and disinterested in regard! The earthly house of his tabernacle dissolved, and now prayer cannot follow, praise availeth not, tears weep themselves in vain. Whither he hath gone before, I, and all must one day follow; but memory can linger upon the days which are vanished, though gloom settles over their horizon,— affection may be torn asunder, but faith will reunite it! Thus, from a world, which had so cruelly and despitefully used him, vanished the spirit of my poor friend. I dwell not upon the after-scene of death. The hand that has thus imperfectly penned the relation of the last moments of one, to whom my own soul was bound with the strongest cords of attachment, was the hand which performed the final office, when it closed his eyes in that unwaking slumber which bringeth rest to the weariness of man. And who, after witnessing such a scene, would not feel all the chilling eloquence of a celebrated modern writer, when he asks: "Have you never thought, when called to the chamber of the dying man, when you saw the warning of death npon his countenance, and how its symptoms gathered and grew, and got the ascendancy over all the ministrations of human care and of human tenderness—when it every day became more visible that the patient was drawing to his close, and that nothing in the whole compass of art, or any of its resources, could stay the advances of the sure and last malady; have you never thought, on seeing the bed of the sufferer surrounded by other comforters than those of the Patriarch; when, from morning to night, and from night to morning, the watchful family sat at his couch, and guarded his broken slumbers, and interpreted all his signals, and tried to hide from his observation the tears that attested him to be the kindest of parents;-when the sad anticipation spread its gloomy stillness over the household, and even sent forth an air of seriousness and concern upon the members of other families; when you have witnessed the despair of friends, who could only turn them to cry at the spectacle of his last agonies, and had seen how little it was that weeping children and enquiring neighbours could do for him;-when you have contrasted the unrelenting necessity of the grave with the feebleness of every surrounding endeavour to ward it off; has the thought never entered within you-how powerless is the desire of man-how sure and how resistless is the decree of God ?" For my own part, I have witnessed death in all shapes, and in all the modifications of its horror. I have seen life rush forth in the heat and turmoil of the battle, and escape amid the hurried tramplings of the foe. I have seen death on the ocean and on the land, by suddenness, by violence, by the sword, and by famine, in mine own and in foreign climes. I have seen the victim of self and of another's murder, and have gazed on the agonized countenance of the gamester's pale remains: but I do not remember ever to have experienced so great a trial to my feelings, as when I thus beheld Death take his silent station, and come on by slow and certain progress, till he planted his blow with firmness, and bade the waters of life return chilled to their sources, till he froze up the channels of their issue for ever! THE EPPING GIPSEY. In the summer of the year 1793, the Forest of Epping became the resort of a numerous clan of gipsies, whose depredations on the surrounding farm-houses. rendered them exceedingly obnoxious to the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, by whom they were viewed with considerable apprehensions, not only on account of their disposition to plunder, but from the well-known ferocity of their gang. Scarcely a night passed without a robbery having been committed; and so daring were the marauders, that farmers were attacked on the public high-way, and robbed and ill-treated, at noon day. The magistrates of the county were applied to without effect; for the local constables, who were generally petty farmers, were too timid to enter the precincts of these formidable free-booters, either to search for stolen property, or to execute a warrant of arrest; so that the gipsies had little to apprehend from the power of the law. Indeed, the best policy under the circumstances seemed to be, to wink at the loss of a stray sheep or a few geese, to treat a chance member of the gipsy camp with a cup of your home-brewed ale, or to toss a few halfpence amongst their little ragged, sun-burnt children, who would often wander to the neighbouring villages to seek for what they could pick up. Thanks to the excellent arrangement of our police, and our able and efficient magistracy, things are now in a better state. The gipsies, although in many parts of England and Scotland they are still to be seen hovering on the outskirts of society, are a declining race, and in a few years more will, in all probability, become totally extinct. Aware that their mode of life is unlawful, and that they are rather endured than protected in a country where good order is so strongly enforced, they are cautious how they commit the least excess, lest they should draw upon their heads the terrors of the law. But up to the close of the last century, the name of gipsey was generally coupled with that of robber, and every species of excess was committed by these reckless vagrants. The leader of the formidable gang, to which we have just referred, was named George Young, whose first breath was drawn in a gipsy tent, and whose limbs, from that moment to the hour of his death, never rested on a softer bed than that which the earth afforded. His