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door, and entered the apartment where he had locked up the body of the man who had been executed the day before, and whose unaccountable disappearance had caused such astonishment. It was now his turn to be astonished. The sack, which had contained the body, lay empty on the floor, and he stood surveying it in mute surprise, and perhaps other feelings Dot altogether agreeable. A slight noise behind him made him turn his head, and he saw the figure of a man entirely naked; it rose from a chair in which it had been sitting, and advanced towards him. He had firm nerves, and was the reverse of a timid man, but his heart sank, and his knees trembled for a moment-it was but a moment; for the being proved itself corporeal, by addressing him in incoherent language, evidently under impressions of strong delusion, and fearful excitement. The man prayed for mercy, said he suffered death unjustly in the world he had left, and finally dropped on his knee in the fervency of his supplication.

"The whole truth now flashed like lightning on the mind of Mr. Tesimond; he saw in an instant, that it was one of those cases of resuscitation, of which so few are upon record; and knew that it must have been owing either to the imperfect fastening of the noose, or to the body having been cut down prematurely. He determined, however, that innocent or guilty, the victim of the law should not be hung a second time. To all intents and purposes he had once suffered death; and evidently imagined himself to be translated to the world of spirits. While he is concealed in the house of Mr. Tesimond, until retirement, kindness, and judicious treatment, gradually restore his bodily and intellectual health, we return to his family.

"Mr. Vincent was sitting by the mother, some hours after the remains of her son were missing, painfully conscious that he should not be able, much longer, to keep the circumstance from coming to her knowledge, when he was summoned away by a writ ten message. Apparently the business was very argent, for he arose, in considerable perturbation, and hastily left the house.

"In about an hour and an half he returned; and dismissing every body but the widow and her daughter, he was closetted alone with them a long time. What passed at that conference was not known; but the mother of James Frankland afterwards manifested the most entire resignation, under the heavy affliction she had sustained; and the dim eyes of Agnes began to be lighted up with somewhat or their former brightness: it was even said that she was overheard humming the air of an old ballad, that James had been fond of hearing her sing; but I cannot vouch for the truth of this. The family continued to inhabit the same neighbourhood for a few years, and then suddenly quitted it, without telling their neighbours whither they went.

"More than twenty years had elapsed since this event, and it was almost universally forgotten, when some affairs, of,great interest to his fortunes, called Mr. Tesimond to Amsterdam. He was pausing to bestow an intent survey on the Stadthouse, when he was accosted by a middle-aged person, of gentlemanly dress and bearing, in terms of the most eager and cordial delight. He was astonished-was entirely at a loss-and might have remained so; but the stranger called him his preserver-his best friend under heaven; and fairly led him away, vi et armis, to a large and handsome house, where he introduced him to his wife-to his mother, now very aged; and sent for his sister, who was married to a wealthy citizen, to help to enjoy what he called the happiest hour of his life. "You see me,' he said, opulent, respectable; and with as little to disturb me as generally falls to the lot of humanity. And may the Giver of all good repay, to you and yours, a thousand fold, the happiness of which you have been the instrument, in preserving the life of James Frankland.'"-p. 328.

In its literary department, this pleasing annual has been gradually improving from its commencement, to the present time. The articles throughout, combine sterling respectability, with appropriate adaptation. But we must desist: these two extracts fill so large a portion of our pages, that we cannot introduce more, or extend our observations on the volume any further. We take leave of it with regret, and beg to recommend it,-if indeed such a recommendation should be needed to the notice of every 66 English Flower."

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REVIEW. Friendship's Offering, a Literary Album, and Annual Remembran cer, for 1831. 12mo. pp. 408. Smith & Elder, London.

THIS very handsome volume, the durable and elegant binding of which we have always found occasion to admire, is an offering every way worthy of refined friendship

either to bestow or to receive.

At this season of the year, when nature is parsimonious of her flowers, art supplies the deficiency with a lavish band. The gardens of literature, combining with the pencil and the graver, yield a harvest of beauties, in such profusion, that language is impove rished, when words are demanded, sufficiently energetic and copious, to express their rival claims to admiration.

