to the gay waltz, which will whirl away all ire from her heart in a little time-come bellisima mia.” Somerville glanced eagerly and beseechingly towards her. Since an intimacy of association had been perfected between them, Florence had sedulously abstained from participating in an amuse

a relentless destiny. And thou Florence, dear Flo- | I adopt the more modern, and, in my mind, more rence; shall I tell you"-And he bent his impassioned efficient panacea for all the ill-tempers 'flesh is gaze upon her" shall I picture to you, the burning heir to;' so I have come to bear my pretty cousin concentration with which every sentiment of love and idolatry I had imagined blighted and dead, has clustered together but to fall down and rest upon one goal!" He paused for an instant-it was but to draw nearer to his beautiful listener, and to lay his hand upon the snowy arm scarce distinguishable from the marble rim of the basin over which it ment, against which she had so often heard him hung. The quivering and tremulous moonlight poured through the skylight immediately beneath which she was standing, bathing in its bright flood, face and figure, until with her downcast eyes, and motionless attitude, she seemed personating some fabled Naiad.

vent his anathemas; and this deference to his sentiments was a hope, which Somerville failed not to garner and cherish with ardor of gratitude.

"To support my character for frivolity," responded Florence; "I must needs betake me to 'the giddy, whirling, loving dance;' and as Mr. Somerville seems to have established an unsparing surveillance over my actions, I must either disre gard his reproofs, or disrobe myself of my frivoli ty. My present decision speaks for the future.”

So saying, she yielded her hand to Harley and swept out of the room, while her facetious partner, glancing over his shoulder winked mischievously at Somerville, saying:

"This is what I call taking 'le roman justement par la queue."

At this moment she raised her eyes timidly; and, as she did so, she perceived an indistinct shadow darkening the doorway. Hurried away by the fervor of his feelings-a fervor which colored every word, Herbert marked it not. Aware of the coming interruption, and wishing to escape its awkwardness, with womanly tact and true feminine diplomacy, Florence started from her attitude of attention, and threw from her arm, the hand which had momentarily rested upon it,-exclaiming, "out upon you, Mr. Somerville-out upon you! you commence to Thus sprang up between these young hearts the initiate me into the mystic language of the 'painted distrust and coldness, which threw their shadows population,' but soon, diverging from its flowery far over the Heaven of their hopes. Herbert mazes, you embark upon such a torrent of high-walked towards the lighted rooms he had quitted a flown declarations, that I am actually just recover-short time before, with far different emotions-the ing the consciousness of my identity, and beginning to emerge from the new creations, with which you have been environing me-so, me voici no longer a patient listener."

Thus saying, she turned to greet Harley who at this moment entered; but Somerville, as he strode hastily away did not note the intrusion.

charm was being dissolved-hue by hue its brighte lorings were vanishing. "Ah! Florence, Florence." thought he, "can it be that I have concentrated my breath, my being, only on an image, which beautiful and faultless as the chiselled statue, is yet cold, dead and senseless as the inanimate marble."

"By your frivolity on a former occasion, Miss The pageant gone-the banquet over, Florence Courtland," remarked Herbert with a cold dignity, sought her rest, with the soothing hope of a speedy and some severity-" you interrupted the expres-explanation and reconciliation with him, whose m sion of feelings which I consider too sacred to be thus lightly met, and you now respond to them, with a superlative heartlessness, of which I had not conceived you capable. What am I to understand from this conduct?"

Then turning abruptly towards her, as he concluded, he became aware for the first time of the presence of Harley.

age was but the more clearly mirrored in her be som's depths from that alienation which she believed would be so transitory. Soon, the glittering lash drooped over the moistened eye-the flushed check, pillowed upon the hand, lost its feverish glow ca fainter rose-hue-the balmy breathings grew sofier, and softer from the parted lips-and she slept. Gazing upon her beautiful slumber, one marts "Frivolity! heartlessness!" returned Florence, well have imagined Hope and Love were keeping with an air of genuine amazement, " permit me to their vigils over the couch of the sleeper-Love echo your question, sir! What am I to understand making an atmosphere of light and fragrance, from these accusations?" And elevating herself to the perpetual flutter of his bright-hued wings-22 her full height, she awaited his reply in haughty Hope, "as she waved her golden hair," casting a silence. sunshiny radiance from each glittering thread upe "Ma joi!" ejaculated the facetious Harley; the young, hushed face beneath. "upon what a scene have I broken in! Oh! for the And thus softly and calmly slept Florence, ba aurea virga of the 'winged son of Maia,' that Ipy in the anticipation of the morrow! Alas' to might cast it between you, to hush this war of how many throbbing hearts in this dark world, does words!—but hopeless of Mercury's storied caducus the morrow bring the memory of haunting hours,

only to show the nakedness of the future, without | the hopes that once illumined those hours.

