those high qualities of mind and heart, which he reverences, and of which he fancies he sees the embodiment? And yet, disregarding the fact that in the ideal of our dreams we sometimes place qualities which in actual life would not please us, it is a sorrowful truth that in our endeavors to find some one, who will come up to our imaginary standard of perfection, we too often neglect those at our side who would have made us happy. In the vain hope of securing an infinity of pleasure hereafter, we pass by that while lies in our grasp, and go on in our vain search, until the happiness of both present and future have gone forever, and nothing remains but bitter memories of joys that might have been ours. Is it wonderful that in the sickening disappointment engendered by such thoughts and feelings, the man should so often condemn himself to a joyless existence by linking his destiny, in some moment of blind impulse, to one far below him in every essential property of character and intellect, or that she, who in earlier years had treated with coldness the most devoted and chivalric love, should in after life take up with an affection, the offspring of no generous qualities either of head or heart?

But I wish to show that the "ideal theory" will clear from obscurity these facts of every day experience, which can be explained by no other method.

Why is it a man falls in love with one particular woman, and not with another? In five cases out of ten, he himself is utterly unable to give a rational answer to the question, while, according to our theory, it is perfectly plain. He has found in the object of his affection, or at least he fancies he has found in her, the real counterpart of the ideal image he carries in his heart; and consequently when he meets with the "living incarnation of the inward abstraction," all he has to do is to fall in love. It is a necessity of his being, which he can no more help or prevent than he can prevent the manifestation of any other feelings belonging to his nature.

Having now laid down the first principles of the "ideal theory of love," without stopping to deduce the consequences which would naturally flow from them, let me resume the thread of my narrative.

V.

I said that I saw Eleanor Morland. In spite of the lapse of time, in spite of the effacing power of life's struggle and tumult, every detail of that first meeting, in itself unimportant, is imprinted on the tablet of my memory, as if it had taken place yesterday. It is writ

ten on my heart, as if with a pen of iron, by the force of feelings, which can never die. For the first time in my life I was awed. She had not been described falsely. In her was that union of qualities so rarely to be met with in the same person, so all-powerful when they do exist together-surpassing loveliness of form and features, which forever attracted, joined to chilling reserve and queenlike dignity of manner, which forever repelled.

"It has been a very fine day!" was the first remark I ventured to put forth, after having recovered to some extent the possession of my senses.

Our opinions on that point coincided so perfectly, that there was evidently no hope of a discussion, still less of an argument on any meteorological phenomena. She was silent from apparent disdain or indifference, I from an intense desire to say something, which of course defeated its own object. About five minutes by my watch, about five hours by my feelings, passed before I was able to muster up sufficient courage to relieve Egerton from doing all the conversation for us both.

A man's opinions can never be depended upon with any certainty when his feelings come into play. At seven o'clock that evening I would have treated with ridicule the idea of falling in love; at nine o'clock not only had my theoretical views undergone a complete revolution, but very prominent in my thoughts was the exceedingly practical idea of devoting all my powers during the remaining months of my suspension, to the laudable object of making Eleanor Morland the future Mrs. Jenkins.

I do not say that mine was a case of love at first sight, nor do 1 purpose to meddle with the discussion respecting the possible existence of such a feeling. But I do mean to say that there fastened itself upon my mind an undefined apprehension of the future, a presentiment that she, whom I now saw for the first time, was destined to be connected with my fate, either for good or evil. Perhaps the Frenchman is right in his theory; perhaps in my secret consciousness I felt the conviction that at last it had met with her, who by the great common law of nature, ought to be my bride.

VI.

My slumbers that night were not of an exceedingly sound char"Imaginations, bright and fair," of all that was and all that might be, chased one another in rapid succession through the hours

acter.

of sleep. Visions of all kinds kept passing and repassing in the phantom procession of my dreams; visions joyous, visions serious; visions of earnest devotion and successful love; visions of benevolent-looking clergymen called upon to perform certain interesting ceremonies, and of enormous fees handed over to the same; visions all culminating in the vision of visions, that of the fairest of earth's daughters united to the happiest of earth's sons, of household joys and sorrows, of the future Mrs. J., with her thoughts fixed intently on divine things and me. Yet why should I enumerate these dreams? Every man has had them at some time, or will have them; and it is not the object of this story either to call up old recollections, or to give a knowledge of what is to be.

