on the wild and lovely shores of the gems of the Atlantic-the "still vex'd Bermoothes" of the Tempest.

How I wander when I dream! and the old days come back, and the present fades! As the crows caw dreamily, I pass away from the Autumn forest, my ship sails from shore; through the gleaming billows, and the lowering sky, I pass to those islands in the ocean. My foot is on the shore, and the palm trees wave, the billows come laughing, and they gird the fair islands, as the arms of a bridegroom clasp his bride. I live the old life, and see the old faces; I hear the gay laughter, and feel friendly hands pressed in my own. My little grandmother smiles beside the double captive, and the sun falls like a glory on the scene! It is the sun of the mountains here, and the laughter is the hoarse cry of the mischievous crows.

They are going now on some errand involving robbery, and the old grayheaded warrior leads the route:

"Caw! Caw!-Caw! Caw!"

I gaze at them as they pass away on flapping wings, and at last the far distance swallows them. Well, let them go. I have had my hour of musing; the gay leaves rustle and glitter; I rise and ramble on, and dream.

But the Romans chose the oak; it would seem arbitrarily. Why do we cling to the cypress and the laurel, and the orange flower? Why should the former speak of death and mourning-the second of "crown'd honor,"-the last of wedding chimes? I know not; but here is the saying of a soldier.

General Charles Lee after his disgrace at Monmouth went to live yonder in the valley, not far from here. One day Gen. Gates came to dine with him, on his route to take command of the American forces in the South. He had just won the battle of Saratoga, and walked upon air.

"Take care, General!" said Lee, with a growl like that of the fox-hound stretched beside him,-" take care that the laurels of the North do not turn into the cypresses of the South!"

Gates laughed at his cynical host and went away-and lost the battle of Camden-and fell like a lost Pleiad from the empyrean of honor in which he had shone, a star of the first magnitude. He came and buried himself in the forest near the stone cabin of Charles Lee; and they hunted together for weary years, while their rival, Washington, took his post, where he will stand forever.

This is a true anecdote, for which Sully vouches.

from the far low grounds. I think the whip-poor-will comes of an unfortunate lineage-many sorrowful things must needs have happened to his "house." His song is very mournful, coming as it does upon our sighing winds of Virginia nights. A gentleman in the neighborhood was waked by one in a tree beneath his window; and the cry of the lonely bird had such an effect upon him that he rose, and taking his gun, endeavored to shoot it. Poor thing!

In listening to the whip-poor-will, Sully thinks long thoughts. It is the echo of all pensive musings-this far, murmured sigh of the night-bird from the low grounds by the river side. His song has the spirit of Il Penseroso in it—but not all so grievous. I like to hear him after all.

The weird laughter of the owl from the woods is heard too, as you sit at your window listening, in the quiet hours of the Summer-night. He has found a dead man's bones, and is triumphing over the remains of his human enemy. I do not admire the owl-venerable, but cheerless antiquary. Your true antiquary loves old things for their sweetness, or humor, or strange coloring. The owl likes his ruin because it is dark and lonely. He sits brooding over the tragedies of men and maidens, dead long ago, who once laughed and wept in the house, whose dim ruin he inhabits. Once the youths and maidens were very merry here, in the bright days of other years. They sent the Summer mornings on their way with song; and bright eyes, blushes, lovers' sighs and laughter, filled the hall with a rare charm. Once brave young fellows whispered in the old porch to slender maidens, whose soft cheeks grew rosy as they listened; and in due time windows blazed with lights, and chariots rolled merrily to the door, and wedding favors shone on manly breasts, and snowy bosoms-and healths were drunk by the laughing crowd, to the bridegroom and his bride.

They sleep in the old church-yard yonder, in the vale; the old days are long dead, with all their mirth, and laughter,

and bright, glimmering eyes. Alone in a cleft of the nuptial chamber, the invisible owl sings sneering his "Tu-whoo!"

V.

