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breeze with the scream of the night-bisd, and the thou- sand unknown sounds of the wilderness—it sympathises with the toilsome and precarious situation of the colonist —renilers its just tribute of admiration to the Indian character, and wakes from ite revenge to extol the hardy perseverance of the one and to mourn the uptimely ex tinetion of the other.

It was the evening of 2 bright and beautiful day in August, 1607, and the rays of the declining sun glancing along the placid waters of the James, bathed, in a flood of gold, hill and stream and wood. By the side of a rock which jutted into the river, and whose rugged front had for ages overlooked the murnsuring flood, there leaned a female figure, apparently in an attitude of deep musing—her form was slightly, though exquisitely made, and was encircled with a garment of strange texture, sparkling with many 2 gem, and adorned with the bright plumage of the tropic bird. ‘The countenance was one of yerene beauty, and had that pensive cast so fascitwting to the beholder, Her head was uncovered, and her dark hair, parting above a lofty brow, floated in raven wavea around her shoulders; while the clear olive of her com- plexion, and her dark and lustrous eye,as bright as that of the wild gazelle, plainly bespoke the Indian girl—one half covered arm rested upon the rock, while the other played carelessly with a necklace of small and variegated shells, The oun set, aud the beautiful landscape, 80 lately lit with his beams, now reflected the light of the risen moon, Yet still that form lingered hy the old and mossgrown rock, and still those eyes were Gxed upun the passing waters, and the tranquil shalowa reflected in their bosum, That sccne—with its forests that frowned as far ag the eye could stretch—the river, that glided away in the distance until it seemed, beneath the pale moonlight, a silver thread that a child might sunder, the solitary heing that stood upon ite benks, and the wuclouded sky that cunopied wll—was one which might have gladdened the wild dreaus of a Claude Lorraine, but which his waking visions might never know.

The slender form of the Indian maid moved from its reclining position—“No!” she exclaimed in the wild accents of her native tongue, “The stranger must not dict he came like the early bird of spring to the Gelds of Manitou’s children, bringing from his far-off home, naught but the voice of song; he must spread his white wings for the sun, but the children of the forest may not hold their war dance above his grave." With these wors she turned into the forest and was soon lost in ite gloom.

‘The shades of night were fast flecing away, and the topmast leaves of the forest were already tinged with the light of the returning sun; as a band of warriors were gathering to the wigwam of their chief, If expression could be defined upon the swarthy countenances of the verious groups that came thronging to the scene, it was one which augured any thing but hope to the juckless captive who had fallen into theis hande—they spake little, conveying their meaning for the most part by significant glances and wild and uncouth gesticulations, In silence and in gloom, exch group, as they arrived, vented themselvea upon the green sward, (here, greener than elsewhere, owing to the sun's more frequent visite through the thick foliage of the wilderness,) awaiting the, coming of the Sachem, and the presence of the captive; but a few moments elapsed before the tall form of the one emerged from the wood, and the other was led bound into their midst. The Sachem was a man of commanding mien, tall and athletic proportions; easily distinguished from bis fellows by his Herculean stature, and a scomful stile thet played perpetually around bis inouth. ‘The white man (for such was the captive) had perhaps known the vicissitudes of forty summers, and bore upon his body the marks of recent struggle 5 but there was that in the proud glance of the adventurer which seemed to scorn, while it watched with scrutini- zing gaze, the deadly preparations of his foee—it was the triumph of an oft-tried courage over the prospect of certain deuth. His head was laid upon the fatal stone— the club of the giant warrior circled on high—and the victim closed his eyes with a shudder of despair, when there broke upon the heavy air of the wildemesa the phrenaiod shriek of a female; with wild look, and disor. dered tresses, an Indian maid burst into the throng and shiclded the white man’s head with Ler beating bosom— there was a fearful pauso—tho aavage group sat like sculptured granite—the sinewy arm of the wartior was yet stretched on high—the Indien gitl wound her armas more closely around the victim. It was but for a mo- ment—the weapon fell from ihe Sachem’s grasp, “the path of the pale face,” he said, “is free; Powhattan is the father of bie people; but Pocahontes is the flower of hie age!” The dark eyed maid sprang from the ecen the captive turned to seek his home in the settlement; and the warriors went to their forest haunts. WINTER.

How 02 in winter's dark, short, chilly day, ‘We cherish schemes of summer happineas? Our feet we promise shall the green hills press, Our eyes devour the glorious and the gay OF rural scenev? The snows wreath melt away, Beauty and sife burst forth from every bud; ‘Then cotmes the bland luxuriance of May— Then the full pride of garden, ee and wood But, nh!—by interest. indolence, or pain ‘Bound—we behold the precious season pase! Fade the bright leaves—grow sere the withered grees, ‘Our disappointed hearts at home remain ‘To hope another year—and cheat our hopes again. �


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62 of yours, you know—they call me a dog), tell me, by the holy Styx, how did Socrates behave himself when he came down among ye? I suppose, as you're a divinity, you can not only bark, but talk like a human creature, if you like?

Cerberus (growling). Well, when he was some way off, he came on with a perfectly unmoved countenance, appearing to have no dread at all of death, and to wish to make that plain to those who stood outside the gates here. But when once he got within the archway of the Shades, and saw the gloom and darkness; and when, as he seemed to be lingering, I bit him on the foot (just to help the hemlock), and dragged him down, he shrieked out like a child, and began to lament over his family and all sorts of things.

Men. So the man was but a sophist after all, and had no real contempt for death?

Cerb. No; but when he saw it must come, he steeled himself to meet it, professing to suffer not unwillingly what he must needs have suffered anyhow, that so he might win the admiration of the bystanders. In short, I could tell you much the same story of all those kind of people: up to the gate they are stout-hearted and bold enough, but it is when they get within that the trial comes.

Men. And how did you think I behaved when I came down?

Cerb. You were the only man, Menippus, who behaved worthy of your profession—you and Diogenes before you. You both came here by no force or compulsion, but of your own accord, laughing all the way,

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 50 night alone would have convinced any one but a warm admirer like you. Her every motion was that of a practised flirt” ”

Treason! treason!” laughingly exclaimed Howard, “treason against one of the brightest of her scx. I nee we shall never agree, Stanhope, on the merits of Miss Ferney, so we had better pass to some other theme. ‘What say you to dropping iu at Parkinson’s?”

Thenceforth the two friends studiously avoided the subject, but Stanhope saw, with pain, that Howard be- came daily more attentive to Miss Femey. We say with pain, for Charlotte Femey was all that Stanhope had said, Beautiful, witty, and an only child, she had grown up a petted and spoiled darling, proud, vain, and selfish. Her coming out produced no little sensation in the fashionable world, for who could refuse to admire the brilliant Misa Ferney ? Flattery was her daily food. At seventeen she hed refused a dozen offers, ‘Triumphing in the admiration she excited, she began at length to think that the other sex was fit only to be trampled on, and from being a careless flirt, she became a practised coquette.

But if her selfish heart was susceptible of love, Albert Howard had at length roused its affections; and almost from the hour when she first met him she leamed to think of him differently from others of his sex. Yet, even to him, sho waa often wilful, and capricious, Howard, however, admired her too unreservedly to per- ceive these faults, and intoxicated by the praises bestowed on her beauty, he urged his suit ao skilfully and persevo- ingly that at length Miss Ferney consented to become his wife.

For a while the newly married pair lived huppily, for their time was spent in an uninterrupted round, of amusements,—the flattery poured into her ears abroad, and the almost idolatrous attentions of her husband at home, suflicing to keep the bride in good humor. But this could not always last, ‘The entertainments ensuing on her marriage were at length over, and the newly wedded wife had now to settle down into the monoto- hous, matter-of-fact routine of fife. Of housewitery she was completely ignorant, 90 that her servants constantly imposed on her, to her husband's chagrin, end often dis- quiet; while accustomed to habits of unlimited indul- gence, she could not bring herself down to the sacrifices of time which her duties required of her, so that even those mattere which she did understand were almost daily neglected. She had alwuys spent her mornings in promenading the most fashionable street, and av she could not bring herself to give up the custom, she waa often absent when her husband came home to dinner, so that he either had to await her return, or order the meal himself to be brought up. Nor was this all. Even in the evening the young wife found it impossible to remain at home contented. “She was not,” she suid “of a domestic character: it would kill her to be cooped op at home, and sit moping a whole evening alone.” Her husband was consequently forced to yield to her wishes. Instead of enjoying the quiet repose which he delighted in. after the toils of the day, and which he had pictured to himself as one of the greatest pleasures of a married life, he was now dragged to the theatre, the ball room, con- certs, or wherever else his wife could Ay from her own hearth. In these places, too, her husband was only a secondary character. Thirsting for triumph es much as over, she artfully drew around a crowd of admirers, and enjoyed the pique which she thus inflicted on younger and unmarried women. In vain her ushand expostu- lated, she declared that he was no better than a jailor; and in these altercations Howard felt the full benefit of that wit he had so much admired, Instead of yielding to her husband's little humors, Mes, Howard exacted submission in every thing from him as the price of peace, so that, though a man of strong mind, be, at length, bee came the mere slave of his wife. Every attempt, too, to release himself proved fruith for he found he could do 0 only at the cost of continual discord. His love soon perished under these circumstances, and he grew wholly indifferent to his bride, spending his time away from her side, in the billiard room, the bar-room, and other places of resort His happiness for life was ruined. His dreams of domestic felicity were over, and he sought companionship among the vicious and abandoned. But we will not longer trace his bistory. We will give it in the words of his old friend Stankope, who, ono night, as he sat by his wife's side—for he had long been married to one who combined his ideas of a trac companion — related it to her.

