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ANNETTE. RY @AnmrsT moWLZS.

Tr was in the year 1806, on the road from Bretagne, that a post-chaise envctoped in a cloud of dust, was observed to make a sudden halt, and two gentlemen, in the garb of military officers, descended therefrom ; one of them addressed a few words to the postillion who had accompanied them, in which he desired hivn to return to the town from whence he had started, as farther progress was impracticable to a carriage of thia description, and the travellers proposed to accomplish the remainder of the journey on foot, They were proceeding to the Cha- teau de Kerlay, and the officer, previous to commencing the route, with which he was but little acquainted, made the necewsary inquiries of their conductor.

“Yea, worthy Colonel,” replied the man of the thong, in tone: of respectful familisrity, “I will proceed to enlighten thee on the subject, the task is easy—you see yonder village 20 thickly studded with white cottages; well, then, thou must proceed through it, my Colonel, then onward haif a league in advance, and you will encounter a second village, and rising before thee will be seen the Chateau de Kerlay. If, by any chance,” added this loquacious guide, “thou should’st mistake the way, forget not to inquire, and you will find the country people very glad to set thee right, for two grand gentlemen as you are?

“Ah! my friend," replied one of the traveliera, “you are but a sample of your honest class, ever ready to give the fullest information for value received. Well, here my good fellow, here is a noble for thee—begone. The Postillion ten:lered his congé, remounted his sorry horse, exclaiming familiarly,

“Good day, my princes!” and turning the heads of he animals homeward, the neighboring wood echoed with the crack! crack! of his whip, and the rattle of the wheels soon died away in the distance.

Neither of our travellers had the distinguished rank which their Inte guide, in his exalted idea of their nobi« lity, was pleased to bestow; but one, the taller and handsomest one of the two, held the rank of Cotonel, and it may be truly said tho dignity sat well upon him, for his exterior waa at once commanding and noble. This officer we shall name Ludovic, anil his companion Dorlay, who was his janior, Both were charged with 8 commission of importance from the Emperor Napoleon,

« Perhaps you do not entirely comprehend,” said Ieu- dovie to the other, “ my proper reason for dismissing the chaise s0 soon.”

“ Why,” replied his companion, “for the very reason which you assigned, I suppose.”

“No, no, my friend; he might have conducted us hy another more circuitous route if { had plensed, but the

LADY'S

fact is T have an uncontrotlable desire to tramp on foot these places rendered so dear to my memory hy associa- tions of no ordinary kind.”

“Associations,” replied his friend, “connected, I aup- pose, with some of those ugly wounds which you received in the Vendean war.”

“Yes, trlie; a war in which I Jost my beat friends, and two brothers, who would have been by this time an omament to the service, I lost, too, my old fathers voteren that he was—I think I ace his grey locks strays ing in the wind, end hie noble face lighted up with a smile of quencliless patriotism, on the fatat morning that made many a happy wife a widow ere night. And I, too—I should certainly have fallen a sacrifice to the insatiable thirel for blood displayed by our enemies ; had it not been for the intercession of a heautiful young girl —an angel F might say—for, uly, never did I see 60 much virtue and heavenly intrepidity shown before for mortal man.”

“A woman, eh! Now, my friend, am I wrapt body and sout in thy story ; let’s have it—by Jove! a woman —a charming young girl—un angel! proceed, my friend, proceed—all intereat—all altention—oh, how I love to hear of female heroism ?

“Yes! but, unhappily, this lovely young creature was
 * 1) native of Le Vendée.”

“What matters!—prejudice, men, prejudice—talk not of national distinctions when @ lovely young woman is in the ease, Under any government, in any country, a woman should be equally respected; but come, tell us how this angel saved thee~a republican soliier.””

“Well, then, I'll tell thee. You are aware that it was a war of extormination, when both parties were prodigal of their courage and daring. No prisoners were made, no quarter given, it was a fight for death ; and J, with some others, during a skirmish, was desper- ately wounded, and left to the merey or disposition of our eaptors. Mercy they had none; I was faint, misera- ble, apparently dying, and the officer commanding the ‘company into whose hands I had fallen, in @ cool relent- leas tone, ontered me to make my preparations for death in five minutes, at the same time turning round to his soldiers, gave the word for a file of men to advence twelve paces, and to put as many shota es they were able into my head; which order the men proceeded to obey, with a sang froid equal to that of their com- mander. I had but ore care at that moment on my mind, and that was to think of the effect my miserable dcath was likely to have on the already shattered nerves of an aged parent. I uttered the nome of roy mother 5 and offered up a short prayer to heaven for her support, under the severe trial she might be expected to undergo in the loss of an only son. God bless her! she is now in heaven, I trust! (here the eoliier dashed @ large tear from his eye which he found it impossible to suppress.)

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text: Clouds without Water/The Thaumaturge

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30

Here tho young officer could restrain his impatience no longer, and casting aside his cloak and sword, and leaving the aged father to follow him as he best might, darted through an open door, and soon gained the sick chamber, where Iny the tender object of his solicitude, scemingly insensible to any external approach, He drew near the bed—she slept; he leant over snd imprinted one soft kies on thoze lips, temptingly protruding; ruby- like they presented themselves to his enraptured eyes, and before he had time to follow up the warm impulses of bis heart, she awoke. Her looks wandered to where he stood; she looked not long—s warm glow: spread over her features—then quickly subsiding, her face grew pale—paler than before;'he looked again ; she regarded the young man steadfastly—a gleam of intensely affec- tionate recollection lit up her face for an instant; she raised her delicate white henil from the coverlid as if to clasp hie; the young officer grasped it; he watched each change in her features as they varied altemately {com rose to lily, with an earnestness that told how his soul ‘was wrought up by the intensity of his emotions; he held ber hand till at last he fancied it grew cold in hie; she bad closed her eyes; it would have been difficult at this moment to havo told whose cheek was the paler of the two—that of her whose passive hand ho held, or his own, He gazed on, while his heart scarcely owned @ pulsation ; mute—breathless—~every faculty seemed aue- pended, each nerve paralysed ; all was etill—aye, still an the grave; her breast heaved not—no sigh escaped ber —no visible sign of life, Her venerable parent had seated himself beside the couch in sn old carved chair, hia face buried in his hands; his grey locks straying wildly down to his knees, and uttering from time to time » half-suppressed sob, that broke upon the ears of those present with startling effect. ‘There is that in sn ‘old man’s grief thet gives to the hoart more pain, coir veys to the mind » more acute sense of heart-rending misery then any thing I know of. At the foot of the bed stood Dorlay, for he, too, had thrust himself into the scene, twirling his moustache with great rapidity—fura- bling at the hilt of his sword, which every now and thon he half withdrew from the scabbard, then as euddenly thrust it back, and giving many other ssmptome of vio- lent agitation, At last Ludovie was observed to hang ‘over the form of the apparently dying girl; he whispered in her ear, such a whisper none could ever forget—low —distinet—he caught bis breath, every one beard it— “Annette!” She opened her eyes; the effect was as though some inngic hai mingled itself in that one strained convulsive effort. She gazed on him; the sudden effect produced by his unexpected appearance liad been too much for her, but the torpor in which she had Iain, and which had been mistaken for the sleep of death, gtadually wore off, and, to the astonishment and nameless joy of all interested, Annette awoke to fife

to love! Where all was tears and sorrow, now all is smiles and heppiness,

Colonel Ludovic and his friend got rid of the des- patches with which they wore entrusted, and having obeyed the commands of the Emperor, retumed to the village. A few mornings after the circumstances just narrated, all the inhabitants were like people beside themselves, in their deinonstration of the pleasure felt on the occasion of a bridal of so generally interesting a nature, that not a heart among them but could aay their Joy was hie. That day had witnessed the consuramation of @ noble young soldier's fondest hopes,

THE INDIAN WIFE. RY ANNA E, FULTON.

She stood, majestic in her grief, "Midst the deep forest shade, While the gushings of the night wind chill, A dismal wailing made. ‘The giant trees were sternly group'd Like watchers of the dead, And across the dark aad troubled sky The gloomy. storm-cloude sped.

‘The savage wolf, athirat for blood, Glar‘d eager on the ecene, ~ Yet even shrank away abash’d From that ead, noble mein, No loving human heart wan near ‘That speechless woe to share, No gentle human voice was heard ‘Vo breathe the soothing prayer.

Ask yo, what steel’d soft wom Such mouraful waich to keep? Behold the warrior at her feet, ‘Wrapp'd in death's slumber deep! Dishonor'd lies the haughty head, Pow'rless the sinewy arm Which ever dropp'd, unnerv'd by death, Had wrought most fearful harm.

heart,

And ye wil] seek no mare to solve This mystery of woe,

‘Ye know from woman's heart alone Could such devotion flow.

Born broke; and loud the war-whoop rang, ‘The savage band drew near,

And yet that soul of lofty faith Own'd not a throb of fear.

‘They came, and for an instant gua'd ‘Those warriora of the wild,

Aa the proud daughter of their foes In bitter mockery emiled ;

«Then swift the glittering weapons flew,

And love's high martyr fell,

And her true heart’s blood bath’d the form Of him she lov'd 100 well.

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text: Clouds without Water/The Black Mass

title: Clouds without Water/The Black Mass


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" Oh ! the wretch," said Emma laughingly, " and he thinks himself so irresistible that he can win a lady at once."

“ And he tells me he will propose for you in a month, and that his success is certain," said her lover with mock solemnity, and then both, looking a moment into each others faces, burst into a merry laugh, which lasted for some minutes.

" A thought strikes me," said Emma, at length, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and then she recounted to her lover a plan which she had formed, which only increased their laughter. What the plan was that so pleased Emma and Lawrey will appear in due time.

