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her appearance down stairs, whenever desired, announced as soon as possible. She could not doubt but that a crisis was at hand.

To the message thus transmitted, mamma's answer was, that she would see her directly, if she would come down into the breakfast-parlor. She did not long pause before she obeyed the invitation.

When she entered the room she found Mrs. Langley alone, evidently laboring under considerable excitement. Emily ran to her and kissed her cheek as usual, and her kiss was returned warmly and affectionately.

"My love," said Mrs. Langley, "you must prepare for a journey immediately-at least for what would have been called a journey, even twenty years since, before those wonderful annihilators of time and space, railroads, were invented."

"A journey?" said Emily.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Langley; "you will require very little luggage: our stay where we are going will not exceed two days. Give directions to Grindle, who will go with you, and then return to me; you will find me on the terrace."

Emily did as she was bidden; but she could not help wondering whither they were going at so short a notice, and at the absence of any observation on the part of her mother as to the arrival of the stranger or the proximity of Sherwood. Having given her orders, she proceeded to the terrace, as she had been desired, where, seated on a bench under the verandah which opened upon it, she beheld her mother and an elderly man-gentleman she could hardly call him, although the relative position to her parent which he had occupied gave him a claim, if not a right, to the distinction.

As she approached, the stranger started up, and, raising his eyes to heaven, exclaimed, "What a likeness! 'T is she herself!"

"This, my dear," said Mrs. Langley, presenting her daughter to the visiter, "is a very old friend of our family-Mr. Slangerman; he remembers you an infant."

Emily blushed, and looked confused. The old gentleman took her hand and pressed it to her lips respectfully but fervently. He, too, was evidently overcome by his feelings.

"I never saw any resemblance so strong," said he, after the lapse of a few minutes, "never!" and the tears ran down his cheeks.

"Emily," said Mrs. Langley, seemingly anxious to remove her from a scene which she feared would be too exciting for her nerves, "go, dear, and hurry your maid: we must be punctual; I will come to you in a moment."

Emily obeyed; but as she passed along her eyes in vain roved in search of Sherwood. Was he to be of the party? Who was she so like? Who was the old gentleman? Where were they going, and why?

To some of these questions she was destined very soon to obtain replies. She had scarcely reached her room before Mrs. Langley was beside her.

"Where in the name of wonder, mamma," said Emily, "are we going?"

"Our present journey is to Liverpool," said Mrs. Langley; "our stay there will be short. Oh! Emily, my beloved Em ily, the moment has arrived-I knew it must-I ought to have been prepared; butI know-I am sure, quite sure, I shall not be loved the less."

"Oh! mother, mother!" sobbed the agitated girl, terrified at the emotion of her affectionate companion. "What does this mean?'

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"Emily," said Mrs. Langley, gazing steadily on her features and endeavoring to exert all her energies, "I am NOT your mother!"

These words, uttered with firmness an solemnity, struck deep into poor Emily's heart.

"Not my mother?" said she, almost unconscious of the repetition.

"No," said Mrs. Langley; "let me implore you, be firm, be calm-we shall never be separated-you will know all this afternoon. Come to my heart, my dearest girl, and be henceforth the kind, affectionate, dutiful child I have ever found you."

"But tell me," said Emily.

"Nothing more here," eplied Mrs. Langley. "He that must tell you all, is sick and ill at Liverpool, just landed from America, where for thirteen years he has lived a life of pain and sorrow. You are destined to be happy-let that content you. I can tell no more."

Emily stood like one bewildered. The necessity for action roused her from her amazement, and the hurrying and bustling

of Grindle afforded her a sort of equivocal relief from the tumult of her brain.

Hurrying as she was directed to do, she saw the carriages driven round which were to take them to the station whence they were to embark on the railroad. She hastily locked her writing-desk and jewel-case, and having cast a hasty look round her room, hastened down the stairs, at the foot of which she encountered Alfred Sherwood, looking as pale as death, and absolutely trembling with agltation.

She held her hand to him-he took it, but in a manner so different from that which had before marked his feelings toward her, that she could not but inquire the cause of the alteration.

"What is the meaning of this?" said she.

Before Alfred could reply, Emily found herself gently withdrawn from the spot where she was standing, and on turning round, found the old stranger holding her by the arm, saying in the mildest tone,

"The carriages, Miss Emily, are waiting."