“Alas! poor Howard,” he eaid, in reply to a question of his wife, asking why he was so sad, “it is his fate which makes me 20. You know how unhappily he married, and how he haa sinee given himeclf up to habits of dissipation. It is long since his practice hus deverted hitn, and he has been for # year a common drunkard, Every effort to reform him has proved uscless. At times he would edmit his error, and shed maudlin tears over its but the next day he would be as inebriated “as ever. His wife's father, you knove, died poor, and she has long subsisted on the charity of her relatives. She saw her error, it is said, but it was too lato; for her husband wan irretrievably a drunkard. Today he was found drowned, and whether it is a suicide or not God only knows. His wife, on hearing the news, fell into violent hysterics, and I have just learned hus since died, leaving her little family to the charity of strangers. And all this comes of being a coquette.””

But it is not always so,” said Stanhope’s wife, her eyes suffused with tears, “you should not judge poor Mrs. Howard so hardly.”

Perhaps not,—but when I think of the ruin of my

�


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 Wonderful is it, that while the whole soul of Vivian Grey seemed concentrated and wrapped in the glorious pages of the Athenian,—while, with keen and almost inspired curiosity, he searched, and followed up, and meditated upon, the definite mystery, the indefinite developement,—while his spirit alternately bowed in trembling and in admiration, as he seemed to be listening to the secrets of the Universe revealed in the glorious melodies of an immortal voice;—wonderful is it, I say, that the writer, the study of whose works appeared to the young scholar, in the revelling of his enthusiasm, to be the sole object for which man was born and had his being, was the cause by which Vivian Grey was saved from being all his life a dreaming scholar.

Determined to spare no exertions, and to neglect no means, by which he might enter into the very penetralia of his mighty master's meaning, Vivian determined to attack the latter

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25 Say there is another for whom you would die; save me."

"Nay, but one—forgive me, liege Lady, but one; she cannot be mine—she is lost for ever to me."

"I pity you," said the Queen, tears rushing to her eyes.

"Is she wedded—that false one, is she wedded?" Yes, oh yes, but she was not false; I did not dare to tell my love. I kneeled and prayed for strength to wish her happiness. I have asked it for her, but she knows it not."

"Were your situations in life equal?" said the Queen.

"No!" he answered, "she was far above me—too good—too beautiful for me."

"Ah! Had she not been wed, I could have given you rank and wealth equal to hers and bestowed her on you; should you have been happy?"

Lady, she did not and could not love me; judge my feelings when, unrepentantly, she gave her hand to another. Lady, you do not know my misery."

"How canst thou tell that?" said the Queen, her cheeks turning lividly white at the warmth with which he spoke. "If youth were exempt from trials, how could we feel for others' sorrows? If I had none of my own, I could not this night weep with you.

"Trials, Lady!" said the Ambassador.

"Yes, bitter trials—very bitter; but it is not meet thus to explain the secrets of my heart; let me bid you be happy, and, for ever, farewell."

"For ever, farewell! Why? Dear Lady, why? Say, In what way have I offended you? Forgive me. I implore you, part not in anger with me, turn and look kindly on me again."and the kneeling Ambassador caught the bottom of her robe. "Believe me, I had not dared to tell you of my love, but when you spoke so kindly to me and you told me of wealth and fame, what was worth living for when I was losing you?"

Oh, my God, have mercy; he returns my love! Protect me, pity me, weak, sinful that I am;--I, whose heart is his, how can I meet his sovereign?" Saying which, the Queen fell prostrate to the earth, supported by the Ambassador. "Leave me, leave me," she said when she opened her eyes. "Leave me alone, now; but, oh, do not breathe to a single soul my weak confession of tonight."

"Never-never. It would be an insult to stay and oppress you with professions of love you may not return. I have caused you this unhappiness, but do not reproach me; spare me; for your anger I cannot bear. Keep this as a memorial of one who loved you, one who must ever love you—my first, my last love, farewell."

The Queen gazed at the picture given to her, and drawing from her bosom, a cross was placed in the hand of the Ambassador. He pressed the hand that offered it to his lips, and rushing through the corridor, he returned no more. On arriving with the youthful bride at the court of Germany, he threw up his diplomatic engagement and quit the court for ever, but after the night of their mutual confession, he never saw the Queen. She lived but a few months and died gazing at the picture of her heart's idol.

Of the Ambassador, little is known, save that a monk of the order of La Trappe requested, when dying, that masses might be said regularly for his soul and the soul of her who presented to him that small fillagree cross.

LILIAN.

BY ALFRED TENNYSON.  AIRY, fairy Lilian, Flitting, fairy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me, Claps her tiny hands above me, Laughing all she can ; She'll not tell me if she love me, Cruel little Lilian.

When my passion seeks Pleasance in love-sighs, She, looking through and through me, Thoroughly to undo me, Smiling, never speaks ; So innocent-arch, so cunning- simple, From beneath her purpled wimple, Glancing with black-beaded eyes Till the lightning laughters dimple, The baby roses in her cheeks, Then away she flies.

Prythee weep, my Lilian! Gaiety without eclipse Wearieth me, May Lilian; Through my very heart it thrilleth When from crimson threaded lips Silver treble laughter thrilleth; Prythee weep, May Lilian. Praying all I can, If prayers will not hush thee, Airy Lilian, Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, Fairy Lilian.

THE flower beheld the star above, And longed to reach its airy love, But longed in vain. A dew-drop fell Into the soft and fragrant bell, And then the star was imaged there, As if it dropt from upper air; And gliding down from Heaven had come, To find on Earth, a kindred home. STIRLING.


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during the paroxisms of which the bursting of her corset laces could be distinctly heard by the company.

"Nancy !" at length said her husband, sternly. She suppressed her mirth, stammered an excuse, and added, 66 You will forgive me, and believe yourselves quite welcome." "That is well done," whispered Mr. N, " then, my friends," he said, " as my wife is not acquainted with you I will make a few presentations." Then leading her toward an emaciated creature, whose distorted limbs were unable to support his body, he said, " This gentleman, Nancy, is the Reverend Mr. Niles, who in his youth travelled and endured much in the cause of our common Master. A violent rheumatism, induced by colds, contracted among the new settlements of the west, where he was employed in preaching the gospel to the poor, has reduced him to his present condition. This lady, his wife, has piously sustained him, and by her own labor procured a maintenance for herself and him. But she is old and feeble now as you see." Then turning to a group with silver locks and threadbare coats, he continued, " These are soldiers of the revolution. They were all sons of rich men. They went out in their young strength to defend their oppressed country. They endured hardships, toils, and sufferings, such as we hardly deem it possible for men to endure and live ; they returned home at the close of the war, maimed in their limbs, and with broken constitutions, to find their patrimonies destroyed by fire, or the chances of war, or their property otherwise filched and wrested from them. And these worthy men live in poverty and neglect in the land for the prosperity of which they sacrificed their all. These venerable ladies are wives of these patriots, and widows of others who have gone to their reward. They could tell you tales that would thrill your heart, and make it better. This is the celebrated and learned Dr. B—, who saved hundreds of lives during the spotted epidemic. But his great success roused the animosity of his medical brethren, who succeeded in ruining his practice, and when blindness came upon him, he was forgotten by those whom he had delivered from death. This lovely creature is his only child, and she is motherless. She leads him daily by the hand, and earns the food she sets before him. Yet her learning and accomplishments are wonderful, and she is the author of those exquisite poems which appear occasionally in the Magazine. These children were orphaned in infancy by the Asiatic cholera, and their sad hearts have seldom been cheered by a smile, or their palates regaled by delicious food. Now dry your eyes, love, and lead on to the dining-room." She obeyed, and notwithstanding her emotions, the thumping of coarse shoes, and rattling of sticks, crutches, and wooden legs behind her, well nigh threw her into another indecorous laugh.

To divert her attention she glanced over the table. There stood the dishes for which her husband had stipulated, in the shape of two monstrous, homely-looking meat pies, and two enormous platters of baked meats and vegetables, looking like mighty mountains among the delicate viands that she had prepared for the refined company which she expected. She took her place, and prepared to do the table honors, but her husband, after a short thanksgiving to the Bountiful God, addressed the company with, " Now, my brethren, help yourselves and one another, to whatever you deem preferable. I will wait upon the children." A hearty and jovial meal was made, the minister setting the example, and as the hearts of the old soldiers were warmed with wine, they became garrulous, and each recounted some wonderful or thrilling adventure of the revolutionary war ; and the old ladies told their tales of privation and suffering, and interwove with them the histories of fathers, brothers, or lovers, who died for liberty. Mrs. N was sobbing convulsively when her husband came round, and touching her shoulder, whispered, "My love, shall we have dancing ?" That word with its ludicrous associations, fairly threw her into hysterics, and she laughed and wept at once. When she became quiescent Mr. N- thus addressed the company. "I fear my friends that you will think my wife a frivolous, inconsistent creature, and I must, therefore, apologize for her. We were married only last fall, and have attended several gay parties, which our rich neighbors gave in honor of our nuptials, and my wife thought it would be genteel to give a dinner in return. I consented on conditions, one of which was that I should invite the guests. So being a professed minister of Him who was meek and lowly in heart, I followed to the letter his command, ' But when thou makest a feast call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind, &c.' you all recollect the passage. Mrs. N, not knowing who her guests were to be, is highly delighted with the ruse I have played, and I do not believe there has been so noble and honorable a company assembled this winter. My wife desired new furniture, lest we should be deemed parsimonious, and I pledged myself to expend one thousand dollars in a manner more pleasing to our guests, and which should obviate any such imputation." Then addressing the children, he said, "You will each be removed to-morrow to excellent places, and if you continue to be industrious, and perfectly honest in word and deed, you will become respectable members of society. To you, Dr. B-, under God I owe my life. I did not know your locality, neither had I heard of your misfortunes until a few days since. I can never repay the debt I owe you, but if you and your daughters will accept the neat furnished house adjoining mine, I will see that you never want again.