The attentions of Mr. Henry Gowen to the fair Emma Wharton, soon became the theme of conversation, and many an opinion was hazarded as to whether the attachment was reciprocal. Of the sentiments of the gentleman there could apparently be no doubt, since his attentions were constant and minute ; but the conduct of Emma was not so easily unriddled, since, although she did not reject the attentions of her new lover, she could hardly be said to encourage them. The gossipers, however, came at length to the conclusion that "it was to be a match," and that the deportment of the lady was to be attributed wholly to coyness. A fortnight, meantime, had elapsed since the conversation betwixt Lawrey and Emma, when Mr. Henry Gowen again met Lawrey in the street. "Deuced fine girl, Lawrey, is that Miss Wharton," said Mr. Henry Gowen, " I was never so deeply in love in my life." "With her fortune, you mean," drily said Lawrey. No, faith, with herself-I confess, betwixt you and I, it was her money that first induced me to pay attention to her, but I'm afraid I'm more deeply interested in her than would be prudent, if there was any danger of a refusal." "So you think your success is certain." " Why, yes, I may say so- I fancy there is little doubt. Emma is a little coy, to be sure, but, aside from that, every symptom is favorable ! Ah! but here comes the angel herself-good bye- don't you wish you were as happy as I am." " A precious rascal !" said Lawrey to himself, as he bowed to Emma, and exchanged with her a meaning smile. Mr. Henry Gowen hastened to join the side of Emma, and accompanied her home. Soliciting a few minutes tête-a-tête with her he entered the parlor and took his seat by her side. Then, in a set speech which he had duly composed and committed to memory for the occasion, he tendered to Miss Wharton his heart, hand, and fortune. Emma heard him out gravely and then replied, "I certainly ought to feel honored by your proposal, sir, but as I attribute it wholly to my fortune and not to

myself, I cannot be so highly flattered as I should under other circumstances. Excuse me for declining your proposal," she said, rising, " and take a word of counsel. Never go again to the Surrogate's Office to learn a lady's wealth.' Good morning, sir.”These words, without the tone in which they were pronounced, would have been sufficient to discomfit even a greater coxcomb than Mr. Henry Gowen. He felt as if he could have wished the floor to open and swallow him from the scornful look of Miss Wharton. Seizing his hat he hurried to the door, and before night was on his way to the Springs. A merry laugh had Emma and her lover that evening over the discomfited fortune-hunter. And when, a few months later, Mr. Henry Gowen saw their marriage in the newspaper, and recollected that he had made a confidant of Charles Lawrey, he wisely concluded that even the Springs would not save him from ridicule, and sailed at once for Europe.

WHEN LAST WE MET. BY EDWARD J. PORTER. THE dewy flowers had wept O'er zephyr's soft adieu ; Each sigh of sweetness slept Within the violet's blue ; The rose, for whose sweet breath The bulbul wove a wreath Of melody, as sweet As soaring spirits meet Upon their heavenward way, Hung drooped upon its spray, When last we met. And oh, the air was calm ; The lake unruffled lay :The moon seemed breathing balm, For all beneath her ray, And yet lone spirits sighedThough heaven and earth seemed dyed In hues, that well might bless Those dreams of loveliness, Glimpses of Paradise, That gladden Peris' eyesWhen last we met.

Yet, though that hour has wreathed Dark flowers o'er memory's stream ; And though no more he breathed O'er my lone spirit's dream, Those whispered tones so sweet, So gentle, yet so fleet ; Though sorrow dash the cup, Still let me conjure up From memory's hallowed wave, The joys those moments gave, When last we met.


text: Clouds without Water/The Adept

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34

of a valuable tarletane, The sléeves are still being ‘worn very short, the prettiest style being those trimmed with two folds gathered and placed one at the top of the other, forming flat bouillions.

Boxxxre.—Paillee de Riz. ‘These bonnetsare great favorites for afternoon toiletics. Some are lined with silk glaeé, pink’ or blue; the interior of the brim sur- rounded with pale pink or blue ¢udle réiche, the garniture composed of velvet ribbons, dignés aul shaded. Others are lined with colored gauzes, the brides formed af a very light small Gower, and the outside decoruted with white lace and splendid drooping feathers, mostly shaded in the same color, Fancy straws are much worn for morning costuines; the most fashionable being deco- rated with the Josephine crowns, which arc simply a wreath of bluets or roses, which form the centre of the crown, and gradually diminishing n cach aide, We htave soon one or two trimmed with a light style of gauze ribbon and sbuded maraboute, which are also very pretty. A most charming style of bonnct are those made in white erépe, the form raised, and trimmed on one side with a bouguct of roses, and on the other with two small roseates in ribhon, composed of white taffetas, approaching close to each other; also'those made in siraw-colored poult de sate, the form elightly raised, ani trimmed with a bavolet very deop, in order to avoid the head being too uncovered at the back; shallow in the centre of the front, and low on the checks, ornamented with a long white plume, nuce, straw color; 2 smell garland of roses decorating the inside. Others in pink poult de oie, tho form raised, and trimmed round the front with three folds of erépe rose, and threo sianting feathers of the aaine color placed upon the left side of the bonnet, In Parts the elegantés have udopted the style of bonnet in blond, and ornamented with emall tufts of the Myosotis, which retains coquettishly over the crown a trimming of lace, Also those in mauné crépe, omamented round the erown with a garland of pensées, and trimmed with mauvé taffotas ribbon, the brides of Jonguilles. Those wnade in poult de soie are also very fashionable, when lined with @ tich English lace, and decorated with a long plain couchée. Also those made in a pale color, and trimmed with folds of erépe lisse, of w darker shade, and decorated with a garlind of yellow hawthorn and ribbon. Capotes, dla nillageoise are in gront request, the crown drawn, and ornamented with a garland of lilac, composed of deni tnunches of different shades, with very few leaves attached, Les voillettes are still the rage, and give a great degree of elegance to the eapol

Cars.—Estelle, ‘This pretty cap is made of gauze, light as a puff of summer air, und is intermixed with nurnds of ganze ribbon, blue glace: white, with long float ing ends attache:

Many other new atyles of caps are

worn; they are composed entirely of luce, which ia !

THE Lapy's

placed s0 08 in some measure to cover the front part of the head, the lappets on each side being made perfectly straight, and the crown of a moderate size. Tt is now considered bad taste to wear the cap too much et the back of the bead: for instance, a little papillion a la villageoise, plain in the form, but embroidered and encircled with 2 Brussels edging, or, instoad of its being plain, with large folds, Some have the eure wufficiontly Tong to admait of their forming on each side too small barbes, sometinies relieved with 2 naud of ribbon, or a ‘small cluster of ‘rose-buds. A favorite style of morning vap are those in mustin; they are called fe Pot au lait, forming a wing on euch side, composed of two barber ot embroidered mustin, raised and turned back on cither side by a simple gold pin, somewhat in the Flemish style; they are very becoming,

Waraine Darssrs are still worn made in silks, sating, &e. For instanee, a dress of poult de avie, vere dant green shaded violet, trimmed en tublicg in eunbroi- derics of green gympe work; the corsage tight; the waist a rounded point; close fitting sleeves ; cardinal polerine, embroidered afl round in a wreath, to match the dress; also a dress in gros de Naples of a bevutifut pearl grey, the jupe embroidered all round the bottom, with a double garland of laurel leaves; tight body; rounded point; and a facing of the seme covering the bust and forming a point in the centre; tight sleeves, over which.is worn a double short sleeve; manchettes in Ince, falling over the hands. Lastly a dress of satin @ Affrique, green glace groxeitle, the skirt trimmed en tablicr, with ribbon, placed in a festoon, each notch of the festoons ornamented with a hutton-hele formed of the ribbon, in the contre of which ie placed a gold button; high and close fiting body, opening in a point in the front; tight sleeves stomacher of lace inlet is worn underneath the body, fastened ly two gold buttons. We may here remark, that the skirts are still being made extremely Jong and ample, particularly when composed of rich materials, the most favorite trimming being fancy
 * shaded frinyes and open work gyinpe.

Evarixe Dnssses—Novelly in this style of dress is now being much sought after. We have lately scen some very pretty ones made in Pekin raies marron and black, reflecting the color of fire; the skirt made open and trimmed with broad facings of marron dati omamented with eroall roseattes in ribbon, diminishing progressively to the point of the waists the akirt uoder- neath composed of the same inuterial. ‘The body mado ight end with a point, trimmed carelessly with small roxeaites of ribbon, placed upon the seams of the body and widening from the edge of the waist upward; the sleeves justes, and having twe broad folls forming Jockeys; olhere were made in blue taflotas glucée rove, utid (rimmed on each wide of the skirt with live rows of narrow black ribhon velvet, placed at regular distances,

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 Mr. Harris denied this on the spot with the vehemence of injured innocence. The chief shook his head and spat profusely and sorrowfully.

"You no sabe him clock you done sell me?" said he. "When I look him clock it no be to-day, it be to-morrow." Mr. Harris took the clock back, to see what was the cause of this strange state of affairs. Of course it arose from his having been too liberal in the amount of spoon in the weight, and this being altered, the chief was not hurried onward to his grave at such a rattling pace; "but," said Mr. Harris, "that clock was a flyer to the last."

Phrases in the native languages often point to a power of imagery; for example the Effik word for both stars and fire-flies is Ntan-ta fiong, and if one takes the translation some authorities give of this, namely "moon dust," it is pretty, but other authorities say it means "made of the same stuff as the moon," which reduces it to simple idiocy. The name for butterflies, meaning "the cloth of the spirit," has no detractors; nor has that for the pretty little gecko lizard that haunts the houses and is now learning to walk on ceilings, "the spirit of the child," and so on. But I will not go into the subject of African languages here, but only remark of them that although they are elaborate enough to produce, for their users, nearly every shade of erroneous statement, they are not, save perhaps M'pongwe, elaborate enough to enable a native to state his exact thought. Some of them are very dependent on gesture. When I was with the Fans they frequently said, "We will go to the fire so that we can see what they say," when any question had to be decided after dark, and the inhabitants of Fernando Po, the Bubis, are quite unable to converse with each other unless they have sufficient light to see the accompanying gestures of the conversation. In all cases I feel sure the African's intelligence is far ahead of his language.