The surprise which this manual exercise' caused her, seemed likely to produce something like a remonstrance; but Mrs. Langley, who was close behind her, put an end to all further parley, by observing that "Indeed they should be too late."

"Mr. Sherwood," said the venerable stranger, "you can go on the box."

Alfred bowed obedience to the suggestion which sounded exceedingly like an order, and brought up the rear of the little procession, which moved across the hall to the door, a spectacle of amazement to the servants, both those who were to be of the traveling party, and those who were not.

"Remember," said Mrs. Langley to the butler, as she stepped into the barouche, "we shall dine at seven precisely on Thursday; we shall be eight."

These were her parting injunctions. By her side in the barouche sat Emily, opposite them the stranger, and although the fourth seat was vecant, Alfred mounted the box as he was directed. The pony-phaton followed with two maids and one footman, and the luggage, which as the party were in lightmarching order,' was not exceedingly cumbersome.

Away they went. There was not much conversation in the barouche. The stranger was not aware that Mrs. Langley had broken one part of the great secret to Emily, upon whom his eyes continued riveted during the drive. Emily, informed of one fact connected with herself-the most important and astonishing-without preparation, explanation, or qualification, could think of nothing else; except, indeed, the equally inexplicable appearance of Alfred, and the treatment which he seemed to endure.

Thus wrapped in meditation, the party reached the station; they were in excellent time. They debarked from the carriages, which were ordered to be there to receive them at six o'clock on Thursday; and such is the admirable punctuality of the railroad arrangements, that within one minute or less of the appointed time the almost vital breath of the impetuous engine was heard snorting through the air, and in less than a quarter of an hour from their arrival at the station, the whole of the party, agitated as they were by a thousand contending feelings, were flying through the air at the rate of twentythree miles an hour.

During this rapid progress, Mrs. Langley resolutely refused to enter into any conversation on the subject of their journey, well assured that it would be productive of the worst effects upon Emily, in a place and under circumstances where she would be without the means of soothing or reviving her. The stranger still gazed on the beautiful girl, and Alfred, who was seated next Mrs. Langley, appeared in some degree to have recovered his spirits, although his eyes remained downcast and his brow contracted.

The speed at which they proceeded seemed to excite in the stranger an anxiety to address the fair girl, who evidently absorbed all his attention; and at length, after an apparent struggle with his feelings, he laid his hand upon hers, and in a subdued tone of voice said,

"Dearest, best-beloved of human beings, a few short hours will restore you to him who "

At this moment a noise louder than the crashing of thunder burst over their devoted heads. A shout of horror, the screams of agony and fear filled the air, and in an instant a concussion irresistibly violent shivered the carriage in which the anxious travelers were seated into atoms, and whirled the passengers down the precipitous embankment on which they were traveling into the depths of the valley below. Fourteen of the ve

hicles shared a similar fate, and the green-sward was covered with the mutilatnd bodies and scattered limbs of the unfortunate victims-nor was this the extent of the mischief. He to whom the unhappy creatures were hurrying to relieve his mind, too anxious to reap the harvest of happiness which was ripe and ready for his hand, and finding himself better in health, had quitted Liverpool in the hopes of anticipating their departure from Beaulieu. By some unaccountable circumstance, connected with the switches, or the rails, or the sleepers, or something else, the up train had come in contact with the train traveling downward. Each set of carriages suffered nearly in an equal degree, and by this unexpected meeting,' the reader, in common with the inhabitants of the village in which Beaulieu stands, and of the town which it overlooks, and the rest of the world universally, are left in total ignorancé of the history of Mrs. Langley, and of all the circumstances connected with it.

This is to be deeply lamented. But still, as far asthe accident itself goes, there is every reason for consolation: 'no blame whatever could be attached to any person connected with the railroad.' And moreover, the mutilated remains of the respective ladies and gentlemen who suffered were carefully collected, and interred the following day in the catacombs of one of the popular joint-stock company cemeteries, which 'commands a beautiful view of the surrounding country, and to and from which there are omnibuses going and returning every half-hour in the day-fare sixpence, inside.'

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Were given to the poet's gaze

To make his dreams divine!

Where earth was peopled from the skies,
-As is the breast of youth-

And through the fair men learned the wise,

And fable spoke for truth!

