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I do not understand you!' answered Lucy; and turned towards the house, with some marks of resentment on her countenance. Bolton was for some time riveted to the spot. When he recovered the use of his feet, he ran after Miss Sindall, and gently laying hold of her hand, I cannot bear your anger, said he; though I own your displeasure is just; but forgive, I entreat you, this unthinking offense, of him whose respect is equal to his love.' Your love, Mr. Bolton!' 'I cannot retract the word, though my heart has betrayed me from that prudence which might have stifled the declaration. I have not language, Miss Lucy, for the present feelings of my soul: till this momant, I never knew how much I loved you, and never could I have expressed it so ill! He paused: she was looking fixedly on the ground; drawing her hand softly from his, which refused, involuntarily, to quit its hold. May I not hope! seid he. You have my pardon, Mr. Bolton.' But I beg you,' said Lucy, interrupting him, 'to leave this subject. I know your merit, Mr. Bolton-my esteem-you have thrown me into such confusion-nay, let go my hand.' Pity then, and forgive me. She sighed he pressed her hand to his lips. She blushed-and blushed in such a manner. They have never been in Bolton's situation, by whom that sigh and that blush would

not have been understood."

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"Julia de Roubigné," the last of Mackenzie's novels, has been the most attractive of them all in public estimation. It is very interesting, and doubtless its melancholy pages have often been stained with the tears of the young. Sad and affecting it truly is, and we close the book with a deep and longdrawn sigh. Julia in childhood has a young companion by the name of Savillon. They read the same books, play the same music, take rambles in the country together, and what was in childhood friendship, as years multiply, becomes love. Savillon, to better his fortune, sails for Martinique, without declaring his attachment to Julia. But she possesses his picture, and in a letter to a friend she writes: "Maria, when this picture was drawn! I remember the time well. My father was at Paris, and Savillon left with my mother and me at Bellville. The painter (who was accidentally in our province) came thither to give me a few lessons of drawing. Savillon was already a tolerable designer; but he joined with me in becoming scholar to this man. When our master was with us, he used sometimes to guide my hand; when he was gone, at our practice of his instructions, Savillon commonly supplied his place. But Savillon's hand was not like the other's; I felt something from its touch not the less delightful

you,

from carrying a sort of fear along with that delight; it was like a pulse in the soul." How beautiful and true is the expression: "It was like a pulse in the soul!" but it need not be pointed out to any one who has ever loved. Savillon's feelings on leaving France are interestingly told. I have read somewhere that it is a greater trial to leave one's country, when one must cross the sea. There is such a solemnity in a pilgrimage, the first steps of which are on the ocean. It seems as if a gulf were opening behind and your return becoming impossible. Besides, the sight of the main always profoundly impresses us, as the image of that infinitude which perpetually attracts the soul, in which thought ever feels herself lost. Travelling, say what we will, is one of the saddest pleasures in life. If you ever feel at ease in a strange place, it is because you have begun to make it your home: but to traverse unknown lands; to hear a language which you hardly comprehend; to look on faces unconnected with either your past or future; this is solitude without repose or dignity. For the hurry to arrive where no one awaits you, that agitation whose sole cause is curiosity, lessens you in your own esteem, until new objects can become bound to you by some sweet links of sentiment and habit. Julia hears that Savillon marries in Martinique : her heart still remains faithful to him, but a neighbor by the name of Montauban, a Spaniard, seeks her hand; he aids her father in his ruined fortunes, and more out of gratitude than love she at last consents to become his. Her maid Lisette gives a description of her at the marriage ceremony: "I think I never saw a more lovely figure than my lady's; she is a sweet angel at all times, but I wish your ladyship had seen how she looked then. She was dressed in. a white muslin night-gown, with striped lilac and white ribands; her hair was kept in the loose way you used to make me dress it for her at Bellville, with two waving curls down one side of her neck, and a braid of little pearls; you made her a present of them. And to be sure, with the dark-brown locks resting upon it, her bosom looked as pure white as the driven snow. And then, her eyes, when she gave her hand to the Count! they were cast half down, and you might see her eye-lashes, like strokes of a pencil over the white of her skin; the modest gentleness with a sort of a sadness too, as it

