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'Stay with me; be wise,' she said. 'Love some sweet, gentle girl nearer to you in age than I am; less world-worn, less skilled in the deceits of society. A world of woe lies on my heart to-day, my young brother. I am fresh from the bridal of the only man I have ever loved. Did you ever see that picture of a wedding-train gathered around an altar, while at the door in the street stood a poor forsaken one, gazing in, through blinding tears, on the man she loved and the man who had deserted her? Thus I stood to-day. I knew they were to be married; I went to the church; I heard the words that made them man and wife. Wife! how sweet the name, when love puts on the ring of compact! Now I have come home; the world will never know what I suffer; you must stay with me to comfort me, but breathe not one word of love, for that instant you leave me forever!'

"She arose; I kissed her hand with not any the less wild idolatry, and we parted. I did not leave her, as prudence taught me to do. She was even more tender to me than ever; whilst I was vainly striving to cover over the burning coals of love with the cold ashes of duty and caution. She meant me no ill, but she wrought me a great ruin. She desired to see me happy. Emma Atwood was a beautiful young girl, but senseless and unprincipled. We met frequently at the house of Margaret Sommers. I was dazzled by her beauty, but nothing more. Margaret Sommers thought she would heal the wound she had inflicted by salving them over with a marriage with this girl. How she succeeded Heaven only knows; I do not. I only know that in a fit of desperation at not being able to marry the woman I did love, I married the one I did not. I am not the only man who has committed this fearful error, nor the only one who has bitterly repented it. A few weeks of married life, and I would have given all that I was worth to be free again. Alas for man or woman when the marriage tie is only a fetter more galling, more terrible to bear than the prisoner's iron manacles, and more degrading, too. For, unless the VOL. LXIV.-37,

heart, the whole heart, is given in marriage, there is only a degradation in the union; there can be no sacredness in that tie which is formed only through interest, ambition, or indifference. One year I lived a joyless wedded life with the woman with whom I had not one thought in common. Margaret Sommers went to Italy; two years since she died there, and now the only feeling that is left me in regard to her is a passionate regret that my young soul ever bowed to hers in a sinful idolatry. I have learned to con over thoughtfully the pages of that boyish passion, and from them I have gathered wisdom and sadness, too. The remaining part of my history I cannot dwell upon; my wife deserted her home, and proved false to her marriage vows. To me she is now dead, dead! I seek not to discover the place where guilt and infamy hide their head. She is nothing to me, in this life or the life to come. When I think of her, I thank God I am free from her; but oh, Amy! Amy! I mourn to think that I am not free to marry anotherthat other in whose society I have found such charming companionship. I have told you my history; now you know why I lift my voice to plead the cause of your boy-lover; now you know why I implore you to desist from your cruel kindness. Good-by. How I shall miss you! But you will turn to your book, and in writing forget me, will you not?”

She smiled a faint, sad smile. "Good-by, Amy."

'The truthfulness of her nature triumphed, and she said, with trembling voice: "Miss you, Mr. Milford there is not a place that will not bring you to my mind, not a song I sing, not a book I open!"

"Memory will linger lovingly around my image, Amy?" he said, with pleasure flashing in his eyes.

"Ah! yes, so lovingly."
"And regretfully ?"
"Yes, yes!"

He took her small hand in his, he looked into her clear, honest eyes, and said: "Amy, now I can curse my sad fate; hitherto I have borne it uncomplainingly, but now, now-"

"Bear it as you have ever done, Mr. Milford. Oh! I little dreamed there was so sad a grief on your heart."

"In thinking of me, pity me, too, Amy. I go to my desolate, wifeless home. Good-by." They clasped hands fervently, he lingered an instant, then, opening the door, went out. She caught the sounds of his retreating footsteps as they died away, and a passionate burst

of tears overcame her. It was but for a moment; her own impetuosity scared her, and she dashed her tears away. How silly, she thought, to waste all this feeling! I once met with a man who said that his rule was never to become so interested in anything that he could not relinquish it without an effort or a sigh of regret. It is a wise rule, perhaps; and yet that man did not seem happy with his cold, unloving heart, that had no affections and no regrets.