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Rh "I've failed with Harcourt. He's offended. He won't laugh. He won't let me do what I want. Latin and Greek began it: I wanted to know about gods and heroes and he wouldn't let me: then I wanted no fence round Other Kingdom and no bridge and no path—and look! Now I ask that Mr. Ford, who has done nothing, sha'n't be punished for it—and he is to go away for ever."

"Impertinence is not 'nothing,' Miss Beaumont." For I must keep in with Harcourt.

"Impertinence is nothing!" she cried. "It doesn't exist. It's a sham, like 'claims' and 'position' and 'rights.' It's part of the great dream."

"What 'great dream'?" I asked, trying not to smile.

"Tell Mr. Ford—here comes Harcourt; I must go to bed. Give my love to Mr. Ford, and tell him 'to guess.' I shall never see him again, and I won't stand it. Tell him to guess. I am sorry I called him a cry-baby. He was not crying like a baby. He was crying like a grown-up person, and now I have grown up too."

I judged it right to repeat this conversation to my employer.


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to discourse sensibly and modestly upon the different subjects that form the topics of conversation in the general circle. If the rank and situation of her family be even of the highest grade, she must, nevertheless, have a correct idea of the value of money. It is not meant by this, that it is absolutely necessary that she should be acquainted with the cost of every article of domestic use, but that she should have some general knowledge of what style of living can be supported by incomes varying considerably above and below the expenditure of her own family. Nothing can be more mortifying than the constant aiming of young ladies for expensive luxuries, which, from the circumstances of the family, it would be unwise to grant, but which, nevertheless, are often allowed at the expense of serious inconvenience and the self-denial of comforts, and even necessaries, on the part of the members of the family. How often does it happen that sullenness, tears, and anger on the part of a young girl follow the refusal of her unreasonable wishes. Now, we think too well of the female heart to believe that these annoyances proceed from bad feeling. On the contrary, we think they proceed from defects in early education. A girl at school is seldom taught any thing concerning household expenses. She generally has some notions of the means of the family, but she is ignorant of the expenses attendant upon its particular station in society. Perhaps she may have a young female friend, whose family appear in much the same style as her own. She sees that this friend indulges in the various luxuries of life to an extent denied to herself; and it does not enter into her mind to consider that the wealth of her friend's family may, perhaps, be double that of her own. Another cause of this wilful conduct is, that she has not been taught the habit of self-denial. She has never been made to understand that it is a duty to forego her own inclinations when incompatible with those of others. Generosity and self-denial may have been applauded as virtues, but have not been inculcated as paramount duties. The consequence is, that in after life she may practice both, but at the same time, consider them as works of supererogation. Another duty closely allied to self-denial is obedience. In these days, this word seems harsh, but there is no other word that will impress that duty which is imposed on the sex, not by man, but by a higher power. We fully acknowledge that this duty is strongly inculcated at school, but it is only the duty of obeying teachers and governesses. Obedience to parents is taught as a matter of form ; but, if we look at the conduct of young ladies, we shall see that it is a matter of form only. If a father interferes with the choice of her associates, the grown-up daughter considers it an unjustifiable interference, a piece of parental tyranny that is not to be borne. If the father remains firm, and refuses to admit the chosen friend or

acquaintance to his house, and of course not to allow his daughter to visit his family, it is more than probable that the young lady will take some underhand method of cultivating the acquaintance. A walk in the country, a ramble through some public garden, or a morning visit, by appointment, at the house of a mutual friend, are the not unfrequent means taken to cheat and set at naught the parental authority. What mischief does this engender ? -dissimulation in all its branches are the concomitants of this breach of discipline. Perhaps a male acquaintance may be made, and friendship may ripen into love. The case is made known to the angry father, who refuses his consent. If the lovers be inclined to carry disobedience still farther, and marry without his consent, poverty and all its attendant evils may follow in the train. Even under the most mitigated circumstances, stolen matches generally turn out ill. Estranged friends arise on both sides. The young couple are, perhaps, without any friends or acquaintances in the world, living in a state of constant mortification and neglect, and repining and repenting the choice each has made. This is no overdrawn picture of the evils attendant upon disobedience. Disobedience on the part of a wife to the expressed or implied wishes of her husband is still worse ; and yet, it is more lightly thought of than the duty to parents. In this case, not only is there a positive breach of a contract ratified by a solemn oath, and of the direct commands of the Creator, but there is direct worldly misery consequent upon it. The husband becomes jealous, morose, and sullen ; perhaps cruel and unjust. It matters not that his commands were unreasonable,-- perhaps of a trifling nature,-the evils are the same, and might have been avoided, particularly if they were trifling. We must be understood not to recommend obedience to a husband when that obedience implies a breach of higher duties ; but this seldom happens. We are aware that there is a vigorous attempt making to introduce that in all things the two sexes should be put upon an equality. But we trust that the good sense of our countrymen to see that the proposed equality in married life would lead to nothing on the part of the female but increased labor and responsibilities, without an adequate return. Mrs. Jameison recommends that females should depend upon themselves in all cases ; and she should have no claim upon her husband's property, nor he upon her's. This is disgusting, and would be hateful, if it were not so utterly ridiculous. Another very important duty is to relieve the wants of the poor ; we do not mean to say that there is any want of charity in the young ladies of the present age, but there is a most woful ignorance as to their peculiar position. We recollect a young married woman of rank in England, of the very best disposition possible, who, by her gross ignorance of life, insulted the whole population


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. These were a race of men with whom he was perfectly unacquainted, and of whose existence he knew merely by the references to their productions, which were sprinkled in the commentaries of his "best editions." In the pride of boyish learning, Vivian had limited his library to Classics, and the proud leaders of the later schools did not consequently grace his diminutive book-case. In this dilemma he flew to his father, and confessed by his request that his favourites were not all-sufficient.

"Father! I wish to make myself master of the latter Platonists. I want Plotinus, and Porphyry, and Iamblichus, and Syrianus, and Maximus Tyrius, and Proclus, and Hierocles, and Sallustius, and Damascius."

Mr. Grey stared at his son, and burst into a fit of laughter.

"My dear Vivian! are you quite convinced that the authors you ask for are all pure Platonists? or have not some of them placed the

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bridge is built, the fence finished, and Other Kingdom lies tethered by a ribbon of asphalt to our front door. The seventy-eight trees therein certainly seem nearer, and during the windy nights that followed Ford's departure we could hear their branches sighing, and would find in the morning that beech-leaves had been blown right up against the house. Miss Beaumont made no attempt to go out, much to the relief of the ladies, for Harcourt had given the word that she was not to go out unattended, and the boisterous weather deranged their petticoats. She remained indoors, neither reading nor laughing, and dressing no longer in green, but in brown.

Not noticing her presence, Mr. Worters looked in one day and said with a sigh of relief: "That's all right. The circle's completed."

"Is it indeed!" she replied.

"You there, you quiet little mouse? I only meant that our lords, the British workmen, have at last condescended to complete their labours, and have rounded us off from the


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knows what he did with respect to the braggart, who boasted that he had never felt fear. The Marshal took a candle, and put it so close to the nose of the gasconader, that he had to draw back his head in affright, to the great amusement of the spectators."

"None but a Marshal of Turenne could have presumed to play off such a miserable practical joke. Sir, I maintain that your friend is a coward, and that you-" "And I !" exclaimed M. de Argentre, curling himself up like a wounded serpent, his forehead pale and his eyes on fire ; "and I, sir-" "Holloa, gentlemen," cried out a new comer, who, in the heat of the discussion, had glided unperceived amid the group. " This is my affair," he said to M. de Argentre, whose already uplifted arm he seized ; " and as to you, M. de Malatour, I am at your command." " In that case, then, after you it is my turn," said d'Argentre, calmly reseating himself. 66"By my honor, gentlemen, you give me infinite pleasure !" cried the duellist. "6' One moment," said the new comer, who although still very young, wore the cross of Saint Louis. " Too great haste in a matter like this testifies less a contempt of death, than impatience to have done with life." "What do you mean, Sir ?" "It is but this very moment that M. d'Argentre has told you, that one of the bravest of our generals admitted that he had moments of fear. Now, without making myself responsible for the authenticity of the anecdote respecting Turenne, I affirm that the courage of the duellist is rather to be ascribed to habit, than to courage. Would you wish to see this proved ?" " Enough, good sir, we are here as soldiers to fight, and not as mere students, to argue themes according to the strict rules of logic. " Listen to me a moment longer. This is my proposition to you. We are all now about to obtain leave of absence. Now, I invite you, as well as all our mutual friends present, to my country house, or rather to the Rock du Clat, situated in the Eastern Pyrenees. I invite you there to a bear-hunt. You are very clever, M. de Malatour ; you can snuff a candle with a pistol-ball at twenty paces' distance, and no one can pretend to compete with you in the exercise of the small sword. Well, then, sir, I mean to put you in presence of a bear, and if you are able, I do not say to lodge a ball in his head, but even to take a steady aim at him, then I shall be quite ready to submit myself to the proof, either to be killed by you, or to kill you ; since these are the only terms on which you will allow me to be friends with you." "Are you joking, Sir ?" " On the contrary, I never was more serious in all my life. I believe that the fiery ardour which brings you to the duelling ground, is to be regarded rather as a courage

of the nerves, than the courage of the heart. The bravery of the soul, which is, after all, the only true one, and that on which we can solely rely in moments of unexpected danger is not there." "Yes, but supposing that I accept your proof, what security shall I have that you will not find another excuse for not giving me a meeting." 66 My word, Sir ; of which I make all my comrades the witness, and that I place under the safeguard of their honor." Here there was heard such a general murmur of applause amid his auditors, that M. de Malatour, in despite of the fury that flashed from his eyes, felt himself compelled to accede to the proposition made to him. It was then agreed, that in a month from that day, that was on the first of September, all who were then present should again met together at the Chateau du Clat. CHAPTER II.

