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bit of chicken, that's fat and hearty, and not too old, Tim, broiled gently, and just a little brown?" "That's precisely what I have been doing, sir"; said the old man,-" for I remember that you always likes a broil." "And Tim," said I, "is there ever a bottle of famous old wine (ah, sir, never fear), that Mr. Bryars has left in some dusty corner (will make your mouth water, sir), or may be in some cupboard, or possibly in the garret, behind the north chimney, or may be you have the key,”— "Sure," shouted Tim, who was nearly out of patience,-"I can find ye forty of them, if ye like,"—and disappeared again in the dark passage. He appeared again, shortly, with a white apron, and directly before the great fire arranged a little old-fashioned table, which might have been a large stand, except that it had legs like tables. Standing for a moment by this small affair, after the dinner was all complete, he asked, "Will your honor have your wine now?"—and uncorking a dusty bottle, the old servant departed again.

Dinner, oh, Professor, is the great event, eh! Not often is it so with me: but for some reason, the little pullet which Tim had broiled for me had an unusual savor; or was it that choice old Burgundy, which they say can never be brought over seas, and yet here it was, sweet as nuts. There was also a little carafon of old port; and cigars I had found in a drawer of Frank's secretary. Ah! what would T. say, what would Joy and Tidy say, what would my father say, at the sight of this broken down man dining in such Palais Royal style! The peculiar thing in the transaction being, you observe, that T., and Joy, and Tidy were not there. Hurra! Hurr-rr-ah! Ah, Professor, if you could have heard me sing "Jim Crack Corn," it would have done your heart good. I began with "Jim Crack Corn," and "Old Uncle Ned," as being upon the outer borders of those sad strains, which I kept as bonnes bouches, and in which I could exhaust myself of this fatal passion. I was engaged in Dundee, when Tim came in and found me striding solemnly about the room, while Growler walked slowly up and down, and whenever the accent was peculiarly touching, the old dog howled, for a moment, and then ceased till I came around again to the same spot.

"Now, Tim," said I, pouring him a glass of wine, "we will drink to the health and long life of our friends over sea; and you shall sing me an ould-country song." Tim. having already laid in a small supply of cider, was quite ready; and after tossing off his glass of port, he embarked in perhaps the most dismal and wind-shrieking song that Ould Ireland ever produced. It was positively dreadful; and I directly called to him to stop a moment, as I had something to suggest. "Tim," I cried, and with no little excitement, "can you sing 'China'?" (I had kept "China" as the event of the day: as after "China" there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that makes any approach to that depth of despair so desirable

in this kind of music.) Well," said Tim, "it's likely I can sing it. I'm convanient at most of those tunes of yours. Haven't I heard you and Master Frank singing them, all alone to yourselves?"

We started, therefore, with "China," myself walking up and down, and rocking to and fro in the going-off spots, while Tim threw his arms about like a madman, and Growler now howled continually. Ah, Professor, it was very grand: it was more, it was glorious! or, as an old Connecticut friend of mine used to say, "grand, glorious, and magnificent." But, in the very midst of it, and high over the highest reach of Tim's voice, was now heard another-sharp and sky-piercing, and now, as we stopped to listen to it-low, and dying slowly away.

"Tim," said I, "do you hear that? Is any one upstairs, or in the garret, or maybe down cellar?"

"Niver a soul in the house but us, yer honor "-and we proceeded again. "Why-should-we-mourn-de-par-ar-ted-da-" and again rose that cry, and now it said-if it said anything-" Zariar! Zariar! Mr. Pundison!" In a moment, I raised one of the south windows, and behold in the distance, oh, Professor, behold, I say-the round face of my blessed wife just above the snow, her arms hanging upon the surface, and all the rest of the lady entirely gone! It was a sight, sir! Just behind her was Joy, leaning back in the snow, and laughing her eyes out. Nearer was Rover, in a deep hole, his nose seen occasionally above it as he struggled to get out; and farther off, Pompey-who was entirely out of sight, in a deep cavity, and only known to be there by his barking incessantly. They had wandered a little from the way, into a ditch which had drifted full of soft snow.

I jumped through the window, and cautiously approaching Mrs. P., threw my arms around her, and cried out, "Give me a kiss for good morning." Then it was, sir, that I saw Mrs. P. had come out in

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This had been her ruin. She had dropped immediately through all the depths. It was only by spreading her arms that Mrs. Pundison kept herself afloat.

And now, sir, shall I tell you how we escaped from those depths, and how those ladies insisted upon tasting the wine, and making little notes and memorandums (solemn things, sir, to a husband) of what had been going on? Under the circumstances, not more glad were they than I, to get back again to our old established home: to the round table, and the curtains, and the hall-stove, and the thermometers.

T. has said, since, that it was plain the wine had got in my head; for immediately after tea I had gone to sleep in my chair, and did not wake till ten o'clock: and, besides, it was years since I had kissed her in the snow. I have been of opinion that it was the wind that made me so sleepy, but the fact, I suppose, is not to be doubted. As I awoke, and

we all drew a little closer to the fire-for it was bitter cold-T. came up, and in that confiding way which a wife so well understands, asked me to say what it was that took me up to Frank Bryars'. "Will you promise," I said, "never to mention the little incident-never, upon pain of and boots being produced?" All promised; and I ex

the

pounded as follows:

"You know, my children, that we all have our little ways: or, rather, our little ways have us; and we know it not. We are guided as by the wind, which goeth where it listeth.

