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heart while he listened. He heard her gentle breath-| felt not the warm fear that fell upon it, "and you my ing. He laid his hand upon her heart. It still kept friends”-Turning to the parents—" can say, the up its workings. He laid her as gently as one would Lord gave, and the Lord bath taken away, blessed be lay an infant upon her bed, and summoned her at the name of the Lord.'” tendanis. She continued to sleep The physician assured him that death, though near, was not yet at

CHAPTER III. the door.

The next morning revealed a marked change in Carlion remained by the bedside of the departed the condition of the invalid. At first, she did not one till the at!endants came to prepare the body for seem to recognize Carlton. The cloud, however, the grave. He then repaired with apparent calmness soon passed from her mind, and she gave him her to his chamber, and remained ihere till summoned to usual smile and welcome.

attend the funeral. He took his seat in the church “I shall never rise from my bed again,” said she; with the afflicted parents, and with them followed "do not leave me except when I sleep. My mind the coffin to the grave-yard; but no tear fell from his begins at times to give way. Remember your pro- eye, nor, in view of the multitude, at least, did his mise to prepare to meet me in the better land.” countenance wear ihe expression of deep sorrow.

“I will," said he, nerving himself to composure Some thought he was wonderfully supported, and for her sake. He then read the Scriptures to her, others duubied the strength of his affection for the and, unasked, kneeled and offered a prayer in her departed one. behalf.

When the last sod have been laid upon the grave, Ere long the aged pastor of the village church en- he returned home, and seated himself by his father's tered the chamber. He had been absent some time side. on a visit of mercy to a prodigal son of one of his “You will hardly be disposed to return to college parishioners. He silently pressed the band of Carl- this term, my son," said the sympathizing father. ion, and passing to the bedside, impressed a kiss “Consult your own inclinations in relation to the upon the forehead of Eliza. His experienced eye matter." told him that the silver thread of life was well nigh “I shall return to-morrow, was the unexpected broken.

reply. The father made no objection. He looked "You are on the verge of Jordan," said be. upon exertion as the great antidote of sorrow, “ Yes," was the calm reply.

Early the next morning Willard arose, and having " Its waves are not rough ?

visited the grave-yard, and laid his head upon the “ Calm and peaceful."

sear lurf of the new made grave, be set out on his "You have no fears of death ?"

return to college. "None."

The evening found him at his room, surrounded “ Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory by bis friends, who came to express their sympathy through our Lord Jesus Christ. You can say Thy for his bereavement, or their joy at his return. At will be done ?"

an early hour he intimated his desire to be left alone. Looking for a moment with unutterable tenderness His well-known habit of retiring early, and the pain. upon Carlton, she closed her eyes and said, in a low ful scene through which he had passed, formed, in the but thrilling tone,“ Thy will be done."

judgment of his friends, an ample apology for any Her parents were called in. After uttering, from want of courtesy implied in the intimation. the depihs of his experience, a few words of consola- If there were any who thought that his affliction tion, the pastor kneeled down and offered a prayer, would weaken his devotion to intellectual pursuits, first for the dying girl, then for him who watched they were disappointed. His friends soon found that over her, and then for her parents and friends. Dur- their society was not desired by him. Even Temple ing the prayer Carlton held her band in his, and felt was constrained to feel that his presence was irk. its seeble pressure as the petitions had reference to some to bis friend. He seemed to desire to spend him.

every moment in study. No light burned later than She sunk into a brief slumber almost as soon as that which threw its rays upon the page before him. the prayer was ended. Perfect silence was pre- Modes of mental exertion, which he had formerly served, that she might not be disturbed. Carlton neglected, now received his earnest attention. In still relained her hand. The mother was about to the halls of debate which he had seldom visited, he make a whispered inquiry of the pastor, when the was now present on every occasion, and the energy sleeper awoke.

with which he grasped every question awakened the “Did you hear that music?" said she.

highest admiration. In whatever he undertook there “ No, dearest."

was an exhibition of power never before suspected " It was the sweetest I ever beard. It must have even by his partial friends. come from the golden harps. Hark! hear it again.” But the tense chord was at length broken. Anim

She closed her eyes. Carlton felt her hand relax passioned burst of eloquence, which, in the judgment its feeble grasp. He looked toward the pastor who of those present, surpassed any thing they had heard came to the bedside.