The African is usually great at dreams, and has them very noisily; but he does not seem to me to attach immense importance to them, certainly not so much as the Red Indian does. I doubt whether there is much real ground for supposing that from dreams came man's first conception of the spirit world,


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36

POETRY OF LUCY HOOPER *. We know of no place more appropriate for a notice of this late gifted young poetess than the columns of a lady's magazine. One who has written so much and sweetly, whose heart was so full of all sensibility and refinement, and who was, in every relation of life, so truly a woman, deserves to receive, at the hands of her sex, remembrance and regret.

Lucy Hooper was born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, on the fourth of February, 1816. During her early years few opportunities were presented for the development of her poetical talents ; and indeed, for a long time, she seemed unconscious of her powers. She was, however, from a child, devoted to study. Like the Davidsons' her health was always precarious. There is no doubt that the seeds of the malady which finally carried her to her grave were early implanted in her, and nourished by her application to study, and the wear and tear of her excitable mind acting on a feeble constitution. In her fifteenth year her family removed to Brooklyn, L. I. and now, for the first time, she evinced her poetical abilities. Hitherto the vague yearnings of a sensitive soul, the deep emotions of her sex, and the bewildering reveries of an imaginative mind had been nursed in secret ; but now the wild dreams of the poet found voice, and she breathed forth her plaint in sweet and mournful numbers. Unlike either Hemans or Norton, no early sorrow shadowed her lyre with melancholy- no illrequited affection, no abused confidence, no desolated hearth wrung from her the bitter words of anguish. Hers was, from the first, a mournful harp. Young as she was, when she first began to write, her earliest efforts were distinguished by the nervousness of their language and the melody of their versification. As she became more practised in her art, as her knowledge grew more comprehensive, and as her feelings attained a deeper tone, and ber faculties a wider range, the merit of her poems increased, she became more impassioned, nervous, and refined, she displayed greater strength of feeling and expression, until, in her later effusions, she attained an elevation to which few of her countrywomen have soared. The poems written just before her death, especially those entitled " The Daughter of Herodias," and " The Queen's Petition," will amply sustain us in this assertion. At every period of her career she composed hastily, and her poems throughout display a want of elaboration, which, while it often gives them an air of easy frankness, as often renders them

stored with imagery, and glowing with the true afflatus, seemed to shrink from the dull labor of correcting and improving what had gushed from it in the moments of inspiration. We cannot but regret this failing. The greatest poets have always found it to their advantage to elaborate their works, and indeed no finished composition can be produced without this care. Art and genius go hand in hand, and though the former can effect nothing unaided, yet the latter can execute but half its mission without the support of its ally. We almost wonder, therefore, at the melody of versification , and comparative strength combined which Miss Hooper attained, considering her desultory habits of composition. There was, however, an earnestness of purpose about her which went far to suppy this deficiency. She never trifled with her theme. We are assured that she feels every word she says, and we surrender ourselves to her enthusiasm if not to her art. Then too she evinces a gentleness and refinement which charm us irresistibly. Her purity of feeling is remarkable. Even in her earlier poems she avoided the usual fault of her age, a turgid and bombastic expression, and was then only less simple and easy than at a later period. Habituated as she was to the applause of the public she never lost her sensitive modesty, perhaps the highest charm a female can possess. In becoming an author she did not cease to be a woman. Nor did she ever allow herself to regard with envy those who, with her, were engaged in the struggle for the laurel crown. From first to last she remained a gentle, confiding, sensitive, home-loving woman— a being

who won on the sympathies even more than she commanded our admiration. Such should be every true woman, however exalted her intellect. Her hearth is her home, her sceptre is her tenderness, but her empire is the world ! The melancholy tone which pervaded much of the poetry of Miss Hooper may be traced to the circumstances of affliction which surrounded her later life. Her mother was no more, other and dear relatives preceded her to the grave, and there is no doubt that she felt within her the presentiment of an early death. There was much in life to love, from which she knew she must soon be called away. Thus the music of the streams, and the beauty of the stars tended to deepen her tone of despondency. Yet no unworthy complainings ever left her lips ; but, in the calm confidence of the Christian, she awaited her dissolution. It came more suddenly than either her friends or herself, perhaps, surmised ; and after a rapid decay she died of pulmonary consumption on the 1st of August, 1841, exactly a year from to-day. The virtues of her life and her resignation comparatively tame and attenuated. Her mind, richly in death, forcibly bring to our minds the lofty language of the Apocalypse, " Blessed are the dead that die in the and arranged ; with a memoir, by John Reese- 1 vol. New follow them." York, Samuel Colman, 1842.
 * Poetical Remains of the late Lucy Hooper, collected Lord, for they rest from their labors and their works do


text: Clouds without Water/The Vampire

title: Clouds without Water/The Vampire


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38 To the garlands hung over Hope's gay shrine, When the hours of that year were new, And we looked not for frost in the summer prime, In the place of the early dew ; Oh ! the stars should shine with a pale, pale light, When joy has been thus o'erthrown ; And the mourner weeps in the silent night, For his beautiful- alone !

The stars of the old year shone last night ; They were linked with thoughts of pain, -Like music we ' ve heard in some happier hour, But would never list again, Like flowers the hand of Love hath plucked, That when parted we dread to see ; Precious yet twined with all mournful thoughts, Were their dying beams to me! The stars of the new year shine to-night, There is hope in their faintest gleams , They come to my heart, with their spells of light, As linked with its angel dreams! Sweet voices have broke on the weary day, I turn from the heavy Past; While the stars of the new year softly say, Wearied one, rest at last!

One of the latest, as well as the most powerful poems of Miss Hooper, was written after beholding a picture, representing the daughter of Herodias, bearing the head of John the Baptist on a charger, and wearing on her countenance an expression of sad and sorrowful remorse, instead ofthe look of triumph which some painters have given to her. The poem is indeed a gem. LINES. Mother! I bring thy gift, Take from my hand the dreaded boon- I pray Take it, the still pale sorrow of the face Hath left upon my soul its living trace, Never to pass away ;Since from these lips one word of idle breath, Blanched that calm face--oh! mother, this is death! What is it that I see From all the pure and settled features gleaming ? Reproach ! reproach ! My dreams are strange and wild, Mother! had'st thou no pity on thy child ? Lo! a celestial smile seems softly beaming On the hushed lips--my mother, can'st thou brook, Longer upon thy victim's face to look ? Alas ! at yestermorn My heart was light, and to the viol's sound I gaily danced, while crowned with summer flowers, And swiftly by me sped the flying hours, And all was joy around ;Not death ! Oh! mother could I say thee nay ? Take from thy daughter's hand thy boon away! Take it ; my heart is sad, And the pure forehead hath an icy chill-I dare not touch it, for avenging Heaven Hath shuddering visions to my fancy given, And the pale face appals me, cold and still, With the closed lips, oh ! tell me, could I know That the pale features of the dead were so ?

I may not turn away From the charmed brow, and I have heard his name Even as a prophet by his people spoken, And that high brow in death bears seal and token , Of one, whose words were flame ;-Oh! Holy Teacher ! could'st thou rise and live, Would not these hushed lips whisper, " I forgive !"

Away with lute and harp, With the glad heart forever, and the dance, Never again shall tabret sound for me, Oh! fearful Mother, I have brought to thee The silent dead, with his rebuking glance, And the crushed heart of one, to whom are given Wild dreams of judgment and offended Heaven ! The lines on Osceola have often been quoted, and are perhaps familiar to most of our readers, but they shall win a place on our page as well for the sake of the illfated chief as for the force and dignity they display. The wrongs of the Indians have woke many an eloquent advocate, but rarely has any thing been written, in prose or poetry, that surpasses these lines. The poem was written on a picture of the chief, representing him as he appeared, when a prisoner in the American camp. LINES. Not on the battle field, As when thy thousand warriors joyed to meet thee, Sounding the fierce war-cry, Leading them forth to die-Not thus, not thus we greet thee. But in a hostile camp, Lonely amidst thy foes, Thine arrows spent, Thy brow unbent, Yet wearing record of thy people's woes. Chief! for thy memories now, While the tall palm against this quiet sky Her branches waves, And the soft river laves The green and flower-crowned banks it wanders by. While in this golden sun The burnished rifle gleameth with strange light, And sword and spear Rest harmless here, Yet flash with startling radiance on the sight ; Wake they thy glance of scorn, Thou of the folded arms and aspect sternThou of the deep low tone, For whose rich music gone, Kindred and friends alike may vainly yearn ? Wo for the trusting hour! Oh! kingly stag ! no hand hath brought thee down ; "Twas with a patriot's heart, Where fear usurped no part, Thou comest, a noble offering, and alone ! For vain yon army's might, While for thy band the wide plain owned a tree, Or the wild vine's tangled shoots On the gnarled oak's mossy roots Their trysting place might be! Wo for thy hapless fate ! Wo for thine evil times and lot, brave chief; Thy sadly closing story, Thy short and mournful glory, Thy high but hopeless struggle, brave and brief! Wo for the bitter stain That from our country's banner may not part ; Wo for the captive, wo! For burning pains, and slow, Are his who dieth of the fevered heart. Oh! in that spirit-land, Where never yet the oppressor's foot hath past, Chief by those sparkling streams Whose beauty mocks our dreams, May that high heart have won its rest at last.


text: Clouds without Water/The Initiation

title: Clouds without Water/The Initiation


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Translation:Tao Te Ching
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informed. Where the one was generous from impulse the other was benevolent from duty. While the elder cousin sought on all occasions only her own gratification, the younger one labored as much for the pleasure of others as for that of herself. The love of Fletcher, therefore, for this sweet girl was the offspring of a firm conviction of her worth. It was a passion which, he felt, could end only with his life.

The love of Desmond for Charlotte was a different thing, a mere romantic fancy, nursed by the imagination, and which would have been at variance with the judgment ifthat faculty had not been lulled to sleep. Struck by the fascinations of Miss Estaigne he had shut his eyes to her imperfections. Like too many lovers, of both sexes, he had created an ideal being, no more like the reality than a landscape mellowed by twilight is like the same scene beneath the noonday sun. He heard the strictures of Fletcher, therefore, with real astonishment, and magnified into virtues-as we have seen-what his friend called errors. His opinion of Helen was formed without any intimate acquaintance with her. It was an error such as is often committed by superficial thinkers.

