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hardened and coarse features as he perused it. Close to him sat a man enveloped in a large cloak gathered closely round him, and his dark visage shaded by a cavalier's hat and plume ; but, although the feathers were large and heavy, they could not wholly conceal features of no ordinary cast, for on every line was stamped baseness and treachery so legibly that no one who looked on that stern brow could dream that any thing but deceit and villainy inhabited the soul. And so it was. That man was one who afterward played a conspicuous part on the stage of history as the odiously renowned Guido Fawkes ;-a name which will be shuddered at by the virtuous in all ages.

So deeply were the conspirators engaged, one with the manuscript, and the other with his thoughts, that Gerald Lorton's entrance was unheeded, until he advanced, and laying his hand on the table, exclaimed, My Lord !" A dark scowl passed over Manvers as he looked up, and said, "By my faith, Lorton ! I knew not you were here ; business has cast its iron bonds around me, and I am intent on this title deed ;" he added, folding up the scroll, " it concerns an estate left to Master Carlton, my nephew ; and his interests are mine." Here the deceiver paused, and glanced seemingly at Fawkes, as if to know whether he approved this specimen of wily deceit, but Fawkes did not look up, and Lord Manvers continued, " Business is not for one so young as yourself;-go and find my daughter. We will require your presence again- but not now." Lord Manvers ceased, and gazed for a moment on Gerald Lorton's noble brow as he stood unsuspiciously before him, and he stepped forward to open the door, saying, " Lorton !-can I trust you ?"

" Yes !" was the answer. "I would not betray you even on the scaffold !"

"Good !" said Lord Manvers, and he closed and bolted the hall-door. " Now, Guido," said Manvers, throwing himself back in his large arm-chair, “ I know that stripling's courage, he can serve our purpose well. We must dupe him by stratagem ; he already knows too much, for it was but yester-eye we heard Winter speak of destroying that heretic and his nobles." "Trust him not !" said Fawkes sullenly, "he has a Protestant's eye, and I like not his open forehead, or his proud curled lip. By our Lady, I would not trust him !" "Guido, he shall be told !" exclaimed Manvers, " mark me, he can serve me a good turn, or if I trust him not our purpose and intent will be frustrated. Zesmond is even now dying ! Yes," continued Manvers, " and unless some one quickly supply his place, all is at an end." " Well-what can that boy do ?" asked Fawkes, impatiently. 66 Much ;-he must start for London to-morrow with money, to purchase the house my friends have taken,

and also be the bearer of despatches to Catesby and Percy ; and, above all, we must keep him from Emily, or, by my faith ! young Harrington will not gain his bride, and he comes to-morrow." " Ah! I see," said Fawkes, raising his dark eyes, "and she is the price of Harrington's share in this project-good. I approve your plot." And here the conversation ended. Manvers resumed his scroll, and Guido walked stealthily away. During this conversation, a different scene was passing in a distant part of the building, between Emily Manvers and Gerald Lorton, who had long sought for an interview with his idol, and he now found her alone. "Gerald !" she exclaimed, as he entered the apartment, and arose to greet him ; " Gerald, I have watched for you this long weary day, and now you are so late, and I am so miserable. Oh ! Geraldmy heart will break," and she burst into tears. "Emily, you are ill," he said, leading her to a chair, "or something has happened ; -what can distress you ?" "My father," sobbed the wretched girl, " has betrothed me to George Harrington, and I love him not ; yet he will not listen to me, plead as I will." "By all that is sacred you shall not wed him !" exclaimed Gerald Lorton, " I will die before you are his bride. No ! -by heaven ! I will see him a cold corpse at my feet before he shall call Emily Manvers wife." A flush overspread the pale cheek of the weeping girl as she gazed on the animated Lorton, but the knowledge that he loved her brought also the conviction that she had yet a deeper wound to inflict. " Be calm, Gerald, I entreat-be calm ; I have more to tell ; my tale is not long, but it must be told, or else you cannot aid me. Gerald ! listen, and then leave me to quiet reflection." The agitated young man paused in his hurried walk, which he had commenced up and down the room, and threw himself beside the beautiful girl, little dreaming that in a few moments more and his peace of mind was gone for ever. " Gerald, my brother- my dear friend," at length said Emily, with an attempt at calmness, "you know how I have trusted you,-you will not betray me now ?" he pressed her hand, and she proceeded, " months since I went to reside with my aunt Lady Digby, and at her house I met the noble and elegant Lord Monteagle ; he came day after day, and hour by hour, we sat together, Gerald ; I know not how my heart was won, but, oh ! if maiden ever loved a being fondly, it is I,-and if there is a creature worthy of love, it is Monteagle. Now, Gerald," added Emily, as she covered her beautiful face with her handkerchief, "I have told my folly, but as my last request, I beseech you to hear me, and grant my prayer." 'Speak, Miss Manvers," answered Lorton, his whole frame convulsed with suppressed feeling, " speak- I


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 known tribes, as I am told by native traders, who have it among them that it is—or whether it is reserved for the bodies of people believed to have been possessed of dangerous souls.

Destroying the body by beating up, or by cutting up, is a widely diffused custom in West Africa in the case of dangerous souls, and is universally followed with those that have contained wanderer-souls, i.e., those souls which keep turning up in the successive infants of a family. A child dies, then another child comes to the same father or mother, and that dies, after giving the usual trouble and expense. A third arrives and if that dies, the worm—the father, I mean—turns, and if he is still desirous of more children; he just breaks one of the legs of the body before throwing it in the bush.

This he thinks will act as a warning to the wanderer-soul and give it to understand that if it will persist in coming into his family, it must settle down there and give up its flighty ways. If a fourth child arrives in the family, "it usually limps," and if it dies, the justly irritated parent cuts its body up carefully into very small pieces, and scatters them, doing away with the soul altogether.

The Kama country people of the lower Ogowé are more superstitious and full of observances than the upper river tribes.

Particularly rich in Fetish are the Ncomi, a Fernan Vaz tribe. I once saw a funeral where they had been called in to do the honours, and M. Jacot told me of an almost precisely similar occurrence that he had met with in one of his many evangelising expeditions from Lembarene. I will give his version because of his very superior knowledge of the language.

He was staying in a Fan town where one of the chiefs had just died. The other chief (there are usually two in a Fan town) decided that his deceased confrère should have due honour paid him, and resolved to do the thing handsomely.

The Fans openly own to not understanding thoroughly about death and life and the immortality of the soul, and things of that sort, and so the chief called in the Ncomi, who are specialists in these subjects, to make the funeral customs.

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THE COTTAGE HOME.

BY MRS. I. W. MERCUR.” Out! thou hast return’d to thy Jov'd cottage home, And it breathes fortira welcome, to thee and thine owns A welcome to tempt thee no longer to stray, Afar from the eccines of this lov'd home away.

But thon hast heon blest! in thy wand'rings afar, Thou hast caught the bright radiance of health’s beaming star And the bloom of thy cheek, and light of thine eye, Are the bright signets vet of ite victory.

And thou too wert blest with full many a friend, Who sought thee where'er thy lone footsteps did tend And with many a bright and cherish'd loy'd emilo; Did of the lone hours of thy absence beguile,

But oh! were their stniles like the amiles ye have met? From those fair sunay brows where the signets all set; OF affection whose tendrils-have root in the heart, And for thee from earth's coldnese a feeling apart?

Oh no! for their language hreath’d not of the soul; As broath’d those hright smiles "neath affections control, Yet they were belov'd, they were cherish’d by thee, Aa radiant stars upon life's lonely sea.

But would thoy still there ever radiant shine, Should a cloud chance to darken that fair braw of thine; Oh, no! they would eink beneath life's troubled breast; Nor shed their bright Justre where sorrow fouad rest.

But thon hast returned! where those ever will find, ‘The }ov'd, and the cherish’d, the true and the kind ; Whose emilea would still greet thee should fate darkly Jow'r, Aad cull from thy bright path each (ragrant flower.

‘Then wander no more from this dear cottage homo, Ob! Leave not its lov'd hearth for others to roam; For dim grow its bright fires when thou art away, And all eave affaction ia marked with decay.

Rade time will work Shanges on cach lofty brow, Will onateh the bright tresecs that circle them now, ‘Will steal from the dark eye the brightness of youth, But cannot, oh! cannot, affection and truth.

‘Then linger around the lov'd haunts of thy homo, And leave not its friends for friends forcign to roam, ‘And the changes of time will still leave unto thee Hearts that will lave on through eternity’s aea.

Mise Scvawrex—Miss Sedgwick ie a jewel of « writer, We admire her works, but admiration is not predorainately sénsitive—we love them even more than we admire them, There is a kindly fecling and a domestic charm about them, and they ought to form a portion of every man's library who loves his children and lives happy with bis wife.

THE GENIUS OF BRAINARD.*

‘The publication of this volume has injured rather than advanced the reputation of Brainard, and he has no reason to thunk the compiler for what has been called “a tardy act of justice.” Hitherto the post has heen known as the author of several fine pieces, but this collection holds him up to the world as the writer of some hundred indifferent ons, We condemn the whole affair. We condemn the book, we condemn the compiler, we condemn the publisher, and we condemn whomsoever of the public may praise the book as a whole. The volume answers, however, one good pur- pore—it enables a critic more fully to appreciate the genius of Brinsed. But so far as the popular reputa- tion of the poet ia concerned the book should have been left unpublished.