CHAPTER VI.

Ingeminant cura rursusque resurgens

Sævit amor, magnoque irarum fluctuat æstu."

Virgil.

'If my remembrance is what you covet," replied Florence, and she spoke coldly and bitterly; "if my remembrance is what you covet, you may depart with that wish gratified to the full. I cannot forget you, Mr. Somerville, nor would I ask oblivion; for my brief association with you has taught me, the romance of ideal life is sometimes For many days Somerville came not, and no graphically caricatured, in the sombre realities of word of explanation, no expression of regret was this brave world of ours.' How I shall rememsent in his stead, to cheer the lagging and desolate ber you-with what sentiments you will be linked hours. Unhappy, anxious, and alternating between in my remembrance, is different-c'est tout autre hope and despair, Florence's bright eyes were dim-chose-" added she, laughing sarcastically. med, and the warm hues of the cheek flickered Somerville gazed earnestly and sorrowfully upon and faded. her as she turned away. ""Tis as I thought—as I

She stood alone on the spot where Somerville's feared," said he mentally-"how could I ever hope half-whispered confession had, one week before, deep emotions would make a home in so frail and caused her heart to throb tumultuously. She re-airy a temple-where every breeze, toying carelessmembered the deep, the entrancing happiness ly with sacred things, scatters afar each offering the which had revelled in her breast, when the dawn- hand of the worshipper may have deposited therein. ing of hope sprang, with one bound, to bright meri-Oh! Florence-Florence, thou art indeed beautiful dian-she recalled the murmured words-the love- as the sunbeam upon the ripple of a placid lakebeaming glance which came with those words-and yet cold-cold as the frozen slumber winter casts she gazed upon the withered rose she held—his upon its waters!" He, however, repressed his gift-fit emblem of her own seared hopes-till the emotions, and with a voice in which sadness had no linding tears overflowed her eyes, and nestled in part, and with a smile light as her own, he rehe bosom of the faded flower. A footstep soun-torted, led near; hastily dashing away her tears, she seem- "Since I am to be remembered in so equivongly occupied herself with her rare and rich flow-cal a manner, 'tis best at once to relieve you of ers, and as she turned to welcome the intruder, my personal presence. I have the honor, Miss one could have guessed that fair young face had Courtland, to bid you adieu"-and he bowed so low ust been flooded with bitter tears! Woman's task that the clustering dark hair fell in confused masses o veil the heart is early acquired. over his forehead, and shaded the startling paleness which had gathered there, as he felt the darkness of his destiny was closing around him, and that he was severing the last tie between his fate and that of the beautiful girl to whom his heart had gone forth, in all the trusting faith of its worship!

It was Somerville who entered, and a bright flush swept over Florence's cheek, as she responded to is greetings. He was very, very pale, and an expression of the deepest melancholy shaded the ustre of his fine eyes. He advanced towards Florence who continued standing; and, speaking with rapidity, as if anxious the interview should be brief-said

"I have called this morning, but for one moment, Miss Courtland, to make you my adieu before my leparture for my distant home. I have received ntelligence, which renders it necessary that I should depart without any delay."

Florence, concentrating dignity, pride and coldness into one withering focus, glanced towards him, inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment of his adieu, and murmuring a blithesome melody, she stooped to caress the queenly blossoms of the camelia, near which she had continued standing, during her interview with him.

The door closed after him-the step passed Florence bent down over the superb camelia near from without the hall-and Florence then felt he er, to conceal the burning crimson tide which was indeed gone! She buried her face in her hands, zushed over her brow and cheek, as Somerville and though no sound came from the heaving boinnounced his intention. There was a silence of som, yet the ocean-springs of her heart were bub1 minute-ere it had passed, she raised her head, bling up to the surface—the tears flowed in torrents and the beautiful face was as colourless as the hue- from her eyes, and oozing through the fair, and ess petals of the flower, over which she had leaned. slender fingers, dropped like jewels from the bowed ""Tis needless to speak to you," continued So-face. Long and wildly she wept-but the intensinerville, "of the regret with which I sever my-ty of sorrow at length exhausted itself--she grew self from associations, interwoven with the dearest calm, and binding again the long shining tresses reminiscences of my lonely life; in these feelings which had strayed over her shoulders—removing you will not participate; I cannot hope, that in your own happy fate, you will throw even one transitory remembrance to the stranger who has, for a season, mingled in your circle."

