Once it happened that a three days' rain confined him within the mansion. His sagacious companion threw in his way the Commentaries-familiar as a guidebook, yet ever fresh and delightful-of the great Roman. The afternoon of the third day the sun shone forth, and Reginald galloped to the Chesleys. He found Matilda, tired like himself of confinement, about to mount her pony, dragging off a reluctant brother from his business as an escort. Reginald relieved the brother. The road which they chose was that beautiful one which Seymour had once found so pleasant. But Reginald took little note of the scenery, though the Gavin, aided by the rains, made quite an imposing cataract as it dashed over the rock. Instead, he expatiated upon the trying times at Alesia, where a besieging army was itself besieged; the desperate extremity between the swollen rivers when exulting tidings were sent to Rome that the last resource of matchless versatility was exhausted, and that the terror of the world was to be famished like an entrapped wolf; he spoke of Alexandria, and, above all, of the campaign in northern Africathat campaign which has all the exciting interest of a game of chess. Did Matilda take pleasure in this discourse? Perhaps she would have been as well pleased if it had been rather more in the vein of Seymour's still she enjoyed the ride, and thought Reginald quite eloquent. But he was dissatisfied to find that she did not view things in the same light that he did. Having read Langhorne's Plutarch, and Addison's tragedy, she esteemed Cato a great and noble character. Reginald tried hard to convince her of the error. He explained that he was an obstinate, blind, irrational fellow, who never considered circumstances, and never in his life gained an end. Matilda listened patiently, but still persisted that she would rather have been Cato than Julius. Her lover was shocked and well-nigh disgusted. He did not stay to tea that evening.

ally became more distinct. The skillful angler, however, still played out the line. Not pretending to create circumstances, he was cautious even in the use of those which spontaneously occurred. His talk with his pupil was as easy and flowing and apparently frank as ever, yet it had really undergone a considerable change. He no longer indulged in satirical reflections upon feminine weakness, which, in the present state of Reginald's mind, must have prompted him to bestir his faculties in defense of a sex for which he had become interested. On the contrary, when the suitor spoke approvingly of any of Miss Chesley's qualities, Rennoe gave his own prompt assent, not in an ironical way, but with the manner of sincere conviction. A weak, or even an ordinary lover, would have had his affections more irrevocably fixed by finding his admiration of his mistress ingeniously concurred in by one whose judgment was not lightly moved, and all of whose prepossessions were directly contrary. But the knowledge that others entertained a certain opinion, never in the least degree biassed Reginald in its favor. Rennoe was aware of this.

One morning, Reginald, who had been reading intently during some hours, laid down his book, and seemed lost in meditation. His friend was writing at the desk, near the large bay window of the apartment. Noticing the abstraction of the other, and conjecturing the cause, he cut short his task, folded the letter which had engaged him, sealed it, and turned partly around in his chair awaiting some remark. He was not disappointed.

"This is a wretchedly dull life I'm leading here."

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"Do you think so?" said Rennoe; more dull than college? and yet I believe you were contented there ?"

"At college," rejoined the student, “I had something to look forward to; now I mope listless, occupied neither in action nor in preparation."

"Let this period then pass for rest," said Rennoe, "or rather that necessary interval which enables you to decide calmly in what great field of effort you ought to use the vigor which has been developed and trained in the exercises of the gym

"Ay!" replied Reginald, his eye quickening, this is indeed an important decision to make. Have I capacity only for the administration of a plantation-the government of ten score negroes?"

"Judge for yourself," said his friend, quietly. "If you are conscious of no strength, you have it not."

"But I do feel strength-I will be something more." The youth sat for some moments thoughtful and silent, then suddenly added: "What a man Ximenes

was ?"

"You were reading about him just now -were you not?"

"Yes! Oh, the happiness of wielding power as he did!"

"Yet the great Cardinal enjoyed none of what are ordinarily called the pleasures of life—the smiles of woman-fireside sympathy affectionate service of children, and the like."

"What of all this? how ridiculous to conceive a Ximenes in love!—of that giant enthralled by puny, narrow-souled woman, who disdained to have intercourse with men except to rule them?"

"There was another Spaniard," remarked Rennoe, "no less great, who, soon after the day of Ximenes, governed an empire with which that of the united throne of Castile and Leon compares but as the rule of the village pedagogue with the dominion of the successor of St. Peter."

"You mean," said Reginald, "the man of Guipuscoa; but his part could never be mine. I would not give up half my wits even to reign with what was left."

"You are right," said Rennoe, "it is better to avail one's self of the madness of those who have gone before us. Have I not shown you a way in which it is possible to gain power without appearing unworthy to gain it ?"

"Yes, you have; but I know another." "Indeed! what may that be?" "I would remain here, and❞— "And what? finish my enlightenment. Tell me the height of greatness which a dependent colonist is able to reach.”

