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to rest.

sat down on the sofa by the invalid, and passed her withstanding all his mother had said, for the beauty hand over his high, while forehead, to see if any that had grown upon Fanny. He loved beauty just fever were warning her to send her patient away as he loved roast pig and canvas-backs—and he was

smashed at once-Fanny had made an impression. “I will give you myself and all that I have,” said He asked her to play and sing for her ciderant he, again bursting into tears.

teacher, and the impression was fixed. A flood of new thoughts rushed through the mind Wilson was sure at the end of an hour that he of Fanny. She paused to think what to say. “You should marry Fanny Evans; and Fanny thought are weak, cousin, and must not sit up too long. him a very good-looking, interesting young man, Will you go to your room, or will you rest and sleep and she rejoiced in his good fortune; their mu. on the sofa here?"

sical tastes formed a bond between them, and it “Mr. Evans was frightened at what he had said. suon seemed very natural and proper to Fanny that He was sure Fanny could never love him only as a she saw young Wilson daily. She was sad, and father or elder brother; and now he thought he had singing diverted her. His voice was good, and they broken the freedom of that relation, and he blamed sung duets. He played finely, and this was very himself, and troubled himself, and well-nigh fretted pleasant. She had become estranged from her cousin, himself into a relapse of his fever. But his naturally and she wanted some company. Fanny bad never strong constitution triumphed, and in a few weeks been so unhappy since she first came to live with he was perfectly restored.

her cousin. Finally, Wilson offered himself to her. Meanwhile Fanny had become grave and thought. This was an event to Fanny entirely unexpected. ful; and, truth 10 tell, she shunned her cousin more “Do n't speak of such a ihing," said she, earnestly. than she ought. She had not known how dear he Pray excuse me, Mr. Wilson," and she went was to her till his illness-during the time that he straight out of the room. When she reached her was considered dangerous she had neither eaten nor chamber, she felt very sorrowful, and, truth to tell, slepl. She had watched over him as a mother very sick. She had been worn down by labor and watches her first born. She felt that if he should die, watching during Mr. Evans's illness, and her sadlite, which had always seemed so full of joy and ness in being estranged from him. She had got blessing, would be a blank to her. She had not nervous, and began, for the first time in her life, to asked herself if this were love. She had supposed have the blues. She almost persuaded herself that it was only the interest she ought to feel in her cousin. she was become a burden to her cousin, and that she Now she was put upon examining her own heart. ought to marry Wilson. She wept till she had a She fully believed that her cousin was by no means dreadful headache, and when the servant came to in love with her, but ihat his tender confession was call her to make Mr. Evans's tea, she was really too owing to the weakness induced by his severe illness ill to go down and with swollen eyes, red face, and and his grauiiude to his fortunately successful nurse. dabbled and disarranged curls, she looked into the

glass, and dared not present herself before her cousin. CHAPTER VI.

" Tell Mr. Evans that I have a bad headache, and “And now, mother, tell me all about the Evanses. if he will excuse me, I will go early to bed. Make Is my flame as foxy as ever? She must be quite a every thing very nice for him, Norah. Were his young lady. Heaven forgive me for not being slippers warm when he came in ?" thankful enough for all mercies in general, and for "I do n't know, Miss, but I will get his supper the particular one that I am not obliged to marry red good—and she went to carry Fanny's excuse to Mr. hair.” Thus spoke the fortunate Wilson, the morn- Evans. ing after his arrival from New Orleans, bringing the Go back, Norah, quickly, and ask Miss Evans welcome news that his relative was dead, and that if I may come up. he was his heir.

Fanny had wheeled her sofa to the fire, and had “Do n't be too hasty, Sylvester," said his mother.. just buried her face in a velvet cushion to weep as “Miss Evans has changed more than any one you long and as much as she wished. Mr. Evans, in his ever saw. She is a perfect beauty, bating her freckles. concern for her, had followed Norah, and stood outHer hair is no more red than a chestnut. She is side the door. plump and round as an apple; she is white as snow, “Tell him not to trouble himself to come up. I and her eyes are as pretty as possible.”

shall do very well as soon as I have slept." “Amen, mother! One would think you were her “If you had asked me to take the trouble to stay lover instead of your hopeful son. But I will see down stairs, I might have thought of it; but seeing I for myself. I shall not take your word or your bond am here, it is no trouble to come; and you are so for that girl's beauty.”

