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"I do not understand you !' answered Lucy; and from carrying a sort of fear along with that turned towards the house, with some marks of re- delight; it was like a pulse in the soul.” sentment on her countenance. Bolton was for u

How beautiful and true is the expression: some time riveted to the spot. When he recovered the use of his feet, he ran after Miss Sindall, and “ It was like a pulse in the soul !!" but it gently laying hold of her hand, 'I cannot bear need not be pointed out to any one who has your anger,' said he; though I own your dis- ever loved. “Savillon's feelings on leaving pleasure is just; but forgive, I entreat you, this

France are interestingly told. I have read unthinking offense, of him whose respect is equal to his love.' Your love, Mr. Bolton | 'I cannot

somewhere that it is a greater trial to leave retract the word, though my heart has betrayed one's country, when one must cross the sea. me from that prudence wbich might have stifled There is such a solemnity in a pilgrimage, the declaration. I have not language, Miss Lucy, the first steps of which are on the ocean. It for the present feelings of my soul : till this mo

seems as if a gulf were opening behind you, mant, I never knew how much I loved you, and never could I have expressed it so ill!' He and your return becoming impossible. Bepaused : she was looking fixedly on the ground; sides, the sight of the main always prodrawing her hand softly from his, which refused, foundly impresses us, as the image of that involuntarily, to quit ita hold. “May I not hope?" linfinitude which perpetually attracts the seid he. You have my pardon, Mr. Bolion.' • But'--'I beg you,' said Lucy, interrupting him, 'to leave this subject. I know your merit, Mr. | Travelling, say what we will, is one of the sadBolton--ny esteem-you have thrown me into dest pleasures in life. If you ever feel at ease such confusion--nay, let go my hand.' “Pity then, in a strange place, it is because you have begun and forgive me. She sigbed-he pressed her

to make it your home: but to traverse unhand to his lips. She blushed-and blushed in such a manner. They have never been in Bolton's known lands; to hear a language which you situation, by whom that sigh and that blush would hardly comprehend; to look on faces uncon. not have been understood.”

nected with either your past or future; this is

solitude without repose or dignity. For the “ Julia de Roubigné," the last of Mac- hurry to arrive where no one awaits you, kenzie's novels, has been the most attractive that agitation whose sole cause is curiosity, of them all in public estimation. It is very lessens you in your own esteem, until new interesting, and doubtless its melancholy objects can become bound to you by some pages have often been stained with the tears sweet links of sentiment and habit. Julia of the young. Sad and affecting it truly is, hears that Savillon marries in Martinique : and we close the book with a deep and long- her heart still remains faithful to him, but drawn sigh. Julia in childhood has a young a neighbor by the name of Montauban, a companion by the name of Savillon. They Spaniard, seeks her hand; he aids her father read the same books, play the same music, in his ruined fortunes, and more out of take rambles in the country together, and gratitude than love she at last consents to what was in childhood friendship, as years become his. Her maid Lisette gives a demultiply, becomes love. Savillon, to better scription of her at the marriage ceremony : his fortune, sails for Martiniqne, without de- "I think I never saw a more lovely figure claring his attachment to Julia. But she than my lady's; she is a sweet angel at all possesses his picture, and in a letter to a times, but I wish your ladyship had seen friend she writes: “Maria, when this picture how she looked then. She was dressed in was drawn! I remember the time well. a white muslin night-gown, with striped lilac My father was at Paris, and Savillon left and white ribands; her hair was kept in the with my mother and me at Bellville. The loose way you used to make me dress it for painter (who was accidentally in our pro- her at Bellville, with two waving curls down vince) came thither to give me a few les one side of her neck, and a braid of little sons of drawing. Savillon was already a pearls; you made her a present of them. tolerable designer; but he joined with me | And to be sure, with the dark brown locks in becoming scholar to this man. When resting upon it, her bosom looked as pure our master was with us, he used sometimes white as the driven snow. And then, her to guide my hand; when he was goue, at eyes, when she gave her hand to the Count ! our practice of his instructions, Savillon com- they were cast half down, and you might monly supplied his place. But Savillon's see her eye-lashes, like strokes of a pencil hand was not like the other's; I felt some- over the white of her skin; the modest thing from its touch not the less delightful gentleness with a sort of a sadness too, as it

were, and a gentle heave of her bosom at break. As I passed that hall the door was the same time.