"Pinewood sleeps by the slow and winding river still. May the winds caress the old walls gently-they have heard much laughter."-Sully's Note Book.

Memory, O friend! is a noble gift:when one has the power of recalling only the pleasant. Sully thinks that there is much enjoyment in its exercise.

He has many memories of happy hours in the golden days of other years. At Pinewood as at other country homes, those hours found him a laughing boy, surrounded with gay faces-the faces of many maidens fair, whose rosy cheeks and dancing eyes lent splendor to the time, and sent the brilliant mornings on their way with joy and merriment.

What pretty faces! Gregoria with her raven hair, and red lips, and dark eyes full of mischief-how she glides now in my memory, and sings, and laughs out gaily. Choralia too, with blue eyes, and auburn hair, and thoughtful bearing was a belle of the time :-and rosy Nina-one and all were full of the joy of the time. In this bright circle, Sully once had his hours of holiday-now the gay figures have all passed away from his horizon, which is encircled by blue mountains, and smiling regrets. Gregoria is married-Choralia has quite forgotten himthe rest are separated. The days of old are changed; their laughter sounds no more: the beautiful faces shine no longer-the winds blow as of yore, and the clouds float on as in other years:the old forest waves still in the breeze: but they are gone. Where are now the lips that laughed-the eyes that shone? If they exist, they laugh and shine for others.

O Pinewood, sleeping by the slow and winding river, you have seen some merry carnivals-how your old walls rang once on a time, with mirth and laughter!

Does another generation laugh and sing for you as in the days before?

At least Sully and the old faces are gone.

He is in another region, clasped by azure mountains-dreaming of Pinewood in the Lowlands, amid the golden glories of another land.

VI.

"Honoria is the queen of those days. Sully salutes her with his heart."

Sully's Note Book.

The Autumn culminates in glory—and the winds blow their huge trumpets, heralding the winter time.

Is Autumn sad? Doubtless the mood and character of the individual, answers this question. To the young it is a time for out door spots and gay adventures when the October breezes flush the cheek and make the pulses dance :-to the old, it is doubtless a memorial season, given up to reverie, and sighs, it may be. A writer of dreams says-" Place an old man and a child upon the shores of the ocean, and ask them the meaning of its murmur: the child will say that it's laughing, the old man will tell you that it is complaining." Is there not profound philosophy in this? It is the spectator's eye, not the object, which changes. Youth is a happy time-all is gay, buoyant and joyous. The sky is always blue; the breeze laughs; the whispering leaves are stirred with merriment, not sighs. As age approaches, all this undergoes a change. Instead of laughing you muse: the past, not the future speaks to you. Between musing, pensive reverie, and melancholy, however, the difference is great.

Sully takes all reasons as they comeit is hard if he gets not some pleasure from them, one and all. The bed of dry leaves in the fall forest is as pleasant to lie upon, for him, as the green enamelled twig of spring or summer. The Aster, golden Rod, and Cardinal Flower, and Prince's Feather, are as welcome as the violet and crocus. They plant their gay colors on the fading leas, and the trees

wave great golden banners-like the fabled dolphin, the year is most beautiful as it struggles in the death agony-it dies in a blaze of gold and purple.

It was a fine Autumn spent by Sully at Belleair. The river laughed along through golden woods, and the great oaks shook their leaves together like a multitude of children clapping their hands. They were merry days for Sully--and he recalls them now as he leans his elbow on the couch of leaves, and salutes the queen of the revel. Honoria made the world happy she lived in because she was beautiful and good. But here, Sully pauses-for he loved Honoria: and sheshe "knew him well, but loved him not"-that is to say, more than a cherished friend.

But her face still shines on me-the old days return-in a reverie I go over all the past--and am quite happy. The Autumn scenes around me are like those of my youth-but Honoria! Honoria!— where is she? She was the Princess of the Medley, but I was not the Prince!

Such are the reflections of Sully, as he goes back in thought to Belleair, the old hall where he played in his youth.

VII.