Time passed. The attentions of Desmond to Miss Estaigne soon became decided, and at length their marriage was spoken of as an occurrence which would speedily take place. Nor was the public voice more reserved in assigning Helen Steevens to Mr. Cowell. For once, too, the rumors were correct. The two young men were married within the same month. A bare six months had elapsed since his marriage ere Desmond's whole character appeared to be changed. His brow wore an anxious and care-worn expression, which the extravagant mirth that he affected at times failed to remove. It was evident that all was not right within, that happiness was a stranger to him, and that he strove but vainly to conceal his feelings. It speedily | came to be rumored that he rarely spent an evening at home, but was ever to be found with gay and dissolute companions. As month after month rolled by, his disinclination to the domestic hearth became more and more apparent, until finally his desertion of his wife became the theme of general remark. As usual some blamed the lady and some the gentleman. A few spoke of peevishness, self-love, and constant recriminations, which were said to have made Desmond an exile from his home ; but the greater number denounced him as the most brutal of men for his desertion of an unoffending wife. It was about a year after his unhappy marriage that Desmond dropped in one evening to see his friend Fletcher. The tidy room, the air of comfort around, and the happy smiles of the wife caused an involuntary sigh from the haggard and now morose Desmond. His visit was of short duration. After he retired a mutual

silence prevailed with the young and happy couple. At length the wife spoke, "Poor Desmond !" she said, " how bad he looks ! Charlotte, I fear, has never acted toward him as she should : indeed I often see things there which make my heart ache. Alas ! for my deluded cousin." " Do you know, Helen," said her husband, fondly drawing her toward him, " that I foresaw all this, and used every honorable effort to open Desmond's eyes to Charlotte's true character ? I told him that she was selfish, vain, but above all high tempered. He could not see her character in the same light in which I saw it : we came near having high words ; but wisely concluded to avoid a subject on which we could not agree. His looks, when he visits us, convince me that he remembers our conversation." "And yet," said the young wife, after a pause, "he might be happy if it was not for Charlotte's temper, for her vanity and selfishness, and indeed all her other errors might, by the aid of love, be corrected. But oh ! the scenes I have witnessed there. It would break my heart, dear Fletcher, to have you look at me as she sometimes looks at her husband ! And she is daily becoming worse. Her husband's visible unhappiness stings her heart, and awakes all her evil passions. A single spark blows all into a flame. Alas ! for the life they must mutually lead." "It is indeed dreadful to contemplate," said the husband, " I always feared a high temper, and believe half of the unhappy marriages, of which we hear so many complain, can be traced to it. But let us, dear Helen, change this gloomy conversation. You shall sew and I will read to you." A year from that time, Desmond, who, meantime had become thoroughly dissipated, was found drowned. The coroner's jury brought in a verdict of accidental death. Let us hope it was so, and not attribute it to despair, brought on by his wife's temper.

HOME. BY H. P. WITBECK. SCENES of my birth and careless childhood hours, Ye smiling hills and spacious fertile vales, Where oft I wandered plucking vernal flowers And revelled in the gently breathing gales ; Should fickle fate with talismanic wand Bear me afar where either India glows, Or fix my dwelling on the Polar Land Where nature wears her everlasting snows? Still shall your charms my fondest themes adorn Where placid evening paints the western sky, And when Hyperion wakes the blushing morn To mar his gorgeous sapphire thrown on high. Still to the guileless heart where'er we roam No scenes delight us like our much loved home.


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While the admirers of Chenier were preparing for him an unexpected compliment, the object of all their solicitude had comfortably ensconced himself in an armchair, by the side of a good fire (for it was the month of November,) and seemed to be given up to all the ease and happiness of a tired traveller, who has escaped from some disagreeable rencontre, and wishes to compensate himself by the demolition of a quiet, well-dressed supper. This individual seemed to have cast off all care from his mind, until he saw the master of the hotel mount to his chamber, bearing a towel upon his arm, and evidently determined upon serving him, instead of leaving that task to the waiters.

To the horror of Chenier, he saw in the manner of the hotel-keeper, that there was something mysterious. There was an air of great shrewdness in the countenance and manners of the host, and there was certainly an affectation in the constant repetition of the name of his guest. That name, it must be added, seemed to act very disagreeably upon the nerves of the traveller. "Does Monsieur Chenier wish for any thing ? Is Monsieur Chenier satisfied ? Has Monsieur Chenier any order to give ? Did Monsieur Chenier like the roast fowl ?" He who was the object of so much attention followed with an unquiet eye all the movements of his host. Through the exaggeration of politeness, he thought he could discover something like irony. He sought to penetrate the secret of this enigma, and he had not long to search for it, when, on a sudden, the serenade burst upon him like a clap of thunder, with its first awful uproar and gigantic acclamation. The fork fell from the hand of Chenier, and his face assumed the paleness of death, when the host cried out, "Monsieur Chenier did not expect such a fine reception as this, I am sure." "How did any one know of my arrival at Brussels ?" " You owe this fete to one of your Paris friends, who has just recognized you." 66 The madman ! the thief!" cried the traveller. " I left Paris to avoid him, and yet he pursues me ; and not only that, but he betakes himself to a tumult. A charivari ! a charivari ! What have I ever done to the man ?" 66 Let not Monsieur Chenier be angry," humbly said the hotel-keeper, who piqued himself upon his knowledge of Racine. 66 We can appreciate you, sir, as well in Brussels as they do in Paris. We cannot respect the incognito of a man like M. Chenier." These words, so far from appeasing the anger and the feverish excitement of the hero of the fete, seemed but to increase them still more. However, the serenade continued with increasing magnificence. If the musi cians paused but for an instant, the crowd uttered cries,

in which the stranger could not but too well recognize his name " Chenier ! Chenier ! Chenier !" " After such an exposure," said he,."there is no retreating. I must resign myself to my fate." He got up from the table, and took from his travelling trunk a brace of pistols, which, with trembling hands, he placed upon the mantel-piece. The host, who did not understand him, and who never could comprehend him, stole quietly out of the room, stupified at seeing, for the first time, a man enraged because he was honored with a serenade. "Now," said the young literary man, who had given rise to all this commotion for the purpose of paying his homage to a brother poet, 66 now, I warrant, M. Chenier

is going to make his appearance at the balcony, to harangue us and to thank us.” " I have no doubt at all of it," said Robinson, who contrived, however, to place himself in the darkest corner "Bravo ! bravo ! Chenier ; Chenier !" exclaimed the crowd as if with one voice-" forward, Chenier ! forward." "Bravo ! a crown of laurel ! we must give him a crown," said some one. The Belgians have the same ardor for giving crowns as for hearing serenades. The proposition was therefore accepted with transport, and they ran to search for a garland of laurels. "Since he does not appear for our call, you must go to the chamber of your friend," said the young author to the mountebank, " and compel him to appear at the window-once there, I can clap a crown upon his head." Robinson could not refuse to obey this command. Both, then mounted, to the chamber of the poet, and tapped lightly on the door. Chenier himself opened it. "I know the motive of your coming," he remarked , "and also the person who has urged you on to this. I am at your command, only allow me to dress myself. "There is no necessity for it-the people expect you with such a lively impatience, that they will never remark the negligence of your costume-a negligence, besides, that is quite excusable in a traveller like you !” " But, who in the world could have told you of my arrival. To whom am I indebted for these persecutions ?" "What exquisite modesty-to designate as persecutions the honors that are justly your due ! Besides, as you well know the fact, it was your friend Robinson who recognised your autograph." " Robinson ! Robinson ! my friend, too, Robinson ! I never knew Robinson-I never heard of Robinson." "Yes- I-," exclaimed the charlatan in despair, and flinging himself into the arms of the traveller66 But, Sir, I do not know who you are." "Ah ! pardon him," exclaimed the young Belgian
 * he could find ; " but then we must call for him.”


text: Clouds without Water/Notes

title: Clouds without Water/Notes


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A lively murmur of disapprobation interrupted him,

“Ob! this ia going too far with the matter,” said one of the hosts. «Does he take us for idiots?”

A. person sitting next to Robinson said, “Come, Sir, you can put an end to thisridicalous foolery. Ie he not the great poct? Is it not Chenier's eloquent pen that has written Charles IX.”

“Chenier is a great poet,” said Robinson,

Are you not his friend 1”

“The friendship of a great man is what I have always been proud of?

“But you don't answer the question directly,” said the Hercules wha had broken in the door. “Is that person Chenier the poct, or not Hava you been telling us lies—yes or no?”

“That person is Chenier the poet,” stuttered opt the seamp.

“Very well. Now, then, Monsieur Chenier,” said this furious admirer of verses, “Z declare to you in my own name, and in thot of my fellow citizens, that your attempting to carry on this farce any farther will be considered by me end by them, a personal insult, for which you shall becomo personally responsible.”

“ What! it is to fight a duel with you 2” said Chenicr.

“ Yea, our friendship ot our vengeance—meke your choice.”.

“Oh! then since you will have it so—and that is the only condition on which I can escape—I am a great poet.”.

Thuniders of applause followed this announcement. Me hud to shake hands with every man in the room. Some even embraced him, ond muny reproached him tenderly with hie foolish obstinacy.

The Herculean orator at length asked permission to speak.

“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “we must try and obtain a favor from the glorious Chenier. Tt is that he will reeite for ws some of his verses.”

 * But T never made a verse in my life!”

“What, again!” roarad out the stentor, while indig- nation reddened the fuccs of those around, who were already warmed with wine.

