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“And as for you, Lucy, » continued Barbara, in a commiserating voice, turning to the new-made Mrs. Burton as she spoke, “I do pity you being tied to such a wretch as your husband is; he'll worry your very life out, my dear, before you're done with him. I know him, my love, as who should know him better, that's had to do for him this fourteen years or more; and as you'll find out to your cost, he's the most aggravating, unconscionable ruffian that ever woman was plagued with. And now, Solomon, we'll go to your sister Judith's to dine," and with a solemn shake of the hand all round, in which leave-taking she even included the recusant Richard himself, she suffered herself to be led from the room in a condition so nearly bordering upon hysterics, as to terrify Solomon well nigh out of his senses.

Somehow, when Barbara and her faithful squire had departed, the very atmosphere of the place seemed to grow lighter and airier to those who remained. At any rate, they all became much merrier, and more talkative; a condition certainly more befitting a wedding party than the noisy altercations they had been regaled with during Barbara's stay.

“ We shall just be a comfortable little party,” said Stephen, after Dick hai paid the bill. “That roomy old chaise of yours, , Dick, will easily hold the whole four."

" It would hold a dozen, you mean," cried Dick, with a loud chuckle. “Odds, but I'd like to see any six that couldn't get into it, aye, and sit down cozily, too, were they all as fat as Daniel Lambert."

“Why did you not bring dear little Dinah with you, then, if it is so roomy ?” asked Walter, who had not had courage to pronounce her name whilst Barbara was within hearing, and who turned very red even now as he pronounced her dame.

“Have you not heard—do you not know?” inquired Lucy, whose placid countenance changed in an instant,

“Heard !” repeated Walter, as a cold shiver ran through his frame, “what should I have heard ?

“Did Stephen never write to you ?” continued Lucy, with the same disturbed jook, “ Walter, dear, dear Walter, did you never hear?

“For the love of God, Lucy, do not torture me," ejaculated Walter, who felt all his strength forsaking him, “whatever has happened tell me, unless you wish to see me drop down at your feet: Dinah is not-I-I cannot say the word,” he cried, with a groan that shook his chest, convulsively,—"she is not " “Not dead,” said Lucy, with the same disturbed look. “Nor married ?" inquired Walter, scarcely less agitated. “Oh no-she is, we trust, in London.” “Thank God! I will go with you to seek her.”


Written on reading the intelligence conveyed in the following extract from the Delhi Gazette, some seven years before the late grand climax in the annals of Runjeet Singh's kingdom, when bequeathed to the mismanagement of his successors.



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The Maharajah later in the day became very ill, and at the idea of parting from all his worldly wealth, ordered his treasures and jewels to be brought forth.

. The surpeich and string of pearls received from the Governor General were given to Pundit Mudsoodun, because of their being so very precious.

The corpse was washed by the Koonwar with the water of the Ganges, and placed on the splendid bier ; Rajahs Ohian and Heerah Sing, Khooshal Sing, Ajeit Sing, Sundhanwalla, the vakeels of Aloo walla, of Ladlah, of Tehara, Hursum Doss, and others, threw shawls on the bier, and it was carried in procession to the garden of Dholekote, situated in the Fort, near the Huzooree adjoining to Gooroo Lorijin's residence.

Having arrived at the funeral pile made of sandalwood, the corpse was placed upon it. Ranee Koondun sat down by its side, and placed the head of the deceased on her lap, while the other three Ranees, with seven slave girls, seated themselves around, with every mark of satisfaction upon their countenances. At ten o'clock, nearly the time fixed by the Brahmins, Koonwar Khurmek Sing set fire to the pile, and the ruler of Punjaub, with four Ranees and seven slave girls, was reduced to ashes.

What sound of lamentation now breaks from the city walls,
What wail of woe is bursting o'er the Punjaub's palace halls ?
Yon pallid minions, why do they with wary footstep tread ?
Such wariness befits alone the mansion of the dead.
Alas! alas ! ambition, then, has limit to its lust:
The Lion of the Punjauh he is merging into dust!


The Maharajah, Runjeet Singh, sat on his bed of death;
He felt himself to be the poor dependent on a breath :
He knew the dull, cold touch of him whose all-comprising span
Takes Jew and Heathen, both alike, or Frank and Turcoman;
Yet, ere the spirit left the home which once it own'd in health,
It lingered sickly, gloating o'er a mass of worldly wealth,

Approach !” said he, in broken voice, as, rising on the bed,
He saw that to his couch of death a well-known form was led.
• Take this: I have no need of it, since life is on the wing
And Pundit Munsoodun beheld of pearls a costly string,
Which in his out-stretched eager hands the Maharajah placed,
Then turned aside,—his weeping sons their dying lord embraced.

See, see, the spirit flickers now : mortality decays:
Now, now, 'tis past ;—the Lion's deeds are deeds of by-gone days.
The voice inciting thousands to the Juggernaut of Fame
Lies hushed beneath that mighty wheel, which spares alone the name;
The sword, which flashed with eagerness to work its wielder's will,
Within its scabbard sinks again, to slumber and be still.