open; I entered to take one last look, and bid Savillon, in a letter to Beauvarais, recall-it adieu ! I had sat in it the night before ing the days of his early love, says: “There with Julia; the chairs we had occupied were was indeed soinething in the scene around still in their places. You know not, my us, formed to create those romantic illusions. friend, what I felt at the sight; there was The retreat of Roubigné is a venerable pile, something in the silent attitude of those the remains of ancient Gothic magnificence, chairs that wrung my heart beyond the and the grounds adjoining to it are in that power of language ; and I believe the serstyle of melancholy grandeur which marks vant had told me that my horses waited five the dwellings of our forefathers. One part or six times over, before I could listen to of that small estate, which is still the appen- what he said." dage of this once respectable mansion, is a Montauban discovers the miniature of Sawild and rocky dell, where tasteless wealth villon; jealous feelings immediately agitate has never warred on nature, nor even ele- him, and gance refined or embellished her beauties.

-“sweep like a stormy rack The walks are only worn by the tread of the In fleet succession o'er his clouded soul." shepherds, and the banks only smoothed by

GRAHAM the feeding of their flocks. There, too dan- Savillon returns to France, wealthy, (the gerous society! have I passed whole days report of his marriage was untrue ;) he with Julia; there, more dangerous still!) finds his friend Beauvarais dead ; Julia the have I passed whole days in thinking of her. wife of another. They have one interview A circumstance trifling in itself added not a at old Lasune's, which will draw tears from little to the fascination of the rest. The the sternest eye.* Montauban is aware of same good woman who nursed me was also their meeting ; Julia returns; he administhe nurse of Julia. She was too fond of ters poison to her in some medicine. Monther foster-daughter, and too well treated by auban writes: “ Had you seen her when thesə her, ever to leave the fortunes of her family. trembling hands delivered her the bowl ! To this residence she attended them when She had complained of being ill, and begged she left Belville; and here, too, as at that to lie alone; but her illness seemed of the place, had a small house and garden allotted mind, and when she spoke to me she beher. It was situated at the extreme verge trayed the embarrassment of guilt. I gave of that dell I have descsribed, and was often her the drug as a cordial. She took it from the end of those walk we took through it me, smiling, and her look seemed to lose its together. The good Lasune (for that is confusion. She drank my health. She was our nurse's name) considered us her chidren, dressed in a white silk bed-gown, ornamented and treated us, in those visits to her little with pale pink ribands. Her cheek was dwelling, with that simplicity and affection gently flushed from their reflection; her which has the most powerful effect on hearts blue eyes were turned upwards as she drank, of sensibility. Oh, Beauvarais! methinks I | and a dark brown ringlet lay on her shoulder. see the figure of Lasune, at this moment, | Methinks I see her now; how like an angel pointing out to your friend, with rapture she looked! Had she been innocent, Segarin her countenance, the beauties of her lovely va! You know, you know it is impossible daughter! She places our seats together; / she can be innocent. * * * * When she produces her shining platters, with fruit I was returning to my apartment, I heard and, milk for our repast; she presses the the sound of music proceeding from my smiling Julia, and will not be denied by. wife's chamber; there is a double door in it; Savillon! Am I then a thousand leagues I opened the outer one without any noise, distant! * * * Where now are Roubigné's and the inner one has some panes of glass little copses; where his winding walks, his at the top through which I saw part of the nameless rivulets; where the wired gate of room, Segarva ! She sat at the organ, her his venerable dwelling, the gothic windows fingers pressing on the keys, and her look upof his echoing hall! The morning on which raised with enthusiastic rapture ! The solemn I set out for Paris is still fresh on my memory. I could not bear the formality of * " The sweets of love are washed with tears." parting, and stole from his house by day-|


sounds still ring in my ear! such as angels No one can forget Mackenzie's novels; might play when the sainted soul ascends they came from his soul, they have pierced to heaven up.” The unfortunate and innocent the souls of others. Their quiet traits and Julia perishes.

descriptions of human life and nature are "Violets plucked the sweetest rain

delicately tinted by a refined fancy, and enMake not fresh, nor grow again.” riched by noble affections. We arise sad

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER, dened from their perusal, with our feelings Montauban, too late, is assured of the ceeply touched, but, at the same time, invigpurity of his wife, and destroys himself

