[Illustration: J. AddisonANGILA MERVALEorSIX MONTHS BEFORE MARRIAGE. _Engraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine_]

GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE. 

VOL. XXXIII. PHILADELPHIA, SEPTEMBER, 1848. No. 3. 

ANGILA MERVALE;

OR SIX MONTHS BEFORE MARRIAGE. 

BY F. E. F. , AUTHOR OF "AARON'S ROD, " "TELLING SECRETS, " ETC. 

"They say Miss Morton is engaged to Robert Hazlewood, " said AugustaLenox. 

"So I hear, " replied Angila Mervale, to whom this piece of news hadbeen communicated. "How can she?"

"How can she, indeed?" replied Augusta. "He's an ugly fellow. "

"Ugly! yes, " continued Angila, "and a disagreeable ugliness, too. Idon't care about a man's being handsome--a plain black ugliness Idon't object to--but _red_ ugliness, ah!"

"They say he's clever, " said Augusta. 

"They always say that, my dear, of any one that's so ugly, " repliedAngila. "I don't believe it. He's conceited, and I think disagreeable;and I don't believe he's clever. "

"I remarked last night that he was very attentive to Mary Morton, "continued Augusta. "They waltzed together several times. "

"Yes, and how badly he waltzes, " said Angila. "Mary Morton is toopretty a girl for such an awkward, ugly man. How lovely she lookedlast night. I hope it's not an engagement, for I quite like her. "

"Well, perhaps it is not. It's only one of the _on dits_, and probablya mere report. "

"Who are you discussing, girls?" asked Mrs. Mervale, from the otherside of the room. 

"Robert Hazlewood and Miss Morton, " replied Augusta, "they are said tobe engaged. "

"Ah!" said Mrs. Mervale. "Is it a good match for her?"

"Oh, no!" chimed in both the girls at once. "He's neither handsome, norrich, nor any thing. "

"Nor any thing!" repeated Mrs. Mervale, laughing. "Well, that'scomprehensive. A young man may be a very respectable young man, and bea very fair match for a girl without being either handsome or rich;but if he is positively 'nothing, ' why, then, I grant you, it is badindeed. "

"Oh, I believe he is respectable enough, " replied Augusta, carelessly, for, like most young girls, the word "respectable" did not rank veryhigh in her vocabulary. 

"And if he is not rich, what are they to live on, " asked Mrs. Mervale. 

"Love and the law, I suppose, " replied her daughter, laughing. "He's alawyer, is he not Augusta?"

"Oh!" resumed Mrs. Mervale, "he's a son, then, I suppose, of old JohnHazlewood. "

"Yes, " replied Augusta. 

"Then he may do very well in his profession, " continued Mrs. Mervale, "for his father has a large practice I know, and is a very respectableman. If this is a clever young man, he may tread in his father'sfootsteps. "

This did not convey any very high eulogium to the young ladies' ears. That young Robert Hazlewood might be an old John Hazlewood in his turnand time, did not strike them as a very brilliant future. In fact theydid not think more of the old man than they did of the young one. 

Old gentlemen, however, were not at quite such a discount with Mrs. Mervale as with her daughter and her friend; and she continued todescant upon the high standing of Mr. Hazlewood the elder, not oneword in ten of which the girls heard, for she, like most old ladies, once started upon former times, was thinking of the pleasant youngJohn Hazlewood of early days, who brought back with him a host ofreminiscences, with which she indulged herself and the girls, whilethey, their heads full of last night's party and Mary Morton andRobert Hazlewood, listened as civilly as they could, quite unable tokeep the thread of her discourse, confounding in her history RobertHazlewood's mother with his grandmother, and wondering all the whilewhen she would stop, that they might resume their gossip. 

"You visit his sister, Mrs. Constant, don't you?" asked Augusta. 

"Yes, we have always visited the Hazlewoods, " replied Angila, "but Iam not intimate with any of them. They always seemed to me those kindof pattern people I dislike. "

"Is Mr. Constant well off?" inquired Mrs. Mervale. 

"No, I should think not, " replied Angila, "from the way in which theylive. They have a little bit of a two-story house, and keep only awaiter girl. How I do hate to see a woman open the door, " shecontinued, addressing Augusta. 

"So do I, " replied her friend. "I would have a man servant--a womanlooks so shabby. "

"Yes, " returned Angila. "There's nothing I dislike so much. No womanshall ever go to my door. "

"If you have a man servant, " suggested Mrs. Mervale. 

"Of course, " said Angila; "and that I will. "

"But suppose you cannot afford it, " said her mother. 

"I don't choose to suppose any thing so disagreeable or improbable, "replied her daughter, gayly. 

"It may be disagreeable, " continued Mrs. Mervale, "but I don't see theimprobability of the thing, Angila, nor, indeed, the disagreeabilityeven. The Constants are young people with a small family, and I thinka woman is quite sufficient for them. Their house is small, Isuppose. "

"Oh, yes, a little bit of a place. "

"Large enough for them, " replied Mrs. Mervale, whose ideas were not asenlarged as her daughter's. 

"Perhaps so, " said Angila, "but I do hate low ceilings so. I don'tcare about a large house, but I do like large rooms. "

"You can hardly have large rooms in a small house, " remarked Mrs. Mervale, smiling. 

"Why, Mrs. Astley's is only a two-story house, mamma, and her roomsare larger than these. "

"Yes, my dear, Mrs. Astley's is an expensive house; the lot must bethirty feet by--"

But Angila had no time to go into the dimensions of people's "lots. "She and Augusta were back to the party again; and they discusseddresses, and looks, and manners, with great _goût_. 

Their criticisms were, like most young people's, always in extremes. The girls had either looked "lovely" or "frightful, " and the young menwere either "charming" or "odious;" and they themselves, from theirown account, had been in a constant state of either delight or terror. 

"I was so afraid Robert Hazlewood was going to ask me to waltz, " saidAngila; "and he waltzes so abominably that I did not know what Ishould do. But, to my delight, he asked me only for a cotillion, and Ifortunately was engaged. I was so glad it was so. "

"Then you did not dance with him at all?"

"No--to my great joy, he walked off, angry, I believe. "

"Oh, my dear!" remonstrated her mother. 

"Why not, mother, " replied Angila. "He's my 'favorite aversion. ' Well, Augusta, " she continued, turning to her friend, "and when do you sailfor New Orleans?"

"On Monday, " replied Augusta. 

"On Monday!--so soon! Oh, what shall I do without you, Augusta!" saidAngila, quite pathetically. "And you will be gone six months, youthink?"

"Yes, so papa says, " replied the young lady. "He does not expect to beable to return before May. "

"Not before May! And its only November now!" said Angila, in prolongedaccents of grief. "How much may happen in that time!"

"Yes, " returned her friend, gaily, "you may be engaged before that. "

"Not much danger, " replied Angila, laughing. 

"But remember, I am to be bridemaid, " continued Augusta. 

"Certainly, " said Angila, in the same tone, "I shall expect you fromNew Orleans on purpose. "

"And who will it be to, Angila, " said Augusta. 

"That's more than I can tell, " replied Angila; "but somebody that'svery charming, I promise you. "

"By the way, what is your _beau ideal_, Angila, I never heard yousay, " continued Augusta. 

"My _beau ideal_ is as shadowy and indistinct as one of Ossian'sheroes, " replied Angila, laughing; "something very distinguished inair and manners, with black eyes and hair, are the only points decidedon. For the rest, Augusta, I refer you to Futurity, " she added, gayly. 

"I wonder who you will marry!" said Augusta, with the sudden fervor ofa young lady on so interesting a topic. 

"I don't know, only nobody that I have ever seen yet, " replied Angila, with animation. 

"He must be handsome, I suppose, " said Augusta. 

"No, " replied Angila, "I don't care for beauty. A man should have adecided air of the gentleman, with an expression of talent, height, and all that--but I don't care about what you call beauty. "

"You are very moderate, indeed, in your requirements, my dear, " saidher mother, laughing. "And pray, my love, what have you to offer this_rara avis_ in return for such extraordinary charms. "

"Love, mamma, " replied the gay girl, smiling. 

"And suppose, my dear, " pursued her mother, "that your hero should setas high an estimate upon himself as you do upon yourself. Your tall, elegant, talented man, may expect a wife who has fortune, beauty andtalents, too. "

Angila laughed. She was not vain, but she knew she was pretty, and shewas sufficiently of a belle to be satisfied with her own powers if shecould only meet with the man, so she said, playfully. 

"Well, then, mamma, he won't be _my_ hero, that's all. "

And no doubt she answered truly. The possession of such gifts are veryapt to vary in young ladies' eyes according to the gentleman'sperception of their charms. And heroes differ from one another, according as the pronouns "mine and thine, " may be pre-fixed to histitle. 

"And such a bijou of a house as I mean to have, " continued Angila, with animation. "The back parlor and dining-room shall open into aconservatory, where I shall have any quantity of canary-birds--"

"My dear, " interrupted her mother, "what nonsense you do talk. "

"Why, mamma, " said Angila, opening her eyes very wide, "don't you likecanaries?"

"Yes, my dear, " replied her mother, "I don't object to aviaries orconservatories, only to your talking of them in this way, as mattersof course and necessity. They are all very well for rich people. "

"Well, then, I mean to be rich, " continued Angila, playfully. 

"That's the very nonsense I complain of, " said her mother. "It'sbarely possible, but certainly very improbable, Angila, that you evershould be rich; and considering you have been used to nothing of thekind, it really amuses me to hear you talk so. Your father and I havelived all our lives very comfortably and happily, Angila, withouteither aviary or conservatory, and I rather think you will do thesame, my love. "

"Your father and I!" What a falling off was there! for although Angilaloved her father and mother dearly, she could not imagine herselfintent upon household occupations, an excellent motherly woman somethirty years hence, any more than that her _beau ideal_ should wearpepper and salt like her father. 

"It was all very well for papa and mamma, " but to persuade a girl ofeighteen that she wants no more than her mother, whose heart happensto be like Mrs. Mervale, just then full of a new carpet that Mr. Mervale is hesitating about affording, is out of the question. 

And, unreasonable as it may be, whoever would make a young girl morerational, destroys at once the chief charm of her youth--theexuberance of her fresh imagination, that gilds not only the future, but throws a rosy light upon all surrounding objects. Her visions, Igrant you, are absurd, but the girl without visions is a clod of thevalley, for she is without imagination--and without imagination, whatis life? what is love?

Never fear that her visions will not be fulfilled, and therefore bringdisappointment--for the power carries the pleasure with it. The samegift that traces the outline, fills up the sketch. The girls who dreamof heroes are those most ready to fall in love with any body--and nowoman is so hard to interest as she who never had a vision, andconsequently sees men just as they are; and so if Angila talkednonsense, Mrs. Mervale's sense was not much wiser. 

Angila was a pretty, playful, romantic girl, rather intolerant of thepeople she did not like, and enthusiastic about those she did; full oflife and animation, she was a decided belle in the gay circle inwhich she moved. 

Miss Lenox was her dearest friend for the time being, and the proposedseparation for the next six months was looked upon as a cruelaffliction, only to be softened by the most frequent and confidentialcorrespondence. 

For the first few weeks of Augusta's absence, the promises exchangedon both sides were vehemently fulfilled. Letters were written two orthree limes a week, detailing every minute circumstance that happenedto either. But at the end of that time Angila was at a party where shemet Robert Hazlewood, who talked to her for some time. It was not adancing party, and consequently they conversed together more than theyhad ever done before. He seemed extremely amused with her liveliness, and looked at her with unmistakable admiration. Had Augusta Lenox beenthere to see, perhaps Angila would not have received his attentions sograciously; but there being nothing to remind her of his being her"favorite aversion, " she talked with animation, pleased with theadmiration she excited, without being annoyed by any inconvenientreminiscences. And not only was Miss Lenox absent, but Miss Morton waspresent, and Angila thought she looked over at them a littleanxiously; so that a little spirit of rivalry heightened, if not herpleasure, certainly Hazlewood's consequence in her eyes. Girls areoften much influenced by each other in these matters--and the absenceof Miss Lenox, who "did not think much of Robert Hazlewood, " with thepresence of Miss Morton who did, had no small influence in Angila'sfuture fate. 

"Did you have a pleasant party?" asked Mrs. Mervale, who had not beenwith her daughter the evening before. 

"Yes, very pleasant, " replied Angila; "one of the pleasantest'conversation parties' I have ever been at. "

And "who was there--and who did you talk to?" were the next questions, which launched Angila in a full length description of every thing andevery body--and among them figured quite conspicuously RobertHazlewood. 

"And you found him really clever?" said her mother. 

"Oh, decidedly, " replied her daughter. 

"Who, " said her brother, looking up from his breakfast, "Hazlewood?Certainly he is. He's considered one of the cleverest among the younglawyers. Decidedly a man of talent. "

Angila looked pleased. 

"His father is a man of talent before him, " observed Mrs. Mervale. "Asa family, the Hazlewoods have always been distinguished for ability. This young man is ugly, you say, Angila?"

"Yes--" replied Angila, though with some hesitation. "Yes, he is ugly, certainly--but he has a good countenance; and when he converses he isbetter looking than I thought him. "

"It's a pity he's conceited, " said Mrs. Mervale, innocently; herimpression of the young man being taken from her daughter's previousdescription of him. "Since he is really clever, it's a pity, for it'ssuch a drawback always. "

"Conceited! I don't think he's conceited, " said Angila, quiteforgetting her yesterday's opinion. 

"Don't you? I thought it was you who said so, my dear, " replied hermother, quietly. 

"Yes, I did once think so, " said Angila, slightly blushing at her owninconsistency. "I don't know why I took the idea in my head--but infact I talked more to him, and became better acquainted with him lastevening than I ever have before. When there is dancing, there is solittle time for conversation; and he really talks very well. "

"He is engaged to Miss Morton, you say?" continued Mrs. Mervale. 

"Well, I don't know, " replied Angila, adding, as she remembered theanimated looks of admiration he had bestowed upon herself, "I doubtit--that is the report, however. "

"Hazlewood's no more engaged to Mary Morton than I am, " said youngMervale, carelessly. "Where did you get that idea?"

"Why every body says so, George, " said Angila. 

"Pshaw! every body's saying so don't make it so. "

"But he's very attentive to her, " replied Angila. 

"Well, and if he is, " retorted Mervale, "it does not follow that hemust be in love with her. You women do jump to conclusions, and makeup matches in such a way, " he continued, almost angrily. 

"I think she likes him, " pursued Angila. "I think she would have him. "

"Have him! to be sure she would, " replied George, in the same tone;not that he considered the young lady particularly in love with hisfriend, but as if any girl might be glad to have him--for brothers arevery apt to view such cases differently from sisters, who refuse younggentlemen for their friends without mercy. 

"But he's ugly, you say, " continued Mrs. Mervale, sorrowfully, who, old lady as she was, liked a handsome young man, and always lamentedwhen she found mental gifts unaccompanied by personal charms. 

"Yes, he's no beauty, that's certain, " said Angila, gayly. 

"Has he a good air and figure?" pursued Mrs. Mervale, still hoping soclever a man might be better looking after all. 

"Yes, tolerable--middle height--nothing remarkable one way or theother. " And then the young lady went off to tell some piece of news, that quite put Mr. Hazlewood out of her mother's head for the present. 

When Angila next wrote to Augusta, although she spoke of Mrs. Carpenter's party, a little consciousness prevented her saying muchabout Robert Hazlewood, and consequently her friend was quiteunsuspicious of the large share he had in making the party shedescribed so pleasant. 

Hazlewood had really been pleased by Angila. She was pretty--and hefound her lively and intelligent. He had always been inclined toadmire her, but she had turned from him once or twice in what he hadthought a haughty manner, and consequently he had scarcely known heruntil they met at this little _conversazione_ of Mrs. Carpenter's, where accident placed them near each other. The party was so smallthat where people happened to find themselves, there they staid--itrequiring some courage for a young man to break the charmed ring, anddeliberately plant himself before any lady, or attempt to talk to anyone except her beside whom fate had placed him. 

Now Angila had the corner seat on a sofa near the fire-place, andHazlewood was standing, leaning against the chimney-piece, so that anicer, more cosy position for a pleasant talk could hardly beconceived in so small a circle. Miss Morton was on the other side ofthe fire-place, occupying the corresponding situation to Angila, andAngila could see her peeping forward from time to time to see ifHazlewood still maintained his place. His back was turned toward her, so if she did throw any anxious glances that way, he did not see them. 

Angila met him a few evenings after this at the Opera, and found thathe was a passionate lover of music. They talked again, and he verywell, for he really was a sensible, well-educated young man. Music isa favorite source of inspiration, and Hazlewood was a connoisseur aswell as amateur. She found that he seldom missed a night at the Opera, and "she was surprised she had not seen him there before, as she wentherself very often. "

"He had seen her, however;" and he looked as if it were not easy notto see _her_ when she was there. 

She blushed and was pleased, for it evidently was not an unmeaningcompliment. 

"Mr. Hazlewood's very clever, " she said the next day; "and his tastesare so cultivated and refined. He is very different from the usual runof young men. " (When a girl begins to think a man different from the"usual run, " you may be sure she herself is off the common track. )"There's something very manly in all his sentiments, independent andhigh-toned. He cannot be engaged to Mary Morton, for I alluded to thereport, and he seemed quite amused at the idea. I can see he thinksher very silly, which she is, though pretty--though he was twogentlemanly to say so. "

"How, then, did you find out that he thought so, " asked George, smiling. 

"Oh, from one or two little things. We were speaking of a German poemthat I was trying to get the other day, and he said he had it, but hadlent it to Miss Morton. 'However, ' he added, with a peculiar smile, 'he did not believe she wanted to read it, and at any rate, he wouldbring it to me as soon as she returned it. He doubted whether she wasmuch of a German reader. ' But it was more the smile and the manner inwhich he said it, than the words, that made me think he had no veryhigh opinion of her literary tastes. "

"He may not like her any the less for that, " said George, carelessly. "I think your clever literary men rarely do value a woman less for herignorance. "

But there was an expression in Angila's pretty face that seemed tocontradict this assertion; for, like most pretty women, the was vainerof her talents than her beauty--and she thought Hazlewood had beenquite struck by some of her criticisms the night before. 

However this might be, the intimacy seemed to progress at a wonderfulrate. He called and brought her books; and they had a world to sayevery time they met, which, whether by accident or design, was nowbeginning to be very often. 

"You knew old Mr. Hazlewood, mamma, did not you?" said Angila. "Andwho did you say Mrs. Hazlewood was?" And now she listened verydifferently from the last time that her mother had launched forth onthe topic of old times and friends. Angila was wonderfully interestedin all the history of the whole race, for Mrs. Mervale began with thegreat grandfathers, maternal and paternal; and she kept the thread ofthe story with surprising distinctness, and made out the familypedigree with amazing correctness. 

"Then they are an excellent family, mamma, " she said. 

"To be sure they are, " replied Mrs. Mervale, "one of the oldest andbest in the city. "

It was wonderful what a quantity of books Angila read just about thistime; but Hazlewood was always sending her something, which she seemedto take peculiar pleasure in surprising him by having finished beforethey met again. And her bright eyes grew brighter, and occasionally, and that not unfrequently, they had an abstracted, dreamy look, as ifher thoughts were far away, occupied in very pleasant visions--whetherthey were now of Ossian-heroes, dark-eyed and dim, we doubt. 

She was rather unpleasantly roused to a waking state, however, by apassage in one of Augusta Lenox's last letters, which was, "What has become of your 'favorite aversion, ' Robert Hazlewood? Whenare he and Mary Morton to be married? I give her joy of him--as yousay, how can she?"

Angila colored scarlet with indignation as she read this, almostwondering at first what Augusta meant. 

She did not answer the letter; some consciousness, mixed with a gooddeal of vexation, prevented her. 

Hazlewood's attentions to Angila began to be talked of a good deal. Her mother was congratulated, and she was complimented, for every bodyspoke well of him. "A remarkably clever young man with excellentprospects, " the old people said. The young girls talked of himprobably pretty much as Angila and Augusta had done--but she did nothear that, and the young men said, "Hazlewood was a devilish clever fellow, and that Angila Mervale woulddo very well if she could get him. "

That the gentleman was desperately in love there was no doubt; and asfor the young lady--that she was flattered and pleased and interested, was hardly less clear. Her bright eyes grew softer and more dreamyevery day. 

Of what was she dreaming? What could her visions be now? Can she byany possibility make a hero of Robert Hazlewood? Sober common sensewould say "No!" but bright-eyed, youthful imagination may boldlyanswer, "Why not?" Time, however, can only decide that point. 

Two more letters came from Augusta Lenox about this time, and remainedunanswered. "Wait till I am engaged, " Angila had unconsciously said toherself, and then blushed the deepest blush, as she caught the wordsthat had risen to her lips. 

She did not wait long, however. Bright, beaming, blushing and tearful, she soon announced the intelligence to her mother, asking her consent, and permission to refer Mr. Hazlewood to her father. 

The Mervales were very well pleased with the match, which, in fact, was an excellent one, young Hazlewood being in every respect Angila'ssuperior, except in appearance, where she, as is the woman's right, bore the palm of beauty. Not but that she was quick, intelligent, andwell cultivated; but there are more such girls by hundreds in ourcommunity, than there are men of talent, reading, industry and worthto merit them; and Angila was amazingly happy to have been one of thefortunate few to whose lot such a man falls. 

And now, indeed, she wrote a long, long letter to Augusta--so full ofhappiness, describing Hazlewood, as she thought, so distinctly, thatAugusta must recognize him at once--so she concluded by saying, "And now I need not name him, as you must know who I mean. "

"I must know who she means!" said Augusta, much perplexed. "Why I amsure I cannot imagine who she means! Talented, agreeable, withcultivated tastes! Who can it be? 'Not handsome, but verygentlemanlike-looking. ' Well, I have no idea who it is--I certainlycannot know the man. But as we sail next week, I shall be at home intime for the wedding. How odd that I should be really her bridemaid inMay after all!"

Miss Lenox arrived about two months after Angila's engagement had beenannounced, and found her friend brilliant with happiness. After thefirst exclamations and greetings, Augusta said with impatientcuriosity, "But who is it, Angila--you never told me?"

"But surely you guessed at once, " said Angila, incredulously. 

"No, indeed, " replied her friend, earnestly, "I have not the mostdistant idea. "

"Why, Robert Hazlewood, to be sure!"

"Robert Hazlewood! Oh, Angila! You are jesting, " exclaimed her friend, thrown quite off her guard by astonishment. 

"Yes, indeed!" replied Angila, with eager delight, attributingAugusta's surprise and incredulous tones to quite another source. "Youmay well be surprised, Augusta. Is it not strange that such a man--oneof his superior talents--should have fallen in love with such amad-cap as me. "

Augusta could hardly believe her ears. But the truth was, that Angilahad so long since forgotten her prejudice, founded on nothing, againstHazlewood, that she was not conscious now that she had everentertained any such feelings. She was not obliged, in common phrase, to "eat her own words, " for she quite forgot that she had ever utteredthem. And now, with the utmost enthusiasm, she entered into all herplans and prospects--told Augusta, with the greatest interest, as ifshe thought the theme must be equally delightful to her friend--allher mother's long story about the old Hazlewoods, and what a "charmingnice family they were, " ("those pattern people that she hated so, " asAugusta remembered, but all of which was buried in the happiestoblivion with Angila, ) and the dear little house that was beingfurnished like a bijou next to Mrs. Constant's, (next to Mrs. Constant's!--one of those small houses with low ceilings! Augustagasped;) and how many servants she was going to keep; and what a niceyoung girl she had engaged already as waiter. 

"You mean, then, to have a woman waiter?" Augusta could not helpsaying. 

"Oh, to be sure!" said Angila. "What should I do with a man in such apretty little establishment as I mean to have. And then you know wemust be economical--Mr. Hazlewood is a young lawyer, and I don't meanto let him slave himself to make the two ends meet. You'll see what anice economical little housekeeper I'll be. "

And, in short, Augusta found that the same bright, warm imaginationthat had made Angila once dream of Ossian-heroes, now endowed RobertHazlewood with every charm she wanted, and even threw a romantic glowover a small house, low ceilings, small economies, and all but turnedthe woman-servant into a man. Cinderella's godmother could hardly havedone more. Such is the power of love!

"Well, " said Augusta, in talking it all over with her brother, "Icannot comprehend it yet; Angila, who used to be so fastidious, socritical, who expected so much in the man she was to marry!"

"She is not the first young lady who has come down from her pedestal, "replied her brother, laughing. 

"No, but she has not, " returned Augusta, "that's the oddest part ofthe whole--she has only contrived somehow to raise Hazlewood on apedestal, too. You'd think they were the only couple in the worldgoing to be married. She's actually in love with him, desperately inlove with him; and it was only just before I went to New Orleans thatshe said--"

"My dear, " interrupted her mother, "there's no subject on which womenchange their minds oftener than on this. Love works wonders--indeed, the only miracles left in the world are of his creation. "

"But she used to wonder at Mary Morton's liking him, mamma. "

"Ah, my dear, " replied her mother, "that was when he was attentive toMary Morton and not her. It makes a wonderful difference when thething becomes personal. And if you really love Angila, my dear, youwill forget, or at least not repeat, what she said six months beforemarriage. "

A NEW ENGLAND LEGEND

BY CAROLINE F. ORNE. 

[The subject of the following ballad may be found in the "ChristusSuper Aquas" of Mather's Magnalia. ]

 "God's blessing on the bonny barque!" the gallant seamen cried, As with her snowy sails outspread she cleft the yielding tide-- "God's blessing on the bonny barque!" cried the landsmen from the shore, As with a swallow's rapid flight she skimmed the waters o'er. Oh never from the good old Bay, a fairer ship did sail, Or in more trim and brave array did court the favoring gale. Cheerily sung the marinere as he climbed the high, high mast, The mast that was made of the Norway pine, that scorned the mountain-blast. But brave Mark Edward dashed a tear in secret from his eye, As he saw green Trimount dimmer grow against the distant sky, And fast before the gathering breeze his noble vessel fly. Oh, youth will cherish many a hope, and many a fond desire, And nurse in secret in the heart the hidden altar-fire! And though young Mark Edward trode his deck with footstep light and free, Yet a shadow was on his manly brow as his good ship swept the sea; A shadow was on his manly brow as he marked the fading shore, And the faint line of the far green hills where dwelt his loved Lenore. Merrily sailed the bonny barque toward her destined port, And the white waves curled around her prow as if in wanton sport. Merrily sailed the bonny barque till seven days came and past, When her snowy canvas shivered and rent before the northern blast, And out of her course, and away, away, careered she wild and fast. Black lowered the heavens, loud howled the winds, as the gallant barque drove on, "God save her from the stormy seas, " prayed the sailors every one, But hither and thither the mad winds bore her, careening wildly on. Oh, a fearful thing is the mighty wind as it raves the land along, And the forests rock beneath the shock of the fierce blasts and the strong, But when the wild and angry waves come rushing on their prey, And to and fro the good ship reels with the wind's savage play, Oh! then it is more fearful far in that frail barque to be, At the mercy of the wind and wave, alone upon the sea. Mark Edward's eye grew stern and calm as day by day went on, And farther from the destined port the gallant barque was borne. From her tall masts the sails were rent, yet fast and far she flew, But whither she drove there knew not one among her gallant crew, Nor the captain, nor the marineres, not one among them knew. Now there had come and past away full many weary days, And each looked in each other's face with sad and blank amaze, For ghastly Famine's bony hand was stretched to clutch his prey, And still the adverse winds blew on as they would blow alway. And dark and fearful whispered words from man to man went past, As of some dread and fatal deed which they must do at last. And night and morn and noon they prayed, oh blessed voice of prayer! That God would bring their trembling souls out of this great despair. And every straining eye was bent out o'er the ocean-wave, But they saw no sail, there came no ship the storm-tost barque to save. The fatal die was cast at length; and tears filled every eye As forth a gentle stripling slept and gave himself to die. They looked upon his pure white brow, and his face so fair to see, And all with one accord cried out, "Oh, God! this must not be!" And brave Mark Edward calmly said, "Let the lot fall on me. " "Not so, " the generous youth exclaimed, "of little worth am I, But 'twould strike the life from out us all were it thy lot to die. " "Let us once more entreat the Lord; he yet our souls may spare, " And kneeling down the gray-haired man sent up a fervent prayer. Oh mighty is the voice of prayer! to him that asks is given, And as to Israel of old was manna sent from heaven, So now their prayer was answered, for, leaping from the sea, A mighty fish fell in their midst, where they astonished be. "Now glory to the Father be, and to the Son be praise! Upon the deep He walketh, in the ocean are His ways, 'Tis meet that we should worship Him who doeth right always. " And then from all that noble crew a hymn of joy arose-- It flowed from grateful hearts as free as running water flows. 

 Day after day still passed away, gaunt Famine pressed again, Each turned away from each, as if smit with a sudden pain. They feared to meet each other's eyes and read the secret there, And each his pangs in silence strove a little yet to bear. The eye grew dim with looking out upon the weary main, Wave rolling after wave was all that answered back again. But night and morn and noon they prayed--oh blessed voice of prayer! That God would bring their trembling souls out of this great despair. Again the fatal die was cast; a man of powerful frame Slowly and with reluctant step to the dread summons came. Large drops of anguish on his brow--his lips were white with fear-- Oh 'tis a dreadful death to die! Is there no succor near? They looked around on every side, but saw no sight of cheer. "It is not for myself I dread, " the sailor murmured low, "But for my wife and little babes, oh what a tale of wo!" "It shall not be, " Mark Edward cried, "for their dear sakes go free. I have no wife to mourn my fate, let the lot fall on me. " "Not so, oh generous and brave!" the sailor grateful said, "The lot is mine, but cheer thou her and them when I am dead. " And turning with a calmer front he bade the waiting crew What not themselves but fate compelled, to haste and quickly do. But who shall do the dismal work? The innocent life who take? One after one each shrunk away, but no word any spake. Still hunger pressed them sore, and pangs too dreadful to be borne. "Be merciful, oh Father, hear! To thee again we turn. " Then in their agony they strove, and wrestled long in prayer, Till suddenly they heard a sound come from the upper air, A sound of rushing wings, and lo! oh sight of joy! on high A great bird circles round the masts, and ever draws more nigh. In lightning play of hope and fear one breathless moment passed, The next, the bird has lighted down and settled on the mast. And soon within his grasp secure a seaman holds him fast. "Now glory be unto our God--and to His name be praise! Upon the deep he walketh, in the ocean are his ways, From ghastly fear our suppliant souls he royally hath freed, And sent us succor from the air in this our sorest need. "

 But day by day still passed away, and Famine fiercer pressed, And still the adverse winds blew on and knew no change or rest. Yet strove they in their agony to let no murmuring word Against the good and gracious Lord, from out their lips be heard. But with their wildly gleaming eyes they gazed out o'er the main. Wave rolling after wave was all that answered back again. On the horizon's distant verge not even a speck was seen, But the cresting foam of breaking waves still shimmering between. And fiercer yet, as hour by hour went slowly creeping by, The famine wrung their tortured frames till it were bliss to die. And hopes of further aid grew faint, and it did seem that they Out on the waste of waters wide of Heaven forgotten lay. But night and morn and noon they prayed--oh blessed voice of prayer! That God would save their trembling souls out of this great despair. Again the fatal die was cast, and 'mid a general gloom, Mark Edward calmly forward came to meet the appointed doom. But when they saw his noble port, and his manly bearing brave, Each would have given up his life that bold young heart to save. They would have wept, but their hot eyes refused the grateful tear, Yet with sorrowful and suppliant looks they drew themselves more near. Mark Edward turned aside and spoke in accents calm and low, Unto a man with silver hair, whose look was full of wo, And bade him if the Lord should spare, and they should reach the shore, To bear a message from his lips to his beloved Lenore. "Tell her my thoughts were God's and hers, " the brave young spirit cried, "Tell her not how it came to pass, say only that I died. " Then with a brief and earnest prayer his soul to God he gave, Beseeching that the sacrifice the lives of all might save. Each looked on each, but not a hand would strike the fatal blow, It was a death pang but to think what hand should lay him low. And sick at heart they turned away their misery to bear, And wrestled once again with God in agony of prayer. As drops of blood wrung from the heart fell each imploring word, Oh, God of Heaven! and can it be such prayer is still unheard? They strained once more each aching orb out o'er the gloomy main, Wave rolling after wave was all that answered back again. They waited yet--they lingered yet--they searched the horizon round, No sight of land, no blessed sail, no living thing was found. They lingered yet--hope faded fast from out the hearts of all. They waited yet--till black Despair sunk o'er them like a pall. They turned to where Mark Edward stood with his unblenching brow, Or he must die their lives to save, or all must perish now. They lingered yet--they waited yet--a sudden shriek rung out-- "A sail! A sail! Oh, blessed Lord!" burst forth one joyful shout. New strength those famished men received; fervent their thanks, but brief-- They man their boat, they reach the ship, they ask a swift relief. Strange faces meet their view, they hear strange words in tongues unknown, And evil eyes with threatening gaze are sternly looking down. They pause--for a new terror bids their hearts' warm current freeze, For they have met a pirate ship, the scourge of all the seas. But up and out Mark Edward spake, and in the pirates' tongue, And when the pirate captain heard, quick to his side he sprung, And vowed by all the saints of France--the living and the dead-- There should not even a hair be harmed upon a single head, For once, when in a dismal strait, Mark Edward gave him aid, And now the debt long treasured up should amply be repaid. He gave them water from his casks, and bread, and all things store, And showed them how to lay their course to reach the destined shore. And the blessing of those famished men went with him evermore. 

 Again the favoring gale arose, the barque went bounding on, And speedily her destined port was now in safety won. And after, when green Trimount's hills greet their expectant eyes, New thanks to Heaven, new hymns of joy unto the Lord arise. For glory be unto our Lord, and to His name be praise! Upon the deep he walketh, in the ocean are his ways. 'Tis meet that we should worship him who doeth right always. 

SONG OF SLEEP. 

BY G. G. FOSTER. 

 Oh the dreamy world of sleep for me, With its visions pure and bright, -- Its fairy throngs in revelry, Under the pale moonlight! Sleep, sleep, I wait for thy spell, For my eyes are heavy with watching well For the starry night, and the world of dreams That ever in sleep on my spirit beams. 

 The day, the day, I cannot 'bide, 'Tis dull and dusty and drear-- And, owl-like, away from the sun I hide, That in dreams I may wander freer. Sleep, sleep, come to my eyes-- Welcome as blue to the midnight skies-- Faithful as dew to drooping flowers-- I only live in thy dreamy bowers. 

