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"Oh, Philip! Philip! how you sting me!" cried Frank, wildly. "Oh, Father above, it is I who have been weak! What have I been doing? While I fancied that Philip was not strong, not perfect enough for me, I have been descending, descending, till I fear I cannot reach him!"

It was a bitter hour for Frank Cushman, but beneficial: she learned that even the strongest fail when trusting in themselves.

Now she must write to Philip; not much-she could not trust herself-but a few lines, just to show him how far she was beneath the Frank he pictured.

"DEAR PHILIP: I am glad you disobeyed me. I am glad you wrote. Your letter has saved me, I trust. I had sadly departed from your ideal; you would no longer have recognized me. I was dreaming, and the bright flowers in my path were luring me on to a dreadful vortex! A few more steps, and I had been lost to you forever, unfit for your newborn self! You will wonder at this; well you may; but I cannot explain till we meet. A few weeks more, and I leave this bewildering maze for a purer atmosphere for my home! I am stretching my arms to it now. I long for it! Can that assurance comfort you?"

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"Yes; and one the noblest-the noblest! And I left him because I fancied his temper warm, and that it would be imprudent to marry him! Left him to come here and trifle and debase myself! to mingle in scenes of folly and dissipation, while he was striving to make himself my ideal-a guide and protector; and now he has risen, and I have fallen -oh, so low! Clara, dear sister, there is nothing so hard to bear as the condemnation of your own heart!"

"Frank, don't talk so! What have you done? Nothing, I am sure, to distress you so severely. It is not wrong to join in innocent gayety; and, as for flirting, it is what every one does who is beautiful or disengaged."

What comfort for a remorseful heart! Frank

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"Why, you know, I told you Percy was desperately enamored before you came; and every one thought it would be a match."

"Oh, Clara! Clara! have I caused all this misery, too? You spoke so jestingly of his attentions to Sarah, that I did not dream of their truth; especially as I never saw him with her."

"No; that is the thing. From the first moment he saw you, he was fascinated. So cheer up now! How could you know that you were whiling him from another ?"

"He was not worthy of her; so false, so fickle!" cried Frank.

"I do not believe she will hold that opinion long," was Clara's reply.

"If she is what I suppose her, she will scorn him!" Frank answered, with spirit; and there the conversation dropped.

CHAPTER VI.

"Good-by, proud world! I'm going home;
Thou art not my friend; I am not thine:
Too long through weary crowds I roam-
A river ark on the ocean brine,
Too long I am tossed like the driven foam:
But now, proud world, I'm going home!"

"How still Frank Cushman has become lately!" said Amy Bryan to Fanny Ashton. "Ever since Percy went to New York so suddenly! I declare, it is too bad for Percy to flirt so outrageously!"

"And Miss Cushman will go back to Ohio without a husband, after all !" remarked another maiden, with somewhat of glee at the thought.

"Well," exclaimed Fanny, with her usual impetuosity, "I despise a flirt or a flirtation from my very heart! At first, I disliked Frank Cushman, I own it; I misjudged her; and, latterly, her spells, which Sarah was so eloquent about, have charmed away my dislike. It does not strike me, moreover, that she looks like a victim."

"No, indeed!" cried Sarah, enthusiastically. "Her appearance rather conveys to my mind that her thoughts are far away from the gay scenes around her; she looks chastened and subdued, but not sorrowful. I should say that her spirit was merely waiting for some future happiness-for some great joy, which yet she feels she does not deserve." One and all laughed at the beautiful visionary.

"My dear, good sister," said Fanny, goodnaturedly, "I cannot pretend to follow you through your misty imaginings; I confine myself to common sense, and it is hard enough to get along with that sometimes."

And Sarah smiled-perhaps a little contemptuously and whispered to herself, as many a young enthusiast has done before, hugging her ideal world still closer, "They cannot understand me; we feel so differently!"

"Who in the world, Frank, would believe that it was the end of March already? The winter has passed so quickly! I wish you would stay the summer out, and go to Newport with us; we shall have such a splendid time!"