Eleanor Morland was a clergyman's daughter. Now, I have a theory of my own in regard to such children, the truth of which can be demonstrated by the most rigid a priori reasoning. Granting the premises, which every man of common sense must do, the conclusion follows as a matter of course; and that conclusion may be summed up in a rule to which there are but few exceptions, and which every one can verify by an appeal to his personal knowledge. It may be concisely stated in the following language: all clergymen's daughters are good-looking.

Every acute observer of mankind will often remark the peculiar influence of a high cultivation of the mental and moral faculties in refining and beautifying the countenance. The face is always to some extent an index of the training a man has undergone, certainly of the influences to which he has been subject; and the higher this training, or those influences, the higher will be the expression of the features. If this be true, it follows that the pursuit of any profession, which refines and humanizes the man, has a constant tendency to render the countenance less sensual, and necessarily more spiritual and beautiful. And in regard to all human employments, there can be but one answer to the question that asks which is the highest and most ennobling.

It is also a fact of our daily experience, that qualities either of the outward form, or the inward character, are always to some extent transmitted from parents to their offspring. We do not expect to gather grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles. This principle is exemplified in every-day life,-in the coarse and vulgar expression on the countenances of the children of the ignorant and

degraded, in the refinement and taste stamped on the finely cut features of the children of the educated and polished.

With the additional fact that delicacy of features, which too often approaches effeminacy in man, is the glory of woman. It follows necessarily from what has been said, that by the birth and the circumstances under which she has been brought up, every clergyman's daughter ought to be good-looking.

In loving Eleanor Morland, I did no more than every one else who dared to entertain a hope for her hand, however remote it might seem from fulfillment. But though my chances were far superior to those of any rivals I might have, yet I could boast of no especial favor. Very intimate indeed we did become, but to the preternaturally sharpened eyesight of a lover, there was nothing in her manner on any occasion which betokened a stronger feeling than friendship. Yet, for a time, if I could boast of no positive favor, I at least had the negative satisfaction of knowing that no one was preferred to me.

Unfortunately this state of affairs was not destined to be of long duration. I heard of the expected arrival of a person bearing the not uncommon name of John Smith, with a feeling of perfect indifference; a feeling that was soon changed into any but one of pleasure, by the prevalence of a rumor, which linked his future life to that of her who was now the sole object of my dreams.

"I cannot believe it," said Egerton. "No woman in her senses would voluntarily marry a man by the name of John Smith: for such a mess of pottage would give up her identity—would become related to all Christendom-would have her letters constantly read by a hundred strange eyes-would in every paper she took up, find her husband, for aught she knew to the contrary, hung, transported, murdered, or at least figuring in the police reports. No, I'll not believe it till I am obliged to."

I concluded that I also would not believe it.

(CONCLUDED IN OUR NEXT.)

T. R. L.

The Inspiration of Cadmon.

THE first Anglo Saxon poet sang his hymns of Bible history seven centuries before the "father of English poetry" wrote. His version of the fall of man, is not unlike Milton's, nor altogether unworthy of Milton's muse.

Among the many miracles and marvels related by the venerable Bede, not the least marvellous is the inspiration of Cadmon. The story, in spite of the smile its seriousness excites, is as beautiful as many of the myths that are told of the Grecian muse.

The mixed, unmeaning hum,

Gave place, throughout the hall,

To the songs of bards, and the minstrels' thrum;
But one was there whose soul was dumb,

And he sat apart from all.

Long he had inly yearned

To strike the poet's lyre;

And when, that night, from the hall he turned,
He felt within that something burned,

But he knew not whence the fire.

And an angel's airy hand,

While on his watch he slept,

Attuned his heart to numbers grand,

And, in dreams, he heard the sweet command,
As o'er his soul it swept :

"Cædmon! sing what, when Creation into perfect being swung,
All the stars, in exultation, through the throbbing ether flung;
Sing the song to every nation, loud as erst its raptures rung !"

And rapt, his senses dwell

On the harmonies divine;

And he yearns,-while he catches every swell,
As from the heights of heaven it fell,-
"O, that this gift were mine!"

He woke; and the angel's strain

Still through his spirit thrills;

And he sings what he hears in his throbbing brain,
And God–O, ne'er was such refrain-

His every measure fills!

His, now, that quickened ear,

That shall be ours at death,

Which hears the song of each singing sphere

To reproduce the music here,

And make immortal, breath.