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mountain torrent. While all things else are compelled to subserve some useful purpose, it idles its sluggish life away in lazy liberty, without turning a solitary spindle, or affording even water power enough to grind the corn that grows upon its banks. The torpor of its movement allows it nowhere a bright, pebbly shore, nor so much as a narrow strip of glistening sand, in any part of its course. It slumbers between broad prairies, kissing the long meadow grass, and bathes the overhanging boughs of elder bushes and willows, or the roots of elm and ash trees, and clumps of maples. Flags and rushes grow along its plashy shore; the yellow water-lily spreads its broad, flat leaves on the margin; and the fragrant, white pond lily abounds, generally selecting a position just so far from the river's brink that it cannot be grasped, save at the hazard of plunging in.

It is a marvel whence this perfect flower derives its loveliness and perfume, springing, as it does, from the black mud over which the river sleeps, and where lurk the slimy eel, and speckled frog, and the mud turtle, whom continual washing cannot cleanse. It is the very same black mud out of which the yellow lily sucks its rank life and noisome odor. Thus we see, too, in the world, that some persons assimilate only what is ugly and evil from the same moral circumstances which supply good and beautified results-the fragrance of celestial flowers-to the daily life of others.

The Old Manse!-we had almost forgotten it, but will return thither through the orchard. This was set out by the last clergyman, in the decline of his life, when the neighbors laughed at the hoary-headed man for planting trees, from which he could have no prospect of gathering fruit. Even had that been the case, there was only so much the better motive for planting them, in the pure and unselfish hope of benefiting his successors-an end so seldom achieved by more ambitious efforts. But the old minister, before reaching his patriarchal age of ninety, ate the apples from this orchard during many years, and added silver and gold to his annual stipend, by disposing of the superfluity. It is pleasant to think of him, walking among the trees in the quiet afternoons of early autumn, and picking up here and there a windfall; while he observes how heavily the branches are weighed down, and computes the number of empty flour barrels that will be filled by their burden. He loved each tree, doubtless, as if it had been his own child. An orchard has a relation to mankind, and readily connects itself with matters of the heart. The trees possess a domestic char

acter; they have lost the wild nature of their forest kindred, and have grown humanized by receiving the care of man, as well as by contributing to his wants.

I have met with no other such pleasant trouble in the world, as that of finding myself, with only the two or three mouths which it was my privilege to feed, the sole inheritor of the old clergyman's wealth of fruits. Throughout the summer there were cherries and currants; and then came autumn, with his immense burden of apples, dropping them continually from his overladen shoulders, as he trudged along. In the stillest afternoon, if I listened, the thump of a great apple was audible, falling without a breath of wind, from the mere necessity of perfect ripeness. And, besides, there were pear trees, that flung down bushels upon bushels of heavy pears; and peach trees, which in a good year, tormented me with peaches, neither to be eaten nor kept, nor, without labor and perplexity, to be given away. The idea of an infinite generosity and inexhaustible bounty, on the part of our mother nature, was well worth obtaining through such cares as these. That feeling can be enjoyed in perfection only by the natives of summer islands, where the bread-fruit, the cocoa, the palm, and the orange grow spontaneously, and hold forth the ever-ready meal; but, likewise, almost as well, by a man long habituated to city life, who plunges into such a solitude as that of the Old Manse, where he plucks the fruit of trees that he did not plant; and which, therefore, to my heterodox taste, bear the closer resemblance to those that grew in Eden.

Not that it can be disputed that the light toil requisite to cultivate a moderately-sized garden, imparts such zest to kitchen vegetables as is never found in those of the market gardener Childless men, if they would know something of the bliss of paternity, should plant a seed-be it squash, bean, Indian corn, or perhaps a mere flower, or worthless weed-should plant it with their own hands, and nurse it from infancy to maturity, altogether by their own care. If there be not too many of them, each individual plant becomes an object of separate interest. My garden, that skirted the avenue of the Manse, was of precisely the right extent. An hour or two of morning labor was all that it required. But I used to visit and revisit it a dozen times a day, and stand in deep contemplation over my vegetable progeny, with a love that nobody could share or conceive of, who had never taken part in the process of creation. It was one of the most bewitching sights in the world to ob~

serve a hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a row of early peas just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate green. Later in the season, the humming birds were attracted by the blossoms of a peculiar variety of bean; and they were a joy to me, those little spiritual visitants, for deigning to sip any food out of my nectar cups. Multitudes of bees used to bury themselves in the yellow blossoms of the summer squashes. This, too, was a deep satisfaction; although, when they had laden themselves with sweets, they flew away to some unknown hive, which would give back nothing in requital of what my garden had contributed. But I was glad thus to fling a benefaction upon the passing breeze, with the certainty that somebody must profit by it, and that there would be a little more honey in the world, to allay the sourness and bitterness which mankind is always complaining of. Yes, indeed; my life was the sweeter for that honey.

