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to render it chaste, It is hunted down, The grandeur of the thought in the preceding stanzas ia, to our mind, impaired hy the extravagance of the metaphor in these verses. Nor is the metaphor, or simile, for it partakes of both, exactly clear. ‘The author bas only a general, and by no means a distinct idea, of his own meaning. Wo do not wander, however, that the verscs should please some. They have an air of originality, and the alliteration in them is very pretty. But they have neither grandeur, simplicity, nor any of the higher qualities of poctry.

One of the finest pocms in the volume 1s entitled “Excelsior.” ‘The merita of this poem are all of a high order. Its aymbolical meaning will be at once perceived. Under the guise of an Alpine travelier it represents the incentives, the struggles, the fate of genius.

“The shader of night were falling fst,

Aa through an Alpine village passed,

A youth, who bore, ‘mid snow and ice,

‘A banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

iis brow was sad:: his oye beneath,

Flashed like a fanlchion from ite sheath,

‘Aud like a silver clarion rung

‘The accents of that unknown tongne, Excelsior!

Tn happy homes he saw tho light OF household tires glean warn and bright ;

Above, the spectral slaciera shone, ‘And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsive!

“Try not the Page! the old man anid;

‘Dark lowers the tempest overhea

The roacing torrent ia deep wud wide?

And lond that clarion voice replied, Excelsior!

«OQ stay,’ the maiden said, ‘and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!” A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But stil he cd, with a Excelsior!

“Beware the pine-tree's withered branch?

Reware the awfil avalanche?

‘This was the peasant’s last good-night,

A voice replied. far up the height, Excelsior!

‘At break of day, as heayenward

"Pho pions monks of Saint Bernard

Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,

A vole cried throngh the startled air, Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,

Hi: ried in the snow was found,

Suill grasping in his hand of ice

‘Phar banner wit the strange device, Excelsior!

‘There in the twilizht cola and gray,

Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,

‘And from the sky, serene and far,

‘A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior!”

«Endyinion” is an exquisite litle poem, and may be read appropriately after the foregoing. We rank it

among the most benutiful of the productions of Mr. Longfellow.

“Tho rising moon han bid the stars;

Her lovely rays, like golden bara, Lie on thie landacape green, With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana, in her dreams, Had dropt her silver Bow Upon the meadows low.

2 night da this,

Sho woke Endysaion with a kis ‘When, slecping in the grove,. Te droumed not of her love.

Like Dian’s kiss, unask’d, ungonel ives itself, but is not bowel hor wound betraye Its deop, impassion'd gaze.

It comes—the beautiful, the free, ‘The crown of alk humaaity—

In silence an alone

"Fo seek the clected one.

Ic lifts the bonghs, whose shadows deep, Are Lifi’s oblivion, the soul's sleep, ‘And kisken the clos'd eyea Of him, who, slumbering, lies.

Oh, wenry hearts! oh, aimbering cyee!

Oh, droojing souts, whose destinies Are franght with fear Ye shail be loved agaii

No one is 80 accnrs'd by fate, No one co whally desolate, But vome heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own.

Responds—as if with unseen wings

An angel swept its quivering strings; And whispers, in its song, Where hast thou staid eo long?”

There is comething in the little piece entitled “God's Acre,” which reminds us of an old Saxon minster, rough, unhewn, aad masay, but full of ragged simplicity that is sometimes even sublime. ‘There ie a sturdy feel- ing, an honest manlineas about this little effusion which has, to us,many charms. Nor is the soothing hope held out in the third and fourth stanzas the least merit of the poem.

“1 like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calle "The burial ground ¢iod's-Acre! Ht is just;

It conseerates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the slevping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those, who in the grave have xown

"Phe sced, that they had garnered in their hearte, ‘Their bread of iife, alas! uo more their ow,

Into its furrows shall we all Le cast, In the sure faith, that we shall tise again Atthe great harvest, when the arch-anzel'n blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the elif and grain,

Then shall the good atand in itamortal bloom, fo te: Cair gardens af that second birth ; And cach bright blossom, mingle its pertime

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth

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Rh nassus,—no man that ever died has the like; so beautifully is it finished, men and horses sculptured to the life out of the finest marble: you can scarce find even temple like it. Don't you think I have a right to be proud of all this?

Diog. Because of your kingdom, you say?—and your fine person,—and the great weight of your tomb?

Maus. Yes; that is what I am proud of.

Diog. But, my handsome friend (ha-ha!), you haven't much left of that strength and beauty that you talk about. If we asked any one to decide between our claims to good looks, I don't see why they should prefer your skull to mine. Both of us are bald and naked,—both of us show our teeth a good deal,—neither of us have any eyes,—and our noses are both rather fat. The tomb, indeed, and the marble statues, the men of Halicarnassus may show to their visitors, and boast of them as ornaments of their land; but as to you, my good friend, I don't see what good your monument does you: unless you may say this—that you bear a greater weight upon you than I do, pressed down as you are by all those heavy stones.

Maus. Are none of my glories to profit me, then? And are Mausolus and Diogenes to stand here on equal terms?

Diog. No; not exactly equal, most excellent sir; not at all. Mausolus has to lament when he remembers his earthly lot, how happy he was,—and Diogenes can laugh at him. And Mausolus can say how he had the tomb built for him at Halicarnassus by his wife and sister; while Diogenes does not know—and

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 a living art." Then follows this somewhat puzzling passage, which seems, however, really to represent Hardy in his own person:

The significance of this may perhaps be heightened by the observation that Somerset is also said to have "suffered from the modern malady of unlimited appreciativeness as much as any living man of his age," and that there were “years when poetry, theology, and the re-organization of society had seemed matters of more importance to him than a profession which should help him to a big house and income, a fair Deiopeia, and a lovely progeny." One must of course be extremely careful in


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 in this world. I want you to take no theological dogmas for granted, nor to satisfy your doubts by ceasing to think; but, whether we are in this world in a state of probation for another, or whether we cease altogether when we cease to breathe, human feelings tell me that we have some duties to perform,—to our fellow-creatures—to our friends—to ourselves. Pray, tell me, my dear boy, what possible good your perusal of the latter Platonists can produce to either of these three interests? I trust that my child is not one of those who look with a glazed eve on the welfare of their fellow men, and who would dream away an useless life by idle puzzles of the brain;—creatures who consider their existence as an unprofitable mystery, and yet are afraid to die. You will find Plotinus in the fourth shelf of the next room, Vivian. Good morning to you."

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as if it were the remnant of some giant wall, that had in former ages guarded that little valley, until the noble river had come down in her might, and cloven it at a blow. Here they lived ; the gentle stream murmured at their feet its song of peace, but the bleak crag frowned gloomily beyond ; they listened to the soothing, and heeded not the frown. They were nature's free children, happy in all the enthusiasm of youthful love.

One morn, when yellow autumn was first beginning to blight the glory of summer, the hunter went forth in search of game. Noina gazed after him as he crossed the stream ; he bounded lightly from his canoe into the forest, and soon disappeared. The morning passed away, the sun rose proudly to his meridian, and then turned upon his journey downward to the west, and yet the hunter returned not. His young bride, impatient of so long a stay, seated herself upon the bank, and turned an anxious eye upon the opposite shore ; all there was silent as the tomb ; and the first cloud of apprehension rose, she knew not why, over the clear sunshine of her spirit | -she looked upward, and the precipice seemed to be scowling upon her. She turned away in terror. Suddenly a loud and furious growl of rage and agony, coming, as it were, from the very air, broke upon the oppressive silence. Instinctively she cast a startled glance upon the spot from which she had just turned away. Her eyes, wildly opened, and fixed in speechless horror upon it ; her lips were parted, as if an unutterable shriek of woe had died upon them ; for there, upon the very edge of the cliff, is the husband of her love, in deadly conflict with one of the fiercest animals of the American forest- the panther. The beast, wounded, and stung to madness by the pain, has turned in fury on his assailant. The struggle is a hard one. The hunter is strong and brave, his eye quails not, he utters no cry; though the fangs of the beast are deep in his flesh. He strives to raise his weapon, but the muscles have been literally torn from his arm, and his strokes are powerless. He feels his strength each moment lessening, as lessens the distance between them and the precipice. They are upon the very verge- one final, frantic struggle ; despair nerved his mangled limbs ; he springs wildly backward, but, held in the bloody grasp of the panther, the impulse served but to raise him an instant from the rock ; and the next, with a curve, and then a fearful plunge, down they are hurled-with a loud yell from the beast, but the heroic Indian is dumb -down-down, a piercing shriek rends the air, the pent up anguish finds for a moment vent ; and the next, the bride lay senseless on the ground. When she awoke, darkness was upon the earth. She thought that she had been long asleep, and had dreamed some horrible dream ; the forms, which flitted through memory's magic chamber, were vague and shadowy, but, all were terrible. She turned for her husband, he

was not by her side ; she called upon him-no answer, but the echo came upon her ear. She arose, and groped about. Alas, her soul was as dark as the sky above her, and her reason and memory as wavering as were her footsteps in the gloom. The poor girl was crazed. She wandered about all that night. She wandered for days, still calling piteously upon her husband, and chiding him for his long delay. The hunter, as he pursued his game in the forest, often met her, with abstracted eye, scanning the whole horizon, as if looking anxiously for the coming of some one from afar ; and dropped a tear of sympathy for the poor girl's wretchedness. At length, one day, she came, by accident, upon the very spot of that bloody contest. Deep stains were upon the rock ; she paused, seemed for a moment lost in thought, and then, as if a burning light had at once broke in upon her brain, she pressed her hands convulsively upon her brow, shrieked phrenziedly, " have I found you, my love ? I have searched long, and you have called, and called, and chided me for my delay ! But I have found you now, and, I come, I come !" She sprang wildly far over the rock, and sank a shattered corpse down the deep gorge where her husband had perished- and the dark brown lovers were in death again united. ELLA.