. orated with a determination to be good İMontauban is a genuine Spaniard. As Leigh and sincere, faithful and honest. They cast Hunt well says, St. Dominic was a Spaniard. off from the soul the impurities and bitterSo was Borgia; so was Philip the Second. nesses which so often sully it by a contact There seems to be an inherent semi-barbar

with the world. They appeal to those pri

mal emotions which are common to us all. ism in the character of Spain, which it has never got rid of to this day. If it were not We all have our gentle reminiscences,-perfor Cervantes, and some modern patriots, it sons and things to which we cling with obwould hardly appear to belong to the right stinate affection, and the thoughts of them European community. Even Lope de Vega


. was an inquisitor, and Mendoza, the enter- We look back with pensive regret to a motaining author of Lazarillo de Tormes, a

ther and father's love and care; to the house cruel statesman. Cervantes, however, is

we were born in; to the books we read long, enough to sweeten a whole peninsula.

long ago; to our visit to the theatre for the Perhaps I love the letters of Julia de first time; to the first paintings and engrarRoubigné more than I otherwise should, ings we saw: these are all colored by senfrom the name of her residence, “ Belville.”

around bis father's dwelling, he feels the calm of I am writing this essay in the lovely city of that peaceful hour mingling with the thousand Newark, and a few miles above it, on the associations that combine to form his most vivid banks of the Passaic river, is the pretty little and poetical idea of sunset. In this manner we village of Belville; a pleasant walk or drive not unfrequently single out from the works of art from Newark, and still more delightful as a interest so deep, a regard so earnest, that they

some favorite object upon which we bestow an sail on a fine summer's evening, when the wear the character of admiration which no permoon is throwing its radiance on the water ceptible quality in the object itself can justify, and and shore, and the boat glides noiselessly which other beholders are unable to understand. along, “save the light drip of the suspended those which are most worthy of general notice, oar;" and as I pass the cemetery on its when suddenly our attention is struck with one bank, where repose the remains of one inex- little unpretending picture almost concealed in an pressibly dear to me, I drop a tear to her obscure corner, and totally unubserved by avy one memory. Time has assuaged the bitterness beside. of my grief, but added to the poignancy of

" It is the representation of a village church, the

very church where we first learned to feel, and, in my regrets.*

part, to understand the solemnity of the Sabbath.

Beside its venerable walls are the last habitations *"Impressions made upon our minds by local cir- of our kindred, and beneath that dark and mourncumstances are frequently of so deep and durable ful yew is the ancient pastor's grave. Here is the a nature, as to outlive all the accidents of chance winding path so familiar to our steps, when we and change which occur to us in after life. Should trod the earth more lightly than we do now; the the poet or painter in his study endeavor to place stile, on which the little orphan girl used to sit, before his mind's eye the picture of a brilliant sun while her brothers were at play; and the low set, he insensibly recalls that scenery in the midst bench beside the cottage-door, where the an:ent of wh ch b's youthful fancy was first warmed into dame used to pore over her Bible in the briglit poetic life by the 'golden day's decline.' He sees, sunshine. Perbaps the wheels of Time have rolled bright and goryeous with sunbeame, the distant hill over us with no gentle pressure since we last bewhich his hoyish fancy taught him to believe it held that scene; perhaps the darkness of our pres. would be the height of happiness to climb; the ent lot makes the brightness of the past more sombre woods that skirt the horizon; the valley, briglit. Whatever the cause may be. our gaze is misty and indistinct below; the wandering river, fixed and fascinated, and we turn away from the whose glancing waters are here and there touched more wonderful productions of art to muse upon as they gleam out with the radiance of the re. that little picture again and again, when all but splendent west; and while memory paints again ourselves have passed it by without a thought."-the long, deep shadows of the trees that grew | The Poetry of Life.

timent, and do they not afford us truer and only identity, save that of consciousness, more vivid pleasures than all the tame which man with certainty retains ; it links realities of daily life? We cling to the past the different periods of our life together; as a priceless boon; we are sure of it; the thoughts are awakened, fresh, fragrant, beaujoys belonging to it are lodged beyond the tiful and pure as the lily, graceful and pliant reach of fate. The future is dark and un- as the waving willow branch. Stern and sad certain, clouds and darkness rest upon it. memorials of the past also arise, but so Justly has it been said, “that real sentiment softened by time, their asperities so mitigatis the truest, the most genuine, and the most ed, that they even afford a subdued pleasure. lasting thing on earth.”* It preserves the Sentiment, the eye glancing inward, and

- revealing to us the hoarded secrets of human *"Sentiment is of three kinds : plain, honest, bosoms, give us more true knowledge than manly, simple--the outbursting of an uncorrupted heart; or graceful and refined, cultivated by edu- /"

"all our boasted reason affords. cation, elevated by society, purified by religion ;/ Newark, N.J.,June, 1851. or else of that magnificent and swelling character, such as fills the breast of the patriot and the genuine philanthropist. The sentiment of old and Sterne, to the second ; the sentiment of WordsIzaak Walton- to take examples from books worth, and Burke, and Sbakspeare, to the third.”— answers to the first; the sentiment of Mackenzie W. A. Jones's Essays upon Authors and Books."


