Grace Marks glances at you with a sidelong stealthy look; her eye never meets yours, and after a furtive regard, it invariably bends its gaze upon the ground. She looks like a person rather above her humble station, and her conduct during her stay in the Penitentiary was so unexceptionable, that a petition was signed by all the influential gentlemen in Kingston, which released her from her long imprisonment. She entered the service of the governor of the Penitentiary, but the fearful hauntings of her brain have terminated in madness. She is now in the asylum at Toronto; and as I mean to visit it when there, I may chance to see this remarkable criminal again. Let us hope that all her previous guilt may be attributed to the incipient workings of this frightful malady.
To The Wind.
"Stern spirit of air, wild voice of the sky!
Thy shout rends the heavens, and earth trembles with dread;
In hoarse hollow murmurs the billows reply,
And ocean is roused in his cavernous bed.
"On thy broad rushing pinions destruction rides free,
Unfettered they sweep the wide deserts of air;
The hurricane bursts over mountain and sea,
And havoc and death mark thy track with despair.