bright and cosy, suppose you let the girl bring the And so Mr. Wilson, armed for conquest, presented waiter up here and make my tea for me." himself before Miss Evans. She had never cared Mr. Evans was quite sure that something beside enough for him to be very glad to see him, but she sickness had happened to Fanny, and he intended 10 received him politely and kindly, as was her nature. be confessor or tor, as the case might be. He was a very good-looking, stylish young man, and “ Norah, bring Mr. Evans's supper to my room," he talked well on common topics, and soon succeeded said Fanny, more cheerfully than she would have in interesting Fanny. He was quite unprepared, not- thought possible a few minutes before. And she

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passed into her bed-room and bathed her face and her cure of your headache, or heartache, that you have eyes, and arranged her hair, and came back to make my consent to marry Mr. Wilson.” tea for Mr. Evans very much improved. But she Fanny burst into so violent and uncontrolled a fit could not talk-she had fairly lost her tongue. of weeping, that Mr. Evans was alarmed and puzzled.

Mr. Evans seemed more unconstrained and more "Speak to me, Fanny, tell me what is all this. I fully himself than since his unfortunate offer of him- thought to give you great joy, and I only set you self to Fanny.

weeping. Tell me, what does all this mean?" “Fanny,” said he, after the tea things were taken “Dear Cousin Charles,” said Fanny, "you have away, “I would like to ask you what is the matter, given me the greatest joy of my life.” if I thought you would like to tell me. It is no com- “ Then you love Wilson, as I thought," said Mr. mon headache that is tormenting you; I would Evans. sooner guess it is a heartache."

“No, no—not Wilson, but you, Cousin Charles ; “And what if it is a heartache ?” said Fanny. and you said you would rather have me for your

“ You mean to ask what I should have to do with wife than an angel." And Fanny threw her arms the diseases of your heart. I tell you, Fanny, I am around Charles Evans's neck; and there is not a not as bad as you may think, or so big a fool either. shadow of doubt that he would cheerfully have ex. For instance, though I love you a great deal better changed all the pleasures of his long bachelorate in than Heaven, and would sooner have you for my a lump, for the kisses of the next five minutes. wise than an angel, yet knowing that you can't love They were a happy couple that evening; but an old codger like me, I want to see you happy with Wilson's prospects were worse damaged than his the man of your choice, and I tell you now, for the heart.



SWEET is the tomb—the all-forgetting tomb

The drearless couch round which no phantoms glide, To harrow up the soul, or read a doom,

Of yore on their dread Sabbath prophesied. Calm are its slumbers-never more shall pride,

Hatred or malice, wound the sleeping clay; Wrong not the dead—they should be deified

They lived and suffered, and have passed away ; Here be all feuds forgot-ye, too, shall have your day. Your day of trouble, when the cup of Grief,

Full of its Marah-waters must be drained E'en to the dregs—when ye will need relief

From those upon whose head your lips have rained,
Curses; when they who were by you disdained,

Shall offer in their mockery, to dry
The hot dew of your brows by anguish strained

Through the parched skin. Ah! then, in grief to fly
For refuge to the grave, and find but calumny.
Let the dead rest—if ye must “snarl and bite,"

Turn to the living—there your venom spill;
Put on Deception’s mask, then vent your spite,

Sharpen your fangs, and gnaw, and rend, and kill'T is a sweet banquet-eat and drink your fill;

Ye can thrive well on malice-but forbear
To stir the ashes of the dead, your skill

Can never fan a glowing ember there,
At which the hated torch of vengeance to repair.
Look on the dead, and if ye cower and quail

To think that ye shall be like them one day-
That the cold coffin-worm, with slimy trail,

Shall crawl across your forehead, or from play
Within your eyeless sockets forth shall stray,

To feast upon your rottenness, your hair
Shall drip the sick’ning grave-damps, and the gray,

Dry dust of the rank sepulchre, for air,
Fill up your nostrils—then by the cold grave forbear!