THE MIDNIGHT WIND. BY MOTHERWELL. MOURNFULLY! O, mournfully, This midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet plaintive melody Of ages long by; It speaks a tale of other years,-Of hopes that bloomed to die, Of sunny smiles that set in tears, And loves that mouldering lie !

Mournfully! O, mournfully This midnight wind doth moan ; It stirs some chord of memory In each dull heavy tone ; The voices of the much-loved dead Seem floating thereupon,All, all my fond heart cherished Ere death had made it lone. Mournfully! O, mournfully This midnight wind doth swell, With its quaint pensive minstrelsy, Hope's passionate farewell To the dreamy joys of early years, Ere yet grief's canker fell On the heart's bloom,-ay ! well may tears Start at that parting knell !


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who had returned. She was- truth must be told-ugly. Her features, that had formerly been beautiful, were disfigured by a frightful scar, which appeared to divide the forehead, and extended all along one of her cheeks. And yet there was, in the softness of the melancholy that characterised her features, a touching grace. In her look there was benevolence and mind, combined with great talent. In the eyes of Sir Richard Elrington she was truly beautiful, for if he had recovered his sight—his love had still continued blind as ever. Dazzled by the stream of light that inundated the apartment, he remained without movement and without voice. On the other hand Sarah, with the true instinct of love, comprehended at a glance all that had passed in her absence.

"You see, Richard," she cried, " you see, I am certain of it, and all my happiness is destroyed." "Why, dearest Sarah, should your happiness be destroyed ?" " Because I now must no longer be the object of your love-because I am now about to separate from you for ever." "Separate ! You and I to separate ! You to separate from me-you ! and wherefore ?" " I have long since told you, Richard, that the day on which you should recover your sight must be also that of our separation. I love you, and you are perfectly conscious of it- for I have never attempted to conceal the weakness of my heart. I know, too, yours. It is ardent- it is generous ; and from generosity,-from a feeling of duty, perhaps, you would insist on marrying me ; and if I should accede to the proposal, acting under the influence of a sentiment that I do not pretend to disguise, I must do that which I know would cause the misery of my life. I wish not at all to afflict you by calling to mind the remembrance of your first wife. Death has separated you from her ; but remember that Arabella was a most beautiful creature- that she doted on you, but still your affections were not always hers. How, then, could I, with this countenance, expect to find you more constant to me ? I shall not attempt that which I know to be impossible ; but in the retreat in which I am now about to bury myself for life, I will carry with me the sweet memory of the happiest epoch of my life. Farewell, my dearest Richard. I bless Heaven that it has afflicted me, in accomplishing your dearest wishes. When I shall be no longer near you, preserve in your memory the remembrance of my devotion, and forget, if you can, the miserable image that my features must present to you." "Since it must be thus," replied Sir Richard, "I shall not detain you but—until I have recovered my sight. In the meanwhile you may remain ; for I am still blind. I now see no more." "Do not hope to deceive me, for you cannot do so," she answered with a bitter smile.

Sir Richard had not time to answer her, for the Doctor, running up to him, exclaimed"Madman ! why did you remove the dressing. Is it that you wish to make your blindness incurable ; but, no, no," said he, examining Sir Richard's eyes, " noHeaven be praised, your eyes are quite healthy, your look is steady -you do see ; the cure is complete. Quick, quick, let us put on the bandage again." "Wait one moment, Doctor," observed Sir Richard. "What will you say when I tell you, that I am now just as blind, as I was before." "I would then say, that my own studies, my own eyes, and all my past experience, had gone for nothing-but it cannot, I say, it cannot be." "Very well, then, Doctor, I say to you, that your studies, your eyes, and your experience have misled you ; I do not see at all." "Can it be true ?" said the Doctor, in amazement, while Sarah smiled incredulously. Perfectly true," answered Sir Richard, quite calmly. "I have seen but two instances of this in all my life, for they are exceedingly rare," remarked the Doctor, in a perfect consternation. "Then me must try another mode of treatment. Are you disposed to undergo a new operation ?" " Exceedingly well disposed, and quite ready for it," answered the patient. The Doctor took out his instruments, and asked for linen, that he might make ready a bandage. "Stop !" exclaimed the lady, " stop, I say ; Sir Richard sees perfectly well, although he does not like to admit it." " This is no child's play," observed the Doctor very gravely. " I must tell you, that the mode of treatment which I am now about to employ, is one that may restore sight to one actually blind, but that would inevitably render blind one who has his sight." "Go on, Doctor, go on," was the observation of the gentleman, " for I unfortunately have nothing to risk in that way." The bandage was prepared, and already there was flashing in the hand of the Doctor the shining blade of a bistouri ; when Sarah, who, up to that moment, had been in a species of stupor, recovered from it, to throw herself in the arms of her lover. (6 My beloved Richard," she said, " my senses do not deceive me ; you see, and I am perfectly sure of the fact. Look, Doctor, how clear and serene are his eyes. They have none of that fixity which is to be noticed in the eyes of the blind. Richard, your glances now rest upon me ; there are in them the tokens of the deepest affection. Oh, say, then, that you see us. I entreat-I supplicate you to do so. Say it, and I will remain-I will never quit you ; but let there be no new operation- let these hateful instruments be removed. But do not- oh ! do


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THE LADY BEATRICE.*

BY MRS. MARY. V. SPENCER.

CHAPTER III.

At the hour of midnight, two individuals, closely muffled in large cloaks, might have been seen stealing down the huge staircase of the palace occupied by the Duke Vivaldo. One of the two walked with a hurried and trembling step, and was so agitated that she was forced to lean on her companion for support. The other appeared to be more firm, and, as they walked, cheered her companion by her words.

66 Courage, courage, dear lady," she whispered, " the man whom I have bribed to let us out will not betray us, for he has golden ducats enough to place him far beyond the reach of the Duke's rage, and to support him for many a year in the country to which he will go. Courage then, courage-there is no danger of detection -we are now almost at the gateway- the Signor is waiting without, and in five minutes we shall be on the canal, skimming away from Venice." The Lady Beatrice, for our readers have by this time guessed that she was the companion of the garrulous nurse, made no reply to these words, except by hurrying on still faster, through the great hall at which they had now arrived. Her step was still trembling, and became more so as they advanced into the hall. At length she whispered tremulously, "What if my uncle should be coming home." "Fear not, lady," said her nurse, " he has gone to the ball at the Ducal Palace, and will not return until four in the morning. His servants are asleep or out on the canal, and the palace, as you see, is almost deserted. It will be daybreak, aye ! high noon, before our absence will be discovered ; and by that time we shall be far on our journey to Rome. Courage, now, dear lady, we are at the portal. Play your part, and fear not I will play mine." "Ah, Mistress Japona," said the sleepy porter, arousing himself as the nurse shook him, and demanded to be let out, "whither so late at night, and who have you here ? -a fair wench, I dare swear, and for no good are you going forth. Prythee, pretty mistress," he continued, addressing Beatrice, " are you of the household or not ? for, if you be, I must e'en have a kiss for toll. By St. Mark you must be a sweet morsel, else you would not muffle your face so closely. Mistress Japona may go free, but you must pay for both," and, laughing at what he thought his wit, he advanced to Beatrice. 66 Stop, Master Mark," said the nurse, interposing betwixt the two, "this damsel is a visiter of mine and wants none of your gallantry. You know how the
 * Concluded from page 64.

Duke sent for me to-day, and I will leave to-morrow if my acquaintance are to be subjected to your insults. I trow your place would not be worth a fig if I were to report this to the Duke. Back, I say, and let us pass." Awed by her manner, and by the tone of authority in which she spoke, the porter hesitated ; and then, bursting into a laugh, he said, " Tut—Mistress Japona, you take my jest in earnest. I am here to watch the gate, and have a lonely task of it as you know. It were some comfort if I might be cheered by the sight of a pretty face, but since you choose to refuse, I must submit," and he shrugged his shoulders, " so, in God's name, pass." During this colloquy Beatrice had been so agitated as scarcely to be able to stand, and had she not leaned on the nurse must have fallen. When, therefore, the porter opened the gate, her strength would scarcely permit her to pass. The nurse, however, hurried her forward, supporting her so as to attract as little notice as possible, and in a minute they stood without the building, and heard the heavy portal clanging to behind them. "Thank heaven," was the exclamation of the nurse, for, bold as had been the front she assumed, she had not been without a portion of the fear of discovery which had infected Beatrice. Her companion's heart was too full to speak ; but she lifted her eyes to heaven in mute thanksgiving. “ This way—this way, dear lady," said the nurse, after the pause of a moment had partially recruited the strength of Beatrice, "I see a gondola awaiting us, a few doors distant. The Signor is there awaiting us." With hurried steps the two females hastened onward, and were soon beside the gondola. But the lover of Beatrice did not, as they expected, spring forward to meet them. The nurse paused, looked around, and then again advanced to the gondola. Still the Signor did not appear. At the same moment a gay party emerged from a door beside them, and they had just time to shrink back into the shadow of a wall, before the group passed laughingly to the gondola, took their seats, and were propelled in the light fabric down the canal. Their mistake was now evident to the nurse and Beatrice. The Signor was not at the appointed rendezvous. For a moment each thought they had mistaken the time, but the loud chime of the cathedral clock, striking the hour of midnight, soon dispelled this belief. As the chimes died on the air, Beatrice and her companion looked into each others faces, with feelings of disappointment, agony, and terror, such as no pen can describe. "This is singular," at length said the nurse, " I cannot believe that the Signor is not here. What can have happened ?" " Oh!" said Beatrice, "he has been waylaid -you know that assassins swarm in Venice. Holy mother !"


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86 The night was far advanced when he epened his eyen on a sinall room, while, by hia bedside, sat a personage attired in the garb of a leech. At firat the recallection of the lover was confused, but, as fact after fact recurred to his memory, he hegan to be eensible of his true situa- tion and of the failure of his plan to rescue Beatrice, ‘Lhe thought soon flashed upon him that it might not yet he too Inte for the eppointed mecting. Raising himself up in bed he turned to the lecch and asked,

“Ig there a gondola at your door!—I must be dressed and away. T have an appointment at midnight, and life or death depends on its {ulfilment”—he would have pro- ceeded, but here his weakness overcame him and he eank back fainting in the bed.