The plates, thirteen in number, have all an elegant and imposing aspect; but while some present scenes that captivate and please, others lead us to gloomy contemplations, which overwhelm the mind with melancholy, and excite its sympathies in unavailing sorrow.

It is not, however, to be imagined that these beautiful engravings are all of equal intrinsic merit as works of art, notwithstanding the pleasing exterior with which they strike the eye. Yet very many have a claim to particular attention, among which are the Maid of Rajasthan, engraved by Finden; Mary Queen of Scots going to Execution, by Baker; St. Mark's Place, Venice, by Davenport; and the Halt of the Caravan, by Brandard. But the most exquisite, both in design and execution, among the whole group is, the Mountain Torrent, by Goodall, from a drawing by Purser. On this plate, the genius of both artists is displayed to great advantage, its character being of a superior order, calcu lated to exact from every beholder a

tribute of admiration.

In its literary department, the articles in prose comprise a great variety; among which, some are pathetic, some full of adventure, some interesting in their narratives, and eventful in their catastrophes. Several of these have, however, been many times presented to the public, in other company and in other raiment, so that, to many readers they will appear to be much worn by active service. In their sentiments and tendencies they are all strictly moral, and several might be found that are highly instructive. The style is sprightly and vigorous, such as cannot fail to please the youthful reader, for whose amusement and edification this volume is peculiarly adapted.

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Among the poetical compositions, all of which are highly respectable, some few are superlatively beautiful. The following extracts will furnish interesting specimens, both of prose and verse.

A TALE OF VENICE.

By C. Mac Farlane.

"Gherardo was the only son of the patrician Zani, and the most gallant youth of Venice. His love of military glory must have been great, for when the Doge, the incomparable Enrico Dandolo, invited him to follow his banner to the East he was betrothed to Bianca Celsi, as distinguished for her beauty, as he for his valour. Yet. on the threshold of the hymeneal temple, he did not hesitate; he would go where glory and his countrymen summoned him; when the Doge's exploits were achieved, he would return to Venice, and, more deserving of her, would lay his laurels at the feet of his young bride. He had been, he had prospered; Constantinople had witnessed his valour, and now, returned, the piagetta echoed with the name of Gherardo. He had received the embrace of his aged father without alarm at his tears, for overwrought joy will weep even as sorrow does; he had been pressed in the arms of the friends of his house and his infancy; and he now advanced to a gentler cir ele, composed of his female relations and friends, who, stationed at a balcony, murmured the hero's name, and his welcome back to Venice. But, what meant the omission? Bianca was not among them; Bianca, his spouse, was not there to welcome him with eye and tongue. His voice trembled as he hurriedly asked where she was. An inconsiderate and cruel voice in the crowd answered, Bianca is no more! she sleeps with her father in the church of St. Theodore.'

***No more moaned the young warrior, and his flushed face became pale as monumental marble, and, but for his friends, he had fallen to the earth like one struck by lightning, When he partially recovered from the first shock, he again raised his eyes to the ladies' balcony; she was indeed not there, where she must have been if life and love had animated her. That absence confirmed the truth of the ill-omened voice; his eyes dropped despondingly to the earth, here, now in his youth and his glory, he could have wished to see a grave opened for himself. His old father fell on his neck, and wept aloud,

"For some moments the mind of Gherardo wandered, and his soul was benumbed: but the sight of Alessio, the brother of Bianca, advancing through the crowd, recalled him to consciousness and anguish.

Is it even as they say?' cried he hoarsely, and stretching out his hand to his friend. Alessio grasped his hand with one of his, and dashing away the tears from his averted face with the other, he replied in a suffocating voice, Alas! and alas! it is even so; Bianca expired yesterday; and as the galley, your precursor, was appearing, my sister was on her road to the sepulchre."

"Such irremediable woe where so much bliss was expected, such an awakening from all the ecstatic dreams and aspirations that had given him strength in battle, and cheered him over the tedious and stormy waves, such a welcome, such a return, such an end to all his foud and passionate hopes, was not to be supported. With a deep groan he swooned away, and the young hero, so lately the happiest among the happy, the most animated where all were animated, was borne in a lifeless state to the sad halls of his father.