Frank lifted her expressive eyes reproachfully. "Can you press me to stay while Philip waits?" And Clara laughingly allowed the omnipotence of the apology; only, as she observed

"It was so intolerably stupid, Frank, for you to love Philip Arden! I wish he had been at the bottom of the Dead Sea, and then you would have married Percy Bryan, and I should have had a sister near me. It is too bad to think that all my family are contented to live away from me! I remember when I was a pet at home."

"Well, of all women, you are the most difficult to please! What in the world could you want more than your husband's love? And did you not leave all for him? Yet now you quarrel with your destiny!"

"Oh no! no! I would not exchange it for worlds!" cried Clara, with a merry laugh. "Harry Hastings for me!"

"And Philip Arden for me!" Frank answered, zealously.

"What in the world are you quarrelling about?" said Mr. Hastings, looking up from his newspaper with a comic grimace.

"Nothing; only Clara is running down her husband," said Frank, demurely.

"Oh, Frank, you wretch! what a story!" cried Clara, with a horrified expression of countenance, kneeling by her husband's side, with her arms about his neck. "Do you believe her?"

And, though he laughingly expressed his entire faith in Frank's statement, she did not cease her caresses; and he forgot, while pressing his lips to his young wife's brow, the "arrival of the steamship Britannia."

Mrs. Hastings gave a farewell party to her sister. Never, perhaps, parted a beautiful young maiden from a gay and brilliant circle with such perfect delight. Frank was like a stream of light; wherever she moved, the merry laugh rose on the air; wherever she stood, the crowd besieged her.

For once, she had given up to Clara the direction of her dress. What was dress to her now? They might make a complete figure of her, for arht she

cared! But Clara knew better; and her attire was the admiration of the room.

Once a flower dropped from her hair, and she ran up into the dressing-room: Fanny and Sarah were there.

"I declare, I never saw you look so beautiful in all my life!" said Fanny, bluntly. "No one would imagine you were suffering from Percy Bryan's fickleness. Pray tell me? Do you feel badly ?"

Frank opened her bright eyes. Then she comprehended the whole, and laughed heartily.

"Poor Miss Cushman! how much she is to be pitied!" she said; then, recollecting, with a pang, what Clara had said about Sarah, she spoke gravely, looking, however, at Fanny. "I presume it is quite sufficient to tell you I left my lover in Ohio! I am going back to him."

Fanny stared.

"But Percy Bryan! no woman, who has the slightest regard for her happiness, will marry him! Believe me; I have studied him thoroughly. I know he is talented and fascinating; but there is no strength in his character-in his soul. No one could be happy with him through life, unless weak and heartless. One might for a time, but not lastingly."

She did not once look at Sarah while speaking; but the fair girl grew pale while she listened, and sank into a chair behind her sister.

"Darling! darling!" said Fanny, after Frank had gone, kneeling, and fondly embracing her; "did you hear? Oh, believe her!"

"Yes, yes, I heard!” cried Sarah, convulsively; "and I believe! Sister, I have made a resolution: one can conquer one's self; don't you think so?" looking up appealingly.

"To be sure!" murmured Fanny, stoutly. "There needs but the will; and I know you have got that, sister!"

CHAPTER VII.

"And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me;

Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee!'"

"On her pallid cheek and forchead came a color and a light,

As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night."-TENNYSON.

SHE had been clasped in a mother's embrace, and met fondly a sister's kiss; had wept and smiled by turns, and heard their loving welcomes; and now Frank Cushman stood alone, still in the centre of the room, but with her small hands clasped and her eyes drooping. She well knew the rapid step which sounded in the hall; but she did not raise her head, and her cheek grew blanched from deep emotion.

Philip Arden threw open the door, and rushed towards her; but then he stopped before he had received the wished embrace, frozen with a nameless terror. He remembered her last words: "We shall know, when first our eyes meet, whether the breath of the world hath changed our love."

But she did not look up. Did she fear, then, to show him she was changed?

"Frank," he said, huskily, "is it so ?"

Still she bowed her head, growing perceptibly paler.

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"Frank, oh, speak!" he continued, hoarsely, with a convulsive spasm about his chiselled lips. 'Fear not to look on me; for the worst must be better than this horrid silence."

It did seem as though she tried to obey him; but the full lids might have been marble, so coldly, so immovably they fell over her dark eyes: she passed her small fingers over them once or twice, as though striving to dispel this nightmare rigidity, then gasped painfully.