"Sully is ignorant whether this Knight of Malta came over with the Conqueror. It is unimportant."

Sully's Note Book.

In looking over some discolored papers the other day-discovered, accidentally, in that common depository of ancient records an old trunk, I found a number of ancient letters; and I read them with much interest. The joys and sorrows of other days, and other hearts were reflected in their age-dimmed pages; and for a time, Sully lived in the past, and learned how his ancestors lived their lives and laughed and sighed, and played their allotted parts.

The wax securing the epistles was stamped with the coat of arms of the writer-a falcon perched upon a crusader's shield, in which were fleurs de lys,

and a Maltese Cross :-beneath, on a
scroll, was the motto "La Foy."
"Faith!"-That was a good motto
Sully thinks: better than the proud
words used by the Coucy family:

"Neither King nor Prince am I,
I am the Sire de Coucy."

I was looking at an English Peerage" some time since, a very idle amusement, and was very much entertained by the variety of mottos of the English people claiming noble rank. Few possessed the character of my old signet-stamp motto, "Honor bright!"--you may so translate "La Foy "--what a worthy war-cry! Perhaps one of the first wearers of the signet was a crusader--a Maltese Knight, fighting for Holy Land. If the arms were bestowed upon him by king or Emperor, it must have been because his character rendered them appropriate.

Sully is a democrat and regards the mere foolish pride of descent as quite absurd and foolish, though often amusing. Still he is not cold to the worthy character which the old seal would seem to betoken in a man, from whom a portion of his blood descends! It is not important whether he were duke or baron, knight or squire-it seems that he was something which quite negatives all such fond, foolish trappings of the world-a gentleman. If a poor man, still 'tis not important-still a gentleman. How that word is soiled with all ignoble use now! It means to-day, the possessor of worldly goods and social influence:often it signifies the mere descent from those who possessed this social wealth and power and status. Sully thinks this

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foolishness," and has his own opinion of what constitutes the gentleman. It seems to him that one of the grandest attributes of such a character, is expressed in the old signet-" Faith!"

Hotspur's war-cry was Esperance! the two together are "Faith! Hope!" but the first contains the greatest of these, which is Charity. Sully has no coat of arms himself, and does not want any. If, however, he were going to choose one, he would take the honest old shield with "La Foy" upon it.

VIII.

A writer says: "I have wished to make my style sparkle on a new mould." Suppose it had lounged; would the effort have been worth the while? Why put on chains when you prepare to run ?"

Sully's Notes.

The Autumn whirls away-soon it will be gone. The golden leaves were caught this morning in the clutch of the stormwind, and borne onward to the South. Some have been dropped, however, and they are ankle-deep beneath the haughty oaks-I lie upon the rustling couch and dream: for the last time it may be, since the moments hasten on, and I must go.

Another year thus passes for Sally, and is added to his memories. What a fine time it has been! How they laughed and sang in the old Virginia houseswhat bright eyes gave their life and joy to the fleeting hours! Four rivers saw the face of Sully mirrored in their waters; and then went to sea with laughter. One drew its dark waves, colored with the loam of the upland, through the festoons and trailing creepers of the sweet, wild, honeysuckle burdening the air to faintness with its perfume; another lingered lazily amid the lush green grasses of the lowland-a third rushed, clear as crystal by the base of the Blue Ridge that bright and abounding river of old days; and lastly, came the Indian current of the western mountain, carelessly gliding at the foot of the great hill, and the "Lover's Rock."

On the banks of all, the individual who, in an idle mood, has called himself by an eminent name, has wasted or perhaps lived worthily, a number of happy hours. If, in speaking of his moods and thoughts and dreams, he has assumed a style, full of quaint affectation, that is his own affair. It was the language of the Autumn forest, careless, wayward, not of the world of men, and women, and their practical" pursuits-rather the language of the writer's dreams; perhaps of yours, reader, who will never stand face to face, with him who speaks to you.

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So the summer and the fall are gone, and winter comes. It brings snow and