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fidious addresses of this fellow, when you were certain it would be contrary to my wishes if I knew it; and now to tell me to my face that you will not change!"

"My father-my kind, affectionate father," said Letty, in a broken voice," do not call me disobedient-do not speak so harshly to me. If you knew the anguish of my heart, you would pity, but not upbraid me. Mr. Sandon was about to reply in anger, but when his glance fell on her pale and grief-stricken countenance his voice faltered, for he felt she was still his own dear child.

"Come to me," said he, " and let me kiss you, and let the past be all forgotten." Letitia sat upon her father's knee, put her arm round his neck, and leaned her head upon his shoulder; but her heart was not quite at ease, although the kiss of reconciliation had been impressed upon her forehead. She had not fully explained her feelings. Did he think she could forget Wyliehart, or resolve never to see him again? Did he imagine it was her intention to break her faith and be false to her first, her only love? If so, he was deceived; and she dreaded a repetition of those feelings which had rendered her miserable for months previously.

"I think you have taken a prejudice against poor Wyliehart," said she, in a tremulous voice, after many attempts to commence a conversation; "do you think you have seen enough of him to form a correct opinion?"

"Of course I have, child; he is a flattering, selfish, hollow-hearted fellow, and I'd sooner see-but you know my feelings and determination on the subject, and now let us forget him for ever."

On Letty's cheek the colour came and went in rapid succession, and her little hand trembled violently as it lay on Mr. Sandon's shoulder; at length, after a determined effort at calmness, she said, in a clear but low voice, "Father, we must understand each other; I can never be happy if I think I am deceiving you. All that you command or wish me to do, shall be done as far as I have the power, but my thoughts, my affections, I cannot control. If you wish it I will never speak of him, but do not think on that account that I have forgotten him."

"Let it be so-let me never hear his name. The more affectionate and obedient your actions, the more bitterly shall I feel that your heart rebels against me. Do not imagine that I shall ever yield; I have formed an estimate of his character;-he is an insidious villain, hiding under a plausible exterior a designing and deceitful heart. You may think my opinion harsh and ungenerous, but I have had too much experience of the world not to be able to see a little into character. Your opinion, Letty, has been bought with flatteries, to which your young ear was unaccustomed, and you refuse to give up the fascinating poison. You say that your feelings towards him will never change. I pray Heaven they may-for I have made a vow that I will not be a party to your loss and misery-that I will never consent to your union with Wyliehart.

ODD LEAVES FROM AN ODD MAN'S NOTE-BOOK.-No. 2.

CHAPTER III.

THE ODD MAN ENFORCES A GREAT TRUTH-EARTH'S UNSATISFACTORINESS.

I HAVE lately begun to feel the great truth, that earth is not enough for the soul. I once thought, that with all its troubles and temptations, losses and crosses, heavy griefs and whelming sorrows, the world was a place wherein I could dwell for ever; but I was young then, and the scene was new to me. I heard the song of the birds and the sweet music of the human voice; I saw the beauties and the glories of creation, and I thought they were endless-that there was nothing beyond them; no nobler beauty; no sublimer glory. Each succeeding Summer seemed to say to me, See, we are deathless; we sleep, but we awake to new beauty. Lo! the winters-how they perish! but we, the bright and lovely, are eternal!" I heard the words-wondered, and believed; but it was a dream, and I awoke! And then the sterner voice of the Winters arose upon the air, and I heard the message "ALL MUST DIE ! I looked around; the bright and lovely were no more; Earth was clad in clouds and gloom; Beauty was in its grave. Then a voice said to my soul, THIS IS NOT THY REST-ARISE! LOOK BEYOND! And I caught a glimpse of the Great Future, the Deathless and the Infinite. So I felt that earth was not a fit habitation for the space-defying soul, and I said-Thank God that age is coming upon me, for it opens to my spirit a wider, nobler, world.

"Tis not in thoughtless, happy youth,
When all we see we deem is truth,-
When Hope and Glory cheer us on,
And show fair prizes to be won,—
When friends are many, sorrows few,
Cares undreamt of, lovers true,-

It is not then,—it is not then

That Heav'n's desired or sought by men.

Ah! no! for then this world appears
The home we'd dwell in all our years,-

And could we have our wish, 'twould be

The scene of our Eternity;

Its flowers are fair, its sky is bright,

Its thousand luring joys invite,

No! 'tis not then,-it is not then

That Heav'n's desired or sought by men.
"Tis when we wake from Hope's bright beam,
And find its promise all a dream,-
When the high glory we have sought,
Is prov'd to be a phantom-nought,-
When having gained the prize of Fame,
We find it but an empty name,—

"Tis then that Earth first seems to be
Unworthy Immortality.

"Tis when DEATH strikes some heavy blow
That lays a dearly-loved one low,
And leaves us to our anguish great,
Heartbroken, hopeless, desolate,-

When by the open grave we stand,
And feel the strength of that Dark Hand
That thus our dearest joys hath riven,-
Oh! it is then we think of Heaven.

When by fell Slander and her brood
Of grinning demons we 're pursued,-
Made mocking words for Envy's breath,-
Hunted by Malice to the death,-
Without a friend to cheer or save,

Our pleasures dead, our heart their grave,—

"Tis then our thoughts spurn Earth and Space,

And seek the Eternal's kind embrace.

When shorn of all we love and prize,
And made by Grief too truly wise,-
Left lonely-even as I am here-

With nought we 're dear to, or hold dear,-
When for our whelming woes we see
No refuge but Eternity,-

Then from its clay the soul is riven,
Disdains the world and soars to Heaven.