Instantly he came near her, though with a broken, uneven step. He passed his arm supportingly around her, and her beautiful head sunk upon his shoulder, still with its pale and suffering features, with its drooping lids and long black lashes resting on the wan cheek.

"Be calm, Frank," he whispered; "I forgive you." And he touched with his lips her cold brow.

That touch! Now, at last, her eyes slowly unclosed, and she raised them to those sad ones above her, and in them, though at first he shrank, fearing to know too certainly his misery, he read a tale which sent back the warm blood to his heart, and lent new strength to his nerveless frame.

And over Frank Cushman's face there seemed to steal a light, swiftly and more swiftly lighting up the wild, dark eye, the pale cheek, and marble lips, which were parted now to give utterance to her broken words.

"Oh, Philip, I am true! Look upon me and say-but I am worthless. There was a cloud upon my hopes; I could not look, though I strove to. Oh, it was dreadful-that feeling-that anguish ! I feared you would leave me, while I could not raise my eyes; and I thought, 'Must I lose all, when happiness seemed certain, with one so noble and so true?'"

"Dearest, how could you? Oh, faithless!" Philip whispered, fondly.

"I could not help it. I did strive; but the madness, the wildness stole upon me so suddenly; all seemed so vague, so unreal! I knew that you were there, and I so' undeserving-but oh, to lose you! And will that not be, after all? Can you still love me when you hear all my weakness?" And Frank, relieved by this brief expression of her feelings, wept freely on his shoulder.

In the soft twilight hour of that day, a happy group once more assembled in the cheerful parlor

overlooking the Muskingum. The good, the praying mother was there, peaceful and serene; and Carry, who had protested so loudly against the long visit, which was now accomplished, flitting about restlessly as usual, and smiling whiles upon her sister, who looked so beautiful, so peaceful, so full of repose at last. And beside Frank was Philip, just as handsome, yet not quite so stormy-looking as six months before. Now, his

"Spirit had to manhood grown;"

and knowledge had for once brought happiness. What saith the best of books about he who ruleth his own spirit? Frank knew, else she had not smiled so sweetly, so confidingly, upon her chosen husband.

CHAPTER VIII.

"There is a gentle element, and man
May breathe it with a calm, unruffled soul,
And drink its living waters till his heart
Is pure and this is human happiness."-WILLIS.
"We are not made to wander on the wing!

But, if we would be happy, we must bring
Our buoyant hearts to a plain and simple school."

"FRANK CUSHMAN," cried Carry, rushing into her sister's home, some months later-"Frank Cushman, here is a letter from Clara!

Quick, read! mother wants to hear the news, and I'm appointed reporter!"

"My name is not Frank Cushman !" replied her sister, half playfully; yet with a little pride, too, in the new title which she had borne for two whole weeks-the wife of Philip Arden: and the happy wife, the trusting, the respecting wife; for each of these feelings mantled on her glowing cheek and beamed from her expressive eyes.

Carry laughed, and tossed her bonnet aside as she did so.

"I declare, you are so snug, so comfortable here, Frank-Mrs. Arden, I mean-that I could spend the evening, only mother was peremptory. So read, quick, read!"

But Frank was already absorbed in the epistle before her, and nothing could arouse her, save her husband's step upon the gravel-walk before the house.

"Oh, Philip!" she cried, springing to meet him, with the letter in her hand, "only think-poor Percy Bryan! I declare, it is too bad! I almost pity him! See what Clara says !" resigning to his hands the letter she was too modest to read herself. But we will not withhold from our readers the part which concerns our heroines:

"Well, Frank, I dare say you are happy-of course, I can't disbelieve your protestations: but

you know your old cavalier; I am dying to tell you about him! I said he would not break his heart: are you not sorry he did not? You had not been gone a month, before he returned to his former flame quite desperately, every one said; the more so, that he had a rival, one of the finest men you ever saw every inch a man, as my loving husband said when he saw him. Well, Frank-don't laugh— but last week poor Percy took another trip to New York; and, what is more pitiable, or amusing, whichever you choose to consider it, people seem to understand much more generally the cause of this second journey! Frank, you were too delicate by half! Not one person in twenty would conceal such an offer as you received. Not that I mean to say Sarah Ashton enlightened the public as to hers; but her sister Fanny proved an excellent reporter. Sometimes I feel disposed to give the folks an inkling of your conquest; but Harry hushes me up, adding an incomparable compliment to your incomparable self.