«Poor youth,” said the leech, “he is terribly wounded, and has something on hia mind. I fear this agitation will throw him into a fever. But now we must revive him,” and he proceeded to apply remedies to recall the consciousness of his patient.

The lover recovered fram his swoon, but aaily to pass inte a delirious fever, which continued to rage for several days,

It was a balmy summer morning whch the lover next woke to recuilection. ‘The fresh breeze—if in a crowded city the breeze ever can be fresh—was blowing through the open casomont, filling the room with a perceptible fragrance, and bringing to the sick man’s mind dreams of flowers and folds far uway. He rose partly on one arm and looked around. At first he could not compre hend his situation, but gradually the recollection of the past broke upon him, until he was able to call up, one by one, the events which had happened on that feta) night, when he fell beneath the bravo's dagger. The last he remembered was his awakening from a swoon in this very room, and gazing on the face of a person who had seemed to be a leech, Afer that all was blank.

He gazed around the room, hoping to eee some person who miyht satisfy his curiosity respecting the length of time whiclr had elapsed during his sickness, but he gazed in vein. The apartment appeared to contain no living deing beside himself, Exhausted, at length, by wesk- ness, he sank back on the bed, and was lost in thought as to the fate of Beatrice. Had the week of delay which her uncle had granted expired, and was she now the bride of ler bated cousin, or had she found means to escape thet dreadtul fate? What must have heen her thoughts on that fatal night on which he received hie wound, when she found that ha did not join her, a8 arranged, at the rendezvous? Had she puraued her plan of escape alone atul unaided ond, if 80, what dangers had not environed her? Perhaps sho had re- turned to her uncle—ber attempt to fly been discovered —and the anion hurried on by her stern relative in the recesses of his paltee. If so—what misery would be ers—what remorae would attend her Jovor for having

THE LADY’S

been the cause, although innocently, of such a fate! These thoughts rushed through the tover’s mind until his brain began to give way beneath them, and he was fain to shut bis eyes and endeavor to divert his mind. Bot the effort waa in vain, He could not divest himself of & thousand fears respecting Beatrice, which haunted him like spectres, Had this uncertainty continued much longer the yet weak brain of the pick man must have given way beneath the excitement; hut luckily, at this moment, the door opened and ® person advanced into the room. The lover hastily turned his head, he thought he recognized the intruder, and in the moment all doubt was removed by the stranger rushing forward with a cry of joy.

“Glory to St, Mark !” said the gondotier, for the in« trader was no other than the faithful servant of Adanta, « glory to all the paints in the calender, you are in your senses once more! I told the wretches that you would recover—i knew it, I felt it Ah! my good master, you will yet live to rejoin the sweet Lady Beatrice,” and overcome by his joy, the warra-hearted follower shed

[teers His master was cqually affected,

“But tell me,” said Adanta, “you spoke of Beatrice, Have you heard af her?—is she safe?—hns she been forcod into that hateful marriage 2”

“Ah! I forget—the leech told me not to ngitate you; but how can J, when my joy at your recovery is #0 great.”

“ But Beatrice ?” interposed the fover.

“Sho is well—she hus excaped—she is out of the tertitories of Venice, she bas sought the refuge of # con- vent—this is all I ean tell yon now, and the leech would never forgive me, if he thought I had exchanged more than a single word with you. ‘There, compose yourself. my dear master. Everything ie in the right train; and to-morrow, when you are stronger, you shult know all.”

Adanta would fain have insisted on hearing at once the whole story in detail from the lips of his faithful servant, but his head had alrendy began to swim around, and he felt that he was over-tusking hin yet enfecbled powers, He was forced, therefure, to stifle his curiosity for the present and rest contented with the assurance thot Beatrice was mfe and free from her aucle’a tyranny. With this consoling hope he lay hnuck on his pillow, and, while his faithful servant watched over him, gradually stink into slamber.

The next day the leech visited him on aweking and pronounced hin wonderfully strengthened. As soon as the leech had retired the gondolier began, according to promise, his story. With all that happened up to the commencement of the nightmarch of the fugitives the reader in already acquainted; s0 we shall not repeat the gondolier’s narration up to that time, but give his story: of the adventures that afterward befell them,

© Woe pursued aur way until we hail loft the territories

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communications between father and son after this day were very constant; and for some weeks Vivian employed his time rather in conversing with his father, than with books. It must not be concealed (and when the fact is stated, it must not be conceived that Vivian's mind was a weak one) that his fixed principles became daily loosened, and that his opinions were very soon considerably modified. He speedily began to discover that there were classics in other languages besides Greek and Latin, and patient inquiry and dispassionate

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foe-a foe. Form men, form- place the ladies in the rear. Rest your lances, brave hearts, and be ready for the recreants."

The very first ejaculation of the knight had been followed by the appearance of an armed force on the brow of the hill, and before he ceased speaking it was evident that the insignia of the Vivaldo family were borne in the front of the troop, and that the intentions of the strangers were hostile. The Lady Beatrice and her women were instantly hurried to the rear of the knight's cavalcade, and preparations made to meet the foe. The armed condottieri-for such were the kind of troops led by the Duke-gave their foes no breathing time, but ere the little band of Adanta could well arrange its front, dashed down the hill. Luckily there was a level space of some extent betwixt the knight's force and the foot of the hill. He suffered the foe accordingly to descend the acclivity before he moved ; but as soon as the condottieri had gained the plain, he shouted, "Charge-for God and St. Mark-ho ! have at them," and levelling his long lance, while his men-at-arms followed his example, he dashed at full gallop to meet the foe. The shock of the meeting squadrons was like that of an earthquake. For a minute nothing could be seen but the clouds of dust in which the combatants were involved ; but the anxious females and their little guard could plainly distinguish, amid the ringing of steel and the shricks of the wounded, the shouts of the respective leaders. At length the fight seemed receding, and after one or two desperate stands the forces of the assailants were seen retreating over the hill. In less than ten minutes the knight and his followers returned from the chase, and riding up to the Lady Beatrice and her attendants, he said, "The day is won, at least for the present. The knaves have been as you see, driven to a base retreat. But how many more ambuscades they may prepare for us there is no telling, so we had best push on and that right sharply too. Although had I not charge of you, dear Beatrice, I would chase the villains to the very shores of Venice." The cavalcade was about setting forth again, when one of the men-at-arms approached. "The fellow whom you took prisoner, my lord," he said, "has confessed that the Duke has had spies for a month to watch the convent, with the intention of taking prisoner the lady as soon as she should leave the protection of its walls." "The double-dyed villain !" ejaculated the knight. "What shall we do with the prisoner, my lord ?" asked the man after a pause. 66 Scourge the wretch and let him go." The troop now pushed forward, but any one who had looked toward the rear would have seen that the retainers of the knight did not forget his command, but

and traitor received his deserts. As they passed the field where the conflict had lately taken place, and where two or three of the enemy lay mortally wounded or dead, Beatrice turned away with a shudder. The knight saw it and hurried forward the troop, but said nothing. Their journey was thenceforth pursued without molestation, and the aunt of our heroine soon welcomed her to Rome. The circumstances of the lover had meanwhile been greatly altered since the day when he parted from the Lady Beatrice at the Duke's summer palace on the Brenta. Then Adanta was but a poor scholar, or at most only a needy adventurer- now he was possessed of large estates, a title, and followed by an array of retainers. His pride no longer prevented him from a union with Beatrice, and with the consent of her aunt, her only relative except the Duke, they were united. Our hero wore, at the ceremony, the armor in which he had defended Beatrice ; for such was her request ; while his gallant retainers stood around, under the same banner which they had so nobly borne in the fray.
 * that, amid the laughter of the bold followers, the prisoner

FRAGMENT. BY PROFESSOR WILSON. "Tis a lonely glen ! but the happy child Hath friends whom she meets in the morning wild! As on she trips, her native stream , Like her hath awoke from a joyful dream ; And glides away by her twinkling feet With a face as bright and a voice as sweet. In the osier bank the ouzel sitting, Hath heard her steps, and away is flitting From stone to stone, as she glides along, Then sinks in the stream with a broken song. The lapwing, fearless of his nest, Stands looking round with his delicate crest ; Or a love-like joy is in his cry, As he wheels, and darts, and glances by. Is the heron asleep on the silvery sand Of his little lake ? Lo ! his wings expand As a dreamy thought, and withouten dread, Cloud-like he floats o'er the maiden's head. She looks to the birchwood glade, and lo ! There is browsing there the mountain roe, Who lifts up her gentle eyes- nor moves As on glides the form whom all nature loves. Having spent in heaven an hour of mirth, The lark drops down to the dewy earth ; And in silence smooths his yearning breast In the gentle fold of his lowly nest, The linnet takes up the hymn unseen In the yellow broom or the bracken green.


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thought in a lower etation of life, but Warren knew that it is worth only which bestows true rank, and he paid no attention, therefore, to the wneers of hie gay advisers. Above all, he saw that Misa Massey was pious, and piety in a woman was necessary to ensure his love, ‘This may sound strange in some eers, for Warren was confessedly a man of the world, but his mother had been truly religious, and he always pictured to himself a woman of like churacter as the ons whom he would choose for a wife. There were many other estimable traits in him which Ellen could not fail to see, and she soon learned that her affections bad been cast almost involuntarily upon Warren, ‘I’be lover, at length, won a confession of this from the blushing girl. They were married, aml Ellen found herself the bride of one of the wealthiest young men of the city.

