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"O dread sea! false sea! I dreamed what I dreamed of thy goodness;
Dreamed of a smile in thy gleam, of a laugh in the plash of thy ripple,"

the sea-maids rise around her, but sweep by, careless and unheeding

"Seeing they saw not, and passed, like a dream, on the murmuring ripple."

The morning dawns, and Andromeda behold afar over the blue water the home of her people:

"High in the far-off glens rose thin blue curls from the homesteads;
Softly the low of the herds, and the pipe of the out-going herdsman,
Slid to her ear on the water, and melted her heart into weeping."

But there is no help from the Sun-God, and the maiden maddens with terror as the time draws near for the coming of the monster. Then occurs what, for lightness and aërial grace, we deem the most perfect passage in the poem-the advent of the Deliverer:

"Sudden she ceased, with a shriek: in the spray, like a hovering foam-bow,
Hung, more fair than the foam-bow, a boy in the bloom of his manhood,
Golden-haired, ivory-limbed, ambrosial; over his shoulder

Hung for a vail of his beauty the gold-fringed folds of the goat-skin,
Bearing the brass of his shield, as the sun flashed clear on its clearness.
Curved on his thigh lay a falchion; and under the gleam of his hemlet
Eyes more blue than the main shone awful, around him Athené
Shed in her love such grace, such state, and terrible daring.
Hovering over the water he came, upon glittering pinions,
Living, a wonder, outgrown from the tight-laced gold of his sandals;
Bounding from billow to billow, and sweeping the crests like a sea-gull;
Leaping the gulfs of the surge, as he laughed in the joy of his leaping.
Fair and majestic he sprang to the rock; and the maiden in wonder
Gazed for awhile, and then hid in the dark-rolling wave of her tresses,
Fearful, the light of her eyes; while the boy (for her sorrow had awed him)
Blushed at her blushes, and vanished, like mist on the cliffs at the sunrise.
Fearful at length she looked forth: he was gone: she, wild with amazement,
Wailed for her mother aloud: but the wail of the wind only answered.
Sudden he flashed into sight, by her side; in his pity and anger
Moist were his eyes; and his breath like a rose-bed, as bolder and bolder,
Hovering under her brows, like a swallow that haunts by the house-eaves,
Delicate-handed, he lifted the vail of her hair; while the maiden,
Motionless, frozen with fear, wept loud; till her lips unclosing

Poured from their pearl-strung portal the musical wave of his wonder.

"But the maid, still dumb with amazement,
Watered her bosom with weeping, and longed for her home and her mother.
Beautiful, eager, he wooed her, and kissed off her tears as he hovered,
Roving at will, as a bee, on the brows of a rock nymph-haunted,
Garlanded over with vine, and acanthus, and clambering roses,

Cool in the fierce still noon, where streams glance clear in the moss-beds,
Hums on from blossom to blossom, and mingles the sweets as he tastes them.
Beautiful, eager, he kissed her, and clasped her yet closer and closer."

The diamond falchion shears the chain which binds Andromeda to the rock,

"Carved through the strength of the brass, till her arms fell soft on his shoulder," and scornfully the eager, beautiful, love-smitten boy hastens to meet the monstrous offspring of the slime:

"Kiss me but once, and I go.'

Then lifting her neck, like a sea-bird

Peering up over the wave, from the foam-white swells of her bosom,

Blushing she kissed him: afar on the topmost Idalian summit
Laughed in the joy of her heart, far-seeing, the queen Aphrodité."

The fall of the hero on the sea beast is finely likened to the fall of the osprey on

its prey:

"Then rushes up with a scream, and stooping the wrath of his eyebrows Falls from the sky like a star, while the wind rattles hoarse in his pinions." Assisted by the Gorgon's head, "the beautiful horror," Theseus slays the brute, and hies back to the rescued maiden:

"Beautiful, eager, triumphant, he leapt back again to his treasure; Leapt back again, full blest, toward arms spread wide to receive him. Brimful of honor he clasped her, and brimful of love she caressed him." Then from the heights of Olympus Athené, the guide of the hero, descends:

"Awful and fair she arose; and she went by the glens of Olympus;

Went by the isles of the sea, and the wind never ruffled her mantle,"

to bestow upon the hero's bride the gifts of the Immortals:

"Blissful, they turned them to go: but the fair-tressed Pallas Athené
Rose, like a pillar of tall white cloud, toward silver Olympus;
Far above ocean and shore, and the peaks of the isles and the mainland;
Where no frost nor storm is, in clear blue windless abysses,
High in the home of the summer, the seats of the happy Immortals."