Let us not be misanderstood, We do not attack the genius of Brainard. This book hus not induced us to think lesa highly of the poet, but on the contrary has given us an insight into his character which we never enjoyed hefore. Yet such will not be the general impression produced by this volume. The public, as 2 public, will come to a different conclusion, for ax it is apt to judge every thing hy the mass, it will deny that @ man who writes e hundred indifferent and only 1 few good poems, can be a genius, We have every reasonable respcet for the public, but it has one pecus liurity which, for the present occavion, must he bore in miod—it rarely thinks deeply. It is tike a wayfaring man who reads while he runs. It is very apt, therefore, to form a wrong judgment on matters that lie a little out of the common way; and to conclude that the poet, in the case we have cited, owes his popularity to luck rather than to morit. The public will say that a man who is really a genius can write a good poem more than one in every ten efforts. And on a cursory view of the subject the public would seem té be in the tight. But 2 little reflection would open up new facts that might altogether vary our judgment, of at least modify it in many important particulars. Such is the case now. A glance at the genius of Brainard will explain our posi- tion,

Brainard was a man whom we know hy his works nearly as well as if we had met him personally. His character had almost the simplicity of that of a child. He was frank, trusting, affectionate—endowed with great sonsihility, and little fitted to cope with the hardy details of life—pensive, gentle, trathful and retired. depression of spirits, especially in his later years, was great; and tinged every thing he regarded with a metan- choly hue. ‘The very mirthfulness which he sometimes oe

Hopkins, Hartford, 184%.
 * The Poems of John G.C, Brainard—1 vol.—Edward

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been a great poetical artist—poems in which ease, truth- fulness and grace would have appeared to be spontaneous, although the result, like a speech of Demosthenes, of the most consummate art. In that case the public would have been charmed by @ simplicity which they thought noturat: now they sre delighted with a (ruthfulness which is really what it appears to be, In both cases we have the same result, but produced by very different means. Perhaps the honest portion of the publie will like Brainard alt the better because he has not deceived us; but the critic will be very apt to say that the poet, thad he acted less frankly, would have produced more fine poems. The genius of Brainard did much; but bis genius properly disciplined would have done far more.

There is a poem in tho volume before us which strikingly illustrates our view of the genius of Brainard —we allude to the one on page 104, entitled “ Extracts from New Year's Verses for 1825.” This pocm was no doubt written hurriediy, and with not the remotest idea of its being collected in volume, Tt was a fugi- tive piece, written for a fugitive occasion. Accordingly, ag 4 whole, it is very unequal, but yet it contains one thought which proves the author to be a man of geniue. Our readers will know, at once, that we refer to these verses.

“That silent, moonlight march to Bunker Hill, With spades, and ewords, bold hearts and ready hands, That Spartan step without their flutes’ Yet, in thia very pocm, a few verses before, occurs the following. ‘The author is speaking of the Yankees. « Adventurous, cunning, tough, and brave,

Shrewd and inquisitive they know their P's And Q's. They know to eara aud get and save—*

In the Maniac’s Song, a pocm which as a whole is not above medicerity, we meet with a thought that reveals the man of genius, aa it were, by a flash of lightning, We allude to the concluding lines of the following stanzas,

"Now I have lost my blooming health, ‘And joy, and hope, no more abide ;

And wildering fancies come by stealth, "Like moonlaght on a shifting tide.”

‘The poems of Brainard are full of such ilfustrations, but our limits preclude us from adducing other examples, Contenting ourselves with those two we pass on to shew by the quotation of » few of his poms in extenso, the grace, truthfulness, melancholy, nature, and other char racteristice of this poet. We. shall do this, at the risk of presenting poems which are already familiar, but some may have read them earcicasly and without stop- ping to analyze them, while others, who have studied their characteristics will easily forgive repetition of these fine poems, And first for the Epiuthelmium, which muy be taken asa apecimen of tho oxtreme grace and naturalness of Brainard.

THE LADY’S

“1 saw two clouds at morning, * ‘Tinged with the rising sun; Anul in the dawn they floated on, ‘And mingled into one: J thought that morning cloud was blest, It moved s0 sweetly to the west. .

T saw two eummer currents, Flow smoothly to their meeting,

And join their course, with sileat force, In peace each other greetin

Calm was their course throngh banks of green,

While dimpling eddies played between,

Such be your gentle motion, ‘Till life's last pulse shall beat; Like oummer’s beam, and summer's stream, Float on, in joy, to meet A calmer sea, where storms shall cease— A purer sky, where ull js peace.”

The gentleness, the child-like simplicity of Brainard ia Gnely illustrated by little poem, entitled «The Nosegay,” supposed to be spoken by a young git. ‘We cannot restrain ourselves from quoting it,

“1/1 pull a bunch of bats and Mowers, And tie a ribbon round them, Te you'll but think in your lonely hours, Mf the sweet little girl that bound them,

11 cull the earliest that pnt forth, And those that Jast the longest;

‘And buda that hoast the fairest hirth Shall cling to the stem that's strongest,

I’ve run about the garden walks, ‘And gearched among the dew, wit;—

These fragrant flowers, these touder stalks, I've plucked them ail fur you, air,

So here's your hunch of buds and flowers, ‘And here's the ribbon round them;

And here to cheer your saddened hours, In the sweet little girl that bound them.

‘We cannot pass the following fine poem “to the dead.”

“How many now are dead to me ‘That live to others yet!

How many are alive to me

‘Who crumbie in their graves, nor see

‘That sick’ning, sinking ook which w ‘Till dead can ne'er forgot.

Beyond the blue seae, far away, “Moet wreichedly atone, ‘One died in prison—far away, ‘Where stone on stone shut out the day, And never hope, or comforts ray ‘In kis lone dongeou’slione:

Dead ta the world, alive to mes

‘Though months and years have passed, Ina long hour, his sich to me Comes like the lum of some wild bee, And then his form and face I see

‘As when I saw him last,

And one with a bright lip, and cheeks, And eye, is dead to me.

How pale the bloom of his smodth cheek

‘His lip wes cold—it would not apeak;

His hear was dead, for it did not break ‘And his eye, for it did not see,

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 M. Jacot said the chief made a speech to the effect that the Fans did not know about these things, but their neighbours, the Ncomi, were known to be well versed in them and the proper things to do, so he had called them in to pay honour to the dead chief. Then the Ncomi started and carried on their weird, complicated death-dance.

The Fans sat and stood round watching them in a ring for a long time, but to a rational, common-sense, shrewd, unimaginative set of people like the Fans, just standing hour after hour gazing on a dance you do not understand, and which consists of a wriggle and a stamp, a wriggle and a stamp, in a solemn walk, or prance, round and round, to the accompaniment of a monotonous phrase thumped on a tom- tom and a monotonous, melancholy chant, uttered in a minor key interspersed every few minutes with an emphatic howl, produces a feeling of boredom, therefore the Fans softly stole away and went to bed, which disgusted the Ncomi, and there was a row. In the dance I saw the same thing happened, only when the Ncomi saw the audience getting thin they complained and said that they were doing this dance in honour of the Fans' chief, in a neighbourly way, and the very least the Fans could do, as they couldn't dance themselves, was to sit still and admire people who could. The Fan chief in my village quite saw it, and went and had the Fans who had gone home early turned up and made them come and see the performance some more; this they did for a time, and then stole off again, or slept in their seats, and the Ncomi were highly disgusted at those brutes of Fans, whom they regarded, they said in their way, as Philistines of an utterly obtuse and degraded type.

The Ncomi themselves put the body into coffins. A barrel is the usual one, but two gun-cases, the ends knocked out and the gun-cases fitted together, is another frequent form of coffin used by them. These coffins are not buried, but are put into special places in the forest.

Along the bank of the Ogowé you will notice here and there long stretches of uninhabited bush. These are not all mere stretches of swamp forest. If you land on some of these and go in a little way you will find the forest full of mounds—or


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 rather heaps, because they have no mould over them—made of branches of trees and leaves; underneath each of these heaps there are the remains of a body. One very evil-looking place so used I found when I was on the Karkola river. Dr. Nassau tells me they are the usual burying grounds of the Ajumbas.

He said that once, when on a boat journey up the Ogowé, wanting to camp to get the mid-day meal, he ordered his men to pull ashore to a bank. They did not like to, saying it was a bad place, but its badness not being apparent, the Doctor stuck to the point, and ashore they went. He then found for the first time these mounds, and not knowing what they were, he pu out some of the sticks and saw under them the remains of a body. He went back to the canoe and had his lunch elsewhere, to the evident pleasure of his companions.


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THE LIEUTENANT’S BRIDE.

BY ELLEN ASKTON.

It was the annual ball at West Point. The room was elegantly decorated with flags hung in festoons, sabres formed into stara, and all tho other paraphrenalia of military glory. The floor was crowded with officers of the army and navy, of every rank, from the midsbip= man and cadet upward, The military band of tho post ocoupied the orchestra. Never, perhaps, has there been ascembied at West Point a prouder assemblage of beauty then that which then entranced the beholder, ‘There were dark brunettes from Baltimore; golden-haired Hebes from Charleston ; tall, stately beauties from Philadelphia ; gay belles from the more ostentatious New York; and even tho fair blonde daughters of New England, with their blue eyes, their clear complexions, their proud dignity of mien, But among that brilliant erray there was one pre-eminently beautiful, Tall and shapely in her Gxure, abe moved through the room with the stately motion of a swan, eliciting admiration from every be- holder. Her dress was simple, yet costly and beautiful. Tt was evident that the severest taste presided over the toilette of the fascinating Ellen Belvoir; for fascinating every one felt her to be who had listoned, though but for a moment, to her gay allies, or her subdued senti- ment. Her every look, word and motion was grace itself, She poss2used that rare combination of gualities whiclr constitutes the lady, in contra-distinction to the mere pretender. But it was not her manners alone that, rendercd her 90, Her politeness was that of the heart. She was no mero automaton; she would have been equally as affable and kind had sho been borne in a cottage. But alas! it was the misfortune of Ellen Belvoir to have been born of a noble family, and she bad been brought up with high notions of the superiority of blood. In this originated a trait of her character which in shared by too many of her sora scorn for all who could not trace their lineage to an equally noble origin with her, But now, surrounded by admirers, and excited by the gay scene around, even Ellen Belvoir had for the moment forgotten her prejudices.