"I fancy Percy will be somewhat at a discount, if he returns, which is not at all certain. A common man may be refused a dozen times, and no one think the less of him for that; but let one of your

starry throng suffer such 'a désagrément, and he is used up completely.

"Sarah Ashton looks more beautiful than ever, with the health entirely restored, which no one but me ever noticed was injured. So much the better for her prospects, then, which promise brilliantly, with this Boston celebrity at her feet!"

"Poor Percy! are you not sorry that he did not break his heart?" Philip repeated, half seriously, half mischievously, when he had finished reading.

"I ought to be, I know," Frank answered, with equal mischief; "but," and her eye exchanged its sudden sparkle for a look more loving, "somehow, my heart is too full of happiness to admit one sad sentiment." And then she was silent, in her perfect joy, till startled by her merry sister's voice.

"Well, Frank, you make a beautiful tableau, doubtless, you and your bonny husband; but please recollect that it is past seven o'clock, and your mother waiting all this while for news from the wanderer. Dear, but I'm glad, after all, that I'm not married! I'm sure I couldn't sit still so long. Are you not tired to death, Frank?"

LASTING ATTACHMENTS OF MEN OF GENIUS.

No records are more interesting than those which tell of the attachments of men of genius-attachments often suddenly formed, and yet as remarkable for their constancy as for their fervency. Years may still speed on, but imagination supplies every charm of which they may have robbed the beloved one; the grave may have withdrawn her from other eyes, but still her pure spirit lingers by her lover's side, in the haunts where they so often met.

Love at first sight was exemplified in Raphael. His window overlooked the garden of the adjoining house, and there he saw the lovely girl who amused herself among her flowers; he saw her lave her beautiful feet in the lake; he fell passionately in love. He soon made his feelings known; his love was not rejected, and she became his wife. He is said to have been so passionately enamored of her beauty, that he never could paint if she were not by his side. The lineaments of that fair face still live in some of his sublime productions; and thus while she gave inspiration, he conferred immortality.

Though among poets the most remarkable instances of ardent and enduring attachment may be found, their marriages have not, generally speaking, been happy. Milton failed in securing the felicity of wedded love, which he has so beautifully apostrophized. Neither the home of Dante, nor that of Shakspeare, was one of domestic happiness. Ra

cine's tender sensibility met with no responsive sympathy in his partner; and Moliere experienced all the bitterness of the jealous doubts and misgivings which he has so admirably depicted. Yet the poet is of all, perhaps, the most capable of strong attachments. His warm imagination throws its glow over all that he loves; home, with all its fond associations; "the mother who looked on his childhood; and the bosom friend dearer than all," are so impressed upon his feelings that they mingle with every mood of his fancy. True, some critics, of more ingenuity than judgment, have doubted the real existence of the romantic attachments by which some of the finest poets have been inspired; and endeavor to explain as ingenious allegories the impassioned and pathetic effusions which find their way to every heart. Beattie-of whom we might have expected better things-sees, in the ardent expressions of Petrarch's devotion to Laura, the aspirings of an ambitious spirit for the laureatecrown; and Dante has been said to have allegorized his energy in the study of theology under the guise of a passion for Beatrice. But the great charm of Dante's poetry is its deep earnestness and truthfulness, and those touches of tenderness which are scattered throughout his sublime work, like the wild flowers of home unexpectedly met with in drear and remote regions; the facts of an imperishable attach