"I tell you, very solemnly, that when I started this morning, I had no conception of any special act, other than to go up to Frank's; but, with equal solemnity, I tell you that I believe the whole motive-hidden and concealed away, like fine gold-from the very start, all through the walk in the snow, all through the household arrangements, through dinner, through everything, up to that piercing scream of yours-was to sing 'China'!"

T. smiled faintly as I said this; and Joy was on the verge of a laugh, which I checked instantly with a severe look; and immediately retired for the night.

"Zarry dear," said Mrs. P. just as I was going to sleep, "did you get through singing 'China'?" "My dear wife," said I, "I have exhausted 'China' for six months to come.'

THE

ELEGY.

HROUGH all the silent rooms, from far away,
The light comes softly, seeking for my love;
Through all the silent rooms, day after day,-
And goes up sorrowing to its home above.

With sad dumb look, with speechless questioning,
It steps so softly through the open doors,
Where all day long the maple-shadows swing,
Alike as speechless, o'er the vacant floors.

I wonder much that through the whole round year,
Patient and sad, but hopeful as before,

It still comes seeking that which is not here,
The dear bright face which we shall see no more.

I wonder much the sunlight doth not know,

Or may not guess, -the mute and wondering light,—
That she hath gone now where the lilies blow,
By living waters, far beyond the Night.

1855.

O sunlight, go up higher! In the blue,

With harp and crowns and white robes,-close by Him,
Thy master,—thou wilt surely find a new

And glad young angel with the cherubim.

Her sweet face still the same we loved, but bright
With glories which we saw not; and her brow
Crowned with the light which Jesus gives, -a light
Burning and radiant and immortal now.

I

Richard Burleigh Kimball.

BORN in Lebanon, N. H., 1816.

STURM UND DRANG.

[St. Leger, or, The Threads of Life. A Romance. 1850.]

BELIEF.

BELIEVE! Those words were full of meaning; and in every situa tion, under every trial, in the midst of scenes the most exciting, I have remembered them. Strange to say, the first lesson which I learned in Germany, the land of mystical philosophy, of wild theories, and of wilder doubts, was BELIEF; and that, too, from the most remarkable individual, every way considered, of whom Germany could boast. But did Goethe believe? I will not vouch for it; I am only confident of his assertion that he did; and I will not think that he was a man to palter. But for my purpose it was of no consequence, so long as the exclamation was evidence of his opinion. And had I wandered so far to learn the simple lesson from him? Yes. And now, just as the German is ascending to his zenith, I, so many years his junior-I, who have had the same glowing energy, the same healthful, hopeful ambition, the same unchanging, determined aspirations-I must stop short when I have scarce entered the lists. I see the door closed upon me just as I essay to cross the threshold. The pitcher is broken at the fountain, and the wheel is broken at the cistern, before a draught of the refreshing waters is conveyed to me; and when the reward of past struggles and of present exertions appears to be close at hand, I am called away, to be here no more. GOD forgive me for this momentary murmur! I know that his purposes are true, and none can question them. Come then to my aid, O sacred Faith, in this moment of my weakness, and give me strength. Teach me that although we work here, and know comparatively nothing,

yet we live always; that knowledge is and ever has been progressive; that the soul of man is as capacious as his aspirations are boundless, and that he has before him duration infinite, in which to labor and to know.

LOVE, AND LIFE.

Those are halcyon days,-continued Hegewisch, after a pause,-the days of the first wish of love; the days when the object is found, and the wish becomes a sensation; the days when as yet no words are spoken, but when in their place is that indescribable something in the look, the manner, the conduct of each toward the other, which is perfectly appreciated, yet not quite understood; which leaves room for delicious doubts, and exquisite half-formed hopes, and gentle fears, and sweet questionings of the heart.

Hegewisch was silent several minutes, apparently nerving himself for the recital; then his countenance grew animated, his eyes gleamed with a strange fire, and he exclaimed in a bitter tone:

"NESSUN maggior dolore, Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria."

The Florentine was in the right when he wrote those lines. No, there is no greater anguish; but there is a point beyond that-yes!-where no anguish, nor sorrow, nor torment comes; because there is nothing within by which to feel them any more, where all is dead. Dead! what more horrible conception! what so dreadful a reality! Vitality, but no life; mind, thought, memory, but no hope, no apprehension, no joy, no pang! Why did not the Ghibelline put that into his Divine Comedy?

Life! shall I tell you what it is? Ah, would it were what so many make it a pumping of air in and out of the lungs; a covering of the nakedness, to the prevention of shame; eating lest the body fall away; sleeping o' nights, from wearisomeness of the flesh!-then were man indeed somewhat better than a beast. But to have pining wants which gnaw the soul, and for which no provision has been made; to love, and feel that love lasts only so long as life; to labor, and know that the grave closes upon all results of toil; to enjoy, and be conscious that time withers up the sources of our bliss; to be miserable, and feel that death may not release us; to undergo all the mad pleasures of earth, and all the remorse which their indulgence brings; to feel in prosperity that nothing can secure against change, and to recognize in adversity no hope-Ha! ha! that that is life! What a precious boon to that poor praying beggar, man! But in me the god of this world and the GOD of the other world are both baffled, for I am DEAD!

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