“Gontlemen,” said a traveller, who was modeslly seated at the lower end of the table, and who had asked the permission of joining in the banquet, when he had Searncd, 26 he descended from his carriage, that the hero of the féte was Chenier, “Gentlemen,” said he, M.

he has composed; and if you permit me, I shall recite them. By this means harmony may be restored.”
 * Chenier was o kind as to teil me some of the last verses

“ Recite—recite!” was called out from all parts of the room.

tet M. Chenier tooked on the scene around him, quite stupified, the traveller stood up, and recited the seers on “Calumny,” not then published, with so

LADY'S

much’ grace, fecling, and beauty, that the unanimous and heart-felt applause of the meeting grected him at the close of every strophe. Again and again was the hero of the fete congratulated upon his incomparable versea,

The morning sun at length beamed through the windows, and put an end to the noisy fete. The poet wns permitted to retire; and however enger he was to do 60, he could not quit the hall without shuking bands with the gentleman whose poctry had so happily deli- vered him,

“TE repeat to you, Sir,” he said, in thanking the stranger, “upon my honor I am not poet—and 1 do not even know, nor evar suw M. Chenier who makes verses.”

The stranger advanced to Robinson, end said to him, «Why did you not free this gentleman from his embar- rassment 7"

The eonjuror blushed, ~.

‘The stranger continued, “ You are, Sir, with all your faults, a very umusing person, and I ain obliged to you for a night's amusement, When you come to Paria, will you favor me with a visit? ‘That is my address.”

He gave his card to Robinson; and whatever was the name that the confuror read on it, he grew pale—bowed down to the very earth, and—the next morning starled for Germany.

As to M. Chenier, the traveller and dealer in winee— he set oul for Paris the very next day. He applied for, and obtained permission from the Council of State, to insert an into his name of Chenier, and also to desig- nate himself by his native place. He for ever afterward signed bis name Cheanier de Macon.

THE SEA-MAID. °

A marnns came gliding o’er the sea,

In a boat as light x# boat could be,

Anul she sang in tones eo sweet and free, “Oh! where is the youth that will follow me?"

Wer forehead was white as the pearly shell,

And in flickering waves her ringiets fell,

Her basom heaved with a gentle swell,

‘And her voice was a distant vesper bell.

And still she sang while the western light

Fell on her fignre so soft and bright,

“Oh! where shall I find the brave young eprite

‘Phat will fullow the wack of my skiff vo-night2”

To che strand the youths of the village run,

When the witching eoug has searce begun,

And ere the set of that evening aun,

Fileen beld lovers the maid has won.

‘They hoisted the eail, and they plied the oar,

nd away they went from their native shore,

ile the damsel’s pinnace flow fast before,

But never, Oh! never we saw them more. STRRLING.

�


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46 46

THE LADY'S

was the peculiar regard of her fond parents, and her older brothers -the pride of their hearts. For, whether from partiality I know not, Anna was thought to give high intellectual promise. Certainly she was of a lovely disposition. She loved her brothers ardently- she showed her love by every little means in her power : they, in turn, never would cross her will- they would yield to her slightest wishes ; in short, her affection was by no means unrequited. Oh, what must be that brother's heart, who can trifle with the feelings of a loving sister, pleased with the society of any other young lady rather than hers ! Truly, I have thought of such, you are unworthy of the felicity in your power. Had I the envied possession-but who knows the deceitfulness of the heart ? Perhaps, though now grieving the deprivation, I might have abused the enjoyment of the blessing.

But to return-keen must have been the dart which pierced those brothers' hearts who had sustained such a loss. The wound it caused would refuse to be healed. They have no other sister to fill the place of her of whom they have been deprived. Oft have I heard them in after years speak of their sister till tears would roll profusely down their cheeks. She was a most dutiful child, yielding implicitly to her parents, and participating in turn largely both in a father's and in a mother's love. For three years, likewise, she had been the subject of frequent and violent illness. A distress in her head had sometime previous to her death deprived her of sight. The solicitude occasioned by such afflictions naturally draws closer the ties which bind a child to the parent's heart. But in her were blasted darling hopes. Parents are inclined to look to a daughter as destined to be the solace of their old age. The son may-amid the exciting scenes of business -of the political world, be forgetful of his filial duties ; but in the daughter such conduct is so unfrequent, and withal so incongruous, that we are apt to regard her who exhibits it as a monster rather than a human being. But now the bud of promise had been plucked by the ruthless hand of the destroyer, just as it began to open and develop its hidden beauties. My father was a man peculiarly " made for the stern hour of strife ;" but this one grief he ever indulged- it could not be soothed. And oh how often have I heard my mother relate, with swelling bosom, narratives of her child ; delighting to show the little products of her labor ; to repeat the sentiments which she uttered-far above her age, the passages of poetry of which she was fond. Think you, reader, that I did not participate in this common grief? Oh do not thus wrong my young feelings. Iloved my sister ; I was loved by her. You have doubtless noticed the affection of a sister for her younger brothers. I was her only younger brother, and enjoyed her love undivided. I had seemingly no other companion. I was ever with her- after she was de-

prived of sight I led her about the neighborhood,—yes, I had sorrow. Too young, to be sure, for that sentimentalism in the indulgence of which sorrow often vanishes into mere empty affectation ; mine was the pure-the ingenuous sorrow of the heart. Some years after my mother gave me the following narrative. The little girls of the neighborhood used to visit my sister often, and construct small play-houses for her diversion. A few days before her death quite a company were assembled-the circumstance I remember well, but not the time- and had constructed several. The day succeeding her burial, after having lain some time pensive and silent, on a bed, with my eyes turned toward the door opening into the yard where they were standing, I at length rose and said, " Mother, now sister is dead, I shall not want any thing more of the playhouses. I have a mind to take them down if you are willing, mother. ". Having obtained her assent, I went about it and piled up all the materials of which they were composed, with much care. But still of my sisters I can have only an imperfect recollection. A single incident in the life of the younger, a dozen or more in that of the elder, the funeral ceremonies of each, is all I remember. Nor do I recollect the occurrence of a single incident for more than a year after their death. The intensity of my infant feelings is, perhaps, the only reason why memory clings, with so tenacious a grasp, to the circumstances connected with them. I gradually awoke into life, and these seem as the disordered visions of some frightful dream. Now I am surrounded by reality. I am in a grave-yard, where the dead have been buried,-where lie many with whom I once associated. Here reposes the dust of my sisters. For twenty summers the wild flower has bloomed upon their peaceful graves ; and I have become transformed from the vacant, thoughtless child, into the sober, reflecting man- I am surrounded, I say, with reality. Mine is a real sorrow. Stoicism might despise and forbid the indulgence of grief for the loss of friends, from whom we never should have derived benefit had their lives been spared to us ; but me it will admit to have sustained a real loss. And oh, if the mingling of any selfish with other feelings be ever tolerable, it will be pardoned in me at present on this occasion ! Were the stroke which deprived me at once, as it were, of my only sisters, a fatality I could not be reconciled. But it is from the hand of Providence, " Who sueth not as man sueth ;" " Who does all things well ;" and I should " be still and know that he is God." Yet surely never was boy more blessed than I should have been if my sisters had remained alive. I can fancy to myself a beautiful picture of childhood and youth ; Anna, eight years older than myself, would have joined a sister's love to something like maternal care. Her eye would have been ever over me ; and for the supervi-


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48 THE LEPER. BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON.

"OH, Night ! thy pinions lie so heavily Upon the anxious brow that seeks in vain The soothing unction of thy sister sleep. Thy shadows take such wild and fearful forms, And throng the excited brain with phantasies That agonize the spirit, as it turns From one fantastic shape of agony Only to meet a more horriffic shade, And writhe in torture, till the locks that lay In beauty o'er the brow, hang heavily With the cold dew that agony wrings out Upon the throbbing temple. Then the breath Is painfully pent up within the lungs, And the swol'n heart's slow beats are audible, As the ear strains to catch the first dear sound Of an approaching footstep, which comes not All the long weary night. "Oh, I have watch'd, And listen'd, till my heart, and ear, and brain Are wrung almost to madness. "Thou dear lord Of my whole soul and person, who dost sway With loves all potent sceptre every wish And hope of this poor heart. Oh, where art thou? Why dost thou stay so very long away? Some evil surely has befallen thee. I have observ'd of late upon thy brow The shadow of some evil destiny ; Dimming the sunlight of thine eyes of love, Which dwelt upon me with such long strange gaze Of tenderness and sorrow. Oh, I fear! I know not what or wherefore. But thy stay Is unaccountable. And yet perchance The elders of our people who accord To thy young spirit their sage fellowship, Detain thee in the temple of our God. I know thou dost not tarry willingly, So many weary days beyond the hour Appointed for our meeting. Hush poor heart! Say not that many a fond confiding wife Has felt the spirit crushing agony Of causeless cold desertion. Oh, my God! Whate'er affliction it may be thy will To lay upon my bruis'd and humble heart, Spare me this keenest agony of all. " Hark ! ' t is his footstep. Oh, I could kneel down And beg his pardon for the hasty thought That could impeach his honor. "Jared! Love !" "Nay, touch me not Theresa. Oh, great God "Tis now I suffer the full bitterness Of my most dreadful doom. No never more Shall I embrace thee dearest ! Never more Shall thy fond heart throb bliss into my veins Till my soul reels, delirious with delight. Thou shalt repose within my arms no more, And sleep with thy bright cheek against my breast.

Thy pillow will be lone, and wet with tears, And thy bed widow'd while thy husband lives, And loves, and longs to clasp the gentle forms That God made all his own. " Look here, Theresa, If thou art not quite petrified to stone. Oh, may the strength of Israel's mighty God Support thee through this trial. Look poor love, Here is the loathsome plague spot on mine arm ; Death has affix'd his fearful signet here. I am a Leper, fearfully unclean ; An outcast from thy bosom, from my house, My people, from the temple of my God, From love and sympathy. "" The holy priest Hath said it. Leprous, and incurable ; go forth full of anguish, and disease, To suffer through long years of living death, While my infect'd flesh is perishing From off a hideous living skeleton, A foul abhorrent thing whose slightest touch Is rife with death, whose breath is pestilence, Whose constant cry unclean !' shall warn away Every approaching footstep. Oh, Lord God What is my sin, that thou hast laid on me This most revolting of all punishments, This direst of all sorrows, plagues, and deaths ? "Oh, weep not thus dear love. And yet thy tears, The bitter agony that tortures thus Thy young fond bosom, is to me a pledge Of thy deep love and pity. Fare thee well, And do not waste thy life for grief of me. Think of me as I am, a loathsome thing Which none can bear to look on, and whose touch Is terrible contagion . Be thou blest With health and friendship. All this wealth is thine, I leave it all to thee. My daily bread And a coarse robe to wrap my withering form, Is all I now require."

