In vain you appeal to treaties-to covenants between nations. The covenants of the Almighty, whether the old covenant or the new, denounce such unholy pretensions. To these laws did they of old refer, who maintained the African trade. Such treaties did they cite--and not untruly; for, by one shameful compact you bartered the glories of Blenheim for the traffic in blood. Yet in despite of law and of treaty, that infernal traffic is now destroyed, and its votaries put to death like other pirates. How came this change to pass? Not, assuredly, by Parliament leading the way: but the country at length awoke; the indignation of the people was kindled; it descended in thunder, and smote the traffic, and scattered its guilty profits to the winds. Now, then, let the planters beware-let their assemblies beware-let the Government at home beware-let the Parliament beware! The same country is once more awake-awake to the condition of negro slavery; the same indignation kindles in the bosom of the same people; the same cloud is gathering that annihilated the slave-trade; and if it shall descend again, they on whom its crash may fall, will not be destroyed before I have warned them: but I pray, that their destruction may turn away from us the more terrible judgments of God. BROUGHAM.

THE BROKEN HEART.

DURING the troubles in Ireland, young Emmett was tried, condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was so young, so intelligent, so generous, so brave, so everything that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country;

the eloquent vindication of his name; and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation-all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution.

But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl,-the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervour of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him, when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her whose whole soul was occupied by his image! Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth-who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed.

But then the horrors of such a grave!—so frightful -so dishonoured! There was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe the pang of separationnone of those tender, though melancholy circumstances that endear the parting scene-nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parching hour of anguish.

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and

distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her lover! But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity that scathe and scorch the soul-that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness-and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but she was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude. She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried within her an inward woe, that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and "heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he ever so wisely."

The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre

lonely and joyless, where all around is gay-to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and wo-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for some time with a vacant air that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began (with the capriciousness of a sickly heart) to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice, but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears.

The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her

thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation; for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably another's.

He took her with him to Sicily; hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.

It was on her that Moore (the distinguished Irish Poet) composed the following lines:

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers around her are sighing :

But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking-

Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!

He had lived for his love for his country he died. –
They were all that to life had entwined him--
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him!

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west,
From her own loved island of sorrow!

WASHINGTON IRVING.

[KING JOHN's reign extended from the year 1199 to the year 1216. It was an inglorious reign. He himself was tyrant and coward by turns. His cruelty and tyranny were attended with this good result that to them we owe the Magna Charta.

According to the modern rules of succession, John was not the rightful heir to the crown. His elder brother, Geoffrey, left a son, twelve years of age when John began to reign. This young prince was named Arthur, and was in his own right Duke of Brittany in France. As the son of an elder brother, his claim would in our day, be considered preferable to that of John; but in that age, the law of succession was not definitely fixed.

At that time, the English held large possessions in France, and Philip Augustus, king of France, put forward the young prince as a claimant for John's French dominions. This gave John a deep interest in securing Arthur's death. In the year 1202, John's French barons, goaded to madness by his cruelty and tyranny, broke out into open rebellion, and were joined by young Arthur and Philip Augustus. John quickly suppressed this rebellion, and Arthur was made prisoner. From that moment he was never seen again. The common report of the time was that, after being confined for a time in a French prison, he died at Rouen, in a boat upon the Seine, murdered by John's own hand. In the play of King John, Shakespeare does not observe strict historical accuracy. He places the scene of Arthur's imprisonment in England, in Northampton Castle, and makes Arthur die from the effects of a fall in attempting to secure his escape. Our extracts commence on the field of battle, where Arthur was made prisoner. John breaks to his