Where waters, as they wound along,
And mount, and star, and moon,
Gave oracles-and each in song,

From temples of its own!—
Where spirit-eyes looked glancing out
Amid the haunted trees,

And spirit-laughter's wild, sweet shout
Came sailing down the breeze-
And he, the lonely muser, knew,

By many a mystic sound,

That spirits of the beautiful

Were breathing all around!—

Where Dryads sat, in solemn talk,

Amid the woven trees,

And wandered o'er each mountain walk
The swift Oreiades,

And in each mead and valley sung
Its own unearthly forms-
And, seaward, bright Nereids wrung
Their tresses in the storms-
And some pale Hamadryad's face,
With melancholy look,
Sat watching, in its charmed place,
Beneath each lonely oak-

And from each river's low, sweet fall
Stole up a Naiad tone-
And lake and rock had, each and all,
A goddess of their own!

Oh, years that make the spirit wise
Still make the spirit pay in sighs!
And, if the ground be cleared for truth,
How beautiful it was in youth!-
When flowers grew thick, in Fancy's dew,
That, if they cumbered, sweetened too,
And drew down many a singing-bird
Whose song shall never more be heard-
And rills beneath its sunlight ran,
That Time and Knowledge drain for man,
But, when their crystal flags are furled,
Take half its beauty from the world-
And shapes, amid those rills and flowers,
Made Edens of the young heart's bowers-
Lost shapes, whose steps, along its glades
And by its thousands springs,

May now be traced through glooms and shades, By many withered rings!

Oh, gone the hues of green and gold

That decked the spirits, dale and downs
From which its meadow-nymphs, of old,

Were wont to weave their crowns!
And dried away the founts and burns
Where joys, like Naiads, filled their urns!-
And left the pleasant groves behind
That nursed the Dryads of the mind!-
And vanished, with their sheltering trees,
The young heart's Hamadryades!
The trees of Hope, whose leafless stems

Show, now, through Memory's gloom,
Each, lonely as the pillar set

On Rachel's lonely tomb!
And though their wrecked and blighted forms
Be full of morals for the wise,
And he who questions of their storms
May gather high replies―
And though the prophet-voices spoke,

At times of old, from withered trees,
And through Dordona' blighted oak
Flung answers to the breeze-
The oracles were sweeter far

Dordona uttered by the dove;
And oh! the time of flower and star,

And fairy things to love!-
When, like the isles of Grecian song,
The youthful heart was haunted ground;
Where nymph-like visions passed along,
And sweetest whispers stole around;

And, by its bright, swift founts of thought
Sat spirits, singing wildest strains,

And shapes-oh, since how vainly sought!—
Went hunting o'er its plains!

WHO COULD HAVE BELIEVED IT!

A GERMAN TALE.

It

There lived in Vienna a young man of rank and fortune, who bore a strong resemblance to many other young men of that and every city, for he was a dupe to all the follies of fashion and high life. He combined a flexible heart with a handsome person; it had cost his mother a great deal of trouble to make him what is called a puppy; but, by indefatigable diligence, she had at last effected her purpose. All the ladies, consequently, loved him, and he loved them all in return. has been said that once or twice his attachments have even been of more than a month's duration, but never did he impose any restraint upon himself or the object of his affection, by an irksome fidelity. He possessed the nicest powers of perception, whenever any word or look summoned him to victory; but he always had the good manners to pay every attenion to the clock, when it summoned the hour of parting.

With these qualifications, he was certain of success with the ladies. He paid his devoirs to all, enjoyed all, and was at last tired of all. In one of his moments of torpid satiety, our hero had returned home before supper. Happy is he who feels the time least oppressive when at home-he belongs to the better kind of men. Our young count threw himself upon the sofa, stretched his limbs, yawned, and so forth. Suddenly it occurred to him that he was married.-No wonder that we should have forgotten it, since he himself only just now recollected it. "Appropos," said he, and rung the bell;-a servant entered.

"Go to your mistress and ask if I may have the pleasure of seeing her." The servant listened attentively, and not believing the testimony of his own ears. The count repeated his orders, which the servant at length obeyed, shaking his head as he went. The countess was the amiable daughter of a country gentleman-she was a flower which, from the pressure of the court atmosphere, drooped, but did not quite wither; to avoid ennui, she had no resource but to swim with the tide of high life. She and her husband sometimes met-they never avoided, nor ever courted each other's society. Before marriage they had seen little of each other, and after it they had no time for such an employment. There were people enough who spared the count the trouble of admiring his wife's perfections, and they made no impression on her heart, they at least gratified her vanity.