"Better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all."

Thus people meet on the great ocean of life; a strong sympathy attracts them, they interchange thoughts, exchange civilities, clasp hands, and part forever. Are they to be pitied that they have ever met, even though the waves of time have divided them again, after bringing them so closely together? Would it have been happier for them if they had never known, never seen each other? Surely not; they have spoken noble thoughts, and that's a precious thing; they have acted beneficially on each other's nature; they have softened each other's prejudices; the strong man has learned a lesson from the gentle woman; she, in turn, has gathered some noble truths from him. It is good, then, that they met, even though they may never meet again; though restlessness and regret ensue for a while, they will relapse into their old accustomed ways again, richer in precious memories.

Amy now turned to her book; she worked at its pages undisturbed. Even Everard had gone; he had come to bid her good-by; he was going South. He was moody and reserved, and seemed rather ashamed of his display of feeling at their former meeting. The book progressed; thoughts noble and pure flashed out; she threw heart and soul in the task, and wrote without giving the audience she was to have one thought. She had no fear of "the kind public" before her eyes; she wrote from her heart to her heart. She attempted no popular style; she wrote out of the very fulness of her earnest and beautiful nature. There were unmistakable marks of talent in the pages; would the world recognize them? That public to which an author appeals for sympathy and recognition seldom errs in its decision regarding a book submitted to its judgment. True genius always finds recognition; and if an author does not succeed, do not let him set it down to the obtuseness of the public, but to his own shortcomings. And while Amy was busy with her pen, her thoughts reverted frequently to Mr. Milford. She had heard nothing from him, not even received a

message. Men are not apt to treasure up the memories of the past like women; they have so much that is stirring to engross them that what to a woman is something to be remembered forever is often to a man only something to be forgotten. "Men," thought Amy, "have not the gift to recollect women as women remember men; we women cling with a tenacity of memory that is sometimes our greatest torture to every scene where a man is concerned in whom we took an interest. We think over what he said, how he said it, and how he looked. I can shut my eyes at this moment, and make a perfect likeness of Mr. Milford as I last saw him; I can close my ears and hear his exact tones; I can sit in the midst of a crowd, and see but him, though he is not present. We women make our hearts a vast gallery of beautiful pictures, and steal in the dim twilight to ponder among the images of what has been. How much wiser would it be, if with the occasion passed away the memory of it, if we would wipe off the impression, have no picture-gallery for memory to sigh and linger in. I am not particularly interested in Mr. Milford-" Here outraged conscience rose up and said, with indignation: "You are; for months you have dwelt upon his memory; in writing your book the idea of him played like a subtle lightning through your thoughts. Ah! you have only yielded to woman's destiny; art is the husband to whom you have given your hand, but another has your heart." Was it so? She covered her face with her hands; a burning blush overspread her cheeks; a revelation of self burst upon her. Horrible, degrading revelation! she loved the husband of another, loved him before she knew the sad truth, and loved him unasked! She, too, who had intended to do without man's love, to lead a life devoted to art, unruffled by any thought of love; after all, she was only human-intensely

woman.

But the book was finished; she must hunt up a publisher. "Hunt up a publisher"-how much is contained in those few words! She made a list of the principal New York publishing houses, and, with her manuscript in hand, went forth on her errand. The first gentleman to whom she applied scarcely deigned to look over the clean, delicately-written pages, so clear and so plain that the blindest printer need not err in printing. The publisher pronounced immediately upon the work; "it was not written in a style to take with the public.”

"But you have not read it, sir; let me leave it with you for your inspection."

A WOMAN'S BOOK.