 The sun is purpling down the west, Day's death-robes glitter fair, And weary men, agasp for rest, For the solemn night prepare. Sleep, sleep, hasten to me! The shadows lengthen across the lea; The birds are weary, and so am I; Tired world and dying day good-bye!

THE CRUISE OF THE RAKER. 

A TALE OF THE WAR OF 1812-15. 

BY HENRY A. CLARK. 

(_Continued from page_ 74. )

CHAPTER III. 

_The Chase and the Capture. _

On the deck of the pirate craft stood a young man of powerful frame, and singularly savage features, rendered more repulsive by thedisposition of the hair which was allowed to grow almost over theentire mouth, and hung from the chin in heavy masses nearly to thewaist. With his elbow resting against the fore-mast of the vessel, hewas gazing through a spy-glass upon the brig he had been so longpursuing. A burly negro stood at the helm, holding the tiller, andsteering the brig with an ease which denoted his vast strength, scarcely moving his body, but meeting the long waves, which washedover the side of the vessel, and rushed in torrents through thehawse-holes, merely by the power of his arm. 

"Keep her more in the wind, " shouted the commander, with an oath, tothe helmsman. 

"Ay, ay sir, " responded the negro gruffly. 

"Don't let me hear a sail flap again or I'll score your back for you, you son of a sea-cook. "

With this pleasant admonition the young man resumed his night-glass. 

The captain of the pirate brig was an Englishman by birth; his historywas little known even to his own crew, but it was remarkable thatthough always savage and blood-thirsty, he was peculiarly so to hisown countrymen, evincing a hatred and malignancy toward every thingconnected with his native land, that seemed more than fiendish--neversmiling but when his sword was red with the blood of his countrymen, and his foot planted upon her conquered banner. It was evident thatsome deep wrong had driven him forth to become an outcast and a fiend. A close inspection of his features developed the outlines of a noblecountenance yet remaining, though marred and deformed by years ofpassion and of crime. His crew, which numbered nearly fifty, weregathered from almost every nation of the civilized world, yet were allcompletely under his command. They were now scattered over the vesselin various lounging attitudes, apparently careless of every thingbeyond the ease of the passing moment, leaving the management of thebrig to the two or three hands necessary to control the graceful andobedient craft. 

For long hours the captain of the pirate brig stood following themotions of the flying merchantman; he thought not of sleep or ofrefreshment, it was enough for him that he was in pursuit of anEnglish vessel, that his revenge was again to be gratified withEnglish blood. 

He was roused by a light touch of the arm--he turned impatiently. 

"Why, Florette. "

A beautiful girl stood beside him, gazing into his face half with fearand half with love. Her dress was partly that of a girl and partly ofa boy; over a pair of white loose sailor's trowsers a short gown wasthrown, fastened with a blue zone, and her long hair fell in thick, luxuriant masses from beneath a gracefully shaped little strawhat--altogether she was as lovely in feature and form as Venusherself, with an eye blue as the ocean, and a voice soft and sweet asthe southern breeze. 

"Dear William, will you not go below and take some rest?"

"I want none, girl; I shall not sleep till every man on yonder vesselhas gone to rest in the caves of ocean. "

"But you will eat?"

"Pshaw! Florette, leave me; your place is below. "

The girl said no more, but slowly glided to the companion-way anddisappeared into the little cabin. 

The long night at length wore away, and as the clear light of morningshone upon the waters the merchant vessel was no longer visible fromthe deck of the pirate. 

"A thousand devils! has he escaped me. Ho! the one of you with thesharpest eyes up to the mast-head. Stay, I will go myself. "

Thus speaking, the captain mounted the main-mast and gazed long andanxiously; he could see nothing of the vessel. He mounted stillhigher, climbing the slender top-mast till with his hand resting uponthe main-truck he once more looked over the horizon. Thus far his gazehad been directed to windward, in the course where the vanished brighad last been seen. At length he turned to leeward, and far in thedistant horizon his eagle eye caught faint sight of a sail, like thewhite and glancing wing of a bird. With wonderful rapidity he slid tothe deck, and gave orders to set the brig before the wind. Thebeautiful little bark fell off gracefully, and in a moment was swiftlyretracing the waters it had beaten over during the night. 

"The revenge will be no less sweet that it is deferred, " exclaimed thepirate captain, as he threw himself upon the companion-way. "ThirtyEnglish vessels have I sunk in the deep, and I am not yetsatisfied--no, no, curses on her name, curses on her laws, they havedriven me forth from a lordly heritage and an ancient name to die anoutcast and a pirate. "

Pulling his hat over his dark brow, he sat long in deep thought, andnot one in all his savage crew but would have preferred to board avessel of twice their size than to rouse his commander from histhoughtful mood. 

Captain Horton for some hours after it had become dark the precedingnight, had kept his vessel on the same course, perplexing his mindwith some scheme by which he might deceive the pirate. At length hegave orders to lower away the yawl boat, and fit a mast to it, whichwas speedily done. When all was ready, he hung a lantern to the mast, with a light that would burn but a short time, and then putting outhis own ship-light, he fastened the tiller of the yawl and set itadrift, knowing that it would keep its course until some sudden gustof wind should overcome its steerage way. As soon as he hadaccomplished this, he fell off before the wind, and setting his brigon the opposite tack, as soon as he had got to a good distance fromthe light of the yawl, took in all sail till not a rag was leftstanding. He kept his brig in this position until he had thesatisfaction of seeing the pirate brig pass to windward in pursuit ofhis boat, whose light he knew would go out before the pirate couldovertake it. When the light of the chase had become faint in thedistance, he immediately crowded on all sail, and stood off boldly onhis original course. 

None of his crew had gone below to turn in, for all were too anxiousto sleep, and his passengers still stood beside him upon thequarter-deck; John with a large bundle under his arm, which, in answerto an inquiry from the merchant, he said was merely a change of dress. 

"I think we have given them the slip this time, Mr. Williams, " saidCaptain Horton. 

"I hope so, captain. "

"You can sleep now without danger of being disturbed by unwelcomevisiters, Miss Julia. "

"Well, captain, I am as glad as my father you have escaped. I wish wehad got near enough to see how they looked though. "

"We ought rather, my dear girl, to thank God that they came no nearerthan they did, " said her father half reproachfully. 

"True, father, true, " and bidding Captain Horton good-night, theyretired to the cabin. 

"You did fool them nice, didn't you, captin?" said John. 

"Yes, John, it was tolerably well done, I think myself, " replied thecaptain, who, like all of mankind, was more or less vain, and pridedhimself peculiarly upon his skill in his own avocation. 

"I shouldn't ha' been much afraid on 'em myself if they had caughtus, " said John. 

"You wouldn't, ah!"

"No! I should ha' hated to see all the crew walk on the plank as theycall it, specially Dick Halyard, but I thinks I should ha' come itover 'em myself. "

"Well, John, I hope you'll never have such occasion to try your powersof deceit, for I fear you would find yourself wofully mistaken. "

"Perhaps not, captin, but I'm confounded sleepy, now we've got awayfrom the bloody pirates, so I'll just lie down here, captin; I haintlearned to sleep in a hammock yet. I wish you'd let me have a berth, captin, I hate lying in a circle, it cramps a fellow plaguily. "

John talked himself to sleep upon the companion-way, where thegood-natured master of the brig allowed him to remain unmolested, andsoon after yielding the helm to one of the mates, himself "turned in. "

As the morning broke over the sea clear and cloudless, while not asail was visible in any quarter of the horizon, the revulsion offeeling occasioned by the transition from despair to confidence, andindeed entire assurance of safety, was plainly depicted in the joyouscountenances of all on the Betsy Allen. The worthy captain made noendeavor to check the boisterous merriment of his crew, but lightinghis pipe, seated himself upon the companion-way, with a complacentsmile expanding his sun-browned features, which developed itself intoa self-satisfied and happy laugh as Mr. Williams appeared at thecabin-door, leading up his daughter to enjoy the pure morning air, fresh from the clear sky and the bounding waters. 

"Ha! ha! Mr. Williams, told you so, not a sail in sight, and a finebreeze. "

"Our thanks are due to you, Captain Horton, for the skillful manner inwhich you eluded the pirate ship. "

"Oh! I was as glad to get out of sight of the rascal as you could havebeen, my dear sir, I assure you; now that we are clear of him, I ain'tafraid to tell Miss Julia that if he had overhauled us we should haveall gone to Davy Jones' locker, and the Betsy Allen would by this timehave been burnt to the water's edge. "

"I was not ignorant of the danger at any time, Captain Horton. "

"Well, you are a brave girl, and deserve to be a sailor's wife, butI'm married myself. "

"That is unfortunate, captain, " said Julia, with a merry laugh, somusical in its intonations that the rough sailors who heard its sweetcadence could not resist the contagion, and a bright smile lit up eachweather-beaten countenance within the sound of the merry music. 

"Well, I think so myself, though I wouldn't like Mrs. Horton to hearme say it, or I should have a rougher breeze to encounter than I evermet round Cape Horn--ha! ha! ha! You must excuse me, Miss Julia, but Ifeel in fine spirits this morning, not a sail in sight. "

"Sail ho!" shouted the look-out from the main cross-trees. 

"Ah!--where away?"

"Right astern. "

"Can it be that they have got in our wake again. I'll mount to themast-head and see myself. "

Seizing the glass the captain ascended to the cross-trees, where heremained for a long time, watching the distant sail. At length hereturned to the deck. 

"They've got our bearings again somehow, confound the cunning rascals;and, by the way they are overhauling us, I judge they can beat us aswell afore the wind as on a tack. "

"Well, Captain Horton, we must be resigned to our fate then. Itmatters not so much for me, but it is hard, my daughter, that youshould be torn from your peaceful home in England to fall a prey tothese fiends. "

"They are a long way from us yet, father; let us hope something mayhappen for our relief, and not give up till we are taken. "

"That's the right feeling, Miss Julia, " said the captain. "I will doall I can to prolong the chase, and we will trust in God for theresult. "

Every device which skillful seamanship could practice was put inimmediate operation to increase the speed of the brig. There was but asolitary hope remaining, that they might fall in with some nationalvessel able to protect them from the pirate. The sails were frequentlywet, the halyards drawn taut, and the captain himself took the helm. When all this was done, each sailor stood gazing upon the pirate as ifto calculate the speed of his approach by the lifting of his sailsabove the water. The greater part of his top-sails were already insight, and soon the heads of her courses appeared above the wave, seeming to sweep up like the long, white wings of a lazy bird, whoseflight clung to the breast of the sea, as if seeking a resting-place. 

By the middle of the day the pirate was within three miles of themerchantman, and had already opened upon her with his long gun. Captain Horton pressed onward without noticing the balls, which as yethad not injured hull or sail. But as the chase approached nearer andnearer, the shots began to take effect--a heavy ball made a huge rentin the mizzen-topsail--another dashed in the galley, and a third toreup the companion-way, and still another cut down the fore-topmast, andmaterially decreased the speed of the vessel. 

Noticing this the pirate ceased his fire, and soon drew up within hailof the merchantman. 

"Ship ahoy--what ship?"

"The Betsy Allen, London. "

"Lay-by till I send a boat aboard. "

Captain Horton gave orders to his crew to wait the word of commandbefore they altered the vessel's course, and then seizing the trumpet, hailed the pirate. 

"What ship's that?"

"The brig Death--don't you see the flag?"

"I know the character of your ship, doubtless. "

"Well, lay-by, or we'll bring you to with a broadside. "

Perceiving the inutility of further effort, Captain Horton brought-to, and hauled down his flag. 

In a short time the jolly-boat of the pirate was lowered from thestern, and the commander jumped in, followed by a dozen of his crew. 

The vigorous arms of the oarsmen soon brought the boat to themerchantman, and the pirate stood upon the deck of the capturedvessel. 

"Well, sir, you have given us some trouble to overhaul you, " said he, in a manner rather gentlemanly than savage. 

"We should have been fools if we had not tried our best to escape. "

"True, true--will you inform me how you eluded our pursuit last night. I ask merely from motives of curiosity?"

Captain Horton briefly related the deception of the boat. 

"Ah! ha! very well done. Here Diego, " said he to one of the sailorswho had followed him, "go below and bring up the passengers. "

The swarthy rascal disappeared with a malignant grin through thecabin-door, and speedily escorted Mr. Williams to the deck, followedby Julia, and, to the surprise of Captain Horton and his crew, anotherfemale. 

"Now, captain, " said the pirate, with a fiendish smile, "I shallproceed to convey your merchandize to my brig, including these twoladies, though, by my faith, we shall have little use for one of them. After which I will leave you in quiet. "

"I could expect no better terms, " said Captain Horton, resignedly. 

"O, you will soon be relieved from my presence. "

Julia clung to her father, but was torn from his grasp, and the goodold man was pushed back by the laughing fiends, as he attempted tofollow her to the boat. The father and daughter parted with a look ofstrong anguish, relieved in the countenance of Julia by a deepexpression of firmness and resolution. 

John was also seized by the pirates, but he had overheard the words oftheir captain that they would soon be left in quiet, and had alreadycommenced throwing off his woman's dress. 

"Hillo! is the old girl going to strip? Bear a hand here, Mike, "shouted Diego, to one of his comrades, "just make fast thosetow-lines, and haul up her rigging. "

Mr. Williams, who immediately conceived the possible advantage itmight be to Julia to have even so inefficient a protector with her asJohn, addressed him in a stern tone. 

"What, will you desert your mistress?"

John stood in doubt, but he was a kind-hearted fellow, and loved Juliabetter than he did any thing else in the world except himself; andwithout further resistance or explanation, allowed himself to beconveyed to the boat, though the big tears rolled down his cheeks, andnothing even then would have prevented his avowing his original sex, but a strong feeling of shame at the thought of leaving Julia. 

For hours the pirate's jolly-boat passed backward and forward betweenthe two brigs; the sea had become too rough to allow the vessels to befastened together without injury to the light frame of the piratebark; and night had already set in before all the cargo which thepirates desired had been removed from the merchantman; but it was atlength accomplished, and once more the pirates stood upon the deck oftheir own brig. 

In a few words their captain explained his plan of destruction to hiscrew, which was willingly assented to, as it was sufficiently crueland vindictive. Three loud cheers burst from their lips, startling thecrew of the Betsey Allen with its wild cadence, and in another momentthe pirate-captain leaped into his boat, and followed by a number ofhis crew, returned to the merchantman. 

Still preserving his suavity of manner, he addressed Captain Horton ashe stepped upon the deck, after first ordering the crew to the bows, and drawing up his own men with pointed muskets before thecompanion-way. 

"Captain Horton, as you are, perhaps, aware it is our policy to actupon the old saying that 'dead men tell no tales, ' and afterconsultation among ourselves, we have concluded to set your vessel onfire, and then depart in peace, leaving you to the quiet I promisedyou. "

"Blood-thirsty villain!" shouted the captain of the merchantman, andsuddenly drawing a pistol, he discharged it full at the pirate'sbreast. The latter was badly wounded, but falling back against themain-mast, was able to order his men to pursue their original designbefore he fell fainting in the arms of one of his men, who immediatelyconveyed him to the boat. 

The savages proceeded then to fire the vessel in several differentplaces, meeting with no resistance from the crew, as a dozen musketspointed at their heads admonished them that immediate death would bethe consequence. 

As soon as the subtle element had so far progressed in its work ofdestruction that the hand of man could not stay it, the pirates jumpedinto their boat, and with a fiendish yell, pulled off for their ownvessel. 

For a very short time the crew of the merchantman stood watching theflame and smoke which was fast encircling them, then rousing theirnative energies, and perceiving the utter impossibility of conqueringthe fire, they turned their attention to the only resource left--theconstruction of some sort of a raft that would sustain their unitedweight. 

The progress of the flames, however, was so rapid, that though a scoreof busy hands were employed with axes and hatchets, the most thatcould be done was to hurl overboard a few spars and boards, cut awaythe bowsprit and part of the bulwarks, before the exceeding heatcompelled them to leave the brig. 

Mr. Williams, who had remained in a state of stupor since the loss ofhis daughter, was borne to the ship's side, and hurriedly fastened toa spar; and then all the crew boldly sprung into the water, andpushing the fragments of boards and spars from the burning brig, assoon as they attained a safe distance, commenced the construction oftheir raft in the water. This was an exceedingly difficultundertaking; but they were working with the energies of despair, andboard after board was made fast by means of the rope they had thrownover with themselves; and in the light of their burning vessel theymanaged at length to build a raft sufficiently strong to bear theirweight. 

Then seating themselves upon it, they almost gave way to despair; theyhad lost the excitement of occupation, and now, in moody silence, watched the mounting flames. They were without food, and the sea ranhigh; their condition did, indeed, seem hopeless--and their onlyrefuge, death. 

CHAPTER IV. 

_The Escape. _

The fire had made swift work during the time the unfortunate crew wereoccupied in building the raft, and the little brig was now almostenveloped in smoke and flame. A burst of fire from her main hatchwaythrew a red glare over the turbulent waters, and showed the vessel'smasts and rigging brightly displayed against the dark sky above andbeyond them. The main-sail by this time caught fire, and was blazingaway along the yard fiercely; and the flame soon reached the loftiersails and running rigging; the fire below was raging between decks, and rising in successive bursts of flame from the hatchways. Thevessel had been filled with combustible material, and the doomed brig, in a short space of time, was one mass of flame. 

To a spectator beholding the sight in safety, it would have been amagnificent spectacle--the grandest, the most terrific, perhaps, it ispossible to conceive--a ship on fire at night in the mid-ocean. Thehull of the vessel lay flaming like an immense furnace on the surfaceof the deep; her masts, and the lower and topsail-yards, withfragments of the rigging hanging round them, sparkling, and scatteringthe fire-flakes, rose high above it, while huge volumes of smoke everand anon obscured the whole, then borne away by the strong breeze, left the burning brig doubly distinct, placed in strong relief againstthe dark vault of heaven behind. The lofty spars, as their fasteningswere burnt through, fell, one by one, into the hissing water, and atlength the tall masts, no longer supported by the rigging, and nearlyburnt into below the deck, fell over, one after the other, into thedeep. 

Suddenly Captain Horton started to his feet, "It is, it is a sail--look, do you now see it coming up in the lightof the brig?"

"It is so, captain, " responded his men one after the other. 

"Thank God we shall yet be saved! If the pirate had scuttled the shipwe should have had no chance; but his cruel course has saved us, forthe flame has attracted some vessel to our succor. "

"Perhaps the pirate returning, " remarked Mr. Williams. 

"No, that kept on before the wind, and this is coming up. God grant itbe an English vessel, and a swift one, and we may yet save yourdaughter!"

This remark struck a chord of hope in the heart of Mr. Williams, androused him to his native manliness. 

"But, " said he, "our own vessel has drifted far from us, and we shallnot be seen by this one. "

"I think they will come within hail; they will at least sail round theburning vessel, in the hopes of picking up somebody. Come, my men, let's make some kind of sail of our jackets, a half a mile nearer theship may save us all our lives. "

With a cheer as merry as ever broke from their lips when on boardship, the reanimated sailors went to work, and soon reared a smallsail made of their clothing, which caught enough wind to move themslowly onward. 

"Steer in the wake of our own vessel, my men, and the strange sailwill come right on to us--get between them. "

"Ay, ay, sir!"

As the approaching vessel drew nearer, the crew of the Betsy Allensent up a cheer from their united voices which, to their great joy, was answered from the strange sail. 

"Ahoy, where away?"

"Three points on your weather bow--starboard your helm, and you'll beon us. "

"Ay, ay. "

In a very short time the shipwrecked crew stood on the deck of theprivateer Raker, which, attracted by the light of their burning brig, had varied somewhat from its course, to render assistance if any wereneeded. Captain Greene and his men soon became acquainted with thehistory of the crew of the lost brig, and every attention was shown tothem. 

Captain Horton gave them a brief account of the pirate's assault, andthe abduction of Julia. 

"O Captain Greene, save my child, if possible. She is my only one, "exclaimed Mr. Williams. 

"Which way did she steer, Captain Horton?"

"She went off right before the wind, sir, and is not three hours aheadof us. "

"Mr. Williams I will immediately give chase, and God grant that I mayovertake the scoundrels. "

"A father's thanks shall be yours, sir. "

"Never mind that--you had all better turn in; I will steer the samecourse with the pirate till morning, sir; and if he is then in sight, I think he is ours--for there are few things afloat that can outsailthe Raker. "

The crew of the Betsy Allen, whose anxiety and exertions during thelast few hours had been excessive, gladly accepted the captain'soffer, and were soon snoring in their hammocks. Captain Horton and Mr. Williams remained on the deck of the Raker, the one too anxious forrevenge upon the pirate who had destroyed his brig, to sleep, and theother too much afflicted by the loss of his daughter, and the painfulthoughts which it engendered, to think of any thing but her speedyrecovery. 

The long night at length wore away, and with the first beams of themorning sun the mists rolled heavily upward from the ocean. To thegreat joy of all on board the Raker, the pirate-brig was in sight, though beyond the reach of shot from the privateer. 

Although the captain of the Raker had sufficient confidence in thesuperior speed of his own vessel, yet to avoid the possibility ofbeing deceived, he decided to pretend flight, well assured that thepirate would give chase. He accordingly bore off, as if anxious toavoid speaking him, and displaying every sign of fear, had thesatisfaction of perceiving the pirate change his course, and set allsail in pursuit. 

In order to test the relative speed of the two vessels he did not atfirst slacken his own sail, but put his brig to its swiftest pace. Hehad reason to congratulate himself upon the wisdom of his manoeuvrewhen he perceived that in spite of every exertion the chase gainedupon him, and it was evident that unless he was crippled by a shot, hemight yet escape. 

As the pirate bore down upon his brig, Captain Greene perceived, byaid of his glass, that the number of the crew on board wasconsiderably superior to his own, even with the addition of the crewof the Betsy Allen. In consideration of this fact, he determined tofight her at a distance with his long gun. This he still keptconcealed amidships, under the canvas, desiring to impress fully uponhis opponent the idea of his inferiority. 

Leaving the vessels thus situated, let us visit the pirate again. 

Julia, and John in his disguise, were conveyed to his deck, where theywere speedily separated. Julia was conducted below, where, to hersurprise and joy, she found a companion of her own sex, in the personof Florette. 

The wounded commander of the pirate was also conveyed to his berth, where Florette, with much grief, attended to nurse him. It was in herfirst passionate burst of sorrow that Julia discovered her love forthe pirate, from which circumstance she also derived consolation andrelief; and having already, with the natural firmness of her mind, shaken off the deep despondency which had settled upon it when firsttorn from her father, she began to resolve upon the course of actionshe would pursue, in every probable event which might befall her. 

During the long night the pirate lay groaning and helpless; but suchwas the strength of his will, and the all absorbing nature of hishatred, that when informed on the succeeding morning that a vessel wasin sight, he aroused his physical powers sufficiently to reach thedeck, where, seating himself on the companion-way, he watched thestrange sail with an interest so intense, that he almost forgot hispainful wounds. 

He had hardly taken his position before the captain of the Rakeruncovered and ran out his long gun, and to the surprise of all onboard the pirate, a huge shot, evidently sent from a gun much largerthan they had supposed their antagonist to possess, came crashingthrough their main-sail. 

Too late the pirates perceived the error into which they had fallen;and were aware of the immense advantage which the long gun gave theiropponent, enabling him, in fact, to maintain his own position beyondthe reach of their fire, and at the same time cut every mast and sparon board the pirate-brig to pieces, unless, indeed, the latter mightbe fortunate enough, by superior sailing, to get beyond the reach ofshot without suffering material injury. 

Perceiving this to be his only resource, orders were given on boardthe pirate again to 'bout ship, and instead of pursuing to bethemselves in turn fugitives. But they were not destined to escapewithout injury. Another shot from the Raker bore away theirforetop-sail, and sensibly checked their speed. To remedy thismisfortune, studding-sails were set below and aloft, and for a longtime the chase was continued without the shot from the Raker takingserious effect on the pirate; and, indeed, the latter in aconsiderable degree increased the distance between the two vessels. But while the captain and crew of the Raker were confident ofeventually overtaking their antagonist, the men in the pirate-brig hadalready become convinced that in such a harassing and one-sided modeof warfare, they stood no chance whatever, and demanded of theircaptain that he should make the attempt to close with the Raker andboard. This he sternly refused, and pointed out to his men the follyof such a course, as upon a nearer approach to the privateer, hisrigging and masts must necessarily suffer in such a manner as to placehis brig entirely at the command of the Raker. His men admitted thetruth of his reasoning, but at the same time evinced so muchdissatisfaction at their present vexatious situation, that theircaptain plainly perceived it was necessary to pursue some course ofaction to appease their turbulent spirits. 

With a clouded brow he returned to his cabin with the assistance ofFlorette, who had watched with a woman's love to take advantage ofevery opportunity to aid him. 

Reaching the cabin, his eyes fell upon the form of Julia, eagerlybending from the little window as she watched the pursuing brig, fervently praying that its chase might be successful. 

As she turned her eyes in-doors at the noise made by the entrance ofthe pirate, his keen glance noticed the light of hope which shone inher beautiful eyes, which she strove not and cared not to conceal. 

"My fair captive, " said he, with a sneering smile, "do you see hope ofescape in yonder approaching vessel?"

"My hope is in God, " was the calm reply of the lovely girl. 

"That trust will fail you now, sweet lady. "

"I believe it not; when has He deserted those whose trust was in him?"

"So have you been taught, doubtless, so you may yet believe; but youhave still to learn that if there is such a being, he meddles not withthe common purposes of man. It is his government to punish, notprevent; and man here on earth pursues his own course, be it dark orbright--and God's hand is not interposed to stay the natural andinevitable workings of cause and effect. No, no! here, on this, my owngood ship, _I_ rule; and there is no hand, human or divine, that willinterpose between my determination and the execution of my purpose. "

"Impious man! you may yet learn to fear the power you now despise. "

"Ha! ha! ha!--do I look like a man to be frightened by the words of aweak girl, or by the name of a mysterious being, whose agency I havenever seen in the workings of earthly affairs. "

"I have no mercy to expect from one who has consigned a whole ship'screw, without remorse, to a cruel death. "

"Well, were they not Englishmen? I have not for years, lady, spared anEnglishman in my deep hatred, or an Englishwoman in my lust!"

"Yet are they not your own countrymen?"

"Yes. "

"Unnatural monster!"

The pirate smiled. "I could relate a history of wrong that wouldjustify me even in your eyes. If I have proved a viper to my nativeland, it is because her heel has crushed me--but the tale cannot betold now. If yonder vessel overtake us, and escape become impossible, my own hand will apply the match that shall blow up my brig, and allit contains. Before that time you will be a dishonored woman, to whomdeath were a relief. Nothing but this wound has preserved you thuslong. With this assurance I leave you. "

The pirate returned to the deck, where, notwithstanding the pain ofhis injuries, he continued to take command of the brig. 

He had hardly vanished from the cabin before Florette stood by theside of Julia. 

"Lady, " said she, "I overheard your conversation with the captain ofthis brig, and I pity you most truly. "

"Pity will little avail, " replied Julia. 

"That is true, yet I would aid you if possible. "

"And you--do not you, too, desire to escape from this savage?"

"Alas! lady, I have learned to love him. "

"_Love_ him!"

"I have now been on this brig more than three years. I was taken froma French merchant vessel in which I was proceeding to French Guinea, to live with a relative there, having lost all my immediate kindred inFrance. While crossing the Bay of Biscay, a heavy storm drove us outto sea, and while endeavoring to return in shore, we fell in with thisvessel--all on board were murdered but myself, so I have been told. Iwas borne to this cabin, which has since been my home. I was treatedwith much respect by the captain, and being all alone, I don't knowwhy it was, I forgot all his crimes, and at length became his willingmistress. You turn from me in disgust, and in pity--yet so it is. Andnow, lady, if you are bold enough to risk your life, you may escape. "

"I would gladly give my life to save my honor. "

Florette gazed with a melancholy smile upon her companion; perhapsthoughts of her own former purity came over her mind. 

"It is a bold plan, " said she, "but it is on that account that I ammore confident of success, as all chance of escape will be deemedhopeless. "

"What is your plan?"

"Night is now approaching, and it is probable the pursuing brig willnot gain on us before dark. I have noticed that the ship's boat hangsat the stern, only fastened by the painter. If you have courage enoughto descend to the boat by the painter, I will cut it, and you willthen be directly in the course of the pursuing brig, and will beeasily picked up. "

"But how can I get to the vessel's deck without being seen?"

"I have thought of that; we will wait till dark, when you shall put ona similar dress with mine, and then you can go to any part of thevessel you choose without being suspected. You must watch your time tosteal unobserved behind the man at the helm, and drop yourself intothe boat; I will soon after appear on deck, and if you are successfulin escaping observation, I shall be able then to cut the painterwithout difficulty, as the darkness will conceal my movements. Do youunderstand the plan?"

"I do. "

"And you are not afraid to put it into execution?"

"Oh, no, no! and I thank you for your kind aid. "

"I am not wholly disinterested, lady; you are beautiful, and may stealaway the captain's heart from me. "

Julia shuddered. 

"Be ready, " continued Florette, "and as soon as possible after itbecomes dark we will make the attempt. "

It was as Florette had called it, a bold plan, but not impracticable, as any one acquainted with the position of things will at onceacknowledge. Only one man would be at the tiller, and he might ormight not notice the passing of any other person behind him. Thispassage once accomplished, it would be an easy undertaking to slidedown the strong painter, or rope which made fast the boat to the sternof the brig. It was a plan in which the chances were decidedly infavor of the success of the attempt. 

The Raker had for some time ceased firing, and set studding-sails inhopes of gaining on the pirate; but the most the privateer was able todo, was to still preserve the relative positions of the two vessels. 

The sun sunk beneath the waters, leaving a cloudless sky shedding sucha light from its starry orbs, that if the pirate had hoped to escapeunder cover of the night, he speedily saw the impossibility of such anattempt eluding the watch from the privateer. 

The captain of the pirate still kept his position upon thecompanion-way, with his head bent upon his breast, either buried inthought, or yielding to the weakness of his physical powers, occasioned by the loss of blood from his wound. 

Florette, who was continually passing up and down through thecabin-door, carefully noted the state of things upon the quarter-deck, and perceiving every thing to be as favorable as could be expected, soon had Julia in readiness for her share in the undertaking. 

"But first, " said she, "let me put out the light in the binnacle. "

The girl stood for a moment in deep thought, when her ready witsuggested a way to accomplish this feat, sufficiently simple to avoidsuspicion. Seizing the broad palmetto hat of the pirate, and biddingJulia to be in readiness to profit by the moment of darkness whichwould ensue, she returned to the deck, and approaching the pirate, exclaimed, "William, I have brought you your hat. "

At the moment of presenting it to him, as it passed thebinnacle-light, she gave it a swift motion, which at once extinguishedthe flame. 

"Curses on the girl!" muttered the man at the helm. 

"O, I was careless, Diego; I will bring the lantern in a moment;" andlaying down the hat on the companion-way beside the pirate, who paidno attention to the movements around him, she glided back to thecabin. 

"Here, lady, " said she, "be quick--hand this lantern to the man at thehelm, and then drop silently behind him while he is lighting it. Iwill immediately follow and take your place beside him. You understandme?"

"Yes, clearly. "

"Well, as soon as I begin to speak with him, let yourself down intothe boat by the painter, which I will soon cut apart, and then youwill at least be out of the hands of your enemies. "

Julia took the hand of Florette in her own, and warmly thanked her, but the girl impatiently checked her. 

"Take this pistol with you also. "

"But why?" inquired Julia, with a woman's instinctive dread of suchweapons. 

"O, I don't mean you should shoot any body, but if the boat drifts alittle out of the brig's course, you might not be able to makeyourself heard on her deck. "

"True, true. "

"The night is so still that a pistol-shot would be heard at a gooddistance. "

"O, yes, I see it all now; I was so anxious to escape from thisterrible ship that I thought of nothing else; and there is poor John. "

"You must not think of him--it will be no worse for him if you go, nobetter if you remain. Here, take the lantern--say nothing as you handit to the man at the tiller, but do as I told you. "

Pressing the hand of Florette, Julia mounted to the deck with apainfully beating heart, but with a firm step. She handed the lanternto the steersman, who received it surlily, growling some rough oath, half to himself, at her delay, and leaning upon the tiller, proceededto relight the binnacle-lamp. Julia fell back cautiously, and inanother moment the light form of Florette filled her place. 

"I was very careless, Diego, " said she. 

"Yes, " replied he, gruffly. 

"Well, I will be more careful next time. "

"You'd better. "

Julia, during the short time of this conversation, had disappearedover the stern, and as the vessel was sailing before a steady wind, found little difficulty in sliding down the painter into the yawl. She could hardly suppress an exclamation when a moment afterward shefound the ship rapidly gliding away from her, and leaving her aloneupon the waters in so frail a support. Her situation was, indeed, onethat might well appall any of her sex. To a sailor it would alreadyhave been one of entire safety, but to her it seemed as if everysucceding wave would sink the little boat as it gracefully rose andfell upon their swell; but seating herself by the tiller, she managedto guide its motions, and with a calm reliance upon that God whosesupporting arm she knew to be as much around her, when alone in thewide waste of waters, as when beside her own hearth-stone, in quietand happy England, she patiently awaited the issue of her boldadventure. 

She had but a short time to wait when she perceived the dark outlinesof the Raker bearing directly down upon her. As it approached itseemed as if it would run directly over her boat, and excited by thefear of the moment, and the anxiety to be heard, she gave a loudershriek than she supposed herself capable of uttering, and at the sametime fired off her pistol. 

Both were heard on board the Raker. 

"Man overboard!" shouted the look-out. 

"Woman overboard, you lubber, " said a brother tar; "didn't you hearthat screech?"

"Hard a port!"

"Hard a port 'tis. "

"Right under the lee bow. "

"Well, pitch over a rope whoever it is. What does this mean?" saidLieutenant Morris, as he approached the bows. 

"Can't say, sir--some deviltry of the pirates, I reckon, to make uslose way. "

"By heavens! it is a woman, " cried the lieutenant, "let me throw thatrope, we shall be on the boat in a minute. Hard a port!"

The rope, skillfully thrown by the young lieutenant, struck directlyat the feet of Julia. With much presence of mind she gave it severalturns around one of the oar-locks, and her boat was immediately hauledup to the side of the brig, without compelling the latter to slackensail. 