Her husband's message was delivered to her at a moment when her state of mind was much the same as his :-she knew not what to think of this unexpected visit: she replied, how

ever, that she should be happy to see him. He entered-hoped he was not troublesome took a chair-made remarks upon the weather and recounted the news of the day. The conversation, as far as it related it, was quite common, but his vivacity, and Amelia's genius, inspired it with interest. The time passed they knew not how: the count looked at his watch was surprised to find it so late, and requested permission to sup with his wife. "With all my heart," replied Amelia, "if you can be content with my homely fare." Supper was brought-they eat, and were merry without being noisy. This calm pleasure possessed to them the charm of novelty; they were both pleasant without wishing to appear so, as is generally the case with most people. They were quite new acquaintances-the hours flew swiftly away, and the time for retiring to rest being arrived, the count took leave of the countess highly pleased with his visit.

The next day he was invited to a concert, and did not learn, till it was too late, that, one of the virtuosos being ill, the concert was deferred. How was he to pass the tedious evening? He inquired, as he passed, after his wife, and was informed she was somewhat indisposed.

"Well," thought he, "common civility requires that I should wait upon her, and ask her personally how she does." He sent a message, requesting that he might be allowed to sit with her till supper, and was politely received. He was cheerful, lively, and gallant. The supper hour arrived, and this time Amelia begged him to stay. He had been invited to a cassino party after the concert, notwithstanding which he remained with his wife, and their conversation was quite as pleasant, and less reserved than that of the preceeding visit.

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"Do you know," said Amelia, "that the party to which you were invited would find a little trouble in discovering the cause of your absence?" He smiled, and paused for a moments. I must tell you something in confidence," began he at length, while he was playing with his fork, "something which you will perhaps think rather candid than gallant; you cannot imagine how much you are improved since your marriage.""My marriage!" answered Amelia, in a jocose tone, "I believe it took place about the same time as your own.”—“ Very true, my lady," replied he, "but it is inconceivable how so happy an alteration can have taken place in you. At that time-pardon me-you had so much rustic bashfulness, it is scarce possible to recognize you; your genius is no longer the same; even your features are much improved."

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Well, my lord," replied the countess, "without wishing to return the compliment, all that you have said of me, thought of you. But upon my word," added she, "it is well that no one hears us; for it almost seems as if we were making love." The dialogue continued long in the same style, till Amelia looked at her watch and in a fascinating tone remarked that it was late. The Count arose unwillingly, slowly took his leave, and as slowly retired to the door-suddenly he agaiu turned round.

"My lady,' said he, "I find it very tedious to breakfast alone may I be allowed to take my chocolate with you?" "If you please," answered Amelia, and they parted, still more pleased with each other.

The next morning it occurred to the count that these frequent visits to his wife might give rise to scandalous reports. He therefore desired his valet not to mention the circumstance to any one. He then put on an elegant morning gown, and went softly over to Amelia.

Amelia had just risen in the most cheerful humor. The bloom upon her cheek rivalled the blush of morning. She was animated, and witty-in short, she was enchanting, and her husband, in an hour, discovered how much pleasanter it was to breakfast in company, than to sit alone, and opposite a glass, gazing at his own person, and looking into his yawning mouth.

"Why don't you come here every day?" said Amelia; "if my company is pleasant to you?" He answered that he feared his presence might prevent the visits of others.

"I shall miss no one," replied she," as long as you indemnify me by your society."

"Upon my word," said the count, "I have more than once wished that I was not your ladyship's husband." "Why so?" demanded Amelia.

"That I might be allowed to tell you," returned he," how much I love you."

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"Oh! tell me so I beg," cried she, "if only for the sake of novelty."

"Fear not," answered the count, "I hope my lady, I shall never so far forget myself; but we have had, I think, two very

agreeable téte-a-tétes at supper-how if you were this evening to allow me a third."

"With all my heart," answered the countess.

The appointment was on both sides exactly adhered to.Their conversation was this time less lively, less brilliantthey gazed at each other oftener, and spoke less; the heart began to assert its influence, and even arrived so far, that they one, during a pause, involuntarily squeezed each other's hand across the table, although the servants were still in the room. Who could have believed it?