temper and habits partook naturally of the wild life in which he had been reared. He was bold, determined, and ferocious, added to which, he possessed a constitu tion of robust health, and a frame of great muscular strength and activity. Unaided as he was by the advantages resulting from education, he at times displayed no mean capacity; and he had something in his demeanour and appearance which seemed to raise him far above those with whom he associated. He appeared ardently attached to the life he had chosen ; and he has been known to declare, that he would not exchange his condition for a bed of down and a home of luxury. According to the most authentic account which we have been enabled to gather of his person, he was nearly six feet in height, and his frame was one of uncommon strength. His usual dress was a loose coat of gray frieze, fastened round the middle with a leather belt; a broad leafed hat which he usually wore slouched over his sun-burnt: features; bare legs, and strong } shoes. The only weapon, offensive or defensive, which appeared upon his person, was a huge ash staff, which he used when walking. It was believed, however, that he was provided with weapons of a more destructive nature. It happened that, whilst the terror raised by the depredations of the gipsies was at its height, a poor lone woman, who inhabited a miserable cottage on the borders of the forest, was robbed of her little all, consisting of three guineas and some silver, which she had carefully hoarded up to purchase a cow. Her lamentations excited the sympathy of a young man, a wheelwright, named Dorkins, to whom she had made known her loss, and he secretly determined to proceed to the gipsies' haunt, and demand restitution in the name of the poor woman, whom they had so cruelly robbed. Dorkins was a young man of considerable spirit, and having acquired some celebrity in the neighboured for his strength and agility, felt, perhaps, no small degree of confidence in his bodily powers, should the gipsies attempt to assault him. He would have endeavoured to prevail on one of his companions to accompany him in his enterprise, but he knew how useless would be the attempt; besides, having a dash of the romantic in his composition, he was unwilling to share the fame of the exploit with another. The truth is, the young man was in love, and having a rival, though not a very successful one, he was anxious to distinguish himself in the eyes of his mistress, in order to gain her good opinion. Bent on this hazardous undertaking he left his home, and directed his steps, on the evening of a fine summer's day, towards the gipsies' tents, which were pitched on a piece of open ground in the centre of the forest, which at this time was nearly as unfrequented, excepting by gamekeepers and poachers, as many of the woods of America are at the present day. Young Dorkins entered the thickets with a fearless heart, but never returned to tell the result of his adventure. Three days having elapsed since the evening on which he was missed from home, his family and friends, and indeed the entire neighbourhood, expressed the most serious apprehensions for his safety; nor where these apprehensions at all diminished by the sudden disappearance of the gipsies. Not a straggler was to be seen on the outskirts of the forest; and the tops of their tents, which could till now be distinguished from the high grounds of Epping that overlooked a portion of the wooded scenery, were no longer visible. The fears of the neighbours were further confirmed by the old woman-the unhappy cause of the young man's rash undertaking. She related the nature of her conference with him on her loss, and mentioned his promise to see her righted. A conclusion was soon drawn. The brave young man, impelled by his generous spirit, had, it was determined, sought the haunt of the gipsies, and there fell a victim to their cold and cruel treachery. Dorkins was a general favourite, and his companions mustering together to the amouut of ten or twelve young men, with two of the forest keepers, and a parish constable at their head, resolved to explore the forest, and recover, if possible, the body of the young man alive or dead. They sallied forth accordingly, and proceeded directly to the gipsies' haunt, which they found completely deserted; although, from the hurried manner in which the removal appeared to have been effected, it was evident that some strong and sudden motive had urged their departure. Not a trace, however, could here be discovered of the object of their search ; but being determined not to return without gaining some clue to the fate of their companion, they divided their party for the purpose of exploring the neighbouring thickets. Their exertions were crowned with success; on a patch of dark green grass, surrounded on every side by thick trees, through which the last beams of the setting sun could scarcely penetrate, they discovered the body of the unfortunate young man stretched out, cold and lifeless, with a desperate gash on the right temple, and his throat cut from ear to ear. A broken ash staff, stained with clotted blood, lay on the ground; and from the trampled appearance of the grass around the body, it was evident that the deceased had offered to his assailants a vigorous and prolonged resistance. The terror excited by the news of this inhuman murder can hardly be described. The body having been conveyed to an inn at Epping, a jury was summoned to investigate the matter. The evidence of the old woman seemed to confirm the general belief, that