sat down on the sofa by the invalid, and passed her hand over his high, white forehead, to see if any fever were warning her to send her patient away to rest. withstanding all his mother had said, for the beauty that had grown upon Fanny. He loved beauty just 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 cidevant he, again bursting into tears. teacher, and the impression was fixed. A flood of new thoughts rushed through the mind of Fanny. She paused to think what to say. "You are weak, cousin, and must not sit up too long. Will you go to your room, or will you rest and sleep on the sofa here?" "Mr. Evans was frightened at what he had said. He was sure Fanny could never love him only as a father or elder brother; and now he thought he had broken the freedom of that relation, and he blamed himself, and troubled himself, and well-nigh fretted himself into a relapse of his fever. But his naturally strong constitution triumphed, and in a few weeks he was perfectly restored. Meanwhile Fanny had become grave and thoughtful; and, truth to tell, she shunned her cousin more than she ought. She had not known how dear he was to her till his illness-during the time that he was considered dangerous she had neither eaten nor slept. She had watched over him as a mother watches her first born. She felt that if he should die, life, which had always seemed so full of joy and blessing, would be a blank to her. She had not asked herself if this were love. She had supposed it was only the interest she ought to feel in her cousin. Now she was put upon examining her own heart. She fully believed that her cousin was by no means in love with her, but that his tender confession was owing to the weakness induced by his severe illness and his gratitude to his fortunately successful nurse. CHAPTER VI. "And now, mother, tell me all about the Evanses. Is my flame as foxy as ever? She must be quite a young lady. Heaven forgive me for not being thankful enough for all mercies in general, and for the particular one that I am not obliged to marry red hair." Thus spoke the fortunate Wilson, the morning after his arrival from New Orleans, bringing the welcome news that his relative was dead, and that he was his heir. "Don't be too hasty, Sylvester," said his mother. "Miss Evans has changed more than any one you ever saw. She is a perfect beauty, bating her freckles. Her hair is no more red than a chestnut. She is plump and round as an apple; she is white as snow, and her eyes are as pretty as possible." "Amen, mother! One would think you were her lover instead of your hopeful son. But I will see for myself. I shall not take your word or your bond for that girl's beauty." And so Mr. Wilson, armed for conquest, presented himself before Miss Evans. She had never cared enough for him to be very glad to see him, but she received him politely and kindly, as was her nature. He was a very good-looking, stylish young man, and he talked well on common topics, and soon succeeded in interesting Fanny. He was quite unprepared, not Wilson was sure at the end of an hour that he should marry Fanny Evans; and Fanny thought him a very good-looking, interesting young man, and she rejoiced in his good fortune; their mu sical tastes formed a bond between them, and it soon seemed very natural and proper to Fanny that she saw young Wilson daily. She was sad, and singing diverted her. His voice was good, and they sung duets. He played finely, and this was very pleasant. She had become estranged from her cousin, and she wanted some company. Fanny had never been so unhappy since she first came to live with her cousin. Finally, Wilson offered himself to her. This was an event to Fanny entirely unexpected. "Don't speak of such a thing," said she, earnestly. "Pray excuse me, Mr. Wilson," and she went straight out of the room. When she reached her chamber, she felt very sorrowful, and, truth to tell, very sick. She had been worn down by labor and watching during Mr. Evans's illness, and her sadness in being estranged from him. She had got nervous, and began, for the first time in her life, to have the blues. She almost persuaded herself that she was become a burden to her cousin, and that she ought to marry Wilson. She wept till she had a dreadful headache, and when the servant came to call her to make Mr. Evans's tea, she was really too ill to go down-and with swollen eyes, red face, and dabbled and disarranged curls, she looked into the glass, and dared not present herself before her cousin. "Tell Mr. Evans that I have a bad headache, and if he will excuse me, I will go early to bed. Make every thing very nice for him, Norah. Were his slippers warm when he came in?" "I don't know, Miss, but I will get his supper good-and she went to carry Fanny's