“Who ia that elegant man?” she said to her cousin, during an intermiséion betwixt the sets, glaneing toward a noble-looking officer in the uniform of u enptain in the army, “he has heen in tho room a full half hour, and set he has not asked to be introduced to me. I declare,” the added gaily, “T am quite piqued at his indifference,

“Ah! coz, you will make him repent of it yet, laughingly replied her cousin, “or 1 misteke your sex. But rce,he is coming this way. Heis an old messmate of mine, and I will introduce him—ah! Captain Stanley —slud to see you,” and advancing from Ellen’s side, her cousin grasped the hand of the approaching officer.

The salutation was warmly returned, and for a while the two friends were engaged in talking of the evente that had transpired to each since they last met. At length, Stanley’s cyes happened to fall on the spiritual face of Mivs Belvoir, and from their look of admiration her cousin knew at once that an introduction would be considered a favor, He accordingly presented the young officer to Ellen, and, after a few remarks, saun- tered across tho room, leaving his cousia and Staniey together.

What is 0 favorable to love as a gay ball-room? and what ball-room is 20 dangerous as that of West Point Both Ellen and Stanicy were soon lost to every thing excopt each other, They danced together and prome- naded in company, until they become the objects of whispered though general remark, Bofore the festivities of the evening had terminated, it was universally gos sipped about that the beautiful Miss Belvoir, and the hitherto heart-free Captain Stanley had fallen mutually in love, Some affected to sneer at it, some wondered how it dig happen; but all agreed that the two wero the finest couple in the room, and were admirably fitted for each other.

The gossip of a Dall-room was, for onco, right. Ellen Belvoir had passed three winters since hor coming out without miceting with any one to subdue her virgin heart; but from the first moment she sow Stanley she felt a strange interest in him, His gallent bearing, his polished manners, his fine conversational powers, and above all a certain frankness of deportment toward her so different from the sickening flattery daily poured into her ears, appealed at once to her fancy, and soon subdued her judgment. She felt that Stanley was ‘one to whom she could look up, and she knew that only such @ character could possess her love, His eloquent, tones vibrated in her ears long after they had parted for the night, and even in her dreams sho caw his manly form bending admiringly over her.

Stanley had been equelly charmed with his partner. Yeum had elapsed since he had been appointed to one of the stations on the far west, and during that period he had been completely excluded from refined female society, He occupied the time in picturing to himself the beau ideal of being such as he could choose for a wife, On his return to the east he had met many lovely beings, whose attractions his friends thought him incapable of resisting; but nearly a year bad passed, and he appeared even less susceptible than on his return, He had sought in vain to realize his rontnntic dreams, and finding it impossible, wae content to enjoy the reputation of a confirmed bachelor. Now, however, he thought he had met the divinity which he had so long adored in secret, for, in Ellen Belvoir, he fancied ho saw every tmit which he sought to have ina wife. As he became more intimate with the lovely girl, he grew

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During the rest of the journey Ellen assumed a gaiety of tone little in keeping with her real feelings. She made no confidant of her cousin, for it was a part of her self-willed and imperious nature to rely wholly on herself. But when they reached Boston he accompanied her to her residence, and on taking leave, said laughingly in reply to a retort of hers.

"Adicu, my sweet coz, and remember, when you are as a sort of remarried, to buy the old inn in membrance of old times."

The shot struck home. Ellen had renewed the struggle in her breast betwixt love and pride, and the former had almost come off conqueror, when this unlucky retort of her cousin, aroused all her haughtiness. She had many good feelings, but she had lived so long in the world that she had become a believer in the truth of its maxims. What would her young friends say- she thought-if she married a landlady's son ? She went into the house, and on the spur of the moment, wrote a dismissal to her lover.

And how did he receive it ? More in sorrow than in indignation. He sat down and wrote a reply, in which he coldly notified the receipt of her letter. No unworthy regret did he breathe- no attempt did he make to change her determination. His love hitherto had blinded him to this trait in Ellen's character, but now it appeared in all its glaring deformity before him, and he renounced her, certainly not without pain, but without regret.

And years passed, and he saw and wooed another and a fairer bride. But Ellen never married. She repented too soon of her conduct. Perhaps others avoided her on account of her heartlessness toward Stanley, but from the hour of their separation she faded away as if some secret sorrow was at her heart. She lived to become what she most dreaded-an old maid.

LAKE DUNMORE. BY JESSE E. DOW. THE timid deer in Dunmore's flood, When dies the chase in hazle glen, No longer fears the cry of blood, The tramp of steed, or shout of men, No tear of terror dims his eye, His heart that beatto bursting sinks, He listens-'tis the bittern's cryAnd in the mountain shadow drinks. Embossed in giant mountain peaks, Wild Dunmore's crystal lake is seen Where lilies bathe their pallid checks, And blushing roses fondly lean, The eagle marks his speck'led prey From jutting rock or withered tree, And there the night-hawk cuts her way, And homeward hies the humming bec.

How beautiful ! the moon looks down Upon a spirit's mountain home, Bald Hoosick wears a silver crown , And far Au Sable shrouds her foam ; From isle to isle the ripples break, When leap the golden trout on high, And where the verdant rushes shake The glossy otter loves to lie. The eye is lost in sweeping vales, And strives to grasp the scene in vain, It marks Lake George's snowy sails And rests upon thy waves Champlain ; Now wanders to the north away And falls upon a silent land, Where leagues on leagues dark Chateaugay Thy waving trees like giants stand. Around how calm-above-belowIn mountain gorge and dimpled dell, Bright hamlets in the distance glow, And faintly sounds the shepherd's bell. The red man's grave unheeded lies Beneath the leaves of countless moons ; And thro' the trees the night bird flies, And airy flutes breathe forth their tunes. Sweet mountain lake unknown to fame Where Nature in her wildness wrought, No classic tongue has named the name The Tuscarora chieftain taught ; No sickly host e'er came to wake Their dying harps to life by thee ; But far away by Seruas Lake They fall like leaves on autumn's Ica. The blushing daisy, wet with tears, At morning's prime looks up and smiles, So hope amid a thousand fears Might bloom amid thy mountain isles ; For there, amid the flowery dell, Beside the crystal waters shore Kanathos veils her fabled well , And maidens loved grow old no more. I stood in boyhood's happy hour Upon thy guardian mountain height, And saw below the summer's shower Upon thy waters spend its might; And when the sun in splendor shone Upon thy wild and glittering shore, Oh, fain was I fair lake to own That earth had naught like thee, Dunmore.

EDUCATION. The great business of education is to eradicate what is evil, and cultivate what is good ; it is equally true in the world of mind as in the world of matter, that thorns and briers are a spontaneous growth, while useful plants require careful pruning and diligent cultivation. The analogy may still further be continued, for as with the culture of the earth, so with the mind, this process must begin in the spring of life.


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GERTRUDE.

“Gertrude,” said a low, but manly voice, aa the hand of the speaker opened the glass door that led into tn epartinent on the ground floor of a neat little country parsonage “ Gertrude.”

At a table, within the chamber, sat a fait-haired maiden, her check resting on one hand, while, with the other she caressed an Malian greyhound, that nestled on her lap. As the door was softly unclosed, the animal sprung forward, and with a low whine of delight welcomed the intruder. Gertrude sterted to her fort, and, in a voice which ill concesled the joy his presence imparted to her aod bosom, exclaimed :— “Is this well done, Hector? I thought you had been on boant the Windsor Castle by this time ?”

“On board the Windsor Castle,” he replied reproach- folly, “on my voyage to the East, without other leave- taking than the cold formal farewell in presence of our relatives—without plighting to you my érofh, and re- ceiving yours in rcturn ;—no, no, Gertrude; you could not—you did not think 60 meanly of me.”

A sad smile was her only reply, as Hector re-seating her, placed himself hy her side.

“I bad ascertained, before leaving the Rectory, that my presence on board would not be required for @ few days; but kept my own counsel, and bidding a final adieu to your respected father, at the termination of the firet stage, saw him eet out on his homewurd way. Lingering aroong our romantic haunts till night should shield me from prying cyes, £ approached the rectory. ‘The stillness within and without the house assured mo that all had retired to rest, and traversing the shrubbery with cautious steps, I spprouchod this side of the build- ing, and never did the sea-tossed mariner hail with moro intense joy the friendly port that offered him a refuge from the tempest, than did I the ray of light which streamed from yout cssement. I doubted not a cordial reception from the whole houschold; but the scene of to-day must have recurred to-morrow ; I must again have uttered a constrained edieu—again repressed the over flowings of a bursting heart; and departed an unblessed wanderer to another hemisphere.”

The feclings of Gertrude were too intense for utter- ances she leaned her head on the shoulder of her jover, and burst into tear. ‘Tho soothings of affection, a brilliant fature, depicted by the pencil of hope, in no long time, however, calmed the agitation of her soul; and the first rays of the rising en found the youthful pair still engaged in converse.

Six yeara previously to this period, Cofonel St. John, on boing ordered to India, had entrusted his motherless boy to the care of Dr. Montgomery, the rector of St. Bude, bis school-comrade and college-chum ; and

faithfully had the worthy divine fulfilled the sacred trust. He regarded Hector with ‘an affection little lese lively thon that he felt for his own Gertrude, As the youthful pair attained to the age of adolescence, the rector perceived, or thought he perceived, a growing allection between them, which he feared might ripen into love. He lost not a moment in communicating his euspicions to Colonel St. John, who, by the next packet, sct hia heart at rest, by requesting him, if he approved of his boy as a son, to let things take their course; but the epring arrivals from India brought an unexpected summons for Hector to join his father at Madras. For a moment, the confidence of the Rector in the honor and sincerity of his early friend wavered but the same conveyance brought him an explanatory letter from Colonel St. John, in which he stated, that having obtained a tuerative, though not a permanent, situation in the civil department of the Government, for his con, it was necessary that he should embark with the first fleet, “The lovers are young enough,” he added, "to wait two or three years, at which period Hector’s engagement will terminate, when I hope also to visit my notive land, and witness the union of my

boy with the daughter of my eurlicst and most esteemed °

friend”

‘The heart of the good divine was lightened of a painful load by this communication, and he further rejoiced that no engagement had taken place between the lovers, which might have fettered their liberty, though it could not have endangered their peace throughout life; littie was he aware of the midnight eseapade of his pupil, or the solemn vows of never= ending love and fidelity the youthful objects of his paternal anxiety had pledged to each other.