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

Savillon, in a letter to Beauvarais, recall ing the days of his early love, says: "There was indeed something in the scene around us, formed to create those romantic illusions. The retreat of Roubigné is a venerable pile, the remains of ancient Gothic magnificence, and the grounds adjoining to it are in that style of melancholy grandeur which marks the dwellings of our forefathers. One part of that small estate, which is still the appendage of this once respectable mansion, is a wild and rocky dell, where tasteless wealth has never warred on nature, nor even elegance refined or embellished her beauties. The walks are only worn by the tread of the shepherds, and the banks only smoothed by the feeding of their flocks. There, too dangerous society! have I passed whole days with Julia; there, more dangerous still! have I passed whole days in thinking of her. A circumstance trifling in itself added not a little to the fascination of the rest. The same good woman who nursed me was also the nurse of Julia. She was too fond of her foster-daughter, and too well treated by her, ever to leave the fortunes of her family. To this residence she attended them when she left Belville; and here, too, as at that place, had a small house and garden allotted her.

It was situated at the extreme verge of that dell I have described, and was often the end of those walk we took through it together. The good Lasune (for that is our nurse's name) considered us her chidren, and treated us, in those visits to her little dwelling, with that simplicity and affection which has the most powerful effect on hearts of sensibility. Oh, Beauvarais! methinks I see the figure of Lasune, at this moment, pointing out to your friend, with rapture in her countenance, the beauties of her lovely daughter! She places our seats together; she produces her shining platters, with fruit and, milk for our repast; she presses the smiling Julia, and will not be denied by Savillon! Am I then a thousand leagues distant! ***Where now are Roubigné's little copses; where his winding walks, his nameless rivulets; where the wired gate of his venerable dwelling, the gothic windows of his echoing hall! The morning on which I set out for Paris is still fresh on my memory. I could not bear the formality of parting, and stole from his house by day

VOL. VIII. NO. I. NEW SERIES.

open; I entered to take one last look, and bid it adieu! I had sat in it the night before with Julia; the chairs we had occupied were still in their places. You know not, my friend, what I felt at the sight; there was something in the silent attitude of those chairs that wrung my heart beyond the power of language; and I believe the servant had told me that my horses waited five or six times over, before I could listen to what he said."

Montauban discovers the miniature of Savillon; jealous feelings immediately agitate him, and

-"sweep like a stormy rack In fleet succession o'er his clouded soul." GRAHAM.

Savillon returns to France, wealthy, (the report of his marriage was untrue;) he finds his friend Beauvarais dead; Julia the wife of another. They have one interview at old Lasune's, which will draw tears from the sternest eye.* Montauban is aware of their meeting; Julia returns; he administers poison to her in some medicine. Montauban writes: " Had you seen her when these trembling hands delivered her the bowl! She had complained of being ill, and begged to lie alone; but her illness seemed of the mind, and when she spoke to me she betrayed the embarrassment of guilt. I gave her the drug as a cordial. She took it from me, smiling, and her look seemed to lose its confusion. She drank my health. She was dressed in a white silk bed-gown, ornamented with pale pink ribands. Her cheek was gently flushed from their reflection; her blue eyes were turned upwards as she drank, and a dark brown ringlet lay on her shoulder. Methinks I see her now; how like an angel she looked! Had she been innocent, Segarva! You know, you know it is impossible she can be innocent.

* * *

When

I was returning to my apartment, I heard the sound of music proceeding from my wife's chamber; there is a double door in it; I opened the outer one without any noise, and the inner one has some panes of glass at the top through which I saw part of the room, Segarva! She sat at the organ, her fingers pressing on the keys, and her look upraised with enthusiastic rapture! The solemn

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sounds still ring in my ear! such as angels might play when the sainted soul ascends to heaven up." The unfortunate and innocent Julia perishes.

Violets plucked the sweetest rain
Make not fresh, nor grow again."

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

Montauban, too late, is assured of the purity of his wife, and destroys himself. Montauban is a genuine Spaniard. As Leigh Hunt well says, St. Dominic was a Spaniard. So was Borgia; so was Philip the Second. There seems to be an inherent semi-barbarism in the character of Spain, which it has never got rid of to this day. If it were not for Cervantes, and some modern patriots, it would hardly appear to belong to the right European community. Even Lope de Vega was an inquisitor, and Mendoza, the entertaining author of Lazarillo de Tormes, a cruel statesman. Cervantes, however, is enough to sweeten a whole peninsula.