Think on your last dark hour, when a gaunt form,

Spectral and shadowy, shall stoop and set
A mystic seal upon you ; when the storm

Of conscience rages, till its spray has wet
Your brow; when, like the doom in Venice met,

The walls of your lone chamber seem to close
Upon you, crushed and bleeding, dying, yet

Never to die-from torments such as those,
Would you be free? Withhold-break not the dead's re-





A STALWART blind man trudging through the mud,
O’ertook a cripple; side by side they stood.
“Cripple, you 're stall’d,” cried Blinky,“ in this clay,"
Cripple replied, “ Can Blinky see his way?"
“Not a d-d inch,” the poor blind man replies,

" But mount my shoulders, boy, lend me your es;
Keep them wide open, let their light be mine,
Cling to my shoulders, and my legs are thine.
And with clear eyes, strong shanks and shoulders good
We need no more to travel through this mud."



A sigh steals down the smiling valley—a gentle ships in the camp, with night's cold shadows closing sigh of breezes, wafting happiness over the face of round him, and no pillow for his head save the still nature, and at the sound from out their beds of colder earth; or 'mid the battle's carnage, or on the earth, myriads of things of beauty wake into exist- ensanguined field, strewn alike with friends and foes, ence;—meadow and plain and hill-side glisten in would look not half so pleasant to their eyes as that fairest verdure—flowers fling their fragrance on the exulting warrior; or had they watched the student gale-stately trees wave their foliage to the passing through long years of vain research, poring o'er wind-while streams beneath dance onward to the musty tomes till the stars paled before the light of ocean-and the dream-like hum that fills the air and day, with fevered brow and aching heart, filled with swells in chorus to the arch of heaven, tells of the strong hopes that time still dashed to earth-though blooming Spring of the transcendent pleasures of Time at last was destined to fulfill; the marvels Life.

wrought thus dearly, thus hardly given to the world, What a glorious earth has man for a habitation ! the car with wings of fire, the thought, borne as on what scenes surround him to ennoble the soul-what the lightning's shaft, the shadow that no longer examples to elevate and incite the mind to strive for vanishes, when won at such a cost, would lose their the goal of Happiness. That goal, alas! how distant value, and the philosopher stand unenvied though and hard to reach; thorns hedge the road the aspiring pre-eminent. one would tread, and weeds spring rank and choking Men judge too oft by outward show, the glitter in the pathway, or often, when the seeming height is hides the dross which lies beneath, the peasant would won, the eminence fades to a common level, and seek happiness in palaces, the rich, perchance, see Happiness is as distant as ever! But the soul must pleasures ’mid the poor; all err, all causelessly detoil, though success is but a vision—the mind must spond, for place nor circumstance alone can make work, although its labors be fruitless; for there is a life happy; there is no lake with breast by winds unHigher power controlling the actions of man-guiding ruffled, no sea by billows always unconvulsed-even his impulses and passions, and girding him for the so is it with man. How many noble minds are conflict around him and within him—the struggle that crushed beneath adversity, and pulses that ere-while is ceaselessly waging—the Battle of Life!

warmed with a kindred glow to kindred energies, How sweet is Fame! Even now, upon men's throb now to sorrow and bereavement? How many tongues there dwells some name whose every sylla- bearts that loved—loved, oh, how fondly—are doomed, ble is a charm, thrilling to adoration. Here, a patriot alas ! to live, and live alone? How many breathing spirit, whose fires have smouldered long beneath beings toil and travail on to gain wherewith they wrong and malice, rises superior to ills, and grasps- may drag out existence-how many lots that look almost the consummation of his wishes; there, a the brightest, are fraught with bitterest wo! warrior from the laureled field, receives the homage And still the strife goes on, still the throng heaves of a grateful people; or some philosopher, with potent and swells tumultuously, as waves that surge against wand, discloses to a wondering world a new dis- the rocks which bind them, and one unceasing current covery in Science. They stand aloft upon the pin- flows turbulently onward, bearing with it the joys nacle of Fortune, and eager crowds beneath echo and sorrows, the hopes and passions of a worldtheir praises or envy their success; and upward still onward ever, to the trackless ocean of Eternity. they gaze, blind to the rugged crags that lie between But fields are green and flowers are fair--there is -blind 10 the slippery height they covet-blind 10 no warfare on the hills, nor in the groves, nor on the The thousands round them on the same great plain, plains; the elements break in fearful grandeur above; breathless and bleeding from their vain attempts to the seasons come and go-yet sunshine follows climb the dazzling steep-or happy in an humbler storms as day the night, and Winter yields to Spring. sphere.