excuse to Mr. Evans. "Go back, Norah, quickly, and ask Miss Evans if I may come up. Fanny had wheeled her sofa to the fire, and had just buried her face in a velvet cushion to weep as long and as much as she wished. Mr. Evans, in his concern for her, had followed Norah, and stood outside the door. "Tell him not to trouble himself to come up. I shall do very well as soon as I have slept." "If you had asked me to take the trouble to stay down stairs, I might have thought of it; but seeing I am here, it is no trouble to come; and you are so bright and cosy, suppose you let the girl bring the waiter up here and make my tea for me." Mr. Evans was quite sure that something beside sickness had happened to Fanny, and he intended to be confessor or doctor, as the case might be. THE SLEEP OF THE Ꭰ Ꭼ Ꭺ Ꭰ . 361 passed into her bed-room and bathed her face and her eyes, and arranged her hair, and came back to make tea for Mr. Evans very much improved. But she could not talk-she had fairly lost her tongue. Mr. Evans seemed more unconstrained and more fully himself than since his unfortunate offer of himself to Fanny. "Fanny," said he, after the tea things were taken away, "I would like to ask you what is the matter, if I thought you would like to tell me. It is no common headache that is tormenting you; I would sooner guess it is a heartache." "And what if it is a heartache?" said Fanny. "You mean to ask what I should have to do with the diseases of your heart. I tell you, Fanny, I am not as bad as you may think, or so big a fool either. For instance, though I love you a great deal better than Heaven, and would sooner have you for my wife than an angel, yet knowing that you can't love an old codger like me, I want to see you happy with the man of your choice, and I tell you now, for the cure of your headache, or heartache, that you have my consent to marry Mr. Wilson." Fanny burst into so violent and uncontrolled a fit of weeping, that Mr. Evans was alarmed and puzzled. Speak to me, Fanny, tell me what is all this. I thought to give you great joy, and I only set you weeping. Tell me, what does all this mean?" "Dear Cousin Charles," said Fanny, "you have given me the greatest joy of my life." "Then you love Wilson, as I thought," said Mr. Evans. "No, no-not Wilson, but you, Cousin Charles; and you said you would rather have me for your wife than an angel." And Fanny threw her arms around Charles Evans's neck; and there is not a shadow of doubt that he would cheerfully have exchanged all the pleasures of his long bachelorate in a lump, for the kisses of the next five minutes. They were a happy couple that evening; but Wilson's prospects were worse damaged than his heart. THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD. BY HENRY S. HAGERT. SWEET is the tomb-the all-forgetting tomb- Of yore on their dread Sabbath prophesied. 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, Let the dead rest-if ye must "snarl and bite," Ye can thrive well on malice-but forbear Can never fan a glowing ember there, Shall crawl across your forehead, or from play A mystic seal upon you; when the storm FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGIA. PARAPHRASE. BY RICHARD PENN SMITH. 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 eyes; THE BATTLE OF LIFE. BY LEN. 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 nature, and at the sound from out their beds of earth, myriads of things of beauty wake into existence;-meadow and plain and hill-side glisten in fairest verdure-flowers fling their fragrance on the gale-stately trees wave their foliage to the passing wind-while streams beneath dance onward to the ocean-and the dream-like hum that fills the air and swells in chorus to the arch of heaven, tells of the blooming Spring-of the transcendent pleasures of Life. What a glorious earth has man for a habitation! what scenes surround him to ennoble the soul-what examples to elevate and incite the mind to strive for the goal of Happiness. That goal, alas! how distant and hard to reach; thorns hedge the road the aspiring one would tread, and weeds spring rank and choking in the pathway, or often, when the seeming height is won, the eminence fades to a common level, and Happiness is as distant as ever! But the soul must toil, though success is but a vision-the mind must work, although its labors be fruitless; for there is a Higher power controlling the actions of man-guiding his impulses and passions, and girding him for the conflict around him and within him—the struggle that is ceaselessly waging-the Battle of Life! round him, and no pillow for his head save the still colder earth; or 'mid the battle's carnage, or on the ensanguined field, strewn alike with friends and foes, would look not