ment can be traced throughout his whole poetry. It is the custom in Florence for friends, accompanied by their children, to assemble together on the first of May, to celebrate the delightful season. A number of his neighbors had been invited by Folco Portinari to do honor to the day. Dante Alighieri, then a boy of nine years, was among them; young as he was, he was instantly attracted by the loveliness of one amidst the group of children. She was about his own age, the daughter of the host. Through all the vicissitudes of a long and eventful life, that early impression was never effaced-he loved her ever after with an intenseness of passion and unshaken constancy that gave a color to his whole existencein the various paths of life which he was destined to tread, her image was ever present, inspiring the desire for distinction; their early intercourse, like the sweet May morning on which they had first met, was bright and happy; the purity and artlessness of youth made it so. The young companions of Beatrice rallied her on the devotion of the youthful poet, and the gay sallies with which she herself treated the ardor of his love, only served to make her the more engaging in his eyes. She was induced to bestow her hand elsewhere; more, it has been said, in accordance with duty than inclination; for it is supposed her heart was not insensible to the love of the gifted youth, whose devotion, purity, and intellectuality might have found their way to one harder than hers. Dante fell sick and slowly recovered; whether her marriage was a subject of which he could not bear to think, it is certain that it is not once alluded to in his poetry. Beatrice did not long survive her marriage; within the year she was borne to her grave. The anguish of Dante was so 'intense, that it brought on a fearful illness, in which his life was long despaired of. Boccacio mentions that he was so altered by grief that he could scarcely be known. Beatrice occupied all his thoughts; on the anniversary of her death, he sat alone thinking of her, and portraying "an angel on his tablets." The influence which she had over him was as powerful in death as it had been in life-still to be worthy of loving, and of joining one so good and pure beyond the grave was his constant aim; all that he desired in renown, all that he wished for in fame, was to prove himself not undeserving of having devoted himself to her; in the camp-in the highest diplomatic positions, this was his great object in all his trials, and they were many and severe; this inspired him with a lofty dignity, and supported him under insults and injuries which would have broken many a proud spirit; but sublimed above the concerns of earth, his affection was such as might be felt for one translated to a celestial abode. By continually dwelling on but one subject, his mind became utterly estranged from passing events, and he often fell into such fits of abstraction and despondency that his friends, fearing that his reason would be completely upset, anxiously sought VOL. XLV.-6

to give him some new interest in life, and at length prevailed on him to marry. This made him still more wretched; he could not if he would, detach his mind from dwelling on her who had been his early and his only love, and to all his other misfortunes that of an unhappy marriage was added.

Like the attachment of Dante for Beatrice, that of Petrarch for Laura was the result of a sudden impression; he had hitherto ridiculed the notion of the power of love, but he was yet to experience it in its most extreme intensity. He was twenty-three when he first saw Laura de Sade, then in her twentieth year; he has himself recorded over and over again the exact hour, day, and year; it was at six in the morning on the 6th of April, 1327; it was at the church of Santa Claire at Avignon. Everything connected with that memorable meeting has been dwelt on with fond minuteness by the poet; the dress which she wore, the green robe sprigged with violets; every movement, every look was forever treasured in his memory; the celestial beauty of her countenance bespoke the purity for which she was so remarkable in that age of licentiousness, and in contemplating her loveliness, reverence for virtue mingled with admiration. Petrarch and Laura often met in society, and became intimately acquainted; he was charmed with her conversation; she appears to have been in every way capable of appreciating Petrarch, and deserving of the influence which she possessed over him, which was exerted only to exalt his sentiments and strengthen his principles; though unhappy in her marriage, true to her vows, she preserved all that purity of thought which gave such an unspeakable charm to her beauty. The chivalrous spirit of the age encouraged a devotion to the fair sex, and platonic attachments were the fashion of the day, so that the dignity of Laura was not compromised when Petrarch made her the object of his poetical devotions, and the celebrity which he gained by this homage to her charms may have gratified much better feelings than those of vanity; the faith which she had pledged, though to an unworthy object, she held most sacred; she repressed "the feelings of the enthusiastic poet whenever they appeared transgressing the bounds of friendship. Once, when in an unguarded moment he ventured to allude to his passion, the look of indignation with which she regarded him, and the tone in which she said, "I am not the person you take me for," overwhelmed him with shame and sorrow. The hopeless passion, of which he only dared to speak in song-and even the allowed indulgence of thus giving it expression, had a fatal effect; his health gradually declined; he grew pale and thin, and the charming vivacity which had been the delight of his friends utterly forsook him; he estranged himself from the society of his former companions, and was no longer met with in the circles of which he had been the darling. At length he made an effort to conquer feelings that were too powerful to yield,

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