"My dear young lady"-and the gentleman looked down upon her as if compassionating her ignorance-"we publishers can tell at a glance the style of a work and its chances of success. I myself have a peculiar gift this way, and I am convinced your book will not sell. I decline having anything to do with it." "Well, sir, then I will bid you good-morning." And Amy gathered up the leaves of her manuscript, which the gentleman had been carelessly turning over, and departed. When she cleared the office, she breathed freely again. How hard, how cold the man was! what a disagreeable beginning to the duty before her! Through some of the narrowest and dirtiest of the streets of the city she wended her way, and at length reached a publishing house. She opened the door and walked in. Piles of salable and unsalable books were heaped in disorderly array on the counter; the place had a dreary, dark look that sent a chill to her very heart. There was a youth perched up on a high bench behind a very high desk; she approached him.

"Could she see the publisher?" She laughed with a sort of desperation at her own question. "He was in the back room; if she would walk in there, she would find him." And into the back room she walked.

She started back; she had hoped to find a gentleman as old and ugly as the one she had just left, but here was one both young and handsome. How should she face him with her rejected manuscript? He was seated before a pile of written papers, which he was busily engaged in reading. He looked up as he heard the unwelcome sounds of the rustling of a woman's dress, and not a very pleased expression flitted over his face. Amy colored as she met the inquiring look of the keen blue eye she found suddenly fixed upon her.

"I have brought you this manuscript to see if you will undertake the publishing of it," she said.

"What is it?" asked the gentleman, coolly; and he looked the question, "Pray, what is your name?"

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"My name," she said, interpreting his look, 'you will find on the title-page; here it is."

He looked at it; he remembered having heard it; she had written for such and such a magazine. Slowly he turned over the pages, while she examined his well-formed head, his straight features, and beard that a Turk would have rejoiced in. "Is he never going to ask ane to be seated?" she thought.

"Will you be seated?" he said, suddenly,

as if divining her thoughts. She seated herself,
and he undertook to enlighten her as to the
shadows of putting out a book.

"It was no trifle to come before the public,
and invite criticism."

"The public! Why," said Amy, "I have not given that dreaded monster a thought while writing."

"Perhaps so; but that public is to be your umpire. Now, very few published books are successful; you must hit the popular taste. Why, one-half of the works that are published scarcely pay the expense of printing. I refuse a manuscript every day in the week-Sundays excepted." And he laughed.

"Dear me ! This is certainly very cheering to a young aspirant. Why, then, do so many people publish, and why do so many publish again and again?"

"With the same feeling that induces some persons to continue purchasing lottery tickets, in the hope of getting a prize at last."

"Well, are you willing to read my manuscript, and to see if you think I have any chance of success?"

"O yes; but I warn you, even if I accept it for publication, that it is all a lottery in which you are embarking. Your book may be successful, and it may not; most likely it will not."

"I'll run the risk." And, bidding the publisher "good-morning," she found herself once more in the streets.

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The book was published, and in due course It was a story of time made its appearance. of love, powerfully worked out, and natural, and astonished, amazed; true. The public were the best book since Jane Eyre.' New York was delighted, immensely proud to point to the gifted authoress as a New Yorker." But, dear reader, we tell you, though it is not gene66 very successful rally known, that piles of that novel," that "best book since 'Jane Eyre,'" lie heaped up, this very day, in the publishing room. And while the world congratulated Amy Dale on the entire success of her book, it was a sad secret between her publisher and herself that the sale of it little more than defrayed the expense of publishing. Weariness, disgust ensued; sharp criticisms assailed her; though many cried, "Go on; this is only a good beginning." "Go on!" why, she had not the power; she had rowed herself over the stream, and instead of finding flowers on the other side, her hands were bleeding from the thorns. Only those sharp Thorns!-what thorns? criticisms, dear reader, for which you freshly cut your pen and sat down with such pleasure

to write. Ah! when did ever a woman find it a light thing to write a book?