But there was one fuible in the character of Warren, which Ellen discovered a few months after their marriage, and which, had she known in the first hours of their ac- quaintance, might have prevented her from learning to love his. He was ever thireting after increased wealth. Rich as he was, he longed for greater opulence, and wes continually engaged in schemes to add tens of thousands to his already large fortune. It was a season of great financial excitement, and men dreamed of amassing for- tunes as the early discoverers of America dreamed of reaching El Dorado, of drinking from the magical foun- tain of life. A hundred speculations were afloat, all promising incredible returns to the adventurer, Into these apeculations Warren plunged. His wife, remem- bering the loss of her own fortune, shuddered at any thing bearing the name of speculation, and besought her husband to rest conlent with what he had, and not risk all in striving ofter more. Warren yielded, in a measure, to her entreaties, embarking but a few thousand dollars in what appeared tho most promising of various specu- lations presented to him. In some cases the venture proved fortunate, in others not, But on the whole he rather won than lost. He adduced this as an argument to convince his wife, but she shook her head, and by her entreaties again induced him to forego his intention of embarking nearly hie whole fortune in what promised to he an unusually Jucky adventure, The wife contended that specufation was but a legalized gambling, in which a few won while the great mass was ruined. “They had enough,” she said, “why should they wish for more?” Thus, again and again she prevailed, and more than onre saved her husband's fortune. But on the birth of his hoy the cagerness of the father to possess inordinate riches grew un him so that he could no longer resist it; and just at this crisis too a speculation presented itself which he fancied had no chance of » failure. Con- cealing his intentions from his wife, us be knew that she would not approve of them, he embarked his whole fore tune in the undertaking. For nearly year every thing

THE LADY’S

went on prosperously, and Warren calculated that he had doubled his fortune. Still he said nothing to his wife, for the favorable moment to sell out had not, he thought, yet arrived, and he was resolved to say nothing to her until ail was concluded, and he could surprise her by his success. “The end has not come yet,” said he amilingly to himself, But the end came too soon and with it ruin. Warren woke up one morning to find that he had been the dupe of sharpers ; that the specula- tion had failed; that he was peunilcss. We have seen how he concealed the misfortune for a while, and how he at length confessed it to his wife.

Ellen was indeed an angel in this crisis, She gave up her Iuxurious house, her rich furniture, even many things that she had learned to consider comforts without: asigh. She saw that her husband was penitent She doubted not that he was cured of his fully. ‘Tho price indeed was fearful, bat so long as his love remuined to her she could be happy.

They removed to a small house, having but one room on a floor, but every thing was neat and as comfortable as the place would allow. Ellen was her own cook, and. her husband when he came home from his work—for he had obtained a situation as a elerk—eaw in her smiles a surety that she was hoppy. How then could he repine? He did not. He thought Ellen more beautiful in her common chintz dress and her tidy apron, than in the rich silks which she had once worn in still richer sa- Joona; and thinking thus, and witnessing her content, and feeling that she was happy in despite of his folly, his heart melted, and he enjoyed a felicity eueh as he never could have attained in his days of opulence. Still that little family had sorrowful hours; for often, when their babe was sick, they had to deny it comforts that wealth could bave commanded, and once, when Warren. himself fell ill, and was confincd for montha to the house, thoir scanty funds melted away, until the wife was com- pelled to take in sewing to support them. In that dark hour the religion of Ellen again came to her aid, and her husband learned to emulate her piety. But when the father recovered from his long: illness, they wete 60 doeply in debt that they were forced to relinquich their house, and content themselves with a single reom, To such lengthe bad the insane thirst for moncy-making reduced that innocent wife and child.

Long, long years passed away, aud although at length Warren struggled up from poverty into a com+ petence, it wae not until his brow was wrinkled by toil and care, nor before the threads of silver began to appear amid the beautiful tresecs of his wife. ‘When, finally, he was once more above want, and had secured enough to keep his fumily for the remain- der of his life, the first Icwson which he taught hie children was to beware of making haste to get rich, and of ita attendant curse, the thirst for speculation.

�


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and the ladies returned to the drawing-room, when conversation light and fashionable began to circulate among the different groups. Near Ida sat a favorite cavalier of the party, vainly endeavoring to obtain a glance from her lovely eyes ; and opposite to her, apparently engaged in looking at a print, stood the heir to an earldom, wishing he was the bird, or the greyhound, or the handkerchief, or anything that Ida loved or admired ; but Ida neither looked at the one nor the other.

"It was the opinion of Charles the Fifth, Miss Ilderton," said the heir, "that we speak English to birds." "And Italian to ladies," was the cool answer. 66 Why not speak la bella lingua to me, if you follow the Enperor's maxim ?" Ida smiled as he said this, and glanced toward a window, where sat a young man, holding a cup of coffee in an easy manner, perfectly displaying a finelyformed white hand, and seemingly intent on taking the pattern of the carpet in his mind's eye, to compare it with others on some future occasion. " Listen !" said Ida, starting from her couch ; "there is music " and the sound of a harp was heard beneath the balcony. Instantly the windows were thrown open, and the visitors rushed to hear the Harpiste ; while Ida drew near the farthest, and stood by the silent young gentleman, who smiled, and offered a chair as she approached. From the blaze of light within, and the brightness of the gas without, the figure and face of the Harpiste were clearly seen, and her rapid and brilliant execution astonished and delighted her audience. " I have seldom heard such a thrilling touch," remarked Ida. " What a pity she should play thus, and find such small encouragement : for nothing but absolute necessity could have obliged her to seek bread by itinerant playing." " She is une demoiselle Francoise," said the young man, gazing firmly on Ida's lovely face. " Listen ! there, she sings !" and a perfectly natural voice arose in all its wild beauty, singing a pathetic French romance. “ Has she not a pretty style, Mr. Beresford ?” asked Ida, who seemed pleased with the musician ; " I fancy there is a touch of romance about her. I feel an interest in her ; she is as youthful as myself, and a wanderer." "You are a little enthusiastic creature, Ida," was the answer. " Now, surely, you do not fancy her a princess in disguise, or a maiden escaped from a haunted castle, where some malignant genii confined her. Tell me, what do you imagine ?" " Some disappointment ; a faithless lover ; a father banished for breaking the laws ; and, after a bright happy girlhood, she becomes what she is now, with a life of desolation before her. Have I drawn a touching picture Beresford ? Is not that sufficient misery for a novel?"

" Not quite ; truth is stranger than fiction. I am sure Ida there is more real wretchedness, more deep misery, in many hearts than any novel could describe ( and Ferdinand Beresford spoke for the first time feelingly.) Perhaps you have no idea of the meaning of grief, and if you have not I hope you never will." "Thank you, I can only wish you the same. Now we must contribute to the Harpist ; it ought to be a shower of gold. Viscount Lyvil first :" and Ida moved away toward the spot where the Viscount stood, and a handsome collection was soon made, sufficient to awaken joy in the heart of the fair Harpiste. "Ask her residence and her name ; tell her to return to-morrow," were Ida's commands, and she once more returned to Ferdinand Beresford. A moment only elapsed, when she quitted his side, and for the remainder of the evening a beautiful blushing rosebud decked her bosom. It was not more lovely than those favorite children of Flora usually are, but Ida had never possessed one so inestimably valuable before. Ida Ilderton was devotedly attached to Ferdinand Beresford ; she loved him better than aught else besides, and to win his esteem she would have resigned all her wealth and power ; and of this Ferdinand felt quite conscious, and not a little proud. In the society of Ida he seemed pleased but reserved, and a languid melancholy stole over him, which added a degree of calm repose and thoughtful grace, of which those around him were bereft. Mrs. Ilderton had long and silently seen Ida's growing attachment, and determined, by slow degrees, to find the exact point at which it had arrived ; for Ferdinand was scarcely a desirable match for her daughter, his father being the seventh son of a duke, and himself the youngest of nine children, all depending upon their grandfather's patronage for appointments in the army and navy, or small lucrative places about court ; and by dint of being seen in the Duchess' carriage in Hyde Park, and introduced at the different drawing-rooms, Ferdinand's three sisters were titled and tolerably rich ladies, who all united in saying he was too handsome for anything but a secretary, and that he accordingly became, with a salary of five hundred pounds per annum, but no better prospects. This did not suit Mrs. Ilderton's projects for her child, and she determined to seperate the lovers ; therefore, on the night in question, she believed she had seen sufficient to warrant her so doing. It was late before the party broke up, and as Ida received the farewell of Ferdinand Beresford, for a moment his reserve was thrown off ; he caught the little white hand and pressed it to his lips, and left the delighted maiden to ponder on this his first act of love. The sun had past the meridian before Ida arose, and putting on a simple robe, threw herself on her couch to breakfast alone. Many new feelings crowded on her


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 basing conclusions on points of comparison between the rather meagrely known facts in the life of Hardy and the colorful figures and careers of his characters. But the general drift of the "architectural" sections of his works of fiction undoubtedly indicates that his fundamental theory of the absolute equality and ultimate unity of all the arts was clearly reflected in an ineradicable vein of all-embracing eclecticism.

Just as he could appreciate all styles of painting, so did he display fondness for the most violently contrasted schools of architecture. In like manner, when we follow his tastes in literature, we shall find them ranging from Gibbon and Voltaire to Newman and Matthew Arnold; from the Bible and Wordsworth to Æschylus and Swinburne.

Keenly as Hardy realized the beauties and potential values of his architectural studies, as he walked along the streets of the metropolis during the year 1862, he felt a growing need at this time for the thorough academic training which he had never received. He accordingly cast about for some opportunity to build upon his scant knowledge of the general arts and sciences. King's College, in the University of London, happened to be offering evening classes particularly for ambitious young men who found themselves in Hardy's position. He therefore attended these classes faithfully for some time, adding materially to his mental equipment and emerging in the end with more than a fair scholarly endowment, as his later work was to demonstrate.