from her face all traces of tears-" I will forget him" she said-" I will not quench the light of my beauty, by vain regrets-but I will go forth into the circles I have so long adorned, and trample upon

the proudest ship that rides the sea only a per- grows and decays untouched from age to age. The fection of the canoe of the savage? Are not Gothic gold glitters in the sand, and the more useful metals churches only an advance on the forests, God's lie buried in the dust of the earth. The pearl refirst temples,' the drop-roof, an imitation of hang-mains on the floor of the ocean. The granite and ing boughs, the stained windows, an attempt to marble are hid in the bowels of the mountain, and counterfeit a sunset sky, sending its light through man creeps about in the skins of animals. In this the interstices of waving foliage? In Painting, it state of things, introduce Taste, and lo! the transis always the aim of the artist to copy nature; and, formation. The forest bows to the woodman's other things being the same, his success is in exact axe and is converted into implements of utility, or proportion to his skill in imitation. Why does he floats on the ocean. The metals become ornalove to represent the unaffected positions of chil-ments, and a medium of exchange among all nadren, rather than the stiff attitude and awkward tions, and the hum of happy industry rises on every grimace of men? It is unnecessary to answer. gale. Music strings her harp, and Poetry chants The same principles apply to music, poetry, and her numbers. The marble breathes-it starts to all the arts. If these things be so, does not the life: the granite is converted into the abodes of man who objects to the study of art, virtually op- man, and into temples of the Most High. pose the study of nature?

Of all the benefits arising from the cultivation of correct taste, we cannot now attempt an enumeration. It fits us to estimate better the world in which we live. That the universe was designed by its Creator to afford happiness to man, cannot be denied. Its adaptation to his physical and intellectual organization, strikes the observer at a first survey. God might have made the earth a monstrous plain, of one color, without flower or bird. Instead of hanging over us by day, a tent of many-tinted clouds, and by night, a curtain of azure, he might have made the sky of a gloomy, unchangeable hue, with little beneath it to promote the well-being of his rational creation. But how far otherwise is the fact! How prodigal is Nature in her gifts! How all things contribute to render us happy!

'More servants wait on man
Than he'll take notice of.'

But he who does not cultivate a discernment of these things, walks blindfolded over the earth. This beautiful adaptation, running through all nature, brings such an one few thrills of pleasure. In his estimation, Niagara furnishes excellent water-privileges; and his perception is about as accurate as that of the blind man who thought that the color of scarlet must be something like the sound of a trumpet!

The cultivation of Taste is but a cultivation of the entire man. Who can doubt that Poetry has a tendency to polish the roughest nature, and impart new and pure aspirations? Will not he who has just conceptions of the true and the beautiful, shrink from whatever is low and degrading, sooner than he who has no such conceptions? And who will affirm that Music has no influence in making men better? Taste rocked the Cradle of Music and Poetry, and led them on to their present maturity. To comprehend fully the influence of true taste (and we here use it in its enlarged acceptation,) we need only for a moment to suppose the world destitute of it. How cold and desolate! The forest

In conclusion, we say that the perversion of taste to evil is no argument against its proper cultivation. Like all that was originally good, and designed to promote happiness, it is liable to become an instrument of the arch enemy; but if cultivated with a becoming spirit, it may be like the star which shone over Bethlehem,-it may lead wise men to worship God. D.

SONNET.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

O weary heart, that dwellest long in pain,
Beams there no star upon thy prison home?
Dost thou look forth and long for rest in vain,
While round thee deeper grows the shrouding gloom?
O, wanderer, on a dark and dismal way,

Where sorrow walks, companion stern, with thee!
Dost thou press earnest toward the goal, and pray
To reach it, and be from thy burthen free?
Earth has one blessed boon for eyes that weep,
One refuge for the heavy-laden slave;

A couch of peace-a long and dreamless sleep;
A welcome bourne-the cold and silent grave!
Open thy arms-O mother! on thy breast
That I may lay my weary head, and rest!
June, 1842.

Notices of New Works.

NEW WORK

ON THE VIRGINIA SPRINGS. We are informed by Messrs. WILEY & PUTNAM of New York, that they have now in press, and expect to issue, early in July, a work entitled "The Mineral Springs of Western Virginia," written by our fellow-citizen, WILLIAM BURKE, Esq. Before the Manuscript was sent on to New York, we were favored with a glance at it, by the gifted author, and we can, and do, assure the public, that we have rarely met a work of so unpretending a title, containing so much valuable information, and composed in so pure and fascinating a style.

