Moriscoe's pale profile looked stern and rigid in the expiring light. The
work was soon complete; and the mound of earth thus hastily thrown up
(soon covered with as rank weeds as ever sprang from a polluted soil) were
long marked by shuddering superstition as "the grave of the Mahommedan
girl." The fate of the inquisitor was quite unsuspected; and he might have
been still believed to have disappeared supernaturally, or perished by
some less awful visitation, had not unerring records thrown light on his
fate.

The tottering steps of the old man quickly led the way across the thickly
planted site of the little Sablon, and by many a winding lane and alley
towards the hill of Caudenburgh, till the Moriscoe, with his beloved
burthen, found a safe refuge in the old man's dwelling, in the narrow
street on the side of the hill, not a hundred yards below the house of the
Marquess of Assembourg.

* * * * *



SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

MUSICAL LITERATURE IN NORTH AMERICA.


We have just received two numbers of a New York periodical, entitled the
"Euterpeiad, a Musical Review and Tablet of the Fine Arts," published
every fortnight, or, as our transatlantic fellow-labourers express it,
"semi-monthly," and feel flattered at finding our opinions quoted, our
columns referred to with acknowledgment, and, still more, our custom of