The absence of Hector, who Was an universal favorite,

diffused a gloom over the housohold at the Rectory.-

Gertrude, habituated to self-control, suppressed her own sorrow, in order to administer to the amusement of het father. Sho supplied the place of his pupil at the chess-board, became the companion of hie morning walks, and read to him in the fine summer evenings in a romantic grotto at the extremity of the garden.

During those hours, however, which Gertrude could call her own, che would hurry to those epots, econsecra- tod by the tenderest and most endearing recollections; where, with Hector for her companion, she bad enjoyed pure and unalloyed happiness—for it was a happiness ‘unmixed with fears for the future.

‘Thus posed the autumn and winter after the depare tare of Hector; but when April, with its sunshine and its showers, began to deck the fields and meadows with the flowers and foliage of early spring, the hope of a letter from ber lover created a restless anxiety on her bosom. ‘Though aware that weeks and months must elupse before she could receive news from Madras, yet

seats Sanam �


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perhaps, her alliance contemned by his father, she firmly resolved, to struggle with her feelings, and accept the independence offered to her.

"I am a stranger in London," she said, " but Mrs. Johnstone, who is the daughter of my nurse can satisfy your inquiries, or if her testimony is deemed insufficient, I can furnish you with the address of the agent of my late father." Gertrude hastily left the room, and sending in Margaret, hurried to her own chamber to compose her agitated spirits. When again summoned to the parlor, the kind-hearted woman-for her visitor was really such -took her hand, saying, " Poor thing, poor thing ; you shall come to us, and we will do every thing in our power to make up to you for the home you have lost." On the following Monday, Gertrude Montgomery became an inmate in the villa of Alderman -, at Streatham. Her pupils were unformed, but docile girls of ten and twelve years of age ; and had received the rudiments of their education at a day-school in the vicinity.

The house was in sight of the public road, according to the approved plan of the London citizens ; but the grounds behind were retired, and might be even termed extensive for the near vicinity of the metropolis.

Three years' residence beneath the roof of the worthy citizen had blunted the first keen feelings of the orphan ; but she still cherished deep within her bosom the image of her recreant lover.

At this period the death of the Fourth George, and the accession of William gave occasion to many festivals and rejoicings ; and on the night of the coronation the family at the villa proceeded in their barouche to view the illuminations. After driving to the bank, mansionhouse, and other public buildings in the city, they proceeded to the west-end of the town. Opposite to the Admiralty, so great was the crowd, that for more than half an hour, the carriage could not move amidst the joyous multitude. The lone orphan had flown in imagination to another hemisphere, and far different scenes, when a question from one of her pupils recalled her back to present realities, and she raised her eyes to see what had excited the attention of the lovely girl. At this moment an exclamation of surprise from a party of pedestrians attracted her notice ; but the next they were lost amidst the crowd, and the barouche at the same time moving forward, she could not obtain another glimpse of the strangers. What to her could be the exclamation of a stranger ? yet Gertrude felt a feverish and restless anxiety on the subject during the rest of the evening, and throughout the night. Next morning, at an early hour she was summoned to the parlor, and, on entering, was clasped in the arms of Hector St. John. All was explained- letters had miscarried, and the most persevering enquiries failed to

throw light on the retreat ofthe orphan. It was, indee ', unknown to every one, but her aged nurse, who before St. John's arrival in Britain, had become the inmate of Margaret's dwelling. Hector had never, for an instant, entertained a doubt of Gertrude ; he imputed her retreat to its true cause—a desire to avoid the ostentatious sympathy of " giddy fashion and low-minded pride," in her altered fortunes. But having found her, he protested that never should they part again. Their early engagement was communicated to her protectors, and one month after their accidental meeting the lovers were united in the presence of the worthy couple, who had acted like kind parents to the bereaved orphan. It was not long before Colonel St. John arrived from the East. He purchased a handsome estate, on which he insisted that the young pair should reside, reserving only a suite of apartments for himself. Years of unalloyed felicity have flown over the heads of Gertrude and her husband, who still live surrounded by a family of X. beauteous sons and daughters.

SERENADE. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

FROM the close-shut window gleams no spark, The night is chilly, the night is dark, The poplars shiver, the pine-trees moan, My hair by the autumn breeze is blown, Under thy window I sing alone, Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone ! The darkness is pressing coldly around, The windows shake with a lonely sound, The stars are hid and the night is drear, The heart of silence throbs in thine ear, In thy chamber thou sittest alone, Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone! The world is happy, the world is wide, Kind hearts are beating on every side ; Ah, why should we lie so curled Alone in the shell of this great world ? Why should we any more be alone ? Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone ! O! ' tis a bitter and dreary word, The saddest by man's ear ever heard ; We each are young, we each have a heart, Why stand we ever coldly apart ? Must we for ever, then, be alone? Alone, alone, ab woe ! alone !

Nothing sets so wide a mark between the vulgar and the noble soul as the respect and reverential love of womanhood. A man who is always sneering at woman, is, generally, a coarse profligate, or a bigot-no matter which.


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for this day's devotion. But since we are all determined, let us give un answer to the foo, and then resume our place on the walls, De Courtenay will now storm the place et all points, and we must depend on God and our good right arms. As for you, Amy, hie to your chawber and thore offer up prayers for us.”

‘The Baron strove in speaking to assume the sem blance of one in whom some hope. still lingered, but it, was evident that he did not deceive cither his child or iis followers, All knew that the eastle-could not hoki out aguinst another attack, But the Knights were resolved, like brave mon, to die at their poste, while Amy, although she made a second attempt to be heard, ‘saw that her defendera would not lixten to ber proposal. In silence, therefore, they left the great hall; but as the father parted from his daughter, he pressed & last ki on her now trembling tips—those lips which he never expected again to caress in this world.

‘he rofusal of the besieged to accede to the terms offered to them was hailed by a low growl of rage on the part of the assailants, and instantly the foe com- meneod, from all quarters, an attack on the castle. ‘Thrice already had they assailed it, but this time they rushed forward with a fury fourfold greater than on either former occasion, In vain the beleaguered men- atarms met them at every tun—in vain missiles of every sort were hurled down on the heads of the assailants, the forces of De Courtenay soon gained a fooling on the outer wall, and the brave defenders were riven to the Kecp as their Jast resort, Here tho Baron collected hia melancholy band, and made ready for a desperate defence of his last stronghold. Already his little band was terribly thinned, hut its stern resolution was unabated. He glanced around it anxiously as the trumpets sounded to the charge, and his heart died within him when he surveyed ite scanty number, but at this instant, happening to cast his eyes on the opposite horizon, he fancied he saw something glittering far off in the sun, liko a tow of spears.

“Michael,” he said, eagerly, to a stout soldier heside him, look off by yonder wood, just on the brow of the hill, what eee you?”

“They seem like spears glancing in tho sun—pray God they may be friends,”

“ Amen?” said the Baron, and the onset again begun.

Fierce and furious was tho fight, The sasilante were hot for the blood of thrir stubborn opponents—the defenders of the castle fought with the fary of desperate men. The Keep seemed impregnable. Onset. after onset was made on it by the foe, and each onset was repulsed by the desperate defenders.

Meanwhile the Baron had communicated his discovery to no one except to the soldier, and on him he had en- joined silence: for he was unwilling to raise the hopes of his followers without cause. In the intervals of the

fight he turnei his eyes toward the approaching caval- cade, and it was with unbounded joy that he at length fancied he perceived a well known banner. He was not mistaken. Almost at the same instant @ message arrived from his child, who kept watch at the highest loop hole of the Keep, that the approaching cavalcade bote more than one friendly pennon. The news was now communicated to the defenders indiscriminately, and though the conflict did not slacken, each man fought with renewed vigor. The coming wuccor had now become discernible from the enemy's camp, and the foe wavered in hie assault, and preparod to resist this new enemy. But alter » moment's besitation the attack was renewed with even groater vigor, At this moment too the approaching envaleade became hid by an intervening elevation,

“They must know our extremity and will spare no tine in coming up,” said the Baron, exhorting his fol- lowere to withstand this new assault, “end lo! there they come, dashing, over the bill-=the Lord be praised : they are really friends, and there is my kinsman’s banner from Palestine in the van.”

It was oven ao. The young Knight had returned opportunely to his country, end hearing of his uncle's strait had hurried by forced marches to succor him. He saw at ones that he had come at a critical mo ment, and dashing down the hill, ho charged with his squadron into the very heart of the assailante. ‘The combat was short but fierce. The forces of the young Knight were large, and they were buming to avenge a wrong done to the kinsman of their leader; while the assailants were weakened by their losses, and dispirited by the succor thus ailorded to their fora, The forees of De Courtenay soon broko and (led, while he himeelf fell before the hand of the young Knight. ‘The confusion was completed by # rally made by the hesieged.

Gur pen cannot do justice to the meeting of the long separated lovers. We will drop a veil over it, simply saying that Amy never forgot this last day of the Breacuzarn Castex.

SONG.

© xyura! of Fortune's smiles beware, Nor heed the Siren’s flaticring tongue;

She lures thee to the haunts of care, ‘Where sorrow pours @ ceaseless song.

Ah! what are all her piles of yotd? Can those the host of care control?

‘The eplendor which thine eyes behold, Te not the sunshine of the soul.

"To love alone thy homage pay, ‘The queen of tme delight; Her aniiles with joy shall gill thy day And bless the visions of the aight.