Is not the work very exquisite ?-dewy, fragrant, and rosy with the rosy-stain which stained the marble of Praxiteles?

We have wandered along the streamside all day; and now as the evening gathers, the boom of the sea sounds sad and far-remote, the sandy bents have changed to flowery meadow-lands, and we enter at length the lordly chase, through which, for many a mile, the river winds from its fountain among the pines up yonder. The roses in my Lady's garden are still black with winter frosts. The Naiad, with her empty horn, looks dry and disconsolate, and as if she too would not

unwillingly follow the elder gods from a planet that owns no more the divinity of Pan. The swans upon the lake are bearing down with ruffled wings before the evening breeze, and the last rays of the sun touch gorgeously with gold and purple the cock-pheasant who sweeps silently past us to his roost. The white pillars of a still Greek shrine are repeated in the still water; while the echoes of the miniature Tivoli die among the woods on which the crimson crown of the evening rests. Fair and pleasant and peaceful, and haunted by the cushat, as when we were boys:

"But oh! for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still."

INSTINCT OF THE PIGEON.-Sir John | After a short stay, it went to the pigeonRoss, the Arctic voyager, dispatched a young pair of pigeons, on the 6th or 7th of October, 1850, from Assistance Bay, a little to the west of Wellington Sound, and on the 18th of October a pigeon made its appearance at the dovecot in Ayrshire, from whence Sir John had the two pairs of pigeons which he took out. The distance direct between the two places is about 2000 miles. The dovecot was under repair at this time, and the pigeons belonging to it had been removed, but the servants of the house were struck with the appearance and motions of this stranger.

house of a neighboring proprietor, where it was caught, and sent back to the lady who originally owned it. She at once recognized it as one of those which she had given to Sir John Ross; but, to put the matter to the test, it was carried into the pigeon-house, when, out of the many niches, it directly went to the one in which it had been hatched. No doubt remained in the mind of the lady of the identity of the bird. By what extraordinary power did this interesting bird find its way, and by what route did it come?— Yarrell's History of British Birds.

From Bentley's Miscellany.

FROM DELHI TO CAWN PORE.

IN introducing to our readers' notice a French account of the Indian massacres, recently published by Dr. Maynard, and bearing in mind that the too famous Jessy of Lucknow was but the emanation of a French brain, we feel it due to ourselves to preface our notice of the work by quoting the author's own introduction as a voucher for our bona fides:

"Accident brought it about that I recently resided in a hotel, where I met with a poor English lady, Mrs. Hornstreet, a victim to the mutiny of Bengal. She was one of that procession of widows and orphans brought by the Calcutta steamer every fortnight to Suez. She had landed at Southampton and come to France to find a refuge with her husband's family, who had for a long period resided in Touraine. On her passage through Paris she was taken ill, and I was called in to see her. We physicians are, as a general rule, somewhat curious. I inquired of the lady as to the cause of her illness, and she told me in consequence all her sufferings in India, for the cause of her illness was misery, exhaustion, and grief-- incurable maladies. I shuddered with horror at the narrative of her long martyrdom. The lady had been rich, and lived happily with her husband, daughter, These are all dead; fortune and happiness are lost: the son, a boy of two years of age, was crucified to a wall in his mother's presence; the daughter, a maiden of eighteen, is mouldering in the well of Cawnpore, after being exposed to the most fearful brutalities from the Sepoys. The father was the least unhappy, for he died first, by a bullet through his heart. His widow buried him with her own hands, lest his body should become the prey of the vulture. I asked Mrs. Hornstreet's permis. sion to publish this lamentable narrative of her sufferings. Many prejudices had to be removed, many doubts settled; at last I succeeded in gaining her consent, and so I now give the story just as I received it from her lips."

and son.

Nothing can be more explicit than this; and as Dr. Maynard's is no unknown name in modern French literature, we consider ourselves justified in regarding the dreadful narrative to which we would call attention as strictly true.

In May, 1857, few persons could be regarded as more blessed with worldly

comforts than Mrs. Hornstreet. Heaven had but recently granted her a son, to take the place of a daughter, who was engaged to Lieutenant Hood, of the Engineers, and her husband was making the necessary preparations for the sale of the indigo factory, and their return to England with an ample fortune. The correspondence thus entailed with the agents kept the family au courant as to the various suspicious movements in the Presidency. They heard of the émeute at Barrackpore, and of the mutiny of the Nineteenth N. I. In the same way they were told of repeated incendiary fires in the vicinity of Calcutta, and of the distribution of the chupatties. Still they entertained but slight apprehension; their knowledge of the natives led them to believe that these reports were purposely exaggerated to depreciate the value of the factory, and Lieutenant Hood, a daily visitor, confirmed their views by the utter contempt he revealed for the Sepoys. It seemed, in fact, as if they rushed blindly on their fate, else they would have noticed the warnings they received of insubordination and hatred of the Christians.