the gipsies had perpetrated the dreadful crime, and their sudden disappearance left scarcely a doubt upon the subject. The crowd collected round the inn was immense; and the body, in compliance with a popular superstition, was exposed to public inspection, in order that those, against whom suspicion was entertained, should undergo the ordeal of touching it. As there was but one opinion, however, as to the authors of the murder, it was considered unnecessary that any of the spectators should try the experiment; but a number of the companions of the deceased voluntarily walked round the mangled corse, and touched it as they passed. There was one amongst the number, however, who kept aloof from the assembled crowd, and seemed to shun the object which all appeared so desirous to view. It was Walter Savage, a first cousin of the murdered young man, and the rival in his love. An enmity of a long standing had existed between them. It arose out of a wrestling match, in which Dorkins threw Walter, whose pride was sensibly touched by his defeat, that he never afterwards forgave him. Walter had taken to bad courses; was addicted to drink and evil company, and had no other means of subsistence than what he derived from his dangerous pursuit as a deer-stealer. Connecting these circumstances with the murder, it was surprising nobody suspected that he might have had some hand in it. His very look, as he stood a mute, but not an inattentive spectator of the scene, would have implied that he was labouring under the weight of some hidden guilt; yet so entirely had people's suspicions been excited by the gipsies, and so deeply were they impressed with the idea that they were the guilty persons, that suspicion had never once pointed at Walter Savage. As yet we have made no mention of Jane Barnes, the unhappy young woman who had exchanged her vows with the murdered Dorkins. She was present at the awful investigation; and as the jury, after viewing the mangled remains, were about to retire to consider of their verdict, she shrieked aloud, in a voice that ap palled the heart of every bystauder, "Justice! Justice Walter Savage has not touched the body!" All eyes were immediately turned upon Savage, at whom the half-crazed girl pointed as he stood in a corner of the room, his arms folded on his breast, and his eyes cast upon the ground. Hearing himself thus singled out, he suddenly raised his head, and advancing slowly towards her, by whom he was thus publicly impeached, while his pale lips quivered with agitation, and his limbs seemed to totter beneath his weight, said, in a voice scarcely audible, "It is true, Jane, I have not touched the body; but if it is right that I should, I am quite willing to do so now." He accordingly advanced to the corse and passed his fingers across the forehead, while every one present pressed forward to witness the result. It was most singular. He had scarcely withdrawn his hand, when the blood gushed from the dead man's temple, at sight of which a general thrill of horror ran through the room. The confusion and consternation which followed may be better imagined than described. Poor Jane, whose feelings had been wound up to intensity by the scene before her, fell into strong hysterics, and in this state was obliged to be conveyed home. The coroner and jury were thunderstruck; and the rest of the spectators were speechless with surprise and horror. Savage, though deadly pale, had recovered his self-possession, and withstood firmly the many searching glances that were now turned upon him. The strong suspicion which had attached to the gipsies was soon directed to another object; and powerful was the effect produced by the blood of the murdered man, that the guilt of Walter Savage was considered as clear as the noon-day. He was seized upon the spot, and conveyed before the jury. His character weighed heavily againt him, and his known enmity to the unfortunate deceased, was thought to be a damning evidence of guilt. He was questioned as to where he was on the evening of the murder. He hesitated, and at length named a public house in the neighbourhood, where he said he had passed the entire afternoon of the day in question, and did not return to his home till after ten at night. This statement, however, was distinctly and positively denied by the landlord of the inn he mentioned, who happened to be one of the persons present at the investigation. Some other questions were then asked him, to each of which he returned surly and evasive answers. The jury co sulted, and notwithstanding their former impression that the gipsies alone were guilty, Savage was forthwith committed to prison, charged by the coroner's warrant, with the wilful murder of Edward Dorkins! con The assizes came on the week following, and the day of trial having arrived, Savage was conveyed to Chelmsford for the purpose of answering, at the bar of justice, for the heavy crime with which he was charged. Having been renounced by his family, in consequence of his evil doings, he had no friend to stand beside him on this awful occasion, and not a living soul came to whisper hope and consolation in his ear. The court was crowded to excess by persons of every description, who were all anxious to learn the result of a trial, occasioned by the commission of a crime which had rarely been perpetrated in that part of the country; and the mysterious manner in which the accused had become implicated, gave an unusual interest to the scene. The preliminary business of the court having been disposed of, the jury were sworn, and