CHAPTER IV.

THE ODD MAN ASKS A QUESTION.

Did you ever at night, when the heavens are bright
With their thousand beautiful lamps of light,-
As you've gazed on the stars, in the azure set deep,
Feel a strange wild thought o'er your spirit sweep,
As though the Great Prisoner caged in your breast
Yearned to flee to its home, to its heaven of rest?
Have ye felt that although you are captive here,-
Far away from home in a prison drear,-
Down chained by many a galling tie
From the air of your immortality,—
That yet, beyond those glorious skies,
A home-a rest for your spirit lies?

Oh! beautiful stars! as ye spangle the sky,
How ye speak to the soul of Eternity;

Bright heralds ye are of a world to be known,

And ye glitter like spirits that wait at God's throne;

Ye tell us that sorrow and trouble shall cease,

Ye bid us rejoice-for ye point us to Peace.

CHAPTER V.

THE ODD MAN IS SOMEWHAT METAPHYSICAL AND PROSY.

I have just finished reading " Childe Harold," for the twentieth time, and I have been made more than ever to perceive that strange and mysterious tendency which, under certain circumstances, the mind exhibits to prey upon itself to invent evils, and create mighty shadows, and call unreal ills into being, till it causes itself a far greater, a far keener, a far more thrilling and overpowering anguish than would follow from the happening of real misfortune. It is perhaps because in my loneliness my soul has thus raised mighty foes from no

thing, that I feel the truth so powerfully-but is there one human being who can deny the fact? Alas! experience convicts us all. Men are for ever creating anguish for themselves-for ever setting up phantoms and spectres that have no reality, but are more fearful than if they were real, and the fiercest and most terrible foes they have to fight are the shadows they themselves invoke. What these shadows and spectres are we most of us can tell. They come with our hopes, when we hope beyond reason; they come when we speculate upon our immortality; and no wonder-for how can a material being contemplate and gaze upon the Soul-world without being dazzled and bewildered! They come with the increase of our knowledge, for they are the clouds that rise from our mind's chaos as the Spirit of Truth sits brooding upon it; they come with our affections, when we strain them too far, and convert what should be trust and reliance into jealousy and suspicion; but most frequently and most powerfully they come when darkness and solitude overtake us, when, shut from the face of day and the companionship of our kind, our mind turns back upon itself-draws pictures of hope, fanciful but false, calls forth the shadows of its fears to clothe them with terrible forms, and gives the rein to unholy and unlawful imagination. Then it is that the caged spirit-struggling with the bond that chains it to its prisonpanting and beating for separation-proves too strong for its clay companion; and though it cannot sever the relationship, it yet exercises over the body a mighty and convulsing power, which, returning again to its source, reproduces itself in inward terror, unreal anguish, and despair. But why do we seek to flee these terrors? they are inseparable from our humanity,

They are the clouds of earth,

And they must dim our sky;
They rose when we had birth,
They'll set not till we die.
They are the solemn shrouds
That tell us of our doom;
The heralds dark-those clouds,
That point us to the tomb.

But do they say no more

Those clouds that o'er us sweep?

And is their mission o'er

When they have told Death's sleep?

No! they have more to say

Those dark and awful spirits!

They tell each child of clay

That he a heaven inherits,

That there's a holy shore
Beyond his dreary tomb,

Where shadows haunt no more-
Where clouds can never come.

Then ye no more shall shade
My spirit's sky-ye clouds,—
Ye change-ye fly-ye fade-

I see GOD through your shrouds !

CHAPTER VI.

THE ODD MAN MUSES UPON THE JOYS OF WINTER, AND INTIMATES HIS DISLIKE OF SPRING.

OH! how welcome to me is Winter! I love its gloomy days and long cold nights: its desolateness-its dreariness. I love to hear its rude winds as they howl through the stript trees, and sweep in fitful gusts over the earth. Men speak of them with terror and call them tempests: they are no tempests to me-there is a fiercer tempest in my soul, and the wild winds in all their fury become silence itself before the deep, wailing, stormy voice of my departed joys. And what is the desolateness of Winter to the desolateness of my bereaved and lonely heart? The Winter can hope for the Spring-but for what can I hope? Hope! There is a strange and misty dream of a bright far-distant Future that haunts me; but the dark figure of Death stands between, and points to a gloomy gulf that may be eternal silence.

And now the Spring is on its way with its smiles and flowers: Oh, how mournful is Spring to me!

I hail thee not, thou coming Spring!

Thou bringest no delights for me;

Thy every smile to me's a sting,

Thy every flower, misery :

Mine is the winter of the mind

Thou canst not chase away my gloom;

No joy in thy approach I find,

I'd rather hail my tomb!

Thy breath, that brings rich Summer on,
Bears promise of no joy to me;

It tells of happy moments gone-
Moments I never more shall see :

It speaks of those lost days of youth

When Friends were kind, and Life was fair,
When Hope was fresh, and Love was truth-
And I'd not dreamt of care.

I thought that all before my eye

Was only meant to gladden me-
But I have found, with many a sigh,
That all such hopes are vanity:
I thought my fellow-creatures were
A noble and a godlike race-
But I have learned, to my despair,
To loathe the human face.

Then spread thy wing, thou mocking Spring!
Take all that shines and smiles with thee;

I wait 'till Winter's tempests bring

A fit companionship for me:

I love to revel in her storms,

They're like the tumult in my breast;
To her chill hours my heart conforms-
"Tis then I take my rest.

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