In another moment she was lifted to the deck of the Raker. 

"Julia! thank Heaven!" exclaimed her father. 

With a cry of joy she fainted in his arms, and was borne below, whereshe speedily recovered, and related the manner of her escape from thepirate. 

All admired the courage of the attempt, and Lieutenant Morris, as hegazed upon the lovely countenance, which returning sensation wasrestoring to all its wonted bloom and beauty, one day of intensesorrow having left but slight traces upon it, he felt emotions towhich he had hitherto been an entire stranger, and sought the deckwith a flushed brow and animated eye, wondering at the vision ofbeauty which had risen, like Cytherea, from the sea. 

[_To be continued. _

THE PRAYER OF THE DYING GIRL. 

BY SAMUEL D. PATTERSON. 

 Oh! take me back again, mother, to that home I love so well, Whose memory rules my fluttering heart with a mysterious spell: I think of it when lying on my weary couch of pain, And I feel that I am dying, mother--Oh! take me home again!

 They tell me that this sunny clime strength to the wasted brings, And the zephyr's balmy breezes come with healing on their wings; But to me the sun's rich glow is naught--the perfumed air is vain-- For I know that I am dying--Oh! then, take me home again!

 I long to find myself once more beside the little stream That courses through our valley green, of which I often dream: I fancy that a cooling draught from that sweet fount I drain-- It stills the fever of my blood--Oh! take me home again!

 And then I lie and ponder, as I feel my life decline, On the happy days that there I spent when health and strength were mine; When I climbed the mountain-side, and roved the valley and the plain, And my bosom never knew a pang of sorrow or of pain. 

 And when the sun was sinking in the far and glowing west, I came and sat me by thy side, or nestled in thy breast, And heard thy gentle words of love, and listened to the strain Of thy sweet favorite evening hymn--Oh! take me home again!

 How bright and joyous was my life! Night brought refreshing rest, And morning's dawn awakened naught but rapture in my breast: Now, sad and languid, weak and faint, I seek, but seek in vain, To lay me down in soft repose--Oh! take me home again!

 The hand of death is laid upon thy child's devoted head-- I feel its damp and chilling touch, so cold, so full of dread-- It palsies every nerve of mine--it freezes every vein-- Oh! take me then, dear mother--Oh! take me home again!

 There, with my wan brow lying on thy fond and faithful breast, Let me calmly wait the summons that calls me to my rest: And when the struggle's o'er, mother--the parting throe of pain-- Thou'lt joy to know thy daughter saw her own loved home again!

A WRITTEN LEAF OF MEMORY. 

BY FANNY LEE. 

Poor Fanny Layton! Oh! how well I remember the last time I ever sawher! 'Twas in the dear old church whither from early childhood myfootsteps were bent. What feelings of holy awe and reverence creptinto my heart as I gazed, with eyes in which saddened tears werewelling, upon the sacred spot! How my thoughts reverted to otherdays--the days of my early youth--that sweet "spring-time" of life, when I trod the blooming pathway before me so fetterless and free, with no overshadowing of coming ill--no anxious, fearful gazing intothe dim future, as in after years, but with the bounding step thatbespeaks the careless joyousness which Time, oh all too soon! brushesfrom the heart with "rude, relentless wing. " How eagerly I wouldstrive to subdue my impatient footsteps then to the calmer pace ofmore thoughtful years, as I gradually drew nearer to the holysanctuary, although mine eyes would oft, despite my utmost endeavors, wander to the eaves of that time-worn, low-browed church, to watch theflight of the twittering host who came forth, I fancied, at myapproach to bid me welcome! How I would cast one "longing, lingeringlook" at the warm, bright sunshine that irradiated even those graywalls, ere I entered the low porch whence it was all excluded by theivy which seemed to delight in entwining its slender leaves around thecrumbling pillars, as if it would fain impart strength and beauty tothe consecrated building in its declining years. 

But a long--long time had passed since then, and I had come to revisitmy village-home, and the memory-endeared haunts of my girlhood, forthe last time, ere journeying to a distant land. The place was littlechanged, and every thing around that well-remembered spot came ladenwith so many sweet and early associations, that the memory of by-gonehours swept thrillingly across my heart-strings, and it was not untilafter I had taken my accustomed seat in the old-fashioned high-backedpew, that I was roused from my busy wanderings in the "shadowy past, "by the voice of our pastor--

 "Years had gone by, and given his honored head A _diadem of snow_--his eye was dim"--

his voice grown weak and tremulous with increasing years, althoughthere was a something in its tone so full of simple-heartedearnestness, that had never failed to find its way to the most gay andthoughtless spirits of his little flock. And now how reverently Igazed upon the silvered locks of him who had been mine own faithfulguide and counselor along the devious pathway of youth--feeling thathis pilgrimage was almost ended--his loving labors well nigh over--andsoon he would go down to the grave

 "Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch Around him and lies down to peaceful dreams. "

I looked around--and it was sad to see how few there were of all thefamiliar faces I had left--and those few--oh, how changed! But therewas one to whom my glance reverted constantly, nor could I account forthe strange fascination which seemed to fix mine eyes upon her. Andyet, as I looked, the spring of memory seemed touched, and suddenlythere appeared before me _two_ faces, which I found it impossible toseparate in my bewildered rememberings--although so very unlike asthey were! The one so bright and joyous, with blue laughter-lovingeyes, in which an unshadowed heart was mirrored--and the other--theone on which my gaze was now fixed so dreamily--wan and faded, although it must once have been singularly beautiful, so delicate andfair were the features, and so pure and spiritual was the white browresting beneath those waving masses of golden hair--a temple meet, methought, for all high and earnest feeling--then, too, there was asweet--yet oh! how sorrow-shaded and subdued--expression flittingaround the small mouth, as though a world-torn and troubled spirit, yet meek and long-suffering, had left its impress there! Hereyes--those large, deep, earnest eyes--how they haunted me with theireager restlessness, wandering to and fro with a perturbed, anxious, asking look, and then upturned with a fixed and pleading gaze, whichmoved one's very heart to see. Her dress was very simple, and yet Icould not help thinking it strangely contrasted with thesorrow-stricken expression of that fair though faded face. 

A wreath of orange-blossoms encircled the small cottage-bonnet, and along white veil half concealed in its ample folds the fragile form, which, if it had lost the roundness of early youth, still retained themost delicate symmetry of outline; upon her breast lay, half hidden, awithered rose, fit emblem, methought, for her who wore it. Oft-timesher pale thin hands were clasped, and once, when our pastor repeatedin his own low, fervent tone--"Come unto me, all ye heavy-laden, and Iwill give you rest"--her lip quivered, and she looked quickly up, with

 "A glance of hurried wildness, fraught With some unfathomable thought. "

My sympathies were all out-gushing for her, and when the full tones ofthe organ peeled forth their parting strain and we went forth from thesanctuary, my busy dreamings of the present and the past all weremerged in one honest desire to know the poor girl's history. I learnedit afterward from the lips of Aunt Nora Meriwether. 

Dear Aunt Nora! If thou _wert_ yclept "spinster, " never did a heartmore filled with good and pure and kindly impulses beat than thine!Indeed, I have ever ascribed my deep reverence for the sisterhood ingeneral to my affectionate remembrances of this childhood's friend. The oracle of our village was Aunt Nora Meriwether--and how could "oldmaid" be a stigma upon her name, when it was by virtue of this verytitle that she was enabled to perform all those little kindly officeswhich her heart was ever prompting, and which made up the sum of hersimple daily existence! It was said that Aunt Nora was "disappointed"in early life--but however this may have been, certain it was that thetales (and they _did_ intimate--did the good people of ourvillage--that if Aunt Nora had a weakness, it consisted inover-fondness for story-telling) she treasured longest, and oftenestrepeated, were those in which the fair heroine was crossed in love. 

Many a time have we, a group of gay and happy-hearted children, gathered round her feet, as she sat in the low doorway of hercottage-home, and listened with intense interest to a tale of heryouthful days, gazing the while with eyes in which the bright drops ofsympathy oft would glisten, upon the kind face bent upon our own insuch loveful earnestness. And we would hope, in child-like innocenceof heart, that _we_ might never "fall in love, " but grow up and be"old maids, " just like our own dear Aunt Nora! Whether we stillcontinued to hope so, after we had grown in years and wisdom, itbehoveth me not to say! I am quite sure you would rather listen to thetale now before thee, dear reader, from the good old lady's ownlips--for it is but a simple sketch at best, and needeth the charmthrown around it by a heart which the frost of many winters had notsealed to the tenderest sympathies of our nature--and the low-tonedvoice, too, that often during her narrative would grow tremulous withthe emotion it excited. But, alas! this may not be! that low voice ishushed--the little wicket-gate now closed--the path which led to hercottage-door untrodden now for many a day--and that kind and gentleheart is laid at rest beneath bright flowers, planted there by lovinghands, in the humble church-yard. But this day is so lovely--is itnot? With that soft and shadowy mist hanging like a gossamer veil overNature's face, through which the glorious god of day looks with aquiet smile, as though he loved to dwell upon a scene so replete withhome-breathing beauty! And that smile! how lovingly it rests upon thelawn and the meadow and the brook! How it lingers upon the sweetflowerets which have not yet brushed the tears from their eyes, untilthose dewy tear-drops seem--as if touched by a fairy wand--to changeto radiant gems! How it peeps into every nook and dell, until thesilent places of the earth rejoice in the light of that glory-beamingsmile! The busy hum of countless insects--the soft chime of thedistant water-fall--the thrilling notes of the woodlandchoristers--the happy voice of the streamlet, which hurries on evermurmuring the same glad strain--the gentle zephyr, now whisperingthrough the leafy trees with low, mysterious tone, and then stealingso gently, noiselessly through the shadowy grass, till each tiny bladequivers as if trembling to the touch of fairy feet. These are Nature'svoices, and do they not seem on a day like this in the sweetsummer-time to unite and swell forth in one full anthem of harmony andpraise to the great Creator of all? And does it not seem, too, as wegaze (for thou art sitting now with me, art thou not, gentle reader?on the mossy bank beneath the noble elm which has for many yearsstretched out its arms protectingly over mine own old homestead, whileI recount to thee this simple tale of "long ago") upon the scenebefore us, so replete with quiet loveliness it is--that in every heartwithin the precincts of our smiling village there must be a chordattuned to echo back in voiceless melody the brightness and the beautyaround? Yet oh! how many there may be, even here, whose sun ofhappiness hath set on earth forever! How many whose tear-dimmed glancecan descry naught in the far future but a weary waste--whoselife-springs all are dried--whose up-springing hopes all withered bythe blighting touch of Sorrow!

 * * * * *

Dost thou see that little cot nestled so closely beneath thehill-side? and covered with the woodland vine which hath enfolded itstendrils clingingly around it--peeping in and out at the desertedwindows, or climbing at will over the latticed porch, or trailing onthe ground and looking up forlornly, as though it wondered where werethe careful hands which erst nourished it so tenderly. The place seemsvery mournful--with the long grass growing rankly over the oncecarefully-kept pathway, and a few bright flowers, on either side, striving to uprear their beauteous heads above the tangled weeds whichhave well nigh supplanted them. Neglect--desolation is engraven on allaround, and even the little wicket, as it swings slowly to and fro, seems to say, "All gone! go-ne!" The wind, how meaningly it stealsthrough the deserted rooms, as though breathing a funereal dirge overthe departed! How "eloquent of wo" is that sound! Now swelling forth, as it were, in wild and uncontrollable grief, and now sinkingexhaustedly into a low and touching mournfulness which seems almosthuman! But to our tale. 

One bright morning, now many years ago, a lady clothed in garb ofmourning, accompanied by a little bright-eyed girl of perhaps somenine summers, and her old nurse, alighted at the village inn. Now thisseemingly trivial circumstance was in reality quite an event in ourquiet community, and considerably disturbed the good people thereoffrom the "even tenor of their way. " Indeed, there were many morecurious eyes bent upon the new-comers than they seemed to be at allaware of, if one might judge from the cold and calm features of thelady, or the assiduous care which her companion was bestowing upon oneparticular bandbox, which the gruff driver of the stage-coach was, tobe sure, handling rather irreverently, actually seeming to enjoy theill-concealed anxiety of the poor old woman for the safety of hergoods and chattels, while the child followed close beside her mamma, her sparkling eyes glancing hither and thither with that eager love ofnovelty so natural to the young. At length, however, the trunks, boxes, packages, &c. , &c. , all were duly deposited, and dulyinspected also, by the several pairs of eyes which were peeringthrough the narrowest imaginable strips of glass at neighboringwindow-curtains or half-closed shutters. The driver once more mountedhis box, cracked his whip, and the lumbering coach rattled rapidlyaway, while the travelers, obeyed the call of the smiling andcurtseying landlady, and disappeared within the open door of the inn. 

Oh, what whisperings and surmisings were afloat throughout our villageduring the succeeding week! "Who _can_ this stranger-lady be? Fromwhence has she come, and how long intend remaining here?" seemed to bethe all-important queries of the day; and so gravely were theydiscussed, each varying supposition advanced or withdrawn as bestsuited the charity or credulity of the respective interrogators, thatone would certainly have thought them questions of vital importance totheir own immediate interests. Strange to say, however, with all thisunwonted zeal and perseverance, at the end of the nine days, (thelegitimate time for wonderment, ) all that the very wisest of the groupof gossips could bring forward as the fruits of her patient anduntiring investigation, was the simple fact that the lady's name wasLayton--the nurse's Jeffries--and that the child, who soon became thepet of the whole household, was always addressed by the servants atthe inn as "Miss Fanny, " and, moreover, that Mrs. L. Was certainly inmourning for her husband, as she had been seen one morning by thechambermaid weeping over the miniature of a "very fine-looking man, dressed in uniform, " and had, in all probability, come to take up herresidence in our quiet Aberdeen, as she had been heard inquiring aboutthe small cottage beneath the hill, (the self-same, dear reader, theneglect and desertion of which were but now lamented. )

Truth to tell, it _was_ shrewdly surmised that the landlady at the"Golden Eagle" had gleaned more particular information than this, although whenever she was questioned concerning the matter, she didonly reply by a very grave shake of the head, each vibration of which(particularly when accompanied by a pursing of the mouth, and amysterious looking round) more and more convinced her simple-mindedauditors (i. E. Some of them, for it is not to be denied that therewere a few incredulous ones who, either from former experiences, ornatural sagacity, or some cause unknown, hesitated not to declare itto be their fixed and unalterable opinion that these seemingindications of superior knowledge on the part of good Mrs. Gordon, were but "a deceitful show, " "for their '_delusion_' given, ") thatshe, Mrs. G. , had been entrusted either by Mistress Jeffries, thenurse, or perhaps by the lady herself, with a weighty and importantsecret, which it would be very dreadful, indeed, to disclose. And yet, when such a possibility was vaguely hinted to her, she did not, (asone would be disposed to do who was really striving to deceive theeager questioners around her, by giving them an erroneous impressionas to the amount of her knowledge on the subject, ) seize the idea withavidity, and seem manifestly anxious to encourage such a supposition. On the contrary, it was evidently deeply distressing to her that anyone should cherish such a thought for a moment; and she begged them soearnestly, almost with tears in her eyes, not to mention it again, andsaid so much about it, reverting to the theme invariably when theconversation chanced to turn upon some other topic, as though it quiteweighed upon her mind, that at length her companions inwardly wonderedwhat had given rise to the belief in their minds, and yet, as one oldlady said, looking sagaciously over her spectacles, "that belief waxedstronger and stronger. "

Time passed on--days merged themselves into weeks, and weeks tomonths, and the harmony and quietude of Aberdeen was fully restored. The "Widow Layton, " (for thus, from that time, was she invariablystyled, ) after all due preliminaries, had taken quiet possession ofthe little vine-clad cot; and although she was not as "neighborly" asshe might have been, and never communicative as to her previoushistory, still might the feeling of pique with which they at firstreceived such a rebuff to their curiosity, have been a very evanescentone in the minds of the villagers, had it not chanced that Aberdeenwas blessed (?) with two prim sister-spinsters, (was it they or AuntNora, who formed the exception to the general rule? I leave it forthee, dear reader, to decide, since with that early-instilledreverence before mentioned, I cannot consider my humble opinioninfallible, ) whose hearts, according to their _own_ impression on thesubject, quite overflowed with charity and benevolence, whichmanifested itself in the somewhat singular method of making every onearound them uncomfortable, and in the happy faculty which theypossessed in an eminent degree, of imparting injurious doubts andcovert insinuations as to the manners and habits of their neighbors, who else might have journeyed peacefully adown the vale of life inperfect good faith with all the world; moreover, they hated a mystery, did these two sister-spinsters, from their own innate frankness andopenness of disposition, they said, and considered themselves so muchin duty bound to ferret out the solution of any thing which bore thesemblance to an enigma, that they gave themselves no rest, poor, self-sacrificing creatures, until they had obtained their object. Andwell were they rewarded for this indefatigable zeal, for they had thesatisfaction of knowing that they had found out more family secrets, destroyed more once-thought happy marriages, and embittered morehearts than any two persons in all the country round. 

They lived in the heart of our village, (and never did that heartquicken with one pulsation of excitement or surprise, or joy orsorrow, but they were the first to search into the why and wherefore, )in a large two story house, isolated from the rest, which seemed toemulate its occupants in stiffness and rigidity, and whose glassy eyeslooked out as coldly upon the beauteous face of nature, as they fromtheir own stern "windows of the soul, " upon the human face divine. There was no comfort, no home-look about the place; even the flowersseemed not to grow by their own sweet will, but came up as they werebidden, tall and straight, and stiff. And the glorious rays of the sunglanced off from the dazzling whiteness of the forbidding mansion, asthough they had met with a sudden rebuff, and had failed to penetratean atmosphere where every thing seemed to possess an antipathy to thebright and the joyous. It was strange to see what a chillinesspervaded the spot. The interior of the house (which I once saw when achild; and, oh! I never _can_ forget the long, long-drawn sigh thatescaped my lips as I once more found myself without the precincts of aplace where my buoyant spirits seemed suddenly frozen beneath theglance of those two spinsters, where even the large, lean cat pacedthe floor with such a prim, stately step, now and then pausing to fixher cold, gray eyes upon my face, as though to question the cause ofmy intrusion, and also to intimate that she had no sort of sympathywith either my feelings, or those of children in general. ) Every thingbore the same immovable look--the narrow, high-backed chairs seemed asif they had grown out of the floor, and were destined to remain asstationary as the oaks of the forest; the "primeval carpet, " overwhich the Misses Nancy and Jerusha Simpkins walked as though mentallyenumerating the lines that crossed each other in such exact squares, never was littered by a single shred; and the high, old-fashionedclock still maintained its position in the corner from year to year, seeming to take a sort of malicious satisfaction in calmly ticking thehours away which bore the Misses Simpkins nearer and nearer to that_certain_ age (which they, if truth must be told, were in nowisedesirous to reach) when all further endeavors to conceal thefoot-marks of stern old Father Time would be of no avail. 

It was at the close of a chilly evening late in autumn--old Boreas wasabroad, and had succeeded, it would seem, in working himself into anungovernable fit of rage, for he went about screaming mostboisterously, now hurrying the poor bewildered leaves along, maliciously causing them to perform very undignified antics for their_time of life_, while they, poor old withered things, thus suddenlytorn from the protecting arms of their parental tree, flew by, likefrightened children, vainly striving to gain some place of shelter. Alas! alas! no rest was there for them. What infinite delight theirinveterate persecutor seemed to take in whirling them round and round, dodging about, and seeking them in the most unheard-of places, wherethey lay panting from very fright and fatigue. And then off he wouldstart again, shaking the window-sashes as he passed, with wild, thoughimpatient fury, remorselessly tearing down the large gilt signs whichhad from time immemorial rejoiced in the respective and respectablenames of several worthies of our village, and then speeding away tothe homes of said worthies, to proclaim the audacious deed through thekey-hole, in the most impudent and incomprehensible manner possible. It was on such an evening as this, a few months after the arrival ofthe Laytons at Aberdeen, that the Misses Simpkins sat in theircheerless back-room, hovering over a small fire, busily plying theirnoisy knitting-needles, and meantime indulging in their usual dish ofscandal, which, however, it is but justice to say, was not quite sohighly seasoned with the spice of envy and malice as was its wont. Whether it was that the memory of a bright and beaming little facethat had intruded upon their solitude during the afternoon, had halfsucceeded in awakening the slumbering better nature which had slept solong, it was somewhat doubted if any effort could resuscitate itagain; whether it was that the lingering echo of a certain sweet, childish voice that had beguiled the weary hours of their dullness andmonotony, and with its innocent prattle, had, in some degree, forcedan opening through the firm frost-work which had been graduallygathering for years round their hearts, I cannot tell; but true it isthat as the sister spinsters sat there, with the faint and feebleflame struggling up from the small fire, and the light from the onetall candle flickering and growing unsteady as it flashed upon the twothin, sharp faces close beside it, while the antique furniture lookedmore grotesque and grim than ever in the deep shadow, and thenever-wearying clock still ticked calmly on, regardless alike of thecontending elements without and the wordy warfare within; true it isthat the conversation between the sisters was divested of one half itswonted acrimony. 

"To be sure, " said Miss Simpkins the younger, at length, after apause, in which the half-awakened better nature seemed stronglydisposed to resume its slumbers again, "little civility has the WidowLayton to expect from any body with her distant bows and uppish airs, when one ventures to express an interest in her; and if I hadn't avery forgiving disposition, oh! Jerusha! Jerusha! I don't think I'dtrouble myself to call upon her again. But I feel it to be my duty toadvise her to put little Fanny to school, for she's a good child andwinsome-like, and running at large so will just be the spoiling ofher. "

"Well, Jerusha, " responded Miss Nancy, who had, perhaps, a littleleaven more than her sister, of tartness in her disposition, and onwhose face an habitual expression of acidity was rapidly increasing, "you know very well that the widow considers herself a little aboveevery body else in Aberdeen, and you might as well talk to a stonewall as to her about sending the child to school. Why haven't I donemy best at talking to her? Haven't I told her of Miss Birch's school, where the children don't so much as turn round without their teacher'sleave, and where you might hear a pin drop at any time. Haven't I toldher that she might easily save a good deal in the year, by renting onehalf of that snug little cottage--and what thanks did I get? A replyas haughty as if she were the greatest lady in the land, instead ofbeing, as she is, a nameless, homeless stranger, who cannot be 'anybetter than she should be, ' or she would never make such a mightymystery about her past life, that she 'trusted Miss Simpkins wouldallow her to be the best judge as to the proper method of educatingher child, and also as to the means of retrenching her own expenses ifshe found it needful. '"

Unkind, unjust, unfeeling Nancy Simpkins! and has not that settled, ever-present sorrow upon those pale features; have not thosegrief-traced lines around the compressed mouth, and across the oncesmooth and polished brow; has not the sad garb of the mourner, whichspeaks of the lone vigil, the weary watching, the hope deferred, or itmay be the sudden stroke of the dread tyrant Death, no appeal to thyfrozen sympathies? Canst thou suffer thy better nature to resume itsdeep and trance-like sleep again, and rob that poor widowed mother ofher only hope on earth, that bright, glad creature, who carriessunshine to her otherwise desolate home, but to pinion her free andfetterless spirit beneath the iron rule and despotic sway of thevillage task-mistress?

We will leave the Misses Simpkins, and thou pleasest, reader mine, tothe enjoyment of their envy-tinctured converse, and turn the page ofMrs. Layton's life. 

An only child of wealthy parents, petted, caressed and idolized, shehad sprung into womanhood, with every wish anticipated, every desiregratified ere half expressed, if within the reach of humanpossibility, what wonder, then, that she grew wayward and willful, andat length rashly dashed the cup of happiness of which she had drank sofreely in her sunny youth from her lip, by disobeying her too fond anddoating parents, in committing her life's destiny to the keeping ofone who they, with the anxious foresight of love, too well knew wouldnot hold the precious trust as sacred. Brave and handsome and giftedhe might be, but the seeds of selfishness had been too surely sownwithin his heart; and he had won the idol of a worshiping crowd, more, perchance, from a feeling of exultation and pride in being able tobear away the prize from so many eager aspirants, than any deep-rootedaffection he felt for the fair object of his solicitude. The noveltyand the charm soon wore away, and then his beautiful bride wasneglected for his former dissolute associates. He afterward enteredthe navy, and somewhat more than ten years after they were wedded, fell in a duel provoked by his own rash, temper. From the moment thatMrs. Layton recovered from the trance-like swoon which followed thefirst sight of her husband's bleeding corpse, she seemed utterly, entirely changed. She had truly loved him, he who lay before her now, a victim of his own rash and selfish folly, and with all a woman'searnest devotion would have followed him to the remotest extremes ofearth; but her feelings had been too long trampled upon, her heart toobruised and crushed ever to be upraised again. She had leaned upon abroken reed, and had awakened to find herself widowed, broken-hearted. And she arose, that desolate and bereaved one, and folding her childcloser to her breast, went forth into the cold worldfriendless--alone! Once would her grief have been loud and passionateand wild, but she had passed through a weary probation, and hadlearned "to suffer and be still. " How, in that dark hour, did herlost mother's prayer-breathed words, her father's earnest entreatiescome back to smite heavily upon her sorrow-stricken spirit--butremorse and repentance were now all too late. And yet not too late, she murmured inly, for had she not a duty to perform toward the littlebeing, her only, and, oh! how heaven-hallowed, tie to earth, consignedto her guardianship and care. Did she not firmly resolve never byill-judged and injudicious fondness to mark out a pathway filled withthorns for her darling. It may be that that widowed mother erred evenin excess of zeal, for she would resist the natural promptings of herheart, and check the gushing affection which welled from the deepest, purest fountain in the human heart, lest its expression might proveinjurious to the loved one in after years. And thus there grew arestraint and a seeming coldness on the part of the mother, a constantcraving for love, which was never satisfied, and a feeling of fear onthe child's, which shut them out from that pure trust and confidence, which are such bright links in the chain that binds a mother to herchild. 

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This, then, was the Widow Layton who with her little one and nurse hadsought our village, immediately after the decease of her husband, as apeaceful asylum from the noise and tumult of a world where, in happierdays, she had played so conspicuous a part. It was not so much thatshe sedulously avoided all mention of her past history to the eagerquestioners around her, from a disinclination that it should be known, as that she little understood the character of the villagersthemselves--ofttimes mistaking a really well-meant interest in herwelfare for an idle and impertinent curiosity. Mrs. Layton had beenhighly born and nurtured, and there seemed to her delicate mind asomething rude and unfeeling in the manner with which her tooofficious friends and neighbors would touch upon the sources of griefwhich were to her so sacred. And therefore, perhaps unwisely, she heldherself aloof from them, replying to their different queries with thatcalm and easy dignity which effectually precluded all approach tofamiliarity, and engendered a dislike in the minds of those who werelittle accustomed to meet one who could not enter into all theirfeelings, plans and projects--which dislike was constantly kept aliveand fostered by the united exertions of the two sister spinsters. GoodMrs. Jeffries, too, the fond old nurse who had never left her belovedmistress through all her varying fortunes, was all too faithful andtrue to reveal aught that that kind mistress might wish untold; andthus it was that the curiosity of the good people of Aberdeen was keptcontinually in check, and about the unsuspecting inmates of WoodbineCottage was thrown a mystery that was becoming constantly augmented bytheir incomprehensible silence on the subject. 

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Weeks--months--years sped swiftly away, and the widow, by her free andunostentatious charities and her angel-ministering to the poor, theafflicted and the bereaved, had almost eradicated the firstunpleasing impression made upon the simple-hearted people ofAberdeen; so that, although the Misses Simpkins still held theirnightly confabulations, they did not venture as at first, so openly topropagate their animadversions concerning the "mysterious stranger, "but on the contrary, always made it a point to preface any sudden andamiable suggestion that presented itself to their minds with "not thatI would say any thing against her, but it does seem a littlesingular, " &c. But of Miss Fanny--sweet, witching Fanny Layton! whohad grown in beauty and grace day by day, not one word did they dareto speak in her dispraise! For was there one in all Aberdeen who wouldnot have resented the slightest intimation of disrespect to our lilyof the valley--whose joy-inspiring and sorrow-banishing presence waswelcomed delightedly by young and old, both far and near? And oh! wasthere ever music like her sweet, ringing laugh, or melody like thelow-toned voice which was always eloquent of joyousness. Whether shesat in the humble cottage, lending kind and ready assistance to thecare-worn matron, by playfully imprisoning the little hands of thechildren within her own petite palms, while she recounted to them somewonderful tale, her brilliant fancy, meantime, never soaring abovetheir childish comprehension, although she was regarded by her littleauditors as nothing less than a bright fairy herself, who was thusfamiliar with all that witching tribe, and who could with her ownmagic wand thus open to them stores of such strange and delightfulthings as was never before dreamed of in their youthfulphilosophy--while their patient, painstaking mother would now and thenglance up from her never-ending task, with a smile of such beamingpleasure and gratitude as amply repaid the gentle being, who seemed inher loveful employ to be the presiding angel of that humbledwelling-place. Whether she would "happen-in" of a long, warm summerafternoon to take a cup of tea with a neighboring farmer's wife--anhonor that never failed to throw that worthy woman into a perfectfever of anxiety and delight--who would proffer a thousand and oneapologies for the deficiencies that only existed in her own perverseimagination, if, indeed, they existed even there, for her bright eyeswere contradicting a pair of rosy lips all the while, as they glancedwith a lurking--yet I am sure laudable--pride, from the "new chanysett" (which was wont on great occasions to be brought forward) to therich treasures of her well-kept dairy, that her busy feet had beengoing pat-a-pat from cupboard to cellar, and cellar to cupboard, for awhole hour previous collecting, to place in all their temptingfreshness before her beloved guest. Or whether she came with hersimple offering of fresh flowers--her word of sympathy and comfort--orsome choice dainty, that seemed "_so_ nice" to the sick and suffering, who had turned away with loathing from every thing before, but whocould not fail to find _this_ delicious, for was it not made andbrought by the hands of dear Miss Fanny's self? Still did her presenceseem to make sunlight wherever she went!

Fanny was a young lady now--although you would scarce believe it, forshe was a very child at heart, with all a child's unworldliness, unsuspecting confidence, and winning innocence. And yet there wasdeep, deep down in that loveful, earnest heart, that Joy and all Joy'ssister spirits seemed to have taken captive, a fount whose seal hadnever been found. 

Oh, Fanny, dear, darling Fanny Layton! wo, wo for thee the day whenfirst that hidden seal was broken! When Hope and Doubt and Fear byturns played sentinel to the hidden treasure, the door to which, whenonce flung back, never can be reclosed again! When joy and gladnessbut tarried a little while to dispute their prior right to revelundisturbed in that buoyant heart of thine, and then went tearfullyforth, leaving for aye a dreary void, and a deep, dark shadow, whereall had been but brightness and beauty before! Oh, why must thenight-time of sorrow come to thee, thou gentle and pure-hearted one?Thou for whom such fervent and fond prayers have ascended, as should, methinks, have warded off from, thee each poisoned shaft, and provedan amulet to guard thee from all life's ills! Thy sixteenth summer, was it not a very, very happy one to thee, sweet Fanny Layton? Buthappiness, alas! in this cold world of ours, is never an unfadingflower; and although so coveted and so sought, still will droop in theeager hands which grasped it, and die while yet the longing eyes arewatching its frail brightness with dim and shadowful foreboding!

Just on the outskirts of our village there slept a silent, secludedlittle nook, which the thickly-growing trees quite enclosed, onlypermitting the bright sun to glance glimmeringly through theirinterwoven leaves and look upon the blue-eyed violets that held theirmute confabulations--each and all perking up their pretty heads toreceive the diurnal kiss of their god-father Sol--in little lowlyknots at their feet. Kind reader, I am sure I cannot make you know howvery lovely it was, unless you yourself have peeped into thissheltered spot--seen the cool, dark shadows stretching across thevelvet turf, and making the bright patches of sunlight look brighterstill--have stood by the murmuring brook on which the sun-brightleaves overhead are mirrored tremulously, and upon whose brink theregrows so many a lovely "denizen of the wild"--gazed admiringly uponthe beautiful white rose Dame Nature hath set in the heart of thishidden sanctuary, as a seal of purity and innocence--and more thanthis, have turned from all these to watch the fairy form flitting fromflower to flower, with so light a step that one might mistake it forsome bright fay sent on a love-mission to this actual world ofours--if one did not know that this was Fanny Layton's dream-dell--thatin this lovely spot she would spend hours during the long, warm summerdays, poring over the pages of some favorite author, or twining thesweet wild flowers in fragrant wreaths to bedeck her invalid mother'sroom--or, perchance, staying for awhile those busy fingers, to indulgein those dreamy, delicious reveries with which the scene and hour soharmonized. 

One day--and that day was an era in poor Fanny's life which was neverafterward to be forgotten--our lovely heroine might have been seentripping lightly over the smooth sward, the green trees rustlingmusically in the summer breeze, and Nature's myriad tones "concertingharmonies" on hill and dale. And one needed but to see the smilinglip, and those clear, laughter-loving eyes peeping from beneath justthe richest and brightest golden curls in the world, to know what ajoyous heart was beating to that fairy-light and bounding step. Wondernone could be, that many an eye brightened as she passed, and many akindly wish--that was never the less trustful and sincere for that itwas couched in homely phrase--sped her on her way. Dream-dell wasreached at length--the flowering shrubs which formed the ruralgate-way parted, and Fanny threw herself on the waving grass, with acareless grace which not all the fashionable female attitudinizers inthe world could have imitated, so full of unstudied ease andnaturalness it was--with her small cottage bonnet thrown off thatwealth of clustering curls which were lifted by the soft summer wind, and fell shadowingly over the brightest and most beaming little faceupon which ever fond lover gazed admiringly--with eyes which seemed tohave caught their deep and dewy blue from the violets she clasped inone small hand, and on which they were bent with a silent glance ofadmiration--for Fanny was a dear lover of wild-wood flowers, as who isnot who bears a heart untouched by the sullying stains of earth? Onetiny foot had escaped from the folds of her simple muslin dress, andlay half-buried in the green turf--a wee, wee foot it was, so small, indeed, that it seemed just the easiest thing possible to encase itwithin the lost slipper of Cinderella, if said slipper could but havebeen produced; at least so said a pair of eyes, as plainly as pair ofeyes _could_ say it, which peering from behind a leafy screen, werenow upon it fixed in most eager intensity, and now wandered to theface of the fair owner thereof, who was still bent over the flowers inthe small hand, as if seeking some hidden spell in their many-coloredleaves. 