"One evening in March, we were walking on the banks of the Jumna, a river that runs beneath the walls of Delhi. Ellen was leaning on the arm of her betrothed; my little Will was running before us, or coming back to pluck at my dress. At a place where the path narrowed a fakir had laid himself with his face to the ground, and stopped the road. Will came back to me in alarm, and the Lieutenant, as soon as he saw the man, bade him get out of the way. The fakir did not stir. Lift up the dog and throw him into the water,' said the Lieutenant, with a wave of his hand to the four men who constantly followed him. The soldiers hurried up, but I did not give them time to execute the order, for it suddenly occurred to me that the poor fellow had laid himself here to beg.

Give him this rupee,' I whispered to Will. Will dauntlessly approached the beggar, stooped and the ground. At this moment the fakir down, and placed the money between his face

rose, and moved on his knees to the edge of the path, and as Ellen and the Lieutenant passed him he cried, in a piercing voice, his hands

being laid flat on the ground: The roads will soon be free.' My husband and the clergymen, who walked before me, received the following salutation: 'The believers in the true faith will triumph to-morrow.' When I came up to him with Will, who was now frightened, and tried to hide himself in the folds of my dress, he altered his tone and position, raised his hands heavenwards, leaned back, and whispered the following words, which turned my blood icy cold: 'Poor child! thou canst not ransom thyself with thy alms.' At dinner I repeated the beggar's words, and did not conceal the fact that they had startled me. But every one laughed so heartily at my timidity, and the Lieutenant cited so many instances of the impudence and folly of these pretended seers, that I at last joined in the laugh, and soon forgot the circumstance."

The preparations were now made for Ellen's wedding, which, alas! was fated never to be solemnized. On the morning of the tenth of May, or the day prior to the wedding, while the party were seated at breakfast, a sergeant rushed in without preface or apology, and requested speech with Lieutenant Hood. After a short conference the young man took a hurried leave, and started for cantonments. The news the messenger had brought was of the massacre of Meerut, and the march of the rebels on Delhi. The scene of confusion this produced in the lately so merry party was indescribable, until Mr. Grant, the clergyman, bade all present join in a prayer, and then called the gentlemen apart to consult about what should be done. Fortunately the Hindoo servants remained staunch, although all the ryots had disappeared, and some preparations were hurriedly made to arm and equip them in the event of the rebels attacking the factory. Not long and they saw Brigadier Graves's small force defiling past the avenue. This gave them fresh courage, for they naturally assumed that the rebels would be disbanded by the mere sight of English troops. Not long and they saw the same soldiers returning in full retreat on Meerut, for the Thirty-eighth, Fiftyfourth, and Seventy-fourth Native Regiments had betrayed them. This led to the ruin of the bungalow, for the artillery made a stand on a mound near the house, and the Sepoys tried to outflank them by marching through the grounds. At the moment when the affrighted party were expecting an immediate assault from the Sepoys, a Hindoo rushed up with a letter from Mr. Hood, begging the family to

retire into Delhi before the bridge of boats was rendered unserviceable. This request must be obeyed. The family hurriedly collected some money and jewels, while the servants brought out the only three horses left, (for the rest had been taken by the visitors and the European servants,) and the family set out on their mournful march. Of three hundred natives to whom they had given bread and labor, only Will's nurse, a Malabar woman, accompanied them, and the steward, a The latter had got worthy Mussulman.

out the elephant and laden it with all sorts of stores in the absence of the mahout. When the party reached the bridge they turned round to survey once more the scene of past happiness; but dense clouds of smoke were ascending from the bungalow, and they fervently thanked Heaven for having saved them from such imminent danger, little foreseeing that the time would come when they would have gladly welcomed such a death. At the bridge, Mrs. Hornstreet was assailed by fresh apprehensions, for the temper of the natives appeared fearfully changed, and any accident might endanger their lives. They consequently dismounted and walked along behind the elephant as it majestically cleft its way through the crowd in the direction of a Mr. Craig's house, where they expected to find shelter. On reaching it they found that the family had already left, the gentlemen for the Flag Tower, the ladies for the palace of Begum Sumroo. After some reflection they determined on proceeding to the Arsenal, as the most likely place for the English to congregate. On the road they had fearful evidence of the brutality of the Sepoys. They marched past in companies, each regiment distinct, and led by a European officer; but, fearful mockery, they only bore the heads of their officers along with their shakos still on to show the various grades. With great difficulty the party succeeded in creeping along under the half-ruined walls of the royal palace until they came to the street leading to the Jumna Mosque, beyond which they found it impossible to proceed, owing to the tremendous firing. Gradu ally, too, the crowd around them grew denser, and they were exposed to great peril, until they took shelter in the courtyard of a large house which had already been plundered. Here they were obliged to bid adieu to the faithful steward, for

the elephant could not pass through the to lead them to the house of a Mussulman doorway.

