expectation I hurried to the house in which I had requested her to remain.  I crossed the threshold unobserved, for all was silent as the grave, and gently ascended the stairs.  The room door was partly open, and a faint light glimmered on the table.  The curtains of the bed were undrawn, and there—­there lay gasping in the last convulsive agonies of nature—­Oh, lady! she was dying—­I rushed into the room, threw myself by her side, and implored her to live for me.  She knew me—­yes, she knew me—­but at that very instant an officer with an armed party entered the apartment.  They had watched me, and I was arrested as a deserter—­arrested did I say?  Ay! but not till I had stretched one of the insulting rascals at my feet.  I was handcuffed, and bayonets were pointed at my breast.  Vain was every entreaty for one hour, only one hour.  The dying woman raised herself upon her pillow—­she stretched forth her hand to mine, manacled as they were—­she fell back, and Emma—­yes, my Emma was no more.  Despair, rage, fury, worked up the fiends within my soul!  I struggled to burst my fetters, dashed them at all who approached me; but overcome at length, was borne to the common gaol.  I was tried for desertion, and, on account of my resistance, was flogged through the fleet.  I had acted improperly as a seaman, but I had done my duty as a man.  It was not my intention to desert my ship, but my feelings overpowered me, and I obeyed their dictates.  Yet now I felt indignant at my punishment, and took the first opportunity to escape; but whither could I go?—­there was no protection for me.  One visit, one lonely visit was paid to the grave of her who was now at rest for ever; and I again entered on board the ——­, bound to the West India station.  I fought in several actions, and lost my arm.  But the R* for desertion was still against my name, and though I obtained a pension for my wound, I could obtain none for servitude.  I cannot apply to the friends of my youth, for they believe me dead; and who would credit the assertions of a broken-hearted sailor?—­No, no:  a few-short months, and the voyage of life will be over; then will old Will Jennings be laid in peace by the side of Emma Wentworth, and wait for the last great muster before Him who searches all hearts, and rewards those seamen who have done their duty.”  Here he ceased, while D——­ turned to his wife, whose loud sobs gave witness to the sympathy of her heart; but the agony increased to hysteric convulsions—­she sprang hastily on her feet—­shrieked, “’Tis he! ’tis William! ’tis my uncle!” and fell upon his neck!—­Literary Magnet.

    [2] Founded on facts which actually occurred in Devonshire, a short
        time after the peace of 1815.

* * * * *

STANZAS.

(For the Mirror.)

  Oh! poverty, thou tyrant of the mind,
  How eager would I shun thy cold embrace,
  And try some hospitable shore to find! 
  Some welcome refuge; some more happy place.