�


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Author:Arthur Henry Goodenough

Poetry collections

 * Blossoms of Yesterday (1896)
 * My Lady's Shoes, and other poems (1911)
 * Roses of Yesterday (1924)
 * Songs of Four Decades (1927)
 * Grass of Parnassus (1937)

Individual poems

 * “The Runner” (1927)

Non-fiction

 * The Clergy of Litchfield County (1909)
 * Twenty Years' Recollections of Amateur Journalism. (1920)

title: Author:Arthur Henry Goodenough


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THE EQUAL DOOM.

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH.

It was under the reign of him, who has been commonly as well as vulgarly, called 66 Peter the cruel," that two men ofa mean aspect, departed one evening from Toledo. They were both on horseback, both enveloped in long mantles, and directed their course toward the Tagus. They proceeded by the banks of the river for some time, and then, as the sun was setting, sheltered themselves in a sort of ambuscade, near to the solitary habitation of a shepherd, who had but recently arrived in that part of the country, from New Castile. As the night closed in, the bells of an approaching mule were heard in the path of the valley where these men were concealed. They rushed out from behind the hedge, where they had established the ambuscade, stopped the mule, laid hold of the young girl that was on its back, and placing her behind one of themselves, in despite of her resistance, they galloped back with her to Toledo.

The valley for a few moments was filled with the cries, and sent back the echo of " father-dear father father Bartholomew." These were the cries of the maiden as she struggled in the arms of the villains who held her. Soon her extreme fear, her despair, and her agony, combined with the menaces of the ruffians, deprived her of the power of utterance, and in a short time, nought was heard in the path of the valley but the trot of the mule and the tinkling of its bells.

Although this deed of violence was perpetrated at a considerable distance from any habitation, still the piercing shrieks of the victim had reached the ears of Bartholomew. He recognized the voice of his daughter Inez ; he flew to her assistance, and he was soon, by his activity and address, on the track of those who had carried her away.

It was two hours afterward, when, breathless and covered with dust, paleness on his forehead, and the wildness of a maniac in his eyes, the father dismounted at the door of a house in the Plaza Mayor at Toledo. He forced his way through all obstacles, and he found himself in the presence of the weeping Inez, and of a stranger, whose ironical smile seemed at once to insult the grief of the one, and the outrage done to the other.

" Who are you ?" said the stranger, planting himself between the father and daughter.

Her father," answered Bartholomew, repressing as well as he could, the feeling of anger that he experienced ; "her father, and you are a scoundrel."

Do you know to whom you are speaking ?" added the unknown, in a menacing tone.

To a base villain, I am quite sure," replied Bartho- | lomew, repelling him with his robust arm . "But I must first look to my daughter. You and I can settle accounts afterward." And saying this, he laid hold of his daughter's arm for the purpose of leading her to the door of the apartment in which this scene passed. " Miserable fool !" instantly exclaimed the stranger, furious at beholding that he was about being deprived of his victim. They were the last words that Bartholemew heard ; for the miscreant who had uttered them struck him with a poignard, and stretched him dead at his feet. The news of this horrid murder, rendered still more odious by the circumstance that had preceded it, caused a great commotion in the city, and it was in vain that the nobility, to whose class the murderer belonged, endeavored to shelter him from the pursuits of justice. The guilty man was arrested in his flight, and incarcerated in one of the prisons of Toledo. In the fourteenth century, it was well known what were the advantages to an accused of dilatory proceedings in criminal prosecutions. Thus it was that it was not until six months after the perpetration of his crime, that Don Micida, the murderer of Bartholomew was brought before the tribunal, which, if possible, he would have avoided. He had prepared for his defence several perjured witnesses. One swore that he had seen him some miles from Toledo on the night the murder took place. A second deposed that he was so ill the day before it, that he had prepared himself for death ; and a third that he had been in his company all the day and night on which this atrocious crime had been perpetrated. No one believed these witnesses ; but then the culprit had powerful friends, and his interest blunted the edge of the sword of justice. The sentence pronounced upon him was equivalent to an acquittal. It was that he should lose his privileges as a noble for one year, and pay a trifling fine. On the payment of the latter, he was instantly restored to liberty. But at the very moment in which the assassin of Bartholomew escaped the chastisement that was due to his crime, his irrevocable condemnation had been pronounced by a tribunal on which he had not at all calculated ; and he did not long enjoy impunity from his crime. The very next day, in the broad light of the sun, and in the most populous quarter of the city, as he was about to enter the palace of one of his brother nobles, he fell mortally wounded by two stabs of a poignard— " One," said his murderer, “ is given you for the sake of Inez, and the other for the death of Bartholomew." The man who had slain Don Midici did not make the slightest effort to escape. He cast from him the blood-stained weapon. He folded his arms on his breast, and without attempting the slightest resistance, he permitted himself to be arrested . His detention in prison was not of very long duration. The criminal proceedings against him went forward with the greatest


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officer presented it, Paul was about to be led forth to execution. Instead of being conducted to the scaffold, he was introduced to the palace of the Alcaza, and presented to the King.

"You are the man called Paul," said his Majesty.

" I am, Sire."

Why was it that Don Micida assassinated your father ?"

"Because my father was about taking from him my sister Inez, whom Micida had carried away by force and against his will."

Then it was he who committed such a villainy that slew the outraged father."

It was, Sire." Very well. And the assassin, you say in your petition, was acquitted." "Yes, Sire. He was restored to liberty, and the only punishment inflicted on him was suspending him from his privileges as a noble, for an entire year." "Very well. And you not considering that the punishment was adequate to the offence committed, inflicted justice with your own hand ." "Yes, Sire." "That was bad. What is your trade, Paul ?" "A cordwainer, Sire." Very well. Then I, the supreme judge of the judges of Castile, annul the sentence condemning you to death. I say that the punishment ought to be the same, for all crimes of the same nature. I, therefore, restore you to liberty, but I forbid you making boots and sages for an H. S. entire year."

MARIANA. WITH blackest moss the flower plots Were thickly crusted, one and all ; The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the peach to the garden wall. The broken sheds looked sad and strange, Unlifted was the clinking latch, Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, " My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, "I am aweary, aweary,— I would that I were dead !"

Her tears fell with the dews at even, Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, " The night is dreary. He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

Upon the middle of the night, Waking, she heard the night fowl crow : The cock sung out an hour ere light ; From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn , Till cold winds woke the grey-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, " The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !" About a stone-cast from the wall, A sluice with blackened waters slept, And o'er many, round and small, The clustered marishmosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver green with gnarled bark, For leagues no other tree did dark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, " My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !" And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up an' away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, " The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !" All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creaked ; The blue fly sung i' the pane ; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked, Or from the crevice peered about. Old faces glimmered through the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. She only said, " My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, "I am awcary, aweary, I would that I were dead !"

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Down-sloped was westering in his bower. Then, said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said ; She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, Oh, God, that I were dead !" TENNYSON.


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minute before the face of the fair owner of that hand had been revealed for an instant ; and it was that sight which had called forth the impassioned exclamation of De Burgh.

"Is she not beautiful ?" he asked again.

"Heavenly !" was the response of Beauchampe, " when will she be visible again ?"

The music went on. The prima donna sang her finest airs, and the orchestra thundered in at the chorus, until the house shook again with applause, but Beauchampe still remained gazing up at the stage box, seemingly unconscious of what was going on around him. That hasty glimpse at the face of the mysterious beauty had touched a new chord in his heart. Why did she so perversely keep herself secluded in the darkest corner of the box, revealing only the fair white hand which, but for the necessity of holding the curtain back, would doubtless have also sought the obscurity of her secluded seat ? A half an hour at least had passed since that momentary glimpse of her face. At length when the prima donna had executed one of her most difficult airs, and while pit and boxes were resounding with enthusiastic acclamations, the tiny hand slowly and stealthily drew back the curtain, just affording space for that unrivalled face to look down on the scene. It was indeed a face to watch for, to dream of, to worship ! Soft melting blue eyes, rivalling heaven's own azure ; a brow whose transparency surpassed that of Parian marble ; cheeks, whose pearly whiteness was saved from monotony by the rosy tint that suffused them ; and tresses of that indescribable hue which seems auburn at night, but which when lit by a gleam of sunlight, assumes the hue of gold. Then the rich, ripe, pulpy lips, disclosing, when she smiled, teeth of such exquisite whiteness ! This countenance, beautiful thus in repose, was rendered even more lovely when she spoke as she did occasionally to a companion beside her by the changing expression which flitted across her face, making it, as it were, a mirror in which every feeling of her soul was reflected. The subject of her conversation seemed an animated one, for her eyes would momently sparkle with merriment, and then her face would relapse again into a comparative repose, reminding the gazer of a quiet pool glimmering from light to shade as the sunshine shimmered down on it through the quivering leaves. " Who can she be ?" said Beauchampe, " I must discover her name. Raphael must have dreamed of such a face when painting his immortal Madonna, for only in that divine countenance is anything even approaching to this to be found." " She is indeed seraphic," said De Burgh, " and I wonder not that she has interested you. Ah! did I not say she would ? But the curtain rises, and there comes the prima donna !"