That pair of eyes were the appurtenances belonging to a face thatmight have proved no uninteresting study to the physiognomist, albeitit would have puzzled one not a little, methinks, to have formed asatisfactory conclusion therefrom, so full of contradictions did itseem. A mass of waving hair fell around a brow high andwell-developed, though somewhat darkly tinged by the warmth, mayhap, of a southern sun, and the eyes were large and lustrous, yet there wasa something unfathomable in their depths, which made one doubt if theywere truly the index of the soul, and might not be made to assumewhatever expression the mind within willed. At present, however, theywere filled only with deep admiration mingled with surprise, whilearound the mouth, which, in repose, wore a slightly scornful curve, there played a frank and winning smile, as, advancing with a quietcourtesy that at once bespoke him a man of the world, despite slouchedhat and hunting-frock, the intruder upon our heroine's solitudeexclaimed, with half-earnest, half-jesting gallantry, "Prithee, fairwoodland nymph, suffer a lone knight, who has wandered to the confinesof a Paradise unawares, to bow the knee in thy service, and asatonement meet for venturing unbidden into thy hidden sanctum, toproffer thee the homage of his loyal heart!"

Fanny was but a simple country maiden, all unskilled in the light andgraceful nothings which form the substance of worldly converse, and sothe warm, rich crimson crept into her cheek, "The color which his gaze had thrown Upon a cheek else pale and fair, As lilies in the summer air. "

and the wee foot forthwith commenced beating a tatoo upon the heads ofthe unoffending flowers around, who breathed forth their perfumedsighs in mute reproachfulness; but she was still a woman, and so withall a woman's ready tact she replied, though with the flush deepeningon her cheek, and a scarce-perceptible tremor in her voice, "Indeed, sir stranger, since thou hast given me such unwonted power, Imust first use my sceptre of command in banishing all intruders intomy august presence, and invaders of this 'hidden sanctum, ' which isheld sacred to mine own idle feet alone!"

And there was a merry look of mischievous meaning stealing in and outof those bright eyes as they were for a moment uplifted to the face ofthe stranger, and then again were shadowed by the drooping lid. Whether it was that said "intruder" detected a something in the toneor the demure glance of the fair girl which contradicted the words shespoke, or whether that very glance transfixed him to the spot, historytelleth not, but stay he did; and if his tarrying was very _heart_ilyobjected to by his companion, if the words which fell from his lip inutterance how musical, for the space of two fastly-fleeting hours, were not pleasing to the ear of the maiden, then, indeed, did thatsoft, bright glow which mantled her fair cheek, and the rosy lip, half-parted and eloquent of interest, sadly belie the beating heartwithin, as the twain walked lingeringly homeward, the dark shadowslengthening on the green grass, and the setting sun flinging a floodof golden-tinted light upon the myriad leaves which were trembling tothe love-voice of the soft summer breeze. 

Softly was the latch of the wicket lifted, and light was the maiden'sstep upon the stair, as she sought her own little chamber. Was shegazing forth from the open window to admire the brilliancy of thatgorgeous sunset? Was it to drink in the beauty and brightness of thatsweet summer eve, or to feel the soft breeze freshly fanning herflushed cheek? Nay, none of these. See how earnestly her gaze is bentupon the retreating form of the stranger; and now that he is lost toview, behold her sitting with head resting on one little hand, quitelost in a reverie that is not like those of Dream-dell memory, for nowthere comes a tangible shape in place of those ideal ones, and theecho of a manly voice, breathing devotion and deference in every tone, still is lingering in her enchained ear. For the first time sheforgets to carry her offering of fresh flowers to her mother's room. Ah! her busy fingers have been strewing the bright leaves aroundunconsciously, and she blushingly gathers the few remaining ones, and, with a pang of self-reproach, hastens to her mother's side. 

It is with a sigh of relief that Fanny beholds her invalid parentsleeping sweetly--a relief that was augmented by the question whichburst suddenly upon her mind, "Can I tell her that I have had astranger-companion in my wanderings?" Wonder not at the query, gentlereader, for remember that the life of our sweet Fanny had not beenblessed with that loving confidence which is the tenderest tie in therelation of mother and child. Her love was ever intermingled with toomuch fear and restraint from earliest youth, for that interchange ofcounsel and trust which might have been a sure safeguard against manyof earth's ills. And it was perhaps that very yearning to fill theonly void left in her happy heart which prompted her to give the helmof her barque of life, so soon and so confidingly into the hands of astranger. 

Day succeeded day, and still the lovers, for they were lovers now, were found at their sweet trysting spot, seeking every pretext forfrequent meetings, as lovers will, until many were the heads inAberdeen which were shaken in wise prognostication; and the MissesSimpkins, to their unspeakable relief, had found a new theme whereonto exercise their powers conversational, while the children of thevillage mourned the absence of their kind "Fairy, " and wished with alltheir little hearts that Miss Fanny would send away that "naughty man"who kept her from their homes. 

Poor Fanny! the hidden seal had been touched at length, and on thedeep waters beneath was shining Love's own meteor-light--a light thatwas reflected on every thing around. 

 "It was as her heart's full happiness Poured over _all_ its own excess. "

How swiftly the days flew by, "like winged birds, as lightly and asfree. " And, oh! how priceless, peerless was the gift she was yieldingto the stranger in such child-like confidence and trust. There was somuch up-looking in her love for him; it seemed so sweet to recognizethe thoughts which had lain dormant in her own soul, for want offitting expression, flowing from his lip clothed in such abeauty-breathing garmenture. And now Fanny Layton was a child nolonger. She had crossed the threshold, and the "spirit of unrest" haddescended upon her, albeit as yet she knew it not. Her heart seemed sofull of sunshine, that when she ventured to peep into its depths, shewas dazzled by that flood of radiance--and how could she descry thestill shadow. Alas! that on this earth of ours with the sunlight evercomes the shadows, too, which was sleeping there, but to widen andgrow deeper and darker when love's waters should cease to gush andsparkle as at the first opening of that sweet fount. 

But the day of parting came at length--how it had been dwelt upon withintermingling vows, promises, caresses on his part, with trust, andtenderness, and tears on hers! A sad, sad day it was for FannyLayton, the first she had ever known that was ever heralded bysorrow's messenger. How she strove to dwell upon Edward Morton'swords, "It will not be for long;" and banish from her heart thosenameless, undefinable fears which _would_ not away at her bidding. Thesky looked no longer blue--the green earth no longer glad; and tracesof tears, the bitterest she had ever shed, were on that poor girl'scheek, as she went forth to meet her beloved, for the last time. 

It matters not to say how each familiar haunt was visited that day;how each love-hallowed spot bore witness to those low murmured wordswhich are earth's dearest music; how time wore on, as time will, whether it bears on its resistless tide a freightage of joys orsorrows, pleasures, or pains, until at length the last word had beensaid, the last silent embrace taken; and now poor Fanny Layton stoodalone, gazing through blinding tears upon the solitary horseman whorode swiftly away, as if another glance at the fair creature who stoodwith straining gaze and pallid cheek and drooping form, would allunman him. Was it this, or was it that in that hour he felt his ownunworthiness of the sacred trust reposed in him?

We will believe, dear reader, that whatever after influences may haveexercised dominion over his heart; however he may have been swervedfrom his plighted faith by dreams of worldly ambition, or wealth, orpower; however cold policy may have up-rooted all finer feeling fromhis soul, we will believe that no thoughts of treachery, no meditatedfalsehood mingled with that parting embrace and blessing; thatalthough he had bowed at many a shrine before, and therefore could notfeel all the depth and purity of the unworldly affection which he hadwon, still he did not, could not believe it possible that thatpriceless love would be bartered for pomp and station, he did mean, when he placed the white rose, plucked from the heart of Dream-dell, in the little trembling hand which rested on his shoulder, andmurmured "Fanny, darling, ere this bud hath scarce withered, I shallbe with you again, " that it should be even as he said. Alas! alas! forthe frailty of human nature!

That night poor Fanny pressed the precious rose to her quivering lip, and sobbed herself, like a child, to sleep. 

The next day wore away--the next--the next--still no tidings from theabsent one; and he had promised to write as soon as he arrived "intown!" What could it mean?

Oh, that weary watching! The hours moved, oh, so leaden-paced andslow! Every day the poor girl waited for the coming of the post-man;and every day, with a pang at her heart, and tear-dimmed eyes, she sawhim pass the door. "Edward has been detained; he will come yet, I'msure, " a fond inner voice whispered; "perhaps he has sent no letter, because he'll be here himself so soon!" Poor Fanny! another week, andstill no letter, no tidings. "Oh! he must be ill!" she whispered, anxiously, but never thought him false. Oh, no! she was toosingle-hearted, too relying in her trust fora doubt so dreadful; buther step grew heavier day by day--her cheek so very, very pale, except at the post-man's hour, when it would burn with a feverishbrightness, and then fade to its former pallid hue again; her sweetvoice was heard no longer trilling forth those thrilling melodieswhich had gladdened the heart of young and old to hear. The visits toDream-dell were less and less frequent, for now how each remembranceso fondly connected with that spot, came fraught with pain; the worksof her favorite author's lay opened, but unread, upon her knee; andthe fastly-falling tears half-blotted out the impassioned words shehad once read with _him_ with so happy a heart-thrill. 

The widow saw with anxiety and alarm this sudden change; but she wasan invalid--and the poor suffering one strove to hide her sickness ofthe heart, and mother though she was, Mrs. Layton discovered not thecanker-worm which was nipping her bud of promise, but would whisper, "You confine yourself too much to my room, my child, and must go outinto the bright sunshine, so that the smile may come back to your lip, the roses to your cheek. "

One day, now three months after Edward Morton's departure, MissJerusha Simpkins was seen threading her way to Woodbine Cottage. Sheheld a newspaper carefully folded in her hand, and on her pinched andwithered face a mingled expression of caution and importance wasstruggling. 

Lifting the latch of the embowered door, the spinster walked into thesmall parlor, where Fanny Layton was engaged in feeding her petcanaries; poor things! they were looking strangely at the wan facebeside the cage, as if they wondered if it could be the same whichused to come with wild warblings as sweet and untutored as their own. Fanny turned to welcome the intruder, but recognized Miss Simpkinswith a half-drawn sigh, and a shrinking of the heart, for she was everso minute in her inquiries for that "runaway Mr. Morton. "

"A beautiful day, Miss Fanny, " commenced the spinster, looking sharplyaround, (she always made a point of doing two things i. E. Entering thehouses of her neighbors without knocking, and then taking in at aglance not only every thing the room contained, but the occupation, dress, &c. Of the inmates for after comment, ) and then throwing backher bonnet, and commencing to fan herself vigorously with the foldedpaper, "I thought I must run round to-day and see how your mother did, and bring her to-day's paper. I happened to be standing by the windowwhen the penny-post came by, and Nancy says to me, 'Jerusha, ' saysshe, 'do run to the door and get the Times--I haven't seen it for anage, ' for we aint no great readers at our house; so I steps to thedoor and gets one from neighbor Wilkins--he is a very pleasant-spokenman, and often drops in of a morning to have a chat with me and Nancy. Well, what should I see the first thing (for I always turn to themarriages and deaths) but Mr. Edward Morton's marriage to the elegantand rich Miss--Miss--dear me! I've forgot the name now--do you see ifyou can make it out, " handing her the paper; "but, bless me! what isthe matter, Miss Fanny? I don't wonder you're surprised; Nancy and mewas--for we did think at one time that he had an attachment toAberdeen; but, la! one can't put any dependence on these wild-flys!"

The last part of the cruel sentence was wholly lost upon poor Fanny, who sat with fixed and stony gaze upon the dreadful announcement, while it seemed as if her heart-strings were breaking one by one. Invain Miss Simpkins, thoroughly alarmed at length, strove to rouse herfrom this stupor of grief. In vain did her dear old nurse, who ran inaffrighted at the loud ejaculations of the terrified but unfeelingcreature who had dealt the blow, use every epithet of endearment, andstrive to win one look from the poor sufferer, into whose inmost soulthe iron had entered, upon whose heart a weight had fallen, that couldnever, never be uplifted again on earth. Every effort alike wasuseless; and for days she sat in one spot low murmuring a plaintivestrain, rocking to and fro, with the white rose, _his_ parting gift, tightly clasped in her pale fingers, or gazing fixedly and vacantlyupon the birds who sang still, unconsciously above her head. After atime she became more docile, and would retire to rest at night, at theearnest entreaties of her poor old nurse--but reason's light, fromthat fearful moment, was darkened evermore. She would suffer herselfto be led out into the open air, and soon grew fond again of beingwith her old playmates, the children; but her words wereunintelligible now to them, and she would often throw down the wreathshe was twining, and starting up, would exclaim, in a tone thatthrilled to one's very heart, "Oh, has he come? Are you sure he hasnot come yet--_my rose_ is almost _withered_?"

Poor, poor Fanny Layton! She would go to church regularly--it wasthere, dear reader, that her faded face had brought to me suchbewildered rememberings of the Fanny Layton of other years--and alwaysdressed in the same mock-bridal attire. And there was not an eye inthat village-church but glistened as it rested upon the poor, weary, stricken one, in her mournful spirit-darkness, and no lip but murmuredbrokenly, "Heaven bless her!"

This was the last drop in the cup of the bereaved desolate widow. Shesoon found that rest and peace "which the world cannot give or takeaway. " She sleeps her last, long, dreamless sleep. 

It was not long ere another mound was raised in the humblechurch-yard, on which was ever blooming the sweetest and freshestflowers of summer, watered by the tears of many who yet weep andlament the early perishing of that fairest flower of all. And a marbleslab, on which is simply graven a dove, with an arrow driven to itsvery heart, marks the last earthly resting-place of our Lily of theValley. 

THE SPANISH PRINCESS TO THE MOORISH KNIGHT. 

BY GRACE GREENWOOD. 

 Thou darest not love me!--thou canst only see The great gulf set between us--had'st thou _love_ 'Twould bear thee o'er it on a wing of fire! Wilt put from thy faint lip the mantling cup, The draught thou'st prayed for with divinest thirst, For fear a poison in the chalice lurks? Wilt thou be barred from thy soul's heritage, The power, the rapture, and the crown of life, By the poor guard of danger set about it? I tell thee that the richest flowers of heaven Bloom on the brink of darkness. Thou hast marked How sweetly o'er the beetling precipice Hangs the young June-rose with its crimson heart-- And would'st not sooner peril life to win That royal flower, that thou might'st proudly wear The trophy on thy breast, than idly pluck A thousand meek-faced daisies by the way? How dost thou shudder at Love's gentle tones, As though a serpent's hiss were in thine ear. Albeit thy heart throbs echo to each word. Why wilt not rest, oh weary wanderer, Upon the couch of flowers Love spreads for thee, On banks of sunshine?--voices silver-toned Shall lull thy soul with strange, wild harmonies, Rock thee to sleep upon the waves of song. Hope shall watch o'er thee with her breath of dreams. Joy hover near, impatient for thy waking, Her quick wing glancing through the fragrant air. 

 Why dost thou pause hard by the rose-wreathed gate, Why turn thee from the paradise of youth, Where Love's immortal summer blooms and glows, And wrap thyself in coldness as a shroud? Perchance 'tis well for _thee_--yet does the flame That glows with heat intense and mounts toward heaven. As fitly emblem holiest purity, As the still snow-wreath on the mountain's brow. 

 Thou darest not say I love, and yet thou _lovest_, And think'st to crush the mighty yearning down, That in thy spirit shall upspring forever! Twinned with thy soul, it lived in thy first thoughts-- It haunted with strange dreams thy boyish years, And colored with its deep, empurpled hue, The passionate aspirations of thy youth. Go, take from June her roses--from her streams The bubbling fountain-springs--from life, take _love_, Thou hast its all of sweetness, bloom and strength. 

 There is a grandeur in the soul that dares To live out all the life God lit within; That battles with the passions hand to hand, And wears no mail, and hides behind no shield! That plucks its joy in the shadow of death's wing-- That drains with one deep draught the wine of life, And that with fearless foot and heaven-turned eye, May stand upon a dizzy precipice, High o'er the abyss of ruin, and not _fall_!

THE LIGHT OF OUR HOME. 

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 

 Oh, thou whose beauty on us beams With glimpses of celestial light; Thou halo of our waking dreams, And early star that crown'st our night--

 Thy light is magic where it falls; To thee the deepest shadow yields; Thou bring'st unto these dreary halls The lustre of the summer-fields. 

 There is a freedom in thy looks To make the prisoned heart rejoice;-- In thy blue eyes I see the brooks, And hear their music in thy voice. 

 And every sweetest bird that sings Hath poured a charm upon thy tongue; And where the bee enamored clings, There surely thou in love hast clung:--

 For when I hear thy laughter free, And see thy morning-lighted hair, As in a dream, at once I see Fair upland scopes and valleys fair. 

 I see thy feet empearled with dews, The violet's and the lily's loss; And where the waving woodland woos Thou lead'st me over beds of moss;--

 And by the busy runnel's side, Whose waters, like a bird afraid, Dart from their fount, and, flashing, glide Athwart the sunshine and the shade. 

 Or larger streams our steps beguile;-- We see the cascade, broad and fair, Dashed headlong down to foam, the while Its iris-spirit leaps to air!

 Alas! as by a loud alarm, The fancied turmoil of the falls Hath driven me back and broke the charm Which led me from these alien walls:--

 Yes, alien, dearest child, are these Close city walls to thee and me: My homestead was embowered with trees, And such thy heritage should be:--

 And shall be;--I will make for thee A home within my native vale Where every brook and ancient tree Shall whisper some ancestral tale. 

 Now once again I see thee stand, As down the future years I gaze, The fairest maiden of the land-- The spirit of those sylvan ways. 

 And in thy looks again I trace The light of her who gave thee birth; She who endowed thy form and face With glory which is not of Earth. 

 And as I gaze upon her now, My heart sends up a prayer for thee, That thou may'st wear upon thy brow The light which now she beams on me. 

 And thou wilt wear that love and light For thou'rt the bud to such a flower:-- Oh fair the day, how blest and bright, Which finds thee in thy native bower!

AN INDIAN-SUMMER RAMBLE. 

BY ALFRED B. STREET. 

It was now the middle of October. White frosts had for some time beenspreading their sheets of pearl over the gardens and fields, but theautumn rainbows in the forests were wanting. At last, however, thestern black frost came and wrought its customary magic. For about aweek there was a gorgeous pageantry exhibited, "beautiful, exceedingly. " But one morning I awoke, and found that the mist hadmade a common domain both of earth and sky. Every thing was mergedinto a gray dimness. I could just discern the tops of trees a few feetoff, and here and there a chimney. There was a small bit of fencevisible, bordering "our lane, " and I could with difficulty see aglimmering portion of the village street. Some gigantic cloud appearedto have run against something in the heavens and dropped down amongstus. There were various outlines a few rods off, belonging to objectswe scarce knew what. Horses pushed out of the fog with the most suddeneffect, followed by their wagons, and disappeared again in theopposite fleecy barrier; pedestrians were first seen like spectres, then their whole shapes were exhibited, and finally they melted slowlyaway again, whilst old Shadbolt's cow, grazing along the grassy marginof the street, loomed up through the vapor almost as large as anelephant. 

About noon the scene became clearer, so that the outline of thevillage houses, and even the checkered splendors of the neighboringwoods could be seen; so much of Nate's sign, "Hammond's sto--" becamevisible, and even Hamble's great red stage-coach was exhibited, thrusting its tongue out as if in scorn of the weather. 

In the afternoon, however, the mist thickened again, and the wholevillage shrunk again within it, like a turtle within its shell. Thenext morning dawned without its misty mask, but with it rose a gustywind that commenced howling like a famished wolf. Alas! for theglories of the woods! As the rude gusts rushed from the slaty clouds, the rich leaves came fluttering upon them, blotting the air andfalling on the earth thick as snow-flakes. Now a maple-leaf, like ascalloped ruby, would fly whirling over and over; next a birch onewould flash across the sight, as if a topaz had acquired wings; andthen a shred of the oak's imperial mantle, flushed like a sardonyx, would cut a few convulsive capers in the air, like a clown in acircus, and dash itself headlong upon the earth. Altogether it was anexciting time, this fall of the leaf. Ah! a voice also was constantlywhispering in my ear, "we all do fade as the leaf!"

I took a walk in the woods. What a commotion was there! The leaveswere absolutely frantic. Now they would sweep up far into the air asif they never intended to descend again, and then taking curvatures, would skim away like birds; others would cluster together, and thenroll along like a great quivering billow; others again would circlearound in eddies like whirlpools, soaring up now and then in thelikeness of a water-spout, whilst frequently tall columns would marchdown the broad aisles of the forest in the most majestic manner, andfinally fall to pieces in a violent spasm of whirling atoms. Evenafter the leaves had found their way to the earth they were by nomeans quiet. Some skipped uneasily over the surface; some stood on oneleg, as it were, and pirouetted; some crept further and further underbanks; some ran merry races over the mounds, and some danced up anddown in the hollows. As for the trees themselves, they were coweringand shivering at a tremendous rate, apparently from want of the cloaksof which every blast was thus stripping them. 

A day or two after came the veritable soft-looking, sweet-breathingIndian-Summer--"our thunder. " No other clime has it. Autumn expires ina rain-storm of three months in Italy; and it is choked to death witha wet fog in England; but in this new world of ours, "our own greenforest land, " as Halleck beautifully says, it swoons away often in adelicious trance, during which the sky is filled with sleep, and theearth hushes itself into the most peaceful and placid repose. There itlies basking away until with one growl old Winter springs upon Nature, locks her in icy fetters, and covers her bosom with a white mantlethat generally stays there until Spring comes with her soft eye andblue-bird voice to make us all glad again. 

Well, this beautiful season arrived as aforesaid, and a day "turnedup" that seemed to be extracted from the very core of the season'ssweetness. The landscape was plunged into a thick mist at sunrise, butthat gradually dwindled away until naught remained but a delicatedreamy film of tremulous purple, that seemed every instant as if itwould melt from the near prospect. Further off, however, the filmdeepened into rich smoke, and at the base of the horizon it wasdecided mist, bearing a tinge, however, borrowed from the wood-violet. The mountains could be discerned, and that was all, and they only byreason of a faint jagged line struggling through the veil proclaimingtheir summits. The dome above was a tender mixture of blue and silver;and as for the sunshine, it was tempered and shaded down into a tintlike the blush in the tinted hollow of the sea-shell. 

It was the very day for a ramble in the woods; so Benning, Watson, andI, called at the dwelling of three charming sisters, to ask theirmamma's consent (and their own) to accompany us. These three Gracesall differed from each other in their styles of beauty. The eyes ofone were of sparkling ebony, those of the other looked as if the"summer heaven's delicious blue" had stained them, whilst the third'sseemed as though they had caught their hue from the glittering graythat is sometimes seen just above the gold of a cloudless sunset. 

We turned down the green lane that led from the village street, andwere soon in the forests. The half-muffled sunlight stole down sweetlyand tenderly through the chaos of naked branches overhead; and therewas a light crisp, crackling sound running through the dry fallenleaves, as though they had become tired of their position, and werestriving to turn over. So quiet was the air that even this faint soundwas distinctly audible. Hark! whang! whang! there rings the woodman'saxe--crack! crash! b-o-o-m!--Hurrah! what thunder that little keeninstrument has waked up there, and what power it has! Say, ye wild, deep forests, that have shrunk into rocky ravines, and retreated tosteep mountains, what caused ye to flee away from the valleys anduplands of your dominion? Answer, fierce eagle! what drove thee fromthy pine of centuries to the desolate and wind-swept peak, where alonethou couldst rear thy brood in safety? Tell, thou savage panther, whatmade the daylight flash into thy den so suddenly, that thou didstthink thy eye-balls were extinguished?

And thou, too, busy city, that dost point up thy spires where twoscore years ago the forest stood a frown upon the face of Nature--whatmowed the way for thee? And, lastly, thou radiant grain-field, whatprepared the room for thy bright and golden presence? Whew! if thatisn't a tremendous flight, I don't know what is! But the axe, as UncleJack Lummis says of his brown mare, is "a tarnal great critter, anyhow!"

How Settler Jake's cabin will gleam those approaching winter nightsfrom the "sticks" that axe of his will give him out of the tree he hasjust prostrated. It is really pleasant to think of it. There will bethe great fire-place, with a huge block for a back-log; then a pilewill be built against it large enough for a bonfire--and then such acrackling and streaming! why the dark night just around there will beall in a blush with it. And the little window will glow like a redstar to the people of the village; and then within, there will be theimmense antlers over the door, belonging to a moose Jake shot thefirst year he came into the country, all tremulous with the light, andthe long rifle thrust through it will glitter quick and keen; and thescraped powder-horn hung by it will be transparent in redness; eventhe row of bullets on the rude shelf near the window will give a dullgleam, whilst our old acquaintance, the axe, will wink as if a dozeneyes were strewn along its sharp, bright edge. And then the brown andtortoise-shell cat belonging to the "old woman" will partake of thelustre; and the old woman herself--a little, active, bustling body, will be seated in one corner of the fire-place, after having sweptclean the hearth; and "Sport" will have coiled his long body on abear-skin near her. Lastly, the settler himself will be sitting upon astool opposite "Betsey, " with his elbows on his knees, smoking a pipeas black as his face at the "spring logging. " But stop--where was I?Oh, in the woods!"

"Look! look!" cries Susan, the owner of the gray orbs, with an accentof delight, "see that beautiful black squirrel eating!"

We all looked, and sure enough, there is the little object in a nookof warm bronze light, with his paws to his whiskered face, crackingnuts, one after another, as fast as possible. But he stops, with hispaws still uplifted, looks askance for a moment, and away he shootsthen through the "brush-fence" at our side like a dart. 

We soon find the tree whence he gathered his fruit. It is a noblehickory, with here and there a brown leaf clinging to its boughs. Astone or two brings the globes that hold the nuts to the earth. Theyhave commenced cracking, and with a little exertion we uncover thesnow-white balls. We are now all determined to rob the tree. It has nobusiness to be displaying its round wealth so temptingly. And, beside, it will, if let alone, most probably entice boys from the little blackschool-house out yonder to "play truant. " So it is unanimously votedthat Benning, who is light and active, should climb the tree. Up hegoes, like one of those little striped woodpeckers that are so oftenseen in the woods tapping up the trees, and immediately his hands andfeet make the branches dance, whilst the green globes drop like greathail-stones on the earth. We then commence stripping the nuts fromtheir covers, and soon the base of the tree is covered with them. Wethen stow the ivories away in our bags, and start for new havoc. 

We come now to the brush-fence. It is a perfect _chevau-de-frize_. Itlooks at us with a sort of defying, bristling air, as if it said asWilson, the horse-jockey, says when some one endeavors to hoodwink himin a bargain, "You can't come it!"

We wont try here, but a little lower down there is a gap made by JohnHuff's cow, that uses her horns so adroitly in the attack of a fence, no matter how difficult, that I verily believe she could pick a lock. We pass through the kindly breach and skirt the fence for some littledistance to regain the path. The fence on this side is densely plumedwith blackberry vines. What a revel I held there two months ago. Thefruit hung around in rich masses of ebony, each little atom composingthe cone having a glittering spot upon it like a tiny eye. How theblack beauties melted on my tongue in their dead-ripe richness. Onebush in particular was heavy with the clusters. After despoiling theedges I opened the heart, and there, hidden snugly away, as if for thewood-fairies, were quantities of the sable clusters, larger and moresplendid than any I had seen. I immediately made my way into thedefences of that fortress. There was a merciless sacking there, reader, allow me to tell you. But that is neither "here nor there" onthe present occasion. 

How beautifully the soft, tender dark light slumbers on objects wherethe great roof of the forest will allow it. There is an edge of deepgolden lace gleaming upon that mound of moss, and here, the light, breaking through the overhanging beech, has so mottled the tawnysurface of the leaves beneath as to make it appear as if aleopard-skin had been dropped there. 

B-o-o-m, b-o-o-m, boom-boom--whi-r-r-r-r-r--there sounds the drum ofthe partridge. We'll rouse his speckled lordship probably below, causing him to give his low, quick thunder-clap so as to send theheart on a leaping visit to the throat. 

We now descend the ridge upon which we have been for some time, to aglade at the foot. The sweet haze belonging to the season isshimmering over it. It is a broad space surrounded on all sides by theforest. The first settler in this part of the country had "located"himself here, and this was his little clearing. His hut stood on aneminence in one corner. He lived there a number of years. He was areserved, unsocial man, making the forest his only haunt, and hisrifle his only companion. He was at last found dead in his cabin. Alone and unattended he had died, keeping to the last aloof from humansociety. The hut was next occupied by a singular couple--an old manand his idiot son. The father was of a fierce, savage temper, butseemed very fond, although capriciously so, of his child. Sometimes hewould treat him with the greatest tenderness, then again, at somewayward action of the idiot, he would burst upon him with an awfulexplosion of passion. The old man had evidently been a recklessdesperado in other days, and many in the village suspected stronglythat he had once been a pirate. He was addicted to drinking, and nowand then, when bitten by the adder, would talk strangely. He wouldcommence narrating some wonderful hurricane he had experienced on theSpanish Main, and would launch out upon the number of times he hadheaded boarding parties, and once, in a state of great intoxication atthe village tavern, he rambled off into a story about his having madean old man walk the plank. He would, however, check himself on allthese occasions before he went far. He became involved in a fight onetime with a great lounging fellow about the village, whose propensityto bully was the only salient point in his character. Theyclinched--the old man was thrown, and the bystanders had just time topull the bully away, to prevent a long keen knife in the grasp ofMurdock (for such was the old man's name) from being plunged into hisside. 

Suddenly the idiot-boy disappeared. The passers-by had frequently seenhim (for he was an industrious lad) working in the little patchbelonging to the cabin, but from a certain time he was seen no more, and the old man lived alone in his cabin. A change, too, graduallygrew over him. He became silent and deeply melancholy, and hiscountenance settled into an expression of stern, rigid sorrow. His eyewas awful. Wild and red, it seemed as if you could look through itinto a brain on fire. 

At last he commenced rubbing his right hand with his left. There hewould fasten his gaze, and chafe with the most determined energy. Hewould frequently stop and hold the hand to his eye for a moment, andthen recommence his strange work. To the inquiries of the villagepeople concerning his son, he would give no answer. He would roll uponthe inquirer for an instant his fierce, mad eye, and then prosecutehis mysterious chafing more rigorously than ever. 

Things continued so for about a fortnight after the disappearance ofthe idiot, when one dark night the village was alarmed by theappearance of flames from the clearing. Hurrying to the spot, theywere just in time to see the blazing roof of the hut fall in. The nextmorning disclosed, amidst the smouldering ashes, a few charred bones. Murdock was not again seen or heard of from that night. 

The glade is now quiet and lonely as if human passions had never beenunloosed there in the terrific crime of parricide--the consequentremorse merging into madness, and a fiery retributory death. Upon thegrassy mound, which the frost has not yet blighted, a beautiful whiterabbit has just glided. The lovely creature darts onward, thencrouches--now lays his long ears flat upon his shoulders, and nowpoints them forward in the most knowing and cunning manner. He playsthere in his white, pure beauty, as if in purposed contrast to theblood-stained and guilty wretch who expired on the same spot in hisflaming torture. But the little shape now points his long, rose-tintedears in our direction, and then he does not disappear as much as meltfrom our sight like the vanishing of breath from polished steel. Wethen enter fully into the glade. One of the trees at the border is amagnificent chestnut. I remember it in June, with its rich greenleaves hung over with short, braided cords of pale gold. These braidedblossoms have yielded fruit most plenteously. How thickly thechestnuts, with their autumn-colored coats and gray caps, arescattered around the tree, whilst the large yellow burrs on thebranches, gaping wide open, are displaying their soft velvet innerlining in which the embedded nuts have ripened, and which in theirmaturity they have deserted. 

After changing the position of the little glossy things from the earthto our satchels, we cross the glade, and strike a narrow road thatenters the forests in that direction. We pass along, our feet sinkingdeep in the dead leaves, until we come to an opening where a bridgespans a stream. It is a slight, rude structure, such as the emigratingsettler would (and probably did) make in a brief hour to facilitatehis passage across. Let us sketch the picture to our imagination for amoment. We will suppose it about an hour to sunset of a summer's day. There is a soft richness amidst the western trees, and the littlegrassy opening here is dappled with light and shade. The emigrant'swagon is standing near the brink, with its curved canvas top, white assilver, in a slanting beam, and the broad tires of its huge wheelsstained green with the wood-plants and vines they have crushed intheir passage during the day. The patient oxen, which have drawn thewagon so far, are chewing their cud, with their honest countenancesfixed straight forward. Around the wagon is hung a multitude ofhousehold articles--pans, pails, kettles, brooms, and what not; and ona heap of beds, bedding, quilts, striped blankets, &c. , is the oldwoman, the daughter, about eighteen, and a perfect swarm ofwhite-headed little ones. The father, and his two stalwort sons, arebusy in the forest close at hand. How merrily the echoes ring out ateach blow of their axes, and how the earth groans with the shock ofthe falling trees. The two largest of the woodland giants are cut intologs--the others are also divided into the proper lengths. The logsare placed athwart the stream several feet distant from eachother--the rest are laid in close rows athwart, and lo! the bridge. Over the whole scene the warm glow of the setting sun is spread, and ablack bear, some little distance in the forest, is thrusting his greatflat head out of a hollow tree, overseeing the proceedings with theair of a connoisseur. 

The bridge is now old and black, and has decayed and been broken intoquite a picturesque object. One of the platform pieces has beenfractured in the middle, and the two ends slant upwards, as if to takeobservations of the sky; and there is a great hole in the very centreof the bridge. Add to this the moss, which has crept over the wholestructure, making what remains of the platform a perfect cushion, andhanging in long flakes of emerald, which fairly dip in the water, andthe whole object is before you. The stream has a slow, still motion, with eddies, here coiling up into wrinkles like an old man's face, andthere dimpling around some stone like the smiling cheek of a youngmaiden, but in no case suffering its demureness to break into a broadlaugh of ripples. In one spot tall bullrushes show their slendershapes and brown wigs; in another there is a collection of waterflags;in another there are tresses of long grass streaming in the light flowof the current, whilst in a nook, formed by the roots of an immenseelm on one side, and a projection of the bank on the other, is a thickcoat of stagnant green--a perfect meadow for the frogs to hold theirmass meetings in, differing from ours, however, from the fact oftheirs being composed of all talkers and no listeners. 