No murmur is heard, save that which trembles Ah! had they seen that lofty mind on the chill through the air, of rippling streams and stirring leaves, yesterday of Adversity, with naught but obstacles and songs of sweetest music; and the works of Na. before him ; who knew that Country was upon men's ture stand forth in majestic harmony, unmoved by lips only as a substitute for self, and yet heard his the strivings around them, regardless alike of the own efforts slandered as false and recreant, and whose fears and longings, the griefs and tumults raging in high purposes had bent before the storm only to rise the breasts of men-serene and placid, despite the unbroken-they would not undergo the patriot's contest, and at Peace, though amid the ihroes of The trials, even for his rewards. The soldier's hard- Battle of Life.



(Concluded from page 319.)


33. The taste manifested by our Transcendental poets, The ingenuity of critical malice would often be is to be treated "reverentially,” beyond doubt, aslaughable but for the disgust which, even in the most one of Mr. Emerson's friends suggests—for the fact is, perverled spirits, injustice never fails to excite. A it is Taste on her death-bed-Taste kicking in arti- common trick is that of decrying, impliedly, the culo mortis.

higher, by insisting upon the lower, merits of an 27.

author. Macaulay, for example, deeply feeling how I should not say, of Taglioni, exactly that she much critical acumen is enforced by cautious attendances, but that she laughs with her arms and legs, tion to the mere " rhetoric” which is its vehicle, has and that if she takes vengeance on her present op- at length become the best of modern rhetoricians. pressors, she will be amply justified by the lex His brother reviewers—anonymous, of course, and Talionis,

likely to remain so forever-extol “the acumen of 28.

Carlyle, the analysis of Schlegel, and the style of The world is infested, just now, by a new sect of Macaulay." Bancroft is a philosophical historian; philosophers, who have not yet suspected themselves but no amount of philosophy has yet taught him to of forming a sect, and who, consequently, have despise a minute accuracy in point of fact. His adopted no name. They are the Believers in every brother historians talk of "the grace of Prescott, the thing Odd. Their High Priest in the East, is Charles erudition of Gibbon, and the pains-taking precision Fourier-in the West, Horace Greely; and high of Bancroft.” Tennyson, perceiving how vividly priests they are to some purpose. The only common an imaginative effect is aided, now and then, by a bond among the sect, is Credulity :-let us call it certain quaintness judiciously introduced, brings this Insanity at once, and be done with it. Ask any one latter, at times, in support of his most glorious and of them why he believes this or that, and, if he be most delicate imagination :-whereupon his brother conscientious, (ignorant people usually are,) he will poets hasten to laud the imagination of Mr. Somebody, make you very much such a reply as Talleyrand whom nobody imagined to have any, " and the made when asked why he believed in the Bible. “I somethat affected quaintness of Tennyson.”—Let believe in it first," said he, “because I am Bishop of the noblest poet add to his other excellences—if he Autun; and, secondly, because I know nothing about dares—That of faultless vesification and scrupulous it at all.What these philosophers call “argument,” attention to grammar. He is damned at once. His is a way they have "de nier ce qui est et d'expliquer rivals have it in their power to discourse of “A. the ce qui n'est pas.'

true poet, and B. the versifier and disciple of Lindley 29.

Murray." The goddess Laverna, who is a head without a body, could not do better, perhaps, than make ad

That a cause leads to an effect, is scarcely more Vances to “La Jeune France," which, for some certain than that, so far as Morals are concerned, a years 10 come at least, must otherwise remain a repetition of effect tends to the generation of cause. body without a head.

Herein lies the principle of what we so vaguely term 30.

** Habil." Mr. A—is frequently spoken of as “one of our

35. most industrious writers ;" and, in fact, when we

With the exception of Tennyson's “Locksley consider how much he has written, we perceive, at once, that he must have been industrious, or he Hall,” I have never read a poem combining so much could never (like an honest woman as he is) have so

of the fiercest passion with so much of the most de

licate imagination, as the “ Lady Geraldine's Courtthoroughly succeeded in keeping himself from being "talked about."

ship" of Miss Barrett. I am forced to admit, how31.

ever, that the latter work is a palpable imitation of H— calls his verse a “poem,” very much as

the former, which it surpasses in thesis as much as Francis the first bestowed the title, mes déserts, it falls below it in a certain calm energy, lustrous

and indomitable-such as we might imagine in a upon his snug little deer-park at Fontainebleau.

broad river of molten gold. 32. K—, the publisher, trying to be critical, talks

36. about books pretty much as a washerwoman would 'What has become of the inferior planet which about Niagara falls or a poulterer about a phenix. Decuppis, about nine years ago, declared he saw * Nouvelle Héloise.

traversing the disc of Ibe sun ?