Perhaps I love the letters of Julia de Roubigné more than I otherwise should, from the name of her residence, "Belville." I am writing this essay in the lovely city of Newark, and a few miles above it, on the banks of the Passaic river, is the pretty little village of Belville; a pleasant walk or drive from Newark, and still more delightful as a sail on a fine summer's evening, when the moon is throwing its radiance on the water and shore, and the boat glides noiselessly along, "save the light drip of the suspended oar;" and as I pass the cemetery on its bank, where repose the remains of one inexpressibly dear to me, I drop a tear to her memory. Time has assuaged the bitterness of my grief, but added to the poignancy of my regrets.

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No one can forget Mackenzie's novels; they came from his soul, they have pierced the souls of others. Their quiet traits and descriptions of human life and nature are delicately tinted by a refined fancy, and enriched by noble affections. We arise saddened from their perusal, with our feelings. ceeply touched, but, at the same time, invig orated with a determination to be good and sincere, faithful and honest. They cast off from the soul the impurities and bitternesses which so often sully it by a contact with the world. They appeal to those primal emotions which are common to us all. We all have our gentle reminiscences,—persons and things to which we cling with obstinate affection, and the thoughts of them often cheer us in gloom and despondency. We look back with pensive regret to a mother and father's love and care; to the house we were born in; to the books we read long, long ago; to our visit to the theatre for the first time; to the first paintings and engravings we saw these are all colored by senaround his father's dwelling, he feels the calm of that peaceful hour mingling with the thousand associations that combine to form his most vivid and poetical idea of sunset. In this manner we not unfrequently single out from the works of art interest so deep, a regard so earnest, that they some favorite object upon which we bestow an wear the character of admiration which no perceptible quality in the object itself can justify, and which other beholders are unable to understand. those which are most worthy of general notice, In a collection of paintings, we look around for when suddenly our attention is struck with one little unpretending picture almost concealed in an obscure corner, and totally unobserved by any one beside.

"It is the representation of a village church, the very church where we first learned to feel, and, in 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 bright poetic life by the 'golden day's decline.' He sees, sunshine. Perhaps the wheels of Time have rolled bright and gorgeous with sunbeams, the distant hill over us with no gentle pressure since we last bewhich his boyish fancy taught him to believe it held that scene; perhaps the darkness of our preswould 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, bright. 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 bosoms, give us more true knowledge than all our boasted reason affords. Newark, N. J.,June, 1851.

**Sentiment is of three kinds: plain, honest, manly, simple-the outbursting of an uncorrupted heart; or graceful and refined, cultivated by education, elevated by society, purified by religion; 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 Shakspeare, to the third."answers to the first; the sentiment of Mackenzie W. A. Jones's "Essays upon Authors and Books."

HOPE.

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.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.*

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 as realities, and the living, more than one generation of whom-his seniors, those of equal age, as well as many younger than himself he had seen pass away as shadows; so we now turn to the works of the poet, and easily persuade ourselves that we have the reality, while only the shadow has departed.

Juvenal made the inquiry, not more significant eighteen centuries ago than to-day: Quis custodiet custodes? If we ponder it well, we shall find that this is the question of questions. "Who shall keep the keepers?" asks the spirit of humanity in every age. Such a one is the expressed or unexpressed need, the dumb or articulate want, of each generation. Of skilful workmen the supply is tolerably abundant at all times, but there must be also a divine planner of work. Cunning fingers must be guided by some cunning soul. Very good judges may be found among any people, but the very

Foremost among these is the true poet. He is an intuitive seer; something more than a seer. Novalis says: "The fresh gaze of a child is richer in significance than the forecasting of the most indubitable seer." The poet is the full-grown child. For him creation retains its wonder, its sanctity, its grandeur. Each returning season the flower blooms mysteriously as at first. The voice of Deity in storm or ocean loses not its significance. "God said, Let there be light, and there was light," is written for him on the face of nature as often as morning opens its eyelids. When the sun rises, he forgets that it has ever risen before, and,

"with earnest voice, As if the thought were not a moment old, Claims absolute dominion for the day."

The poet alone is able to answer the old Sphinx that sits by the highway of life, interrogating each passer-by, for he looks 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.

1851.

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