"It was long ere he returned to life and reason, and oh, how dreadful was his return to the latter! He would have given the world for some opiate or drug capable of repelling thought and recollection. He closed his eyes to the gay light of the sun; he would have shut out his rays! He was deaf to the advice and consolations of his friends who thronged about him; he was mute, too, and asked not a single ques. tion as to the malady or decease of his bride. Was it not enough to know, that she was for ever torn from him-dead! What mattered, the mode or circumstances that had led to such a fearful result? At last he spoke, but it was only to request his father that he might be left alone. The afflicted Signior, with words of affectionate condolence, and prayers that his son would raise his thoughts to the contemplation of that Being in whose hands were life and death, and to whose omnipotent will it was his duty to submit, left the room with tears, and was followed by all the company.

"When in the silence and solitude of his own chamber, Gherardo looked around him; he felt more than ever the extent of his loss. He rose from his couch on which he had been reclining, and advanced to a curtained recess at the end of the room-he drew the curtains the sight was a cruel one! There was the

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Talamo or splendid nuptial bed, his friends had prepared and decorated for his return-there, on the rich velvet and the flowing silk, were the embroidered rose wreaths mixed with the laurel crowns, and the initials of his name entwined with those of his Bianca. And hungry death was feeding on her roses, and her name, in the mouths of men, had become a note of woe-in his ear a sound of despair! He threw himself on the ground at the bed's foot, and, burying his face in his burning hands, gave vent for the first time to a copious flood of tears.

"As thus he lay, humbled in the dust, with all his thoughts in the dark and narrow grave, the sun shone brightly on Venice, and her thronging thousands, replete with joy, sang their songs of triumph, and shouted the names of their gallant warriors, and the captains of their galleys. It could not be that his should be forgotten, for who had borne himself more bravely than he and as a crowd passed in front of the paternal abode, their united voices proclaimed "Gherardo! Gherardo! Long life and glory to Gherardo, the soldier of St. Mark!" The sounds struck his ears, but now they could elicit only a bitter smile. "The passing hours did not restore tranquillity to the bereft bridegroom; but as the shade of night descended, a wild idea. an uncontrollable impulse invaded him. And shall my fond eyes not obtain a last glance of love and beauty. Shall my Bianca,' reasoned the passionate youth, (if such movement of the feelings can be called reason,) my betrothed, be consumed by the vile worms, and I not see the loveliness she must have carried to the grave? She died but yesterday, she must still be beautiful! Yes! I will see her once again! I will once again press those lips though they be cold-cold!'

"At a late hour he secretly left his father's house for the well-known church; alas! he was to have been married there. A handful of gold gained over the Sacristano, who unlocked the door of the temple and retired. Gherardo stood alone, a few paces from Bianca's tomb. A few lamps burned here and there, dimly, before the effigies of the Virgin Mother and the most conspicuous of the saints; the moon shed an uncertain light through the painted glass of the lofty and narrow Gothic windows; but away among the massy columns, and through the long aisles of the church, there fell the obscurity of the valley of the shadow of death;' and sounds there were none, save the fast-coming sighs of the hapless lover.

"The hour, the spot, the awful stillness, were all calculated to overpower the mind with indescribable emotions: the age was one of extreme superstition, and our young soldier's philosophy had not taught him to rise superior to the popular credence; the state of his feelings too, and nothing is more imaginative or creative of ideal horrors, than a certain stage of grief-contributed to delude the senses; and as the cressets trembled, and the moon light, strangely coloured by the stained glass through which it passed, gleamed now brighter, and now fainter,-now resting on this object of somewhat grotesque architecture of the church, now on that, he saw, or fancied, the spirits of the departed rising one by one, and mournfully waving their hands, as if warning him against a sacrilegious intrusion on the regions of the dead.

"Through the postern door by which he had entered, and which the Sacristano had left ajar, there suddenly blew a gust of the fresh night breeze, that, moaning among the columns, and over the hollow marble pavement of the church, sounded in his ear like a voice; but not of earth-like the united lamentations of sad, and guilt-burthened spirits. He clung to one of the pillars for support, and was for some moments incapable of motion. His natural courage, and the intenseness of the feeling and purpose that had brought him thither, soon, however, came to his aid, and he strode with hasty steps to the cappella, or lateral recess of the temple, beneath which was the tomb of his bride's family.