THE Castle of Clat, like the greater part of those buildings that have very strong walls, is still to be seen beneath the chain of the Pyrenees. It was planted on a high and elevated point, from which there was commanded a view of the mountains around for many leagues, while the place itself was overtopped by the dazzling snows of the Pyrenees. The first care of the young Lord of Villetriton, after having paid the due tribute of regret to the memory of his father, was to have summoned before him a man named Pareur de Gesse, one of the most celebrated bear-hunters in the district. Of the person that we now venture to introduce into our story, there are still told the most astonishing anecdotes, with respect both to his skill, his courage, and his extraordinary escapes from the most imminent peril. This man was of a thin figure, very slightly bent ; the latter defect principally to be ascribed to his constant habit of climbing to those places that were the ordinary theatre of his hunting. This defect gave him the appearance of being somewhat advanced in life, although he had not yet reached his fortieth year. But then, looking at him more attentively, it would be found in that compact body, in those muscular limbs, in the eye, lively, bright, and intelligent, in that brown, smooth hair which not a single streak of grey as yet defaced, that there stood before you one of those hardy constitutions, that seem destined to remain a stranger to every species of infirmity that ordinary life is exposed to. He was a robust child of the mountains, in the midst of which he had passed his life. His heart too was upright and religious ; it was penetrated as all kindly and simple natures are, with the light of conscience-with the conviction that we are accountable to our Creator for all our actions. Thanks to this habit of respect for things that are sacred, and perhaps, also, by reason of the


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the crest of the mountains that looked down on the silent earth, the first ray of the sun, hitherto concealed in the East, lighted on the top of the Pyrenees, and the landscape suddenly illuminated, unrolled itself at the feet of the hunters— an imminent and profound valley, in which the jutting points covered with dark and majestic firs, formed a gulf of moving verdure, murmuring and sighing in the first breath of morning. Before them the scene was whitened by the foaming waters of a cascade, that fell from the distance of a hundred feet, into a black and fathomless hollow, to which the eye could not penetrate. By one ofthese caprices of chance, that bear testimony to the primitive convulsions of the globe, the gulf opposite to them was crowned by a species of bridge, formed by two piles of granite, which elevated themselves on both sides, and that seemed to be united and kept joined to gether by a long flat stone, composed also of rough granite. It seemed to be the work of the Titans, when warring against Heaven ; for it appeared impossible that human hands could have raised to such a height those monstrous blocks, for the purpose of forming that colossal arch. Of such a place it might well be supposed that sinister legends were told, which rendered it a place of horror and of dread to the mountaineers. They affirmed that no hunter, with the exception of Pareur, had ever been able to place himself there without becoming the prey of the bear, or falling into the abyss. Pareur was too religious to be at all affected by the superstitious tales that were told of the place. He explained that the danger which attached to the place was to be ascribed to the swimming of the sight, which was likely to occur, from the presence on one side of so awful an abyss and on the other by the danger to be apprehended from the bear-both sufficient to dazzle the hunter's eye, and to make his hand unsteady. Hence it was that he felt nuch fear for his young master who, in despite of his renewed and urgent prayers, persisted in occupying, with his antagonist, that post. After having placed the hunters on different points which were considered the most favorable, Pareur rejoined his men, and scattered them round the valley facing the cascade, and again recommended them to the most complete quietude, until the first bark of his own dog was heard. When that signal was given the mastiffs were to be uncoupled, the instruments to sound, and the troop to descend slowly, closing in on both sides by little and little as they approached the cascade. These dispositions for the coming struggle having been made, Pareur buried himself in the forest, followed by his dog. Some moments were given to profound silence, in which might be heard the tapping of the woodpecker on the dry trunk of some old tree. The silence continued ; but on a sudden it was broken by a wild cry and a loud

roaring. Each person grasped his weapon. Every heart beat violently-the hair of the dogs bristled up, and all with eyes of fire dashed like a whirlwind in the direction from which the strange noise had come. Soon their furious barks were mingled with the cries of the traqueurs, and the loud din of the most discordant instruments, above all of which came by intervals, the awful roar of the bear. It was as of a concert of demons, that echo after echo repeated from one end of the valley to the other. At that moment the young lord of Villetriton stood with the duellist at the bridge of Maure. The nobleman looked at his companion, upon whose face, although there was still great paleness and some nervousness, there was yet preserved an apparent calm, and disdainful bravery. "Attention, Sir," said the young nobleman in a low voice. "The dogs are coming this way, and the bear cannot be far distant. Take a steady aim, for if you miss the bear, he certainly will not miss you." "Be so good, my Lord, as to retain your prudent advice for your own guidance." "Attention," repeated the Baron, without being in the slightest degree excited by this uncourteous answer, "the animal is now two perches from you." "The bear is running on you, my Lord," was shouted now from all sides of the valley. At that moment there was heard the dull cracking of some broken branches, accompanied by the rolling of fragments of rock, which, dashed aside by the feet of the monster, and whirling to the bottom of the precipice, announced his impending approach. This time the paleness of M. de Malatour became a little more visible ; however, he grasped his carbine, and stood in the attitude of a courageous sportsman. The bear at length appeared ! his mouth foaming and his eyes full of rage at times he turned as if to make head against the clamor that pursued him ; but when he saw the bridge, his only path of safety, occupied by two adversaries, he sent forth a frightful howling, and then raising himself on his hind paws, his head down and his teeth menacing, he was on the point of flinging himself on the hunters, when-a ball struck him on the forehead and stretched him dead before them ! M. de Malatour, white as a sheet, still convulsively held his gun, of which he was not capable to make any use. On a sudden new cries were heard—they were still more eager, still more anxiously uttered than what had been said before-they appeared to come from all sides. "Heaven and earth ! -You are both dead men -another bear is rushing upon you- fire-fire-fire there !" Such was the exclamation of Pareur, who appeared suddenly beside the bear that had been shot. At this cry the Baron turned round, and saw on the other side of the bridge a second bear, still more dreadful


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63 and bidding the others who came with you howl and be hanged to them.

The reflections which Lucian has put into the mouth of the Cynic in the following brief dialogue are of a graver kind.

Menippus. I say, Mercury, where are all the handsome men and women? Come—show me about a little, I am quite a stranger here.

Mercury. I haven't time, really. But look yonder, on your right; there are Hyacinthus, and Narcissus, and Nireus, and Achilles,—and Tyro, and Helen, and Leda; and, in short, all the celebrated beauties.

Men. I can see nought but bones and bare skulls,—all very much alike.

Merc. Yet all the poets have gone into raptures about those very bones which you seem to look upon with such contempt.

Men. Anyway, show me Helen; for I should never be able to make her out from the rest.

Merc. This skull is Helen.

Men. And it was for this that a thousand ships were manned from all Greece, and so many Greeks and Trojans died in battle, and so many towns were laid waste!


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said that, if I would second his views in the matter he would give a purse of ducats, sufficient to make me rich all the rest of my daya; and as he did 0 he smiled, thinking he had completely bound me to him, But he little knows me. I would sooner part with this finger, or for that matter with all my fingers, than do anything, my dear lady, that was displeasing to you. But I did not tell him so, I saw, at onre, that ¢haf would have spoiled everything. So I told him that I would enter into hia views.”

“Nurse! nuree! then inileed I have no one to succor me,” said Beatrice,

“You wrong me, sweet lady—you misunderstand me,” eagerly replied the nurse; “see you not that it ‘wos necessary to deceive your uncle before I could gain admittance to you, much tess eid yout Well, I told him I would enter into his views and do all I could to forward your union, So he bid me come to you at once. And now I am here, but not to aid any one save you, Teil me ail that hea past, so that we can together form some plan how to act.”

Beatrice accordingly narrated the events which we have given to our readers in the Inst chapler. When she had finished, the nurse sat some time in abstracted thought, At length she spoko,

“I have it-IT have it, dearest mistress—wo must apply to Signor Andanta.”

« Alaa!” replied Beatrice, ‘he is far away, hesides what could he do if he were in Venice?”

“Do much, aweet lady; and in Venice he is, unless my eyes deceived me this moming.”

“What say you? Is he indeed in Venice? Where did you see him? Are you certain?” were the rapid enquiries of Beatrice.

“Sofily, my dear child,” said the nurse with a smile, “1 will answer your questions as fast as I can, First then I say I saw the Signor this morning, I saw him in Venice, for I have not been out of the city for a month, I saw him on the Rialto, And I am as certain it wos the Signor as that I am speaking to you now. There, have answered your questions, and now let me tell you my plan.”

“Tam eager to hear it,” enid Meatrice, smiling, in Gcapite of her situation, at the particularity of the nurse,

“Well then we must he aided by the Signor. I met hima, aa I aay, on the Rialto, and he stopped a minute as he always does, for he was ever a kind youth, to speak with me, He asked me how I had heen, and I naturally told him where I was going. When he heard that your unele was in Venice he seemed surprixed, and instantly asked me if you were here. Now the first thing 1 had asked the messenger who came after me wis whether you were in Venice, so I told the Signor that you were. ‘At Yhis he seemed more surprised, and then, slipping a ducat into my hand, he asked me if I would bear his

THE LADY'S

Jove to you, and say that he was going across the Alps to the wats, He hinted that, if you would he 60 good ag to aené hima reply, I might find him on the Rialto a couple of hours after noon, Now what I propose ie this. Let me go to him and enlist him in our cause. We wiil have him here with a gondola to-night, and § will see if your escape from the palace cannot be man- aged. Once free you should seek your aunt at Rome, and solicit her protection sgainst your uncle here, And then you can have the Signor in despite of the Duke.”