And who are these, with locks unbound, who wander to and fro,
Awaking, in each watchful eye, the tear of bitter woe?
The Maharajah's queens are they-so constant womankind,
That life, without that monarch's smile, is counted as the wind.
Your task is done! that lordly brow with hand of death is seared:
No longer may ye rest that head, nor smooth that grizzly beard.

A dreary pile of sandal-wood is rising rapidly;
A torch is lit; a cloud of smoke, ascending, seeks the sky;
The clay-cold form, in shawls arrayed, is set upon the bier ;
They bear it onward; now they halt-its resting place is here :
The Ranee, she is happy now, and, with a joyful smile,
She looks upon, and moves toward, and sits beside the pile.

The lifeless chieftain's hoary head is raised from off the knees
Of her whose utmost skill no more could yield its wonted ease;
The limbs are stretched upon the wood; with seven sister slaves,
The Ranees four await the doom which love from custom craves.
There is a pause, as though despair had hastened there to see;
A struggling smoke, a crackling blaze-love, glory, what are ye?

Lament, Lahore, lament, bewail your Lion-chieftain gone;
But let not anguish chill the heart, that it should turn to stone.
The Maharajah's blood is yet alive within the land-

may it cheer the warrior's heart, and guide the warrior's hand ! Rest, Lion, rest : and lest the branch prove traitor to the stem, The sire's renown, to sons re-sung, must give new life to them!


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Characteristics of the Present Age. By Johann Gottlieb Fichte.

Translated from the German by William Smith.

We have read this work through more than once, with earnest attention and deep reverence. It is not a book to be read lightly and cursorily; it requires patient and diligent study ; we think no one can rise from a careful perusal of it, without the consciousness of a greater elevation of thought and feeling. Its teachings are of the high, and beautiful, and true. We have here evidence of that earnestness of purpose, of that unceasing and unswerving love, and pursuit of truth, of that ininherent reverence for the beautiful, which characterise all Fichte's writings, and life—for his philosophy was not of the lips only; his life was the true exposition of his stoic teachings; the one was but the reflex of the other.

In the present work we have a philosophical history of the human race. Fichte commences with drawing a distinction between a bare chronicle of events (which too commonly is miscalled history), and true history; which we quote, as giving some idea of the true and earnest spirit with which he enters upon his undertaking. “A philosophical picture of the Present Age, is what we have promised in these lectures. But that view only can be called philosophical which refers back the multiform phenomena which lie before us in experience, to the unity of one common principle; and on the other hand, from that one principle, can deduce and completely explain those phenomena. The mere empiricist who should undertake a description of the age, would seize upon some of its most striking phenomena just as they presented themselves to casual observation; and recount these without having any assured conviction that he had understood them all, and without being able to point out any other connexion between them, than their co-existence in one and the same time. The philosopher who should propose to himself the task of such a description, would independently of all experience, seek out an idea of the age, (which, indeed, in its own form, -as idea,-cannot be apparent in experience, and exhibit the mode in which this idea would reveal itself under the forms of the necessary phenomena of the age; and in so doing he would distinctly exhaust the circle of these phenomena, and bring them forth in necessary connexion with each other, through the common idea which lies at the bottom of them all. The first would be the chronicler of the age; the second would have made a history of it a possible thing."

The able translator of Fichte most truly remarks, in his preface to the volume, that “one great purpose of this work is to exhibit the absolute nothingness of the individual life, when separated from, or opposed to, the all-embracing source of life.” Fichte appears to have been raised above humanity, in his freedom from the passions and littlenesses of human nature, in his utter forgetfulness of self; his thoughts and aspirations are for the whole race, not for the individual; his ambition is for humanity, mingled with no desire for self-aggrandizement. The following beautiful passage embodies his conception of the true religious philosopher. “It is the sweetest reward of philosophy that, looking upon all things in their mutual dependence, and upon nothing as isolated and alone, she finds all to be necessary, and therefore good; and accepts that which is, as it is, because it is subservient to a higher end. Besides, it is unmanly, to waste in lamentation over existing evil, the time which would be more wisely applied in striving, as far as in us lies, to create the good and the beautiful. But individuals disappear altogether from the view of the philosopher, and are lost in the one great commonwealth. His thought embraces all objects in a clear and consequential light, which they can never attain amid the endless fluctuations of reality. IIence it does not concern itself with individuals, and never descending to portraits, dwells in the higher sphere of idealised conception. No one is farther than the philosopher from the vain desire, that his age should be impelled forward to some obvious extent through his exertions. Everyone, indeed, to whom God has given strength and opportunity, should exert all his powers for this end; were it only for his own sake, and in order to maintain the place which has been assigned to him, in the ever flowing current of existence. For the rest, time rolls on in the steadfast course marked out for it from eternity, and individual effort can neither hasten nor retard its progress. Only the co-operation of all, and especially of the indwelling Eternal Spirit of ages and of worlds, may promote it.”

Again, in lecture 9th, on the “Origin and Limits of History," his delineation of the historic philosopher is very good and just. Though long for extract, we must give it as evidencing Fichte's high claims to be placed foremost in that rank. His thorough integrity of mind, his clear and far-sighted views, pre-eminently qualified him for the task he undertook. " The philosopher, who in his capacity of philosopher meddles with history, follows the a priori course of the world-plan, which is

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