either a papa or mamma,' replied Maria, with the utmost simplicity.

'And where do you live, dear?'

'At Oldtown, with my grandmamma.'

'And where were you going, my love?'

'I did not want to go further than this house to-night. I always intended to sleep here.'

'And does any one know you were coming here?'

'No, ma'am. No one knew exactly that I meant to come to-day; but our clergyman, Mr Roberts, strongly advised me to come, and he said I could not set out too soon.'

'And what was your object in coming, Maria?'

'I wished to set an example to all the people in Oldtown,' was the answer; and both Mrs Adams and her daughters were quite at a loss what to think of their little visitor.

Maria, however, had gained so much courage, that she thought she might now venture to ask a few questions, and begun with: 'Do many children come here, ma'am?' 'Yes; sometimes we have children here. We're all very fond of them when they are good.'

And have you got any armour for little girls, ma'am?' This was almost too much for the gravity of Mrs Adams, but she determined not to let her see how very much amused she was, but rather to encourage her in asking any questions she pleased, hoping by that means to obtain a clue to the very extraordinary state in which her mind seemed to be. 'Oh no!' she said; 'but why do you want to know?'

'I was afraid you had not,' said Maria. And then looking very serious, 'Please, ma'am, tell me is this house very near the Valley of the Shadow of Death?'

'My poor little child,' said Mrs Adams, drawing her close to her, and kissing her, 'that, none of us can tell; it may be nearer than we think.'

'But you won't send me there to-night, will you?' and the child half cried as she asked the question: "You'll let me stay and sleep here?'

'Yes, that you shall, dear little wanderer; and I think you must need sleep very much, for you look tired, and your little hand is very hot."

'I suppose nobody ever comes back here that's been through the Valley,' continued the child, almost as if thinking aloud.

This touched a chord in every bosom present, that thrilled through them, for their mourning was yet new for one very dear to them, who had been suddenly hurried through that valley of which Maria spoke.

'I've been thinking, ma'am, it would be a terrible thing for a little girl like me to go there alone without any armour. Oh! please do let Piety go with me-oh, pray do!' said the child, wondering what she could possibly have said to make them all cry so.

At this moment the porter arrived to say he was ready, and Mrs Adams desired him to tell Mrs Walker her little Maria was safe, but very tired, and she would either take her home in the morning, or would be very happy to see the ladies, if they liked to come and fetch her.

'I don't want to go home,' said Maria; 'I only want to go back as far as the Wicket Gate, that I may begin at the beginning.'

'O, now I see it all!' exclaimed she whom Maria was sure must be Charity; 'you dear delightful little creature, you've been reading the Pilgrim's Progress till your little head is turned, as I'm sure mine would have been at your age, if I had not had a good mamma to explain it all to me; and as you never had a mamma, how could you know anything about it?'

A few judicious questions now drew forth from Maria the whole story of her pilgrimage; and when her aunts arrived before breakfast next morning, they were quite surprised to find her looking so well and happy and rational, as they had been very much frightened by Mr Watchful's account of what he called her lightmindedness and want of discretion.

Mrs Adams begged she might be allowed to stay a few days with them; and before the time came for her

departure, the beautiful allegory which had so much perplexed her, was made so very plain, that she thought she must have been extremely stupid not to have found out the meaning for herself.

My young readers will, I am sure, be glad to hear that Maria, who has now little girls of her own, has long since found the true Wicket Gate, and is anxious to shew to others the privilege of being permitted to enter it. Few in the present day have not greater advantages than she had; and if any are induced to ask themselves the question-whether, with superior instruction, they are equally in earnest to obtain in the days of health Piety for their companion through that dark valley, which sooner or later all must tread, my story will not have been written in vain.

NARRATIVE OF A PRISONER OF STATE.*

THE Memoirs of Silvio Pellico have fully informed the world of the watchful severity with which the Austrians repressed every insurrectionary movement in the north of Italy, after the fall of Napoleon had re-established their supremacy in that country. The story of a new sufferer in the cause of Italian independence is now before us, and contains much interesting matter, from which we shall cull some portions for the benefit of our readers.

