theim? These and a thousand other perplexing thoughts and suspicions haunted the mind of Ferdinand throughout the night.

[To be Continued.]

ROME.

BY THE HON. J. AUGUSTA MAYNARD.

GREAT Rome, imperial city, thou hast been
Italia's ruler, and the world's proud queen;
Strongly thou rear'dst thy monumental stones,
Unrivall'd mistress of a thousand thrones!
But now they totter like thine own high pride,
While foes around exultingly deride,

And pilgrims from each far barbaric land

Smile as beneath thy crumbling towers they stand.
For now no more they quail beneath the star
Which beam'd above thy Cæsarean car!

No more they view Augustine pomp display
Thy Triumphs grand along the crowded way.
Thou Moloch! lo, upon thy crimson'd shrine,
The blood of nations cried 'gainst thee and thine;
Till retribution, with uplifted hand,

Snatch'd from thy vengeful grasp the murd'rous brand,
And crush'd with unextinguishable hate

The guilty pow'r which laid earth desolate.

The teeming North sent forth her famish'd brave,

The Goth and Hun to delve thy glory's grave;

And those who long were scorn'd, struck home the blow,
Which laid at last th' Eternal City low,

And bade thy thunder-borne re-echoing name
Shrink to a whisper of departed fame.

Time long hath stamp'd misfortune on thy brow,
And o'er thy walls the tangled grasses grow:
Each broken column, and each wasting fane,
Speaks of thy mighty strength consum'd in vain.
For like th' extinct volcano once expir'd,

Thou ne'er shalt view thy blacken'd pile re-fir'd:

The vengeance vast of centuries to come,

And o'er thy stones is pour'd th' o'erwhelming sum.

Yet 'midst thy ruins phantom-like arise
Memorials of the brave, the great, the wise;
And, blasted as thou art, a dreary waste!

What earthly power shall do what thou hast done;
Where shall we find the wreck of such a throne?
Yes, memory hath embalm'd thy mighty name,
And breathes around thy hills undying fame;
Remembrance sacred makes thy deep distress,
And throws a halo round thy wretchedness!

Thou, too, Rienzi, last of Rome's great chiefs,
Who, 'midst the pressure of her mighty griefs,
Stood'st forth alone to raise her drooping pow'r
Shouting that name which made the nations cow'r,
Which nerv'd a Brutus to the desperate deed,
Which veng'd a Pompey, and made Cæsar bleed.
What though thy mighty spirit surely knew
To curb tumultuous factions as they grew?
What! tho' thou snapp'dst asunder the dark chain
Of Despotism's most detested reign?

How wert thou 'quited? History shall respond:
Rome was ingrate, and thou, alas! too fond!
Forth from her streets with thee for ever fled
The ling'ring spirits of her mighty dead!

A SCENE IN REAL LIFE.

AMIDST the exaggerations of modern literature, and the fictions of that exuberant fancy, which in these latter days is tasked to gratify a public taste somewhat vitiated, it is useful to present occasional views of actual existence. Such are contained in the following sketch, which is studiously simple in its language, and every event of which is strictly true. We have this assurance from a source entitled to implicit credit.-EDITOR.

THERE is a vast amount of suffering in the world that escapes general observation. In the lanes and alleys of our populous cities, in the garrets and cellars of dilapidated buildings, there are pregnant cases of misery, degradation, and crime, of which those who live in comfortable houses, and pursue the ordinary duties of life, have neither knowledge nor conception. By mere chance, occasionally, a solitary instance of depravity and awful death is exposed, but the startling details which are placed before the community, are regarded as gross exaggerations. It is difficult for those who are unacquainted with human nature in its darkest aspects, to conceive the immeasurable depth to which crime may sink a human being, and the task of attempting to delineate a faithful picture of such depravity, though it might interest the philosopher, would be revolting to the general reader. There are, however, cases of folly and error, which should be promulgated as warnings, and the incidents of the annexed sketch are of this character. Mysterious are the ways of Providence in punishing the transgressions of men,-and indisputable is the truth, that Death is the wages of Sin.

TWENTY years ago, no family in the fashionable circles of Philadelphia was more distinguished than that of Mr. L****** : no lady was more admired and esteemed than his lovely and accomplished wife. They had married in early life, with the sanction of relations and friends, and under a conviction that

oh was obtaining a treasure above all price. They loved devotedly and with enthusiasm, and their bridal day was a day of pure and unadulterated happiness to themselves, and of pleasure to those who were present to offer their congratulations on the joyous event. The happy pair were the delight of a large circle of acquaintances. In her own parlor, or in the drawing-rooms of her friends, the lady was ever the admiration of those who crowded around her, to listen to the rich melody of her voice, or to enjoy the flashes of wit and intelligence which characterized her conversation.

Without the egotism and vanity which sometimes distinguish those to whom society pays adulation, and too prudent and careful in her conduct to excite any feelings of jealousy in the breast of her confiding husband, Mrs. L's deportment was in all respects becoming a woman of mind, taste, and polished education. Her chosen companion noticed her career with no feelings of distrust, but with pride and satisfaction. He was happy in the enjoyment of her undivided love and affection, and happy in witnessing the evidences of esteem which her worth and accomplishments elicited. Peace and prosperity smiled on his domestic circle, and his offspring grew up in loveliness, to add new pleasures to his career.