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and during that period I sat alone in my little boudoir, happy as ever young maiden could be, till I heard the door of the library shut, and I knew the hours of study were over. Then I listened for the sound of footsteps, and with a joyous heart I used to hear my father's pupil come silently into my room, and hang over my chair, with some offering of flowers and fruit for chere Lucille. He gave me birds, and books, and plants, and all that could make my home happier. At length-time passed on rapidly-his education was finished, and the day was appointed for him to leave. It was the first grief I had ever known, and I shut myself up in my room alone to weep. The day on which the letter came to recall him | I saw him not, nor my father, for he had gone to see some friends at a distance, and the servant told me his pupil was in the library reading, and we remained apart the whole day. Toward evening my heart began to break with grief, and I laid my head on the table, and sobbed aloud. I could not bear to lose my kind companion, and I wept with passionate earnestness at his coldness-till I felt a hand laid affectionately on my shoulder, and I saw him standing looking attentively in my face.

Spare me the recital of all that passed then," cried Lucille, raising her clasped hands to Ida imploringly. "Suffice it to say, that in six months he promised to return and claim me as his bride, and bear me to these shores. He left us, and six months passed away and he came not ; I heard nought of him. My life became a burden, and my heart was breaking, and I came to the rash determination to quit my home in search of my faithless lover.

"It was a lovely moonlight night, cloudless and starry ; I could not sleep, and I felt my brain grow dizzy with suffering ; my head burnt with pain. It was the work of a moment to throw my shawl round me, and take with me my beloved harp, and before dawn I was far away from my father, an alien and a beggar." Here Lucille paused, as though the intensity of her feelings would not allow her to proceed, and sat weeping silently till Ida fondly took her hand in hers, and asked if she had found her lover. "Oh, no, no ; if I had I would not be here ; I would go back to my poor old father and ask his forgiveness. I would bear that faithless one to our peaceful home, which for two long years I have not beheld, and in quietude pass the remainder of my life." "Can you tell me the name of your false lover ? Do you remember him perfectly now ?" said Ida softly. 66 Tell me, and if I can aid you in finding him I will." “ Remember him ! Oh, I shall remember him until I die," sobbed Lucille, " and on my heart is engraved the name of Ferdinand Beresford." A change passed over the beautiful countenance of Ida, and a deadly paleness overspread her cheeks and

lips. She could not speak ; and save the convulsive throbbing of the veins on her marble brow, there was no sign of life. The shock had come suddenly but surely, and Ida was from that hour a changed creature. Lucille stood by her for a moment in silence, till a thought seemed to cross her brain, she sank down beside her, clasping her hands in agony, and hoarse with emotion exclaimed, " You know him ! you have seen him ! Oh, restore him to me, my long-lost Ferdinand ! Give me but a hope that I may yet see him once more, and I die in peace ! Oh, say he is not wedded ; I cannot bear suspense-my heart is breaking-I beseech you tell me all- shall we ever meet again ?” In a wild manner Lucille uttered these incoherent expressions, and Ida, with an effort at self-control, rose up to answer her enquiries ::-"Return to-night at nine, and you shall meet Mr. Beresford," was all she could say. Her heart seemed filled with restrained emotion, and she again sunk back on her couch. To describe the joy of Lucille is impossible ; her burst of deep gratitude to Ida: her ardent love for her old companion ; and her sorrow for the grief she had occasioned her poor father ; all seemed in turn to animate her bosom ; but even there a tender regard for Ida predominated, and she looked with an anguish on the woe she had caused. It was not for some time that Lucille could be prevailed on to leave her new-found friend ; but, at the earnest entreaties of Ida to leave her to repose, she at length consented. Ida lay still in bitter misery ; her heart's best hope was gone. To know he had loved another was madness ; to believe he still loved her was a torturing agony ; and Ida allowed herself to doubt he remembered that Lucille Beranger existed ; but she was deceiving herself: Ferdinand Beresford loved with earnest devotedness his betrothed Lucille. He was not to blame ; he had acted nobly to his parents ; he had told them he loved his tutor's daughter, and resolved, on attaining his majority, to wed her. He was answered by taunts, threats, and revilings ; forbidden to hold the least communication with his betrothed, and finally thrown, by the consummate art of his sister, Lady Vesey, into the society of Ida Ilderton, to win his thoughts from the young French maiden. All their efforts failed ; he burst their chains asunder, but it was too late. The letter announcing to Lucille his faithfulness, his continued love, reached its destination two days after she had quitted her home, and was never answered. He wrote again, thrice, but no tidings came ; till at length he received his letter back, with the mournful news that his old preceptor was dead, and his once happy daughter a voluntary wanderer in other lands. Here all intercourse ceased, and Ferdinand Beresford mourned over his faithless Lucille. It was impossible for him to recognize in the wandering Harpiste his favorite companion ; her voice bore no


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 soon convinced him of the futility of that mass of insanity and imposture—the Greek philosophy. Introduced to that band of noble spirits, the great poets, and legislators, and philosophers of modern Europe, the mind of Vivian Grey recovered, in a study of their immortal writings, a great portion of its original freshness and primal vigour. Nor in his new worship did he blaspheme against the former objects of his adoration. He likened the ancient and the new literatures to the two Dispensations of Holy Writ:—the one arose to complete the other. schylus was to him not less divine, because Shakspeare was immortal; nor did he deny the inspiration of Demosthenes, because he recognised in Burke the divine afflatus. The ancient literature, lost in corruption, degraded, and forgotten, ceased to benefit society; the new literature arose. It hurled from "the high places," the idols of corrupt understandings and perverted taste; but

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He was deaf to reason on the subject. All the facts of the occurrence were stampt on his mind- and all the logic I was master of had no effect. I left him on that night in no enviable state of mind-I was confident that there was some misunderstanding of the occurrence that made the head and front of the offending, but how to remove it was the question.

The difficulty between the two lovers remained as yet unadjusted. Since the evening in question Harry Morton had not visited the residence of Mary. The fact was made the gossip of the friends of the parties. At first Mary was surprised at the conduct of Harry, and sought an interview. But when she saw the determined part that Harry was acting in avoiding a meeting, her pride took the alarm, and she also avoided all those places where the possibility was she would meet him. Things were in this state when I received an invitation to attend an evening party, to be given at the house of a mutual friend of the lovers. I instantly perceived in this a fitting opportunity for an interview, and possibility of a reconciliation. The evening came, and with it the collection of fair forms and happy faces, and none were more so to the casual observer than Mary Wilson. She was the life of the little circle of which she made the centre. The laugh and jest went round, and she was the first in all. But to me the frequent and uneasy glances at the door, gave the intimation that some one was missing from that circle most prized by her. At length Mr. Morton was announced. As he extended the customary civilities of the evening to Mary, I saw, that despite her pride, the color came in deeper tints on her check ; but it was past, and she was again in the happiest mood. He in his turn was earnestly engaged in conversation with some ladies. But in his nervous and uneasy manner was to be seen the conflict that was going on within. The frequent pause in the conversation-the sidelong glances -the fits of obstruction—all told that all was not right. Singing being proposed, and Harry having being an adept therein, he was necessarily called upon for the exercise of his abilities. After the song had went round, a laughing girl proposed a duet, and Harry and Mary were instantly named as the parties. At the mention of this Harry was evidently much agitated, and various were the methods he tried to evade the matter altogether ; but the company insisted, and he at length consented. Mary was now to pass the ordeal. She feared that her voice and manner would betray the secret, and that all would read the issue. But the time had come for action and she prepared. Harry seated himself by her side, and they commenced. The song selected was that familiar old one, the " Banks of the Blue Moselle," and one that they had often sung in the days that were past. The voice of Mary faltered at the onset, but she rallied, and

the song was ended. Harry was scarcely less moved than Mary. A train of old associations came crowding back upon his memory, and the evening passed off, at least to them, without pleasure. Mary soon after pleaded indisposition, and left the apartment. When she was gone, the spirits and life of Harry seemel gone also, and soon after he also took his leave and retired. As he was passing through the hall previous to leaving the house, he was surprised to encounter Mary also leaving the house, and without an attendant. This fact, as connected with the visible alteration in her manners on the evening after the circumstances connected with the song, threw a new light on the mind of Harry. The whole truth flashed upon him at once. He had wronged her, and she had not been guilty. And now she was ill. His course was instantly taken. To cross the hall and proffer his attendance was the event of the next moment. At first she hesitated, but he insisted, and she consented. To his kind and solicitious enquiries after her health, she returned the usual answers, and the distance to her residence was passed in comparative silence. On arriving at the house of Mr. Wilson, he entered in answer to the usual invitation. Silence reigned for some time after they were seated. Harry was the first to break the charm that seemed to bind them. Advancing to the window where Mary was seated, he said, "Mary can you forgive me ?" and then seating himself by her side, and taking her hand, he exclaimed, “ I have been hasty-perhaps cruel, but be the past forgotten, and the future shall make the amends." " Henry," replied Mary, and she fixed her eyes upon him as if to read his thoughts. " What has been the cause of this ? Surely I have said or done nothing that " would justify such a course.' Henry related all the occurrences of the evening that had led to this affair-the fact of his having called-of her absence-of the glove without the fellow. At this Mary left the room and soon returned, bearing in her hand the identical glove-but the countepart was in the other on which was the name of Henry Morton. One look was all that was necessary to convince him of the truth of Mary and his own rashness, and seizing the hand of Mary, he exclaimed, "Mary can you forget this-I see it all, fool that I was not to do so before- forgive but this once and I will-" "No protestations," said Mary, who had totally recovered her spirits by this happy explanation. “ I will forgive it all-but remember, Henry, no more times of absence, no more jealousy." "No, no, Mary-my life for it," continued Henry. "I have had quite enough of that." When Henry left the house that night he was the happiest man in the world ; and Mary ! the rose on her check blooms brightly as before, and none have had cause to regret the fruits of the Meeting.


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 while "it purified the altars of the Lord," while it commanded our reverence and our gratitude, the new literature itself vailed to the first grey Fathers of the human mind.