66 Foremost among those who came to congratulate Amy on the success of her undertaking was Everard Lee. Since his parting with her he had run a fearful round of sin and folly; the evil and the good of his nature had almost ceased to strive and combat, and evil was about claiming the victory, when good rallied, and came off conqueror. Like all truly noble natures, when once released from the degrading enchantments of sin, he looked back upon this turning-point in his life with shame and horror. He had found, too, a new love, a young, gentle girl, intelligent, amiable, and loving, fit to inspire a poet's dream, with her large, dreamy black eyes and her soft, sunny curls. He must bring her to see Amy; she was then in the city; she was a child of the sunny South, a fair type, he thought, of all Southern women; gentle, affectionate, docile, and intelligent, but somewhat languid-what her Northern sisters would call lazy; more apt to look to others for support and protection than to depend upon self. But she was very young-only seventeen; altogether, she was charming, and he was very much in love.

Amy smiled. "She was delighted to hear it; and, now, thank me, Everard, that I saved you from the fate into which you were bent upon running. Think if I had been your wife instead of this bewitching young beauty."

"I do thank you," he said, quietly; "but I am all the better for having loved you, too."

"But did you really love me, Everard? Love has many counterfeits, you know."

"Yes, I loved you at the time."

"Do not imagine that you did, for I assure you I am not of the same belief."

Everard laughed, and said: "Do not be sceptical; it was love, I assure you. I have just read a little poem by Henry Timrod, called 'Second Love.' The idea is so quaint, and so ingeniously imagined. Listen to what he says:

"It was, indeed, that early love,

But foretaste of this second one;
The soft light of the morning star
Before the morning sun.

"The same dark beauty in her eyes,
The same blonde hair and placid brow,
The same deep-meaning, quiet smile
Thou bendest on me now.

"She might have been, she was no more
Than what a prescient hope could make;

A dear presentiment of thee,

I loved but for thy sake.'"

"Well, Everard, I am willing to be 'loved but for her sake.'" They shook hands, and parted.

And now Everard Lee sends forth tender and loving verses to his "wife;" amid the din and confusion of bustling New York, if you will only stop to listen, dear reader, you can hear the beautiful melodies that gush up from this young poet's loving heart. You have jos. tled past the poet and his wife a thousand times on Broadway, but you knew it not. They are always together; he seeks no other companion for his walks, and she asks no greater happiness than to be ever by his side.

When winter came shivering along in his icy garments, Mr. Milford reappeared in the city. He quietly opened the library door, one day, and walked in. Amy was reading; he went up to her; she raised her eyes, and looked at him.

"What has brought you again, Mr. Milford?" "To inquire if you are still as much in love with your husband, Art, as when I left you."

"You have surely taken a great deal of trouble to inquire into what cannot possibly concern you."

"The result will be well worth the trouble." "I have always been told that it is both indelicate and unkind to complain of one's husband; if mine is not what I hoped to find him, you can scarcely expect me to expose his shortcomings."

"To a friend you may. Amy, you gave to the world a noble book. Now, tell me if in such performances your heart rests satisfied. Your mind, I know, joys in its work. Is literature the sweet, refreshing stream beside whose still waters you can rest satisfied? Is there no yearning to realize the love you so beautifully paint? No desire to enter that paradise of domestic enjoyment whose calm beauties you know so well how to appreciate?"

The dewy light of tears filled her eyes; her heart was desolate, indeed; but every word he spoke seemed to pierce her very soul. Did he know that she was struggling to crush her sinful love for him, the husband of another? She quailed as if he had struck her a heavy blow.

"Are you willing to share all your beautiful thoughts with the world, and receive the world's poor meed of praise, that wreath of applause that burns a woman's brow like a circle of fire! I remember seeing in a cathedral a beautiful statue of the Virgin; a little above her head hung a chaplet of light, formed of very small jets of gas; it encircled her with a halo of

beauty, but nowhere touched her head; if it had, it would have consumed her. This, I thought, is the world's applause and woman; let but the glittering chaplet fall on her brow, and it will certainly scorch, if it does not burn her."