the trial commenced. Savage, when called upon in the usual way to plead to the indictment, answered, "Not guilty," in a firm collected manner. The counsel for the prosecution having detailed the particulars of the murder, proceeded to show the grounds of suspicion against the prisoner at the bar. Witnesses were called to prove the misunderstanding which had existed between the cousins; and some hasty expressions of revenge, which were said to have been uttered by Savage on the occasion of his defeat in the wrestling match, were also given in evidence. A knife, stained with clotted blood, (the appearance of which excited a powerful sensation in the court,) was likewise brought forward. It had been discovered under the prisoner's bed after his apprehension, and was thought to have been the weapon with which he had accomplished the fatal deed. These were the principal points of evidence against the unfortunate prisoner; and the prosecuting counsel admitted, that however strong and conclusive they might be, they were still merely circumstantial. He adverted to the gipsies, and said it was true that circumstances of a suspicious nature might be advanced against them. The professed object which Dorkins had in view when he entered the forest, on the evening of the murder, and the subsequent flight of the gang whose route had since been traced, were points for the jury to consider, who would weigh them as opposed to the proofs advanced against the prisoner. In alluding to the singular fact of the blood of the deceased having followed the touch of the supposed murderer, he desired that the jury should dismiss that occurrence entirely from their minds, as it might be accounted for in a natural manner, and he left them to shape their verdict according to the evidence produced, and the dictates of their own consciences. The case for the prosecution having been closed, the prisoner was called upon for his defence. He had no counsel to plead for him, and no friend to utter a kind word in his behalf. He stared vacantly around the court; but so convinced were the spectators of his guilt, that amongst the many faces which his eye encounted on every side, he could not discover one in which hope or pity could be traced. He pressed his hands upon his forehead, closed his eyes, and dropped his head upon the bar. Being again asked if he had any thing to urge in his defence, he merely denied his guilt in general terms, admitting that he had taken to bad habits, had been a deer-stealer, and that the knife produced against him was that which he had used in the dissection of his plunder; concluding with a vehement denial of the crime with which he was charged, and his firm reliance on the justice of the judge and jury; although having no friend in the world, he was quite careless as to what should become of him. His address seemed to have no other effect upon the minds of the spectators, than to strengthen the conviction of his guilt. The judge recapitulated the evidence, dwelt at considerable length on every criminating circumstance, and left the wretched man nothing to hope for. His address to the jury conIcluded thus: "There is one circumstance (said he) which the learned counsel for the prosecution has told you to dismiss from your minds when you come to decide this case; I allude to the appearance of blood when the body of the deceased was touched by the pri soner. I am not given to superstition, gentlemen; yet I own that an occurrence so awful and supernatural has made a considerable impression on my mind; and coupled as it is with circumstantial evidence of the strongest and most convincing nature, I cannot but con sider it it as one of those wonderful interpositions of Divine Providence, which, in cases of this description, have not unfrequently occurred, for the purpose of fixing the crime on the head of the guilty person. Gentlemen, if you have taken a different view of this case; if you entertain any reasonable doubts as to the evidence produced this day before you, I need not tell you that the prisoner is entitled to the benefit of those doubts; and that your verdict must be found accordingly. But I entertain a strong impression of the prisoner's guilt. Indeed, I am as morally convinced of his having committed this murder, as if I myself had witnessed it." Savage, who had never withdrawn his eyes from the judge during his long address, now fixed them on the jury, to try if in their looks he could find a spark of mercy. He saw them turn round to consult together, and hope for a moment took possession of his mind; but, when they withdrew for a further consultation, his feelings, having already reached the summit of suspense, could bear no more. His head swam, and the bench, where sat his stern and inexorable judge, the dim lights in the court, and the thousand eyes that from every side seemed to glare upon him, went round and round. His knees smote each other, his throat seemed parched, and he breathed with difficulty. He would willingly have given his last slender chance of life for a drop of water and a breath of pure air; and he dropped down totally insensible. How long he had continued thus, he knew not; but the same deep solemn voice which had asked him before, if he were "guilty or not guilty," recalled him to life and misery, by repeating "Walter Savage, what have you to say, why sentence of death and execution should not be passed upon you, according to the verdict!" He had nothing to say; he saw that he must die: not all the world could save him. He bowed his head in silent submis. sion to his