the survivor. I die, where I have ever wished to live, in the arms of the most beloved of sisters. Pray for the repose of my soul; and lay me in the tomb which you have allotted to be your own, that one grave may in death hold our remains, who in life had but one heart.'

The loss of Isabella plunged the lady abbess into that deep distress, which minds, formed like her's, with the noblest sentiments of tenderness and benevolence, must, on such a trial, inevitably feel. She caused the body of her unfortunate sister to be transported in solemnity, to their convent; where, after it had been exposed with accustomed rites, it was deposited, with every mark of respect, in a vault, on one side of the shrine of St. Benedict, bedewed with tears of the most heart-felt sorrow, dropped from the eyes of all the sisterhood.

When time and reflection had somewhat calmed her affliction, Frances failed not to transmit, by the hands of her confessor, (her uncle, the abbot, having been sometime dead) her intended offering to the Virgin of Broadstairs, accompanied by a donation of twelve masses, to be said for the repose of Isabella's soul. And soon after to perpetuate the memory of her sister, as well as to direct mariners in their course, that they might escape the sad calamity herself had so fatally experienced, she caused a very ancient church, that stood on a rising ground just above the village of Reculver, and which was greatly fallen into decay, to be restored, and much enlarged, and at one end thereof erected two towers with lofty spires upon them, the which she directed should be called, The Sisters; and to this day it retains the name, and is a sea-mark of great utility.

In less than seven years, the whole church was completed; which she endowed very liberally, by a grant out of her own fortune; and ordained, that there should be celebrated one solemn mass, on the first day of every month (the wreck having happened on the first of May) and that a perpetual litany should be sung, for the eternal peace of the departed Isabella.

She lived to see this her will executed, as well as to bestow many other charitable donations, not only on the convent over which she presided, but on several other religious institutions; and was, from her amiable character, and pious example, beloved, and respected to the

last hour of her life.

She survived Isabella eleven years, and died most sincerely, and deservedly lamented, towards the end of the year 1512.

Her remains, pursuant to her own desire, were deposited by the side of those of her sister, with all that solemnity due to her high rank and office. A monument was erected near to the place, where they were interred, with their figures kneeling, hand in hand, before a cross, and beneath it, a plate of brass, recording their unshaken friendship.

Faithful, congenial spirits! in whatsoever world ye reside, peace be your lot! as virtue was your portion here! Long, long may this memorial of your love remain! to guide the dubious vessel in its course, and make your names blest by the wanderers of the deep!

WOLKMAR AND HIS DOG.

IT

T was evening, when Wolkmar and his dog, almost spent with fatigue, descended one of the mountains in Switzerland; the sun was dilated in the horizon, and threw a tint of rich crimson over the waters of a neighbouring lake; of each side rocks of varied form, their green heads glowing in the beam, were swarded with shrubs that hung feathering from their summits, and, at intervals, was heard the rushing of a troubled stream.

Amid this scenery, our traveller, far from any habitation, wearied, and uncertain of the road, sought for some excavation in the rock, wherein he might repose himself; and having at length discovered such a situation, fell fast asleep upon some withered leaves. His dog sat watching at his feet, a small bundle of linen and a staff were placed beside him, and the red rays of the declining sun, having pierced through the shrubs that concealed the retreat, gleamed on the languid features. of his beloved master.

And long be thy rest, O Wolkmar! may sleep sit pleasant on thy soul! Unhappy man! war hath estranged thee from thy native village; war, unnatural war; snatched thee from thy Fanny and her infant,

Where art thou, best of wives? thy Wolkmar lives! 't was error spread his death. Thou fledd'st; thy beauty caught the eye of power; thou fledd'st with thy infant and thy aged father. Unhappy woman! thy husband seckest thee over the wilds of Switzerland. Long be thy rest, O Wolkmar! may sleep sit pleasant on thy soul!

Yet not long did Wolkmar rest; starting, he beheld the dog, who, seizing his coat, had shook it with violence; and having thoroughly awakened him, whining, licked his face, and sprang through the thicket. Wolkmar, eagerly following, discerned at some distance a man gently walking down the declivity of the opposite hill, and his own dog runing with full speed towards him. The sun yet threw athwart the vale rays of a blood-red hue, the sky was overcast, and a few big round drops rustled through the drooping leaves. Wolknar sat down, the dog now fawned upon the man, then bounding, ran before him. The curiosity of Wolkmar was roused, he rose to meet the stranger, who, as he drew near, appeared old, very old, his steps scarcely supporting with a staff; a blue mantle was wrapped around him, and his hair and beard white as snow, and waving to the breeze of the hill, receiv ed from beneath a dark cloud, the last deep crimson of the setting

sun.

The dog now ran wagging his tail, first to his master, and then to the stranger, Icaping upon each with marks of the utmost rapture, till, too rudely expressing his joy, the old man tottering fell, at the foot of a

blasted beech, that stood at the bottom of the hill. Wolkmar hastened to his relief, and had just reached the spot, when starting back, he exclaimed, My father! O my father!' Gothre, for so the old man was called, saw and knew his son; a smile of extacy lighted up his features, a hectic flushed his cheek, his eyes beamed transport through the waters that suffused them, and stretching forth his arms, he faintly uttered, 'My beloved son! Nature could no more: the bloom upon his withered cheek fled fast away, the dewy lustre of his eye grew dim, the throbbing of his heart oppressed him, and straining Wolkmar with convulsive energy, the last long breath of aged Gothre fled cold across the cheek of his son.