Amelia very plainly perceived that it was late, but she did not look at her watch. He husband made not the smallest effort to depart; he complained that he was somewhat tired, but not sleepy. In a word, from this day they parted in the morning instead of midnight, because they were then both ready to breakfast together.

The count, enchanted with his new conquest, eloped with Amelia into the country, where they, with astonishment, discovered that the theatre of nature, and the concert of the nightingales, surpassed all other theatres and concerts. They at first thought of staying only a few days-every morning they intended to depart, and every evening they changed their in tentions. When autumn, however, approached, they returned to Vienna. The same evening they went to the play: and our hero had the courage to sit in the same box with Amelia.

Who could have believed it? To such a dreadful extent may a man be left by one thoughtless step. Ye happy husbands in high life, take warning by the mournful example of

our count!

LINES.... To MR. ESPY.

Storm-prophet! thou, who, when our northern sky
Is clear and bathed in sunshine, and the air
Is genial as the first warm breath of May-
Tell'st of the storm, which, with its cloud battalia
Howls over Hatteras, and on the coast
Hurls the dark billows, with their lurid crests
Gleaming above the shipwrecks-canst thou say,
Espy! while gazing on our star of empire,'
Which now shines unobscured, what vapors dim
May sweep across its brightness?-with what tempest
The breezes from the Capitol come freighted?-
Who thunders in the House to-day?-what storm
Of fierce debate may shake those porphyry pillars?
If so, thou 'dst make a capital reporter.

FLAM

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN MY TWENTIETH AND MY FIF. TIETH YEARS.

It was a fine autumnal day; a fresh breeze was rustling among the leaves; and a few island-like clouds sailing across the clear sky, threw their flying shadows upon the waving corn-fields. Pursuant to a long-given promise, I was taking some of my children down the Wye! and as we came under Goodrich Castle, we moored our boat, as is usual, to climb up its ascent. I am the father of some silly girls, who sincerely lament, I believe, that the age of chivalry is passed, and that they have lost their chance of dispensing the honors of a tournament. Goodrich accordingly was a grand point of interest, and on arriving, nothing was allowed to escape them. They mounted, to the peril of their necks, to the tops of the towers; clambered up a ricketty ladder into the windows, for the pleasure of touching the Saxon writing; and squeezed into the porter's seat through corridors less than half the width of their enormous bonnets, to reconnoiter one another without according to their ideas of antiquity. All this enthusiasm appeared absurd enough to my sober judgement; yet I remembered how nearly my feelings had been like theirs, when, about thirty years before, I visited this same spot. "Mais le temps change tout cela," I said; and with this reflection I sat down on a bench at the edge of the outer court, and composed myself to wait till their return.

As I sat looking on the objects around me, I could fancy they had undergone no change since my last visit. There seemed to be the same broken and ivy-tufted outline along the tops of the towers; the same crumbling weather-stains (I thought I could almost identify them) upon the walls; and my eye was still offended, just as it had been formerly, by a white staring arch, which, on looking through the principal entrance, is seen rising in the distance beyond, in the inner

court.

I was ruminating on the circumstances of my former visit, when I was attracted by a singular appearance. The surrounding trees, already touched with the brown tints of Autumn, seemed to be becoming greener. I looked; and found I was not mistaken. They were changing fast into the freshness of summer, and even of spring. Surely, I said, I must be dream

ing; but the idea seemed inconsistant with the distinctness and reality of every thing around. I noticed after a time, that the leaves were likewise growing thinner; and on watching them, perceived that they were retiring back into their buds. Presently, as the trees became completely bare, I heard a dreary sound of wind, and on looking round, I found the country behind me had become black and verdureless. I turned again toward the castle, and to my astonishment it stood before me in the depth of winter; its time-eaten walls mottled over capriciously with snow. The snow gradually melted, and the brown-tinted leaves of Autumn again appeared on the trees. A second time they grew green, and a second time shrunk back into their buds. The winter scene then returned, and then again the autumn. In short, the seasons were evidently revolving before me in an inverted order.

"I can give you no stronger assurance," I said, “than I have already done. If that does not suffice, our dialogue may be at an end."

