was reluctantly compelled to de- 'Tis she!' exclaimed don Viacent. By heaven tis Mariana!' As if she had caught the expression, the eyes of the performer were thrown around, and caught those of Bernard. Comparing re The unhappy story of Mariana was a common topic in Sarragossa. Don Vincent, Bernard's companion, talked much of her on the way to the convent: he had known her intimately, and was lavish in praise of her beauty and accomplishments. Delighted as he was at this additional spur to the eclat which should celebrate the success of his scheme, Bernard was secretly jealous of the warmth of Vincent's eulogy. The ceremony had commenced before they reached the convent. The gloomy si-ality with the portrait already formlence which prevailed the crowded by his imagination, he was now of visitors, the solemn music, and persuaded 'twas so. He would the murmuring vibration of har- have flown to her, clasped her in monious sound filled the soul of the his fond embrace and borne away impassioned Bernard with indes- the prize; but recollecting where cribable enthusiasm. His eye he was, he could only feast upon wandered over the extensive group the lovely countenance, which officiating at the altar; but though seemed to blush conscious of the in imagination was engraven the confession it bespoke. Rioting alikeness of Mariana, she was a mid the transports of his feelings, perfect stranger to him. Much the ceremony ended before he he wished for information; but fancied it had well begun. The fearing to betray his feelings, he nuns and the noviciates now open ed a passage to the altar, that those who were disposed might demand the benediction of St. Clare. Now was the moment for him to convey his letter into the hands of Mariana. Don Vincent indignant at the farce, declined to follow; but Bernard was resolved. Mariana stood close to where he knelt. Her hand hung by her side; he felt it! twas openly inviting and while all around were struck with the singular piety of the soldier, he saw her take unnoticed the paper that should decide his fate. Elated at this happy presage to his hopes, he rose and measured back his steps: unwilling to retire, yet fearful of creating suspicion by his stay, he knew No one ever applied to St. : Clare in vain and the pious auditory, fraught with cheering consolation, were fast retreating to their several homes. The nuns filed off to their several cloisters. The novices closing the procession, completed the solemu festival of the day. No one remained, save the abbess and an elder nun. Bernard began to fear the indiscretion of which he had been guilty. Retreat he could not without observation and to remain an eye-witness of their private penance, was a stretch of dishonorable curiosity: -add to this, the character of the abbess was not unknown to him. If report might be credited, she was a woman of an austere, inflex : not what to do. He had succeed-ible, and resentful mind. To be ed beyond his most sanguine expectations, and prudence should have guided his retreat creting himself within an adjoining aisle, he stood a curious spectator what would follow. but se observed was enough to create suspicion: and armed with the strong power of ecclesiastical tyranny, she might hurl upon his head the terrible vengeance of the Inquisition. Inconsiderate as was Bernard's delay in accompanying the auditory from the convent, bis only crime was that of anxious curiosity; but from his knowledge of the character of the abbess, he felt the danger of his rashness. Suspicions once fixed upon him, the blood His letter was couched in appropriate epithet. It breathed the copious purity of his passion, without rising to the language of romance. It began by commiserating her wayward destiuy: dweit upon the privations of a cloister : the immorality of a voluntary abandonment of the duties societyhounds of the holy office would be demands. His own situation in life was stated to afford a prospect of happiness to one who could dispense with superfluity: concluding with an avowal of his passion, and an offer of his hand, unkennelled; no retreat were a sanctuary of protection; he would be dragged from his concealment, hurried to instant confinement, thence to the wheel to expiate, in excruciating torments, an imagina ry crime. Bernard's inquietude, her relations, if I presisted i hate however, subsided for a moment, Miguel dont you too Agnes ? and his whole attention called to the dialogue which ensued: Abbess. too, Agnes, the unqualified approbation of the auditory while she sung the anthem Francisco com posed for my inauguration? Did you remark Agnes. I did nor can I refuse my concurrence in their taste.her voice is melody itself-her manners pleasing, her features Agnes. Why-to be sure, one should hate Abbess. You hesitate! I tell you I hate Miguel as much as I did his predecessor. He would do well to desist. The. fool knows me not, nor how easy I o'erthrew the wary Francisco. Agnes. Ah! poor Francisco- Abbess. Sister! no more of this. What am I ever to be the sub beautiful, her shape majestic-sheject of your reproof? Is this the was destined to shine in Abbess. Ccase, sister, cease!you are ever taking part against, me. Attend my pleasure, my COMMANDS. if you please-recollect the difficulty I have had to detain her in the convent, and my resolution that she shall receive the veil Agnes. I was merely