But Beauchampe saw nothing save that angelic face. In vain the unrivalled Malibran poured forth her liquid melody- in vain the orchestra burst in with a magnificence which has never since been equalled, Beauchampe was wholly insensible to the music, but, half hidden in his box, gazed entranced on the strange beauty. The fervor of his gaze, at length, appeared to attract the notice of her companion, for after a whisper betwixt the two and a glance at Beauchampe, the curtain was once more closed, and the stranger was visible no more that night. Not even the delicate fair hand was left exposed to fire the beholder with dreams of the still more lovely face. Beauchampe left the house that night with a tumult of strange feelings at his bosom. He had spoken truly when he told De Burgh that he had never loved, for although a beautiful face had more than once made a momentary impression on his fancy, none had ever inspired him with the lasting emotion of love. But now he felt that he had at length been conquered. That face was his fate. For hours after he sought his couch, he lay thinking of this mysterious beauty, and when at length he fell into a troubled slumber, it was only to dream of that scraphic face, looking down, as he had seen it a few hours before, on the glittering scene beneath. He rose at a late hour still more in love. His first duty was to enquire respecting the occupants of the stage box on the two preceding evenings, but here he found himself foiled. No one knew who the unknown beauty was, except the manager, and he was deaf to all inquiry. The mystery hanging around the fair stranger only increased the passion of Beauchampe. The adventure was one which aroused his imaginative mind, and he surrendered himself at once to the seductive influence of his new feelings. At the earliest hour the next evening he was seated in a fashionable position to observe the unknown beauty, and he waited with a trembling heart for her appearance. At length a figure passed behind the curtain of the stage box, and in a few minutes that unrivalled face might be seen peeping modestly down on the scene below. It seemed to Beauchampe as if it was even more beautiful than on the preceding evening ; especially when, as she turned to address her companion, she emerged a moment from the shadow of the box, so that the full blaze of the lustres shot across her rich auburn tressses, producing an illusion as if a shower of gold had fallen on them. The look which she cast around the house was but momentary however ; and ere the curtain rose she had retreated into the shadow of the box, and was no more visible, except when the enthusiasm of the house called her for an instant forward- seeming, in her lustrous beauty, to the eyes of the impassioned Beauchampe, like a meteor lighting up a dark and hopeless prospect.


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 rated seriousness, and his smile was nothing more than an almost imperceptible unfolding of the wrinkles, which contracted his reverend brow; his mirth bore the resemblance of his carriage, and whoever knew him, trembled at his anger, though none of his acquaintances had ever experienced the least mark of passion in his countenance, and much less had he ever betrayed a symptom of unbridled wrath.

I let slip no opportunity of doing him some little services, and thus endeavoured to gain his favor; however, he appeared to take no notice of my unremitted zeal to please him. I treated him with marks of the highest veneration, whenever I was in his company, but he seemed not to regard it. All my most anxious endeavours to win that strange man over to my interest, proved abortive, and, at last, I gave over every hope of engaging his attention.


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the city, and as the aunt was an old friend of the manager's lady, they had accepted her invitation to avail themselves of the stage box-and thus the difficulty of their being without a protector was got over.

"It was Edith's passionate love for music," said the aunt when she was convalescent, and had been able to descend to the drawing-room to thank Beauchampe, "which induced me to consent to this arrangement. We wished to remain as secluded as possible, but the dear child has ever been so kind to me that I could not deny her. And even now I do not regret it although it has cost me a broken arm."

Beauchampe had never thought to ask if Miss Wareham was fond of music, although he had noticed a harp standing in one corner of the room. He now petitioned for a song, and Edith modestly complied. As she bent over the instrument, displaying the full sweep of her magnificent neck and shoulders, while her azure eyes, humid with the emotions which the song awakened, were raised to heaven, Beauchampe thought, and justly, that he had never seen anything so lovely. She seemed another St. Cecelia, rapt with her own celestial thoughts. When the song ceased words failed him to express his admiration.

CHAPTER IV.

BEAUCHAMPE thought no longer of America, or of aught except Edith. He saw that she was such a one as he had often pictured to himself, but despaired of finding. She looked on everything with the eye of an enthusiast. Her heart seemed, in its warmth, to take in the whole universe. All things, in nature, were to her beauty and incense. For the first time, in his life, Beauchampe had met one with whom his soul could hold communion unreserved. His visits daily grew longer, and daily seemed. more acceptable to Edith ; until, at his entrance, her heart would beat quicker and the truant blood rush into her cheek. These signs met the eye of the lover and filled him with joy unutterable. Could it indeed be that she, whom he had worshipped so long at a distance, returned his love ? Or was it not rather bliss too extatic to be real? Yet the glad smile with which Edith met him assured him that her heart was his own. Oh ! how delicious were the hours they spent together. Books, music and conversation occupied their time, unless when silence, that bliss of love, would steal down on their souls. This could not continue long without a mutual revelation of feeling, and Beauchampe one evening seized the opportunity of a momentary tête-à-tête to express his passion. The trembling and blushing Edith murmured a scarce audible assent to his impassioned declaration, and her lover catching her in his arms, imprinted his first kiss on her glowing cheek. Let it not be supposed that Beauchampe had deceived

his betrothed as to his fortune. It is true that, in the intoxication of his earlier acquaintance, he had wholly forgotten the clause in his uncle's will, by which he forfeited the estate, but he soon found that neither Edith nor her aunt knew of his expectations, and therefore when, on the morning after the scene we have just described, he asked Mrs. Wareham, as the protector of Edith, for the hand of her neice, he did not disguise from her that his fortune amounted to only a paltry five hundred a year, such being the income left to him by his uncle in case he refused to marry the lady to whom he had been betrothed. He expressed his determination, however, to adopt a profession at once, and with the sanguine hopes of youth, declared that in four years at furthest he would be able to claim his bride. The cooler years of Mrs. Wareham led her to be less sanguine of his immediate success, but he pleaded so fervently that she was at length forced to give a half consent. She promised that, while Beauchampe visited America, she would not interdict a correspondence betwixt the lovers ; and that, if at the termination of the four years, Edith and Beauchampe should both remain unchanged, she would then consent to their union. But she would not permit any engagement at present. "You are both young, my dear Mr. Beauchampe, and four years may work a great change in your feelings. You have hitherto enjoyed a handsome allowance, and lived in the expectation of a still more handsome fortune. You have never yet-pardon me for saying it— acquired those habits of business which are necessary to one who has to make his own fortune ; and, although now the unceasing toil of a profession seems light to you, yet your opinions may change, understand me I only say may. I speak frankly, as I would to my own child, for you have deeply interested me. Perhaps age has taught me to be less sanguine than you-at least it has acquainted me with the weaknesses of human nature." There was much in this which grated harshly on Beauchampe ; and yet nothing at which he could be offended. There was wisdom in every word which Mrs. Wareham had uttered, but a wisdom which seemed to the romantic lover a cold and almost repulsive prudence. His good sense had to acknowledge that she was right, although his heart would fain have pronounced her wrong. "If such is your resolution," he said, " I must obey, although with a heavy heart. But you shall see that you judge me harshly." "Not so, my dear young friend. I confess my heart is with you, but as the protector of Edith I must act with the world's prudence, if I would save myself from reproach. And in what do I oppose you ? I permit you to correspond-you will thus constantly commune together-you say you will visit England once a year, -and at any hour you may claim Edith. At the same


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as that lady also appeared on the scene, " you have proved true. And now," she continued, smiling meaningly, " I give my consent to your betrothal."

Beauchampe turned from one to the other in an astonishment which was depicted on every lineament of his face, until the ludicrousness of his looks plunged the whole party into laughter, in which he too finally joined. When their mirth had subsided Mrs. Wareham took on herself to explain the mystery, which was soon solved.

Miss Harper after her education had been completed had visited Paris, in order to perfect herself in the French language, under the charge of Mrs. Wareham, who was really her aunt. Of this visit abroad, however, Beauchampe was ignorant. The ladies were on their return to this country, by the way of London, when they visited the opera, in the manner we have narrated. The accident which happened to Mrs. Wareham had revealed to the ladies the fact that Mr. Beauchampe was none other than the individual to whom Edith had been betrothed. Eager to learn if he would love her for herself alone, the young lady, with her aunt's concurrence, had practised the innocent deception which resulted as we have detailed. It is necessary to state that immediately after Beauchampe sailed, the two ladies also took passage for America, where they arrived nearly a fortnight before the lover. The guardian of both entered at once into the scheme, and had played his part adroitly as we have seen. A month later witnessed the union of Edith and Beauchampe ; and neither ever regretted the happy chance which brought them together in London.

WORDS AT MIDNIGHT. BY W. WALLACE, AUTHOR OF " JERUSALEM,' " STAR LYRA," &c. &c. WOULD'ST thou mortal have a vision In the spectral noon of night ? Would'st thou view a form elysian Floating in its mystic light ? Pray thou could'st,-and that the same Brave dream that o'er me swiftly grew, Half in darknesss-half in flame, Would sweep before thec, brother, too. The Night had counted half her hours, And half her hours some could see Weltering ghost-like, ghost-like weltering In the past Eternity ; When a cloud around me closing Misty, painful swathed my eyes, And I heard a low, sweet music Like the voice of ParadiseSweetly singing, Silver-ringing From its hollow of the skies.

Sudden burst a sun-like glory Through that misty, painful shroud, And a lofty form of beauty Started from the open cloud. In his left hand shone a garlandIn his right a banner-fold (From its bright staff half unfurling) With a wierd-like sound unrolled : And I heard the scraph saying (While his brow a glitter wove, Such as never trembled, sparkled Round a seraph-brow before.) 86 Mortal on thy journey wendingTo the mystic ocean tending, Where the human wrecks are tostSome forever, ever lost; Mortal, what can save you, say! In Life's dark and treach'rous way? Learning from her dusty tome ? Science in her starry home ? Bravery such as heroes feel 'Mid the clash of crimson steel? Passion such as had its birth In the Eden-prime of Earth ? Farther ! Farther, mortal, look Than the light of star or book !. Farther than the Hero's powerHigher than the Passion bower! Deeper be your vision-scan! Worthier be the aim of man! Let your warnings, let your aim With angel-yearnings be the same ; Same as that which seraphs knowAh! too often lost below! 'T was writ in light by him of old ; Read it on this banner-fold." Slowly from its staff unrolling, Swayed that flag above my head, And these words with fear and trembling, In the night's dim noon I read. "Every duty in the plan God has given unto man, He who fills the earth-career, Will obey with smile or tear. Such his aim ! Bright his fame ! And his motto thus shall be, If he would for laurels sue, 'Only Virtue's bravery 'Mid my searches for the True!' " Then the cloud around me closing Once more misty swathed my eyes, And I heard a low, sweet music Like the voice of Paradise, Sweetly singing, Silver-ringing From its hollow of the skies. Like a star amid the tempest, Like the rainbow of a storm When it fades into the twilight, Vanished that seraphic form.