from mortal lips, was followed by the ravings of “She is with her God," said the old man, bending lunacy. down and imprinting a kiss upon the cheek which Released from the control of the will, the mind revealed the thought which had wrecked it. The name After some further inquiries and appropriate counwhich had never passed his lips, since she who bore sels, the pastor withdrew, strongly hoping that that it ceased to be an inhabitant of earth, was now con- chamber would be the scene of spiritual birth, and as stantly repeated in tones which drew tears from eyes i strongly fearing that it was again to bear witness 10 "unused to weep."

the power of death. He was removed by his friends to a lunatic asylum. The apparent improvement in the health of CarlAfter a long and dangerous illness, his brain began ton was of short continuance. Once only was he gradually to resume ils proper functions. Several able to walk to the grave-yard, and rest upon the relapses, however, were experienced, and it was not turf which was now green upon the grave of Eliza. till the spring and summer had passed, that his mind “Tell my father,” said he, one day to the physiwas fully restored.

cian, who had not expressed his opinion upon the He then returned, feeble and wasted, to his native case, “ that I shall not recover.” village. With the consent of his father, he took up “Have you no desire to live ?" said the pastor, his abode with the parents of the lost one, and occu- who was present. pied the chamber in which she breathed her last. “I think I can say with her, Thy will be done.' He passed the days sitting in her chair, looking out I see that life is altogether a different thir from what upon the landscape which she had loved to gaze I supposed. If it were God's will that I should conupon, and in reading the New Testament which had tinue here, I could perform as an hireling my day. lain in her bosom.

But he excuses me, and I am content; though I have For a few days his strength seemed to increase; to regret that I have been of no benefit to my fellow but there was little to justify the hope of his friends men." that he would be restored to healih.

His departure was much more sudden than was The aged pastor visited him, and kindly inquired expecied. On going to his chamber in the morning, respecting the state of his soul toward God.

his friends found that his spirit had fled. Iler New “He is too strong for me. I cannot contend with Testament was belween his bands, which were Him," replied the humbled sufferer.

clasped upon his bosom. Apparently he had passed It is well for us to be convinced that truth. away as gently as did the former owner of that preIt should lead us to acquaint ourselves with Him and cious volume. be at peace.”

The autumn leaves were falling as the procession "I am devoting all my time 10 the attainment of wound its way to the church-yard, and laid him 10 that knowledge and peace.

rest by the side of the grass-grown grave made just " He that seeketh findeth! What a blessed assur twelve months before.

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EARTH-LIFE.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

Thy loins shall grow to a pard-like power,

On the wild slopes of craggy hills;
Thou shalt bare thy breast to the arrowy shower,

And catch in thine arms the icy rills :
Thy vigorous blood shall exult the same,

When fevered cures in the spirit start,
As a pine, when the mountain is swathed in flame,

Keeps green and fresh in his spicy heart!

The breeze is blowing fresh and strong;

The rocking shallop chafes its chain,
And the billows are breaking in swells of song,

That call me forth to the deep again:
A fiery charger paws the sand;

A hound looks up with watching eye, To scour the forest and valley land,

And bay with the winds on the mountain high!
Let horus be heard in the gray rayine,

And stormy songs from off the sea !
There's blood in my heart, where tears had been,*

And the blood of Youth is bold and free!
Leave, weary Soul, the hermit-lore

Which kept this arm from the Life of EarthLie down to rest on the quiet shore,

While the dust, exulting, marches forth!
Thou hast wasted weak and pale, oh frame,

That once wert ruddy as the dawn !
But the Earth, thy mother, is filled with flame,

Whose sturdy warmth to thee has gone.
Thy locks shall toss on the mountain air-

Thy limbs shall cool in the sparkling brine; She will brace thy nerves with her forest-fare,

And warm thy veins with generous wine! * Mon cæur, au lieu de sang, ne roule que des larmes.

LAMARTINE.

Thou shalt go where the battle clarions blare,

With the fierce, heroic rage of old;
The lust of the soldier thy brow shall wear-

Thy heart shall swell like a banner's fold.
In the shrieking hail thou shalt stand, my frame,

Nor shrink from the path of thine arm's employ,
When the thews are steel and the veins are flame,

And Death to thee is a terrible joy !

Then, tighten the girth and loose the rein!

Unleash the keen, impatient hound,
And deep in the seething foam again

Let every quivering oar be drowned!
We will rock on the ocean's solemn rell,

Or follow the charging music's mirth,
And the vive's bright blood shall crown the bowl

That brims for us with the Life of Earth!

ELEONORE EBOLI.

A TALE OF FACT.

BY WINIFRED BARRINGTON.