The night grew dark and unlovely, the moon struggled to appear, and by fits her pale light streamed across the lake, a silence deep and terrible prevailed, unbroken but by a cold shrick, that at intervals died along the valley. Wolkmar lay entranced upon the dead body of his father, the dog stood motionless by his side; but at last alarmed, he licked their faces, and pulled his master by the coat, till having in vain endeavoured to awaken them, he ran howling dreadfully along the valley; the demon of the night trembled on his hill of storms, and the rocks returned a deepening echo.

Wolkmar at last awoke, a cold sweat trickled over his forehead, every muscle shook with horror, and kneeling by the body of Gothre, he wept aloud. Where is my Fanny,' he exclaimed, where shall I find her? oh! that thou hadst told me she yet lived, good old man! if alive, my God, she must be near: the night is dark, these mountains are unknown to me.' As he spoke the illumined edge of a cloud shone on the face of Gothre, a smile yet dwelt upon his features; Smilest thou, my father?' said Wolkmar, I feel it at my heart; all shall yet be well.' The night again grew dark, and Wolkmar, retiring a few paces from his father, threw himself upon the ground.

He had not continued many minutes in this situation, before the distant sound of voices struck his ear: they seemed to issue from different parts of the valley, and two or three evidently approached the spot where Gothre lay; the name of Gothre was at length loudly repeated, and Gothre! Gothre! mournfully ran from rock to rock. Wolkmar, starting from the ground, sighed with anxiety, and, leaning forward, he listened with fearful apprehension, but the beating of his heart appalled him. The dog who, at first alarmed, had crept to his master's feet, began now to bark with vehemence; suddenly the voices ceased, and Wolkmar thought he heard the soft and quick tread of people fast approaching. At this moment the moon burst from behind a dark cloud, and shone full on the dead body of Gothre. A shrill shriek pierced the air, and a young woman rushing forward fell on the body of Gothre. Oh, my Billy! she exclaimed to a little boy, who ran up to her out of breath, see your beloved Gothre! he is gone for ever; gone to heaven and left us. O my poor child! (clasping the boy, who cried most bitterly) what shall we do without him, what will become of us, we will die also, my Billy! Gothre is gone to your own dear father, and they are both happy yonder, my Billy,' pointing to the moon. Wolkmar, in the mean time, stood enveloped with shade, his arms stretched out, moionless, and fixed in silent astonishment; his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he faintly and with difficulty uttered, My Fanny! my child! His accents reached her ear; she sprang wildly from the

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ground; It is my Wolkmar's spirit,' she exclaimed. The sky instantly cleared all around, and Wolkmar himself burst upon her sight. They rushed together; she fainted. God of mercies!' cried Wolkmar, if thou wilt not drive me mad, restore; her to life: she breathes; I thank thee, O my God, she breathes! the wife of Wolkmar lives! Fanny recovering, felt the warm embrace of her beloved husband; Dear, dear Wolkmar,' she faintly whispered, Thy Fanny-I cannot speak; my Wolkmar, I am too happy; see our Billy!' The boy had crept close to his father, and was clasping him round the knees. The tide of affection rushed impetuously through the bosom of Wolkmar, 'it presses on my heart,' he said, 'I cannot bear it.' The domestics, whom Fanny had brought with her, crowded round: Let us kneel,' said Wolkmar, round the body of aged Gothre:' they knelt around, the moon shone sweetly on the earth; the spirit of Gothre passed by; he saw his children, and was happy.

From the "SPECULATOR."

ANNETTE.

A FAIRY TALE.

By Master George Louis Lenox.

AS

S the newly-married wife of an opulent country farmer, in the ever memorable reign of Henry the Great, was strolling through the delightful valleys of Vincennes,, a stag pursued by the hounds flew for protection to her feet; and, looking in her face with eyes streaming in tears, seemed to implore her pity and assistance. Annette, whose tender and humane disposition was expressed in every line of her engaging countenance, raised the poor animal in her delicate arms; and, the hunters now approaching, addressed herself to him who seemed the principal, in these words:

The poor stag you are looking for, has flown to me for protection; but, as I am unable to afford him that, all I can do is to become a petitioner in his behalf: I will not presume to censure your diversions--but let me entreat you, gentlemen, instead of sacrificing the poor trembling annimal to your dogs, to bestow him upon me; and, be assured, I shall always remember your kindness with gratitude.'

The young hunter, who regarded the blooming Annette with that admiration which a young pleasing woman always inspires, immediately replied--- Be under no apprehensions, Madam, for your dumb client: whatever you protect must be sacred; and I shall think the loss of our diversion amply repaid by an opportunity of obliging you.' Annette, perceiving the young gentleman wished to improve this opportuni