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Parma, had been attached. The Empress, when she broke from her daughter with eo much indignation, had entangled herself in the chain gud broken it, The Duchoss leaned against the balcony, diswolved in tears.

It is a erushing pain to the souls of the young, when they discover that their deepest fecliugs have been awa- kened, ouly to plunge them into misery, But sorrow and amazement now vanished from the strong, presen- timent of @ near, threatening, and tertible peril, which overpowered all other emotions. ‘The shadows of night hegan to extend themselves. Jorephine had looked on the pale and engry countenance of the Empress by the doubtful twilight; the power of her imagination still Presented to her its threatening aspret. ‘The lonelinces around her becume insupportable, She called her ladica around her, Yet, neither sheit laughing feces, the cound of their voices, the brightness of the lights, nor the songs of her beloved sister Panline, had power to cheer the soul of the Princess. She walked up and down the apartinent with unsteady step, when a knock was heard at the door, and she was awakened from her reverie by terror,

It was Martini, the confessor of the Empress. The features of this priest were modelled tike those of an ancient statue. His lofiy brow gave his face at once a stern and penetrating expression. Hie demeanor was humble and benevolent, his voice slow and gentle; yet it was impomible to avoid a sensation of fear at his presence. No one over looked on that cold, unpitying eye, without saying to himself—“This ie a man who delights in human tnisery.” *

He approached the Duchess, looked at her dress, for in changing her robe after the ecremony, she had put on black, her usual color, and said, “I see with pleasure, my daughter, that you did not await my coming to pre« pare for fulfilling the duties of to-night.”

“What do you mean?” asked the Princess. “I consulted nothing but my own convenience in changing my dress.”

“Lbelievel it to he done from humility. Thy wed- ding clothes and worldly decoration, would he unsuitable accompaniments for prayers in the presence of the dead.”

“TI beseech you, explain yourself,” cried Josephine, trembling in every limb.

“ Your Imperial Highness very well knows, that it is your turn, to watch and pray to-night at the grave of the ‘Archduchess.” :

Josephine fell with her forehead ngninst the wall. Pauline interposed with these words:

“Tho Emprces will never permit it, Every ono Knows, that the Archduchess died with the small pox, ‘on which aecount no one lis since entered the chapel.”

“Un the contrary, lier Imperial Majesty expressly Yemands, that this pious duty shall by no means be neglected. ‘She herself sont me hither, to led the

Duchess of Parma immediately to the coffin of her sister,”

Appeal to the Emperor,’ whispered Pauline; “but what ean be expected from his will? No—there is no hope there. But throw yourself at the feet of your mother, I conjure you.”

“] bave just now scen her,” answered the Duchess, with an expression of the deepest distress, Pauline hid her face with both hands.

«] wait,” said the priest, “the pleasure of your Im- perial Highness, to follow me to the chapel.”

Josephine rose to obey.

“1 will accompany you,” ssid Pauline, “something inight happen to you in the night—”

“Your Imperial Highness must watch alone,” ane swered the confessor decidedly. “ Bevides, such is the custom.”

‘Martini was stil speaking, when a child rushed into the apartment of the Archduchess, and hastened up to embrace ber.

«Dear sister, thou wilt leave us perhaps for ever. You must give me twice as many kisses as you usually do.”

«Good Maria, thou hast no sorrows; thou wilt sleep quietly to-night.” :

“Thou wilt perhaps not sleep so quietly, but wilt he happy. To-morrow, and I shall never ree thee again.”

“To-morrow, © God !—” At thexe words a torrent of tears rolled down the cheeks of the Archduchess.

“What is the matter with you?” asked the child. “Why dost thou weep? They told me that thou wast going to reign.”

Good child, may Heaven spare thee auch nuptials.”

The litte girl mingled her teara with those of her sister.

Tho Duchess zepaired to the vault. Her Indies fol- Towed her to the door. When it was opened, they per- ceived that its damp darknese, was changed into a faint twilight by the light of a single toper. Josephine tuned around, pressed the weeping Pauline in her arms, and entered the chapel Her ladies saw her knecling at the foot of the alter, when the door was slowly closed and locked.

Pauline was obliged to wait until the sitting of the Council Chamber had ended, to inform the Emperor that his favorite daughter was passing tho night in an oflensive vault, by the corpse of a sister, who had died with an infectious disease. More than half of the night was already gone—

‘The Emperor hastened himself to the chapel. He found the Archduchess, just in the very spot in which they had left her kneeling before the altar, and her head bowed as if in proyer; hee body seemed shrunk, and her arms rested on the marble slab. Her father spoke to her. No answer. Me raised her———She was dead!

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 Chance befriended me, at length, unexpectedly, and I got by accident what I already had despaired to attain by the most indefatigable endeavours.

The inn where one of the recruiting officers lodged was reported to be haunted; many strange stories circulated on account of that report, which the then owner of the house endeavoured to laugh off, because he had lived a fortnight in it without perceiving any thing uncommon.

This subject afforded one evening matter for a serious discourse among the officers. The Austrian veteran maintained, contrary to our expectation, that one ought not to treat with ridicule some events of supernatural appearance, and no argument could make him relinquish his opinion. My heart panted for joy, for now I could hope that he would not refuse to credit my wonderous tale.


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many things; but on this one point most heartless and unprincipled. He scems, however, to regret his conduct to Mrs, Gordon, and I believe, after all, he talks worse than be acts. He may havo been a male-fiirt in hia comparatively boyish days, but now he surely must have more regard for a woman's feelings than lo win her heart by these silent, though seductive attentions of which he epeaks, and then desert her, justifying himeelf by the mockery of not having told her he loved her.”

‘The thoughts which were passing through Alford’s mind when he asked his companion if he deemed a first Jove the most enduring, our readers have perhaps divined. Ho waa thinking if he might not win the widow, and, although her fortune was not without some influence ‘over him, we will do him the justice to say that, at that mament, regret for having tampered with the feclings of the only woman whe hed touched his heart, was cer tainly uppermost, He pondered over the subject long after Ewing left him.

“Yes!” he said, riving, “I will woo you now scri- ously. If you ever really loved me—and I feel that you once did—it will be no very difficult task to kindle old feclings in yout bosom; I will throw myself on your kind heart for forgiveness for the wrong I have done you; and—” he paused and said smiling confidently, “we will yet be happy.”

Henry Alford wae, aa hie friend had eaid, of @ really noble nature; but alas! it hud been sadly corrupted by the world, as his crecd on innocent Mlirtations witnessed. He was, however, good-looking and talented; he had risen to some note in his profession; and it was therefore with no misgivings, or very slight ones, that he sought a renewal of his intimacy with Mrs. Gordon, for the purpose of becoming a suitor for her hand.

If Emily Maxwell had touched his heart, the beautiful widow won his love. Alford had heen a visitor at her mansion, but a short time, when he felt that if he had began his suit as 8 reparation due to her he had slighted, he now continued it as necessary to his own happiness, Mrs. Gordon was indeed the same as Emily Maawell, but how immeasurably improved. Not only was her beauty of @ more lofty and entrancing character; not only was her intellect expanded and refined; not only was she gifted with accomplishments such as few of her sex could boast of; but her heart seemed to have gained deeper tone from the trials it had undergone— 10 have been, as it were, chastened and purified in the furnace of affliction. The love of Emily Maxwell would have been pure and deep, but after alt only that of a girl; the love of Mrs, Gordon was such a3 a woman, in all the full maturity of her aflections, has to bestow, And Alford felt that, having once posseased the love of the girl, he had a key to the affections of the woman,

In this conviction he daily grew more confirmed. No one visited the proud mansion of Mrs. Gordon, who seemed a more welcome visitant. If sho did not blush at his entrance as she would have done eight years before, she welcomed him with a cordiality which there was no mistaking. She sang for him, she pro- mennded with him, and she danced with him—for who loos not dance at twenty-six?—and there was nothing” wanting in her demeanor toward him, to assure him of her fove, exeept the absence of that conscious ember- rasament in his presence which once cheracterized her. But then che was a blushing girl, and now she was a calm, collected woman. ‘The difference was everything.

“I will propose for her this very evening,” said Alford to himself, about six weeks after he had renewed bis visits to her, “she mast love me—she docs love me—I will beg her forgiveness on my knees, and seal it with kiss as in former days.””

That night the lover found his mistress alone, and in a few minutes was on bis knees, offering ber his band and heart. But, when he came to the crisis he could not tell her how he had once abused her love—he could not do so even to sue for her forgiveness.

“Rise,” naid the widow; but her accents were so calm and passionleas, that, for the first time, her lover felt a misgiving of the success of his suit. His fears were increased when he arose and took a seat beside her on the sofa, She did not avert her face, her eyes did not seck the ground, there was no conscious blush on her cheek; but her whole demeanor wos aa collected him: he felt a pang such as he had never experienced before, It was e pang not only of mortified vanity, but of hopeless agonizing love.

«Listen to me, Alford,” said Mrs, Gordon, “I am not surprised at this—you see Iam not—for I have expected it daily for the last fortnight. You start, hut recollect Lam not as I was when we met in other deye. Travel and sorrow and years have made me a different being, have taught me to read the hearts of olhere ay they once read my own. It is unnecessary to refor to our former intimacy at length, but I must do so partially in order to explain my present determination, You know how you sought my society, how you were ever ready with those little attentions that our sex delight to receive, how you modulated your voice to a whisper when you spoke to me and to me alone. You remember all this, and that these attentions continued for months. Ate you sur~ ptised, therefore, that’ learned to love you—deeply, fervently, unreservedly? It is true you gave me no reason, from any words you suid, to believe that you loved me; but is not the eloqueneo of the eye, the voice, the look even moro expressive than that of words? Yes! Henry Alford you Anew I loved you—you in- tended that I should—and yet you deserted me. You left me without explanation, In the fecesses of my �


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THE OLD STANDARDS OF BUCKLESBURY.