fate, and the awful sentence of the law was instantly passed upon him. One short day was all that the mercy of his earthly judge allowed him to settle his affairs in this world, and prepare for his removal to the next. The sentence seemed to give general satisfaction, and a buzz of approbation followed its delivery. popular feeling had set in strongly against the unfortunate young man. His appearance was not prepossessing; he had a heavy brow and a downcast look; and, strange as it may appear, his very name was seized upon as a proof presumptive of his guilt. The He was immediately removed from the dock, for the purpose of being reconducted to his solitary dwelling, from the walls of which, in a few hours more, he was to be led forth, amid the groans and execrations of the people, to suffer an ignominous death. The trial had occupied the court ten hours, and the evening was far advanced before it was concluded. The pressure of persons, both in the interior and without the walls of the court-house, was so great that the officers could scarcely effect a passage for the prisoner, who moved quietly along, hardly conscious of his dreadful situation. Having advanced about half-way from the court-house to the prison, the officers found it impossible to proceed farther; and Savage, who was closely pinioned between two of them, had scarcely room to breathe. A reinforcement of constables was sent for; but before they could arrive, a tumult arose, nobody could tell how, and the officers were assaulted by a group of wild-look ing, dark-coloured men, whose bare brawny arms brandished huge bludgeons. The crowd gave way, and Savage in an instant found himself separated from those to whose custody he had been but a moment before consigned. The effect of the trial, however, had so stupified him, that he had scarcely sufficient power to profit by the chance which was then presented to him. His hands were pinioned, but his legs were free; yet still, instead of rushing through the panic-struck crowd, and making a desperate effort to save his already forfeited life, he stood with a stupid stare, apparently the only unconcerned spectator of the riot of which he was the cause; and, had it not been for the increasing darkness, and the confusion which prevailed he would inevitably have been recaptured. But that which he was himself unable to effect, was soon undertaken by an unknown friend. He felt his wrist tightly grasped, and he was hurried onwards by a tall muscular man, muffled in a large cloak, with his face concealed by a slouched hat. Forcing a passage through the crowd, Savage and his conductor soon found themselves on the outskirts of the town. Once, and but once, they ventured to look back, and found that the utmost confusion prevailed around the court-house. A detachment of dragoons had just arrived, lights were moving to and fro, and the words "rescue!""escape!" and murderer!" were echoed by a thousand tongues. Savage, who till now had scarcely felt the extent of his danger, shuddered and hurried onwards, urging every sinew to keep pace with his unknown friend, who strode before him with a giant's speed. Having cleared the town, they struck into an unfrequented path, and continued their route across the country, avoiding the public roads, and pausing at intervals to listen for the sounds of pursuit. But all was silent, and the full round moon, rising from behind a ridge of dark clouds, threw a mild and gradual lustre over the surrounding scenery. Having travelled at a rapid rate for the space of an hour, without exchanging a single word, Savage and his guide suddenly checked their speed; and the latter, lifting his hat from his eyes, and allowing the moonlight to fall upon his features, asked Savage if he knew him. The young man thought his features were familiar to his eye; he had surely seen them before, but he was too much overpowered by his feelings to recollect where. "It is of no consequence," said his preserver, perceiving that he hesitated, "I have saved your life, and would have done so even at the hazard of my own. They would have caused you to die a painful and a public death, for a crime of which you were not guilty; for know, Walter Savage, it was this hand that struck young Dorkins to the earth; and this was the weapon," he continued, drawing a large clasp-knife from his bosom, and opening the fatal blade,—" this was the weapon that let out his life's blood." Savage shuddered, and involuntarily stepped a few paces back. You must not mistake me," continued the unknown, "I am no common murderer; I would not willingly have sought his death, but the tiger is not to be bearded in his own den. He came with threats and upbraidings; I warned him away, but he was rashly bent upon his own destruction. He struck me; we grappled. He young, active, aud courageous, and a noted wrestler too, as you may perhaps remember. We struggled hard, till at last he fell beneath me. Even then, was 1 did not desire his life; but he renewed his insolent upbraidings, heaped the most odious terms of abuse upon me and my people, and treacherously springing upon me, unprepared, as I was to sustain the assault, he fastened on my throat, and would probably have choked me; but that, stepping back, 1 seized upon my ash staff, which till now I had disdained to use, and with one blow I dashed him to the earth, never to rise again! But time flits; you are safe now but you will be pursued, and if taken it may be that I cannot again effect your rescue. Go, then, consult your own safety by flight. Seek, for the present, some