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It is a case, in short, where we gain point by “Ignorance is bliss"-but, that the bliss be real, omitting it. the ignorance must be so profound as not to suspect

44. itself ignorant. With this understanding, Buileau's Miss Edgeworth seems to have had only an ap. line may be read thus :

proximate comprehension of “Fashion,” for she “ Le plus fou toujours est le plus satisfait," says : -"toujours" in place of “souvent."

“ If it was the fashion to burn me, and I at the 38.

stake, I hardly know ten persons of my acquaintance Bryant and Street are both, essentially, descriptive who would refuse to throw on a faggot." poets; and descriptive poetry, even in iis happiest

There are many who, in such a case, would "re. manifestation, is not of the highest order. But the fuse to throw on a faggul”—for fear of smothering distinction between Bryant and Street is very broad. out the fire. While ihe former, in reproducing the sensible images

45. of Nature, reproduces the sentiments with which he

I am beginning to think with Horsely—that "the regards them, the latter gives us the images and no. People have nothing to do with the laws but to obey thing beyond. He never forces us to feel what we

them." feel he must have felt.

46. 39.

"It is not sair to review my book without reading In lauding Beauty, Genius merely evinces a filial it,” says Mr. M—, talking at the critics, and, as affection. To Genius Beauty gives life-reaping usual, expecting impossibilities. The man who is ofien a reward in Immortality.

clever enough to write such a work, is clever enough 40.

to read it, no doubt; but we should not look for so And this is the " American Drama" of —! Well! much talent in the world at large. Mr. M— will -hai “ Conscience which makes cowards of us all not imagine that I mean to blame him. The book will permit me to say, in praise of the performance, alone is in fault, after all. The fact is that "er lasst only that it is not quite so bad as I expected it to be. sich nicht lesen”-it will not permit itself to be read. But then I always expect 100 much.

Being a hobby of Mr. M-'s, and brimful of spirit, 41.

it will let nobody mount it but Mr. MWhat we feel to be Fancy will be found sanciful

47. still, whatever be the theme which engages it. No It is only to teach his children Geography, that subject exalts it into Imagination. When Moore is G- - wears a bool the picture of Italy upon the termed "a lanciful poet," the epithet is applied with map. precision. He is. He is fanciful in “Lalla Rookh,"

48. and had be written the “Inferno," in the “Inferno" In his great Dictionary, Webster seems to have he would have contrived to be still fanciful and no- had an idea of being more English than the English thing beyond.

-"plus Arabe qu'en Arabie."* 42.

49. When we speak of “a suspicious man,” we may That there were once “ seven wise men” is by no mean either one who suspects, or one to be suspected. means, strictly speaking, an historical fact; and I Our language needs either the adjective “suspectful,” am rather inclined to rank the idea among the or the adjective “suspectable.”

Kabbala. 43.

50. To love," says Spencer, "is

Painting their faces to look like Macaulay, some « To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run,

of our critics manage to resemble him, at length, as To speed, to give, to want, to be undone.”

a Massaccian does a Raffäellian Virgin; and, except The philosophy, here, might be rendered more pro- that the former is feebler and thinner than the other found, by the mere omission of a comma. We all -suggesting the idea of its being the ghost of the know the willing blindness—the voluntary mad- other—not one connoisseur in ten can perceive any ness of Love. We express this in thus punctuating difference. But then, unhappily, even the street the last line:

lazzaroni can feel the distinction. To speed, to give-lo want to be undone.

* Count Anthony Hamilton.


Faint from the wave, each nerve by toil unstrung,

Behold life mantle in his glowing face With the delight that cannot find a tongue

How vain are words to yield expression grace When the instinctive grasp, the yielding form,

The lips that seem to quiver with content, So well proclaim the haven in life's storm

The heart's goal reached the kindred spirits blent! Let the cold spray lave their unconscious feet,

And time bring round the parting hour again,
Now Love's pure triumph is once more complete,

And present joy oblivious of pain ;
As in enraptured silence, heart meets heart,
Genius the moment seized to consecrate for Art!


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