“Hush! hush !—it is a fearful venture,” said Beatrice, “and then-~then the vile thinge will be be said of such a flight. Oh! nurse, is there no other way to escape this dreadfal marriage 2”

“None, my aweet lady; and what is there so dreadful in this? Do not young tadies every day elope with their lovers? Why if I wes threatened as you are, would fly with any one, and anywhere, so I but escaped.”

At this instant, a footstep was beard in the corridor without, and directly a hand was laid on the lock of the door. Beatrice hesitated no longer.

“Go-go,” she goxped, “there is my uncle, arrange everything. I will do as you say.”

The nurse paused no longer, but hastened to unbar the door. ‘Tho person proved to be @ messenger to summon her to the noontide meal. She left the apart- ment, with a parting whisper to Beatrice to confide ail in her,

‘The course of our tale now carries us to the place of St. Mark. The hour was evening. The night was calm ancl lustrous. Not a cloud obscured the sky, and. the moon sailing onward in silent majesty, flooded the promenade with her glorious light, and flung the quaint shadows of the Ducal Palace, and of the column of St. Mark across the scene. Men of every nation could be seen around. ‘There was the Englishman from his dis- tant isle, the Frenchman from the sunny bankas of the Loire, the German from the free cities of the Rhine, the Spaniard from the mountains of Andalusia, the wily Greek from the Tonian coasts, the Jew in his pointed cap and tong peculier gown, and even the Muhommedan, with his turban, his owing beard, and his ill-concealed scorn for the followers of the Cross,

Through these picturesque groups the Si held hia way at the our above mentioned, His elastie step, and beaming eye, betukened the unusual elevation of his spirits, He had proceeded some distance in the crowd alone, when he aecosted an individual dressed as a gondolier. The two then retired behiad one of the masey pillars of St, Mark's place, and were soon engaged in a low but earnest conversation. We shull favor our readers with its purport.

“J depend in you, Pietro,” sail the Signor, “you have been to me a faithful servant doring many years, and this act will be another test of your fidelity. You know

�


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Rh world. I—in the end I was a naughty, domineering tyrant, and disobeyed you. I didn't have the gate out at the further side of the copse. Will you forgive me?"

"Anything, Harcourt, that pleases you, is certain to please me."

The ladies smiled at each other, and Mr. Worters said: "That's right, and as soon as the wind goes down we'll all progress together to your wood; and take possession of it formally, for it didn't really count that last time."

"No, it didn't really count that last time," Miss Beaumont echoed.

"Evelyn says this wind never will go down," remarked Mrs. Worters. "I don't know how she knows."

"It will never go down, as long as I am in the house."

"Really?" he said gaily. "Then come out now, and send it down with me."

They took a few turns up and down the terrace. The wind lulled for a moment, but blew fiercer than ever during lunch. As we ate, it roared and whistled down the chimney at us, and the trees of Other Kingdom frothed like the sea. Leaves and twigs flew from them, and a bough, a good-sized bough, was blown


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 great end rather in practical than theoretic virtue, and thereby violated the first principles of your master, which would be very shocking! Are you sure, too, that these gentlemen have actually 'withdrawn the sacred veil, which covers from profane eyes the luminous spectacles?' Are you quite convinced that every one of these worthies lived at least five hundred years after the great master; for I need not tell so profound a Platonist as yourself, that it was not till that period that even glimpses of the great master"s meaning were discovered. Strange! that  should alike favour the philosophy of theory, and the philosophy of facts. Mr. Vivian Grey, benefiting, I presume, by the lapse of further centuries, is about to complete the great work which Proclus and Porphyry commenced."

"My dear sir, you are pleased to be very amusing this morning."

"My dear boy! I smile, but not with joy.

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gers on the highway.' I will take him to mine own house. Make way there-bear him to a gondola- softly, softly. Thank you, good friends all. The youth shall be taken care of-the work of some bravo I suppose." With these words the leech ordered the gondola-for he had already embarked his insensible patient-to make all haste for his house. The man promised to obey. But the leech's house was at some distance, and the great clock struck twelve as they stopped at its portal. The leech ordered the insensible body to be carried in, and then followed it himself. (To be continued .)

THE MOTHER. A MOTHER'S heart alone can know The lowest depth of human woe ; A mother's heart alone can feel The highest bliss of human weal. If in a world of hate and pain, Something divine doth yet remain, Something by God, in mercy given, To teach the soul there is a heaven Devoid of selfishness and sin, It lives a mother's breast within.

Is there a passion free from guile, A love that man cannot defile? "Tis the true love a mother bears The helpless object of her cares. In happiness, as in distress, A mother knows not selfishness ; Her babe is more than Heaven to her And cheerfully will she incur (And God will pardon, doth she err) Reproof and scorn for its dear sake, Submit to be condemn'd, reviled, To save from misery the child, Naught, naught in life can tempt her to forsake.

THE ARTIST'S TRIUMPHI. It was about twilight, when, in the refectory of the Dominican convent at Milan, might have been seen a man, apparently in the meridian of his days, with a high forehead, regular features and calm dark eyes. He was seated before a large, unfinished picture, with his head leaning on his hand and gazing thoughtfully on the canvass. Suddenly he sighed, and then rising paced the apartment quickly.

"Yes," said he at length ; " six months have passed since I commenced this picture. To-morrow the Duke comes ; and the head of Judas is still unfinished . It must be completed ," he resumed after a pause, "it must be finished to-night. If not I am ruined. My patron will dismiss me and then the triumph of my tormentor will be complete. How long and how painfully have I studied to give a proper expression to Judas and yet I have not succeeded." He sat down and sketching the head again, sighed despairingly and then erased it. No sooner had he done this, than the door opened and a tall and athletic man entered the apartment. He was the Prior ofthe convent. A smile of triumph played on his features, as he walked up to the artist. "Leonardo Da Vinci," said he, " my triumph is complete your work will not be finished to-morrow, and you will be dismissed from the Duke's service, which will be your just reward," and he laughed loud and scornfully. Leonardo fixed his dark eyes calmly upon the speaker and eyed him with an artist's vision. At length he replied, "And who, but you who have every day interrupted me, has detained me ?" "Senor Da Vinci," said the prior ironically, " I congratulate you on the Duke's favor, when I have given an account of your punctuality." " I can assure you I shall not lose it," replied Leonardo. The prior laughed aloud and quitted the apartment. "Yes," repeated he, " I shall not lose it." He took up his pencil and in a quarter of an hour, cried out in an ecstacy of joy, " I have it now ! I have it !" The hours flew by, and the picture was finished at day-break. "Now," said Leonardo, as he lowered a curtain before his great work, " now for my triumph." "Well," said the Duke, walking up and giving Leonardo a friendly shake of the hand, " you have truly had a short time, but so small the more honor. But I forget, gentlemen," said he to the persons present, " allow me to introduce you to Senor Leonardo Da Vinci, of whose skill you all have heard. Da Vinci bowed. Then turning round, the Duke said “ remove the curtain." Leonardo stood pale and immovable, and the prior, confident from the artist's manner that the work was unfinished, pulled aside the curtain, when the complete picture was exposed to view. A murmur of applause ran through the crowd, and all eyes were fixed on the prior and Judas. "It is he! it is he !" they exclaimed ; and to the monk's confusion, he beheld his own portrait on the shoulders of Judas. Leonardo was silent : his triumph was complete.


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78 ability in their controversies with the Gaonim. In this field the most distinguished Karaitic writers were Salman, the son of Yerucham (885-960); Sahal, the son of Mazliach (900-950); Joseph al-Bazir (flourished 910-930); Hassan, the son of Mashiach (930); and Japhet, the son of Ali (950-990).

Salman, the son of Yerucham, was an active traveller; born in Egypt, he went as a young man to Jerusalem, which he made his head-quarters for several years, though he paid occasional visits to Babylonia and to his native land. These journeys helped to unify the scattered Karaite communities. Besides his Biblical works, Salman composed a poetical treatise against the Rabbinite theories. To this book, which was written in Hebrew, Salman gave the title, “The Wars of the Lord.”

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forming à point. There is also a pretty style of négligé coiffure, composed of lace inlet, divided by a fulling of lace ; a bride of inlet, surrounded with lace, falls on each side : this style of cap softens the countenance very much. The bonnet Montespan is also a pretty little fantasie ; it is formed of plaits superposés in velvet ribbon upon the summit of the head, and coques of satin placed sideways.