"Here, in this deep recess, the moon could not shed a beam; but he was guided to the door of the sepulchre by a lamp that flickered on the altar of the cappella. Hurried, breathless, he laid his hand upon that door; massy, and bound with heavy iron and with bronze, it required a great effort to open it-he pressed his muscular shoulder against it,-it receded; but as it turned on its unwilling hinges, it produced a hoarse rumbling sound, that echoed like thunder in the vault beneath, and caused him to start back with trembling limbs and a cold sweat upon his brow. Again, however, desperation-love-the determination to see the lifeless form of his beloved, conquered his awe and the repugnance for disturbing the peace of the grave; yet he paused, ere he ploughed into the horrible, palpable obscurity that lay beyond the door of the tomb, and crossing himself, murmured a prayer to the blessed Virgin, who saw his woe, and might pity or pardon his sacrilegious audacity. He then rushed down a few steps through a short dark passage, and, himself like a spectre, entered the narrow chamber of death."

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.......

"A lamp beneath a crucifix burned at the head of the avello, or sarcophagus of Biana, and a grated window near the roof of the vault admitted the rays of the moon, that fell almost perpendicularly on the cold white marble. He grasped at once the heavy cover of the coffin-had he hesitated, he might have been completely deterred from effecting his sad, wild enterprise. His nervous arins removed the weight, and then his eyes rested on the shrouded form of his Bianca, whose head was enveloped in a veil of pure white, and her "decent limbs composed" beneath an ample white robe. His brain reeled at the sight, and the lamp which he had grasped fell from his hand.

"When he recovered strength to proceed, the light from the grated window fell fall in the open coffin; and as his trembling hands withdrew the veil, a clear broad ray of the moon illumined the face of his lovely bride ... and could this be death? -Why, even thus she looked when life and love coursed through her young veins!-even thus, when after a day of joy she slept a balmy sleep, a night of peace! And were not the long loose tresses crossed on her bosom the same as erst, and the pale smooth brow, and the broad eye-lids, with their long black fringes, and the cherub mouth, with lips slightly apart, as if smiling in some blissful dream! No, this cannot be death!" cried Gherardo, deliriously; "she sleeps-she only sleeps! Oh wake! in pity, wake, my wife,-my Bianca-my love!" He was silent for a moment, and gazed on her beautiful moonlit countenance, as if expecting she would really rise at his pasionate adjuration.

"Bianca!" continued he, "my own Bianca! why dost thou slamber thus !-dost thou await the sweet kisses of thy lover to awaken thee? I give them thee !" and, throwing himself across the marble coffin, he pressed his quivering lips to hers. But how did his whole soul rush to bis

mouth, when he fancied he felt the breath of life on those pale lips! He pressed them again; if it was a delusion, it continued-for the mildest, the most subdued of breathings seemed to pass from her lips to his. He raised her from the sarcopha gus-be placed his hand on her heart-and language has no power to paint his emotions, when he felt-plainly felt her heart palpitate beneath his hand! Another moment, and her eyes opened, whilst a low murmur escaped her lips. Gherardo clasped her wildly in his rembrace, and leaned for support against the sarcophagus, where, as they stood, mute, motionless, and pale, almost like statues, in the moonlight, it would have been diffi cult to tell which of the two, or whether both had not been awakened from the sleep of death.

"The Chronicler's tale is told. The ignorance of the physicians, and the immediate sepulture after death, usual in the south, had consigned Bianca to the grave, from which the passion and impetuosity of her lover saved her so opportunely. The fair Venetian passed at once from the marble sarcophagus to the nuptial bed of silk and velvet. The church, where the echoes of her funeral dirge might almost seem yet to linger, pealed with the notes of her nuptials; and the bridal coronet of white roses was now supplied by the tree that bad furnished flowers for her funeral."-p. 200.

1 KNOW THOU HAST GONE.
(By T. K. Hervey.)

I KNOW thou hast gone to the house of thy rest,
Then why should my soul be so sad?