PLEASANT old Bucklesbury ! Can I ever forget the happy hours I have spent in thee? Favorite resort of schoolboys in their August holidays, here were my happiest vacations passed. When I first knew Bucklesbury, it was a place of some five or six hundred inhabitants, none of them very rich, none very poor. Each of its indwellers was known to all, and a sociability that sprung from the heart, united them in the bonds of neighborly kindness. Their dwellings were not closely packed together as I have seen in some villages which ape the style and appearance of cities, but, generally speaking, each house stood alone, environed by its well kept garden, abounding in flowers. There was no scarcity of fine old shade trees in its highways and byways.

It is now many years since I spent an August there, and most whom I loved therein have been carried to their resting-places in the church-yard ; but I love to think of them, and would pay the tribute of a few lines to their memory. It is pleasant to me to remember "the old standards," as the members of the oldest families in the place were called by uncle Bob, the negro barber, waiter and fiddler, himself, perhaps, the oldest inhabitant. Bob knew the dates of all the births, marriages and deaths that had occurred in Bucklesbury for sixty years. He was the standing chronicle and universal referee in all matters of village chronology ; the decision of the relative importance of modern fires and floods, snow-storms and hail-storms was of course his privilege as the " oldest inhabitant," whose memory as to such matters is always considered unquestionable, by way of exception to the usually received opinion that the memory grows weak with age. In matters of pedigree, I think Bob was worth a whole college of heralds. To all, gentle and simple, Bob was invariably civil, but the old standards, the representatives of those families in which he had lived in his youthful days were the chosen objects of his mingled love and reverence. Of nothing was he fonder of discoursing than of the old standards, except, perhaps, the eventful occurrence of his holding General Washington's horse for ten minutes. A stranger could not be long in Bob's company without hearing of that horse-holding, or of the old standards of Bucklesbury, perhaps of both.. In the largest house in the main street lived Major Lane, an especial favorite of mine. A widower without children, he loved to have us boys about him, and his house and grounds were freely open to us. He had served through the Revolution with much credit, and returned to "the dull pursuits of civic life" with a fortune somewhat impaired, but a constitution as vigorous as ever. How he loved to speak, and how we loved to

hear of Brandywine, Trenton, and Monmouth battles, in all of which he had done good service as a captain of cavalry ! It was a great day with him when he could gather thirty or forty boys about him in his grounds and drill us. The carpenter had made for him, in a rough way, three or four dozen wooden guns, and having armed us with these, the Major would go through his engagements in miniature, it being first settled by lot who should personate, for the time being, the British or the more odious Hessians. How gloriously we marched and countermarched, charged and retreated. The only drawback to our sport was that the boys who played King George's men' would sometimes become so interested as to be harder to defeat than was considered proper. Our old friend stood upon a little eminence, pealing forth his orders in that magnificent voice of his "Advance light infantry !" " Hessians fall back," "Forward Riflemen," and so on. In front of his door the Major had planted a battery, two small brass cannons, one-pounders, I believe. These we were sometimes allowed to drag about and pretend to fire, our mothers having strictly prohibited the use of gunpowder in our engagements. Twice a year the Major discharged them himself-on the Fourth of July and the Twenty-Second of February, whose return was duly announced to the village by a Federal salute at sunrise, and a National salute at noon from the Major's pieces. I was told that on these anniversaries, the Major was in high glee, wearing his old continentals well brushed, and having his hair doubly powdered and his queue arranged with unusual pains for the occasion. A supper for a large party of his friends usually closed the day. On the Fourth of July his door posts were hidden with wreaths and garlands, and they who had no flowers of their own raising for the adornment of their houses, which was then a general custom in the village on that day, were very welcome to Major Lee's garden. Perhaps there is more noise now in Bucklesbury on "the glorious Fourth," but I may doubt if there is as much real enjoyment or so heartfelt a veneration for the day and the men who made it memorable as in the times of which I am speaking. Miss Susan Slocum, who resided across the way from the Major's, was another of the old standards. A maiden lady of between forty and fifty-uncle Bob, who was a great admirer of her, never thought it right to be more particular- with much of this world's wealth at her disposal, her house was the abode of hospitality and kindness. The best society in the place was here to be met with ; I have spent many happy evenings there. Yet with most of the boys, her domain was not so desirable a resort, for she was very particular in her injunctions as to our deportment on her premises, not allowing us to pluck a fruit or flower without express permission, a restraint ill suited to a boy's idea of liberty.


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is uncertain how the Faun came to be in Wiltshire. Perhaps he came over with the Roman legionaries to live with his friends in camp, talking to them of Lucretilis, or Garganus or of the slopes of Etna; they in the joy of their recall forgot to take him on board, and he wept in exile; but at last he found that our hills also understood his sorrows, and rejoiced when he was happy. Or, perhaps he came to be there because he had been there always. There is nothing particularly classical about a faun: it is only that the Greeks and Italians have ever had the sharpest eyes. You will find him in the "Tempest" and the "Benedicite;" and any country which has beech clumps and sloping grass and very clear streams may reasonably produce him.

How I came to see him is a more difficult question. For to see him there is required a certain quality, for which truthfulness is too cold a name and animal spirits too coarse


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THE FATAL WALTZ, BY MRS. C.K, POWNELL.

‘Warx I wos a young gitl I remember paying a visit to an old venerable pile in the country, whose dark walls and intrieate passages made an indelible improssion on my childish imagination. It atooil in a grove of ancient trees, apart from the rest of the villoge; and nothing can be conceived moro solitary than this old pile, when the shades of night had stolen eround it. I shall never forget my childich fears whenever I had occasion to travel its long echoing corridors after twilight, and when even the shadows of the trees without, falling across the floor, stirred wierd feelinga at my heart.

I visited the place again in my nineteenth year, but it had lost much of its influence over my mind. The houso seemed neither eo large nor so solitary as when I visited it in childhood. I could now traverse ils wide old staircase after nightfall without a quickened pulsa- tion of the heart, and could lie on my pillow and hear the trees moaning without, and yet keep my head un- covered by the bed-clothes.

But thero was one object about the old mansion which remained unchanged, appearing to my fancy just as she had appeared to mo ten yenrs before. I mean my aunt Mary. How shalt I describe her? She was a cheerful old body, whose kindness of heart was dis- comible in every lineament of her face. Sho wore = close neat eap, and a gown of a pattern which had been out of date at least twenty years. A pin cushion usually hung suspended, by a silver chain, from her girdle; and in her hands were always to be seen the never-idle knit- ting needles, She was the village wonder in the way of simples, and had a knack of preserving peaches, quinces, &c. that few could equal. Her face was like a quiet landscape, saothing the heart by its untroubled expression. Her smilo was ineffably sweet. Yet she had always a sort of half melancholy look, as if sorrow had, tong yeera before, been busy with her heart, ‘When I first visited her, I was struck with this settled yet subdued expression; but I was then too young to think much of the matter. On my second visit, how- over, my curiosity was aroused, snd, as aunt Mary was an old maid, I busied myself in imagining a thousand versions of what I supposed to bo the story of her heart. She bad been unfortunate in love, of that I was sure. Aunt Mary saw my curiosity, and one evening, sfier we had drawn around the fire, and were alone, she gratified me with the following story.

I was once as young as you, Carry, and hed the reputation of being handsome beside. I was certainly rather a belle in the village, and was in requi

every ball or sleigh-ride, Flattered hy the attentions paid me I became at Jength e flirt, and sacrificed many a worthy man to my vanity, by indirectly encouraging hie attentions until he had staked his all on winning me, when I coolly dismissed him, affecting astonishment at his Jove. Ah! Carry, out sex little think. of the misery we inflict, until, Jike me, they have met their punishment,

‘My heart, in this career of folly, for a long time remained untouched. But at lesigth I was introduced to a person, who, from the first moment of our acquain= tance, awakened on interest in my heart, He was at that time just entering on the practice of the profession of the law, and hie friends were sanguine of the sutoess which his talents wrould secure him. Certainly, I never met a more fascinating companion, and this fascination was to be attributed chiefly to his powers of conversa tion. Unlike all the rest I had met, he scemed insen- sible to my charms, and though his demeanor was polite, it had not the warmth which characterized that of others toward me, It was perhaps even cold—yet hia heart ‘was generous to a fault, This piqued me, I determined to win bim, ‘

I will not detail the means hy which T succeeded in my design. But although my feelings at first were those only of pigue, they grew rapidly into those of love—warm, deep, uncontrollable Jove! Yee! I loved Albert Chartors as few women have loved, with all the fervor of @ passionate soul, with all the intensity of a first affection, He returned my love. And when his passion had been confessed, and I had promised to be his, he acknowledged that he had loved me from the first, end that he had been restrained from confessing huis passion at once only by the fear lest I might be the heartless thing, which too many were disposed to call me. How my heart upbraided me at these words !—for it wes only by concealing this trait in my character that Thad won his love, I felt the deception I had practised on him: I felt that, if he ever discovered it, hia noble nature would spurn me from him. But E resolved to be, in future, all that be could wish I

Albert was indeed a being such as few women have ever been loved by—generous, and high-minded, he was caleulated to awaken affection if ever one of his sex was. Ho had a lofty idea of.a true woman, Above all he looked for her to be guiltless of anything like deception —I felt, from the first, that hia love would cease if he came to beliove me guilty of an untruth. But, with all this, he had the highest confidence in her he loved. T remember onco when we talked of this subject he said,

“I cannot understand that love which has not the fullest reliance in the faith of the beloved object. Years might eeparate me from the mistress of my heart, but I should feel no jealousy. 1 could not love unless I be- lieved her I loved incapable of betraying me.”

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