half so pleasant to their eyes as that exulting warrior; or had they watched the student through long years of vain research, poring o'er musty tomes till the stars paled before the light of day, with fevered brow and aching heart, filled with strong hopes that time still dashed to earth-though Time at last was destined to fulfill; the marvels wrought thus dearly, thus hardly given to the world, the car with wings of fire, the thought, borne as on the lightning's shaft, the shadow that no longer vanishes, when won at such a cost, would lose their value, and the philosopher stand unenvied though pre-eminent. Men judge too oft by outward show, the glitter hides the dross which lies beneath, the peasant would seek happiness in palaces, the rich, perchance, see pleasures 'mid the poor; all err, all causelessly despond, for place nor circumstance alone can make life happy; there is no lake with breast by winds unruffled, no sea by billows always unconvulsed-even so is it with man. How many noble minds are crushed beneath adversity, and pulses that ere-while warmed with a kindred glow to kindred energies, throb now to sorrow and bereavement? How many alas! to live, and live alone? How many breathing beings toil and travail on to gain wherewith they may drag out existence-how many lots that look the brightest, are fraught with bitterest wo! And still the strife goes on, still the throng heaves and swells tumultuously, as waves that surge against the rocks which bind them, and one unceasing current How sweet is Fame! Even now, upon men's tongues there dwells some name whose every sylla-hearts that loved-loved, oh, how fondly-are doomed, ble is a charm, thrilling to adoration. Here, a patriot spirit, whose fires have smouldered long beneath wrong and malice, rises superior to ills, and graspsalmost the consummation of his wishes; there, a warrior from the laureled field, receives the homage of a grateful people; or some philosopher, with potent wand, discloses to a wondering world a new discovery in Science. They stand aloft upon the pin-flows turbulently onward, bearing with it the joys nacle of Fortune, and eager crowds beneath echo their praises or envy their success; and upward still they gaze, blind to the rugged crags that lie between -blind to the slippery height they covet-blind to the thousands round them on the same great plain, breathless and bleeding from their vain attempts to climb the dazzling steep-or happy in an humbler sphere. Ah! had they seen that lofty mind on the chill yesterday of Adversity, with naught but obstacles before him; who knew that Country was upon men's lips only as a substitute for self, and yet heard his own efforts slandered as false and recreant, and whose high purposes had bent before the storm only to rise unbroken-they would not undergo the patriot's trials, even for his rewards. The soldier's hard and sorrows, the hopes and passions of a worldonward ever, to the trackless ocean of Eternity. But fields are green and flowers are fair-there is no warfare on the hills, nor in the groves, nor on the plains; the elements break in fearful grandeur above; the seasons come and go-yet sunshine follows storms as day the night, and Winter yields to Spring. No murmur is heard, save that which trembles through the air, of rippling streams and stirring leaves, and songs of sweetest music; and the works of Nature stand forth in majestic harmony, unmoved by the strivings around them, regardless alike of the fears and longings, the griefs and tumults raging in the breasts of men-serene and placid, despite the contest, and at Peace, though amid the throes of The Battle of Life. THE taste manifested by our Transcendental poets, is to be treated "reverentially," beyond doubt, as one of Mr. Emerson's friends suggests-for the fact is, it is Taste on her death-bed-Taste kicking in articulo mortis. 27. I should not say, of Taglioni, exactly that she dances, but that she laughs with her arms and legs, and that if she takes vengeance on her present oppressors, she will be amply justified by the lex Talionis. 28. The world is infested, just now, by a new sect of philosophers, who have not yet suspected themselves of forming a sect, and who, consequently, have adopted no name. They are the Believers in every thing Odd. Their High Priest in the East, is Charles Fourier-in the West, Horace Greely; and high priests they are to some purpose. The only common bond among the sect, is Credulity:-let us call it Insanity at once, and be done with it. Ask any one of them why he believes this or that, and, if he be conscientious, (ignorant people usually are,) he will make you very much such a reply as Talleyrand made when asked why he believed in the Bible. "I believe in it first," said he, "because I am Bishop of Autun; and, secondly, because I know nothing about it at all." What these philosophers call "argument," is a way they have "de nier ce qui est et d'expliquer ce qui n'est pas."