Twelve months afterward, Don Jose della Ribera and his two sons attended at the consecration of the church of San Pedro, one of the prettiest churches in the environs of Seville.

* * * * *

SONG—­BY MISS JEWSBURY.

  There once was a brave cavalier,
    Commanded by Cupid to bow;
  And his mistress, though lovely, I hear
    Had a very Sultana-like brow;
  In battles and sieges he fought
    With many a Saracen Nero,
  Till back to his mistress he brought
    The fame and the heart of a hero: 
  But when he presumed to demand
    The hero’s reward in all story,
  His mistress, in accents most bland—­
    Desired him to gather more glory
                     Poor Camille!

So back went the young cavalier,
(Where dwells such obedience now?)
And he wove amid pennant and spear,
A wreath for that fair cruel brow;
How crimson the roses he sent,
But not with the summer sun’s glow;
’Twas the crimson of battle—­and lent
By a brave heart forever laid low! 
Now if such a lover I knew,
And if I might be his adviser,
I would bid him be tender and true,
But certainly bid him be wiser. 
Poor Camille!

* * * * *

FROM PETRARCH.

Weeping for all my long lost years, I go,
And for that love which to this world confined
A spirit whose strong flight, for heaven designed,
No mean example might one man bestow. 
Thou, who didst view my wonderings and my woe,
Great King of heaven! unseen, immortal mind! 
Succor this weary being, frail and blind;
And may thy grace o’er all my failings flow! 
Then, though my life through warring tempests passed;
My death may tranquilly and slowly come;
And my calm soul may flee in peace at last: 
While o’er that space which shuts me from the tomb,
And on my death-bed, be thy blessing cast—­
From Thee, in trembling hope, I wait my doom.

* * * * *

[From Bentley’s Miscellany]

THE FEMALE WRECKER; AND THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY.

A BRACE OF GHOST STORIES.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE EXPERIENCES OF A GAOL CHAPLAIN.”

It was a glorious summer’s evening in July.  The sun, robed in a thousand hues of gorgeous brilliancy, was setting behind the noble hill which towers over the little hamlet of Shaldon; light pleasure-skiffs, with tiny sail, were dotted over the bay;[A] the ebb tide was gently laving the hissing strand; and at intervals, wafted by the breeze, came from some merry party afloat, a ringing, joyous laugh, or some slight snatch of song.  It was an evening which breathed serenity and repose.

[Footnote A:  Teignmouth, Devon.]

Seated on one of the benches which skirt that pleasant promenade[B] were two feeble-looking men, with whom the summer of life had apparently passed.  They conversed slowly and at intervals.  That the theme interested both was clear from the earnest tone of the one, and the attention rendered by the other.  It was connected too in some way with the sea:  for, from time to time, the speaker paused and eyed wistfully the slumbering monster at his feet; and more than once the ejaculation was audible—­“the secret is buried there!”