his sum of misery was complete. Was the pale cold form he pressed to his aching heart all that remained of the once animated girl, on whom every wish of his soul was centered! A faint sigh raised him from despair. She opened her languid eyes, and instantly recognised her lover. "Ha! Pearcy here!" she exclaimed; "then we are safe, for he will not desert us. She clung to him, and with convulsive throbs