"Do not speak too hastily," said Reginald; "the American colonies are not dependent, though subject. More unlikely events have come to pass than that deputies from this side of the Atlantic should occupy seats in the Parliament of Great

|

Britain; and a seat thus held I think might open some prospect to ambition. Conceive a parliamentary leader whose declarations should be backed, not by a shire or county, or any division of a petty isle, but by the voice of a continent. Then, a man might be eloquent-then, he might be great!"

"Such things may happen," answered Rennoe; "but depend upon it, none now living will take part in them. Reginald, you do not deceive me. I doubt even whether you are deceiving yourself. It is indeed not improbable that you will reject the glorious opportunity I offer you; and we both know what the equivalent is which you choose in its stead. I may wonder at your decision; I may be assured that you will yourself one day be convinced of the folly of it, yet I am resigned. My life has been spent in a struggle of a different sort, and I will not at this late day enter the lists with a woman, however beautiful and excellent. If Reginald Ander cannot defend himself against such a temptation, Simon Rennoe may well afford to waste no pains upon him.”

"You need not jeer," replied the young man. "If I hesitate, it is not on account of the damsel, be assured. I could be content to go with you"

"Why then hesitate at all?" urged Rennoe, with ardor. "You know, my

friend-for I am not ashamed to address you like an equal, even as you now are, and how much more than my equal if you became what you might!-you know that I would not stoop to flattery, and you know too that I may claim some degree of skill in measuring the faculties of those with whom I come in contact; give heed to me then when I tell you, Reginald Ander, that if you fail to adopt the course which I hope, I shall not grieve for the loss of your companionship-I shall not grieve on account of the great cause, for that must succeed whoever may or may not be its supporter-but I shall grieve at the knowledge that the most excellent of the Almighty's terrestrial creations, a powerful intellect, has forsaken the noble destiny for which it was designed."

Reginald answered composedly: "I am as well inclined as you can wish; all that is now necessary is, that I should resolve accordingly."

Rennoe, unable with all his skill to penetrate the youth's meaning, merely said: "Why not, then, make the resolve?"

some.

The result of the conversation was, that Simon Rennoe felt assured of having gained his point. At that moment he would willingly have exposed Reginald to the most fascinating woman that ever dazzled a court or illumined a cottage. As for Matilda Chesley, he was satisfied that she had made so slight an impression that if news of her sudden death were brought to the suitor, he would not shed a tear or heave a sigh.

The good man's self-congratulations, however, were rather premature.

Sanguine of the success of his suit as Laurence Seymour was when he left Anderport, some vague apprehensions failed not to haunt and torment him. He anxiously availed himself, in his newly chosen home, of every occasion that offered to learn how matters were going on in his absence. The information which rewarded his pains was far from being satisfactory. He heard of Ander's visits, and he did not hear that they were disagreeable to Matilda. In a moment when jealousy was more than usually active, the suspicion suggested itself that his banishment to that distant spot was the consequence of a deeply laid scheme of his rival's. The Mr. Rennoe, upon whose hints and covert persuasions he had acted, was a dependent, or at least intimate friend of Ander's, and was doubtless ready to further any of his wishes. Seymour reflected the subject over one whole night as he tossed on his bed, and in the morning set out for Anderport.

Four days' hard riding brought him to the town. After a night's sleep, which fatigue made sound, he hurried away to Mr. Chesley's. Miss Matilda, the servant informed him, was in the grounds attend

Her name was pronounced before the sound of footsteps gave warning of the approach of an intruder. Turning quickly,

she discovered that her ear had not mistaken the voice which uttered the salutation. Instantly, down dropped the pair of scissors, and with it the thick, loose glove. The fair hand thus exposed was detained in Seymour's clasp longer than the canons of etiquette sanction; yet the young Englishman ought not to be harshly judged, when it is considered that there was little to remind him that he had committed any breach of decorum, either in the maiden's downcast eye or in the mingled smile and blush, that gave her countenance a charming glow like that of a summer sunset.

It so happened that Reginald, this very morning recollecting that he had not seen Matilda for several days, took himself to task for the neglect, and determined to repair his fault by an immediate visit. As he started, he asked his friend to accompany him. It was the first time such an invitation had been given, and Rennoe receiving so good an augury very gladly, at once accepted it.

The servant at the door telling them, as he had told Seymour, that his young mistress was among her flowers, Reginald readily led the way to the bower.

It always makes an awkward scene, it is said, to break in upon an interview of lovers; this scene was peculiarly awkward. Matilda was silent, and cast an embarrassed look alternately at each of her lovers, while

-"troubled blood through her pale cheek was

seen

To come and go with tidings from the heart, As it a running messenger had been."