Alexander Andryane, a young Frenchman of good family, and of a warm and enthusiastic temperament, was induced by some Italian refugees, whom he met while studying at Geneva in 1822, to proceed to Milan, on a secret mission to the leaders of the anti-Austrian

* Memoirs of a Prisoner of State in the Fortress of Spielberg. By Alexander Andryane. Translated by Fortunato Prandi. H. Hooper, Pall-Mall East, London,

party in that country. Andryane took the precaution of leaving the ciphers, statutes, and other dangerous credentials of which he was the bearer, on the Italian frontiers, with directions that they should be forwarded to him. But, on reaching Milan, and holding communication with various friends of the cause, he found everything in a most unpromising state for any revolutionary movement. Count Confalonieri, one of the most pureminded of Italian patriots, and several of his friends, had been thrown into confinement, and were suffering the greatest severities at the hands of an arbitrary commission, appointed for the purpose by the Austrian emperor. These circumstances caused Andryane to send back a letter, forbidding the documents in question to be forwarded to him, being now well aware of the danger of having such papers in his possession. But they were sent to him, and he then resolved to put them into the hands of a friend who had the means of secreting them effectually, and without personal danger. Alas! ere this could be done, the evil hour arrived. On the morning of the 8th of January, Andryane heard his door-bell ring. Imagining it to be his friend come for the papers, he took the case containing them from its hiding-place, and laid it below the cushions of the sofa, ready to be delivered up. The expected party did not enter, but a gentleman in a brown coat, and of a sinister and cadaverous visage, came in, followed by several gendarmes. 'I shuddered,' says Andryane; 'a thought struck me like a thunderbolt-" It is all over with me!"a moment of intense agony, which, however, I mastered sufficiently to assume a polite and unconcerned air, and ask the personage in the brown coat to what I owed the honour of his visit. "Excuse me," he replied; "I am sent by the customs to search whether you have contraband goods in your possession." "I am not a merchant; the customs ought to be aware of that." "I trust you will pardon me, but it is my duty;" and so saying, he and his myrmidons entered my room.' Andryane tried several feints, to shew his composure

of mind, and to lead them off the right scent; but at length the Commissary Bolza, who was the head of the party, advanced all at once to the sofa. "The first cushion he lifted discovered the case; he eagerly clutched it, and held it up. A mortal chillness ran through my veins; I felt that my fate was about to be decided.' The papers were sealed, and in a few moments the unfortunate Andryane was on his way to the presence of the director of the police. Nothing passed at this interview except the drawing up of a list of the suspected papers; and when this was finished, Andryane was conveyed to the prison of Santa Margarita, the same building in which Silvio Pellico had been confined three years before. Passing through a low and dark corridor, which looked out upon a small court surrounded by a high wall, the jailer opened a little door studded with iron, on which my eyes had been from the first presagingly fixed. May I trouble you to enter ?" said Bolza. I entered; the door closed behind me with a hollow sound. May God one day or other recompense the intense anguish which fell upon my heart at that moment!'

6

It may well be believed that this poor stranger, then only twenty-four years of age, should have felt his spirits at first lamentably depressed, on finding himself in a dark cell, three paces by five in dimensions, and with no single article of furniture excepting a stove-conscious, at the same time, that his jailers and those destined to be his judges were the dreaded emissaries of Austria. At first, a degree of hysterical excitement characterised the thoughts and motions of Andryane, but he gradually grew calmer. A bed, a set of drawers, a chair, and a table, were brought to him by the head jailer Riboni, a fat, gefood-natured man, who strongly counselled the prisoner to eat something, recommending the prison-cook as the best in Milan. Andryane took a little soup, and lay down to rest; but his anxiety was too great, and his situation too distressingly novel, to permit him to taste sound repose. His thoughts were fixed on the