The youngest of his children was a daughter, named Letitia, after her mother, whom, in many respects, she promised to resemble. She had the same laughing blue eyes, the same innocent and pure expression of countenance, and the same general outline of feature. At an early age her sprightliness, acute observation, and aptitude in acquiring information, furnished sure evidences of intelligence, and extraordinary pains were taken to rear her in such a manner as to develope, advantageously, her natural powers. The care of her education devolved principally upon her mother, and the task was assumed with a full consciousness of its responsibility.

With the virtuous mother, whose mind is unshackled by the absurdity of extreme fashionable life, there were no duties so weighty, and at the same time so pleasing, as those connected with the education of an only daughter. The weight of responsibility involves not only the formation of an amiable disposition and correct principles, but in a great measure, the degree of happiness which the child may subsequently enjoy. Errors of education are the fruitful source of misery, and to guard against these is a task which requires judgment, and unremitting diligence. But for this labor, does not the mother receive a rich reward? Who may tell the gladness of her heart, when the infant cherub first articulates her name? Who can describe the delightful emotions elicited by the early development of her genius,

the expansion of the intellect when it first receives, and treasures with eagerness, the seeds of knowledge? These are the joys known only to mothers, and they are joys which fill the soul with rapture.

Letitia was eight years old, when a person of genteel address and fashionable appearance, named Duval, was introduced to her mother by her father, with whom he had been intimate when a youth, and between whom a strong friendship had existed from that period. Duval had recently returned from Europe, where he had resided a number of years. He was charmed with the family, and soon became a constant visitor. Having the entire confidence of his old friend and companion, all formality in reference to intercourse was laid aside, and he was heartily welcomed at all hours, and under all circumstances. He formed one in all parties of pleasure, and in the absence of his friend, accompanied his lady on her visits of amusement and pleasure, -a privilege which he sedulously improved whenever opportu nity offered.

Duval, notwithstanding his personal attractions and high character as a "gentleman," belonged to a class of men which has existed more or less in all ages, to disgrace humanity. He professed to be a philosopher, but was in reality a libertine. He lived for his own gratification. It monopolized all his thoughts, and directed all his actions. He belonged to the school of Voltaire, and recognized no feeling of the heart as pure, no tie of duty or affection as sacred. No consideration of suffering, of heart-rending grief, on the part of his victim, were sufficient to intimidate his purpose, or check his career of infamy. Schooled in hypocrisy, dissimulation was his business: and he regarded the whole world as the sphere of his operations,—the whole human family as legitimate subjects for his villainous depravity.

That such characters, so base, so despicable, so lost to all feelings of true honor, can force their way into respectable society, and poison the minds of the unsullied and virtuous, may well be a matter of astonishment to those unacquainted with the desperate artfulness of human hearts. But these monsters appear not in their true character; they assume the garb and deportment of gentlemen, of philosophers, of men of educa tion and refinement, and by their accomplishments, the suavity of their manners, their sprightliness of conversation, bewilder before they poison, and fascinate before they destroy.

If there be, in the long catalogue of guile, one character more hatefully despicable than another, it is the libertine. Time corrects the tongue of slander, and the generosity of friends makes atonement for the depredations of the midnight robber. Sufferings and calamities may be assuaged or mitigated by the

sympathies of kindred hearts, the tear of affection is sufficient to wash out the remembrance of many of the sorrows to which flesh is heir. But for the venom of the libertine, there is no remedy, of its fatal consequences, there is no mitigation. His victims, blasted in reputation, are for ever excluded from the palc of virtuous society. No sacrifice can atone for their degradation, for the unrelenting and inexorable finger of scorn obstructs their progress at every step. The visitation of Death, appalling as is his approach to the unprepared, were a mercy, compared with the extent and permanency of this evil.

Duval's insidious arts were not unobserved by his intended victim. She noticed the gradual development of his pernicious principles, and shrunk with horror from their contaminating influence. She did not hesitate to communicate her observation to her husband,—but he, blinded by prejudice in favor of his friend, laughed at her scruples. Without a word of caution, therefore, his intercourse was continued,-and such was the weight of his ascendant power,such the perfection of his deeplaid scheme, and such his facility in glossing over what he termed pardonable, but which, in reality, were grossly licentious, indiscretions of language and conduct,-that even the lady herself was induced, in time, to believe that she had treated him unjustly. The gradual progress of licentiousness is almost imperceptible, and before she was aware of her error, she had drunk deeply of the intoxicating draught, and had well nigh become a convert to Duval's system of philosophy. Few who approach this fearful precipice are able to retrace their steps. The senses are bewildered,-reason loses its sway, and a whirlpool of maddening emotions takes possession of the heart, and hurries the infatuated victim to irretrievable death. Before her suspicions were awakened, the purity of her family circle was destroyed. Duval enrolled on his list of conquests a new name, the wife of his bosom friend!

An immediate divorce was the consequence. The misguided woman, who but late had been the ornament of society and the pride of her family, was cast out upon the world, unprotected, and without the smallest resource. The heart of the husband was broken by the calamity which rendered this step necessary, and he retired with his children, to the obscurity of humble life.

Ar a late hour on one of those bitter cold evenings experienced in the early part of January, of the present year, two females, a mother and daughter, both wretchedly clad, stood shivering at the entrance of a cellar, in the lower part of the city, occupied by two persons of color. The daughter appeared to be laboring