"I still say it does seem to me impossible," he replied, "that you can be telling me facts. If you are At these words he stopped, knit his brows, and looked bluntly on the ground. "But I see," he added, "you are determined to mortify me." "Indeed I have no wish of the kind."

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Why, yes," I said, laughing; "it was only a few days ago, I was told I had been a subject of conversation at the Secretary of State's table." "I knew how it was; I knew how it was," he cried exultingly. And pray what did he say of you?"

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"Why, they were talking of a cause tried many years ago,

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An instinctive feeling led me to count them; they made thirty complete revolutions, but stopped at the thirtieth autumn. I was growing into high terror, when I observed a young man, apparently about twenty, dressed in an old-fash-in which I was employed. Was Philipson employed in that ioned garb, lounging in the archway. He came across the cause,' said the secretary? 'that Philipson, I thought, had court toward me, quickening his pace as he approached, and been a young man; at least, I don't recellect his name till sat down at my side. I was confounded by his striking resem- within these last four or five years.' blance to myself, and not liking this appearance of diablerie, "And you are not joking?" I moved away to avoid him to the other end of the bench.- "Positively not." But he continued looking at me, and at length, with an air of mixed familiarity and respect, gave me a nod of recognition. I mustered composure enough to speak; and told him there was undoubtedly some mistake-that I really had not the honor of his acquaintance. He laughed at this, and said he should not have suspected me of such a bad memory; surely I must remember Tom Philipson, of Brazennose. On hearing him claim my own name I started. "You Tom Philipson?" I cried.

"You seem surprised," he said.

"Why, it is rather an odd coincidence," I rejoined. "L 'My name is Thomas Philipson, and thirty years ago I was at Brazennose also."

"Nothing, I believe, is more certain," he said laughing; "but come, bating your affectation, my dear sir, you know me well enough." He then laughed again, took off his hat, and made me a profound bow. I regarded him attentively; his chin had the same cut, his nose the same slight obliquity, and on his temple was a recent scar, just such a one as I received at college in one of our town and gown battles. It disturbed sadly all my notions of identity, but the conviction was irresistible, that this mysterious being must be myself in my twentieth year.

"Yes, then, I see it is so," I said, as my eye caught a wellremembered locket. "I really behold once more that same foolish fellow."

"Oh, you flatter."

"It is far from my intention then, I assure you."

"Why, I suppose you never expected to see me again." "I certainly did not; nor, to tell you the truth, very vehemently desire it."

"Just what I expected. But now as we are met-you may guess my extreme curiosity-pray what are you?” "I am," I replied, "a

"Not a minister of State, surely," he said, seizing me ea gerly by the arm.

"Most certainly not."

"Then the greatest living poet, I am next to certain." "Quite as much the one as the other. But pray, did I ever entertain such foolish dreams?"

"You entertained such expectations. But come, I am bursting with curiosity; tell me in one word what you really are." "A barrister."

"A barrister," he replied, deeply mystified, "that's strange. But of course you are the most eloquent one of the age." "No, indeed, I am rather an indifferent speaker; but if my friends do not flatter me, I excel rather in conducting an examination."

"Excel in blacking shoes," he cried in high dudgeon."Come, come, this is all a flam."

"No, not one word of it."

"What, am I to believe that you are a mere pettifogging barrister?"

"It is well, young man," I said, "none of my brethren are within hearing, or you would chance to get a ducking in the Wye for that word."

"Your brethren!" he repeated scornfully. "But the thing cannot be; with talents like yours, you must have gained some higher distinction."

"Then whatever," cried he, "in the name of infinite reason, can you have been doing all your life?" "Why, fagging very hard at my profession.”

"And you have positively never tried to gain any other kind of fame?"

"None whatever; except, indeed, when I was a young man, I believe I committed the folly once of publishing a volume."

"Yes, of poems, I was sure you had. And is it possible they did not succeed?"

"Succeed, indeed!" I said, laughing.

"What, then, they were desperately cut up, I suppose?" "No, they were cut up remarkably little-not a dozen copies certainly."

"For goodness, don't taunt me," he cried, "or you will positively drive me mad. For if there was one thing of which I seemed more certain than of another, it was that I was born to be a poet."

"Yes, I remember that was one of your follies."

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My follies! why, I saw such a resemblance between several things I wrote, and some of the most admired passages of Homer, Milton, and Shakspere, that I was perfectly justified in such an opinion."