"Jared ! Oh, God ! I cannot hear thee speak such dreadful words, I will not let thee go. My heart ! My heart! 'Tis breaking with fierce anguish. Must it be? Is there no hope, no mercy with the Lord That we must part so soon ? We who have lov'd So long, so fervently. We who have borne Such cruel trials, and endur'd so much? Is this the meed of our tried faithfulness , This parting worse a thousand times than death ?" " Be patient love. Do not arraign the Lord. I still believe him just, and merciful.. What merit could our love have in his eyes? Perchance that very passion is a sin For which he will chastise us. Oh, I feel That I have lov'd thee to idolatry, And love thee madly still. "Nay, come not near, I do command thee ! Oh, for one embrace ! Might I but clasp thee to my heart once more , And then lie down and die. Death were most sweet


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Is heal'd, and leaps for joy. But Jesus stands Withpure hands clasp'd, and meek eyes raised to heaven With deep expression of sweet gratitude And holy love, oft beaming out through tears. He looks as if his heart had room for all Who need his pity ; while his ardent soul Mingles in sweet communion with the God Whose power he surely wields. Nay, start not love, He certainly does wield the power of God, And wield it like a God. He walks the earth As if he needed nought of all her wealth, And heeded not her honors. Her rewards! Oh, what are all her splendors, gold and gems To barter for his gifts to me alone ? Or what were they to him who holds the keys Of heaven's rich treasury, and dispenses thence Blessings beyond all price. Requiring nought, Not even the tribute of a grateful heart. While precepts, such as man ne'er taught to man, Pure as the dew, and searching as the light, Flow from his lips, like incense from the rose That lives on Sharon's mountains, and melts down Into the inmost spirit. Like our God His gifts are great and free, and all his words Are full of god-like strength and purity, With god-like power he triumphs o'er the pains And spirits of the dark abyss of death. He is the power and majesty of God, Enshrined in the most pure and faultless form That nature ever shaped.

He will not die As other mortals die, for he has power O'er death, and all diseases. At his word The fiercest demons let their victims go , And shrinking from the splendors of his eye, Crouch down into black darkness. He controls Even the elements, the raging sea Is still at his command, and the free winds Close their strong pinions, and with murmur'd hymn Sink into sleep upon the rocking flood. Can he not quell the wildest wrath of man? Or paralyze his limbs, or strike him down To death or dark perdition ? If he yields To the cold sceptre of mortality He must resign himself a sacrifice, A free will offering for some grand intent ; To make atonement at the bar of God For some tremendous evil. He would be A spocess sacrifice, and might atope For a whole world of sin. " But words are vain, His power has heal'd my flesh, and fill'd my soul With gratitude, and love, and holy peace. Theresa thou shalt see his perfect face, And listen to his voice, and see his deeds ; And kneel, and worship our Immanuel."

THE PRISON LOVERS.

BY HARRIET BOWLES.

In the neighborhood of Bourdeaux there still stands an old venerable chateau, long the residence ofthe noble family of Malortie. In the height of the first French Revolution, the last marquis of that name fell on the scaffold, and, a few days after, the castle was broken into by an armed mob, headed by a Commissary of the people. "What seek you ? what want you ?" said an aged servant, who had accompanied his unhappy master even to the very steps of the scaffold. "We do not seek for any one," answered the Commissary, "but what we wish for is the ill-acquired wealth of an aristocrat, and we must have it," and with these words the mob dispersed in search of plunder. They searched in the chambers, in the presses, the furniture, the ceilings, the floors ; behind the richly carved wood-work ; even upon the very roof. They searched too with pikes, with hammers, and with hatchets, but could not discover that which they were looking for. The inquisition, or it ought rather to be called the destruction, of the house, continued for six hours. The assailants broke the windows, they tore down the painting, they dragged away the curtains and the carpets, and they knocked the heads off the statues, as if they were so many aristocrats ; and they tore in pieces the pictures of saints, as if they were the contra-revolutionists of another world. But then they found no gold, no jewels-but one. It was while they were destroying a picture of the Madonna, that a gentle sigh was heard, and on gazing around they discovered, in a small oratory, a young girl kneeling, with her eyes turned toward heaven. She seemed so young, so beautiful, and there was in her piety a tenderness and a fervor, that she gave you the idea at once, of innocence, and of beatitude. Even the Commissary of the people was so much affected by the spectacle presented to him, that he contemplated it in silence, and it was manifest in his manner that his mind was filled with the mingled feelings of respect, astonishment, and admiration. Such were not the feelings of his companions ; for they began byjoking, laughing, and mocking, and then a few of the most audacious presumed to approach her. Cabonis instantly placed himself before her, and he let fall upon the kneeling maiden one end of his revolutionary standard, as if he would place her life and honor under the safeguard of the republic. He then, addressing his furious companions, who were pressing round him on all sides, said in a loud and angry voice"Citizens ! the first who touches this female- the " EVER," a little word indeed, which a child may that insults her-the first that speaks to her, dies first pronounce, but which the mind of man cannot comprehend. by my hand."


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HE whole business began at Ray Chetham's, the night of July 2nd. Just shows you, that, how close we are to the weird and the unbelievable even in the most ordinary of settings. But whenever men get together and start thinking, really thinking—well, anything can happen. Anything.

We had met, as usual, for our weekly poker session. Just the five of us, pals since high school days. Chet, Perry Lester, Tom Scofield, and Boyton Greer. And me, Joe Littleton.

There we were, five ordinary American business men. Lounging around the table in Chet's apartment, sleep-eyed, in shirt sleeves, drinking and smoking companionably and arguing about things in general.

Perry was popping off about the next election, Boy griping about the hand Tom had dealt him, when Chet suddenly remarked to me out of a clear sky:

"Joe—suppose someone could change the spots on a card merely by willing them to change. See what I mean? Simply by thinking about it. And why not? Look here. Everything we see in this room is nothing but a collection of atoms, held together by—what? Some kind of centrifugal force. If that force were all at once destroyed, everything in the universe would 2em


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. he felt it to be his duty to speak to her frankly on the consequences of such conduct. Kate heard him out in silence ; but the color faded and deepened constantly on her cheek as he spoke, although, by leaning back in a corner of the carriage, she concealed her countenance. At length she answered him, and her tone was cold and haughty, for her pride was aroused.

"Indeed, Mr. Townsend, you take a liberty which I shall allow to no gentleman, however acceptable he may think," and she emphasised the word in bitter scorn, "he may have made himself to me. For my conduct I am accountable to myself only-those who do not like it, need not seek my acquaintance."

A sigh from her companion was her only answer, and the next instant the carriage stopped. Without a word her lover handed her out. Already Kate began to repent what she had said, but pride checked her from retracting it. Coldly Alfred bowed to her, and coldly Kate curtsied in reply ; and then she passed into the house determined angrily never again to behold her lover. But, in a minute afterward she hurried to her room, where she burst into tears. They were tears of mingled regret and passion.

When Kate awoke the next morning her first thought was of her conduct toward her lover the night before. She felt that she was wrong. Her pride had passed away, and she determined, when her lover called, to shew her penitence by her conduct, and if he alluded to it, frankly to own her error.

But Alfred had received a shock such as he could not speedily forget. He had borne with Kate long, but her bitter scorn of his advice, on the preceding evening, had finally convinced him that her errors were incurable. He resolved never again to enter the presence of one who had spurned every well meant effort for her reformation. He had flattered himself that what he said would be listened to kindly-alas ! how had he been deceived.

All that day, and all the ensuing day Kate watched for his coming, until at length her anxiety became nearly insupportable, and her heart fluttered whenever the bell was rung. Still Alfred came not. And when, on the third day, Kate heard that he had left the city for the south, where he expected to remain several months, she felt that it was to avoid her presence that he had gone. Never, before that hour, was she fully aware of the depth of her love for Alfred. So long as he had been her worshipper, and ever, as it were, in her presence, she had been unconscious of his worth, slighting his delicate attentions, and wringing his noble heart with her thoughtless coquetry. But now he was gone, and forever ! This conviction was insupportable to the penitent girl, and she fell into a violent illness, which led her to the very brink of the grave. Her pride was now wholly gone. Oh ! what would she not have given | to have been able to ask forgiveness of him she had so deeply wronged.

Kate rose from her sick couch an altered being. She was still beautiful ; many thought more beautiful than ever ; for her countenance now wore a sad, sweet expression, such as it never had in her happier days- an expression which irresistibly interested the beholder in her. Few knew the cause of her illness, and she soon had as many admirers as ever. But no one now charged Kate with coquetry. Firmly but kindly she declined every offer that was made to her ; while the time which she once devoted to pleasure was now surrendered to the poor, or to the improvement of her mind.

Two years had passed ere Alfred Townsend found himself once more in his native city. One of the first persons he met was an old friend.

"A hearty welcome to you, Townsend," said his friend, fervently grasping his hand, " why, you've been absent so long that, I'm afraid, you've almost forgotten us. There have been some changes among us since you went away, as you may suppose ; but we'll be none the less glad to welcome you back. There's Harry Smith, and Norton, and Beaufort all married, and I myself am about to become a Benedict. I am very glad you've returned, for I was wishing to-day that I had you here to wait on me."

Alfred bowed and expressed the happiness he should have in being of any service to his friend, who continued,

"But you little dream who is to be my bride. You recollect Emma Glendroy ?"

" Is she your affianced ? Then let me congratulate you on having won the sweetest and most amiable of all our old acquaintance."

"Emma will thank you for the compliment," said his friend, " but she will be sure to demur to it. Nor can I say but what she will have some truth on her side, although certainly I can't be expected to admit that there is any one more amiable than my sweet girl."

" But surely there is no rival to Emma-why we used to call her, by general consent, the loveliest of the set in which we moved. I know of no one even approaching to her. "

"But I do."

Surely you jest, or my memory betrays me. Who do you mean ?"