It is very much to be regretted that the book is to be delayed by the determination of the publishers to stereotype

it; but this very circumstance is conclusive evidence of ment, that breathes, as it were instinctively, from every the estimate set upon it by those discriminating and judi- note of her lyre. We are told that Miss Hooper regarded cious gentlemen. The friends of Mr. BURKE were aware every commendation she received, "not so much as a trithat he was a man of high classical attainments; but we bute to past achivement, as the strong incentive to future doubt whether they were generally prepared for the informa- effort." She obviously possessed a progressive mind; and tion, which this work cannot fail to impart, that he is, more-it is delightful to trace, in her poetry, a gradual but distinct over, a learned and practical physician, and puts forth views improvement in style and vigor of thought. With the spirit and disquisitions on medical subjects no less profound than of this lady's muse, we heartily sympathize, not merely be they are original. We had hoped that the work would have cause it is pure and truthful, but because it is ardent and appeared in time to be reviewed by some eminent physician womanly. In speaking of Komer's bride, she says— of our City, in this number of the Messenger; but it is She had listened otherwise, and for the sake of our readers, we are sorry for it.

If the publishers fail to make a large sale, it will be because they are too late for the Springs going community.

POETICAL REMAINS OF THE LATE LUCY HOOPER, collected and arranged, with a Memoir, by John Keese. New-York: Samuel Colman; 1842.

"The good die first,

And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust,
Burn to the socket."

There is something at once touching and consolotary in the early death of the gifted. When we think of their unfolding powers, their rich promise, their winning graces, we shrink from the idea of their departure. But if we remember how many of those we have loved or respected, have disappointed our confidence, and dimmed the faith we cherished in their excellence, it seems as if life was made more holy and hopeful when its stars are withdrawn with out having, for a moment, fallen from their exalted orbits. Thus human character is hallowed to the imagination and the heart; and some of the friends who have cheered and charmed us, become the canonized saints of memory. Such reflections naturally suggest themselves to the reader of a volume like that before us. It is the legacy of one endowed with a superior mind, and graced with the tenderness and truth that is the glory of woman. The biography annexed to these poems is drawn by a partial hand; and for this very reason, we find it attractive. To no indifferent pen should such a duty have been confided. We have no pa tience with those who would coldly dissect a youthful character, or critically examine the first flowers of genius. There is a bloom and freshness about such offerings that should make them sacred. If there is a spot on earth where the heart's impulses may be innocently followed, it is beside the grave of youthful genius. In a spirit of pure sympathy and generous interest, Miss Hooper's biographer has edited her remains. In previous numbers of the Messenger, we have spoken of Mr. Keese's "Poets of America" as the work of a liberal and tasteful mind; and our inferences from the previous specimens of his tact and warm interest in American literature, are amply borne out by the work before us. It is a remarkably neat volume of nearly three hundred pages. The memoir narrates but few events; for the life of Lucy Hooper was one of seclusion; but it portrays various traits of character and habits of mind, which cannot fail to interest all who find pleasure in her poetry. Her facility in compositon appears to have been remarkable. Mr. Keese says she seemed "to think in verse." There is a spontaneous air about several of her poems, particularly those in blank verse, which give them the charm of unstudied simplicity. Her religious sympa. thies were strong and prevailing, and they color her writings so as happily to modify the sad spirit of her muse. We have been struck, in looking over this volume, with frequent evidences of refined taste in the use of language; and no characteristic has served more forcibly to justify the exalted estimation in which Mr. Keese regards the poetess, than a certain feminine delicacy and elevation of senti

To the rich music of the voice that now
Was hushed forever, till the Earth had not
For her an echo like its tone. And now
Could she live on, when never more that brow
Might greet her own, when in his honored grave
The hero slept, crowned with the laurel wreath
Of a bright, early fame-and in his hand
The sword, men called his bride? p. 104.

In the "Daughter of Herodias" there is a fine vein of feeling :

Mother! I bring thy gift,

Take from my hand the dreaded boon, I pray,-
Take it, the still, pale sorrow of the face
Has left upon my soul its living trace,
Never to pass away;-

Since from these lips one word of idle breath
Blanched that calm face-oh! mother, is this death? p. 8%,
"Osceola" is a spirited and moving lyric. The fate of
the brave savage is eloquently lamented; and who does not
respond to the concluding stanzas?

Which thou art wearing life away to paint,
Are linked unto corruption, and will pass;
But there are aspirations of the soul
Uniting us to angels, there are calm
And quiet sufferings, which wear a trace
Upon our spirits, and refine its dross,
But men will pass them by, for there are few
Can enter in the temple of the heart
And read its secret sorrow. p. 233.
The sentiment of Miss Hooper's verse is never sickly.
It has the refinement of her sex with the depth of a strong

nature:

Those were strange tales

They told in olden days of silken chains,
And flowery fetters,-these are seldom Love's!
His is a sacrifice of lonely thought-
Of vain, sweet fancies-of rose-tinted dreams.
His is the offering of burning tears,
And vows the deep heart utters. p. 248.
This is a vigorous prelude to one of her sketches en
titled "Pencillings :"

It was Ambition's hour. I laid down
The glorious record of the olden time,
The stirring annals of those mighty men