CHAPTER I.

means by which women can earn a livelihood in this In the garret room of a little two-story house in detestable country. Now in France you might go Philadelphia, sat two women, both of whom were into one of the shops kept by women, or make pastry foreigners. A child reclined in the lap of one of in a confectionery. But in this country men monothem, who was baggard and thin, yet beautiful. Her polize all the labor, with the exception of sewing and features were of the Grecian cast, with a most fas- taking care of the children. However, I must go cinating smile, and hair of a light auburn, that curled now and pack my trunks. God be with you and Anaturally and in profusion around her finely modeled dear little Eleonore! You must accept this from me. head.

God bless you!" The appearance of the other woman was common- The good woman hurried away before Madame place, but she had a frank and kind expression that Eboli could speak. Her friend had left her a wellredeemed her bad looks. They were both French; filled purse. “ There is money enough,” thought the blonde had evidently a Parisian air, whilst the she, "to take me to New York. In New York I other as evidently came from one of the pro- shall find countrymen, and it may be friends. If I vinces.

die, they will then take care of Eleonore." “Ah, Madame Eboli!" said the latter, “now that I “Dear mother, kiss me!” said the little three-yearam going to join my husband in New Orleans, what old Eleonore. is to become of you? You must not stay in this “Yes, my child, and we will leave this place, and tiresome Philadelphia, where the women have no I will take my angel to New York, where I may find grace, no tournure; and the men never wear a mous- some old friends. My aunt thought of going there tache! not even an imperial! It is not astonishing with my boy cousins. Were I only to see her dear that I should be able to bear it, having been con- face once more! She always loved me, and when I demned from my earliest youth to a country-life, married poor Gustave and my father and mother cast where I was sometimes compelled to bring myself me from them, she addressed me with words of kindin contact with such rusticity! But you who come ness. Dear aunt!-and my sweet sister too. Alas! from our dear Paris, what a blow to your feel. I shall never see her more. Dear sister Eugenie ! ings to be placed among these savages! What a so young and so beautiful. But come, Eleonore, horror !"

bring thy doll; we will go to New York this very “My dear friend,” returned Madame Eboli, “the day.” world has of late altered in my eyes. The outward The poor woman was too ill, however, to accomforms of men had once an effect on me; now, I see plish this, so it was put off till the following day. A little beauty in even the finest features where there good dinner gave her renewed strength, it being the is no expression of sympathy for the unfortunate. first she had eaten for many weeks. As to remaining any longer in this city it is impossi- They were several days on the journey, and late ble. My funds had been exhausted two days pre- on the afternoon of the day of their arrival, Madame vious to your sending me that last piece of sewing. Eboli, with her child in her arms, stopped at the door. I cannot get sufficient employment by my needle to of a small house in Seventeenth street." By dint of support myself and Eleonore, and if I could I should gestures and broken English, the Irish, who were its fear the consequences. Bending over my work from inhabitants, were induced to relinquish a room to her. early morning till late at night, makes me very ill. She had wandered the city through, until weary, and I have now a constant pain in my side. It is but way-worn, her feet refused her further support. nine months since I crossed the sea, when my poor She sank on a bed exhausted with fatigue, anxiety, husband died, and I wish to be near the sea, for then and want of food. Her child she had fed with cakes, I do not seem so far away from him whose grave it and the little creature had fallen asleep, wearied by is-"

the excitement of the day. “You are a good musician, can you not teach the Many and bitter were poor Madame Eboli's reflecpiano or the guitar?”

tions. She cared line for herself, but she thought “Ah, Madame Persaune! I have tried that, but no that her tender and beautiful Eleonore was without one would take lessons of a stranger. My garb was a home and without friends. Not a countryman had an evidence of my poverty, and in their eyes of my she seen that whole day, and she had been followed inefficiency; my face had the sufferings I have en- by the jeers of the rude and ignorant German and dured written upon it.”.

Irish who form our suburbs, and who felt no pity for “ It is true that the ground is occupied by those of the poor stranger who could not make herself underhigh reputation and long standing, and I see no other stood.

CHAPTER II.

cepted Doctor Breton's invitation to enter and see the "Maman veut du feu !'' said a little girl, as she little Eleonore. pushed open the door of an Irish shanty, and stood Mr. Carron was a very impulsive man. He never with a shovel in her hand.

hesitated, never reflected, (never asked his wife's “Was there ever the like!” said Bridget, resting opinion, as every reasonable man should,) but went her fists on her hips. “Now this be's the third into raptures over litle Eleonore's beauty, and of. blessed day that the child has been here for coals and fered on the spot 10 adopt the child as his own-an said that same thing!"

offer that was thankfully accepted by the poor The child went quietly to the hearth, took some mother. coals on her shovel, and departed.