TURBANS AND HEAD-DRESSES .-Turbans in muslin, embroidered with silver will be much worn by our young élégantes. The lappets at the side attached with two large roses. We have also remarked several coiffures in lace, satin ribbons, and diamonds. A little coiffure toscane is very becoming, composed of black lace, within the fullings of which are seen coques of scarlet ribbon ; also the coiffure Pompadour, formed in an English fold, over which is scattered des roses mignonnes half closed. The following list of bérets and turbans are those of the last fashion :Le Chapel Jean de Paris, embroidered at the sides with agraffes of brilliants and clusters of white feathers. The Toque Richard Cœur de Lion, turning up in the front, and gently inclining toward the right over the face, where waves three long feathers nearly horizontal ; but the palm is given at the present time to the béret Charles Quint, and also to The Turban Tippoo Saib. This last-named coiffure is composed of a long scarf of gold brocade, upon which sparkles, in the midst of a rich flowering, a shower of rubies ; a long fringe perlée, edged with gold and different colors, terminates the two ends, which reach to the shoulders. The Toque Charles Quint is small, the edges rolled in the style of Francis I., and supported on the right with an aigrette of feathers, attached by an agraffe of | precious stones ; the foundation is in velvet, violet pensée. ROBES DE CHAMBRE.-This most useful and truly elegant wrap, is now being made in cachemires, and les tissus de laine ; they still retain the same form. We cite the following, being the last and newest fashions. One in toile de cachemire, trimmed down the fronts and round the bottom of the jupe with a broad band of lilac plush ; the sleeves made large and in the style à la Marion. Another in foulard, edged with a triple row of fringe of a middling width ; this is a more favorite trimming than lace. And, lastly, one made in poult de❘ soie, with facings of satin down the front of the jupe; corsage coulissé ; the collar square formed by à revers in satin ; sleeves à la religieuse, with facings in satin, finished at the wrist with manchettes of lace falling over the hand. It is necessary with this open style of robe de chambre, that an under-dress should be worn in batiste, embroidered over the hem with a small wreath, and trimmed with a lace posée on the edge of the robe ; corsage in inlet and embroidered cambric. We must

negligé, denominated the peignoir blouse ; it is gathered round the neck into a small collar, which is covered with a bouillon in muslin ; sleeves à la jardinière, plaited into the shoulder. MORNING DRESSES.-The most favorite style is called des redingotes Amazones ; the skirt is ample and long, without ornaments of any kind ; the sleeves plain, and corsage buttoned close up to the throat, finished by a small rounded turn-over collar ; a broad velvet ribbon of a well-assorted color, is worn in lieu of a cravat. We have sometimes seen these dresses trimmed with a triple plait down the front of the jupe, others with a double reverse plaiting, forming à tablier. Another style is made in poult de soie blue, lined with white gros de Naples, the body open à revers to the waist ; sleeves à la religieuse, with sleeves underneath in embroidered cambric, the stomacher fastened by small gold buttons, finished with a small Amazonian collar of embroidered muslin, trimmed with lace. EVENING DRESSES .-Dresses are generally made in the following style :-For light materials the jupe is mostly trimmed with four or five tucks, edged with a narrow lace ; the body low, and draped from the shoulder to the waist ; the sleeves are long and tight, encircled from the wrists to the shoulder with narrow folds on the biais, in muslin, edged with lace, and placed so as nearly to touch each other ; a ceinture is generally worn with this dress composed of ruban de taffetas, having long streamers in the front. We must lastly remark that, for evening and the theatre, dresses are now being made entirely plain, without trimming of any kind ; the corsage is made tight to the figure ; the sleeves large at the top, and bouillonnée from the wrist to the elbow ; a long ceinture, in ruban de taffetas. BALL-DRESSES. Decidedly, the most favorite trimmings for ball-dresses are flowers—for instance, les roses tremeires interspersed with myrtle, forms a very pretty attachés for dresses of tarlatane unie ; also wreaths of very light kind of leaves, divided by the convolvulus and camilla are much worn with the tunic style of dress. There is a very pretty échelle pompadour (intended for the front of a robe de tulle) made in roses pompons, having a very light effect. There is a charming dress in white Pekin à raies, lined with satinée in ponceau, and open on each side of the jupon ; upon this opening is placed a ponceau satin ribbon in a zigzag form attached to the dress on each side, allowing of the inside, which is white satin, to be seen ; this zigzag is terminated at the bottom with two pretty bows. COLORS .-The prevailing colors for the season are grênat, violet, different shades of green, à bois ponceau, bleue Marie, and Tourterelle. MOUCHOIRS.-The Batiste d'ananas is now all the rage in Paris for mouchoirs.
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 sS [sic]it down, and let us have a little conversation together. Father and son, and father and son on such terms as we are, should really communicate oftener together than we do. It has been, perhaps, my fault; it shall not be so again."

"My dear sir!"

"Nay, nay, it shall be my fault now. Whose it shall be in future, Vivian, time will show. My dear Vivian, you have now spent upwards of a year under this roof, and your conduct has been as correct as the most rigid parent might require. I have not wished to interfere with the progress of your mind, and I regret it. I have been negligent, but not wilfully so. I do regret it; because, whatever may be your powers, Vivian, I at least have the advantage of experience. I see you smile at a word which I so often use. Well, well, were I to talk to you for ever, you would not understand what I mean by that single word. The time will come, when you will deem that

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delay, did he know whether to adopt or reject her advice. At length, however, he resolved to trust in her. Her beauty and her tears, more than her story, led him to this conclusion.

"I will take her advice," he said, " for surely she is too young to engage in a plot to waylay, and perhaps murder one who has done her no wrong. Besides, if she deceives me, I can at least take care of two gipsy knaves, and if more assault me, and harm comes of it, there will be those left who will avenge my death," and soliloquizing thus to himself, he jerked the rein of his horse and pushed on his way. The twilight was now deepening fast, and the young man could just pick his way along the narrow lane. When he reached the cross-road, he turned his bridle, and was soon on his way back to the Hall. "What a strange interest I feel in that gipsy girl," he said to himself, "her face seems like one I have seen somewhere, perhaps in a dream. The old philosophers say that when we feel this toward a stranger, their fate is somehow connected with ours-what unaccountable link connects her with me ? I have every reason to hate her people, for they kidnapped my sweet little cousin, whom I remember as a smiling babe, from this very manor, and God knows that, although her death-for dead indeed she must be-has given me broad lands, yet would I rather that she lived than that I gained wealth at her cost. Am I not wrong," he said, checking his horse, "to be deluded thus by any of the accursed race ? It is surely a plot to lure me into their hands. But why should I fear? Besides the girl said she was not oftheir race, and she wore an air of truth. I would give any thing could I unravel this riddle. Shall I advance or even now go back ? Ah! here come John and Thomas too-a lucky meeting." The scene was changed, as he spoke, by the appearance of a couple of game-keepers on the road a few paces ahead. He called them instantly to his side, and in reply to their respectful salutations asked them if they had met any one on the road. They replied in the negative. This at once satisfied him that the gipsy girl had informed him aright, but he now resolved to face the danger, availing himself, however, of the aid of his two armed game-keepers. Without revealing to them his intentions, he told them to repair, by a cross-cut through the woods, to the place which the gipsy girl had named as that of the contemplated attack, and there, secreting themselves in the underwood, to await his coming. "If you see me, still do not move. Lie by till I call you. Why-you will learn in good time. The crosscut is a mile nearer than the road, and you will reach the place a quarter of an hour before me. Be cautious, and if you meet with other men, do not betray your vicinity. Only look to the priming of your guns," and

with these words he dismissed the men, and began to retrace his steps. "The villains," he said, " I shall catch them now in their own trap. Thanks to that sybil-like creature for her warning. Perhaps I owe her my life-my sister shall seek her out and reward her. What a splendid creature she is--and how her face haunts me ! Ah! I shall have these murderous wretches in my power, caught in the very act, of highway robbery, in less than an hour." Thus soliloquizing to himself- now of the robbers, now of the gipsy girl - the young man retraced his steps until he reached the lane, when he continued his journey as he had at first projected. Stanhope Vaux had a bold heart, as was evinced by his present daring movement, but as he drew near the place which the gipsy girl had pointed out as the spot where he was to be waylaid, he began to have uneasy misgivings as to the result of his undertaking. The least failure in the game-keepers to reach the appointed spot in time, would disconcert the whole plot, and leave him at the mercy of the gipsies, unless, as was highly improbable, he could repulse them alone. As he entered the low, dark dell, which the gipsy girl had told him was the spot selected for the attack, these misgivings acquired tenfold force. His heart, however, did not fail him, but the consciousness of his peril was increased. He rode, therefore, slowly and cautiously, narrowly watching every thicket, and he was not consequently taken by surprise, when a man, rushing suddenly from a covert, endeavored to check his horse, at the same time aiming a blow with a bludgeon at the head of Stanhope, which the young man dexterously avoided. Upon the instant, three powerful gipsies sprang into the road, and Stanhope found himself engaged with four persons, each one of whom was fully his equal. His own men did not seem to be within call, for, although he shouted for aid, no succor came. Luckily he was armed with a heavy riding whip, and backing his horse against the bank, he boldly faced his foes, dealing his blows around him with such effect that, for some minutes, he kept his assailants at bay. The odds, however, against him were too great for ultimate triumph. Three of the men still kept pressing on his front, and though the fourth one had momently disappeared, Stanhope knew his absence only boded further peril. Nor was he mistaken. Suddenly he heard a bough crackle above him, and looking hastily up he beheld the other gipsy on the bank overhead, in the very act of levelling a blow at him with a cudgel. It was the work of an instant to dash his horse forward, but this only exposed his rear as well as his front to the foe. The gipsies saw their advantage, and rushed with loud shouts on him, while their companion, springing again into the road, assailed Stanhope from behind. The young man felt that the robbers were overpowering him, and that, in another instant, he would be wholly in their


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64 Merc. Ay, but you never saw the lady alive, Menippus, or you would surely have said with Homer,—

If one looks at withered flowers which have lost their colour, of course they seem to have no beauty; but when they are in bloom, and have all their natural tints, they are very beautiful to see.

Men. Still I do wonder, Mercury, that the Greeks should never have bethought themselves that they were quarrelling for a thing that was so short-lived, and would perish so soon.

Merc. I have really no leisure for moralising, my good Menippus. So pick out a spot for yourself, and lay yourself down quietly; I must go and fetch some more dead people.

Diogenes. Prithee, my Carian friend, why do you give yourself such airs, and claim precedence of all of us?