Let us look at the stream a little, which has here expanded into abroad surface, and view its "goings on. " There is a water-spidertaking most alarming leaps, as if afraid of wetting his feet; adragon-fly is darting hither and yon, his long, slender body flashingwith green, golden and purple hues; a large dace has just apparentlyflattened his nose against the dark glass inward, dotting a great andincreasing period outward. A bright birch-leaf, "the last of itsclan, " has just fallen down, and been snapped at most probably by alittle spooney of a trout, thinking it a yellow butterfly; and on thebottom, which, directly under our eyes is shallow, are severalwater-insects crawling along like locomotive spots of shadow andreflected through the tremulous medium into distorted shapes. However, we have lingered here long enough--let us onward. 

What on earth is that uproar which is now striking our ear. Suchhoarse notes, such rapid flutterings, whizzings, deep rumbling sounds, and such a rustle of dead leaves surely betoken something. We turn anelbow of the road, and a flashing of blue wings, and darting of blueshapes in the air, now circling round, now shooting up, and now down, with a large beech tree for the centre, meet our eyes. The tumult isexplained. A colony of wild pigeons is busy amongst the beech-nuts, which the frost has showered upon the earth. The ground for somedistance around the tree is perfectly blue with the birds picking, andfighting, and scrambling. It is ludicrous to see them. Here a score ortwo are busy eating, looking like a collection of big-paunched, blue-coated aldermen at a city feast; there, all are hurrying andjostling, and tumbling over one another like the passengers of asteamboat when the bell rings for dinner. By the side of yonder bushthere is a perfect duel transpiring between two pugnacious pigeonsdashing out their wings fiercely at each other with angry tones, theirbeautiful purple necks all swollen, and their red eyes castingdevouring looks, whilst two others are very quietly, yet swiftly, asif making the most of their time, causing all the nuts in sight, andwhich probably induced the quarrel, disappear down their own throats. See! here is a pigeon who has over-estimated his capacity ofswallowing, or has encountered a larger nut than usual, for he isexhibiting the most alarming symptoms of choking. He stretches hisneck and opens his bill like a cock in the act of crowing, at the sametime dancing up and down on his pink legs as if his toes had caughtfire. However, he has mastered the nut at last with a vigorous shakeof his neck, and bobs industriously again at his feast. 

Determining to have some of the brown luscious mast, we make a forayamongst the gorging host, and succeeded in causing a cloud of them totake wing, and in securing a quantity of the spoil. 

We then start again on our way, but do not advance farbefore--b-r-r-r-r-r-h--off bursts a partridge, and shoots down thevista of the road, with the dark sunshine glancing from his mottledback. If little "Spitfire" was here, how he would yelp and dance, anddart backward and forward, and shake his tail, so as to render itdoubtful whether it wouldn't fly off in a tangent. 

Rattat, tattat, tat--tat--t-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r--there is the greatred-headed woodpecker, or woodcock, as he is called by the countrypeople, looking like a miniature man with a crimson turban and sablespear, attacking the bark of yon old oak. He is making asounding-board of the seamed mail of the venerable monarch, to detectby the startled writhing within the grub snugly ensconced, as itthinks, there, in order to transfix it with his sharp tongue throughthe hole made by his bill. He ceases his work though as weapproach--and now he flies away. 

A mile farther, we come to the strawberry-field belonging to DeaconGravespeech, the outlines of whose dark, low farm-house are etched onthe mist which is again slowly spreading over the landscape, for it isnow near sunset. Having left the forest, we see the mild red orb, likean immense ruby, just in the act of sinking in the bank of pale bluewhich now thickens the Western horizon. But what have we here? Asplendid butternut tree, with quantities of the oval fruit scatteredabout amidst the brown leaves, in their coats of golden green. What arich lustre is upon them, made brighter by the varnish, and howdelightful their pungent perfume. Let us crack a few of the strong, deeply-fluted shells. In their tawny nooks nestle the dark, golden-veined meats, which with the most delicious sweetness crumblein the mouth. 

Of all the fruits of the Northern forests give me the butternut; and, speaking of fruits puts me in mind of the strawberry field. I was herewith a small party one day last June. The field was then scatteredthickly over with the bright crimson spotting fruit, and the fingersof all of us were soon dyed deeply with the sweet blood. There isgreat skill in picking strawberries, let me tell you, reader, althoughit is a trifle. Go to work systematically, and don't get excited. Gather all as you go, indiscriminately. Don't turn to the right fortwo splendid berries, and leave the one in front, for it is just aslikely, before you gather the two, a cluster, with five ripe temptingfellows, will cause you to forget the others, and in whirling yourselfaround, and stretching over to seize the latest prize, your feet andlimbs not only destroy the first and second, but a whole collection ofthe blushing beauties hid away in a little hollow of buttercups anddandelions. 

Well, "as I was saying, " I was here with a small party, and had finesport picking, but the next day a precept, at the suit of PeterGravespeech, was served upon Hull and myself, (the two gentlemen ofthe party, ) issued from "Pettifogger's Delight, " as the office ofSquire Tappit, the justice, was called throughout the village: action, trespass. "For the fun of the thing" we stood trial. The day came, andall the vagabonds of the village, --those whose continual cry is thatthey "can never get any thing to do, " and therefore drive a briskbusiness at doing nothing, --were in attendance. The justice was ahot-tempered old fellow, somewhat deaf, and, --if his nose was anyevidence, --fond of the brandy bottle. 

The witness of the trespass, who was a "hired hand" of DeaconGravespeech, was present, and after the cause had been called in dueorder, was summoned by the deacon (who appeared in proper person) tothe stand. He was generally very irascible, a good deal of a bully, rather stupid, and, on the present occasion, particularly drunk. 

"Now, Mr. Hicks, " said the deacon, respectfully, (knowing his man, )after he had 'kissed the book, ' "now, Mr. Hicks (his name was JoeHicks, but universally called 'Saucy Joe, ') please tell the justicewhat you know of this transaction. "

"Well, squire, I seed 'em!" replied Joe, to this appeal, facing thejustice. 

"Who?" ejaculated the justice, quickly. 

"Who!" answered Joe, "why, who do you spose, but that'ere sour-facedfeller, (pointing at Hull, ) what looks like a cow swelled on clover, and that 'ere little nimshi, who isn't bigger than my Poll's knittenneedle. They was with four female critters. "

"Well, what were they about?" asked the deacon. 

"What was they about!" (a little angrily, ) "you know as well as I do, deacon, for I telled ye all about it at the time. "

"Yes, but you must tell the justice. "

"Answer, witness!" exclaimed the justice, somewhat sternly. 

"Oh! you needn't be flusterfied, Squire Tappit; I knowed ye long aforeye was squire, and drinked with ye, too. For that matter, I stoodtreat last!"

"That's of no consequence now, Mr. Hicks, " interposed the deacon, throwing at the same time a deprecatory glance at the old justice, whose nose was growing redder, and whose eye began to twinkle inincipient wrath. 

"Let the gentleman proceed with his interesting developments, " saidHull, rising with the most ludicrous gravity, and waving his hand in asolemn and dignified manner. 

"Well, " said Joe, a little mollified at the word 'gentleman, ' "ef Imust tell it agin, I must, that's all. They was a picken strawberrieslike Old Sanko. "

"How long do you think they were there, trampling down the grass?"asked the deacon. 

"Why, I spose from the time I seed 'em"--here he stopped abruptly, glanced out of the window toward the tavern, spit thirstily, and thenlooked at the deacon. 

"Let the gentleman proceed, " again cried Hull, half rising, in mockrespect. 

"_Pro_ceed!" said the justice, angrily. 

"Well, as I was a sayen, from the time I seed 'em---- But I say, deacon, I'm monstrous dry. You're temp'rance I know; but sposen as howyou treat me and old Squire Tappit there to some red eye. He won'trefuse, no how you can fix it, and as for me, I am so dry I reallycan't talk. "

"Go on with your story, you scoundrel!" shouted the justice, exasperated beyond all bounds, "or I'll commit you to prison. "

"Commit me to prison, you old brandy-jug!" yelled Joe, swinging offhis ragged coat at a jerk, and throwing it on the floor, "commit _me_, you mahogany-nosed old sarpent!" advancing close to the justice, withboth of his great fists ready. 

"Let the gentleman proceed, " here broke in Hull again, in an agony oflaughter. 

And, sure enough, the "gentleman" did proceed. Launching out his rightfist in the most approved fashion at the nose of the justice, Joe wasin an instant the center of a perfect Pandemonium. The constablerushed in to protect the justice, who was shouting continually, "Icommand the peace;" the bystanders, ready for a fight at any time, followed his example, and, for a few minutes, there was a perfectchaos of arms, legs, and heads, sticking out in every direction. 

The first thing Hull and I saw were the heels of the justiceflourishing in the air, and the last was Joe going off to jail in thegrasp of the constable one way, and the deacon sneaking off another. We never heard afterward of the suit, but "Let the gentleman proceed, "was for a long time a by-word amongst us in the village. 

After crossing the strawberry field we came to a "cross-road" leadingto the turnpike. In a few minutes we arrived at "Cold Spring, " where alittle streak of water ran through a hollowed log, green with moss, from the fountain a short distance in the forest, and fell into apebbly basin at the road-side. We here refreshed ourselves withrepeated draughts of the sweet, limpid element, and then, resuming ourwalk, soon found ourselves upon the broad, gray turnpike, with thevillage upon the summit of the hill, about half a mile in front. 

The sun had long since plunged into the slate-colored haze of theWest; the thickening landscape looked dull and faded; the mist wasglimmering before the darkened forests; the cows were wendinghomeward, lowing; the woodsmen passed us with axes on their shoulders;and, mounting the hill, we saw here and there, a light sparkling inthe village, following the example of the scattered stars that weretimidly glancing from the dome of the purpled heavens. 

THE LOST PET

BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 

[SEE ENGRAVING. ]

 When Mary's brother went to sea, He lingered near the door, Beside the old, familiar tree, He ne'er had left before, And though gay boyhood loves to seek New regions where to tread, A pearl-drop glittered on his cheek As tenderly he said--

 "The gentle dove I reared with care, Sister, I leave to thee, And let it thy protection share When I am far at sea. "

 Whene'er for Willy's loss she grieved, His darling she caressed, That from her hand its food received, Or nestled in her breast;

 And sometimes, at the twilight dim, When blossoms bow to sleep, She thought it murmuring asked for him Whose home was on the deep. 

 And if her mother's smile of joy Was lost in anxious thought, As memories of her sailor-boy Some gathering tempest wrought, She showed his pet, the cooing dove, Perched on her sheltering arm, And felt how innocence and love Can rising wo disarm. 

 When summer decked the leafy bowers, And pranked the russet plain, She bore his cage where breathing flowers Inspired a tuneful strain;

 And now and then, through open door, Indulged a wish to roam, Though soon, the brief excursion o'er, The wanderer sought its home. 

 She laughed to see it brush the dew From bough and budding spray. And deemed its snow-white plumage grew More beauteous, day by day. 

 The rose of June was in its flush, And 'neath the fragrant shade Of her own fullest, fairest bush The favorite's house was staid, While roving, bird-like, here and there, Amid her flow'rets dear, She culled a nosegay, rich and rare, A mother's heart to cheer. 

 A shriek! A flutter! Swift as thought Her startled footstep flew, But full of horror was the sight That met her eager view--

 Her treasure in a murderer's jaws! One of that feline race Whose wily looks and velvet paws Conceal their purpose base. 

 And scarce the victim's gushing breast Heaved with one feeble breath, Though raised to hers, its glance exprest Affection even in death. 

 Oh, stricken child! though future years May frown with heavier shade, When woman's lot of love and tears Is on thy spirit laid--

 Yet never can a wilder cry Thy heart-wrung anguish prove Than when before thy swimming eye Expired that wounded dove. 

[Illustration: THE LOST PETEngraved Expressly for Graham's MagazineFigure from I. M. Wright. Drawn with original scenery & engraved by Ellis. ]

FIEL A LA MUERTE, OR TRUE LOVE'S DEVOTION. 

A TALE OF THE TIMES OF LOUIS QUINZE. 

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF "THE ROMAN TRAITOR, ""MARMADUKE WYVIL, " "CROMWELL, " ETC. 

(_Concluded from page_ 91. )

PART III. 

 For there were seen in that dark wall, Two niches, narrow, dark and tall. Who enters by such grisly door, Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more. --WALTER SCOTT. 

It would be wonderful, were it not of daily occurrence, and to beobserved by all who give attention to the characteristics of the humanmind, how quickly confidence, even when shaken to its veryfoundations, and almost obliterated, springs up again, and recoversall its strength in the bosoms of the young of either sex. 

Let but a few more years pass over the heart, and when once broken, ifit be only by a slight suspicion, or a half unreal cause, it willscarce revive again in a life-time; nor then, unless proofs thestrongest and most unquestionable can be adduced to overpower thedoubts which have well-nigh annihilated it. 

In early youth, however, before long contact with the world hasblunted the susceptibilities, and hardened the sympathies of the soul, before the constant experience of the treachery, the coldness, theingratitude of men has given birth to universal doubt and generaldistrust, the shadow vanishes as soon as the cloud which cast it iswithdrawn, and the sufferer again believes, alas! too often, only tobe again deceived. 

Thus it was with St. Renan, who a few minutes before had given up eventhe last hope, who had ceased, as he thought, to believe even in thepossibility of faith or honor among men, of constancy, or purity, ortruth in women, no sooner saw his Melanie, whom he knew to be the wifeof another, solitary and in tears, no sooner felt her inanimate formreclining on his bosom, than he was prepared to believe any thing, rather than believe her false. 

Indeed, her consternation at his appearance, her evident dismay, notunnatural in an age wherein skepticism and infidelity were marvelouslymingled with credulity and superstition, her clear conviction that itwas not himself in mortal blood and being, did go far to establish thefact, that she had been deceived either casually or--which was farmore probable--by foul artifice, into the belief that her beloved andplighted husband was no longer with the living. 

The very exclamation which she uttered last, ere she sunk senselessinto his arms, uttered, as she imagined, in the presence of theimmortal spirit of the injured dead, "I am true, Raoul--true to thelast, my beloved!" rang in his ears with a power and a meaning whichconvinced him of her veracity. 

"She could not lie!" he muttered to himself, "in the presence of theliving dead! God be praised! she is true, and we shall yet be happy!"

How beautiful she looked, as she lay there, unconscious and insensibleeven of her own existence. If time and maturity had improved Raoul'sperson, and added the strength and majesty of manhood to the grace andpliability of youth, infinitely more had it bestowed on the beauty ofhis betrothed. He had left her a beautiful girl just blooming out ofgirlhood, he found her a mature, full-blown woman, with all the flushand flower of complete feminine perfection, before one charm hasbecome too luxuriant, or one drop of the youthful dew exhaled from thenew expanded blossom. 

She had shot up, indeed, to a height above the ordinary stature ofwomen--straight, erect, and graceful as a young poplar, slender, yetfull withal, exquisitely and voluptuously rounded, and with everysinuous line and swelling curve of her soft form full of the poetryand beauty both of repose and motion. 

Her complexion was pale as alabaster; even her cheeks, except whensome sudden tide of passion, or some strong emotion sent the impetuousblood coursing thither more wildly than its wont, were colorless, butthere was nothing sallow or sickly, nothing of that which isordinarily understood by the word pallid, in their clear, warm, transparent purity; nothing, in a word, of that lividness which theFrench, with more accuracy than we, distinguish from the healthfulpaleness which is so beautiful in southern women. 

Her hair, profuse almost to redundance, was perfectly black, but ofthat warm and lustrous blackness which is probably the hue expressedby the ancient Greeks by the term hyacinthine, and which in certainlights has a purplish metallic gloss playing over it, like the varyingreflections on the back of the raven. Her strongly defined, and nearlystraight eyebrows, were dark as night, as were the long, silky lasheswhich were displayed in clear relief against the fair, smooth cheek, as the lids lay closed languidly over the bright blue eyes. 

It was a minute or two before Melanie moved or gave any symptoms ofrecovering from her fainting fit, and during those minutes the lips ofRaoul had been pressed so often and so warmly to those of the fairinsensible, that had any spark of perception remained to her, the fondand lingering pressure could not have failed to call the "purplelight of love, " to her ingenuous face. 

At length a long, slow shiver ran through the form of the senselessgirl, and thrilled, like the touch of the electric wire, every nervein St. Renan's body. 

Then the soft rosy lips were unclosed, and forth rushed the ambrosialbreath in a long, gentle sigh, and the beautiful bust heaved andundulated, like the bosom of the calm sea, when the first breathingsof the coming storm steal over it, and wake, as if by sympathy, itsdeep pulsations. 

He clasped her closer to his heart, half fearful that when life andperfect consciousness should be restored to that exquisite frame, itwould start from his embrace, if not in anger or alarm, at least as iffrom a forbidden and illicit pleasure. 

Gradually a faint rosy hue, slight as the earliest blushes of themorning sky, crept over her white cheeks, and deepened into a richpassionate flush; and at the same moment the azure-tinctured lids wereunclosed slowly, and the large, radiant, bright-blue eyes beamed upinto his own, half languid still, but gleaming through their dewylanguor, with an expression which he must have been, indeed, blind tomistake for aught but the strongest of unchanged, unchangeableaffection. 

It was evident that she knew him now; that the momentary terror, arising rather, perhaps, from fear than from superstition, which hadconverted the young ardent soldier into a visitant from beyond thosegloomy portals through which no visitant returns, had passed from hermind, and that she had already recognized, although she spoke not, herliving lover. 

And though she recognized him, she sought not to withdraw herself fromthe enclosure of his sheltering arms, but lay there on his bosom, withher head reclined on his shoulder, and her eyes drinking long draughtsof love from his fascinated gaze, as if she were his own, and that herappropriate place of refuge and protection. 

"Oh! Raoul, " she exclaimed, at length, in a low, soft whisper, "is it, indeed, you--you, whom I have so long wept as dead--you, whom I waseven now weeping as one lost to me forever, when you are thus restoredto me!"

"It is I, Melanie, " he answered mournfully, "it is I, alive, and inhealth; but better far had I been in truth dead, as they have toldyou, rather than thus a survivor of all happiness, of all hopes;spared only from the grave to know _you_ false, and myself forgotten. "

"Oh, no, Raoul, not false!" she cried wildly, as she started from hisarms, "oh, not forgotten! think you, " she added, blushing crimson, "that had I loved any but you, that had I not loved you with my wholeheart and being, I had lain thus on your bosom, thus endured yourcaresses? Oh, no, no, never false! nor for one moment forgotten?"

"But what avails it, if you do love no other--what profits it, if youdo love me? Are you not--are you not, false girl, --alas! that theselips should speak it, --the wife of another--the promised mistress ofthe king?"

"I--I--Raoul!" she exclaimed, with such a blending of wonder andloathing in her face, such an expression of indignation on her tongue, that her lover perceived at once, that, whatever might be the infamyof her father, of her husband, of this climax of falsehood andself-degradation, she, at least, was guiltless. 

"The mistress of the king! what king? what mean you? are youdistraught?"

"Ha! you are ignorant, you are innocent of that, then. You are not yetindoctrinated into the noble uses for which your honorable lordintends you. It is the town's talk, Melanie. How is it you, whom itmost concerns, alone have not heard it?"

"Raoul, " she said, earnestly, imploringly, "I know not if there be anymeaning in your words, except to punish me, to torture me, for whatyou deem my faithlessness, but if there be, I implore you, I conjureyou, by your father's noble name; by your mother's honor, show me theworst; but listen to me first, for by the God that made us both, andnow hears my words, I am not faithless. "

"Not faithless? Are you not the wife of another?"

"No!" she replied enthusiastically. "I am not. For I am yours, andwhile you live I cannot wed another. Whom God hath joined man cannotput asunder. "

"I fear me that plea will avail us little, " Raoul answered. "But sayon, dearest Melanie, and believe that there is nothing you can askwhich I will not give you gladly--even if it were my own life-blood. Say on, so shall we best arrive at the truth of this intricate andblack affair. "

"Mark me, then, Raoul, for every word I shall speak is as true as thesun in heaven. It is near two years now since we heard that you hadfallen in battle, and that your body had been carried off by thebarbarians. Long! long I hoped and prayed, but prayers and hopes werealike in vain. I wrote to you often, as I promised, but no line fromyou has reached me, since the day when you sailed for India, and thatmade me fear that the dread news was true. But at the last, to makeassurance doubly sure, all my own letters were returned to me sixmonths since, with their seals unbroken, and an endorsement from theauthorities in India that the person addressed was not to be found. Then hope itself was over; and my father, who never from the first haddoubted that you were no more--"

"Out on him! out on him! the heartless villain!" the young maninterrupted her indignantly. "He knows, as well as I myself, that I amliving; although it is no fault of his or his coadjutors that I am so. He knows not as yet, however, that I am _here_; but he shall know itere long to his cost, my Melanie. "

"At least, " she answered in a faltering voice, "at least he _swore_ tome that you were dead; and never having ceased to persecute me, sincethe day that fatal tidings reached, to become the wife of LaRochederrien, now Marquis de Ploermel, he now became doubly urgent--"

"And you, Melanie! you yielded! I had thought you would have diedsooner. "

"I had no choice but to yield, Raoul. Or at least but the choice ofthat old man's hand, or an eternal dungeon. The _lettres de cachet_were signed, and you dead, and on the conditions I extorted from themarquis, I became in name, Raoul, only in name, by all my hopes ofHeaven! the wife of the man whom you pronounce, wherefore, I cannotdream, the basest of mankind. Now tell me. "

"And did it never strike you as being wonderful and most unnaturalthat this Ploermel, who is neither absolutely a dotard nor an oldwoman, should accept your hand upon this condition?"

"I was too happy to succeed in extorting it to think much of that, "she answered. 

"_Extorted!_" replied Raoul bitterly, "And how, I pray you, is thiscondition which you extorted ratified or made valid?"

"It is signed by himself, and witnessed by my own father, that, beingI regard myself the wife of the dead, he shall ask no more offamiliarity from me than if I were the bride of heaven!"

"The double villains!"

"But wherefore villains, Raoul?" exclaimed Melanie. 

"I tell you, girl, it is a compact--a base, hellish compact--with thefoul despot, the disgrace of kings, the opprobrium of France, who sitsupon the throne, dishonoring it daily! A compact such as yet was neverentered into by a father and a husband, even of the lowest of mankind!A compact to deliver you a spotless virgin-victim to the vile-heartedand luxurious tyrant. Curses! a thousand curses on his soul! and on myown soul! who have fought and bled for him, and all to meet with this, as my reward of service!"

"Great God! can these things be, " she exclaimed, almost fainting withhorror and disgust. "Can these things indeed be? But speak, Raoul, speak; how can you know all this?"

"I tell you, Melanie, it is the talk, the very daily, hourly gossip ofthe streets, the alleys, nay, even the very kennels of Paris. Everyone knows it--every one believes it, from the monarch in the Louvre tothe lowest butcher of the Faubourg St. Antoine!

"And they believe it--of me, of _me_, they believe this infamy!"

"With this addition, if any addition were needed, that you are not adeceived victim, but a willing and proud participator in the shame. "

"I will--that is--" she corrected herself, speaking very rapidly andenergetically--"I _would_ die sooner. But there is no need now to die. You have come back to me, and all will yet go well with us!"

"It never can go well with us again, " St. Renan answered gloomily. "The king never yields his purpose, he is as tenacious in his hold asreckless in his promptitude to seize. And they are paid beforehand. "

"Paid!" exclaimed the girl, shuddering at the word. "What atrocity!How paid?"

"How, think you, did your good father earn his title and the richgovernorship of Morlaix? What great deeds were rewarded to LaRochederrien by his marquisate, and this captaincy of mousquetaires. You know not yet, young lady, what virtue there is nowadays in beingthe accommodating father, or the convenient husband of a beauty!"

"You speak harshly, St. Renan, and bitterly. "

"And if I do, have I not cause enough for bitterness and harshness?"he replied almost angrily. 

"Not against me, Raoul. "

"I am not bitter against you, Melanie. And yet--and yet--"

"And yet _what_, Raoul?"

"And yet had you resisted three days longer, we might have beensaved--you might have been mine--"

"I am yours, Raoul de St. Renan. Yours, ever and forever! No one's butonly yours. "

"You speak but madness--your vow--the sacrament!"

"To the winds with my vow--to the abyss with the fraudful sacrament!"she cried, almost fiercely. By sin it was obtained and sanctioned--insin let it perish. I say--I swear, Raoul, if you will take me, I amyours. "

"Mine? Mine?" cried the young man, half bewildered. "How mine, andwhen?"

"Thus, " she replied, casting herself upon his breast, and winding herarms around his neck, and kissing his lips passionately and often. "Thus, Raoul, thus, and now!"

He returned her embrace fondly once, but the next instant he removedher almost forcibly from his breast, and held her at arm's length. 

"No, no!" he exclaimed, "not thus, not thus! If at all, honestly, openly, holily, in the face of day! May my soul perish, ere cause comethrough me why you should ever blush to show your front aloft amongthe purest and the proudest. No, no, not thus, my own Melanie!"

The girl burst into a paroxysm of tears and sobbing, through which shehardly could contrive to make her interrupted and faultering wordsaudible. 

"If not now, " she said at length, "it will never be. For, hear me, Raoul, and pity me, to-morrow they are about to drag me to Paris. "

The lover mused for several moments very deeply, and then replied, "Listen to me, Melanie. If you are in earnest, if you are true, andcan be firm, there may yet be happiness in store for us, and that veryshortly. "

"Do you doubt me, Raoul?"

"I do not doubt you, Melanie. But ever as in my own wildest rapture, even to gain my own extremest bliss, I would not do aught that couldpossibly cast one shadow on your pure renown, so, mark me, would I nottake you to my heart were there one spot, though it were but as aspeck in the all-glorious sun, upon the brightness of your purity. "

"I believe you, Raoul. I feel, I know that my honor, that my purity isall in all to you. 

"I would die a thousand deaths, " he made answer, "ere even a falsereport should fall on it, to mar its virgin whiteness. Marvel notthen that I ask as much of you. "

"Ask anything, St. Renan. It _is_ granted. "

"In France we can hope for nothing. But there are other lands thanFrance. We must fly; and thanks to these documents which you havewrung from them, and the proofs which I can easily obtain, this cursedmarriage can be set aside, and then, in honor and in truth you can bemine, mine own Melanie. "

"God grant it so, Raoul. "

"It shall be so, beloved. Be you but firm, and it may be done rightspeedily. I will sell the estates of St. Renan--by a good chance, supposing me dead, the Lord of Yrvilliac was in treaty for it with myuncle. That can be arranged forthwith. Conduct yourself according toyour wont, cool and as distant as may be with this villain ofPloermel; avoid above all things to let your father see that you arebuoyed by any hope, or moved by any passion. Treat the king withdeliberate scorn, if he approach you over boldly. Beware how you eator drink in his company, for he is capable of all things, even ofdrugging you into insensibility, and here, " he added, taking a smallponiard, of exquisite workmanship, with a gold hilt and scabbard, fromhis girdle, and giving it to her, "wear _this_ at all times, and if hedare attempt violence, were he thrice a king, _use it_!"

"I will--I will--trust me, Raoul! I _will_ use it, and that to hissorrow! My heart is strong, and my hand brave _now_--now that I knowyou to be living. Now that I have hope to nerve me, I will fearnothing, but dare all things. "

"Do so, do so, my beloved, and you shall have no cause to fear, for Iwill be ever near you. I will tarry here but one day; and ere youreach Paris, I will be there, be certain. Within ten days, I doubt notI can convert my acres into gold, and ship that gold across the narrowstraits; and that done, the speed of horses, and a swift sailing shipwill soon have us safe in England; and if that land be not so fair, orso dear as our own France, at least there are no tyrants there, likethis Louis; and there are laws, they say, which guard the meanest manas safely and as surely as the proudest noble. "

"A happy land, Raoul. I would that we were there even now. "

"We will be there ere long, fear nothing. But tell me, whom have younear your person on whom we may rely. There must be some one throughwhom we may communicate in Paris. It may be that I shall require tosee you. "

"Oh! you remember Rose, Raoul--little Rose Faverney, who has livedwith me ever since she was a child--a pretty little black-eyeddamsel. "

"Surely I do remember her. Is she with you yet? That will doadmirably, then, if she be faithful, as I think she is; and unless Iforget, what will serve us better yet, she loves my page Jules deMarliena. He has not forgotten her, I promise you. "

"Ah! Jules--we grow selfish, I believe, as we grow old, Raoul. I havenot thought to ask after one of your people. So Jules remembers littleRose, and loves her yet; that will, indeed, secure her, even had shebeen doubtful, which she is not. She is as true as steel--truer, Ifear, than even I; for she reproached me bitterly four evenings since, and swore she would be buried alive, much more willingly imprisoned, than be married to the Marquis de Ploermel, though she was onlyplighted to the Vicomte Raoul's page! Oh! we may trust in her with allcertainty. "

"Send her, then, on the very same night that you reach Paris, so soonas it is dark, to my uncle's house in the Place de St. Louis. I thinkshe knows it, and let her ask--not for me--but for Jules. Ere then Iwill know something definite of our future; and fear nothing, love, all shall go well with us. Love such as ours, with faith, and right, and honesty and honor to support it, cannot fail to win, blow whatwind may. And now, sweet Melanie, the night is wearing onward, and Ifear that they may miss you. Kiss me, then, once more, sweet girl, andfarewell. "

"Not for the last, Raoul, " she cried, with a gay smile, castingherself once again into her lover's arms, and meeting his lips with along, rapturous kiss. 

"Not by a thousand, and a thousand! But now, angel, farewell for alittle space. I hate to bid you leave me, but I dare not ask you tostay; even now I tremble lest you should be missed and they shouldsend to seek you. For were they but to suspect that I am here and haveseen you, it would, at the best, double all our difficulties. Fare youwell, sweetest Melanie. "

"Fare you well, " she replied; "fare you well, my own best belovedRaoul, " and she put up the glittering dagger, as she spoke, into thebosom of her dress; but as she did so, she paused and said, "I wish_this_ had not been your first gift to me, Raoul, for they say thatsuch gifts are fatal, to love at least, if not to life. "

"Fear not! fear not!" answered the young man, laughing gayly, "ourlove is immortal. It may defy the best steel blade that was everforged on Milan stithy to cut it asunder. Fare you--but, hush! whocomes here; it is too late, yet fly--fly, Melanie!"

But she did not fly, for as he spoke, a tall, gayly dressed cavalierburst through the coppice on the side next the château d'Argenson, exclaiming, "So, my fair cousin!--this is your faith to my goodbrother of Ploermel is it?"

But, before he spoke, she had whispered to Raoul, "It is the Chevalierde Pontrein, de Ploermel's half brother. Alas! all is lost. "

"Not so! not so!" answered her lover, also in a whisper, "leave him tome, I will detain him. Fly, by the upper pathway and through theorchard to the château, and remember--you have not seen this dog. Somuch deceit is pardonable. Fly, I say, Melanie. Look not behind foryour life, whatever you may hear, nor tarry. All rests now on yoursteadiness and courage. "

"Then all is safe, " she answered firmly and aloud, and without castinga glance toward the cavalier, who was now within ten paces of herside, or taking the smallest notice of his words, she kissed her handto St. Renan, and bounded up the steep path, in the oppositedirection, with so fleet a step as soon carried her beyond the soundof all that followed, though that was neither silent nor of smallinterest. 

"Do you not hear me, madam. By Heaven! but you carry it off easily!"cried the young cavalier, setting off at speed, as if to follow her. "But you must run swifter than a roe if you look to 'scape me;" andwith the words, he attempted to rush past Raoul, of whom he affected, although he knew him well, to take no notice. 

But in that intent he was quickly frustrated, for the young countgrasped him by the collar as he endeavored to pass, with a grasp ofiron, and said to him in an ironical tone of excessive courtesy, "Sweet sir, I fear you have forgotten me, that you should give me thego-by thus, when it is so long a time since we have met, and we suchdear friends, too, "

But the young man was in earnest, and very angry, and struggled torelease himself from St. Renan's grasp, until, having no strongreasons for forbearance, but many for the reverse, Raoul, too, losthis temper. 

"By heaven!" he exclaimed, "I believe that you do _not_ know me, oryou would not dare to suppose that I would suffer you to follow a ladywho seeks not your presence or society. "

"Let me go, St. Renan!" returned the other fiercely, laying his handon his dagger's hilt. "Let me go, villain, or you shall rue it!"

"Villain!" Raoul repeated, calmly, "villain! It is so you call me, hey?" and he did instantly release him, drawing his sword as he didso. "Draw, De Pontrien--that word has cost you your life!"

"Yes, villain!" repeated the other, "villain to you teeth! But youlie! it is your life that is forfeit--forfeit to my brother's honor!"

"Ha! ha!" laughed Raoul, savagely. "Ha-ha-ha-ha! your brother's honor!who the devil ever heard before of a pandar's honor--even if he wereSir Pandarus to a king? Sa! sa!--have at you!"

Their blades crossed instantly, and they fought fiercely, and withsomething like equality for some ten minutes. The Chevalier dePontrien was far more than an ordinary swordsman, and he was inearnest, not angry, but savage and determined, and full of bitterhatred, and a fixed resolution to punish the familiarity of Raoul withhis brother's wife. But that was a thing easier proposed thanexecuted; for St. Renan, who had left France as a boy already aperfect master of fence, had learned the practice of the blade againstthe swordsmen of the East, the finest swordsmen of the world, and hadadded to skill, science and experience, the iron nerves, the deepbreath, and the unwearied strength of a veteran. 

If he fought slowly, it was that he fought carefully--that he meantthe first wound to be the last. He was resolved that De Pontrien nevershould return home again to divulge what he had seen, and he had thecoolness, the skill, and the power to carry out his resolution. 

At the end of ten minutes he attacked. Six times within as manyseconds he might have inflicted a severe, perhaps a deadly wound onhis antagonist; and he, too, perceived it, but it would not have beensurely mortal. 

"Come, come!" cried De Pontrien, at last, growing impatient and angryat the idea of being played with. "Come, sir, you are my master, itseems. Make an end of this. "

"Do not be in a hurry, " replied St. Renan, with a deadly smile, "itwill come soon enough. There! will that suit you?"

