absence of her first-born, to accept the appointment. But this youth, not then nineteen, and in 'mind and person the counterpart of his timid father, was equally unsuited to this formidable calling. Well knowing, however, that his refusal would deprive his parents of the home and the support so essential to their growing infirmities, he strung his nerves to the appalling task, and, at the next execution, he mounted the scaffold as his father's substitute. But, alas! at the decisive moment his strength and resolution failed him. His sight grew dim with horror, and he performed his trying duty so unskilfully, that the people groaned with indig nation at the protracted sufferings of the unfortunate criminal, and the town authorities pronounced him unqualified. The consequence of this disastrous failure was an immediate summons to the eldest son, who had for several years thought himself finally released from this terrible appointment. So unexpect ed a change in his destination fell upon him like a death-blow; and, as he read the fatal summons, he felt the sword and axe grating on his very soul." "And do you think it possible," exclaimed one of the students, "that after such long exemption he will submit to a life so horrible ?" "Too probably," replied Julius, mournfully," he must submit to it. Indeed, I see no alternative. His refusal would not only deprive his drooping and unhappy parents of every means of support, but too probably expose their lives to the fury of a bigoted and ferocious populace. None but a childless headsman can hold his property during life without a qualified successor; and, when he dies, the magistrates appoint another." Here Julius paused again. He gazed for some moments in melancholy abstraction upon the dying embers in the stove-the tears again started to his eyes, and he rose abruptly to depart; nor could the joint efforts of the kind Professor, and the now warmly-interested students, prevail on him to stay out another bowl of punch. "To-morrow early," said he, in unsteady tones, to the Professor, "I will claim your promised introduction to the lieutenant. Till then, farewell!" "Promise me, then, my dear Julius," rejoined his host, " that you will give us your company to-morrow evening. After so trying a spectacle, a bowl of punch, and the soeiety of four friends, will recruit and cheer you.” The students successively grasped his hand, and cordially urged him to comply. Overcome by this unexpected sympathy, the agitated youth could not restrain his tears, and in a voice tremulous with emotion, he said, "I shall never forget your kindness, and, if I know my heart, I shall prove myself not unworthy of it. If in my power, I will join your friendly circle to-morrow night; but" -he hesitatingly added-" I have never yet faced an execution, and I know not how far such strong excitement may unfit me for society." The Professor and his friends accompanied him to the street, where they again shook hands and separated. On the following evening the three students were again assembled in the Professor's study, and the conversation turned more upon their new friend and his interesting narrative, than upon the tragedy of that morning. The Professor told them that Julius had called early, and been introduced by him to the lieutenant, since which he had not seen or heard of him. One of the students said, that his curiosity to observe the deportment of their mysterious friend had led him early to the ground, where he had seen Julius standing, with folded arms, and pale as death, within a few feet of the scaffold; but that, unable to subdue his own loathing of the approaching catastrophe, he had left the ground before the arrival of the criminal. An hour elapsed in momentary expectation of the young student's arrival, but he came not. The conversation gradually dropped into monosyllables, and the Professor could no longer disguise his anxiety, when a gentle tap was heard, like that of the preceding night, and without any previous sound of approaching footsteps. "Come in!" cheerfully shouted the relieved Professor, but the door was not unclosed. Again he called, but vainly as before. Then, starting from his chair, he opened the door, but discoverd no one. The students, who also fancied they had heard a gentle knock, looked at each other in silent amazement; and the warm-hearted Professor, unable to reason down his boding fears, determined to seek Julius at his lodgings, and requested one of the students to accompany him. He knew the street, but not the house, in which the young man resided; and as soon as they had entered the street, their attention was excited by a tumultuous assemblage of people at no great distance. Hastening to the spot, the Professor ascertained from a bystander that the crowd had been collected by the loud report of a gun or pistol in the apartments of a student. Struck with an appalling presentiment, the Professor and his companion forced a passage to the house-door, and were admitted by the landlord, to whom the former was well known. "Tell me!" exclaimed the Professor, gasping with terror and suspense-"Is it Julius Arenbourg ??? "Alas! it is indeed," replied the other. "Follow me up stairs, and you shall see him." They found the body of the illfated youth extended on the bed, and a pistol near him, the ball of which had gone through his heart. His fine features, although somewhat contracted by the peculiar action of a gun-shot wound, still retained much of their bland and melancholy character. The landlord and his family wept as they related that Julius, who was their favourite lodger, had returned home after the execution with hurried steps, and a countenance of death-like paleness. Without speaking to the children, as was his wont, he had locked the door of his apartment, where he remained several hours, and then hastened with some letters to the post-office. In a few minutes after his return, the fatal shot summoned them to his room, where they found him dying and The worthy man opened the letter with a trembling hand, and, in a voice husky with emotion, read the contents to his companion. "From you, my dear Professor, and from my younger friends, although but friends of yesterday, I venture to solicit the last kindness which human sympathy can offer. If, as I dare to hope, I have some hold upon your good opinion, you will not refuse to see my remains interred with as much decency as the magistrates will permit. In my purse will be found enough to meet the amount of this and every other claim upon me. "I have yet another boon to ask, and one of vital moment to my unhappy relatives. I have prepared them to expect intelligence of my death by fever; and surely my request, that the subjoined notice of my decease may be inserted in the papers of Metz and Strasbourg, will not be disregarded by those whose kindness taught me the value of existence when I had no alternative but to resign it. "That those earthly blessings, which were denied to me and mine, may be abundantly vouchsafed to you, is the fervent prayer of the unhappy JULIUS. "Died of fever, at in Germany, Julius Florian Laroche, a native of Champagne, aged 22." "Alas!" exclaimed the deeply-affected Professor, "the mystery is solved, and my suspicions were too well founded. Sad indeed was thy destiny, my Julius, and sacred shall be thy last wishes!" Kissing the cold brow of the deceased, he hung over his remains in silent sorrow, and breathed a fervent prayer for mercy to the suicide; then giving brief directions for the funeral, the Professor and his friend paced slowly homeward, in silence and in tears. THE LAST STORK. BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. "Yea, the stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times; and the turtle and the crane and the swallow observe the time of their coming; but my people know not the judgment of the Lord." I'VE heard a tale of olden time, O'er this grand ocean of the sky, There had the guests their gathering made, Of heaven's own arch, and there the host As ever you saw the fire-flaughts sweep Then nought is seen from earth below, From this dire world had ta'en their flight, Where their abode was thence to be, VOL. XXVII. NO. CLXII, JEREMIAH, viii. 7, Р All heighten'd by the thrilling pain, It brings to mind that evening drear, Their temple in one smouldering flame, What thousands of excluded souls Would leave that night their earthly goals, Guided, though all to them unknown, All fearing, hoping, trembling, crying, How would they feel their race now run, Like fleets of angels on they steer, With check, with challenge, and with cheer. Strike the poor hind with terror dumb!— One resting-place, and one alone, On Scottish plain! who this may trow? With this great southern inundation,— To a more grand similitude. 'Tis pity that it were forgot, That our own grandsires oft have seen, As daylight faded on the green, And moonlight with its hues was blending, The fairy bridallers descending Straight from the moon like living stream All pure as dewdrops of the even, And countless as the stars of heaven; Well, here within that Alpine lake, From Zealand's swamps which oceans lave, While a small portion, deem'd the best, Their potent leader thus address'd: "Friends, countrymen, and kinsmen mine, Most noble Storks of sacred line, It grieves me much that we have lost Our empire upon Britain's coast, For nought can happen but mischance, |