• ITALY.-BYRON.

- My soul wanders; I demand it back
To meditate amongst decay and stand
A ruin amidst ruins; there to track,

Fallen states, and buried greatness, o'er a land
Which was the mightiest, in its old command,
And is the loveliest, and must ever be.

The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand,
Wherein were cast the heroic, and the free,

The beautiful, the brave-the lords of earth and sea

The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome!
And even since, and now, fair Italy!

Thou art the garden of the world, the home
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree;
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee?
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste
More rich than other climes's fertility;
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced

With an immaculate charm, which cannot be defaced.

The moon is up; and yet it is not night;
Sunset divides the sky with her--a sea
Of glory streams along the Alpine height
Of blue Friuli's mountains; heaven is free
From clouds; but of all the colors seem to be
Melted to one vast Iris of the West,
Where the day joins the past eternity;

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While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest,
Floats through the azure air--an island of the blest!

A single star is at her side, and reigns

With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still,
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains
Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhætian hill,
As Day and Night contending were, until
Nature reclaimed her order; gently flows
The deep-eyed Brenta, where their hues instil
The odorous purple of a newborn rose,

Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows.

Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar,

Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,
From the rich sunset to the rising star,

Their magical variety diffuse;

And now they change; a paler shadow strews
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day

Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new color as it gasps away-

The last still loveliest, till-'tis gone-and all is gray.
Italia! O Italia! thou who hast

The fatal gift of beauty, which became

A funeral dower, of present woes and past,

On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame,
And annals graved in characters of flame.
Would that thou wert in this thy nakedness
Less lovely, or more powerful, and couldst claim
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress;
Then might'st thou more appall; or, less desired,
Be homely, and be peaceful, undeplored
For thy destructive charms; then, still untired,
Would not be seen the armed torrents poured
Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde
Of many-nationed spoilers from the Po,

Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so,

Victor or vanquished, thou the slave of friend or foe.

Yet, Italy! through every other land

Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side:
Mother of arts! as once of arms; thy hand

Was then our guardian, and is still our guide;
Parent of our religion!* whom the wide

Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven!

Europe, repentant of her parricide,

Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven,

Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven.

Alluding to the mission of Augustin to the Anglo-Saxons,

THE ESCAPE OF QUEEN MARY FROM LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.-SIR W. SCOT

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"Look from that window, Roland," said the Queen ; see you amongst the several lights which begin to kindle, and to glimmer palely through the gray of the evening from the vil lage of Kinross-seest thou, I say, one solitary spark apart from the others, and nearer it seems to the verge of the water? It is no brighter at this distance than the torch of the poor glow-worm, and yet, my good youth, that light is more dear to Mary Steuart than every star that twinkles in the blue vault of heaven. By that signal, I know that more than one true heart are plotting my deliverance; and without that consciousness, and the hope of freedom it gives me, I had long since stooped to my fate, and died of a broken heart. Plan after plan has been formed and abandoned, but still the light glinmers; and while it glimmers, my hope lives. O! how many evenings have I sat musing in despair over our ruined schemes, and scarce hoping that I should again see that blessed signal; when it has suddenly kindled, and like the lights of Saint Elmo in a tempest, brought hope and consolation, where there was only dejection and despair!"

"If I mistake not," answered Roland, "the candle shines from the house of Blinkhoolie, the mail-gardener."

"Thou hast a good eye," said the Queen; "it is there where my trusty lieges-God and the saints pour blessings on them! -hold consultation for my deliverance. The voice of a wretched captive would die on these blue waters, long ere it could mingle in their council; and yet I can hold communication—[ will confide the whole to thee-I am about to ask those faithful friends if the moment for the great attempt is nigh. Place the lamp in the window, Fleming."

She obeyed, and immediately withdrew it. No sooner had she done so, than the light in the cottage of the gardener disappeared.

"Now count," said Queen Mary, "for my heart beats so thick that I cannot count myself."

The Lady Fleming began deliberately to count one, two, three, and when she had arrived at ten, the light on the shore again showed its pale twinkle.

"Now our Lady be praised!" said the Queen; "it was but two nights since, that the absence of the light remained while

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