And with the word he made a treble feint and lounged home. So true wasthe thrust that the point pierced the very cavity of his heart. Sostrongly was it sent home that the hilt smote heavily on hisbreast-bone. He did not speak or groan, but drew one short, brokensigh, and fell dead on the instant. 

"The fool!" muttered St. Renan. "Wherefore did he meddle where he hadno business? But what the devil shall I do with him? He must not befound, or all will out--and that were ruin. "

As he spoke, a distant clap of thunder was heard to the eastward, anda few heavy drops of rain began to fall, while a heavy mass of blackthunder-clouds began to rise rapidly against the wind. 

"There will be a fierce storm in ten minutes, which will soon wash outall this evidence, " he said, looking down at the trampled andblood-stained greensward. "One hour hence, and there will not be asign of this, if I can but dispose of him. Ha!" he added, as a quickthought struck him, "The Devil's Drinking-Cup! Enough! it is done!"

Within a minute's space he had swathed the corpse tightly in thecloak, which had fallen from the wretched man's shoulders as the fraybegan, bound it about the waist by the scarf, to which he attachedfirmly an immense block of stone, which lay at the brink of thefearful well, which was now--for the tide was up--brimful of whiteboiling surf, and holding his breath atween resolution and abhorrence, hurled it into the abyss. 

It sunk instantly, so well was the stone secured to it; and the fateof the Chevalier de Pontrien never was suspected, for that fatal poolnever gave up its dead, nor will until the judgment-day. 

Meantime the flood-gates of heaven were opened, and a mimic torrent, rushing down the dark glen, soon obliterated every trace of thatstern, short affray. 

Calmly Raoul strode homeward, and untouched by any conscience, forthose were hard and ruthless times, and he had undergone so much wrongat the hands of his victim's nearest relatives, and dearest friends, that it was no great marvel if his blood were heated, and his heartpitiless. 

"I will have masses said for his soul in Paris, " he muttered tohimself; and therewith, thinking that he had more than discharged alla Christian's duty, he dismissed all further thoughts of the matter, and actually hummed a gay opera tune as he strode homeward through thepelting storm, thinking how soon he should be blessed by thepossession of his own Melanie. 

No observation was made on his absence, either by the steward or anyof the servants, on his return, though he was well-nigh drenched withrain, for they remembered his old half-boyish, half-romantic habits, and it seemed natural to them that on his first return, after so manyyears of wandering, to scenes endeared to him by innumerable fondrecollections, he should wander forth alone to muse with his own soulin secret. 

There was great joy, however, in the hearts of the old servitors andtenants in consequence of his return, and on the following morning, and still on the third day, that feeling of joy and security continuedto increase, for it soon got abroad that the young lord's grief andgloominess of mood was wearing hourly away, and that his lip, and hiswhole countenance were often lighted up with an expression whichshowed, as they fondly augured, that days and years of happiness wereyet in store for him. 

It was not long before the tidings reached him that the house ofD'Argenson was in great distress concerning the sudden andunaccountable disappearance of the Chevalier de Pontrien, who hadwalked out, it was said, on the preceding afternoon, promising to beback at supper-time, and who had not been heard of since. 

Raoul smiled grimly at the intimation, but said nothing, and thenarrator judging that St. Renan was not likely to take offence at theimputations against the family of Ploermel, proceeded to inform him, that in the opinion of the neighborhood there was nothing verymysterious, after all, in the disappearance of the chevalier, since hewas known to be very heavily in debt, and was threatened with deadlyfeud by the old Sieur de Plouzurde, whose fair daughter he haddeceived to her undoing. Robinet, the smuggler's boat, had been seenoff the Penmarcks when the moon was setting, and no one doubted thatthe gay gallant was by this time off the coast of Spain. 

To all this, though he affected to pay little heed to it, Raoulinclined an eager and attentive ear, and as a reward for his patientlistening, was soon informed, furthermore, that the bridegroom marquisand the beautiful bride, being satisfied, it was supposed, of thechevalier's safety, had departed for Paris, their journey having beenpostponed only in consequence of the research for the missinggentleman, from the morning when it should have taken place, to theafternoon of the same day. 

For two days longer did Raoul tarry at St. Renan, apparently as freefrom concern or care about the fair Melanie de Ploermel, as if he hadnever heard her name. And on this point alone, for all men knew thathe once loved her, did his conduct excite any observation, or callforth comment. His silence, however, and external nonchalance wereattributed at all hands to a proper sense of pride and self-respect;and as the territorial vassals of those days held themselves in somedegree ennobled or disgraced by the high bearing or recreancy of theirlords, it was very soon determined by the men of St. Renan that itwould have been very disgraceful and humiliating had their lord, theLord of Douarnez and St. Renan, condescended to trouble his head aboutthe little demoiselle d'Argenson. 

Meanwhile our lover, whose head was in truth occupied about no otherthing than that very same little demoiselle, for whom he was believedto feel a contempt so supreme, had thoroughly investigated all hisaffairs, thereby acquiring from his old steward the character of anadmirable man of business, had made himself perfectly master of thereal value of his estates, droits, dues and all connected with thesame, and had packed up all his papers, and such of his valuables aswere movable, so as to be transported easily by means of pack-horses. 

This done, leaving orders for a retinue of some twenty of his best andmost trusty servants to follow him as soon as the train and relays ofhorses could be prepared, he set off with two followers only toreturn, riding post, as he had come, from Paris. 

He was three days behind the lady of his love at starting; but thejourney from the western extremity of Bretagne to the metropolis is atall times a long and tedious undertaking; and as the roads and meansof conveyance were in those days, he found it no difficult task tocatch up with the carriages of the marquis, and to pass them on theroad long enough before they reached Paris. 

Indeed, though he had set out three days behind them, he succeeded inanticipating their arrival by as many, and had succeeded intransacting more than half the business on which his heart was bent, before he received the promised visit from the pretty Rose Faverney, who, prompted by her desire to renew her intimacy with the handsomepage, came punctual to her appointment. He had not, of course, admitted the good old churchman, his uncle, into all his secrets; hehad not even told him that he had seen the lady, much less what werehis hopes and views concerning her. 

But he did tell him that he was so deeply mortified and wounded by herdesertion, that he had determined to sell his estates, to leave Franceforever, and to betake himself to the new American colonies on the St. Lawrence. 

There was not in the state of France in those days much to admire, ormuch to induce wise men to exert their influence over the young andnoble, to induce them to linger in the neighborhood of a court whichwas in itself a very sink of corruption. It was with no greatdifficulty, therefore, that Raoul obtained the concurrence of hisuncle, who was naturally a friend to gallant and adventurous daring. The estates of St. Renan, the old castle and the home park, with a fewhundred acres in its immediate vicinity only excepted, were convertedinto gold with almost unexampled rapidity. 

A part of the gold was in its turn converted into a gallant brigantineof some two hundred tons, which was despatched at once along the coastof Douarnez bay, there to take in a crew of the hardy fishermen andsmugglers of that stormy shore, all men well-known to Raoul de St. Renan, and well content to follow their young lord to the world'send, should such be his will. 

Here, indeed, I have anticipated something the progress of events, forhurry it as much as he could in those days, St. Renan could not, ofcourse, work miracles; and though the brigantine was purchased, whereshe lay ready to sail, at Calais, the instant the sale of St. Renanwas determined, without awaiting the completion of the transfer, orthe payment of the purchase-money, many days had elapsed before thenews could be sent from the capital to the coast, and the vesseldespatched to Britanny. 

Every thing was, however, determined; nay, every thing was in processof accomplishment before the arrival of the fair lady and her nominalhusband, so that at his first interview with Rose, Raoul was enabledto lay all his plans before her, and to promise that within a month atthe furthest, every thing would be ready for their certain and safeevasion. 

He did not fail, however, on that account to impress upon the prettymaiden, who, as Jules was to accompany his lord, though not a hint ofwhither had been breathed to any one, was doubly devoted to thesuccess of the scheme, that a method must be arranged by which hecould have daily interviews with the lovely Melanie; and this shepromised that she would use all her powers to induce her mistress topermit, saying, with a gay laugh, that her permission gained, all therest was easy. 

The next day, the better to avoid suspicion, Raoul was presented tothe king, in full court, by his uncle, on the double event of hisreturn from India, and of his approaching departure for the colony ofAcadie, for which it was his present purpose to sue for his majesty'sconsent and approbation. 

The king was in great good humor, and nothing could have been moreflattering or more gracious than Raoul de St. Renan's reception. Louishad heard that very morning of the fair Melanie's arrival in the city, and nothing could have fallen out more _apropos_ than the intention ofher quondam lover to depart at this very juncture, and that, too, foran indefinite period from the land of his birth. 

Rejoicing inwardly at his good fortune, and of course, ascribing theconduct of the young man to pique and disappointment, the king, whilehe loaded him with honors and attentions, did not neglect to encouragehim in his intention of departing on a very early day, and evenoffered to facilitate his departure by making some remissions in hisbehalf from the strict regulations of the Douane. 

All this was perfectly comprehensible to Raoul; but he was far toowise to suffer any one, even his uncle, to perceive that he understoodit; and while he profited to the utmost by the readiness which hefound in high places to smooth away all the difficulties from hispath, he laughed in his sleeve as he thought what would be the fury ofthe licentious and despotic sovereign when he should discover that thevery steps which he had taken to remove a dangerous rival, hadactually cast the lady into that rival's arms. 

Nor had this measure of Raoul's been less effectual in sparing Melaniemuch grief and vexation, than it had proved in facilitating his ownschemes of escape; for on that very day, within an hour after hisreception of St. Renan, the king caused information to be conveyed tothe Marquis de Ploermel that the presentation of Madame should bedeferred until such time as the Vicomte de St. Renan should have setsail for Acadie, which it was expected would take place within a monthat the furthest. 

That evening, when Rose Faverney was admitted to the young lord'spresence, through the agency of the enamored Jules, she brought himpermission to visit her lady at midnight in her own chamber; and shebrought with her a plan, sketched by Melanie's own hand, of thegarden, through which, by the aid of a master-key and a rope-ladder, he was to gain access to her presence. 

"My lady says, Monsieur Raoul, " added the merry girl, with a lightlaugh, "that she admits you only on the faith that you will keep theword which you plighted to her, when last you met, and on thecondition that I shall be present at all your interviews with her. "

"Her honor were safe in my hands, " replied the young man, "withoutthat precaution. But I appreciate the motive, and accept thecondition. "

"You will remember, then, my lord--at midnight. There will be onelight burning in the window, when that is extinguished, all will besafe, and you may enter fearless. Will you remember?"

"Nothing but death shall prevent me. Nor that, if the spirits of thedead may visit what they love best on earth. So tell her, Rose. Farewell!"

Four hours afterward St. Renan stood in the shadow of a dense trellicein the garden, watching the moment when that love-beacon shouldexpire. The clock of St. Germain l'Auxerre struck twelve, and at theinstant all was darkness. Another minute and the lofty wall wasscaled, and Melanie was in the arms of Raoul. 

It was a strange, grim, gloomy gothic chamber, full of strange nichesand recesses of old stone-work. The walls were hung with gildedtapestries of Spanish leather, but were interrupted in many places bythe antique stone groinings of alcoves and cup-boards, one of which, close beside the mantlepiece, was closed by a curiously carved door ofheavy oak-work, itself sunk above a foot within the embrasure of thewall. 

Lighted as it was only by the flickering of the wood-fire on thehearth, for the thickness of the walls, and the damp of the oldvaulted room rendered a fire acceptable even at midsummer, thatantique chamber appeared doubly grim and ghostly; but little cared theyoung lovers for its dismal seeming; and if they noticed it at all, itwas but to jest at the contrast of its appearance with the happy hourswhich they passed within it. 

Happy, indeed, they were--almost too happy--though as pure andguiltless as if they had been hours spent within a nunnery of thestrictest rule, and in the presence of a sainted abbess. 

Happy, indeed, they were; and although brief, oft repeated. For, thenceforth, not a night passed but Raoul visited his Melanie, andtarried there enjoying her sweet converse, and bearing to her everyday glad tidings of the process of his schemes, and of the certaintyof their escape, until the approach of morning warned him to make goodhis retreat ere envious eyes should be abroad to make espials. 

And ever the page, Jules, kept watch at the ladder-foot in the garden;and the true maiden, Rose, who ever sate within the chamber with thelovers during their stolen interviews, guarded the door, with ears askeen as those of Cerberus. 

A month had passed, and the last night had come, and all wassuccessful--all was ready. The brigantine lay manned and armed, and atall points prepared for her brief voyage at an instant's notice atCalais. Relays of horses were at each post on the road. Raoul hadtaken formal leave of the delighted monarch. His passport wassigned--his treasures were on board his good ship--his pistols wereloaded--his horses were harnessed for the journey. 

For the last time he scaled the ladder--for the last time he stoodwithin the chamber. 

Too happy! ay, they were too happy on that night, for all was done, all was won; and nothing but the last step remained, and that step soeasy. The next morning Melanie was to go forth, as if to early mass, with Rose and a single valet. The valet was to be mastered andoverthrown as if in a street broil, the lady, with her damsel, was tostep into a light caleshe, which should await her, with her lovermounted at its side, and high for Calais--England--without therisk--the possibility of failure. 

That night he would not tarry. He told his happy tidings, clasped herto his heart, bid her farewell till to-morrow, and in another momentwould have been safe--a step sounded close to the door. Rose sprang toher feet, with her finger to her lip, pointing with her left hand tothe deep cupboard-door. 

She was right--there was not time to reach the window--at the sameinstant, as Melanie relighted the lamp, not to be taken in mysteriousand suspicious darkness, the one door closed upon the lover just asthe other opened to the husband. 

But rapid and light as were the motions of Raoul, the treacherous doorby which he had passed into his concealment, trembled still asPloermel entered. And Rose's quick eye saw that he marked it. 

But if he saw it, he gave no token, made no allusion to the leastdoubt or suspicion; on the contrary, he spoke more gayly and kindlythan his wont. He apologized for his untimely intrusion, saying thather father had come suddenly to speak with them, concerning herpresentation at court, which the king had appointed for the next day, and wished, late as it was, to see her in the saloon below. 

Nothing doubting the truth of his statement, which Raoul's intendeddeparture rendered probable, Melanie started from her chair, andtelling Rose to wait, for she would back in an instant, hurried out ofthe room, and took her way toward the great staircase. 

The marquis ordered Rose to light her mistress, for the corridor wasdark; and as the girl went out to do so, a suppressed shriek, and thefaint sounds of a momentary scuffle followed, and then all was still. 

A hideous smile flitted across the face of de Ploermel, as he casthimself heavily into an arm-chair, opposite to the door of thecupboard in which St. Renan was concealed, and taking up a silver bellwhich stood on the table, rung it repeatedly and loudly for a servant. 

"Bring wine, " he said, as the man entered. "And, hark you, the masonsare at work in the great hall, and have left their tools and materialsfor building. Let half a dozen of the grooms come up hither, and bringwith them brick and mortar. I hate the sight of that cupboard, andbefore I sleep this night, it shall be built up solid with a good wallof mason-work; and so here's a health to the rats within it, and along life to them!" and he quaffed off the wine in fiendish triumph. 

He spoke so loud, and that intentionally, that Raoul heard every wordthat he uttered. 

But if he hoped thereby to terrify the lover into discovering himself, and so convicting his fair and innocent wife, the villain wasdeceived. Raoul heard every word--knew his fate--knew that one word, one motion would have saved him; but that one word, one motion wouldhave destroyed the fair fame of his Melanie. 

The memory of the death of that unhappy Lord of Kerguelen camepalpably upon his mind in that dread moment, and the comments of hisdead father. 

"I, at least, " he muttered, between his hard set teeth, "I at least, will not be evidence against her. I will die silent--_fiel a lamuerte_!"

And when the brick and mortar were piled by the hands of theunconscious grooms, and when the fatal trowels clanged and jarredaround him, he spake not--stirred not--gave no sign. 

Even the savage wretch, de Ploermel, unable to believe in theexistence of such chivalry, such honor, half doubted if he were notdeceived, and the cupboard were not untenanted by the true victim. 

Higher and higher rose the wall before the oaken door; and by theexclusion of the light of the many torches by which the men wereworking, the victim must have marked, inch by inch, the progress ofhis living immersement. The page, Jules, had climbed in silence to thewindow's ledge, and was looking in, an unseen spectator, for he hadheard all that passed from without, and suspected his lord's presencein the fatal precinct. 

But as he saw the wall rise higher--higher--as he saw the last brickfastened in its place solid, immovable from within, and that withoutstrife or opposition, he doubted not but that there was some concealedexit by which St. Renan had escaped, and he descended hastily andhurried homeward. 

Now came the lady's trial--the trial that shall prove to de Ploermelwhether his vengeance was complete. She was led in with Rose, aprisoner. _Lettres de cachet_ had been obtained, when the treason ofsome wretched subordinate had revealed the secret of her intendedflight with Raoul; and the officers had seized the wife by theconnivance of the shameless husband. 

"See!" he said, as she entered, "see, the fool suffered himself to bewalled up there in silence. There let him die in agony. You, madam, may live as long as you please in the Bastille, _au secret_. "

She saw that all was lost--her lover's sacrifice was made--she couldnot save him! Should she, by a weak divulging of the truth, render hisgrand devotion fruitless? Never!

Her pale cheek did not turn one shade the paler, but her keen eyeflashed living fire, and her beautiful lip writhed with loathing andscorn irrepressible. 

"It is thou who art the fool!" she said, "who hast made all this coil, to wall up a poor cat in a cupboard, as it is thou who art the baseknave and shameless pandar, who hast attempted to do murther, and allto sell thine own wife to a corrupt and loathsome tyrant!"

All stood aghast at her fierce words, uttered with all the eloquenceand vehemence of real passion, but none so much as Rose, who had neverbeheld her other than the gentlest of the gentle. Now she wore theexpression, and spoke with the tone of a young Pythoness, full of thefury of the god. 

She sprung forward as she uttered the last words, extricating herselffrom the slight hold of the astonished officers, and rushed toward hercowed and craven husband. 

"But in all things, mean wretch, " she continued, in tones of fieryscorn, "in all things thou art frustrate--thy vengeance is naught, thyvile ambition naught, thyself and thy king, fools, knaves, andfrustrate equally. And now, " she added, snatching the dagger whichRaoul had given her from the scabbard, "now die, infamous, accursedpandar!" and with the word she buried the keen weapon at one quickand steady stroke to the very hilt in his base and brutal heart. 

Then, ere the corpse had fallen to the earth, or one hand of all thosethat were stretched out to seize her had touched her person, she smoteherself mortally with the same reeking weapon, and only crying out ina clear, high voice, "Bear witness, Rose, bear witness to my honor!Bear witness all that I die spotless!" fell down beside the body ofher husband, and expired without a struggle or a groan. 

Awfully was she tried, and awfully she died. Rest to her soul if it bepossible. 

The caitiff Marquis de Ploermel perished, as she had said, in allthings frustrated; for though his vengeance was in very deed complete, he believed that it had failed, and in his very agony that failure washis latest and his worst regret. 

On the morrow, when St. Renan returned not to his home, the page gavethe alarm, and the fatal wall was torn down, but too late. 

The gallant victim of love's honor was no more. Doomed to a lingeringdeath he had died speedily, though by no act of his own. Ablood-vessel had burst within, through the violence of his ownemotions. Ignorant of the fate of his sweet Melanie, he had died, ashe had lived, the very soul of honor; and when they buried him, in theold chapel of his Breton castle, beside his famous ancestors, nonenobler lay around him; and the brief epitaph they carved upon hisstone was true, at least, if it were short and simple, for it ran onlythus--

 =Raoul de St. Renan. 

 Fiel a la Muerte. =

THE POET'S HEART. --TO MISS O. B. 

BY CHARLES E. TRAIL. 

 Like rays of light, divinely bright, Thy sunny smiles o'er all disperse; And let the music of thy voice, More softly flow than Lesbian verse. By all the witchery of love, By every fascinating art-- The worldly spirit strive to move, But spare, O spare, the Poet's heart!

 Within its pure recesses, deep, A fount of tender feeling lies; Whose crystal waters, while they sleep, Reflect the light of starry skies. Thy voice might prophet-like unclose Its bonds, and bid those waters start, But why disturb their sweet repose? Spare, lady, spare the Poet's heart!

 It cannot be that one so fair, The idol of the courtly throng-- Would condescend his lot to share, And bless the lowly child of song, Would realize the soul-wrought dreams, That of his being form a part, And mingle with his sweetest themes; Then spare, O spare, the poet's heart!

 The poet's heart! ye know it not, Its hopes, its sympathies, its fears; The joys that glad its humble lot; The griefs that melt it into tears. 'Tis like some flower, that from the ground Scarce dares to lift its petals up, Though honeyed sweets are ever found Indwelling in its golden cup. 

 Love comes to him in sweeter guise, Than he appears to other men-- Heav'n-born, descended from the skies, And longing to return again. But bid him not with me abide, If he can no relief impart; Ah, hide those smiles, those glances hide, And spare, O spare, the Poet's heart!

THE RETURN TO SCENES OF CHILDHOOD. 

BY GRETTA. 

 "You have come again, " said the dark old trees, As I entered my childhood's home. "You have come again, " said the whispering breeze, "And wherefore have you come?

 "When last I played round your youthful brow Its morning's light was there, But you bring back a shadow upon it now, And a saddened look of care. 

 "Have you come, have you left earth's noisy strife, To seek your favorite flowers? They are gone, like the hopes which lit your life, Like your childhood's sunny hours. 

 "Have you come to seek for your shady dell, For that spot in the moonlit grove, Where first you were bound by the magic spell, And thrilled to the voice of love?

 "Has your heart been true to that early vow, And pure as that trickling tear? Does that voice of music charm you now As once it charmed you here?

 "Years have been short, and few, since last As a child you roamed the glen; But what have you learned since hence you passed, What have you lost since then?

 "You have brought back a woman's ruddier cheek, A woman's fuller form, But where is the look so timid and meek, The blush so quick and warm?

 "Have you come to seek for the smiles of yore, For your brief life's faded light? Do you hope to hear in these shades once more The blessing and 'good-night?'

 "Do you come again for the kisses sweet, Do you look as you onward pass For the mingled prints of the tiny feet In the fresh and springing grass?

 "Have you come to sit on a parent's knee And gaze on his reverend brow? Or to nestle in love and childish glee On her bosom, that's pulseless now?

 "Why come you back? We can give you naught, No more the past is ours, Thine early scenes with their blessings fraught, Thy childhood's golden hours. "

 I have come, I have come, oh haunts of youth, With a worn and weary heart; I have come to recall the love and truth Of my young life's guileless part. 

 I have come to bend o'er the holy spot Where I prayed by a father's knee-- Oh I am changed--but I ne'er forgot His look, his smile for me. 

 I have not been true to my heart's first love Here pledged 'neath the moonlit heaven, But I come to kneel in the lonely grove And ask to be forgiven. 

 I have not brought back the hopes of youth, Or the gentle look so meek, I mourn o'er my perished faith and truth And the quick blush of my cheek. 

 But, oh ye scenes, that have once beguiled, In the peaceful days of yore. I would come again like a little child With the trust I knew before. 

 I would call back every hope and fear, The heart throbs full and high, The prattling child that rambled here, And ask if it were _I_?

 And I would recall the murmured prayer, And the dark eyes look of love, While unseen angels hovered there From the starry worlds above. 

 And I've come to seek one flower here, Just one, in its fading bloom, Though it must be culled with a gushing tear From a parent's grassy tomb. 

 And I'll bear it away on my lonely breast, As a charm 'mid earth's stormy strife, An amulet, worn to give me rest, On the billowy waves of life. 

 I wait not now by the dancing rill For the steps of my playmates fair-- They are gone--but yon heaven is o'er me still, And I'll seek to meet them there. 

 Parents, and friends, and hopes are gone, And these memories only given, But they shall be links, while the heart is lone, In the "chain" that reaches heaven. 

SUNSHINE AND RAIN. 

BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. 

 O Blessed sunshine, and thrice-blessed rain, How ye do warm and melt the rugged soil, -- Which else were barren, nathless all my toil And summon Beauty from her grave again, To breathe live odors o'er my scant domain: How softly from their parting buds uncoil The furléd sweets, no more a shriveled spoil To the loud storm, or canker's silent bane; Were it all sun, the heat would shrink them up; Were it all shower, then piteous blight were sure; Now hangs the dew in every nodding cup, Shooting new glories from its orblets pure. Sunshine and shower, I shrink from your extremes, But with delight behold your blended gleams. 

THE CHRISTMAS GARLAND. 

BY MISS EMMA WOOD. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE BOARDING-SCHOOL. 

Christmas is coming! The glad sound awakes a thrill of joy in many aheart. The children clap their tiny hands and laugh aloud in theexuberance of their mirth as bright visions of varied toys and richconfectionary flit before their minds. The sound of merry sports--thegathering of the social band--the banquet--all are scenes of joy. Shout on bright children, for your innocent mirth will rise as incenseto Him who was even as one of you. The Son of God once reposed hishead upon a mortal breast and wept the tears of infancy. Now risen toHis throne of glory, his smile is still upon you, bright Blossoms ofBlessedness. 

Christmas is coming! is the cry of the young and gay, and with lighthearts they prepare for the approaching festival. The holyday robesare chosen, and the presents selected which shall bring joy to so manyhearts. The lover studies to determine what gift will be acceptable tohis mistress, and the maiden dreams of love-tokens and honeyed words. Nor is the church forgotten amid the gathering of holyday array, forthat, too, must be robed in beauty. The young claim its adornment astheir appropriate sphere, and rich garlands of evergreen, mingled withscarlet berries, are twined around its pillars, or festooned along itswalls. Swiftly speeds their welcome task, and a calm delight fillstheir hearts, as they remember Him who assumed mortality, and passedthe ordeal of earthly life, that he might be, in all things, like untomankind. Blessed be this thought, ye joyous ones, and if after-yearsshall bring sorrow or bitterness, ye may remember that the Holiest hastrod that path before, and that deeper sorrow than mortality cansuffer, once rested upon his guiltless head. 

Christmas is coming! is the thought of the aged, and memory goes backto the joys of other years, when the pulses of life beat full andfree, and their keen sensibilities were awake to the perception of thebeautiful. Now the dim eye can no longer enjoy the full realization ofbeauty, and the ear is deaf to the melodies of Nature, but they candrink from the fountain of memory, and while looking upon the mirth ofthe youthful, recollect that once they, too, were light-hearted andjoyous. Blessed to them is the approaching festival, and as theycelebrate the birth of the Redeemer, they may remember that He borethe trials of life without a murmur, and laid down in the lone grave, to ensure the resurrection of the believer, while faith points to thehour when they shall inherit the glory prepared for them by Hismission of suffering. 

Christmas is coming! shouted we, the school-girls of MonteparaisoSeminary, as we rushed from the school-room, in glad anticipation, ofthe holydays. How gladly we laid down the books over which we had beenporing, vainly endeavoring to fix our minds upon their pages, andgathered in various groups to plan amusements for the coming festival. One week only, and the day would come, the pleasures of which we hadbeen anticipating for months. Our stockings must be hung up onChristmas Eve, though the pleasure was sadly marred because each of usmust, in our turn, represent the good Santa-Claus, and contribute tothe stockings of our schoolmates, instead of going quietly to bed, andfinding them filled on Christmas morning by the good saint, or some ofhis representatives. How eagerly we watched the Hudson each morning, to see if its waves remained unfettered by ice, not only because thedaily arrival of the steamboat from New York was an era in ourun-eventful lives, but there were many of our number whose parents orfriends resided in the city, from whom they expected visits orpresents. We were like a prisoned sisterhood, yet we did not pine inour solitude, for there were always wild, mirth-loving spirits in ourmidst, so full of fun and frolic that the exuberance of their spiritswas continually breaking out, much to the discomfort of tutors andgovernesses. When the holydays were approaching, and the strictdiscipline usually maintained among the pupils was somewhat relaxed, these outbreaks became more numerous, insomuch that lessons werecarelessly omitted, or left unlearned. When study hours were overmisrule was triumphant. Lizzie Lincoln could not find a seat at thetable where some of the older girls were manufacturing fancy articlesfor Christmas presents, and avenged herself by pinning together thedresses of the girls who were seated around the table, and afterwardfastening each dress to the carpet. Fan Selby saw the manoeuvre, andran to her room, where she equipped herself in a frightful lookingmask, which she had manufactured of brown paper, painted in horriddevices. Arrayed in this mask, and a long white wrapper, she camestalking in at the door of the sitting-room. In their fright the girlsscreamed and tried to rush from the table, when a scene of confusionensued which beggars description. The noise reached the ears of theteachers, who came from different parts of the house to the scene ofthe riot, but ere they reached it, Fan had deposited the mask out ofsight in her own room, and was again in her place, looking as innocentas if nothing had happened. She even aided the teachers in theirsearch for the missing "fright. " When this fruitless search was ended, and a monitress placed in the sitting-room to prevent further riots, a new alarm was raised. Mary Lee blackened her face with burnt cork, and entered the kitchen by the outside door, begging for coldvictuals, much to the terror of the raw Hibernians who were veryquietly sitting before the fire, and telling tales of the EmeraldIsle, for they feared a negro as they would some wild beast. They ranup stairs to give the alarm, but when they returned the bird hadflown, and while a fruitless search was instituted throughout thebasement, Mary was in her own room, hastily removing the ebon tingefrom her face. Such were a few among the many wild pranks of themischief spirits, invented to while away the time. Quite differentfrom this was the employment of the "sisterhood. " A number of theolder pupils of the school had seated themselves night after nightaround the table which stood in the centre of the sitting-room, innearly the same places, with their needle-work, until it was finallysuggested, that, after the manner of the older people, we should forma regularly organized society. Each member should every night take heraccustomed place, and one should read while the others were busy withtheir needle-work. To add a tinge of romance to the whole, we gave toeach of our members the name of some flower as a soubriquet by whichwe might be known, and Lizzie Lincoln (our secretary) kept a humorousdiary of the "Sayings and Doings of Flora's Sisterhood. " Anna Lincolnwas the presidentess of our society, and we gave her the name of Rose, because the queen of flowers seemed a fitting type of her majesticbeauty. But the favorite of all was Clara Adams, to whom the name ofViolet seemed equally appropriate. Her modesty, gentleness, andaffectionate disposition had won the love of all, from Annie Lincoln, the oldest pupil, down to little Ella Selby, who lisped her praises ofdear Clara Adams, and seemed to love her far better than she did herown mad-cap sister. 

When we celebrated May-day Clara was chosen queen of May, thoughLizzie Lincoln was more beautiful, and Anna seemed more queenly. Itwas the instinctive homage that young hearts will pay to goodness andpurity, which made us feel as if she deserved the brightest crown wecould bestow. If one of us were ill, Clara could arrange the pillowsor bathe the throbbing temples more tenderly than any other, andbitter medicines seemed less disgusting when administered by her. Wasthere a hard lesson to learn, a difficult problem to solve, arebellious drawing that would take any form or shadowing but the rightone, Clara was the kind assistant, and either task seemed equally easyto her. While we sat around the table that evening, little Ella Selbywas leaning on the back of Clara's chair, and telling, in her ownchildish way, of the manifold perfections of one Philip Sidney, aclassmate of her brother in college, who had spent a vacation with himat her home. Ella was quite sure that no other gentleman was half sohandsome, so good, or kind as Mr. Sidney, and she added, "I know he loves Clara, for I have told him a great deal about her, and he says that he does. "

The girls all laughed at her simple earnestness, and bright blushesrose in Clara's face. Many prophecies for the future were based onthis slight foundation, and Clara was raised to the rank of a heroine. It needs but slight fuel to feed the flame of romance in aschool-girl's breast, and these dreamings might long have beenindulged but for an interruption. A servant came, bringing a basket, with a note from the ladies engaged in decorating the church, requesting the young ladies of the school to prepare the letters for amotto on the walls of the church. The letters were cut frompasteboard, to be covered with small sprigs of box. Pleased with thenovelty of our task we were soon busily engaged, under the directionof Clara and Anna Lincoln. Even the "mischief spirits" ceased theirrevels to watch our progress. Thus passed that evening, and as thenext day was Saturday, and of course a holyday, we completed our work. The garlands were not to be hung in the church until the Wednesdayfollowing, as Friday was Christmas day. We employed ourselves afterstudy hours the intervening days in finishing the presents we hadcommenced for each other. On Wednesday morning Lucy Gray, one of ourday-scholars, brought a note from her mother, requesting that shemight be excused from her afternoon lessons, and inviting the teachersand young ladies of the school to join them in dressing the church. Here was a prospect for us of some rare enjoyment; and how we pleadfor permission, and promised diligence and good behaviour for thefuture, those who remember their own school-days can easily imagine. At length permission was granted that Anna and Lizzie Lincoln, FanSelby, Clara Adams, and I, accompanied by one of the teachers, mightassist them for an hour or two in the afternoon. Never did hours seemlonger to us than those that passed after the permission was giventill we were on our way. The village was about half a mile from ourseminary, but the walk was a very pleasant one, and when we reachedthe church our faces glowed with exercise in the keen December air. Wefound a very agreeable company assembled there, laughing and chattinggayly as they bound the branches of evergreen together in richwreaths. Our letters were fastened to the walls, forming a beautifulinscription, and little remained to be done, save arranging thegarlands. Clara and Fan Selby finished the wreaths for the altar, andwere fastening them in their places, when a new arrival caused Fan todrop her wreath, and hasten toward the new-comers, exclaiming, "Brother Charles, I am so glad to see you!"

Then, after cordially greeting his companion, she asked eagerly of herbrother, "Have you come to take us home?"