It was but a week after this, that the doctor found “I'se been thinking it is n't our language she's a Madame Eboli much worse. On leaving her he respeaking, though she's such a bit of a thing one quested 10 be called should any change take place in could n't tell rightly what she'd be afther? I'll her symptoms. follow her, belike she's in mischief, though it is n't in my heart to think ill of such a purty little cratur!"

CHAPTER III. So away ran Bridgel, down one pair of stairs and

It was ten o'clock. The night-lamp of up another, following the child, who pushed open a the infirmary showed with a horrible distinctness the door with her shovel; and there on the naked bed haggard inmates who were tossing and groaning on she saw Madame Eboli, with no covering but a their pallets. The doctor sat beside the bed of Ma. shawl. Madame Eboli spoke, but so faintly that dame Eboli. They were discoursing concerning Bridget could not understand her; she then laid Brid- Eleonore. get's hand on her forehead, when the Irish woman I conjure you," said the doctor, “tell me the instantly perceived that she was dying with fever. name of your family. It is necessary to the future

Bridget flew to a poor friend of hers, whom she welfare of your child !" knew was attended by an eminent French physician “My parents cast me from them. They loved me of the city. He had been kind, she thought, and done not-how should they love my child? No! it is betmuch for my sick friend, why should he not do the ter that she should eat the bread of strangers, and same for this woman, who was also in distress ? receive good and evil from their hands, than suffer Fortunately he was at the bedside of his patient when only insult and degradation from her mother's paBridget arrived.

rents." “Och, sir! an there's a poor woman in Seven- “ Then at least tell me your husband's name, and teenth street, what 's a terrible faver on her, and no where his relations are to be found ?" clothes to her bed, and nothing to ate; maybe yees 'd

" Alas! Gustave Eboli was an orphan, and poor; go and see her a bit! She 's a nice looking woman, therefore my father said I should not love him. . . and got as purty a child as ever I see.”

But I feel very faint-you said I should see my child "I will come to her directly,” said Doctor Breton. soon?"

"I think she's a foreigner, maybe yees could talk At this very moment the sound of advancing steps with her, being one yoursel; she's so wake, poor was heard, and Monsieur Carron entered with Eleothing ! there's no telling what she'd be saying.” nore in his arms. He placed her on the bed with

It was but a short ten minutes after Bridget's sum- Madame Eboli. The little creature nestled close, mons when the doctor opened the door of Madame kissing and embracing her mother in a transport of Eboli's room. The little girl was crying, and make delight; soon, however, the strange sounds, the shaing vain efforts to turn her mother toward her. As dowy figures that fitted past with noiseless footsteps, the child spoke in French, he addressed the mother startled and awed the child. And then her mother in that language, giving her at the same time, some looked so sadly on her, that she wept, scarce knowreviving medicine. After taking it, she was able to ing why, but in a subdued tone, as though some grief give him an account of herself, and also to tell him swelled her little heart too deeply to be given utterof her anxiety concerning Eleonore.

The doctor left the house, promising to return in “Poor child!" sighed the mother, “this is thy first an hour or two. Proceeding to the hospital, he pro- real sorrow. ... But I have a request yet to make. cured an entrance for her, and by the afternoon she In my basket you will find a miniature of my sister, had been carried there, placed on a nice clean bed, set in a pearl necklace; and a ring, my dear aunt's and her wants well attended to—thanks to the gene- gist. Should she ever come to this country, which rous kindness of a Christian heart! He then exerted she has spoken of doing, her first inquiries would be himself in behalf of the little one. He related the concerning me. The name of Eleonore Eboli and strange history of the mother to all his French pa- these jewels, would be sufficient evidence. ... tients, and raised a subscription to pay for the child's There are two letters also, which I would have saved board after her mother's death, which was evidently for Eleonore; they are her father's. . . . . . . My

sister and my aunt are the only persons of my family On his way to the hospital one morning, he over- who knew that my destination was America.” took one Mr. Carron, and told him Madame Eboli's Here she paused, as if exhausted. Little Eleonore sad story, asking his aid. They had by that time had ceased crying, and was gazing earnestly at her reached the door of the hospital, and Mr. Carron ac- mother.

