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It was a long time before Montanvers recovered from the fearful and deathlike swoon. When he did so, his mind was heavy and depressed, and his whole frame tottering as if under the effects of some dreadful disease. Manifold thoughts served to weigh him down-thoughts of pain and misery and death-but with a powerful exertion, he threw them from him. Moving from the road, he wended down a narrow path, and stood before the Seine, a draught of whose cooling waters refreshed and invigorated him. On the green turf, which at that point stretches down to the water's edge, he sat, to reflect and scheme, where we will leave him to follow some persons not yet known to the reader.

draw from the coldest worldling a wish that the days were merged into nights as clear, as bright, as still as was the present. The long, solemn, death-like streets, were unlit, save by the moon and stars, that hung above them like jewels on the bosom of the sky, and a few feeble lamps, that flickered and gradually expired away, shamed as it seemed by the glorious lights poured upon the sleeping earth, from the unexhausted urns of heaven. He had soon passed the streets and entered upon | the open road that wound its serpentine path along the river shore. Away in the distance was stretched the dark forests, whose tall and noble trees, as they were stirred by the air, resembled ranks of armies, waving on high their dark green plumes. Beyond them could be Some two miles distant the road assumed a different seen the blue mountains bordering the distant view. No appearance, becoming wider and more level; and besound was forth, save the sighings of the southerly yond it, for miles around, the view was uninterrupted by wind, rich with scent from the plains and vineyards a single hill, or a rise or fall in the ground. The river over which it had passed, and the low and not unmu-wended in a crooked, serpentine path hard by, and the sical murmur of the Seine, as its sky-mirroring waters far off mountains hung upon the skylike palaces of moved along the thick grass or rippled among the peb-snow upon battlemented clouds. bles on its shore. Along that road there was driven a small but neat Leaving Armine on the road, we would call the atten- carriage, drawn by two horses, which, from their ap tion of the reader to others.

CHAPTER VI.

Alas! alas!

Crime indeed hath mingled in your cup

Of life.

She was to him all else above:

Henry Neale.

The fountain in a desert land;
The shade midst Afric's burning sand;
The star that lends its glimmering ray
To light the traveller's lonely way:
She was that fount, that shade, that star;
He loved-nay, but he worshipped her!
Ay--but who is it?

As You Like It.

pearance, had travelled without ceasing for the whole of the day that had passed. Its passengers consisted of a young clergyman, well known near Paris, and his lady. There was something in the countenance of the young man which seemed to denote his profession. His face was pale and heavy, and rather unprepossessing, had it not been for the brightness of the eye, and the gaiety which lingered in the curl of the mouth. There too was a plainness and neatness in his dress, a meek. ness and humility in his demeanor, and a gentleness in all of his actions, which at one glance bespoke the messenger of glad tidings sent to brighten man's pathway through the adamantine gates up to the golden pavilions of the New Jerusalem. Such was the reverend George Morton. His lady was, or rather had been, beautiful. Sorrows and tears had thrown their nun-like veil over How very convenient it would be to take the reader her, and from the fair girl that Morton had wedded, she from the task of perusing this history, and convey him had passed to the stately and noble wife-not, however, to some arena on which each character would appear-without traces of her former beauty still lingering deliver his thoughts-do his deeds and depart. And around her. She was a delightful companion for such then how very pleasant would it be to the writer, who a husband. is now annoyed with shifting and changing, to keep a disjointed tale together-now chatting with a hero upon the street, and now whispering sweet words in a draw-menced. ing room, in the ears of a heroine-now moving quietly "But, my dear, there are afflictions deeper than down a stream, with the reader wistfully gazing after those through which you have already gone. Afflic him-and again taking the self same reader, against tions that well might wither the mother's heart and the advice of all old women, into the damp night air, scorch the husband's brain, were they not administered fearless of coughs and colds, to meet a character upon by Him in whom we trust; afflictions too deep and the gloomy midnight road. I have perused many beau-overpowering, save to those who can behold in thera tiful definitions of that singular creature, an author. They were all interested as the writers well knew. He resembles a fellow whom I have seen at a cattle show, placed amid the dirt and flare and stench of oil behind the curtain, to raise and drop and shift some dirty canvass, misnamed scenery-or, if that resemblance is not "What are the pomps and glories of the world, that striking, his occupation is much like that of the clown in hankering after them we should forget their worthon stilts, whose duty in the ring is to tease the specta-lessness? We are but wanderers upon a dreary tor by directing his already sated attention to the ex- wilderness-starting forth to-day and cut down totraordinary performances of a goodly number of fero-morrow. Why then should we waste our days in cious and well fed animals. With the reader's permis- sorrow and in grief? Why then should we repine, sion, I will mount the stilts again and turn to my nar-when the angel of death flaps his funeral wing over friends or kindred. The springs of existence, which