"No, mad-cap, " was the laughing reply, "we are but too glad to be freefor one Christmas from your wild pranks. Sidney is spending theChristmas holydays with me, and as the day was fine we thought wewould visit you. When we reached the village we learned that severalof the young ladies of the school were at the church, and called, thinking that you might be of the number. "

Turning to Sidney, Fan said, playfully, "Follow me, and I will introduce you to Ella's favorite, Clara Adams. "

Before Clara had time to recover from her confusion caused by theirentrance Fan had led Philip Sidney to her, and introduced him as thefriend of whom little Ella had told her so much. The eloquent blushesin Clara's face revealed in part the dreams that had been excited inher breast, while Philip, with self-possessed gallantry, begged leaveto assist her in her task, and uttered some commonplace expressions, till Clara was sufficiently composed to take her part in conversation. The teacher who accompanied us, alarmed at his attention, placedherself near them, but his manner was so respectful that she couldfind no excuse to interrupt their conversation. Philip Sidney waseminently handsome, and as his dark eye rested admiringly upon her, who will wonder that Clara became more than usually animated! nor isit strange that the low, musical tones of his voice, breathingthoughts of poetry with the earnestness of love, should awaken a newtrain of thought in the simple school-girl. She answered in few words, but the drooping of her fringed lids and the bright color in her cheekreplied more eloquently than words. The moments flew swiftly, thegarlands were placed, and the teacher who had watched them with ananxious eye, announced that it was time to return to the seminary. Philip knew too well the strictness of boarding-school rules to hopefor a longer interview, yet even for the sake of looking longer on hergraceful figure, and perchance stealing another glance from her brighteyes, he insisted upon seeing little Ella. Charles Selby objected, asit was growing late, and he had an engagement for the evening in thecity. Reluctantly Philip bade Clara farewell, and from the door of thechurch watched her receding figure until she disappeared around theturn of the road. From that moment Clara was invested by herschoolmates with all the dignity of a heroine of romance, and half thegiddy girls in school teazed her mercilessly, and then laid theirheads upon their pillows only to dream of lovers. 

Christmas eve came. The elder ladies of the school accompanied ourPrincipal to the church to listen to the services of the evening. Wewere scarcely seated when we perceived nearly opposite to us, thatsame Philip Sidney, who was the hero of our romance. Poor Clara! I satby her side, and fancied I could hear the throbbing of her heart asthose dark, expressive eyes were fixed again on hers, speaking thelanguage of admiration too plainly to be mistaken. Then as theservices proceeded, his countenance wore a shadow of deeper thought, and his eyes were fixed upon the speaker. Thus he remained in earnestattention till the services closed. When we left the church, a smile, and bow of recognition passed between him and Clara, but no word wasspoken. Our sports that evening had no power to move her to mirth, butshe remained silent and abstracted. The next Saturday Mrs. Selby cameto see her daughter, and soon after her arrival, Fan laid a smallpackage on the table mysteriously, saying to Clara, "You must answerit immediately, " and left the room. Clara broke the seal, and as sheremoved the envelope, a ring, containing a small diamond, beautifullyset, fell to the floor. I picked it up, and looking on the inside, sawthe name of Philip Sidney. As soon as she had read the note, she gaveit to me, and placed the ring upon her finger. Then severing a smallbranch from a myrtle plant, which we kept in our room as a relic ofhome, she placed it, with a sprig of box, in an envelope, and, afterdirecting it to Philip Sidney, gave it to Fan, who enclosed it in aletter to her brother. The note which Clara gave me was as follows:

"Forgive my presumption, dear Clara, in addressing you, so lately astranger. Think not that I am an idle flatterer, when I say that yourbeauty and worth have awakened a deep love for you in my heart, andthis love must be my excuse. I would have sought another interviewwith you, but I know the rules of your school would have forbid, andthe only alternative remaining is to make this avowal, or be forgottenby you. I do not ask you now to promise to be mine, or even to loveme, till I have proved myself worthy of your affection. My past lifehas been one of thoughtlessness and inaction, but it shall be myendeavor in future to atone for those misspent years. Your image willever be with me as a bright spirit from whose presence I cannot flee, and whisper hope when my energies would fail. I only ask yourremembrance till I am worthy to claim your love. If you do not see meor hear from me at the end of five years, you may believe that I havefailed to secure the desired position in the world, or am no longerliving. Will you grant me this favor--to wear the ring enclosed, andsometimes think of me? If so, send me some token by Mrs. S. , to tellme that I may hope. "

The evergreens, with their language of love and constancy were thetoken, and the ring sparkled upon Clara's finger, so that I knew wellthat Philip Sidney would not soon be forgotten. 

CHAPTER II. 

A GLANCE AT HOME. 

The little village of Willowdale is situated in one of those romanticdells which are found here and there among the hills of Massachusetts. A small stream, tributary to the Connecticut, flows through thevillage, so small that it is barely sufficient to furnish thenecessary mill-seats for the accommodation of a community of farmers, but affording no encouragement to manufacturers. It is to this reason, perhaps, that we may attribute the fact that a place, which wasamongst the earliest settlements of Massachusetts, should remain tothis day so thinly inhabited. The rage for manufactures, so prevalentin New England, has led speculators to place factories on every streamof sufficient power to keep them in operation, and a spirit ofenterprise and locomotion has caused railroads to pass throughsections of the country hitherto unfrequented by others than tillersof the soil. Cities have sprung up where before were only smallvillages, and brisk little villages are found, where a few years agowere only solitary farm-houses. But in spite of all such changes, Willowdale has escaped the ravages of these merciless innovators. Theglassy river still glides on in its natural bed, and even the willowson its banks, from which the village takes its name, are suffered tostand, unscathed by the woodman's axe. The "iron horse" has neverdisturbed the inhabitants by his shrill voice, and the rattling ofcars has not broken upon the stillness of a summer-day. The village isnot on the direct route from any of the principal cities to others, consequently the inhabitants suffer little apprehension of havingtheir fine farms cut up by rail-road tracks. The village consists ofone principal street, with houses built on both sides, at sufficientdistances from the street and each other, to admit of those neatyards, with shade-trees, flowers, and white fences, which are thepride of New England, and scattered among the surrounding fields aretasteful farm-houses. 

There are two houses of worship in the place: the Episcopal church, which was erected by the first settlers, before the revolution; andthe Congregationalist house, more recently built. There is but littletrade carried on in the place, and one store is sufficient to supplythe wants of the inhabitants. The Episcopal church stands on a slighteminence, at a little distance from the main street of the village, and a lane extending beyond it leads to the parsonage. A littlefarther down this lane is my father's house, and nearly opposite thehouse of Deacon Lee, the home of Clara Adams. Clara was left an orphanat an early age. Her father was the son of an early friend of the oldrector. The latter, having no children, adopted Henry Adams, andeducated him as his own son, in the hope of preparing him for theministry, but with that perversity so common in human nature, theyouth determined to become an artist. The rector, not wishing to forcehim unwillingly into the sacred office, consented that he shouldpursue his favorite art. He placed him under the tuition of one of thefirst painters in a neighboring city, hoping that his natural genius, aided by his ambition, might enable him to excel. Henry Adams followedhis new pursuit with all the ardor of an impetuous nature, till thebright eyes of Clara Lee won his heart, and his thoughts were directedin a new channel, until he had persuaded her to share his lot. Itproved, indeed, a darkened lot to the young bride. Her husband was areckless, unsatisfied being, and though he ever loved her with all theaffection of which such natures are capable, the warm expressions ofhis love, varied by fits of peevishness and ill-humor, were so unlikethe calm, unchanging devotedness of her nature that she felt a bitterdisappointment. Soon after the birth of their daughter his healthfailed, and he repaired to Italy for the benefit of a more genialclimate, and in the hope of perfecting himself in his art. He livedbut a few months after his arrival there, and the sad intelligencecame like a death-blow to his bereaved wife. She lingered a year atthe parsonage, a saddened mourner, and then her wearied spirit foundits rest. The old rector would gladly have nurtured the little orphanas his own child, but he could not resist the entreaties of DeaconLee, her mother's brother, and reluctantly consented to have herremoved to his house. Yet much of her time was spent at the parsonage, and growing up as it were in an atmosphere of love, it is not strangethat gentleness was the ruling trait of her character. Deacon Lee wasone of that much-scandalized class, the Congregationalist deacons ofNew England, who have so often been described with a pen dipped ingall, if we may judge from the bitterness of the sketches. Scribblersdelight in portraying them as rum-selling hypocrites, sly topers, lovers of gain, and fomenters of dissension, and so far has this beencarried, that no tale of Yankee cunning or petty fraud is completeunless the hero is a deacon. It is true there are far too many suchinstances in real life, where eminence in the church is their onlyhigh standing, and the name of religion is but a cloak for selfishvices, but it is equally true that among this class of men are thegood, the true, and kind, of the earth, whose lives are ruled by thesame pure principles which they profess. Such was Deacon Lee, and itwere well if there were more like him, to remove the stain whichothers of an opposite character have brought upon the office. He wasone of those whom sorrow purifies, and had bowed in humble resignationto heavy afflictions. Of a large family only one son had lived toattain the years of manhood. The mother of Clara had been very dear tohim, and he felt that her orphan child would supply, in a measure, theplace of his own lost ones. His wife was his opposite, and theirs wasone of those unaccountable unions where there is apparently no bond ofsympathy. Stern and exact in the performance of every duty, she wishedto enforce the same rigid observance upon others. The loss of herchildren had roused in her a zeal for religion, which, in one of awarmer temperament, would have been fanaticism. While her husband wasa worshiper from a love of God and his holy laws, she was prompted byfears of the wrath to come. He bowed in thankfulness, even while hewept their loss, to the Power that had borne his little ones to abrighter world, while her life gained new austerity from the thoughtthat they had been taken from her as a judgment on her worldliness andidolatry. She loved to dwell upon the sufferings of the PilgrimFathers of New England, and emulate their rigid lives, forgetting thatit was the dark persecution of the times in which they lived that leftthis impress upon their characters. Her husband loved to commend thegood deeds of their neighbors, while she was equally fond of censuringtransgressors. Perhaps the result of their efforts was better than itwould have been had both possessed the disposition of either one ofthem. Her firmness and energy atoned for the negligence resulting fromhis easy temper, and his sunny smile and kind words softened theasperity with which she would have ruled her household. Their son wasengaged in mercantile business in a neighboring city, and their homewould have been desolate but for the presence of little Clara. She wasthe sunshine of the old man's heart, and he forgot toil and wearinesswhen he sat down by his own fireside, with the merry prattler upon hisknee, and her little arms were twined about his neck. She was theimage of his lost sister, and it seemed to him but a little whilesince her mother had sat thus upon his knee, and lavished her caressesupon him. In spite of the predictions of the worthy dame that shewould be spoiled, he indulged her every wish, checking only theinclination to do wrong. Nor was the good lady herself withoutaffection for the little orphan, but she wished to engraft a portionof her own sternness into her nature, and in her horror of prelacy shedid not like to have such a connecting link between her family andthat of the rector. She had never loved Clara's father, yet she couldnot find it in her heart to be unkind to the little orphan, so shecontented herself with laying his faults and follies at the door ofthe church to which he belonged. Clara had been my playfellow frominfancy, and at the village school we had pursued our studiestogether. When my parents decided to place me at a boarding-school onthe banks of the Hudson, I plead earnestly with the deacon that Claramight go with me. Her aunt objected strenuously to her acquiring thesuperficial accomplishments of the world, but the old man for once inhis life was firm, and declared that Clara should have as good aneducation as any one in the vicinity. Accordingly we were placed atMonteparaiso Seminary, where was laid the scene of the last chapter. 

CHAPTER III. 

THE RETURN HOME. 

Our school-days passed, as school-days ever will, sometimes happily, and again lingering as if they would never be gone. Clara was stillthe same sweet, simple-minded innocent girl, but her mirth was subduedby thoughtfulness, though the calm tranquillity of her life wasunruffled by the new feeling that had found a place in her heart. Shepursued her studies with constant assiduity, and at the close of ourthird year at school, was the first scholar in the institution. Shewas advanced beyond others of her age when she entered, and hadimproved every opportunity to the best of her abilities after becominga member of the school. Three years was the period assigned for ourschool-days, and we were to return to Willowdale at the close of thattime. Though we loved our schoolmates dearly, we were happy to thinkof meeting once more with the friends from whom we had so long beenseparated. Anna Lincoln had left the year before, and Lizzie had takenher place as Presidentess of "the Sisterhood. " Fan Selby had left offher wild pranks and become quite sedate. Mary Lee was less boisterousin her mirth than formerly, and the younger members of the schoolseemed ready to take the places of those who were about to leave. Itwas sad for us when we bade farewell to the companions of years, though we were pleased with the thought of seeing more of the worldthan a school-girl's life would allow. I will not attempt to describeour joy when we were once more at our homes, nor the warm reception ofthose around our own firesides. Never was there a happier man than oldDeacon Lee, as he led Clara to the window, that he might better seethe rich bloom on her cheek, and the light of her eye. "Thank God!"was his fervent ejaculation, "that you have come to us in health. Iwas afraid that so much poring over books would make you look pale anddelicate, as your poor mother did before she died. How much you arelike what she was at your age. " Then with a feeling of childishdelight he opened the door of their rustic parlor, and showed her asmall collection of new books, a present from the rector, and a neatpiano, which he had purchased himself in Boston to surprise her on herreturn. 

"You are still the same dear, kind uncle, " said Clara, as she run herfingers over the keys, and found its tone excellent; "you are alwaysthinking of something to make me happy. How shall I ever repay yourkindness?"

"By enjoying it, " was his reply. "The old man has a right to indulgehis darling, and nothing else in this world can make him so happy asto see your rosy cheeks and bright eyes, and hear your merry voice;but let us hear you sing and play. "

Tears of delight glistened in the old man's eyes as she warbledseveral simple airs to a graceful accompaniment. Mrs. Lee sigheddeeply, and would have given them a long lecture upon the vanities andfrivolities of the world, had not Clara changed the strain, and sungsome of her favorite hymns. 

"Are you not tired?" asked her uncle, with his usual consideratekindness. "Come, let us go to the garden, and see the dahlias Iplanted, because I knew the other flowers would be killed by the frostbefore you came home. "

"With pleasure, " answered Clara; "but first let me sing a song that Ihave learned on purpose to please you. "

Then she sung the beautiful words, "He doeth all things well. " The oldman's eyes beamed with a holy light as he listened to the exquisitemusic which expressed the sentiments that had pervaded his life. Asshe rose from the piano, he laid his hands upon her head caressingly, saying, "Blessed be His name, who guards my treasures in Heaven, andhas still left me this rich possession on earth. " The old lady, meltedby the sight of his emotion, and the sentiment expressed, clasped herto her heart, and called her her own dear child. 

Months glided on with swift wings, and even Mrs. Lee was forced togive up her arguments against a fashionable education. She hadpredicted that Clara would be a fine lady, and feel above performingthe common duties of life; but every morning with the early dawn sheshared the tasks of her aunt, and seemed as much at home in the dairyor kitchen as when seated at her piano. Her step was as light andgraceful while tripping over the fields as it had been in the dance, and her fingers as skillful in making her own and her aunt's dresses, as they had been at her embroidery. The good dame had learned to lovethe piano, and more than once admitted that she would feel quitelonely without it. So she was fain to retreat from her position, bysaying that her old opinions held good as general rules, though Clarawas an exception, for no one else was ever like her. At length her oldfeelings revived when a young farmer in the neighborhood aspired tothe hand of Clara, and was kindly, though firmly, refused. She wassure that it came of pride, and that the novels she had read hadfilled her head with ideas of high life. But her good uncle came tothe rescue, and declared that her inclinations should not be crossed, and he had no wish that she should marry till she could be happierwith another than she was with them. Clara longed to tell him of heracquaintance with Philip Sidney, but she feared it would make himanxious, and resolved to say nothing till time had proved the truth ofher lover. From this time forth the subject of her marriage was notmentioned, and Clara was left free to pursue her own inclinations. Herpresence was a continual source of happiness to her uncle, and herlife flowed on like a gentle stream, diffusing blessings on all aroundher, while a sense of happiness conferred threw a lustre around everyhour. 

CHAPTER IV. 

CONCLUSION. 

Five years had passed since the commencement of our tale, and Claraand I still remained at our homes in Willowdale. Life had passedgently with us, and the friendship formed in our school-days remainedunbroken. It was sweet to recall those days; and we passed many apleasant hour in the renewal of old memories. Clara had heard nothingfrom Philip Sidney, save once, about a year before, when a letter fromFan Selby informed her that he had called on them. He had inquiredvery particularly after Clara, and said that he intended to visitWillowdale the following year, but where the intervening time was tobe passed she did not know. It seemed very strange to me that Clarashould not doubt his truth from his long silence, but her faithremained unshaken. 

It was the day before Christmas, and the young people of Willowdalewere assembled to finish the decorations of the church. The garlandswere hung in deep festoons along the walls, and twined around thepillars. The pulpit and altar were adorned with wreaths tastefullywoven of branches of box mingled with the dark-green leaves andscarlet berries of the holly, the latter gathered from trees which theold rector had planted in his youth, and carefully preserved for thispurpose. On the walls over the entrance was the inscription, "Glory toGod in the highest, on earth peace and good-will to men, " in letterscovered with box, after the model of those we had seen in ourschool-days. We surveyed our work with pleasure, mingled with anxietyto discover any improvement that might be made, for we knew that astranger was that night to address us. The growing infirmities of theold rector had for a long time rendered the duties of a pastor veryfatiguing to him, and he had announced to us the Sabbath before, thata young relative who had lately taken orders, would be with him onChristmas Eve, and assist him until his health should be improved. Thenews was unwelcome to the older members of the congregation, who hadbeen so long accustomed to hear instruction from their aged pastorthat the thought of seeing another stand in his place was fraught withpain to them. He had been truly their friend, sharing their joys andsorrows--and their hearts were linked to him as childrens' to aparent. At the baptismal font, the marriage altar, and the last sadrites of the departed, he had presided, and it seemed as if the voiceof a stranger must strike harshly upon their ears. But to the youngthere was pleasure in the thought of change; and though they dearlyloved the old man, the charm of novelty was thrown around their dreamsof his successor. No one knew his name, though rumor whispered that hehad just returned from England, where he had spent the last year. Nowonder, then, that we looked with critic eyes upon our work, eager toknow how it must appear to one who had traveled abroad, and lingeredamong the rich cathedrals of our fatherland. Clara alone seemedindifferent, and was often rallied on her want of interest in theyoung stranger, I alone read her secret, as she glanced at the gemwhich sparkled upon her finger, for I knew that her thoughts were withthe past--and Philip Sidney. 

Christmas Eve arrived, as bright and beautiful as the winter nights ofthe North. A light snow covered the ground, and the Frost King hadencrusted it with thousands of glittering diamonds. The broad expanseof the valley was radiant in the moonbeams, and the branches of thewillows were glittering with frosty gems. The church was brilliantlylighted, and the blaze from its long windows left a bright reflectionupon the pure surface of the snow. The merry ringing of sleigh-bellswere heard in every direction, and numerous sleighs deposited theirfair burden at the door. There was a general gathering of the youngpeople from ours and the neighboring villages, to witness the servicesof the evening, and brighter eyes than a city assembly could boast, flashed in the lamp-light. The garlands were more beautiful in thissubdued light than they had been in the glare of day, and theirrichness was like a magic spell of beauty to enthrall the senses ofthe beholder. Clara and I were seated in one of the pews directly infront of the altar, occasionally looking back to see the new arrivals, and return the greetings of friends from other villages. Suddenly theorgan swelled in a rich peal of music, and the old pastor entered, followed by the youthful stranger. There was no time to scrutinize thefeatures of the latter ere he knelt and concealed his face, yet therewas something in the jetty curls that rested upon his snowy surplice, as his head laid within his folded hands that looked familiar, andClara involuntarily grasped my hand. As he arose and opened theprayer-book to turn to the services of the evening, he took amomentary survey of the congregation. That glance was enough to tellus that the stranger was Philip Sidney. As his eye met Clara's, acrimson flush spread over his pale face, his dark eye glowed, and hishand trembled slightly as he turned over the leaves. It was but amoment ere he was calm and self-possessed again, and when he commencedreading the services his voice was clear and rich. The deepest silencepervaded the assembly, save when the responses rose from every part ofthe house. Then the organ peals, and the sweet voices of the choirjoined in the anthems, and again all was still. The charm of eloquenceis universally acknowledged, and the statesman, the warrior, andvotary of science have all wielded it as a weapon of might, but we cannever feel its irresistible power so fully as when listening to itsrichness from the pulpit. The perfect wisdom of holy writ, the majestyof thought, and purity of sentiment it inspires, will elevate the mindof the hearer above surrounding objects, and when to this power isadded beauty of language and a musical voice, the spell is deeper. Such was the charm that held all in silent attention while PhilipSidney spoke. The scene was one which would tend to fix the mind onthe event it was designed to commemorate, and the sweet music of hiswords might remind one of the angel's song proclaiming "Glory to Godin the highest, on earth peace and good-will to men. " Richer seemedits melody, and more beautiful his language, as he dwelt upon the loveand mercy of the Redeemer's mission, and the hope of everlasting lifeit brought to the perishing. He led them back to the hour when moraldarkness enshrouded the world, and mankind were doomed to perish underthe frown of an offended God. There was but one ray to cheer thegloom, the prophetic promise of the Messiah who should come to redeemthe world. To this they looked, and vainly dreamed that he shouldappear in regal splendor, to gather his followers and form a temporalkingdom. Far from this, the angel's song was breathed to simpleshepherds, and the star in the East pointed out a stable as the lowlybirth-place of the Son of God. He came, not to rule in splendor in thepalaces of kings, but to bring the gospel of peace to the lowliesthabitations, and fix his throne in the hearts of the meek andhumble-minded. He claimed no tribute of this world's wealth as anoffering, but the love and obedience of those whom he came to save. Earnestly the speaker besought his hearers to yield to their Saviourthe adoration which was his due, and requite His all-excelling lovewith the purest and deepest affections of their hearts. Every eye wasfixed upon the speaker, every ear intently listened to catch hiswords, and tears suffused the eyes so lately beaming with gayety. Atthe close of his eloquent appeal, there were few in that congregationunmoved. The closing prayers were read, the benediction pronounced, and the audience gradually left the house. Clara and I were the lastto leave our seats, and as we followed the crowd that had gathered inthe aisles before us she did not speak, but the hand that rested inmine trembled like a frightened bird. Suddenly a voice behind uswhispered the name of Clara. She turned and met the gaze of PhilipSidney. The trusting faith of years had its reward, and those so longsevered met again. Not wishing to intrude upon the joy of that moment, I left them, and followed on with the old rector. We walked on in thelittle foot-path that led to our homes; and while Clara's hand restedupon his arm, the young clergyman told the tale of his life sincetheir parting. 

"But how did it come, " asked Clara, "that you chose the sacredprofession of the ministry?"

"I cannot fully trace the source of the emotions that led me to becomea worshiper at the throne of the Holiest, unless it is true that thelove of the pure and good of earth is the first pluming of the soul'spinions for heaven. I went to church that Christmas eve, urged only bythe wish to look upon your face once more, yet, when there, the wordsof the speaker won my attention. I had listened to others equallyeloquent many times before; but that night my heart seemed moresusceptible to religious impressions. I felt a deep sense of the follyand ingratitude of my past life, and firmly resolved for the future tolive more worthily of the immortal treasure that was committed to mycharge. Prayerfully and earnestly I studied the Word of Life, andresolved to devote myself to the ministry. I wrote to my worthyrelative, the rector of Willowdale, for his advice, and found, to mygreat joy, that he was your devoted friend. He condemned my rashnessin the avowal I had made to you, and insisted that there should be nocommunication between us until I had finished my studies. I consented, on condition that he should write frequently and inform me of yourwelfare. One year ago I had completed my studies, and would havehastended to you, but my stern Mentor insisted that I should travelabroad, as he said, to give me a better knowledge of human nature, andtest the truth of my early affection. I have passed the ordeal, andnow, after an absence of five years, returned to you unchanged inheart. "

The rest of the conversation was lost to me, as I reached my home; butthat it was satisfactory to those engaged in it I know from the fact, that the next day I had the pleasure of congratulating Clara upon herengagement, with the full consent of her relatives. The remainder ofthe tale is quickly told. The old rector resigned his pastoral chargeto Philip Sidney, with the full approbation of his parishioners; andit was arranged that the old rector and his wife should remain at theparsonage with the young clergyman and his bride. Deacon Lee becamewarmly attached to Philip, and felt a father's interest in thehappiness of Clara, though he sometimes chid her playfully for keepingtheir early acquaintance a secret from him. As for Mrs. Lee, she wasso proud of the honor of being aunt to a minister, that she almostforgot her dislike to prelacy. It is true she was once heard to say toone of her gossiping acquaintances, that she would have been betterpleased if Clara had married a good Congregationalist minister, evenif he had not preached quite so flowery sermons as Philip Sidney. 

One bright day in the month of May following was their wedding-day. The bride looked beautiful in her pure white dress of muslin, with awreath of May-blossoms in her hair. Blessings were invoked on theyouthful pair by all, both high and low, and sincere good wishesexpressed for their future happiness. Here I will leave them, with thewish that the affection of early years may remain through lifeundimmed, and that the Christmas Garland, so linked with the historyof their loves, may be their emblem. 

HEADS OF THE POETS. 

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS. 

I. --CHAUCER. 

 ----Chaucer's healthy Muse, Did wisely one sweet instrument to choose-- The native reed; which, tutored with rare skill, Brought other Muses[1] down to aid its trill! A cheerful song that sometimes quaintly masked The fancy, as the affections sweetly tasked; And won from England's proud and _foreign_[2] court, For native England's _tongue_, a sweet report-- And sympathy--till in due time it grew A permanent voice that proved itself the true, And rescued the brave language of the land, From that[3] which helped to strength the invader's hand. Thus, with great patriot service, making clear The way to other virtues quite as dear In English liberty--which could grow alone, When English speech grew pleasant to be known; To spell the ears of princes, and to make The peasant worthy for his poet's sake. 

II. --SHAKSPEARE. 

 ----'T were hard to say, Upon what instrument did Shakspeare play-- Still harder what he did not! He had all The orchestra at service, and could call To use, still other implements, unknown, Or only valued in his hands alone! The Lyre, whose burning inspiration came Still darting upward, sudden as the flame; The murmuring wind-harp, whose melodious sighs Seem still from hopefullest heart of love to rise, And gladden even while grieving; the wild strain That night-winds wake from reeds that breathe in pain, Though breathing still in music; and that voice, Which most he did affect--whose happy choice Made sweet flute-accents for humanity Out of that living heart which cannot die, The Catholic, born of love, that still controls While man is man, the tide in human souls. 

III. --THE SAME. 

 ----His universal song Who sung by Avon, and with purpose strong Compelled a voice from native oracles, That still survive their altars by their spells-- Guarding with might each avenue to fame, Where, trophied over all, glows Shakspeare's name! The mighty master-hand in his we trace, If erring often, never commonplace; Forever frank and cheerful, even when wo Commands the tear to speak, the sigh to flow; Sweet without weakness, without storming, strong, Jest not o'erstrained, nor argument too long; Still true to reason, though intent on sport, His wit ne'er drives his wisdom out of court; A brooklet now, a noble stream anon, Careering in the meadows and the sun; A mighty ocean next, deep, far and wide, Earth, life and Heaven, all imaged in its tide! Oh! when the master bends him to his art, How the mind follows, how vibrates the heart; The mighty grief o'ercomes us as we hear, And the soul hurries, hungering, to the ear; The willing nature, yielding as he sings, Unfolds her secret and bestows her wings, Glad of that best interpreter, whose skill Brings hosts to worship at her sacred hill!

[Footnote 1: The Italian. ]

[Footnote 2: Norman. ]

[Footnote 3: The French. ]

IV. --SPENSER. 

 It was for Spenser, by his quaint device To spiritualize the passionate, and subdue The wild, coarse temper of the British Muse, By meet diversion from the absolute: To lift the fancy, and, where still the song Proclaimed a wild humanity, to sway Soothingly soft, and by fantastic wiles Persuade the passions to a milder clime! His was the song of chivalry, and wrought For like results upon society; Artful in high degree, with plan obscure, That mystified to lure, and, by its spells, Making the heart forgetful of itself To follow out and trace its labyrinths, In that forgetfulness made visible! Such were the uses of his Muse; to say How proper and how exquisite his lay, How quaintly rich his masking--with what art He fashioned fairy realms and paints their queen, How purely--with how delicate a skill-- It needs not, since his song is with us still!

V. --MILTON. 

 The master of a single instrument, But that the Cathedral Organ; Milton sings With drooping spheres about him, and his eye Fixed steadily upward, through its mortal cloud, Seeing the glories of Eternity! The sense of the invisible and true Still present to his soul, and in his song; The consciousness of duration through all time, Of work in each condition, and of hopes Ineffable, that well sustain through life, Encouraging through danger and in death, Cheering, as with a promise rich in wings! A godlike voice that, through cathedral towers Still rolls, prolonged in echoes, whose deep tones Seem born of thunder, that subdued to music Soothe when they startle most! A Prophet Bard, With utt'rance equal to his mission of power, And harmonies that, not unworthy heaven, Might well lift earth to equal worthiness. 

VI. --BURNS AND SCOTT. 

 ----Not forgotten or denied, Scott's trumpet-lay, and Burns's violin-song; The one a call to arms, of action fond; The other, still discoursing to the heart-- The lowly human heart--of loves and joys-- Such as beseem the cotter's calm fireside-- Cheerful and buoyant still amid a sadness-- Such sadness as still couples love with care!

VII. --BYRON. 

 ----For Byron's home and fame, It needed manhood only! Had he known How sorrow should be borne, nor sunk in shame, For that his destiny decreed to moan-- His Muse had been triumphant over Time As still she is o'er Passion; still sublime-- Having subdued her soul's infirmity To aliment; and, with herself o'ercome, O'ercome the barriers of Eternity, And lived through all the ages, with a sway Complete, and unembarrassed by the doom That makes of Nature's porcelain, common clay!

VIII. -A GROUP. 

_Shelly and Wordsworth, --Tennyson, Barrett, Horne andBrowning;--Baily and Taylor;--Campbell and Moore. _

 ----As one who had been brought, By Fairy hands, and as a changeling left In human cradle, the sad substitute For a more smiling infant--Shelly sings Vague minstrelsies that speak a foreign birth, Among erratic tribes; yet not in vain His moral, and the fancies in his flight Not without profit for another race! He left his spirit with his voice--a voice Solely spiritual, which will long suffice To wing the otherwise earthy of the time, And, with the subtler leaven of the soul, Inform the impetuous passions!

 With him came Antagonist, yet still with sympathy, Wordsworth, the Bard of the contemplative, A voice of purest thought in sweetest music! --These, in themselves unlike, together linked, Appear in unison in after days, Making progressive still, the mental births, That pass successively through rings of time, Each to a several conquest; most unlike That of its sire, yet borrowing of its strength, Where needful, and endowing it with new, To meet the new necessity which still Haunts the free progress of each conquering race. --Thus, Tennyson and Barrett, Browning, Horne, Blend their opposing faculties, and speak For that fresh nature, which in daily things Beholds the immortal, and from common forms Extorts the Eternal still! So Baily sings In Festus; so, upon a humbler rank, Testing the worth of social policies, As working through a single human will, The Muse of Taylor argues--Artevelde, Being the man who marks a popular growth, And notes the transit of a thought through time, Growing as still it speeds..... 

 Exquisite The ballads of Campbell, and the lays of Moore, Appealing to our tastes, our gentler moods, The play of the affections, or the thoughts That come with national pride; and as we pause In our own march, delight the sentiment! But nothing they make for progress. They perfect The language, and diversify its powers-- Please and beguile, and, for the forms of art, Prove what they are, and may be. But they lift None of our standards; help us not in growth; Compel no prosecution of our search, And leave us, where they found us--with the time!

HOPE ON--HOPE EVER. 

BY H. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N. 

 Poor stricken one! whose toil can gain, And barely gain, the coarsest fare, From bitter thoughts and words refrain; Yield not to dark despair! The blackest night that e'er was born Was followed by a radiant morn; Heed not the world's unfeeling scorn, Nor think life's brittle thread to sever; Hope on--hope ever!

 Hope, though your sun is hid in gloom, And o'er your care-worn, wrinkled brow, Grief spreads his shadow--'tis the doom That falls on many now. Grim Poverty, with icy hand, May bind to earth with ruthless band Bright gifted ones throughout the land; But struggle still that band to sever-- Hope on--hope ever!

 Sit not and pine that FORTUNE led Another on to grasp her wreath; The same blue sky is o'er thy head, The same green earth beneath, The same bright angel-eyes look down, Each night upon the humblest clown, That sees the king with jeweled crown; Of these, stern fate can rob thee never-- Hope on--hope ever!

 What though the proud should pass thee by, And curl their haughty lips with scorn; Like thee, they soon must droop and die, For all of woman born, Are journeying to a shadowy land, Where each devoid of pride must stand, By hovering wings of angels' fanned; There sorrow can assail thee never-- Hope on--hope ever!

 Then plod along with tearless eye, Poor son of toil! and ne'er repine, The road through barren wastes may lie, And thorns, as oft hath mine; But there was ONE who came to earth, Star-heralded at hour of birth, Humble, obscure, unknown his worth, Whose path was thornier far. Weep never! Hope on--hope ever!

MEXICAN JEALOUSY. 

A SKETCH OF THE LATE CAMPAIGN. 

BY ECOTIER. 

On the 15th of September, two days after the storming of Chapultepec, a small party of soldiers, in dark uniforms, were seen to issue fromthe great gate of that castle, and, winding down the Calzada, turntowards the City of Mexico. This occurred at 10 o'clock in themorning. The day was very hot, and the sun, glancing vertically uponthe flinty rocks that paved the causeway, rendered the heat moreoppressive. 

At the foot of the hill the party halted, taking advantage of theshade of a huge cypress tree, to set down a litera, which four mencarried upon their shoulders. This they deposited under one of thearches of the aqueduct in order the better to protect its occupantfrom the hot rays of the sun. 

The occupant of the litera was a wounded man, and the pale andbloodless cheek, and fevered eye showed that his wound was not aslight one. There was nothing around to denote his rank, but the campcloak, of dark blue, and the crimson sash, which lay upon the litera, showed that the wounded man was an officer. The sash had evidentlybeen saturated with blood, which was now dried upon it, leaving partsof it shriveled like, and of a darker shade of crimson. It hadstaunched the life-blood of its wearer upon the 13th. The soldiersstood around the litter, their bronzed faces turned upon its occupant, apparently attentive to his requests. There was something in thegentle care with which these rude men seemed to wait upon the youngofficer, that bespoke the existence of a stronger feeling than merehumanity. There was that admiration which the brave soldiers feel forhim who has led them in the field of battle, _at their head_. Thatsmall group were among the first who braved the frowning muzzles ofthe cannon upon the parapets of Chapultepec. The wounded officer hadled them to those parapets. 