"But I am sorry to inform you," I said, "that you were quite mistaken about that resemblance."

"There I beg your pardon," he said, making me a low bow; "but we won't discuss that point, for probably (buttoning up his pockets loftily) I should appeal from your decision. Suffice it to say, it was not a rash judgement, but the result of the most severe and impartial comparison-" "Which you could then form," I added. "But it so happened that the public thought quite otherwise." "What," he said, with a supercilious sneer, "I suppose the epic of the Martiad had no fire or energy; there was no pathos in those dirges, no sweetness in the sonnet- Behold the stars of night!' and fifty such things."

"The fact of the case," I replied, "was simply this:Your poems, epic-sonnet, elegy and all, fell still-born from the press. As to the justice of this neglect, you have already challenged me as a judge, and therefore you will probably not be hurt by my unfavorable opinion. Indeed, I have nearly forgotten all about them. But one of my proof sheets accidentally turned up under my hand, as I was hunting for a former opinion, a few weeks ago, and I really felt surprised how I could have written such silliness and extravagance."

A long pause followed this speech, which was at length terminated by a deep sigh. “It is a perfect mystery," said he, "far beyond my comprehension. But you certainly must have misinformed me upon another subject-my talents for public speaking."

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"No indeed, you have no such talents."

"Now that is really past all belief. I have (you cannot think of denying it) a rich invention, an unusual faculty of reasoning, the copia verborum in perfection, a readiness that is never at a loss, and a power of keeping up the spirit of a discussion beyond almost any other man. My voice is at least better than Fox's or Burke's; in figure, I hope I am tolerable, (buttoning up his coat), and in attitude and action I appre hend that I am at least every thing that Walker can make one."

"Very good," I exclaimed, "a tolerable allowance of the qualifications for oratory, certainly. I will now just inform you how they all worked. From the time you entered the Temple till several years after (I may use either the past or the future tense) you were an established frequenter of the British Forum. There, in spite of the popular tone of your opinions you were voted a dead bore. Every one complained that your speeches passed all understanding. Here comes darkness visible' was the common remark whenever your head appeared above the crowd. At the Bar, 'The abstruse view which my learned friend has taken of this question,' was a remark which generally moved even the judge to smile. In fact you were compelled, with infinite labor, to get rid of all your juvenile habits of oratory before you became a speaker of a barely tolerable order."

"Well you do amaze me," he said, jerking back his head with an expression of the deepest chagrin. "So neither a poet, nor a statesman, nor an orator; on my word I have been living in a strange delusion. But come," he added after a second pause, "there are some other anticipations of a very different kind, which I am equally anxious about. You are married, I suppose?"

"Oh, these twenty years."

"Well done-that is comfort. Now, before you say another word, let me describe Mrs. Philipson to you on her wedding-day, according to my ideas. She was then a beautiful young creature, with

'Wrong-wrong at the outset. She was not beautiful; she was rather plain; and as to her youth she confessed up to twenty-seven herself!"

"Twenty-seven! are you serious? Why I thought it had been one of your fixed resolutions that the bride should be in her teens?"

"Pshaw! a pack of boyish nonsense!"

"Call it nonsense or what else you please. But to me it appears utterly incomprehensible how a man of your taste should have fallen in love with a woman aged twenty-seven, and she not handsome."

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Exactly one tenth."

"What, could you send generous Jack Goodson only ten pounds."

"Yes, and with a very good conscience," I replied, "You are not probably aware how many generous Jack Goodsons there are in the world."

"I can listen," he said, "to no palliations of such heartlessness. We will go on-Harry Chandler ?" "Chandler is a rising man I believe.

We live in the same street; but we are not known to one another now." "Not known? what can you mean?"

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Why we had a dispute some twenty years ago, over our wine one evening, whether the inscription on the mounument had been effaced once or twice. We flatly contradicted one another, and Harry would never speak again."

"And that was really the end of a fifteen years' friendship? But there is one name more on which I still repose some confidence-noble-minded George Wiseman.”

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Yes, Wiseman is at the bar with me, and the common forms of friendship have always been observed between us. He is very rich; and lately his eldest son asked my permission to pay his addresses to one of my girls. I waited upon George, who told me he was heartily glad to hear of it; for he thought the children of such old friends could not do better. Besides the young lady's accomplishments, and so forth. I thought myself bound in honor to say explicitly, that I could give her little or no fortune; which produced a slight expression of surprise. He assured me, however, he had always admired my frankness; and since then-"

"He has been of course doubly zealous for the union." "Pray allow me to finish my own sentence-since then I have heard nothing more of the matter."