I know thou hast gone where the weary are blest,
And the mourner looks up and is glad!
Where love has put off, in the land of its birth,
The stains it had gathered in this;

And hope, the sweet singer that gladdened the earth,

Lies asleep on the bosom of bliss!

I know thou hast gone where thy forehead is starred

With the beauty that dwelt in thy soul,

Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred,

Nor thy heart be flung back from its goal:
I know thou hast drank of the Lethe that flows
Through a land where they do not forget,
That sheds over memory only repose,
And takes from it only regret.

In thy far away dwelling, wherever it be,

I believe thou hast visions of mine,

And the love that made all things a music to me
I have not yet learnt to resign ;—

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In the hush of the night, on the waste of the sea,
Or alone with the breeze on the hill,

I have ever a presence that whispers of thee,
And my spirit lies down and is still!

Mine eye must be dark-that so long has been dim,
Ere again it may gaze upon thine,

But my heart has revealings of thee and thy home,

In many a token and sign.

I never look up with a vow, to the sky,
But a light like thy beauty is there,
And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply,
When I pour out my spirit in prayer.

And though-like a mourner that sits by a tomb
I am wrapp'd in a mantle of care,

Yet the grief of my bosom-oh! call it not gloom!
Is not the black grief of despair:

By sorrow revealed-as the stars are by night-
Far off a bright vision appears,

And hope-like the rainbow, a creature of light,
Is born-like the rainbow-from tears.

p. 21.

REVIEW.-The Juvenile Forget-Me-Not for 1831, 12mo. pp. 224. Westley, London.

A fourth volume of this interesting publication has just been completed, under the judicious management of Mrs. S. C. Hall. We have had the satisfaction of reviewing this work for several years past, and, when we admit that its claims on the public remain undiminished, any lengthened commendations on the present occasion would nauseate its amiable conductress. It is due to the Publishers, however, to notice the exquisite delicacy of the engravings, as well as the novel and far preferable mode of binding which they have this year adopted for their Annual.

Docility, the frontispiece to the book, is a sweet engraving in the dotted manner, by Thompson, after a painting by A. Robert

son.

Me and my Dog, is one of those happy delineations of juvenile archness and canine sagacity, which would excite the risible muscles of a Stoic.

The Twin Sisters, a beautiful picture, delicately engraved in the line manner. The Nut-Cracker, is pleasingly charac teristic.

The Roman Beggar, exhibits an interesting fidelity of costume and feature in the persons of an aged female and her grandson.

Hebe, engraved by Engleheart after Westall, is finely conceived and delightfully executed.

The Foundling, is a perfect study, a truly rich subject; the painting by E. P. Stephenoff, engraved by H. Rolls.

The Bird's Nest, scarcely needed a descriptive Illustration, it tells its own tale more expressively than words can do.

On the list of writers we find the names

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A mother's watch-a mother's care, and love which passeth show,

All these and more should cheer thee now-but these thou canst not know.

"Unpitied at thine earliest need, by those who gave thee birth

Scorn'd by the eyes whose light should be thy free and artless mirth

Neglected at a stranger's gate, in want and cold to pine

Calm and unconscious innocent, how hard a lot is thine!

"But He who tempers to the flock the keen and wintry blast,

And deigns upon his feeblest works, a father's love to cast;

And clothes the lilies of the field, and hears the sparrow's cry,

Hath marked thee in that low estate, nor passed thy suffering by.

"We cannot give what thou hast lost-a parent's yearning heart,

Nor fill, as she who left thee thus, a tender nurse's part:

But much the friendly will can do, by word and action shown,

To soothe and raise the desolate-and this shall be thine own!

"Though feeble even our all to aid-the task at least be ours

To blunt the thorns upon thy path, and tend the opening flowers;

And when thy ripened years at length fair wisdom's fruit shall yield,

Thy grateful prayer to us shall be a blessing and a shield.

"And thou beneath our humble roof shalt lay thy graceful head,

And sport beside our cheerful fire, and share our daily bread;

Though small the hardly purchased store our wonted tasks supply,

We think upon the widow's cruse-and ours will not be dry.

"Then, welcome to a love unclaimed!-yet not the less thy right;

To hearts, whose thoughts shall ever be, to make thy childhood light;

To friends, whose voice shall teach thy feet the tempter's path to shun,

And fit thee for a nobler state, when this of earth is done!" p. 169.