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 It was around this time also that Hardy began his wanderings through the art museums and picture galleries of the town. He rapidly acquired the invaluable ability to lose all consciousness of himself when yielding to the influence of an effective work of art. The impressions thus gained he retained in a memory startlingly photographic. He began, then, to realize that art was more than mere craftsmanship, that its ultimate value lay largely in the emotion and feeling that vitalized, as by a miracle, the product which permeated the senses of its audience.

Upon this realization, coming with the freshness and vividness of a novelty, followed a natural desire: the desire to express it in as direct a way as possible. Hardy was beginning to sense his limitations as a pencil or brush-artist, and to feel more and more distinctly the appeal of literary composition. His temperament was strongly reflective or philosophical; he was forming the habit of analysing his reactions, and of squaring them with general concepts created out of experiences and self-education. Thus he began to harbor the ambition of becoming an art-critic, and maintained this ambition for many weeks. To this end he studied intensively all the schools of sculpture and painting that he saw represented in Victorian London.

It was not until he had evolved a complete theory of art, which included the worlds of all the Muses, and until he had absorbed a vast store of useful images that had their life in these worlds, that he finally abandoned his dream of becoming an art-expositor for the press. The theories he formed in 1862, however, were destined to


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pointe ; a double row of white lace falls over the top of the corsage, and is attached down the front of the body with five small roses, the lower rose forming the point of the waist ; short sleeves trimmed with three falls of white blonde caught in the front of the arm with a pink rose.

We subjoin our monthly report of the styles most prevalent in Paris.

EVENING DRESSES.-The most favorite materials for evening dresses are les damas d' Ispahan, les crépes de Siam, les mousselines Victoria, les barèges Isabelle, and Clemantine. There is a fashionable dress of green satin trimmed en tablier with three folds of the same, each fold attached with gold clasps ; the corsage sitting close to the figure and low, à pointe ; the sleeves short and tight, ornamented with English lace manchettes falling over them ; another of the dresses was in a nacréides, the ground flowered with gold, having volants of lace placed slanting en tablier, and one in scarlet velvet, with double volants of lace ; body à pointe, berthe in lace descending to the middle of the corsage. BALL DRESSES .-For ball dresses the most favorite style is decidedly those composed of double jupons, of different but well-assorted colors- for instance, a short upper dress in orange-colored satin over one in blue, the upper skirt open on each side, and upon the side of each opening is placed a perfect échelle, composed of nœuds of orange-colored ribbon, allowing the blue skirt to be seen underneath ; in fact, nothing is now worn for evening costume but the double jupons in crêpe lace of tulle, mostly ornamented with torsades of pearls, coques of ribbon or trimmings of flowers. WALKING DRESSES.-The newest style for this description of dress are those made in fancy silks, the body high and sitting close to the figure, slightly stif fened, à révers, and lined with a brighter shade : buttons of silver gilt plain and very bright, disposed in the shape of a fan ; sleeves à la Quaker, the top of the skirt gaged into the waist in three rows. Pelisse robes are much worn made in tissu ; the colors marine blue, violet, and deep blue, others in Scotch velvets ; these dresses are made perfectly simple. Then we have seen the Macintoshes in reps de laine of a deep green or myrtle green ; ceinture a double coulisse ; the back broad and plaited in at the waist by the coulisse, the fronts à revers Capuchin, open and trimmed with a fringe, and used for out-door costume. HEAD DRESSES .-The greatest novelty in the style of head-dresses is that called Isabelle ; it is either made in velvet or lace ornamented with bouquets of the lily of the valley or branches of the eglantine ; it is attached at the back of the head with barbes of lace falling over the back hair. Another and rather a younger style of head-dress is called Moscovite, being formed of a light scarf in tartalane, having a rich embroidery of gold, edged at the sides with gold fringe, the two ends of the

scarf falling over the same side, giving it somewhat the appearance of a turban. Scarfs in lace are favorite materials for petit coiffures ; they are generally intermixed with ribbons of gold or what has still a richer effect, with a ground-work of résille d ' or. We must not forget that pretty little coiffure, called Alambra, composed of gold wheat ears, intermixed with black or purple velvet, the ends finished with magnificent tassels falling on the neck and shoulders. The toque Espagnol, the foundation of embroidered velvet, with small feathers placed at the side, is also well adapted for a young and graceful woman. For lighter costumes, fitted more for the approaching summer perhaps than the month of April, we may mention the ROBES IN EVENING NEGLIGE.- We may cite among the most distingué, those of India muslin, with a square corsage à l'enfant; it is made low at top, and rounded at bottom, and trimmed with a falling tucker of lace laid on with very little fulness. Manche à la latiere, it is a short full sleeve, negligently looped by a knot of ribbon, or a flower ; these robes rarely have any other trimming than a very broad hem round the border. Muslin and organdy robes, lined with rose or blue silk, are also much in request in evening négligé. Some are made in the pelisse robe style, and trimmed down the front with lace disposed en tablier at the sides, but looped at regular distances, so as to form large scallops, by fancy silk ornaments or knots of ribbon. SUMMER JEWELLERY.-The bijoux most in favor are a gold or jewelled key and smelling-bottle attached at the side of a gold chain. One, two, or even three, fancy bracelets may be worn on the same arm. Brooches are now made much smaller. The fashion of having a portrait in the brooch is no longer adopted, but they are very much worn in bracelets. The Spring and Summer styles of bonnets are now becoming subjects of curiosity. The styles, so far vary, no one being triumphant. We may cite among the most elegant of the new bonnets, those of pea-green pou de soie, shot with white, the exterior trimmed with a wreath composed of green shaded ribbons, arranged in pompons, encircled with velvet foliages ; the pompons were each united by a cordon of foliage, also of velvet. This simple but elegant style of trimming is decidedly the most novel of the month. We may cite also, as exceedingly novel, some morning bonnets of gros de Naples, partially covered with a veil edged with a triple row of blonde, and attached only by a knot of taffetas ribbon. Some bonnets, remarkable for their simply elegant style, are composed of white pou desoie, the exterior trimmed with ribbon, the interior with two camelias of moderate size at each side under the brim. A good many rice straw bonnets are trimmed with wreaths of early flowers.


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reader! you know what a Toadey is? That agreeable animal which you meet every day in civilized society. But perhaps you have not speculated very curiously upon this interesting race. Tant pis! for you cannot live many lustres, without finding it of some service to be a little acquainted with their habits.

The world in general is under a mistake as to the nature of these vermin. They are by no means characterised by that similarity of disposition, for which your common observer

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the housings of velvet and gold, the train of slaves, and the other costly preparations for the cavalcade which was to convey the Rajah's daughter to her future lord. Secluded from the bustle of the town, Haidai dwelt, during these preparations, in the little summer palace where she had spent her childhood. It was a beautiful structure, shaded by fragrant trees, situated on the side of a mountain lake, and embosomed in a garden of the most rare and delicate flowers. Birds of golden plumage sang all night long around this enchanted bower, and the stars shimmered soft and silvery in the placid lake. In the heat of noonday fountains tinkled in the marble courts, diffusing a delicious freshness around. Here Haidai spent her hours in listening to the songs of her slaves, or indulging in vague dreams of love and happiness ; and often she caught herself wondering whether her future lord would realize the vague ideal beauty which she had longed for in her visions.

Only a month yet elapsed to the nuptials when a message came from the Rajah for his daughter to visit the city in order to select for herself dresses of the richest pattern for the approaching fetés. The distance was but a few hour's journey, and a troop of spahis was sent to escort her, more as a mark of her rank than to defend her from attack, for such a thing was deemed preposterous in the peaceable dominions of the Rajah. Disappointed love, however, will venture any expedient to ensure revenge ; and a neighboring prince who had vainly sought for the hand of Haidai, hearing of the contemplated journey, resolved to possess himself of the young beauty. Accordingly he mustered together his guard, and avoiding the open parts of his neighbor's country, penetrated unknown into the very heart of the province, and waylaid the cavalcade and spahis, in a narrow pass near the foot of the mountain, on which the summer palace of the Rajah stood. The litter of Haidai was slowly descending the hill side, and the young princess was laughing at a sally by one of her slaves, when the practised eye of the captain of her guard detected the spear heads of the ambuscade through the trees in front. Consternation instantly took possession of her followers, and especially of herself, for the object of the attack was at once comprehended, and the leader of the assailants was famed for his cruelty, outrages, and hideous appearance. Haidai shuddered when she thought of him as her future lord, and exhorted her comparatively small troop of spahis to defend her to the last. They swore so to do, or at least to keep the enemy engaged until her slaves should bear her off by a bye-road to a place of safety-for the country was studded by the fortresses of her father, and it would be impossible to travel many leagues in any direction without falling in with one or more of them. 66 By the beard of the Prophet," said the captain of

the spahis, " her highness shall be saved, even if we all die in her defence-ho ! Allah shews the way- charge the mauraders." Down, like an avalanche from the hill, swept that dauntless troop ; but like a rock in the valley the mailed mauraders met them, so that the inconsiderable force of the young princess's guard was broken into fragments. Long and desperately they fought ; but all in vain ; for the overpowering numbers of the assailants hemmed them in on every side, hewing them down like rushes that the north winds prostrate along the banks of the Indus. The little troop was soon cut in pieces, and the litter of the princess overtaken. Her few personal slaves were slaughtered in cold blood, and she found herself in the power of her captor without a single one of her train left even to perform the necessary services due to one of her high rank. CHAPTER II. We shall not attempt to describe the emotions of Haidai when her captor approached her. All of evil which she had heard respecting him was more than verified by his appearance. He had already passed the meridian of his existence, and the crimes of a long life had left themselves indelibly impressed on his countenance, which was forbidding to the last degree. She shrank instinctively from his presence. "Fair daughter of the sun," said he, affecting a gallantry to which he was a stranger, "the fortune of war has placed you in my hands- and henceforth you will be the light of my eyes, the flower of my harem . Long have I loved you, and now it shall be my task only to do your bidding." " If such be your wish," said Haidai, with an energy. she thought would have been a stranger to her nature, "conduct me to my father's court." "Nay-by the Kabala- not so," said her captor, with a hideous smile, "the fountains of my harem pine for your presence." The captive princess saw in the exulting look of her captor the confirmation of her worst fears, and she sank back on her cushions with a shudder. All that day they retreated through secluded ways toward the frontiers of the province, and at nightfall were almost clear of the dominions of the Rajah. As Haidai saw the hills where she had spent her childhood fading in the distance, her heart grew cold within her, and the faint hope which she had entertained of a rescue died away, until at length she was left in total despair. Suddenly, however, she heard a commotion among her capturers, and soon perceived that they were forming in the rear of the litter as if to protect it from assault. Could succor have arrived ? Her heart beat quicker at the supposition. She was not left long in doubt, for in