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"Fear not for your child," said Mr. Carron, “Idren of every size, from her own up to the grown will take care of her. You may trust in me.” woman. I, who write this memoir, was there

Madame Eboli continued—“And now, my Eleo- among the rest. It was intermission, and we were nore, listen-you must be good, and stay with this all amusing ourselves in the way we liked best. A gentleman, who will love you like papa.”

desk next to mine was emply, and Eleonore was "It is not papa ? Where is papa ?" and the little placed there. She looked sad and frightened, and lips quivered.

was withal so preity, that I felt attracted 10 her. I “Where I shall soon see him, dear Eleonore! I essayed to make acquaintance by offering a part of am going to leave you. Never forget your poor mo- nty luncheon-she declined. I then continued, the ther.” She then kissed the child several times. | ice being broken. “ There is some of pa pa's hair in the locket around "Do you like going to school ?”' my neck.” Then addressing the gentlemen, she "I do not know. I never went." added : " Take it when I am gone-not till then." I suppose my eyes expressed astonishment, for she

Madame Eboli then sank into a stupor, in which blushed. I wonder if we shall be in the same class? she lay for half an hour; then opening her eyes, she How old are you?" only said:

“I am iwelve years old," answered Eleonore. "Gustave says come! .... My child we will “ Oh dear! I am between ten and eleven years watch over thee. .... Protect her, she is so young old. I am afraid they will put you in the class above -o innocent. I Gustave-I come!”

And the angel of death passed by and received her " What will be my studies ?" said the young girl, last breath. Sixteen summers had found her a child, timidly. eighteen a woman, and at twenty she was laid where I gave her a catalogue of my own lessons, which the aged sleep.

made her look very blank, and I then proceeded 10

tell her who the scholars were, and which I liked the “ Be her sleep calm and deep, Like theirs who fell, not ours who weep."'* best; and I also gave her some information respect.

ing the rules and regulations of the school.

“It is one o'clock," said the teacher. “The inCHAPTER IV.

termission is over!" Eleonore became at once, by the death of her mother, an inmate of the Carron family. Mr. Carron and though Eleonore sat beside me I could speak no

We hurried to our desks. I went to my lessons, peited the child for a short time, and then she was given over 10 the servants, Madame Carron having that there would be no danger of her getting in the

more to her that afternoon. I saw, nevertheless, something else to do, as she said, beside taking care

class above me for a long time to come. of orphans. Eleonore vegetated— I cannot use any other word

CHAPTER V. -in the servants' rooms for six whole years. At the end of that time, fortunately for my heroine, Mr. duced Eleonore as my companion at the desk. She

Two years and a half have passed since I introCarron's affairs obliged him to leave this country

was now between fifteen and sixteen. A tall and suddenly. It was rumored that he ran away from his creditors, but I know nothing of the matter. The finely formed girl for her age, her personal appearconsequence to Eleonore was, that she was left

ance was so pleasing that she attracted universal atwith Mr. Carron's brother Jerome.

tention wherever she appeared. Her hair still This brother Jerome had a very sensible wife, who curied in the same long golden locks; she had the was quite shocked at finding that the poor orphan had straight Grecian nose, and the deep, large blue eyes not been instructed even in the common rudiments

of her mother, and a noble forehead. Monsieur De. of knowledge. Her health was delicate, and as she lombre had more than fulfilled his promise. She was

his best scholar, could not undertake the charge of Eleonore'seducation, she placed her forthwith at Mr. Delombre's boarding had become inseparable. Every other Saturday had

Our intimacy had continued increasing, and we school, one of the best in the city of New York. I remember perfectly wellthe first time that Isa

I saw her.

been spent with her uncle and aunt; but as I was She was led by Madame Delombre into the school- something of a favorite with Mr. Delombre, I was room, and was there introduced to numbers of child allowed 10 take her with me on the intervening Sa.

turdays to my mother's house. * That same night, in the adjoining room of the hospital, Oh, how happy we were then! She was so gay died the son of Marmontel, from the effects of exposure and so cheerful, except when we talked of France, and hunger. He had been traveling over North America, when from some cause his remittances from France were for papa Carron had intimated in his letters to his brodiscontinued. lle found himself at Albany utterly without resources. Leaving his trunk there, he walked to New ther, that the time was approaching when Eleonore York in hopes of finding the money, or of borrowing some must leave America, she being now of an age in from the French consul. His journey was a long and toilsome one, and the exposure to the cold induced the re

which her services would be required by the family. turn of a fever from which he had but lately recovered at "She loved uncle and aunt Carron," she said, the West. The French consul treated him harshly, disbe. lieved his story, and sent him to the hospital. The day

"and she dreaded papa and mamma Carron. She after his death a large sum, directed to him, was received had kind friends in Mr. and Mrs. Delombre, and also through a packet-ship, which had been detained at sea by in my mother's family. It was hard to be obliged to a succession of disasters, two months longer than her usual time.

leave them, and live with those who cared not for

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