At these words my companion declared he could stand it no longer; he started up in wild despair, clasped his hands, and rushed to the edge of the glacis, apparently to precipitate himself over it. I intercepted his purpose by a sudden spring; and we came into violent collision. The next instant I open"I can clear up the mystery to you at once," I said; "Ined my eyes, and found it was one of my boys shaking me by the first place I did not fall in love with her, nor she with me. the shoulder to wake me. He told me they had done seeing I thought that she would make me a good wife: I knew that the castle, and were now only waiting for me to go down she would bring a respectable accession to my fortune and again to our boat. connections; and I politely communicated to her my senti

ments-"

"That she would bring a repectable accession to your fortune and connections, I suppose ?"

"Why, not in those words, certainly, but that was all understood. I was fortunate enough to obtain her consent, and-"

"You need not finish the sentence; you became a second Darby and Joan."

"We became as happy and as mutually pleased with one another, as I believe falls to the lot of most married people." My youthful colloquant here eyed me from head to foot; "Oh-there never was any like this," he cried; "There must be some mistake. It is impossible we should be the same persons. Probably you spell your name, sir, with two l's?" "No, with one 1," I said, "and there is no mistake whatever."

"Is it then credible," he exclaimed, "that such can be the effect of Time. That as the warm currents of the heart flow down into the remoter tracks of life they are destined to be thus frozen. Johnson then indeed was right

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth made men better be;

Or standing like an oak three hundred year
To fall a log at last, dry, bald and sear.
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night

It was the plant and flower of light.

On pronouncing these beautiful lines; "It is almost impossible," he said, "after these rebuffs, to imagine any subject on which I can expect to meet with unaltered opinions. Yet there is one on which Time cannot surely have produced the same changes which it appears to have done on almost all others. I hope my friendships at least have proved permanent. You can have found, I am sure, no coolness in Jack

Goodson's heart."

"Why really," I said, "I know very little of the state of Jack Goodson's heart: but I believe he has been a very wild fellow. I had not heard of him for many years till about six months ago, he reminded me of our old intimacy by writing to borrow fifty pounds."

SONG ON THE HUDSON.

"It was an hour after twilight before the Arrow glided into the lit-
tle nook where our landing-place was situated.”—Manuscript Letter.
On, on, brave bark! though the sun's last ray
From the breast of the Hudson melteth away,
Still the breeze blows fair, and the stars shine bright;
Oh, let us, then, welcome the beautiful night!
The silence how deep! how serene the repose!
Not a sound save the ripple that gurglingly flows,
And the voice of the singer, that still keepeth time
With the dash of the spray and the billowy chime!
Then on, Arrow, on! though the waters are dark,
Yet the breeze and the tide bear thee swift to thy mark.
Oh, grant, Heaven, grant! when life's daylight is o'er,
Hope and Faith, wind and tide, be as fair for thy shore.
H. S. L.

THE GLOW-WORM.... A FAIRY LEGEND. There was a beautiful garden full of all lovely flowers, and bright, glossy, green leaves, beside ripe and luscuious fruit, and many bearing trees. In it there were mossy and twining paths, where the shade was cool in the summer noon, and soft sloping lawns, where the shadows slept at even-tide. There were bowers hidden with clustering clematis, and hung with rich garlands of the bright passion flowers. There was the lulling tone of falling waters, where a fountain arose amid the brightest sunbeams. It was lovely at dew-fall to breathe that fragrant air, and the heart was very glad for the exceeding

sweetness.

Now it was evening in that garden, and many dew-drops rested on the flowers. But one, though it lay amid the leaves of a soft young rose whose heart the sun had not as yet seen, was unmindful of all around.

For when last the sun had sunk between the western boughs, the dew-drop had fallen on the open lawn-and far above in the blue space a star beam had penetrated its being.

And henceforth the star became all the world unto the clear dew-drop that had felt its beauty. And night seemed short while the dew lay beneath the stars. But morning came-one by one the stars advanced to greet the early dawn, and as they kissed her fair forehead they vanished away. So then the dews arose, and passed away also, until evening again.

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