* 29. The goddess Laverna, who is a head without a body, could not do better, perhaps, than make advances to "La Jeune France," which, for some years to come at least, must otherwise remain a body without a head. 30. Mr. A is frequently spoken of as "one of our most industrious writers;" and, in fact, when we consider how much he has written, we perceive, at once, that he must have been industrious, or he could never (like an honest woman as he is) have so thoroughly succeeded in keeping himself from being "talked about." 31. H- calls his verse a "poem," very much as Francis the First bestowed the title, mes déserts, upon his snug little deer-park at Fontainebleau. 32. K, the publisher, trying to be critical, talks about books pretty much as a washerwoman would about Niagara falls or a poulterer about a phoenix. *Nouvelle Héloise. 33. The ingenuity of critical malice would often be laughable but for the disgust which, even in the most perverted spirits, injustice never fails to excite. A common trick is that of decrying, impliedly, the higher, by insisting upon the lower, merits of an author. Macaulay, for example, deeply feeling how much critical acumen is enforced by cautious attention to the mere "rhetoric" which is its vehicle, has at length become the best of modern rhetoricians. His brother reviewers-anonymous, of course, and likely to remain so forever-extol "the acumen of Carlyle, the analysis of Schlegel, and the style of Macaulay." Bancroft is a philosophical historian; but no amount of philosophy has yet taught him to despise a minute accuracy in point of fact. His brother historians talk of "the grace of Prescott, the erudition of Gibbon, and the pains-taking precision of Bancroft." Tennyson, perceiving how vividly an imaginative effect is aided, now and then, by a certain quaintness judiciously introduced, brings this latter, at times, in support of his most glorious and most delicate imagination:whereupon his brother poets hasten to laud the imagination of Mr. Somebody, whom nobody imagined to have any, "and the somethat affected quaintness of Tennyson."-Let the noblest poet add to his other excellences—if he dares-that of faultless vesification and scrupulous attention to grammar. He is damned at once. His rivals have it in their power to discourse of "A. the true poet, and B. the versifier and disciple of Lindley Murray." 34. That a cause leads to an effect, is scarcely more certain than that, so far as Morals are concerned, a repetition of effect tends to the generation of cause. Herein lies the principle of what we so vaguely term "Habit." 35. With the exception of Tennyson's "Locksley Hall," I have never read a poem combining so much of the fiercest passion with so much of the most de licate imagination, as the "Lady Geraldine's Courtship" of Miss Barrett. I am forced to admit, however, that the latter work is a palpable imitation of the former, which it surpasses in thesis as much as it falls below it in a certain calm energy, lustrous and indomitable-such as we might imagine in a broad river of molten gold. 36. "What has become of the inferior planet which Decuppis, about nine years ago, declared he saw traversing the disc of the sun? "To love," says Spencer, "is "To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run, To speed, to give, to want, to be undone." It is a case, in short, where we gain point by omitting it. 44. Miss Edgeworth seems to have had only an ap proximate comprehension of Fashion," for she says: "If it was the fashion to burn me, and I at the stake, I hardly know ten persons of my acquaintance who would refuse to throw on a faggot." There are many who, in such a case, would "refuse to throw on a faggot"-for fear of smothering out the fire. 45. I am beginning to think with Horsely-that "the People have nothing to do with the laws but to obey them." 46. "It is not fair to review my book without reading it," says Mr. M-, talking at the critics, and, as usual, expecting impossibilities. The man who is clever enough to write such a work, is clever enough to read it, no doubt; but we should not look for so much talent in the world at large. Mr. M— will not imagine that I mean to blame him. The book alone is in fault, after all. The fact is, that "er lasst sich nicht lesen"-it will not permit itself to be read. Being a hobby of Mr. M's, and brimful of spirit, it will let nobody mount it but Mr. M———. Painting their faces to look like Macaulay, some of our critics manage to resemble him, at length, as 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. |