Laurence Seymour wavered between anger and exultation. Reginald stood stiffly, with flushed brow and swelling breast. Simon Rennoe, exhibiting an as

pect as sedate and pleasant as can be imagined, was at heart the individual of the party most startled and vexed.

"I trust you are all well down here, sir," said Seymour, addressing Reginald. "Quite; but I need not inquire as to the health of the mines. One can easily conjecture that the plague must be there, from the brevity of your stay."

"Oh, no," retorted the other. "It is a very desirable locality, and fully answers to the description of Mr. Rennoe, who so earnestly advised my going thither."

"Mr. Rennoe?" echoed Reginald. "Ah, yes," said the gentleman alluded to, "I did make mention to Mr. Seymour of some of the advantages that seemed to attend the affair, as it had been detailed to me by competent judges. I cannot, however, profess any particular acquaintance with the region itself. But I am highly gratified, Mr. Seymour, to find you looking so well after your excursion."

"For my part," said Reginald, "I am still more pleased at the return itself. I was remarking to Mr. Rennoe, no long time since, that we were becoming quite dull without you."

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How extremely fortunate I am in being able to confer happiness so easily!" and Seymour accompanied the observation with an ironical smile.

The sneer was not necessary to confirm Reginald's resolve; yet it was of service as a stimulant.

Rennoe and he, as they rode home after the visit, conversed much about books and various miscellaneous topics, in which neither was greatly interested. When within half a mile of the house, Reginald checked his horse, and said abruptly: "My dear sir, I mean to marry Matilda Chesley."

"Well," returned the other, "she is doubtless a very amiable girl."

"Pshaw! what matters amiability? I want to defeat Laurence Seymour; that is the prize I am struggling for, and I mean to gain it. I care not what opposition is made, or from what quarter it springs; the more obstacles there are the better, for I shall triumph over all and gain my end."

No reply was made, and the remainder of the ride was passed in silence.

Mr. Rennoe had an intimate friend across the ocean, with whom he was in the habit of frequent correspondence. The following is one of his epistles:

THERE is no science, no art in existence, on which so much has been written, and so little satisfactorily explained, as that of music. The chief cause of this lies perhaps less in the fact that the respective authors were not equal to the task, than that they wrote on a subject the very basis of which had not even been properly defined. No where do we hear more nonsense and idle talk, than about music. Most people think they feel, or pretend to feel, the very thing it is impossible for them to feel, and reduce their ideas, in want of a clear conception, to mere similes and illustrations, without explaining their subject in the least. It is the more easy to fall into such an error, since music cannot be understood by the mind alone. It requires a heart, and a soul, and it is no more easy to explain love and religion, without the lively belief on a last something, indemonstrable, than it is to bring the inner life of music before the eyes of one devoid of soul.

There have been at all times and all ages, men who entirely misunderstood, or were ignorant even of the true office of music. Thus Dr. Burney, to whom music is largely indebted for diligent researches in ancient history, says in his preface to his "History of Music".

"What is music? An innocent luxury indeed, to our existence, but a great improvement and gratification of the sense of hearing."

But as if to prove the inconsistency of his own assertion, he devotes his whole life to that" innocent luxury," writes, besides numerous minor works, his great "History of Music," and brings proofs of the great estimation in which music was held among almost all the nations of the globe, because of its vast and beneficent influence.

To the same class belong all those who

insist that music is merely a play of wellsounding notes, and the less there is in it, the more is its object achieved. How much more elevated is the view taken by the early Greeks of this subject! Plato recognizes in music the expression of our inner life, and gave to it the idea of the beautiful as foundation, which as moral beauty, and united with the good, comes from God, and therefore leads back to a unison with him. He elevated the destiny of music above the mere sensual pleasure, and reproached those who merely estimated it on account of the sensual enjoyment to be derived from it. But we shall speak more of this in some future chapter, and continue in our analysis of music.

Our definition of music must be such as to embrace every branch of it, vocal or iustrumental, combined or separate, old or

new.

Music then is simply a succession of sounds, regulated by the laws of melody and rhythm.

In tracing the origin of music, we are lost in the same labyrinth in which all researches into the origin of the world end. It has been said that music owes its existence to the innate talent and inclination of mankind for imitation of sound and form, that sounds produced by the howling of the wind, the rippling of the brook, the rolling of thunder, the cries of the forest denizens, and a hundred other sounds of nature, had prompted man to cultivate and develope the talent slumbering in his breast. But why not say that music was created with man? that a divine being had endowed him, simultaneously with life, with an instinct to utter his joy or sorrow, despair or happiness, in sounds which even the wild beast of the forest to a certain degree can boast of?

The chief impulse of man is, to convey his thoughts and ideas, his inner invisible world to others. He has for this purpose