accounting for the plaudits of the auditory. I am not ignorant of your determination, nor can you say I have shown the slightest disposition to thwart your wishes. Abbess. I do not like the prying curiosity of our brother of St. Francis of late Agnes. You allude to Miguel? Abbess. Yes, him I mean. I begin to suspect him, sister. Twas but yesterday he repeated his threat of discovering the secret to return to the confidence I have blandishments I strewed before (To be Continued.) CRAZY ROBIN. A Tale. In yonder cave, lived a poor man, who generally went by the name of Crazy Robin. In his youth he was very industrious, and married my father's dairy-maid : a girl deserving of such a good husband. For some time they continued to live very comfortably; their daily labour procured their daily bread; but Robin, finding it was likely he should have a large family, borrowed a trifle to add to the small pittance they had saved in service and took a little farm in a neighbouring county. I was then a child. Ten or twelve years after, I heard that a crazy man, who appeared very harmless, had, by the side of the brook. piled a great number of stones; he would wade into the river for them, followed by a cur dog, whom he would frequently call his Jacky, and even his Nancy; and then mumble to himself-thou wilt not leave me -we will dwell with the owl in the ivy.-A number of owls had taken shelter in it. The stones he waded for, he carried to the mouth of the hole, and only left just room Some of the enough to go in. last recollected neighbours at him; and I sent to enquire what misfortune had reduced him to such a deplorable state. The information I received from different persons, I will communi sate to you in as few words as I can. Several of his children died in their infancy; and, two years before he came to his native place, he had been overwhelmed by a torrent of misery. Through unavoidable misfortunes he was long in arrears to his landlord; who, seeing that he was an honest man, and endeavoured to bring up his family, did not distress him; but when his wife was lying in of her last child, the landlord died, and his heir sent and seized the stock for the rent; and the person he had borrowed some money of, ex. asperated to see all gone, arrested him, and he was hurried to goal. The poor woman, endeavouring to assist her family before she had gained sufficient strength, found herself very ill; and the illness, through neglect and the want of proper nourishment, turned to a putrid fever; which two of the children caught from her, and died with her. The two who were left, Jacky and Nancy, went to their father, and took with them a cur dog, that had long shared their frugal meals. The children begged in the day, and at night slept with their wretched father. Poverty and dirt soon robbed their cheeks of the roses which the country air made bloom with peculiar freshness.Their blood had been tainted by the putrid complaint that destroyed their mother; in short, they caught the small-pox, and died.-wish nosegays of wild thyme, which he plucked from the sides of the mountain. I mentioned before that the dog was a cur: it had the tricks of curs, and would run after horses' heels and bark. One day when his master was gathering water-cresses, the dog ran after a young gentleman's horse, and made it start, and al. most threw the rider. Though he knew it was the poor madman's The poor father, who was now bereft of all his children, hung over their bed in speechless anguish: not a groan nor a tear escaped from him while he stood, two er three hours in the same attitude, looking at the dead bodies of his little darlings. The dog licked his hands, and strove to attract his attention but for a while he seemed not to observe his caresses:when he did, he said, mourn-dog, he leveiled his gun at it- fully, thou wilt not leave me and shot it, and instantly rode off.— Robin came to him, he looked at his wounds, and not sensible that he was dead, called him to follow. him: but when he found that he could not, he took him to the pool, and washed off the blood before it began to clot, and then brought him home, and laid him on the mal. I observed that I had not seen him pacing up the hills, and sent to enquire about him. He was found sitting by the dog, and no entreaties could prevail on him to quit it, or receive any refi eshment. L went to him musely, hoping, as I had always been a favourite, that I should be able to persuade him. When I came to him I found the hand ofdeath was upon him He was still melancholy but the e was such a mixture of wildness in it. I pressed him to take some food: but, instead of answe ing me or turning away, he burst into Htears, a thing I had never seen After I received this account, I determined he should live in the place he had chosen, undisturbed. I sent some conveniences, all of which he rejected, except a mat; on which be sometimes slept-the dog always did. I tried to induce him to eat, but he constantly gave the dog whatever I sent him, and lived on haws and black-berries, and every kind of trash. I used to call frequently on him: and he sometimes followed me to the house 1 now live in, and in winter he would come of his own accord. and take a crust of bread. gathered water-cresses out of the pool and would bring them to me him do before, and, in inarticulate accents, he said, will any one be |