Is there Hope? my Spirit cried,
Bending to the Crucified.
Live in Hope! a voice replied.

Life is but a gate of Night
Opening on the realms of Light,
Trial for the Neophyte.

Life is but a broken arch,
O’er which Man must boldly march,
Unto Eden's gloomy porch :
Gloomy porch my Eden hath,
Frowning o'er a rugged path;
And its gate is kept by Death.
Boldly tread the narrow way-
You will find the endless Day
When this dream has passed away.
Seek not thou unmanly ease;
Firmly breast the raging Seas,
Till you reach Hesperides.
Is there Hope ? my Spirit cried,
Bending to the Crucified.
Hope is Life! a voice replied.


The death of Wordsworth has had a ten-, office of judge is a nonentity until the Headency to recall attention to his works. He ven-sent legislator makes his appearance. lived to multiply his presence in countless The world has many a pertly-talking Cousin, loving hearts, and has gone to sing else- but Plato alone is philosophy. Men of talent where than on earth. His name is a word are sown over the ages, while nature seems of benediction to all who have felt the influ- to grudge the fire of genius. Many useful ence of his kindly spirit. Not without a verse-makers exist to cut a set of diamonds tear we resign to nature the dust-garment dug from nature's mine only by the true poet. woven by the spirit around itself, but a holy An age without its gifted inventor, without calm succeeds when we are permitted to its law-giver, without its poet, must live over shake hands with the real being across the the old life, walk by hearsay, and subsist on “ bourne whence no traveller returns." We imitation. We have at least a dumb consee not the soul now, we saw it not in life. sciousness that our well-being on this planet Its thoughts, its feelings, its aspirations, have depends upon our insight into the nature of been embalmed for us with an art more our existence, and we are always ready to mysterious than that of the old Egyptians. ask help of him whose vision is clearer than As the aged Jeronemite said to Wilkie in our own. We welcome, therefore, the true the Escurial, while looking at Titian's famous seer. He is eyes for the world; he is the picture of the Last Supper, that he had come true keeper of the keepers. to regard the abiding figures in the picture Foremost among these is the true poet. He as realities, and the living, more than one is an intuitive seer; something more than a generation of whom-his seniors, those of seer. Novalis says:“The fresh gaze of a child equal age, as well as many younger than is richer in significance than the forecasting himself—he had seen pass away as shadows ; of the most indubitable seer.” The poet is so we now turn to the works of the poet, the full-grown child. For him creation reand easily persuade ourselves that we have tains its wonder, its sanctity, its grandeur. the reality, while only the shadow has de- Each returning season the flower blooms parted.

mysteriously as at first. The voice of Deity Juvenal made the inquiry, not more sig- in storm or ocean loses not its significance. nificant eighteen centuries ago than to-day: “God said, Let there be light, and there was Quis custodiet custodes? If we ponder it light,” is written for him on the face of well

, we shall find that this is the question nature as often as morning opens its eyelids. of questions. “Who shall keep the keep. When the sun rises, he forgets that it has ers?” asks the spirit of humanity in every ever risen before, and, age. Such a one is the expressed or unex

" with earnest voice, pressed need, the dumb or articulate want,

As if the thought were not a moment old, of each generation. Of skilful workmen Claims absolute dominion for the day.” the supply is tolerably abundant at all times, but there must be also a divine planner of The poet alone is able to answer the old work. Cunning fingers must be guided by Sphinx that sits by the highway of life, some cunning soul. Very good judges may interrogating each passer-by, for he looks be found among any people, but the very upon all things as though they had just

* Memoirs of William Wordsworth, Poet Laureate, D.C.L. By Christopher Wordsworth, D. D., Canon of Westminster. Edited by Henry Reed. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1851.

The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth. New Edition. Boston : Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1861.

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