"The house belonged to a rich English family, whose name I have forgotten. Savage-looking men, or rather half-naked demons, rushed through the rooms, destroyed mirrors and furniture, tore up the flooring, destroyed the walls, and sent a shower of fragments down into the yard, where they were carefully collected to form a pyre like that of the Suttees. While this was going on, others, furious men, with their cultries in their hands, were ransacking every corner of the house. They were evidently searching for a victim they had trapped, for every moment they uttered shouts of joy or anger, according to the result of their search. Without being ourselves seen, we could observe all this from the spot where we had assembled near a cellar window in the yard, beneath the stem of a mighty catalpa. Ellen, the Malabar woman, and myself were cowering on the ground, while my husband stood upright with a revolver in his hand. Suddenly the cellar near which we stood was illuminated; piercing

shrieks of women and children came up to us; the noise of a desperate struggle lasted for several minutes. Then all grew dark and quiet again. Soon after, a tall man, with torn clothes and bleeding face, was dragged into the yard by a band of ruffians, who led him to the bonfire. It was then set on fire, and the smoke poured forth in volumes. I imagined they were about to murder the Englishman and cast him

into the flames; but I did not yet know the barbarity of our gentle Sepoys. They left the unhappy man perfect liberty of movement, but pointed their knives at his breast, and formed a dense circle round the pyre. The tortured man did not deign to beg the charity of a thrust or a bullet through his heart; he seem turned his back to the fire, crossed his hands over his chest, and seemed to be praying. At length, the circle that surrounded him closed in, and the murderers stabbed at him so savagely that he fell back into the flames. A long and loud shout of joy accompanied his terrible fall."

ed determined to die the death of a hero. He

The court-yard was gradually deserted, and the terrified family decided on seeking a shelter in the house, for they hoped that the steward might still come back to their assistance. But Mrs. Hornstreet was determined to visit the cellar where the terrible scene had taken place, and after leaving her boy and the nurse upstairs, she went down to the vault. What she found there we can not describe: suffice it to say that they found two women and a child still living in that awful scene of massacre. Suddenly they were interrupted in their charitable task by the arrival of the faithful steward, who offered

friend of his, where they would be in greater safety, if they could succeed in entering his house unnoticed. The two still bleeding women were lifted on to the howdah by the husband, while Mrs. Hornstreet hastened up-stairs to fetch her son. What was her horror to find that the Malabar woman had disappeared with him without saying a word. In vain did the distracted mother search through the whole house; but the safety of all was imperiled by any further delay, and the mournful procession set out, Ellen by this time being quite insane, and the mother almost in the same condition. On reaching the house, Mohammed held a hurried conference with his friend, which resulted in the party being admitted, and they felt themselves in safety at last. The party spent a restless night, as may be imagined, to which extra discomfort was added by the ungracious conduct of the two women who had been saved, and who eventually turned out to be an English cook and a housemaid.

The next day at noon, after they had been fearfully terrified by the explosion of the magazine, Mohammed entered the room in great alarm. Instead of giving them the provisions they had been expecting, he tore up the bamboo framing of the divan and bade them conceal themselves if they wished to save their lives. They were hardly hidden, ere a band of infuriated Sepoys rushed in, crying, "Death to the Feringhees!" They had a narrow escape, for some of the men passed their swords through the seats, and one of them entered the ground between Mrs. Hornstreet's arm and leg. At length the Sepoys quitted the room, and the party could breathe in safety. The same night came a gentle tapping at the door, and, on opening it, two Hindoo women came in, bearing a bundle of clothes; they were sent by Mohammed, and the little party had no hesitation in following them. On the road a fearful incident occurred:

"An unforeseen obstacle arrested us at the foot of the immense deodara-tree, which overshado w ed the entire road. A regiment of Sepoys wadrawn up in rank and file before the Boschums ud-Dowlah mosque. We should have been losif the sun had been already risen: our disgu ist

would have been useless, for our cotton garmente only hung down to our knees, so that our Euros pean shoes would have betrayed us. Whil. standing against the stem of the tree, I sudde ne

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