After three days' labor, they fished up a box containing these valued papers. With these they proceeded to Amsterdam, and laid their case before the States General, which granted them an appeal, and meanwhile suspended Stuyvesant's sentence. After describing the escape of the "patriots," Kuyter and Melyn, and their safe arrival in Holland with their papers, the Breeden Raedt continues its review of the Provincial administration, and gives some particulars respecting the chief officers and public affairs in New Netherland, to be found no where else. The narrative is brought down to August, 1649, at which time Melyn, who had returned to New Netherland, seems to have embarked a second time for Holland, to bring his case again before the States General. He appears to have sailed in the same vessel which conveyed Van der Donck, Couwenhoven, and Bont, the delegates who had been commissioned to carry over the "Vertoogh," or remonstrance of the commonalty of New Netherland, against Stuyvesant's arbitrary government. The Breeden Raedt appears to have been printed soon after Melyn's return to the Fatherland. As it contains very severe reflections upon official persons in the Province, and as it was an anonymous tract, it was perhaps judged prudent to publish it with the imprint of Antwerp. I think, however, that it was actually printed in Holland. The Breeden Raedt was one of the earliest, if not the very earliest separate pamphlet respecting New Netherland. It was followed in 1650, by the Vertoogh; in 1651, by Hartger's description; and in 1655, by Van der Donck's larger work, and by De Vries's Journal printed at Alckmaer. AN AUTUMN BALLAD. WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE. BY W. A. SUTLIFFE. Come, say the Ave-Mary prayer. And chant the Miserere! The autumn frosts have chilled the air, The winter groweth dreary! The willow, bending o'er the tomb, Moans dolefully for ever,-- The north-wind bloweth in the gloom, The morning cometh never! Avaunt, thou memory, springing up Like demon bold uprising! Full cold and bitter is our cup, Nor needeth thine apprising! The Future glimmereth in the dark, We hear the billows roaring, The wind beleaguereth our barque, The storm will soon be pouring. Of all the visions of our youth, The mind is disenchanted; When manhood sternly paints the truth, The soul is sadly haunted. The sun is sepulchred of night, The flower in autumn bendeth; Fair fruitfulness has soonest blight-- All beauty graveward tendeth. The world is petrified at heart, No sympathy is welling; Each plays in mine his soulless part, Too woful 'tis for telling. Then say the Ave-Mary prayer, And chant the Miserere! The autumn frosts have chilled the air-- The winter groweth dreary!