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 That Hardy's faith in the transcendent one-ness of all art was to remain more than mere theory may be shown in its application throughout his writings. He frequently invoked assistance which could be supplied only by a most intimate knowledge of painting, sculpture, architecture, music and the dance, in re-creating for his readers certain very characteristic images and ideas. For instance, in the following description of the second Avice Caro's voice in The Well-Beloved, the desired effect is achieved by a strange mingling of the ideas associated with music, speech and plastic art:

Since Hardy accepted whole-heartedly the notion that all of the arts should he viewed but as varying aspects of one unchanging idea, it is not at all remarkable that we find him displaying a genuine interest in them all, and a considerable practical knowledge of them as well. His point of view is very rarely that of the mere dilettante. Looking upon the art of poetry (in its more comprehensive sense—that of Dichtung or literary creation) as but one of many means of expressing life and thought, he never hesitated to call in the aid of any of the other arts when a suitable occasion for doing so arose. His rather eclectic early self-training gave him a comprehensive and lasting sympathy with many forms of imaginative expression.


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38 day,” thought she, “and I will send her off as it is; here Letheresy. As that young Jady entered the room, this Mios Benson, take her up stairs and show her her zoom. Jotham can take her trunk up, and she can get her clothes ready to begin school tomorrow.” ‘The woman ‘was not allowed to open the front door while a glimpse of Emme’s dress could be seen on the stairway, and Mrs. Olden remained below, exulting in the success of her stratagem, while the poor girl, whose feclings she had insulted, was shown into a double-bedded room, which she was informed she was to occupy in company. with her three pupils. This last announcement was almost too much for Emma—that even in her chamber She was not to be alone, and every moment was to be subject to the ecrutiny of strangers, was a severe trial. and for a moment she thought of remonstrating, but a A little reflection convinced her that her feelings would not be understood, and as she feared, she might receive many intentional insults, which she would be obliged to notice, she was determined to bear all else in silence. Be- side, this constant companionship would probably crease her influence over her young pupils. Letheresa told Emma that he would help her unpack, and Sarah Rosalinda soon joined Ber. In vain, Emma appeared. them that she needed no assistance and that she would prefer deferring the task till tomorrow, their curiosity ‘was too strong to allow them to take any civil refusal; Tomorrow, she would have to begin school and would not have a moment's time; they took tea at five o'clock. and it was now three; Emma could not unpack without aid, finding it impossible to free herself from their importance, she was obliged to accept their offer, and soon saw her garments unfolded and criticized, her boxes of trifles turned out, and the titles of her books were examined. A splendid diamond ring, the last percent of her father, which he wore on that account, was taken off, and Was questioned as to whether the stones were ail dia Monde, and how she could afford to wear it, At length Her card case came under their scrutiny, and Emma, who was arranging some articles in her drawer. induced to turn around by smothered giggling and exclamation mations of “Oh, dear! Well, I declare! suppose he will Come before  Tong."Her first feeling was mortification. and for a moment her cheek glowed as a card, with the The name Charles Delancey was bestowed upon her. been picked out of her own, but the color soon faded, and her voice was quite calm as she took the card-caso and card from the laughing girls, and quietly putting them away, assured them Mr. Delancey was neither beau nor relative, merely an acquaintance, whose card reminded her of former days, and she chose to keep Even Miss Olilen’s were silenced for the time. and their renewed attacks in a few days, meeting no better success, were at length dropped.

Charles Delancey was, in fact, a very slight acquaintance of Emma, but she knew enough of him to him to any of her professed adorers, and perhaps "her Intereat in him was inercased by the almost unacknowledged ledged consciousness that his cold politeness and unfte Frequent calls were indicative of anything but indifference. on his part She had been, for a long time, surprised. and half offended, at the marked avoidance of one whom She was so well disposed to like, but a partially overheard conversation at a party upon mercenary marriages, in which young Delancey expremed himself with great warmth, and his evident embarrassment when she, having approached unperceived, was called upon for her opinion, she betrayed the cause. She felt a cheek reflect the color of his, but making a gay reply, she passed on, A light shade of embarrassment was Adiled to the previous restraint of their conversation, and Delancey soon ceased calling at the house or visiting where he would meet Emma, and she only occasionally heard of him as entitely absorbed in his profession, until she recovered from her illness, after which father’s death, she found Delancey was frequent in his inquiries after her, but as she admitted no visitors, she Never caw him. Just before she left the house, he took the cards from the basket to destroy them, and placed one of Delancey’s among her own, as a niemento of one who would have been a disinterested friend, saying with a faint emile,

“I am now poorer than he is, for I am obliged to work for my daily bread, while he is rapidly rising in a noble profession, which will not only make him pendent, but distinguished. We will probably never meet again.”

Emma's pupils, Celinda, Octavia, and Delia, were in due time introduced to her, and the routine of daily instruction entered upon. She found them ignorant. and spoiled, though like their elder sisters, good-natured, and many were her trials and disappointments in ‘conscientious endeavors to improve mind, manners, and disposition, but in the course of a few months she had the satisfaction to perceive her efforts were beginning to produce the desired effect, even Mrs. Olden treated better than her first reception promised, for finding Emma is not only willing but also desirous of keeping in the back ground, neither going to parties nor making visits, thus not interfering with the young ladies, while her son having made a run-s-way match, all fears on his account were removed, she began to feel more kindly toward the gentle girl, who was so devoted to her pupils, and so willing to give extra lessons to the grown girl, Mr. Olden has not been mentioned, for though a thriving man of business and of soine consequence abroad from his wealth, at home he was a cipher. He shook hands. with Emma when he first saw her, acknowledged her morning and evening salutations, and occasionally She did not accompany them to the party, and that

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, that was exactly my impression; and she is then very, verydon't exactly mean to say meddling, or inquisitive; but—but you understand me. Dr. Sly?"

"Perfectly; and if I were to speak my mind, which I don't hesitate to do in confidence to you, Miss Graves, I really should say, that she's the most jealous, irritable, malicious, meddling, and at the same time fawning, disposition, that I ever met with in the whole course of my life—and I speak from experience."

"Well, do you know, Dr. Sly, from all I 've seen, that was exactly my impression; therefore I have been particularly careful not to commit myself to such a person."

"Ah! Miss Graves! if all ladies were Hke you!—Oh!"

"My dear Dr. Sly!"

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the above Carols, No. V was written by R. Southwell; Nos. X and XVIII by T. Tusser; No. XIII by Sir Walter Scott; Nos. XIV, XLVIII and LI by J. M. Neale; No. XXVII by W. J. Blew; No. XXXIV by N. Tate; No. XXXVIII by J. Gwynneth. The Latin of No. XXXIX is from Piae Cantiones. The rest of the words have been composed, or translated, by G. R. W. to suit old melodies in peculiar metres.

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 "But what, Dr. Sly?"

"Why, I was merely going to hazard an observation, that according to my feelings—that is, to my own peculiar view of the case,—I should prefer some people thinking more about their own business, and, and—but I mean nothing."

"Oh, no, of course not. Dr. Sly; you know we always except our own immediate friends—at least, when we can be sure they are our friends; but as you were saying, or going to say, those persons who are so very anxious about other people's affairs, are not always the most agreeable persons in the world to live with. It certainly did strike me, that that interference of Miss Gusset's about Julie today, was, to say the least, very odd."

"Oh, my dear madam! when you know her as well as I do, you'll see she's always ready to put in a word.""

"Well! do you know, Dr. Sly, between

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 Throughout the Wessex novels one can find a lavish—perhaps too lavish—use of the information and terminology of the art-connoisseur. In Desperate Remedies, Mrs. Leat stretches out "a narrow bony hand that would have been an unparalleled delight to the pencil of Carlo Crivelli," and Manston's face is tinged with "the greenish shades of Corregio’s nudes." In Under the Greenwood Tree the members of the Mellstock choir “advanced against the sky in flat outline which suggested some processional design on Greek or Etruscan pottery," and in A Pair of Blue Eyes "gaslights glared from butchers' stalls, illuminating the lumps of flesh to splotches of orange and vermilion, like the wild coloring of Turner's later pictures." One can continue through all the novels, collecting references of this kind. Thus, in A Pair of Blue Eyes, we find mentioned Nollekens, Holbein, Kneller, Lely, Greuze, Guido; in Far from the Madding Crowd, Terburg, Douw, Danby, Poussin, Ruysdael, Hobbema, and the following splendid example of art in description: "The strange, luminous semi-opacities of fine autumn afternoons and eves intensified into Rembrandt effects the few yellow sunbeams which came through the holes and divisions in the canvas, and spirited like gems of gold dust across the dusky blue atmosphere of haze pervading the tent, until they alighted in inner surfaces of cloth opposite and shone like little lamps suspended there." In The Return of the Native we find Dürer, Raffaello, Somerset, Perugino, Sallaert and Van Alsloot; in Jude, Del Sarto, Reni and Sebastiano.

Whether or not the man of letters availed himself of a


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Author:Charles Wood

 * Charles Wood, 1st Viscount Halifax (1800–1885), English politician
 * Charles Erskine Scott Wood (1852–1944), American author
 * Charles Wood (1866–1926), Irish composer

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. Of tell me gin their music fills ‘Whine ear ns ix does mine ; O! say gin eer your heart grows grit Wit dreamings o” langeynet

I've wandered east, I’ve wandered west,, I've borne a weary lot ; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot.