rative.

After riding for some distance in silence, he began a conversation which they seemed to have before com

the visitations of a high and holy power. And He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, will still watch over and guard the meek and humble."

He spoke in a low and somewhat agitated voice, but continued in a clearer tone:

cease here, flow back to their original fountain. The pressed his cold lips upon her cheek, and then came beings who leave us now, will be joined to us hereafter the pang, the struggle, the agony, the convulsion, the in a brighter and a purer sphere, and we will then silence. She stood, at that solemn hour, alone with the wander with them forever." dead!

"To what do your words tend, dear George?" asked Mrs. Morton, as a suspicion of their meaning for the first time flashed upon her.

"Our child!" was the only reply.

Ere that, the robber had rifled the unfortunate man of purse and watch, and had drawn from the finger of the lady its only ornament, a small plain ring. The approaching horseman came nearer; but ere he reached

"What of her? what of her?" exclaimed the now the spot, Montanvers, for he was the robber, had distracted mother.

departed.

"Calm yourself, my best, my dearest, or I cannot speak," said he. He hesitated-it was but a moment, for he noticed the calm resignation of his wife. "You may have noticed that a stranger handed me a letter whilst supping to-night. By that letter I learned that our child, while walking by its nurse's side, was accidentally trodden upon by the horse of a stranger who had just entered Paris-an Italian nobleman, from what I can gather. The letter is not minute; but our child is either suffering, or perhaps dead!" She did not answer, for before the words were finish-walk; the hope of saving the life of a fellow creature ed, the carriage had been stopped, and in the next moment the window was opened, and a masked form was before them. The intruder, noticing the lady, spoke to her companion in a softer voice than he had probably intended, or than would in all cases suit his Occupation as a gentleman of the road

The horseman was Francis Armine. His horse suddenly started, from some object in the road, which the rider on noticing approached. It was the carriage of the unfortunate Morton. Opening the door, he beheld the murdered man and the lifeless woman. He entered; the blood was still oozing from the wound of the man-the limbs stiffened, and the body cold. But the woman--she moved, she breathed, and was not dead. A thought flashed upon him. In the darkness of the night, he rushed to the water's edge--he did not

"Ah! my dear sir-sorry to trouble at so late an hour, but my wants are urgent. Be so good as to loan me your purse and watch."

The traveller hesitated complying with even so polite a request, and the robber, withdrawing from a concealed belt a pair of pistols, pointed one at the breast of the lady, and the other at the head of the man, and shouted in a loud and angry tone

"Deliver or you die!"

"Never!" replied the brave minister, dashing the pistol of the robber from his wife's bosom, and pointing one that he had in the mean time drawn from his carriage, full in the face of the robber. It flashed. Just at this moment the sound of an approaching horse was heard in the distance, and the robber maddened by the resistance and bravery of the man, and rendered desperate by the approach of others, suddenly fired upon the unfortunate minister. A loud shriek went forth from the wife's lips, as her husband's arm fell from the waist around which it had twined, and he dropped, steeped in his flowing blood, at her side.

"Oh! my own-my love-my life. You will not die! Speak, speak!" she cried.