Mausolus. In the first place, my friend of Sinope, by reason of my royal estate; I was king of all Caria, ruled over much of Lydia, reduced several of the islands, advanced as far as Miletus, and subdued most part of Ionia. Then, because I was handsome and tall, and a good warrior. Most of all, because I have a magnificent monument set up over me at Halicar-


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out over a rich sunset prospect of hill, wood, and meadow, stood Stanhope Vaux, and at his side, half-reclining on a couch, was the gipsy girl. Her beautiful face was pale with recent illness, but her dark eye was even softer than when we last saw her. She was no longer attired in her gipsy garb, but a rich robe enveloped her voluptuous form. She leaned on one arm and gazed thoughtfully on the floor. Stanhope looked on her abstractedly in a reverie apparently as deep as her own.

Circumstances had greatly altered since we last presented them to our readers. The gipsy had made a full confession. Isabel-for such was the real name of our heroine-was the only child of the late possessor of Vaux Hall. Her father, a stern, bad man, had, when she was quite a child, deeply wronged a man by the name of Dawlor, one of his tenantry, and the man, determining on revenge, and knowing that the baronet's heart could only be approached through his affection for his child, had stolen her away, and eventually joined a gipsy camp. Isabel, however, was old enough to remember, although but dimly, that she had not always been a gipsy ; and, although the man who stole her away, had endeavored to eradicate this impression from her mind, he had been unsuccessful. As she grew up, nothing could induce her to adopt the arts of the gipsy camp, and often would she have deserted it had she known whither to fly. By what fatality Dawlor, who had risen to be a leader of his gang, had been led to return to Vaux Hall, we do not know; but the scenery in its vicinity had awakened strange emotions in Isabel's bosom, as if a dream of the past had been realized. Whether Dawlor's hatred to her father had descended to the heir we cannot say ; but knowing that Stanhope often rode in the forest after dark, he projected this robbery. The woman's nature of Isabel led her to revolt at this plot, which happily she had overheard. The rest is known to our readers. The identity of Isabel was proved, not only by the numerous trinkets stolen with her, and which the gipsy now restored, but by the old nurse, who recognized her charge by a scar on the arm , produced by her own carelessness in suffering the infant to burn itself severely. The reader may well imagine that the old woman wept tears of joy on the bosom of her long-lost, but now recovered child. All this, we repeat, had transpired since we last saw Stanhope and Isabel ; and the knowledge of it is necessary to understand the following conversation. We have said that Isabel was gazing abstractedly on the floor. At length, however, she looked up timidly to her lover's face. Their eyes met. Why did Isabel blush over brow, neck and bosom ? Why did Stanhope betray equal emotion ? Isabel," he said, after a pause, taking her hand, and his voice was perhaps somewhat tremulous as he spoke, " we love each other- do we not ?"

The bosom of the beautiful girl heaved with emotion, and her long eye-lashes dropped to her cheek, while her glance once more sought the ground. But she made no answer. " Isabel, dear Isabel," said Stanhope, dropping on his knees beside her, " you are my equal, in birth, why then should you refuse to be mine ? I know we love each other. Dismiss your scruples then. Say, dear Isabel, say you will be mine." The impassioned tones of the speaker increased the agitation of the beautiful girl, and she could scarcely murmur a reply, but though the words were broken and low, they conveyed the wished for response, coupled, however, with a declaration of her own unworthiness. " You wrong yourself, dear Isabel," said the glad lover, imprinting his first kiss holily on her brow, " and so," he continued, rising suddenly as a lady entered the apartment, " my sweet sister will tell you . Think not love has blinded me—is it not so, Mary ?" They were married and went abroad ; and for months it was the delightful task of Stanhope to educate his young wife's opening mind. When, after an absence of two years they returned to England, there was not, in the whole county, a more beautiful or accomplished bride than Isabel.

THE ZEPHYR. BY B. FRANKLIN CHATHAM. "T WAS a lovely eve, and calmly at rest The sunset clouds were reposing, When the Zephyr passed from his home in the west, As twilight was gently closing.

"I will onward," said he, " and far away, O'er the valley, the hill, and the mountain, The ocean, the lake, and rivulet play, And revel in every fountain." It paused in an arbor's sylyan spot, Fragrant with blooming flowers, Whose dewy censors were closing up To be waked by the sun-beam's powers. It stooped to the blushing damask rose, And smiled at the lily's whiteness ; And the cowslip's lowly couch of repose It touched with a fairy's lightness. Onward it floated, with noiseless wing, Till a feeble note of sadness Once more arrested its wandering, And dampened its wonted gladness.

"T was the couch of Death- a sufferer lay At that pensive hour of even, The Zephyr caught up the dim flame, and away Bore it home to its native heaven.


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speak and forgive your repentant husband !" and kneeling by the bedside, he chafed her white, thin hand, watering it with his hot tears as he sobbed her name.

Their efforts, at length, partially restored her, and the first thing she saw upon reviving was her husband weeping by her side, and calling her " Emily !" It was the first time he had done so for years. It stirred old memories in her heart, and called back the shadowy visions of years long past. She was back in their youthful days, before ruin had blasted her once noble husband, and when all was joyous and bright as her own happy bosom. Woe, shame, poverty, desertion, even his brutal language was forgotten, and she only thought of him as the lover of her youth. Oh ! that moment of delight ! She faintly threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed there for very joy.

"Can you forgive me, Emily ? -I have been a brute, a villain- oh! can you forgive me ? I have sinned as never man sinned before, and against such an angel as you. Oh! God annihilate me for my guilt." " Charles !" said the dying woman in a tone so sweet and low that it floated through that chamber like the whisper of a disembodied spirit—“ I forgive you, and may God forgive you too ;—but oh ! do not embitter this last moment by such an impious wish." The man only sobbed in reply, but his frame shook with the tempest of agony within him. " Charles," at last continued the dying woman——“ I have long wished for this moment, that I might say something to you about our little Henry." "God forgive me for my wrongs to him too !" murmured the repentant man. "I have much to say, and I have but little time to say it in,--I feel that I shall never see another sun." A violent fit of coughing interrupted her. 66" Oh ! no,—you must not, will not die," sobbed her husband, as he supported her sinking_frame--“ you'll live to save your repentant husband. Oh ! you will!" The tears gushed into her eyes, but she only shook her head. She laid her wan hand on his and continued feebly. "Night and day, for many a long year, have I prayed for this hour, and never, even in the darkest moment, have I doubted it would come ; for I have felt that within me which whispered that as all had deserted you and I had not, so in the end you would at last come back to your early feelings. Oh ! would it had come soonersome happiness then might have been mine again in this world,--but God's will be done ! --I am weak--I feel I am failing fast- Henry, give me your hand." The little boy silently placed it in hers, she kissed it, and then laying it within her husband's continued, "Here is our child--our only born--when I am gone he will have none to take care of him but you, and as God is above, as you love your own blood, and as you

value a promise to a dying wife, keep, love, cherish him. Oh ! remember that he is young and tender- it is the only thing for which I would care to live"--she paused, and struggled to subdue her feelings, " will you promise me, Charles ?" "I will, as there is a Maker over me, I will," sobbed the man; and the frail bed against which he leaned shook with his emotion. "And you, Henry, you will obey your father, and be a good boy ;--as you love your mother-you will ?" "Oh ! yes !" sobbed the little fellow, flinging himself wildly.on his mother's neck, " but mother, dear mother, what shall I do without you ?--oh ! don't die !" "This is too hard," murmured the dying woman, drawing her child feebly to her, " Father give me strength to endure it !" For a few minutes all was still,--and nothing broke the silence but the sobs of the father and the boy, and the low, death-like tick of the rain dripping through upon the floor. The child was the first to move. He seemed instinctively to feel that giving way to his grief pained his mother, and gently disengaging himself from her, he hushed his sobs, and leaning on the bed, gazed anxiously into her face. • Her eyes were closed, but her lips moved as if in prayer. 66 Henry, where are you ?" faintly asked the dying mother. The boy answered in his low, mournful voice. "Henry,-- Henry," she said in a louder tone, and then after a second added, " poor babe, he doesn't hear me." The little fellow looked up amazed. He knew not yet how the senses gradually fail the dying ; he was perplexed ; the tears coursed down his cheeks ; and his throat choaked so that he could not speak. But he placed his hand in his mother's and pressed it. "Come nearer, my son- nearer- the candle wants love, I can't see-has the wind- blown- out- the light?" The bewildered boy gazed wildly into his mother's face, but knew not what to say. He only pressed her hand again. "Oh! God," murmured the dying woman, her voice growing fainter and fainter-" this is death ! -Charles ,, -Henry—Jesus- reThe child felt a quick, electric shiver in the hand he clasped, and looking up, saw that his mother had fallen back dead upon the pillow. He knew it all at once. He gave one shriek and fell senseless across her body. That shriek aroused the drunkard . Starting up from his knees, he gazed wildly on the corpse. He could not endure the look of that still sainted face. He covered his face with his hands and burst into an agony of tears. Long years have passed since then, and that man is once more a useful member of society. But oh ! the fearful price at which his reformation was purchased.
 * snuffing- there, lay your face down by mine-- Henry,


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"As to you," continued Alfred, " I find you the same as ever. Nothing is changed about you, unless it be the cut of your coat, the make of your waistcoat, and the tie of your cravat. Besides you are as young, as handsome, and as fine as ever you were. It is the privilege of bachelors. But now, tell me truly, are you not getting tired of the excited life you are leading. Believe me, for I speak from experience, true happiness does not consist in the bustle of a club, nor the noise of a racecourse, nor the excitement of a sailing-match ; and then there is the terrible moment when all those ruinous pleasures and wasteful prodigalities must end. It is not every one who has the same good luck as I have. Look then to your affairs in time, and economise before it be too late. I hope that the example and the sight of my happiness will determine you."