‘The fount that firet Lurst frae thie hewrt, ‘Still travels on its way; And channele deeper ae it rine, ‘The luve o' life's young day,

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, Vee never seen your face, nor heard ‘The music o° your tongue;

But I could huy’all wretchedness, And happy could U di Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O” bygane days and me! For My heid is like to rend, Willie,” we cannot find space—indeed we ean scarcely read it for the tears that dim our eyes, But we may not resist quoting a few stanzas. How touchingly it begins, “ My heid is like to rend, Willie, ‘My heart is like to breal I'm wearin’ aff my feet, T'nvdyiu! for your sake! O lay your cheek to mine, Willie, ‘Your hand on my breist-bane. O say ye'll think on me, Willie, When I am deid and gone!” And then; “I'm sittin’ on your knee, Willie, For the last time in my li A puir heart-broken thing, Willie, mither, yet nae wife Ay, press yoitr hand upon my heart, “And press it mair and mair,— Or it will borat the silken twine, Sue strange is ite despair!" ‘While even amid her lamentation that they ever met, she will not—all heartbroken though she is—reprosch her lover. O! dinna mind my words, Withe, I downs aeek to blame, But O! it's hard to ‘And drec a warld's shame! Het teara are hailin’ ower your cheek, ‘And hailin’ ower your chin: Why weep ye ane for worthlosmess, For sorrow and for sin?” And then, bidding him kiss once more her “white, white cheek,” that once alas was red, she tells him in that lovely stanzas beginning “A stoun’ gaes through my heid, Willie,” that her days are numberéd, and that even as she speaks her life-strings are parting, and thet soon the golden bow! will be broken at the fountain, How mournfully she continues, “The lav’rock in the lift. Willie, ‘That lilts far ower our heid, ‘Will sing the mom as merrilie ‘Abune the clay-cauld deid; And this green turf we're itt Wi dewalraps shimmer Will hap the heart that lavit th As warld bas seldum seen.

But O! remember me, Willie, On land where’er ye be.—~ And O! think on the leal, leal heart, ‘hat ne'er luvit ane but thee! And O! think on the eanld, cauld mools, “That file my yellow hair, — "Phat kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin, Ye never sall kiss mair!" There are numerous other poems in this volume, not ‘equal indeed to the above, bat still of considerable, wo may say, of high merit. Who can read “Change sweepoth over all.” “Tho Water,” “ Wearic’s Well,” “Mournfully” “The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary,” “The Parting,” “Melancholye,” and a dozen other of these poems without feeling that Motherwell was a poct of considerable power, gifted with pathos, nature, purity, and more than all, freshness—s poct, not indced of the first class, nor always of equal merit, but one destined to be remembered among men long, long after the hand that writes and the eye that may read these pages, have moulderod into dust.

We thank God that the taste for genuine poetry ia revising in this land, and thut the day has gone by when worldlings might sneer at the followers of the “sweetest of the nine,” as madmen, or worse than that, as fooly! Our booksellers’ shelves no longer groan under unsold editions of American poems. Since the publication of Longfellow’s “Voices of the Night,” there hus been a steady demand for poctry, and more than one eilition of questionablo stuff has been disposed of by taking advan- tage of this tide, New editions of standard poets are meanwhile appearing in the market, and meritorious authors are being dragged from obecority and brought into deserved notice. This edition of Motherwell has been republished from the now scarce London onc, and will be the means of making him generally known in this country. A volume of Tennyson has also appeared in Boston, and in London a neat and more complete edition of his poems will shortly be published under the author’s own eye. Brainard has been rescued from the oblivion into which he was rapidly declining, and by the publication of his works, set on a pinnacle of light from which it will be impossible hereafter to dislodge him. Clark’s poems are on the eve of publication; Sprague’s have appeared within the last year; snd Lowelt is win- ning for himself laurels which, ten years ago, would have been unattainable even by him. A new ers is breaking on us! The morning is reddening the east, the birds are already singing in the dewy wood, ere long the fall splendor of the day will burst all gloriously upon ua, Let us like eastern magi, wetch, one and all, for the firet beams of the coming light. Let us, like Miriam, exult upon the timbrel.

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England, personal distinction is the only passport to the society of the great. Whether this distinction arise from fortune, family, or talent, is immaterial; but certain it is, to enter into high society, a man must either have blood, a million, or a genius.

Neither the fortune nor the family of Mr. Grey entitled him to mix in any other society than that of, what is, in common parlance, termed, the middling classes; but from his distinguished literary abilities he had always found himself an honoured guest among the

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. unconquerable fear. "It is he," also cried Teresa, " and there is no hope of aid for him."

"We shall try, Teresa," said two stout and vigorous fishermen " we shall try, and may God assist us !"

But Teresa heard no more ; for she fell deprived of all sense, upon the strand. Two women hastened up to her, and conveyed her into the cabin. She could not see the signals of distress that were made by Josselin ; nor the efforts of the generous men, who devoted themselves to save him, nor the marks of interest that were exhibited by all who clung to the shore that night ; for all loved Josselin and Teresa.

A sad day succeeded to that frightful night. Toward the dawn, Teresa recovered her senses. She cast her eyes in unsteady glances around her, as if she wished to collect together her imperfect thoughts. At last memory returned fully and distinctly to her, and she spoke not a single word nor uttered a single cry, nor did even a solitary tear escape from her. Her children were near to her, and still sleeping. She kissed each of them, and her kiss seemed marked with a singular impression, and then- going out from the cabin, and making a mysterious sign to the fishermen who watched over her ; she directed her steps in a straight line ( as if she had been conducted by some mysterious power, or by an irresistible inspiration) toward a black point, which could scarcely be remarked upon the strand, and which was touched by the last line of foam, that the sea had left when ebbing. That point was a dead body ; and the dead body was that of Josselin, that the sea had carried during night toward the shore. As to the two fishermen who had devoted their lives to preserve his, they were seen no more.

Teresa fell on her knees beside the body of her husband, and at first, it was thought she was praying. The next morning a grave was dug at the western end of the church-yard, and in that grave were deposited, side by side, the remains of Josselin and Teresa. All the village attended their funeral. That day saw not on its waves a fisherman of Roscoff, and the sea-weed remained ungathered. H. K.

HAPPINESS IN MARRIAGE.--" There is but one divine cement, LovE. No substitute can atone for its absence ; no talisman can produce consequences that belong only to this holy principle. Many joys are inherent in true marriage. It has sympathies, the most intimate of which mortals are capable ; and it calls forth affections, such as pertain to no other voluntary relation of life. But these sentiments are the fruits of love alone. Disgust and aversion cannot produce them, nor are they the growth of indifference."

THE RESCUE.

A LEGEND OF THE JAMES RIVER.

BY M. RUSSELL THAYER.

THIRTY-TWO miles from the mouth of this beautiful river, and on its northern shore, there is seen by the traveller an old and fast crumbling ruin. It consists of a single dark and broken wall, with a door-way, whose simple arch is still spared by time and tempest, a sad memorial of the thrilling incidents of years long gone. The scene itself at present though pleasing, is not strikingly beautiful—a golden harvest stretches for miles in its rear, bounded by dark forests of pine-before it, rolls the broad and placid James, as calmly as on the morn when its waters were first broken by the stranger's bark, while at intervals its banks are studded with the lofty mansion of some country gentleman, or the humble abodes of his tenantry. Yet, could ruins speak, how many a tale of sorrow and adventure would break from the wasting walls of that old church, shaded as it is by many a clambering vine, and girt by its moss-grown fragments ! More than two centuries have now elapsed since the settlement of Jamestown by the English ; but though the wild forests which then encircled it have shrunk before the axe of the husbandman and the improvements of civilized life, save this ancient relic, there remains no memorial of the early colonists- the flowerets that adorned the grave of the early settler now bloom above the hearths of his children ; a few more years and tradition alone marking the spot,

"Where grass o'ergrown each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin gone- "

will point to this peninsula, as the theatre of the first struggle of Anglo-Saxon enterprize with the wild barbarism of this western world. It would seem that the Genius of their wilds, mourning over the decay of her favorite sons, had returned to erase from the soil, the footsteps of their destroyer, and the marks of his early triumph. He, who now stands upon that forsaken spot, listening to the river wind as it sighs through the rents of the ruin, or the solitary notes of the black-bird, as they pour from the thick foliage of the vine, experiences a feeling of melancholy solitude. The mind wanders back through the long lapse of years to the rude fortifications and grouped dwellings of 1607- it recalls the struggle of the infant colony with treachery, famine and disease, the cautious vigilance and desperate alternatives of the colonist, his weariness of toil-his abandonment of labor-the birth of conspiracy, and the inroad of the savage-it clothes those fertile fields with their primeval forests, peoples their obscure recesses with the athletic forms of Sachem and Indian-it lights the evening air with the blaze of the camp-fire, and loads the evening


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 quite legitimate source of assistance in creating mental pictures by these means, and whether or not Hardy could be justified in assuming that his audiences would be possessed of a knowledge of and enthusiasm for the great achievements in the other arts equal to his own, are questions that need not be debated in a biographical sketch. It may, however, be noted that if one fully accepts the implications of the Hall of Muses poem quoted above, then one will at least sympathize and understand Hardy's procedure, even if he does not exactly enjoy it or wholly agree with it.

Of far greater importance than this practice of Hardy's is the pictorial or photographic point of view that he assumed when he created his astonishing word-pictures. This aspect of his art was perhaps given its strongest emphasis in A Pair of Blue Eyes, wherein one finds Endelstow House thus visualized:

The attitude of the trained artist can also be observed in the picture of the singing Elfride, the changing scenes of the journey to St. Leonard's, the tremendous description of the cliff, and in the most telling glimpse of Knight and Elfie which the reader gets through the eyes of Stephen Smith.

The example last named deserves quo