"But, Mr. Milford, is there nothing ennobling in the pursuit of literature, even to a woman?"

"Yes, surely, sometimes there is."

"My experience, Mr. Milford, is this-that literature, like many other pleasures in this life, has its dark as well as its bright side. There are many women who enjoy its pursuit keenly. For myself, I must say that I have not that divine gift of genius which urges its possessor again and again over the thorny road, though his feet are bleeding and torn. I have fainted at the threshold of the door; the beautiful temple stands open beyond; I see the scarlet wreaths, the glittering altars, the gorgeous display of the white-robed priests; I hear the bewildering music and the silvery tones that say 'come,' but I cannot go any farther; I shrink back like a coward from the toils, the dust, the fierce encounters by the way. Let women who are stronger than I am go on; but as for me, I am weary, utterly weary!" And she folded her hands in her lap, with a gesture of complete dejection.

"There is a rest for you, Amy; a joy in life far beyond that of writing books."

She looked up at him, and said, quietly"Love, you mean?"

"Yes, love."

"Yes; but where can I get love? Even Everard has withdrawn his and given it to another; the love you warned me to crush has died of its own accord, Mr. Milford."

"Emma is dead, Amy"-his voice trembled. "Will you be my wife? I ask a great giftyour love; may I hope to win it ?"

A sudden gush of tears filling the eyes, a slight tremor of the figure, a passionate grasping of the hand Mr. Milford held to her, a low murmured "yes," and Art was vanquished by love; in loving and being loved Amy Dale had found her true mission. From her we shall get no more woman's books. She was named appropriately-Amy, beloved, from amata; and in love she has found her true happiness.

But there are women who, having found love, have not lost a love of art; they have their mission, and their destiny cannot be overruled by love. More than one Mrs. Browning sings her songs, not from solitary Parnassus, but from the most sacred groves of Love himself.

DEPARTING FROM VENICE.

BY LUCY H. HOOPER.

THE last long rays of the sunset
Light the room where I'm lying,
The fever cloud is lifted,

I wake to know I'm dying.
Slow and slower, faint and fainter,
Is running life's ebbing sand;
Yes, I'm dying-dying alone,
Alone in a foreign land.

I am worn with wasting fever,
I'm weary of wearing pain;
And I never shall see you again, darling,
Never-never again.

Oh, for one breath of the breezes!

One gleam of the mist-veil'd rays!
That sigh and shine around my home
In these the autumnal days.
Oh for one look at one I know,

One word of familiar speech!
'Tis hard to die, like spent-out waves,
Afar on a foreign beach;

"Tis hard to dream of one dear face,

And wake to this wearing pain,

I never shall see you again, darling,
Never-never again.

I wonder, love, if you fancy
The reason I do not write;
I wonder if you imagine
That I am dying to-night!
O love the fever-born vision
Of your face so bright and fair,
That face that I shall see no more,

Is hardest of all to bear.

I think I could greet death gladly,
To rest from fever and pain;

If I only could see you again, darling
Once-once only-again.

"Never!" so murmurs the Ocean,

As I dream of what has been,
"No more shall home and love be yours,
For I and Death lie between!"
Hoping, and fearing, and loving,

All life save its end is o'er;
To-morrow I shall lie at rest
On the Lido's lonely shore.
Slowly the mists of the fever
Gather anew round my brain;

A last and long farewell, darling!
I never shall see you again.

STANZAS.

BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

A PERFECT life is never lived below,
Shadows will dim even our happiest hours;
Undarkened days we ne'er on earth may know-
Nor can we always walk amid the flowers;
But if we bow in meekness, trusting still
That all shall work together for our good,
Submissive to the Great All-Father's will,
Who has our many frailties understood-
We know that, by and by, we shall come forth
Into the glowing life of angelhood.

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