"Then are you really very happy ?" enquired Mandeville. 66 Why should I not be so ? I have a wife that adores me; for she married me, notwithstanding my want of means, and when she might have looked for a millionaire. My father-in-law is an excellent fellow ; and as to my mother-in-law, she is the tenderest creature living ; and, besides this, thirty thousand a year in the funds what can a man desire more ?" " How ! had your wife thirty thousand a year fortune ?" "No, no, not exactly ; but that is what my father-inlaw is worth, and I enjoy it. There was no settlement made on my wife at our marriage, as I had no property of my own ; but then all that he has we have all in common ; and we live in a perfect state of harmony. Ours is indeed a blessed family of love." "But, then, do you pass all the year in this countryhouse ?" "Oh ! not at all. During four or five months, at the winter season, we remove to the city." " The Missis is calling for you," said the gardener, who this moment stepped up to Alfred. "Indeed, my good friend," said Mr. Creed, " your gardener appears to be an oddity. He cultivates his flowers and trains his plants admirably ; but I have not so good an opinion of his politeness or his comprehension. But a few minutes since, when we asked to see Mr. Egremont, he did not appear to understand us." "That is byno means astonishing," replied Egremont, a little embarrassed ; "for they scarcely know me here by that name ; the family never call me anything but Alfred ; and then I must tell you, that my father-in-law has a particular veneration for the name of Dobbs. He himself has made it illustrious upon ' change. He is, therefore, justly proud of it, and wishes to transmit it to his grandchildren- when he has them. I therefore have yielded to his wishes on that trifling point, and I have added my wife's name to my own, and, there-

fore, I always now sign my letters, Alfred Egremont Dobbs." "That is it—and the Dobbs, that has money, crushes down the Egremont, that is without it." 66 Yes ; but I would not at all have yielded the point if my father-in-law had a son. But one may well consent to make their name a little longer, when they marry an only daughter and a rich heiress.” "No doubt ; money commands every thing. But talking of money reminds me that I have a trifle to give you. Our friend Ronayne has just come in for his property. The large fortune he has inherited has sharpened his memory, and he is paying off his old debts. Knowing, then, that we were coming to see you, he desired us to give you a hundred dollars ; that being the sum you lent him when he wanted it, and you did not care to lose it. Here they are." "That is very good indeed," observed Alfred ; " give them to me." And as he dropped them into his fob he whispered to his friends, " You need not say anything about this either to my wife or her father and mother." “ I understand you. You wish to keep the money for yourself alone ; and not to throw it into the common stock, in which you all participate." "Precisely so ; but now go and wait for me in the drawing-room, whilst I hasten to my wife. I shall not be a moment away from you." The aspect of this room was far from corresponding with the notion that the two friends had formed of the comfort and luxuries that would be introduced by Alfred into the house of his father. The room was covered with a carpet that was much too small for it ; the chairs were all wrapped up in dark cotton ; the same thing was upon the sofas. Upon the chimney-slab were some old physic bottles, half-filled with water, and into which had been driven the ends of some withered flowers. The mirror was papered up, and on an old brass-rimmed clock were three miserable birds impaled. While the two friends were examining this chamber they heard the murmuring noise of an angry discussion in the room over-head, and in that debate the voice of Alfred could scarcely be heard. "Poor fellow," said the friends, " we fear we have done you no service by coming here. They are finding fault with you for our visit." In an instant after the family appeared ; and the faces that had been lately frowning with rage, were rendered frightful by imitating, most vilely, a smile of satisfaction. Alfred, however, plucked up some of his former courage and went through the ceremony of introducing his wife and her relations with some of his wonted case and grace. When the parties had saluted each other, he said aside to his friends"Well ; what do you think of Mrs. Egremont ?” 66 Wh -ve we ry ll." y "She is not exactly beautiful," he added ; "but then


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 single word—every thing. Ardent young men in their closets, Vivian, too often fancy that they are peculiar beings; and I have no reason to believe that you are an exception to the general rule. In passing one whole year of your life, as you have done, you doubtless imagine that you have been spending your hours in a manner which no others have done before. Trust me, my boy, thousands have done the same; and, what is of still more importance, thousands are doing, and will do the same. Take the advice of one who has committed as many, ay, more follies than yourself; but who would bless the hour that he had been a fool, if his experience might be of benefit to his beloved son."

"My father!"

"Nay, nay, don't agitate yourself; we are consulting together. Let us see what is to be done. Endeavour to discover, when you are alone, what are the chief objects of your

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"How admirably your horse goes !" said Mandeville to Creed.

"Do you wish to buy him ?" replied Creed.

"What, are you thinking of parting with him ?"

"Yes ; I have been thinking very seriously about myself, and I am about to reduce my expenses." 66 And I have been thinking of doing the same." "That which we have seen this evening has induced 1 you to do so. Is it not so ?" "Yes. Poor Alfred ! What a life! But this is the end of the follies of youth. I have seen break-downs in the world. I saw Stanley abandon his name, and enlist as a common soldier ; and yet it did not make me reflect. I saw Williams blow out his brains ; and yet I have gone on fearlessly ; but the example of Alfred has made a complete convert of me. I certainly do not wish to expose ' myself to the chance of a similar fate. I certainly will not ruin myself."

"Nor I, either."

BAILLIE. TO A CHILD. WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, And curly pate, and merry eye, And arm and shoulders round and sleek, And soft and fair, thou urchin sly ? What boots it, who, with sweet caresses, First called thee his, or squire or hind ? For thou in every wight that passes, Dost now a friendly playmate find. Thy downcast glances,-grave, but cunning, As fringed eyelids rise and fall ; Thy shyness swiftly from me running,"Tis infantine coquetry all! But far a-field thou hast not flown, With mocks and threats, half lisped, half spoken ; I feel thee pulling at my gown,— Of right good will thy simple token. And thou must laugh, and wrestle too, A mimic warfare with me waging! To make, as wily lovers do, Thy after kindness more engaging! The wilding rose-sweet as thyselfAnd new-cropt daisies are thy treasure ; I'd gladly part with wordly pelf, To taste again thy youthful pleasure.

But yet, for all thy merry look, Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook, The weary spell or hornbook thumbing. Well, let it be ! Through weal and wo, Thou know'st not now thy future range ; Life is a motley shifting show,— And thou a thing of hope and change.

LONGFELLOW'S POEMS .* No poet has yet appeared in America whose success, when we consider the time that has elapsed since his advent, will at all compare with that of Longfellow. He made his debût, some two years since, in a volume of poems which was quaintly called " The Voices of the Night," and he has since followed this up with a collection of other ballads, poems, and translations. The former volume has already passed through five editions. The latter, if we may argue from its excellence, will rival its predecessor in popularity. To Mr. Longfellow, indeed, must be awarded the merit of having been the first American poet whose works were patronised in a manner commensurate with their worth. He is nearly the only one of the " irritabile genus" who has paid, from the sale of his books, the cost of their binding. He alone has filled his pocket with the proceeds of his pen. He is either a very lucky or a very meritorious man. Mr. Longfellow is unquestionably possessed of genius. His imagination is of the highest order, he has a singular command of language, and his soul is as alive to feeling as is the sensitive, tremulous aspen. Then his taste is refined and his acquirements solid. No one can read his "Hyperion" without feeling that the writer was born a poet. The imagination scattered throughout this fantastic prose work is sufficient to fit out a dozen poems of the order of the Giaour, and fairly puts to shame the elaborate piece of arabesque which Moore has facetiously called " Lalla Rookh, a poem." Yet " Hyperion" is full of faults. It is neither a tale, a rhapsody, a poem, nor even a readable book. We never saw the man who perused its pages seriatim, and we are sure, if such a man exists, he must be crazed. And yet " Hyperion" glimmers with genius as a lake at midnight glimmers with the stars of heaven. It has not the melody of numbers, and yet it is full of music. You cannot rustle a leaf without waking a most delicious harmony. It is a magnificent prose poem, if such a thing as a prosepoem can be. Possessing an imagination of so high an order, it is no wonder that Longfellow became instantly popular when he clothed his thoughts in numbers. His " Voices of the Night" found an echo in every heart. Their grandeur, their simplicity, the nerve of the language, as well as the imagination which shone over all, recommended them to both the popular and critical ear. The author was just sufficiently known to give his productions the prestige of excellence. The bank had the reputation of being good, and whatever notes it issued John Owen, Cambridge, 1839. Ballads and other poems. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. John Owen, Cambridge, 1842.
 * Voices of the Night. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.


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 of merit to material success, is an interesting, but not a particularly momentous question. What Springrove says of the writing of poetry is of more importance. Hardy, like Springrove, wrote many verses "on emotional subjects" in his twenty-sixth year. This was probably the most fruitful year of his "early period." It may also be true that this poetic activity "ruined him for a useful occupation." But he never passed completely through the stage of poetizing as did Springrove. The whole passage contains enough of the real truth of the matter to make it very interesting, but hardly enough, taken by itself, to form a sound basis for an estimate of the writer's real position.

Similar problems present themselves when we turn to the other novel in which architecture plays a dominating role. In following through the experiences of George Somerset in A Laodicean, from the time when he is at first encountered sketching Gothic ruins for restoration purposes, the reader is puzzled to know just where the personal recollections of the author leave off and where pure invention begins. Is the first chapter of the book to be considered as sincere criticism, autobiography, or mere fiction? It is undoubtedly all of these things, but to what proportionate degree cannot be determined. The hero is presented as a young man who takes "greater pleasure in floating in lonely currents of thought than with the general tide of opinion," who had grown enthusiastic over Palladian and Renaissance when the French-Gothic mania was at its height, who finally, quite bewildered on the question of style, concluded "that all styles were extinct, and with them all architecture as