The scene around exhibited the usual indications of a recent field ofbattle. There were batteries near, with dismounted cannon, brokencarriages, fragments of shells, dead horses, whose riders lay by them, dead too, and still unburied. Parties were strolling about, busiedwith this sad duty, but heaps of mangled carcases still lay aboveground, exhibiting the swollen limbs and distorted features ofdecomposition. The atmosphere was heavy with the disagreeable odor, and the wounded man, turning upon his pillow, gently commanded theescort to proceed. Four stout soldiers again took up the litera, andthe party moved slowly along the aqueduct, toward the Garita Belen. The little escort halted at intervals for rest and to change bearers. The fine trees that line the great aqueduct on the Tacubaya road, though much torn and mangled by the cannonade of the 13th, afforded afine shelter from the hot sun-beams. In two hours after leavingChapultepec, the escort entered the Garita Belen, passed up the PaseoNuevo, and halted in front of the Alameda. 

Any one who has visited the City of Mexico will recollect, thatopposite the Alameda, on its southern front, is a row of fine houses, which continue on to the Calle San Francisco, and thence to the GreatPlaza, forming the Calles Correo, Plateros, &c. These streets areinhabited principally by foreigners, particularly that of Plateros, which is filled with Frenchmen. To prevent their houses from beingentered by the American soldiery upon the 14th, the windows werefilled with national flags, indicating to what nation the respectiveowners of the houses belonged. There were Belgians, French, English, Prussians, Spanish, Danes, and Austrians--in fact, every kind of flag. Mexican flags alone were not to be seen. Where these should have been, at times, the white flag--the banner of peace--hung through the ironrailings, or from the balcony. In front of a house that bore thissimple ensign, the escort, with the litera, had accidentally stopped. 

The eye of the wounded officer rested mechanically upon the littleflag over his head, when his attention was arrested by noticing thatthis consisted of a small, white lace handkerchief, handsomelyembroidered upon the corners, and evidently such as belonged to somefair being. Though suffering from the agony of his wound, there wassomething so attractive in this discovery, that the eyes of theinvalid were immediately turned upon the window, or rather grating, from which the flag was suspended, and his countenance changed atonce, from the listless apathy of pain to an expression of eagerinterest. A young girl was in the window, leaning her forehead againstthe _reja_, or grating, and looking down with more of painful interestthan curiosity upon the pale face beneath her. It was the window ofthe _entresol_, slightly raised above the street, and the young girlherself was evidently of that class known to the aristocracy of Mexicoas the "leperos. " She was tastefully dressed, however, in thepicturesque costume of her class and country, and her beautiful blackhair, her dark Indian eye, the half olive, half carmine tinge upon hersoft cheek, formed a countenance at once strange, and strikinglybeautiful. Her neck, bosom, and shoulders, seen over the window-stone, were of that form which strikes you as possessing more of the ovalthan the rotund, in short the model of the perfect woman. 

On seeing the gaze of the wounded man so intently fixed upon her, theyoung girl blushed, and drew back. The officer felt disappointed andsorry, as one feels when the light, or a beautiful object is suddenlyremoved from his sight; still, however, keeping his eyes intentlyfixed upon the window, as though unable to unrivet his gaze. Thiscontinued for some moments, when a beautiful arm was plunged throughthe iron grating, holding in the most delicate little fingers a glassof pi[~n]al. 

A soldier stepped up, and taking the proffered glass, held it to thelips of the wounded officer, who gladly drank of the cool andrefreshing beverage, without being able to thank the fair donor, whohad withdrawn her hand at parting with the glass. The glass was heldup to the window, but the hand that clutched it was coarse and large, and evidently that of a man. A muttered curse, too, in the Spanishlanguage, was heard to proceed from within. This was heard butindistinctly. The invalid gazed at the window for some minutes, expecting the return of the beautiful apparition, then as if he hadgiven up all hope, he called out a "gracias-adios!" and ordered theescort to move on. The soldiers, once more shouldering the litera, passed up the Calle Correo, and entered the Hotel Compagnon, in thestreet of Espiritu Santo. 

For two months the invalid was confined to his chamber, but often, during that time, both waking and dreaming, the face of the beautifulMexican girl would flit across his fevered fancy. At the end of thistime his surgeon gave him permission to ride out in an easy carriage. He was driven to the Alameda, where he ordered the carriage to haltunder the shade of its beautiful trees, and directly in front of thespot where he had rested on entering the city. He recognized thelittle window. The white flag was not now there, and he could seenothing of the inmates. He remained a considerable time seated in thecarriage, gazing upon the house, but no face appeared at the cold irongrating, no smile to cheer his vigil. Tired and disappointed, heordered his carriage to be driven back to the hotel. 

Next day he repeated the manoeuvre, and the next, and the next, with alike success. Probably he had not chosen the proper time of day. Itwas certainly not the hour when the lovely faces of the Mexican womenappear in their balconies. This reflection induced him to change thehour, and, upon the day following, he ordered his carriage in theevening. Just before twilight, it drew up as usual under the talltrees of the Alameda. Imagine the delight of the young officer, atseeing the face of the beautiful Mexican through the gratings of the_reja_. 

The stir made by the stopping of the carriage had attracted her. Theuniform of its inmate was the next object of her attention, but whenher eyes fell upon the face of the wearer, a strange expression cameover her countenance, as if she were struggling with some indistinctrecollections, and all at once that beautiful countenance was suffusedwith a smile of joy. She had recognized the officer. The latter, whohad been an anxious observer of every change of expression, smiled inreturn, and bowed an acknowledgment, then turning to his servant, whowas a Mexican, he told him, in Spanish, to approach the window, andoffer his thanks to the young lady for her act of kindness upon the15th of September. 

The servant delivered the message, and shortly afterward the carriagedrove off. For several evenings the same carriage might be seenstanding under the trees of the Alameda. An interesting acquaintancehad been established between the young officer and the Mexican girl. About a week afterward, and the carriage appeared no more. The invalidhad been restored to perfect strength. 

December came, and upon the 15th of this month, about half an hourbefore twilight, an American officer, wrapped in a light Mexicancloak, passed down the Calle San Francisco, and crossed into theAlameda. Here he stopped, leaning against a tree, as though observingthe various groups of citizens, who passed in their picturesquedresses. His eye, however, was occasionally turned upon the housesupon the opposite side of the street, and with a glance of stealthy, but eager inquiry. At length the well-known form of the beautiful"lepera" appeared at the window, who, holding up her hand, adroitlysignaled the officer with her taper, fan-like fingers. The signal wasanswered. She had scarcely withdrawn her hand inside the reja when adark, scowling face made its appearance at her side, her hand wasrudely seized, and with a scream she disappeared. The young officerfancied he saw the bright gleaming of a stiletto within the gloomygrating. 

He rushed across the street, and in a moment stood beneath the window. Grasping the strong iron bars, he lifted himself up so as to command aview of the inside, which was now in perfect silence. His horror maybe imagined when, on looking into the room, he saw the young girlstretched upon the floor, and, to all appearances, dead. A stream ofblood was running from beneath her clothes, and her dress was stainedwith blood over the waist and bosom. With frantic energy the young manclung to the bars, and endeavored to wrench them apart. It was to nopurpose, and letting go his hold, he dropped into the street. Thelarge gate of the house was open. Into this he rushed, and reached the_patio_ just in time to catch a glimpse of a figure escaping along theazotea. He rushed up the steep stone stairway, and grasping theparapet, raised himself on the roof. The fugitive had run along aseries of platforms of different heights, composed by the azoteas ofhouses, and had reached a low roof, from which he was about to leapinto an adjoining street, where he would, in all probability, havemade good his escape. He stood upon the edge of the parapet, calculating his leap, which was still a fearful plunge. It was notleft to his choice whether to take or refuse it. A pistol flashedbehind him, and almost simultaneously with the report he fell forwardupon his head, and lay upon the pavement below, a bruised and bleedingcorpse. His pursuer approached the parapet, and looked over into thestreet, as if to assure himself that his aim had been true, thenturned with a fearful foreboding, and retraced his way over theazoteas. His fears, alas! were but too just. She was dead. 

TO GUADALUPE. 

BY MAYNE REID. 

 Adieu! oh, in the heart's recess how wildly Echo those painful accents of despair-- And spite our promise given to bear it mildly; We little knew how hard it was to bear A destiny so dark: how hard to sever Hearts linked as ours, hands joined as now I grasp thee In trembling touch: oh! e'er we part forever, Once more unto my heart love's victim let me clasp thee!

 It is my love's last echo--lone and lonely My heart goes forth to seek another shrine, Where it may worship pronely, deeming only Such images as thee to be divine-- It is the echo of the last link breaking, For still that link held out while lingering near thee-- A secret joy although with heart-strings aching To breathe the air you breathed--to see, to hear thee. 

 And this link now must break--our paths obliquing May never meet again--oh! say not never-- For while thus speaking, still my soul is seeking Some hope our parting may not be forever-- And like the drowning straggler on the billow, Or he that eager watches for the day, With throbbing brain upon a sleepless pillow-- 'Tis catching at the faintest feeblest ray. 

 Now faint and fainter growing, from thee going, Seems every hope more vague and undefined-- Oh! as the fiend might suffer when bestowing A last look on the heaven he left behind: Or as earth's first-born children when they parted Slowly, despairingly, from Eden's bowers, Looked back with many a sigh--though broken-hearted, Less hopeless was their future still than ours. 

 If we have loved--if in our hearts too blindly We have enthroned that element divine-- In this, at least, hath fate dealt with us kindly; Our mutual images have found a shrine-- An altar for our mutual sacrifice: And spite this destiny that bids us sever, Within our hearts that fire never dies-- In mine, at least, 'twill burn and worship on forever. 

 Thee not upbraiding--thou has not deceived me-- For from the first I knew _thy compromise_-- No, Guadalupe--this hath never grieved me-- I won thy love--so spoke thy lips and eyes:-- The consolation of this proud possessing Should almost change my sorrow into bliss: I have thy heart--enough for me of blessing-- Another may take all since I am lord of this. 

 Why we have torn our hearts and hands asunder-- Why we have given o'er those sweet caresses-- The world without will coldly guess and wonder-- Let them guess on, what care we for their guesses! The secret shall be ours, as ours the pain-- A secret still unheeding friendship's pleading: What though th' unfeeling world suspect a stain, But little fears the world a heart with anguish bleeding. 

 'Tis better we should never meet again-- Our love's renewing were but thy undoing: When I am gone, time will subdue thy pain, And thou wilt yield thee to another's wooing-- For me, I go to seek a name in story-- To find a future brighter than the past-- Yet 'midst my highest, wildest dreams of glory, Sweet thoughts of thee will mingle to the last. 

 And though this widowed heart may love another-- For living without love, it soon would die-- There will be moments when it cannot smother Thy sweet remembrance with a passing sigh. Amidst the ashes of its dying embers For thee there will be found one deathless thought; Yes, dearest lady! while this heart remembers, Believe me, thou shall never be forgot. 

 Once more farewell! Oh it is hard to yield thee, To lose for life, forever, thing so fair! How bright a destiny it were to shield thee-- Yet since I am denied the husband's care, This grief within my breast here do I smother-- Forego _thy_ painful sacrifice to prove, That I have been, what never can another, The hero of thy heart, my own sweet victim love. 

THE FADED ROSE. 

BY G. G. FOSTER. 

 Torn from its stem to bloom awhile Upon thy breast, the dazzling flower Imbibed new radiance from thy smile-- But, ah! it faded in an hour. So thou, from peaceful home betrayed, In beaming beauty floated by; But ere thy summer had decayed, We saw thee languish, faint and die. 

 _Extempore. On a Broken Harp-string. _ Too rude the touch--the broken cord No more may utter music-word, Yet lives each tone within the air, Its trembling sighs awakened there. So in my heart the song I sung, When thou in rapture o'er me hung, Still lives--yet thine is not the spell To lure the music from its shell. 

THE CHILD'S APPEAL. 

AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 

BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD. 

 Day dawned above a city's mart, But not 'mid peace and prayer; The shouts of frenzied multitudes Were on the thrilling air. 

 A guiltless man to death was led, Through crowded streets and wide, And a fairy child, with waving curls, Was clinging to his side. 

 The father's brow with pride was calm, But trusting and serene, The child's was like the Holy One's In Raphael's paintings seen. 

 She shrank not from the heartless throng, Nor from the scaffold high; But now and then with beaming smile Addressed her parent's eye. 

 Athwart the golden flood of morn Was poised the wing of Death, As 'neath the fearful guillotine The doomed one drew his breath. 

 Then all of fiercest agony The human heart can bear Was suffered in the brief caress, The wild, half-uttered prayer. 

 But she, the child, beseechingly Upraised her eyes of blue, And whispered, while her cheek grew pale, "I am to go with you?"

 The murmur of impatient fiends Rung in her infant ear, And purpose strong woke in her heart, And spoke in accent clear;

 "They tore my mother from our side In the dark prison's cell, Her eyes were filled with tears--she had No time to say farewell. 

 "And you were all that loved me then, But you are pale with care, And every night a silver thread Has mingled with your hair. 

 "My mother used to tell me of A better land afar, I've seen it through the prison bars Where burns the evening star. 

 "Oh! let us find a new home there, I will be brave and true, You cannot leave me here alone, Oh! let me die with you. "

 The gentle tones were drowned by shrill And long protracted cries; The father on his darling gazed, The child looked on the skies. 

 Anon, far up the cloudless blue, Unseen by mortal eye, God's angels with two spirits passed To purer realms on high. 

 The one was touched with earthly hues And dim with earthly care, The other, as a lily's cup Unutterably fair. 

THE OLD FARM-HOUSE. 

BY MARY L. LAWSON. 

 I love these gray and moss-grown walls, This ivied porch, and trelliced vine, The lattice with its narrow pane, A relic of the olden time; The willow with its waving leaves, Through which the low winds murmuring glide, The gurgling ripple of the stream That whispers softly at its side. 

 The spring-house in its shady nook, Like lady's bower shadowed o'er-- With clustering trees--and creeping plants That cling around the rustic door, The rough hewn steps that lend their aid To reach the shady cool recess, Where humble duty spreads a scene That hourly comfort learns to bless. 

 Upland the meadows lie around, Fair smiling in the suns last beam; Beneath yon solitary tree The lazy cattle idly dream; Afar the reaper's stroke descends, While faintly on the listening ear The teamster's careless whistle floats, Or distant song or call I hear. 

 And leaning on a broken stile, With woods behind and fields before, I watch the bee who homeward wends With laden wing--his labors o'er; The happy birds are warbling round, Or nestle in the rustling trees-- 'Mid which the blue sky glimmers down, When parted by the passing breeze. 

 And slowly winding up the road The wane has reached the old barn-floor, Where plenty's hand has firmly heaped The golden grain in richest store. This 'mid the dream-land of my thoughts With smiling lip I own is real, Yet fancy's fairest visions blend With all I see, and all I feel. 

 Then tell me not of worldly pride And wild ambition's hopes of fame, Or brilliant halls of wealth and pride, Where genius sighs to win a name; Give _me_ this farm-house quaint and old, These fields of grain, the birds and flowers, With calm contentment, peace and health, And memories of my earlier hours. 

"'TIS HOME WHERE THE HEART IS. "

_WORDS BY MISS L. M. BROWN_. 

MUSIC COMPOSED BY KARL W. PETERSILIE, _Professor of Music at the Edgeworth Seminary, N. C. _

Presented by George Willig, No. 171 Chesnut Street, Philad'a. [Copyright secured. ]

_Expressivo_

[Illustration: music]

I've wander'd in climes, where the wild chamois

_Con spirito_. 

strays, Have gain'd the wild height, Where the fiercelightning plays, Seen glory and

_crescendo_

greatness in power and might, And honor and splendorsink in darkness of night, I've sought 'mid the crowd, pure pleasure, but pain, As the

_dolce_. 

_Con Anima. _

bee, that sips sweets, the poison too drained;Ah! 'twas all delusive, for sorrows would come, Oh, 'tis home where the heart is, where the heart is 'tis home. 

SECOND VERSE. 

 I've courted the breath of a balm southern clime, Where sweetest of flow'rs, soft tendrils entwine; Have listed the song bird's notes borne on the air, That wakens and wafts the rich odors elsewhere; As tones on the ear so the dream of the past, Softly plays round the heart-green isle of the waste; Yes! 'twas all a life-dream, and still 'tis not gone, Oh, 'tis home where the heart is, where the heart is 'tis home. 

THIRD VERSE. 

 I've cross'd the blue sea, I've sought out a home In the land of the free, freedom beckon'd me come; And friends of the stranger have sooth'd the sad heart, With kindness and sympathy, sweet balm for the smart; The light of the soul, doth play round it still, Like the perfume the urn, in which roses distil; Thoughts of affection forbid me to roam, Oh, 'tis home where the heart is, where the heart is 'tis home. 

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. 

 _Hawkstone: A Tale of and for England in 184-. New York: Standford & Swords. 2 vols. 12mo. _

We were attracted to this novel by seeing the words "fifth edition" onits title page. After reading it, it is easy to account for itspopularity. It is at once a most exciting romance and a defence of anunpopular religious body. The author (said to be Professor Sewall, )belongs to the Oxford School of Episcopalians, or to adopt his ownview of the matter, to the one Catholic church. The object of thenovel is to present the ideas of Church and State held by that classof religionists who are vulgarly called Puseyites. This is done partlyin the representation of character and narration of incident, whichconstitute the romance of the book, and partly by long theologicalconversations which occur between a few of the characters. Theinterest of the work never flags, and it is among the few religiousnovels which are not positive bores to all classes of readers. Inrespect to its theology, it gives the most distinct view of thedoctrines of the High Church party of Oxford which we have seen. Theauthor is as decisive and bitter in his condemnation of Romanism as ofdissent. He considers that the peculiar doctrines and claims whichdistinguish the Roman Catholic church from the Church of England are_novelties_, unknown to the true church of the apostles and thefathers. He has no mercy for the Romanists, and but little for theyoung men of his own school who favor the Papacy. Those who areaccustomed to associate Puseyism with a set of sentimentalists, whomourn the Reformation, wish for the return of the good old times ofthe feudal ages, and give Rome their hearts and Canterbury only theirpockets, will find that such doctrines and practices find no favor inthe present volumes. The greatest rascal in the novel is a piece ofincarnate malignity named Pearce--a Jesuit, whom the author representsas carrying out the principles of Romanism to their logical results inpractice. 

But if the reader will find his common notions of Puseyismrevolutionized by the present novel, he will be a little startled atits real doctrines and intentions. The author has the most supreme andavowed contempt for liberal ideas in Church and State; and for everygood-natured axiom about toleration and representative government hespurns from his path as a novelty and paradox. There is nothingdominant in England which he does not oppose. The Whig party he deemsthe avowed enemies of loyalty, order and religion. The Conservatives, with Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington at their head, heconceives destitute of principle, and the destroyers of the Britishempire. There is not a concession made to liberal ideas within thepresent century which he does not think wicked and foolish. Themanufacturing system and free trade, indeed the whole doctrines of thepolitical economists in the lump, he looks upon alternately withhorror and disdain. He seems to consider the State and Church as anorganized body for the education of the people, whose duty isobedience, arid who have no right to think for themselves in religionor politics, for they would be pretty sure to think wrong. Allbenevolent societies, in which persons of different religious viewscombine for a common object, he considers as productive of evil, andas an assumption of powers rightly belonging to the church. Indeed, inhis system, it is wrong for any popular association to presume tomeddle with ignorance and crime, unless they do it under the sanctionand control of the church. He considers it the duty of a churchminister to excommunicate every man in his parish who is _guilty_ ofschism--that is, who has the wickedness to be a papist or dissenter. But it is useless to proceed in the enumeration of our author'sdogmatisms. If the reader desires to know them, let him conceive theexact opposite of every liberal principle in politics, politicaleconomy and theology, which at present obtains in the world, and hewill have the system of "Hawkstone. "

A good deal of the zest of the novel comes from the throng ofparadoxes in which the author wantons. He has a complete system ofthought to kill out all the mind of the English people, and renderthem the mere slaves of a hierarchy, and all for the most benevolentof purposes. In his theory he overlooks the peculiar constitution andcharacter of the English people, and also all the monstrous abuses towhich his system would inevitably lead, in his desire to see apractical establishment of the most obnoxious and high-toned claims ofhis church. He is evidently half way between an idealist and asentimentalist, with hardly an atom of practical sagacity or knowledgeof affairs. The cool dogmatism with which he condemns the greatstatesmen of his country, is particularly offensive as coming from aman utterly ignorant of the difficulties which a statesman has toencounter. It is curious also to see how extremes meet; this theory ofabsoluteism "fraternizes" with that of socialism. A person reading, inthe second volume, the account of Villiers' dealings with histenantry, and his new regulations regarding manufactures, would almostthink that Louis Blanc had graduated at Oxford, and left out in hisFrench schemes the agency of the church, from a regard to theprejudices of his countrymen. 

With all its peculiarities and heresies, however, the novel will wellreward the attention of readers of all classes. It is exceedingly wellwritten, and contains many scenes of uncommon power, pathos andbeauty. With these advantages it may also claim the honor of being themost inimitable specimen of theological impudence and pretension whichthe present age has witnessed. 

 _The Planetary and Stellar Worlds: A Popular Exposition of the Great Discoveries and Theories of Modern Astronomy. In a Series of Ten Lectures. By O. M. Mitchell, A. M. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo. _

Mr. Mitchell is not only an accomplished astronomer, in every respectqualified to be the interpreter of the mysteries of his science to thepopular mind, but, if we may judge from the style of his book, is afine, frank, warm-hearted, enthusiastic man. On every page he givesevidence of really loving his pursuit. By a certain sensitiveness ofimagination, and quickness of sensibility, every thing he contemplatesbecomes alive in his mind, and an object in which he takes a personalinterest. This gives wonderful distinctness to his exposition ofnatural laws, and his delineation of the characters and pursuits ofmen of science. His Copernicus, Kepler, Gallileo and Newton are notdry enumerations of qualities, but vivid portraits of persons. Heseems in close intellectual fellowship with them as individuals, andconverses of them in the style of a friend, whose accurate knowledgeis equalled by his intense affection. So it is with his detail of thediscovery of a new law, or fact in science. His mind "lives along theline" of observation and reasoning which ended in its detection, andhe reproduces the hopes, fears, doubts, and high enthusiasm of everyperson connected with the discovery. His delineation of Kepler isespecially genial and striking. By following this method he infuseshis own enthusiasm into the reader, bears him willingly along throughthe most abstruse processes of science, and at the end leaves himwithout fatigue, and ready for a new start. 

In the treatment of scientific discoveries, by minds like Mr. Mitchell's, we ever notice an unconscious personification of Nature, as a cunning holder of secrets which only the master-mind can wrestfrom her after a patient siege. The style of our author glows in therecital of the exploits of his band of astronomers, as that of aFrenchman does in the narration of Napoleon's campaigns. This is thegreat charm of his book, and will make it extensively popular, for byit he can attract any reader capable of being interested in a tale ofpersonal adventure, ending in a great achievement. We can hardly bringto mind a popular lecturer or writer on science, who has this power tothe extent which Mr. Mitchell possesses it. He himself has it byvirtue of the mingled simplicity and intensity of his nature. 

One of the most striking lectures in Mr. Mitchell's volume is that onthe discoveries of the primitive ages, in which he represents theprocesses of the primitive observer, with his unarmed eye, inunfolding some of the laws of the heavens; and he indicates with greatbeauty what would be his point of departure, and what would be thelimit of his discoveries. This lecture is a fine prose poem. There isa passage in the introductory lecture which grandly represents thecontinual watch which man keeps on the heavens, and the slow, silentand sure acquisitions of new truths, from age to age. "The sentinel onthe watchtower is relieved from duty, but another takes his place, andthe vigil is unbroken. No--the astronomer never dies. He commences hisinvestigations on the hill-tops of Eden--he studies the stars throughthe long centuries of antedeluvian life. The deluge sweeps from theearth its inhabitants, their cities and their mountains--but when thestorm is hushed, and the heavens shine forth in beauty, from thesummit of Mount Arrarat the astronomer resumes his endless vigils. InBabylon he keeps his watch, and among the Egyptian priests he inspiresa thirst for the sacred mysteries of the stars. The plains ofShinar--the temples of India--the pyramids of Egypt, are equally hiswatching places. When science fled to Greece, his home was in theschools of her philosophers: and when darkness covered the earth for athousand years, he pursues his never-ending task from amidst theburning deserts of Arabia. When science dawned on Europe, theastronomer was there--toiling with Copernicus--watching withTycho--suffering with Gallileo--triumphing with Kepler. "

We trust that this volume will have an extensive circulation. It willnot only convey a great deal of knowledge to the general reader, butwill also inspire a love for the science of which it treats. 

 _Harold, the last of the Saxon Kings. By Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. New York: Harper & Brothers. _

This is Bulwer's most successful attempt at writing an historicalnovel, but with all its merits, it is still rather an attempt than aperformance. Considered as a history of the Norman invasion, itcontains many more facts than can be found in Thierry, at least inthat portion of his work devoted to Harold and William. Bulwer seemsto have obtained his knowledge at the original sources, and the novelis certainly creditable to his scholarship. But he has not managedhis materials in an imaginative way, and fact and fiction are tiedrather than fused together. The consequence is that the work is nothomogeneous. At times it appears like history, but after the mind ofthe reader has settled down to a historical mood, the impression isbroken by a violent intrusion of fable, or an introduction of modernsentiment and thought. It has therefore neither the interest ofThierry's exquisite narrative of the same events, nor the interestwhich might have been derived from a complete amalgamation of thematerials into a consistent work of imagination. Considered also as areproduction of ancient men and manners it is strikingly defective. With many fine strokes of the pencil, where the author confineshimself to the literal fact, his portraits, as a whole, areovercharged with _Bulwerism_. His imagination is not a mirror. It canreflect nothing without vitiating it. He does not possess the power ofpassing a character through his mind and preserving its individuality. It goes in as Harold, or Duke William, or Lafranc, but it comes out asSir E. Bulwer Lytton, Bart. 

The novel contains much of that seductive sentiment, half romantic, half misanthropic, which is the characteristic of Bulwer's works, andit is expressed with his usual beauty and brilliancy of style. Hereand there we perceive allusions to his own domestic affairs, whichnone but Lady Bulwer can fully appreciate. Every reader of the novelmust be struck with its attempt at the moral tone. Edith, the heroine, is the bride of Harold's soul, and Platonism appears in all itssplendor of self-denial and noble sentiments in a Saxon thane and hismaiden. History pronounces this lady to be his mistress, and itcertainly is a great stretch of the reader's charity to be compelledto view her in the capacity of saint. Not only, however, in the lovesof Harold and Edith, but all over the novel, there is a constantintrusion of ethical reflections, which will doubtless much edify allyoung ladies of a tender age. These would be well enough if theyappeared to have any base in solid moral principle, but they aresomewhat offensive as the mere sentimentality of conscience andreligion, introduced for the purposes of fine writing. Suspicion, also, always attaches to the morality which exhibits itself onrhetorical stilts, and the refinement which is always proclaimingitself refined. Since the time of Joseph Surface there has been agreat decline in the market price of noble sentiments. 

 _The History of England, from the Invasion of Julius Cæsar to the Reign of Victoria. By Mrs. Markham. A New Edition. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo. _

This is a new and revised edition of a work which has long been usedin the education of boys and girls. Its information is, of course, milk for babes. We think that books of this class should be preparedby persons very different from Mrs. Markham. She, good lady, was thewife of an English clergyman by the name of Penrose, and she wroteEnglish history as such a person might be supposed to write it. Withevery intention to be honest, her book has many facts and opinionswhich boys and girls will have to take more time to unlearn than theyspent in learning, unless they intend to be children their wholelives. 

There is, however, a story in the volume regarding the Duke ofMarlborough, which we think few of our readers have seen. The duke'scommand of his temper was almost miraculous. Once, at a council ofwar, Prince Eugene advised that an attack on the enemy should be madethe next day. As his advice was plainly judicious, he was muchexasperated at the refusal of the duke's consent, and immediatelycalled him a coward and challenged him. Marlborough cooly declinedthe challenge, and the enraged prince left the council. Early thefollowing morning he was awoke by the duke, who desired him instantlyto rise, as he was preparing to make the attack, and added, "I couldnot tell you of my determination last night, because there was aperson present who I knew was in the enemy's interest, and wouldbetray us. I have no doubt we shall conquer, and when the battle isover I will be ready to accept your challenge. " The prince, seeing thesuperior sagacity of Marlborough, and ashamed of his own intemperance, overwhelmed the duke with apologies, and the friendship of the twogenerals was more strongly cemented than ever. The anecdote is ofdoubtful origin, but it is an admirable illustration both of thecharacter of Marlborough and Eugene. 

 _Letters from Italy: and The Alps and the Rhine. By J. T. Headley. New and Revised Edition. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo. _

We believe that these were Mr. Headley's first productions, and wereoriginally published in Wiley & Putnam's Library. The present editionhas a preface, devoted to the consideration of the new aspect Italyhas assumed since the book was written, and a very judiciousflagellation is given to that arch traitor and renegade, CharlesAlbert, King of Sardinia, whom events have transformed from atrickster and tyrant into a patriot leader. We agree with Mr. Headleyin thinking that the Italians are more likely to be endangered thanbenefitted by his position at the head of their armies. 

"The Alps and the Rhine" is, in our opinion, Mr. Headley's mostagreeable work. The descriptions of scenery are singularly vivid anddistinct, and are given in a style of much energy and richness. Thechapters on Suwarrow's Passage of the Glarus, Macdonald's Pass of theSplugen, and the Battle of Waterloo, are admirably done. That onMacdonald is especially interesting. Those who doubt Mr. Headley'stalents will please read this short extract: "The ominous sound grewlouder every moment, and suddenly the fierce Alpine blast swept in acloud of snow over the mountain, and howled like an unchained demon, through the gorge below. In an instant all was blindness and confusionand uncertainty. The very heavens were blotted out, and the frightenedcolumn stood and listened to the raving tempest that made the pinetrees above it sway and groan, as if lifted from their rock-rootedplaces. But suddenly a still more alarming sound was heard--'Anavalanche! an avalanche!' shrieked the guides, and the next moment _anawful white form came leaping down the mountain_, and striking thecolumn that was struggling along the path, passed strait through itinto the gulf below, carrying thirty dragoons and their horses with itin its wild plunge. "

 _Principles of Zoology. Touching the Structure, Development, Distribution and Natural Arrangement of the Races of Animals, Living and Extinct. Part I. Comparative Physiology. By Louis Agassiz and Augustus A. Gould Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln. 1 vol. 12mo. _

The name of Professor Agassiz, the greatest of living naturalists, onthe title page of this volume, is of itself a guarantee of itsexcellence. The work is intended for schools and colleges, and isadmirably fitted for its purpose, but its value is not confined to theyoung. The general reader, who desires exact and reliable knowledge ofthe subject, and at the same time is unable to obtain the larger worksof Professor Agassiz, will find in this little volume an invaluablecompanion. It has all the necessary plates and illustrations toenable the reader fully to comprehend its matter. The diagram of thecrust of the earth, as related to zoology, is a most ingeniouscontrivance to present, at one view, the distribution of the principaltypes of animals, and the order of their successive appearance in thelayers of the earth's crust. The publishers have issued the work in astyle of great neatness and elegance. 

 _The Writings of Cassius Marcellus Clay, including Speeches and Addresses. Edited with a Preface and Memoir by Horace Greely, New York: Harper & Brothers. _

This is a large and beautiful octavo, and is embellished with anadmirable likeness of Mr. Clay. The people of this country are so wellacquainted with the peculiarities of Cassius M. Clay's manner, that wewill not pause to characterize it; and his views upon public subjectsare so partisan that we leave their discussion to the politicians ofthe country. The eminent abilities of Mr. Greely are displayed in theexecution of the duties of editor; and the memoir which introduces thework does full justice to the subject. 

 _The Odd Fellows' Amulet, or the Principles of Odd Fellowship Defined; the Objections to the Order Answered, and its Advantages Maintained. By Rev. D. W. Bristol. Auburn: Derby, Miller & Co. _

This is a beautiful little volume, admirably illustrated. It is wellwritten; will be read with interest by the general reader, and shouldbe in the possession of every member of the great and beneficent orderwhich it advocates and vindicates. 

 _The Baronet's Daughters, and Harry Monk. _

Mrs. Grey, who is recognized as one of the most accomplished femalenovelists of the present day, has recently given to the public anotherinteresting volume, bearing the above title. There are two stories, both of which are marked by the ability which characterizes the wholeof Mrs. Grey's works, and are well calculated to make a sultryafternoon pass agreeably away. The American publisher is Mr. T. B. Peterson, who furnishes a neat and uniform edition of Mrs. Grey'snovels. 

TO OUR READERS. 

The Proprietors of "Graham's Magazine, " desirous of maintaining for itthe high reputation it has secured in the estimation of the people ofthe United States, are determined to spare no pains to increase itsvalue, and make it universally regarded as the best literarypublication in the country. To this end they have placed in the handsof several of our best engravers a series of plates, which will betruly remarkable for their superiority in design and execution. Asusual, the pens of the best American writers will be employed ingiving grace and excellence to its pages, and in addition to articleswhich have been secured from new contributors of acknowledged ability, they have the pleasure of announcing that an engagement has beeneffected with J. BAYARD TAYLOR, Esq. , whose writings are soextensively known and admired, by which his valuable assistance willbe secured in the editorial department of this Magazine exclusively. This arrangement will, we are assured, be hailed with pleasure by thehost of friends which the Magazine possesses throughout the Union, asan earnest that no efforts will be omitted to show the sense theproprietors entertain of past favors, by rendering their work stillmore attractive and deserving of patronage for the future. 

Transcriber's Note:

Certain irregularities in spelling and grammar have been left as inthe original. Small errors in punctuation have been corrected withoutcomment. 

1. Page 122--added apostrophe to word 'wont' in phrase '.. He wont bemy hero... '

2. Page 123--corrected typo 'will' to 'well' in phrase 'They are allvery will for rich people. '

3. Page 125--corrected error in text 'almost wondering at first whatAngile meant. ' to 'almost wondering at first what Augusta meant. '

4. Page 130--corrected typo 'spedily' to 'speedily' in phrase '... Fita mast to it, which was spedily done. '

5. Page 143--corrected typo 'brightnesss' to 'brightness' in phrase'... The beauty and brightnesss of that sweet... '

6. Page 153--corrected typo 'stong' to 'strong' in phrase '... Or somestong emotion... '

7. The notation [~n] has been used to designate an n with a tilde above it