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"O dear mamma, what a great, large, wonderful place this is-as large as a million villages joined all in a row. I do think even our town could be set down in one of the squares; and if a hundred streets were swallowed up, I don't think the rest would miss them. I am very sorry, dear mamma, 1 did not write sooner, but I have been so busy all day, that at night I was quite tired; and my uncle has been so good to me, and has shewn me such a many, many things!And I will tell you now what I like best. But first of all, dear mamma, pray don't fancy I have forgotten you, or my sisters, or my pigeons and my rabbits, or any body; and I think Westbury a very nice place, though now I do live in London, and sit up every night till ten o'clock, and sometimes later. Don't be angry, dear manna, for I will be very good when I come home, and I will bring you a gold watch, and Jane and Mary a parasol apiece, for my uncle has given me three sovereigns, three, mamma, to spend in what I like.

Perhaps you know that we have got a new king now he is called William the IVth.-and 1 heard him proclaimed at Temple Bar, where the City gates are, and they were shut; and if the king himself had been there, he could not have been let through, without knocking and telling his name and errand; so the procession did so, and then it was let through, to proclaim that the Duke of Clarence was king. I saw him yesterday in a carriage, but I did not see that he looked any different from what he did last year, when he past through Westbury. In the procession there was the Lord Mayor's gilt coach-you may tell Mary it was nothing but glass and gold-and the heralds who proclaimed the new king, wore something like waggoners' frocks, made of stiff gold cloth; and I heard "God save the King" played by fifteen trumpets altogether; and you might have walked on the heads of the people, as old nurse says; and when they shouted, it was like the roaring of the sea; and my uncle says I shall go to Windsor, to see the dead king lie in state, before he is buried, for that is a very grand sight too.

First

Yesterday I saw a real live lion eat his supper, and several leopards, and tigers, and panthers, and a hyena, and many other animals too; and I was a little frightened just at first, for Exeter 'Change is no longer than our church, and the cages stand all round, and don't look so very strong; and when eight o'clock came, all the beasts began to grow impatient. there was a growling among them, and then they rubbed themselves against the iron bars of the cages, and the leopards put their paws through, but you may guess I did not offer to shake hands with the gentlemen, though their skin is covered with pretty spots, and they jump about like greyhounds. The keepers were very busy dividing the meat, which was legs and shins of beef, into proper parts, and at last they went up to the old lion, who is always fed first-and then what a roaring there was! I quite fancied I was in a forest, only I felt very glad I was not. The old lion and his wife had waited more patiently for their suppers than any other animals, but the keeper teased the old fellow a little, just to shew us what he could do, and when the bone was flung into the den-for they don't feed these animals by holding their meat to them, or they might chance to bite off a finger or two just by accident: well, when the bone was flung to the lion-oh, mamma, I shall never forget his eyes. for they flared just like two lamps !-and he crouched down and clutched the bone, and roared, as much as to say, take it back if you dare;' but his face was so grand, it made me tremble, though I knew I was safe. I felt, mamma, just as I did last year, when I heard the thunder amongst the mountains. I shall never forget that lion; there was another, but he was more snappish, and yet did not make me tremble half so much. The leopards, and tigers, and panthers, took their meat playfully, but it was very terrible play, I should not like them to play with me, I know. The laughing hyena, poor old fellow! was as tame as our Neptune, almost as stupid, he let the keeper plague him, and yet never grunted or grumbled and he took his meat quietly from the keeper's hand. The panthers had each a very tough beef-steak, but they soon managed to tear it to pieces, and then lay down and licked their lips very merrily. There were two elephants, not fine fellows, but very funny ones: one was let out and walked down the hall, and rang a bell when he was desired, and opened his mouth, expecting, no doubt, that something should be put in it; and his trunk reminded me of a large, large leech, screwing itself about, and sucking hold of every thing within its reach. It is very odd; but when all the other animals were roaring, and jangling the bars of their cages, I

run to the elephants to protect me, and I think they would, though they were very ugly.

After the animals had been fed, the pelicans were let out, and they scuffled up, flapping their wings, just like great geese. They had each about three