or sympathy, was ever accorded it. Its unfortunate, and, let us say, ill-used manufacturers, went, with very few exceptions, down to total ruin, one after the other, and were scattered abroad on the face of the toilsome earth, to be heard of no more. Not yet have the effects of the long-continued misery passed away, and never will, so long as our time shall last. This has been but a sketch of it, for it was of by far too grave a nature, too deep and painful in its working, for any pen faithfully to record. But when you hear talk again of these great political changes, ask yourselves, however flourishing their aspect may be, whether there may not be some localities, some communities, of peaceful, unoffending people to whom they are bringing the destruction that they once brought upon Riverton.
This record of the Arkell family is not a very cheering history. Its conclusion—that is, so far as a conclusion can be given to the career of people who yet live—will appear in a subsequent number. But, I warn you, it will be no more gay than these two first papers have been. And, you may rely upon it, that when the pen confines itself faithfully to chronicles of real life, its traces will in general be found to be sad ones.
Wild winds sweep through yon roofless tower,
Where warrior-knights kept watch and ward;
And rank weeds choke the woodbine bower,
Where erst upon the velvet sward
Trod, in times past, light fairy feet
As stole full oft, some blushing maid
Thither, her mail-clad love to meet.
And where sad parting words were said
Ere far away, to tented field,
And deadly battle-plain, he hied,
Glory to win—for could he yield
To Beauty's thrall, his martial pride?
The golden sunsets still illume
Yon purple hills, yon rushing stream,
Still chase yon dark wood's sombre gloom,
And o'er each loopholed turret beam.
But where are they, the stirring throng,
Whose looks once on that scene were cast—
Who listened to the minstrel's song,
Or to the trumpet's echoing blast?—