distant and secure retreat, or the blood hounds of the law will surely find you out. Even now, the cry is up, the scent is on the ground, and nothing but courage and decision can save you. The morning sun must find you many miles from hence. The great city lies before you; there, for the present, you will be most secure.” “And you," said Walter, overcome by strong feelings of gratitude, "where will you find a refuge, should chance discover what you have now confessed to me?" The stranger paused for a few moments, and then replied, "The secret lies in your breast, Walter Savage; and I rely too much upon your gratitude, to suppose you would wantonly betray me; and, if you had villany enough to do so, you surely would not be the fool to risk your own life again, by an endeavour to implicate me; for, who would give credit to the tale of a convicted murderer? No, Walter, the price which you must pay for your rescued life is silence, and a selfbanishment from your native haunts. Thus we shall both be secure. The time may come, however, when you may once more return to your home, cleared from the crime of which the world now believes you guilty; —when I die, I will do you justice. But, we waste the night in talk; you are without money, I suppose; and your rifle must no longer ring through the glades of Epping Forest, to bring down the red deer. Here are five guineas," he continued, drawing a leathern purse from his bosom, and counting out that sum; "and when you sit down in safety, recalling the transactions in which you have lately been engaged, think kindly on him who now bids you an eternal farewell ;-remember Young, the gipsy." Pro Savage took the advice of his mysterious preserver ; and, having secreted himself in an obscure lodging in London, until his pursuers despaired of effecting his capture, he made his way to Portsmouth, and from thence embarked in a King's ship for the West Indies. fiting by the events of his early life, he applied himself with steady perseverance to his duty, and soon gained the friendship and goodwill of his companions, and the officers under whom he served. He distinguished himself in several actions; and, being an uncommonly good marksman, was generally selected to go aloft with his rifle, when an enemy came to close quarters. His last action was fought in the very ship on the deck of which the gallant Nelson received his death wound. A nine pounder carried off his left leg; and falling from his station on the round-top, he was borne to the cockpit by two of his companions, where he underwent the amputation of his shattered stump. He had fought for his country ten years; and being unfit any longer for service, he was sent to England in the first hospital ship that left the Bay of Trafalgar after that ever-memorable battle. For obvious reasons, although many opportunities had offered, he had never seen England since his first departure; and filled with recollections of the past, he now returned to her shores with gloomy forbodings and a heavy heart. He remembered that, however innocent he was, the sentence of the law still hung over him, and that the name of convicted murderer would tarnish all his laurels. Time, to be sure, had wrought a considerable alteration in his appearance, and he had changed his name on entering the service; but there were many still living to whom his features would be familiar, and who would not be baffled by the change which his person had undergone. He remembered the gipsy's words, "When I die, I will do you justice;" but this chance was too uncertain and remote to excite the slightest hope. As he lay one evening in his hammock, debating within himself on the risk which he should shortly be obliged to encounter, he took up an old newspaper, which one of his messmates had lent him, and turning over the contents, he chanced to light upon these words:"If this should meet the eye of Walter Savage, who, about the year 1793, lived near Epping in Essex, and who effected his escape from Chelmsford, in the said county, while under sentence of death, for the commission of a crime of whieh, it was afterwards discovered, he was not guilty, he is informed, that he will hear of something very much to his advantage, by applying to Mr. Frankin, solicitor, Gray's Inn, London; or, any person giving such information as may lead to the discovery of the said Walter Savage, shall be handsomely rewarded, by applying as above." A few words will suffice to close this narrative. When Savage arrived in England, and as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to go abroad, he waited on the solicitor to whom he was directed to apply. From him he learned, that Young, having closed his vagabond career in a wretched hovel, on the borders of Epping Forest, acknowledged, among other crimes, that Dorkins had fallen by his hand, and that the young man who had been condemned to death as the supposed murderer was entirely innocent of his death. "I shall take occasion," continued the solicitor," to make the Secretary of State acquainted with your singular case, and I have no doubt but that you may soon return to your home with an unblemished character. In the mean time, I have the pleasure to acquaint you, that an uncle of yours, in consideration of your early misfortunes, has left you his sole heir to a very comfortable property, in your native county; and, in presenting you with the title deeds, allow me to wish you all possible happiness, and length of years to enjoy it.' BALLAD. THE WIDOWER. I wander forth alone, along I listen to the night-bird's song- |