"Why, who but Kate Bentley, the most amiable and best of girls."

Alfred had nearly betrayed himself, but checking his emotions, he said, as calmly as he could,

"Kate Bentley ! -she was, when I went away, a spoiled coquette. Witty, beautiful, and flattered, she was the very antithesis to lovely and amiable."

" It may have been-she certainly was very different when she was young, but now-as you will say on seeing her-she is the sweetest of girls. By the bye she


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 and I think the origin of man's religious belief lies in man's misfortunes.

There can be little doubt that the very earliest human beings found, as their descendants still find, their plans frustrated, let them plan ever so wisely and carefully; they must have seen their companions overtaken by death and disaster, arising both from things they could see and from things they could not see. The distinction between these two classes of phenomena is not so definitely recognised by savages or animals as it is by the more cultured races of humanity. I doubt whether a savage depends on his five senses alone to teach him what the world is made of, any more than a Fellow of the Royal Society does. From this method of viewing nature I feel sure that the general idea arose—which you find in all early cultures—that death was always the consequence of the action of some malignant spirit, and that there is no accidental or natural death, as we call it; and death is, after all, the most impressive attribute of life.

If a man were knocked on the head with a club, or shot with an arrow, the cause of death is clearly the malignancy of the person using these weapons; and so it is easy to think that a man killed by a fallen tree, or by the upsetting of a canoe in the surf, or in an eddy in the river, is also the victim of some being using these things as weapons.

A man having thus gained a belief that there are more than human actors in life's tragedy, the idea that disease is also a manifestation of some invisible being's wrath and power seems to me natural and easy; and he knows you can get another man for a consideration to kill or harm a third party, and so he thinks that, for a consideration, you can also get one of these superhuman beings, which we call gods or devils, but which the African regards in another light, to do so.

A certain set of men and women then specialise off to study how these spirits can be managed, and so arises a priesthood; and the priests, or medicine men as they are called in their earliest forms, gradually, for their own ends, elaborate and wrap round their profession with ritual and mystery.

The savage is also conscious of another great set of phenomena which, he soon learns, take no interest in human


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. AMBITION;

OR THE HEART OVERTASKED.

By John S. Jenkins

CHAPTER I.

The hour was evening. The last lingering rays of sunset fell in a rich flood of silver light over the bright and gorgeous landscape. From every nook and corner of the earth ; from the tall dark mountain, the forest of pines and maples, the thicket of the sheltering grove, and the deep glen where the purling brook echoed its gentle murmurs ; from the sunny hill-side, the grassy glade, and gay parterre, there came swelling the melody of Nature's unwritten music; that melody which fills the heart to overflowing with gladness; which causes the eye to sparkle, the cheek to glow, the bosom to throb, and the soul to feel that the hand is good which fashioned these things for erring man; that we do not live altogether in vain; and that, despite the petty annoyances which harass and perplex us, there are here ten thousand sources of enjoyment, to which we can always turn when the cares of the world press heavily upon us. It causes us to know in our hearts that we have a mission to perform, a high behest to fulfill, a destiny, for good or for evil, to accomplish, and it forces from us the often unwilling acknowledgment that in the far beyond there is a future life, of which the present is but the hopeful promise!

Beneath the shade of a lofty elm, which reared itself conspicuously on the summit of a verdant knoll, at whose base flowed the clear waters of one of our fairest rivers, and carelessly leaning against its heavy trunk, stood a young man, whose lithe form and easy attitude gave evidence that he was yet in the fulness and vigor of early manhood. He was not what some would have called handsome; there was but little mere beauty in the high and massive forehead, which, so cold and still in its repose, seemed as if hewn out of the rugged marble; but there was something in the fixedness of his look and the half-concealed air of hauteur, which gave his finely chiseled lip the least perceptible curl—in the free expansion of his nostrils and the swelling of his broad chest, as he inhaled the freshening breeze, that forcibly attracted attention. Yet no one could have looked on him as he stood there, with his arms folded over his breast and his pale, stern brow bared to the winds of heaven, which played so wantonly with the long masses of his rich, raven hair, and have failed to observe the wild, fierce play of his features, the lines that thought and passion had traced on his countenance, or the fire of genius that glowed so brightly in his sunken eye. The homage due to a superior intellect would have been involuntarily rendered to him, but was involuntarily succeeded by an emotion of fear—a thrilling fear for one, whose bosom was evidently pent a slumbering volcano, which, when its dormant fires were once aroused, could only be quenched in the death or destruction of him who cherished it.

"These are indeed beautiful!" He spoke in a deep, spirit-like tone, and over his face there passed a glorious flush of enthusiasm—the handiwork alone of a power, in whose ineffable presence we poor, weak mortals are but as  nothing! love them well—the scenes and voices of my native land! They awaken in my breast emotions akin to those the patriot countryman of Tell may feel as he hears the joyous notes of the Kühreihen echoed among the frowning cliffs and dark forests of Underwalden, or along the banks of the sweet Lucerne. My feet have trodden many a more storied spot and prouder clime. My hand has brushed the climbing ivy from the Coliseum and the collected dust of ages from the tombs of the Pharaohs. From the summit of St. Bernard, I have seen the lightning playing beneath my feet, and from the Appenines, I have looked down on the wrecks of empires. I have stood upon the heights of the Sierra Morena, and feelings of delight have stolen over me as I witnessed the graceful movements of the dark-eyed and dark-browed Spanish maidens when they mingled in the gay Bolero or listened to the merry sounds of castanet and guitar, rising sweetly from the smiling vallies of Andalusia. From the Bridge of Sighs'—

'A palace and a prison on each hand'-

I have heard the wild improvisations of the happy, light-hearted gondoliers on the canals of Venice—yet have I never felt as now! Nor is it wonderful that this should be so: I have been where Liberty was; I am where Liberty is—where man is free to indulge in the high and lofty aspirations of his nature—where genuine merit and sterling intellect give no place to entailed reputation, titled ignorance, or hereditary arrogance. There are no privileged competitors for place and station. All start equal; the palm is for the humblest as well as the proudest; whoever wins may wear it! It is a bright thought—that palm may yet be mine! It cannot be in vain that I have, owl-like, shut myself out from the world and buried myself amid the musty relics and philosophic lore of olden time; that I have preferred the companionship of books to the society of the pleasure-seeking crowd; not all in vain that I have wooed science with the ardor and devotion of a lover, and perilled health and happiness to win applause from the many! Are all the imaginings of my boyhood but shadows? —and may I never grasp the reality of the bright visions that flit before me in the solitude of my chamber? As for Rosalie, ah, there is yet too much tenderness in that word! - I pity her from the bottom of my heart.


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. you love me, and would see me prosperous, fortunate. and happy!"

"Indeed, I would. How could I wish to see you is not your happiness mine own?"

otherwise

"You will listen to me, then, when I tell you, start not, for I speak soberly and seriously, though sadly, this must be our last meeting!"

"Surely, Clement, you jest with me—you would not wrong me thus," and she clung fondly to his arm, "you cannot be so cruel! Why should we never meet again? Is there aught should make us blush, or fear to own our love ?"

"I jest not, Rosalie! never spake a truer word. Love is to me like the tree in the garden; I am forbidden to taste of its fruit! I have placed my hopes upon a prize more valued than the wealth of untold mines, I despise the world, and consider its cold selfishness, its hollow heartedness, and its base servility; yet would I have it? fawn upon and flatter me. I would gain a name among men; I would hear my praise on their lips, and see them awed and abashed in my presence. Long, long years, must pass ere this can be: thought, soul, mind, body, Everything must be directed to this end. My heart will not acknowledge fealty to two masters; it serves but one; it follows only one! I have not had time to love. Another destiny is before me—a brighter one, and it may be——"

"Happier ? would'st thou say? No; believe me, Clement Lee, it is but an empty bubble, which you would grasp; it has lured many a one to misery and bitterness ! Beware how you trample on the heart that loves you!"

"Hear me, Rosalie, hear me! - I cannot love you if I would-henceforth we can be only friends-we part forever!—and will wilt thou not say me farewell?"

"I may not—I could not speak that word—not even to you who cast me from you as a thing of little worth ! The time will come when you will repent that you had trifled with the love I gave you, but you will not leave me?—say that you will not, and I will. forget that you had thought to part from me—oh! say it, and I will pray for you. I will bless you. worship you!"

Long and earnestly she pleaded. By all his hopes of happiness in this world and peace in another, she besought him not to leave her thus. By the memory of the many happy hours they had spent together; by the vows they had plighted to each other, she implored him not to slight her love. She did not upbraid him—no A word of reproach passed her lips. She would follow him through the world; make any sacrifice for his sake; be his, and his only, through weal and through woe. In sickness, she would watch over him; in adversity, she would comfort him; in prosperity, she would rejoice. with him. She would not be a burden to him; she would work for him, toil for him, and be happy, so that he gave her one tender word, or one approving smile!

Her entreaties moved him not move him; his resolution could not be shaken. With a sudden effort, he tore himself. from her, and murmuring a parting benediction in her ear, he left her heart-stricken and desolate!

Slowly, though surely, the conviction that she was deserted, fastened itself upon her mind. She knew that She was alone, but she could not curse the destroyer of her peace. She felt, oh, how keenly! the bitterness of unrequited love, yet she repined not. It was hard for her to feel that she had "loved not wisely, but too well." Nevertheless, she bowed in submission to the stroke, which had visited her. Bitter and many were the tears she shed.

"Big, bright, and fast, unknown to her, they fell, But still her lips refused to send'farewell!”

From that hour on, Rosalie Herbert was a changed woman—the barbed arrow had penetrated deep into her soul—she never smiled again!

CHAPTER II.

