though shockingly indignant, was not cast down by it. She called Harry Gay more names than he, scholar as he was, could have thought of in a month, and wound up with a remark no less formidable than the one which had excited her ire. And Kitty was right. A pretty judge of soul he, to be sure-a man that never laughed! how on earth can people who go through the world cold and still, like the clods they tread upon, pretend to know any thing about soul! Harry Gay used to go to Squire Coleman's very often, and sit all the evening and talk with the squire and Aunt Martha, while his great black eyes turned slowly in the direction Kitty moved; but Kitty would not look at him, not she. What right had a stranger, and a visitor, too, to make such a very great parade of his disapprobation? If she did not please him, why, she pleased others, and that was enough; she would not turn over her finger to gain his good-will. So Harry and Kitty never talked together; and when he went away-"he never went till the conversation fairly died out, and the lamps looked as if about to join it"-he bowed to the old people gracefully and easily, but to the young lady he found it difficult to bow at all. Conduct like this, provoked Kitty Coleman beyond endurance; the squire and spinster had left her alone, she sat down, and in very spite alone sobbed away as though her little heart would break. Now it happened that the squire had lent his visitor a book that evening, which, strange enough for such a scholar, he had forgotten to take with him; but Harry remembered it before it was too late, and turned upon his heel. He had gone out and one evening, after but a moment before, and there was no use in ringing, so he stepped at once into the parlor. Poor Kitty sprang to her feet at the intrusion, and crushed with her fingers two tears that were just ready to launch themselves upon the roundest and rosiest cheek in the world; but she might have done better than blind herself, for her foot touched Aunt Martha's fauteuil, and in consequence her forehead touched the neck of Rover. It is very awkward to be surprised in the luxurious indulgence of tears at any time, and it is a trifle more awkward still to fall down, and then be raised by the last person in the world you would receive a favor from. Kitty felt the awkwardness of her situation too much to speak; and, of course, Harry, enemy as he was, could not release her until he knew whether she was hurt. It was certain she was not faint, for the crimson blood dyed even the tips of her fingers, and Harry's face immediately took the same hue, probably from reflection. Kitty looked down until a golden are of fringe rested lovingly on its glowing neighbor; and Harry looked down too, but his eye rested on Kitty Coleman's face. If soul and heart are one and the same thing, as some metaphysi cians tell us, Harry must now have discovered the mistake he once made, for there was a strange commotion beneath the bodice of Kitty Coleman; it rose and fell, as nothing but a bounding, throbbing, frightened heart, in the wildest tumult of excited feeling, could make it. And then (poor Kitty must have been hurt, and needed support), an arm stole softly around her waist, dark locks mingled with her sunny ones as a warm breath swept over her cheek—and Kitty Coleman hid her face-not in her hands. Harry forgot his book again that night, and never thought of it until the squire put it in his hand the next morning; for Harry visited the squire very early the next morning, and had a private interview; and the good old gentleman tapped him on the shoulder, and said, "with all my heart;" and Aunt Martha looked as glad as propriety would let her. As for Kitty Coleman, she did not show her face, not she-for she knew they were talking about her, the sober old people and the meddling Harry Gay. But when the arrant mischief-maker had accomplished his object, and was bounding from the door, there came a great rustling among the rose-bushes, insomuch that a shower of bright blossoms descended from them, and Harry turned a face, brimming over with joy, to the fragrant thicket, and shook down another fragile shower, in seeking out the cause of the disturbance. Now, as ill-luck would have it, Kitty Coleman had hidden away from her enemy in this very thicket; and there she was discovered, all confusion, trembling and panting, and—I am afraid poor Kitty never quite recovered from the effects of her fall-for the arm of Harry Gay seemed very necessary to her forever after. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. WITH REMARKS BY LEIGH HUNT. [The history of Keats, the author of this enchanting poem, is well known to our readers. His death is said to lie at the door of Lord Brougham, who wrote the criticism, in the reading of which Keats burst a blood-vessel. He had been an apothecary's boy, and the critic unfeelingly counselled him to "return to his gallipots." The writer visited his grave at Rome, and read there the epitaph he himself directed to be graven on the headstone-"Here lies one whose name was written in water." It almost requires a poet to appreciate the unreachable delicacy of Keats's use of language. He plucks his epithets from the profoundest hiding-places of meaning and association. He wrote with a nib inevitable—its forked pursuit being certain detection to the elusive, reluctant, indispensable best word. The sense of satisfaction aches while you read his poetry-so clear to the bottom of the capability of language drops his plummet-word. The italicised passages in “The Eve of St. Agnes" will be a guide to what we mean.-N. P. W.] ST. AGNES was a Roman virgin, who suffered martyrdom in the reign of Diocletian. Her parents, a few days after her decease, are said to have had a vision of her, surrounded by angels, and attended by a white lamb, which afterward became sacred to her. In the Catholic church, formerly, the nuns used to bring a couple of lambs to her altar during mass. The super |