Reclining on a magnificent ottoman in a room whose tapestried hangings and the rich paintings on its walls, bespoke the opulence and taste, which in our own sunny climate has reared villas that may well vie in beauty with those that are interspersed among the vineyards and olive-groves of the far-famed vale of Arno, lay in the form of a fair invalid. Through the open casements, "half-hidden by clematis and rose," came the evening breeze, laden with the fragrance of the magnolia and the orange. The music of the water plashing in The fountain was enlivening and refreshing, and the soft The notes of the nightingale fell on the ear like the remembered voice of an early friend. Vases of flowers, both native and exotic, filled the apartment with perfume. In one corner stood an unstrung harp, silent and listless. as that "which hung in Taras' hall;" the soul which had once animated it, no longer woke from its strings. the wild and unpassioned strains of the Tyrol, or the softer numbers of the lays of Provence. The toilet of Rosewood was richly inlaid with mother of pearl, and decorated with Psyche glass and costly ornaments of Sevre's China. Books, poetry, and music were scattered. profusely over the marble table, which occupied the center. of the room, yet were all these (to most persons, evidences of happiness and contentment) unheeded by the stricken maiden on whom sickness had laid its hand so heavily. They brought no smile to her countenance. No hue of health flushed the fair check, now rivaling the unsunned snow in whiteness and purity. Her long, glossy ringlets hung listlessly over her moistened brow. and the pale, jewelled hand, which seemed scarcely able to sustain the weight of the head it supported. Her eyes


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. WORLD OF FASHION.

lovely even in death, she passed "like the anthem of a breeze away !"

The gifted and the beautiful, whom no one hated, and on whose head old and young hourly invoked the blessings of heaven to descend ; whose step was light as the young fawn's on the green turf; whose merry laugh | once rang so joyously amid the old trees which grew around the home of her fathers, and whose voice was musical as the tones of the wind-harp, at length slept that sleep which knows no waking, this side the untried hereafter!

The fortunes of Clement Lee had all been bright and prosperous. Untiring zeal, care, labor, and incessant devotion of time, had raised him to the front rank in his profession. His hopes were fulfilled, his wishes gratified -he had won his way to distinction ! Profoundly versed in the attainments of science, deeply read in the blackletter of the law, talented, accomplished, and, withal, possessing that commanding eloquence which never fails to arrest attention and compel conviction, he could not but secure a strong hold upon the affections of his fellow-citizens. His society was courted by the gay and the noble ; and they were proud of him—proud of his talents and his growing reputation. They respected him, for, honorable and just in all his dealings, and stern and inflexible in the cause of right, envy dared not malign, nor calumny assail him. They reverenced him, because, to all outward seeming, he was the friend of justice, virtue, and morality. They worshipped him for the burning and thrilling words which hung on his lips, and the genius which kindled in his eye, or sat enthroned in its god-like. majesty on his brow. Their suffrages were gladly bestowed on him, when he appeared before them as a candidate at the hustings ; and their shouts of triumph were loud and cheering, when the contest was decided in his favor, and he was returned as their representative in the councils of the nation. Was he happy ? He would have said so, as he sat alone at midnight, in the privacy of his study, surrounded by the treasured volumes, from whose pages he had gathered the knowledge which men wondered at and admired. The arrangement of the books in their mahogany cases was admirable ; marble statues and antique busts were placed around the apartment with the taste of a connoisseur. A pair of fencing foils and masks hung over the mantel ; and from the ceiling depended an argand lamp, which threw a soft and mellow light over his wide, expansive forehead, as he sat beneath it, almost buried in the cushions of a highbacked, old-fashioned arm-chair, apparently intent on the volume of Rochefoucault he was perusing. On the table before him, amid numerous manuscripts, and fanciful ink-fountains, and paper cases, was a collection which might furnish an index to the character of his studies,

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and the bent of his mind. Poets and philosophers, divines and scoffers, monarchists and republicans, appeared to have forgotten the warfare they have waged against each other since the foundation of the world. Massillon and Voltaire lay together as cozily as brethren ; Bulwer and Schiller, Byron and Shelley, were carelessly thrown side by side with Montesquieu and Bentham, Junius and Jefferson. "There is little consolation here !-it is bitter as the waters of Marah !"-he threw the book from him in disgust "I would that I had seen Rosalie to-nightshe says she is very ill ! It may be a trick of her's to bring me to her-peradventure she is still anxious for an alliance with me-but I will not believe it !-she was ever true, and good, and pure !" He sat for a moment in deep thought, and then continued-" I have a strange presentiment of ill ! -why is it ? My nerves are firm- my pulse beats regularly- I feel no pain ! It cannot be that now when I am nearly happy, when fortune smiles on me so kindly, and the path of honor and preferment lies open before me, the star of my destiny is to set for ever ! Must mine be the fate of yon meteor, which illumined the deep azure of heaven for a moment, and then vanished in the darkness of midnight ? Shall ' earth's fruits always turn to ashes in my mouth ?' Now, when the prize for which I have so long panted is within my reach, shall I be compelled to resign it ? Rosalie may yet be mine -I love her, why may I not one day be happy in that love ? It is idle to doubt itthese thoughts are foolish-I will drive them from me," thus speaking, he rose and advanced to the beaufet at the side of the room, and after tossing off a copious libation from one of the curiously-wrought decanters which stood upon it, he slowly paced across the floor. A light knock at the door interrupted his walk, and a servant, with a note in his hand, entered at his bidding. There was no mistaking the contents of that dark-edged paper-Clement Lee eagerly caught and opened it. Had an adder stung him he could not have started more wildly than when one word, one fatal word, met his eye-" Rosalie ! -oh ! my God-the fame for which I have so madly striven is at length won- but all beside, is lost ! Is this death ?" The servant hastened forward as he was falling, and received him in his extended arms. The sufferer gave one deep groan the blood gushed from his mouth and choked his utterance- he shuddered convulsively-his features relaxed - and he was-dead ! With all his faults and follies, his virtues and his crimes-for it cannot be less than crime, to wrong the high and holy love of woman- Clement Lee stood before his Maker ! AMBITION !-thou art a fearful master !


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. another, restless and disturbed, till it plunges into a deep pool below, not even there to find the repose which it seeks, but boils up again, and at last flows smoothly on, bearing upon its surface, like some fancifully embroidered lace work, most elegant patterns, wrought in the white foam that the rapids have engendered. And water lilies, of the purest white, border the margin, filling up the picture in most perfect harmony.

But all this, though somewhat necessary for understanding the little story, that, by your leave, I am going to tell, has yet not much more connexion with it, than has the title which is prefixed to this article. It is called the Old Forge, from the circumstance of there having been formerly an establishment for smelting and forging iron on these rapids, which has long since disappeared, leaving no traces of its existence but a name.

Some half mile to the east of the Old Forge is Megonco hill, so called by the tribe of Indians that inhabited its western slope, and the level space which intervened between that and the river. There are traces of their village still remaining, which the plough-share, and the frequent tread of man and beast, have not been able wholly to eradicate. When that village was in its prime there dwelt in it a sweet Indian maid, with the long raven locks-with the rounded and sprightly form,-in short, with all that enchanting, natural beauty, which has so often been attributed to the daughters of that unfortunate people. I say often, for many have written of them, and have drawn from kindly hearts sympathy for their wrongs, and admiration of the many fine qualities they have often exhibited. And well it is, that while whole nations of them have vanished from the earth, and the places that they called their own know them not, and shall know them no more forever-that some are found willing to do justice to the virtues they possessed, and to the beauties which they inherited from nature. Loisma, from a child, was a lover of solitude. Strange that it should have been so ; that, with no light but that which glowed on the face of nature ; with none to call forth or to guide her thoughts, they should have spontaneously sprung up ; that her spirit should have warmed itself into a brighter being ; that with no history of the past or knowledge of the future, she should have learned that life among the crowd by no means afforded as pure pleasure as was to be found in communing with her own soul, and with the great Author of all things through his handy works. The village in which she was born was her world ; she knew no other, nor cared even for that ; so she mingled not in the rude pleasures of her people, but wandered by herself that she might think. The Old Forge was her favorite resort. Perhaps it was because she felt a resemblance in the restless waters that never ceased to flow to " the divinity that stirred within herself." And there was one rock which she loved

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above all others, and by its side was a little whirling pool, where the water circled round and round, and strove, but vainly, to free itself that it might bound along as the rest toward its ocean home, a fit emblem of the workings of her own soul, which, surrounded by a wall of darkness, struggled continually to burst its barriers, that it might soar away to the great source whence it had its origin. When Loisma was about seventeen, neither a girl nor yet a woman, she was wooed by a young man of the tribe, one of the bravest warriors of that bold people. And he wooed not in vain, for ere long she felt the silken cords of love twining themselves about her heart, and "young hopes began to nestle there," and a new source of the purest happiness sprung up within her breast. And now she looked upon all things as with another eye, and when she walked out, with Arhongo by her side, she seemed more than ever charmed with the beauties around and above her, and beneath her feet. And then she would go and sit on her favorite rock, while her lover brought her flowers, of which she made wreaths and garlands, and decked herself out like some queen of May. But her bliss could not last-it was too perfect. The war whoop sounded from Megonco, and its terrible notes filled that lovely valley, and following the windings of the river, reached the ear of Loisma at the Forge, where she was sitting with her betrothed. And Arhongo heard it, and sprang up with glistening eyes, for to him war was as sweet a pastime as love, and honor and glory pleaded more strongly than the tearful eyes and sighing bosom of the fond girl who clung to him as her hope. But the cry again rang through the wild woods, and the young warrior rushed forth to the battle, the foremost among the brave. Days passed, and the chosen band returned from pursuing the track of their enemies, loaded with bloody trophies of their valor. The great War Spirit had given them conquest, and in triumph they returned, and the loud shouts of victory were echoed back from the side of that hill which now lifts its crest so quietly to the sun. But Loisma heard them not, for her lover's voice was not mingled with the rest. Arhongo was too brave, and he had gone to the land of Spirits, leaving her comfortless and alone. And now the darkness fell over that young spirit, and she who was so blithe and joyful but a week before, so full of hope and love, shrank within herself, and bowed like the tender reed before the blast. She made none acquainted with her grief, but it told its own tale as her form wasted away, and her cheek grew thin and pale, and her step was no longer light as it was wont to be, but grew slow and feeble, till at last she could hardly creep to the whirling waters of the Old Forge, which ran on as gaily as ever, though all appeared changed to her.