That soft, sweet, musical voice, brought back the gem-like memories of the past, and stopped the spirit's wing ere it soared to the far off world. That voice! It had first weaved the golden chain of love around him: it had echoed in his ears like a spirit's whisper, amid the bloom and brightness of youth, and in the darker pathway of manhood, and now it came as sweet as ever when death's dread angel hovered around the fleeting soul like a stern and mysterious conqueror. He smiled as he looked for the last time upon her; as he heard for the last time the rich tones of her voice; and faintly whispered, "Bless thee, my wife; we will meet again-there-there"

He lifted his eyes for a moment, and again they fell; the dull glazed film of death came upon them. He

swiftened his pace--he almost flew. He reached the river's side, and with a handful of water flew back. The carriage had gone. A sound was heard in the distance; it was-oh no! it was not a human cry; he listened again, and through the deathlike stillness, was heard the shriek of the night-bird--dread omen!

We find a long lost treasure--and knowing it not, lose it!

SUMMER MURMURS,

HOW UNLIKE "SPRING JOYS."
BY HENRY J. BRENT,

Author of "Spring Joys," "Love at the Shrines," &c. &c.

I have sung of spring and its delicious joys-but alas! the blossom has fallen from the tree, and the rose-bud has withered on its stem. I am half dead with ennui. The sun gets slowly from his bed of molten lead, and angrily keeps up his journey through the day. We open the windows of a morning, and stretch out our hands among the honeysuckles that cluster around the sills. The smell of those flowers cheer us for awhile, and the buzz of the humming bird prolongs the decaying memory of active and sportive springtime. But 'the long-billed lilliputian is off, and he wanders about among the stern and irresponsive apple trees, hoping to find some bud that has been spared by the genius of ripening nature. What yawns and stretches occupy our time before the coming of the cool water from the pump. We see the drowsy servant, half full of dreams, lounging along and stumbling forth, pitcher in hand. The perspiration of impatience beads itself upon our brow, and the first power of heat is brought upon us, by our halloing to the valet to make haste. We sit at the open window in the meantime, with our sleeves rolled up, while the flies, mustering in dark groupes, dash like the armed Arabs at our neck and hands, and fly off laden with their tiny cargoes of blood. Anon comes the servant, with his pitcher half full of the limpid water-step by step we count his approachwe hear his lazy and heavy foot ascending the stairs—

we rush to meet him-we lift the pitcher high in the | self upon the cooler mould--the pump, swayed to and air-out flows the delicious stream—our head, ears and fro by the hands of perspiration, creaks as if its very flowing locks are in the basin, and the beautiful emotion founts were boiling hot-the horse laps the surplus of morning freshness, of youth, speeds, fanning as it water from the stones, and with insane eye and feroflies, through every vein and fibre of our body. To the cious teeth snaps at the tormenting fly. The cows look heart—to the brain it goes, and we lift our crown reek- piteously to the skies, and their long tails flash through ing with pearly drops, and "Richard is himself again." the air like scorched serpents. The distant brickkilns The poorest hind on earth, with his head in a basin, or send up their tribute of hot air, and the corners of a tub it may be, of cold, sparkling water, is as happy, houses emit a thick and trembling body of heat. The oh happier, than the proudest king who bathes in la- universal nature, from the topmost zenith of the firvender and cologne. But it must be in the midday mament to the shadiest nook of the thick woods, seems tide of the summer fires, when the dog-star rages hot. to pant and sink and die-a hush, like the silence of a Poetry, and eloquence, and music, and oh ! thou rich-burnt empire, glooms down upon the world, and desest, and dearest of all earthly thoughts, bright love, may come to us along the impalpable atmosphere of dreams and delusions, may wind themselves around us, until we fancy the earth a paradise, and ourselves gods; but how dull, how void are they all when the sun rises on the first limb of the heavens, and pours down his consuming rays upon the earth. We are no longer men, to feel the soft influences of those natural impulses that enlighten and elevate us. We are the torpid creatures of heat, the whole burnt offerings to fire.

pair and fire and fever, the triumvirate of the solstice, sway mankind with a rod of lighted lava. Oh how the head swims and the inmost recesses of the heart throb, as we look forth upon the immovable face of things. Books are thrown aside-the pen is only retained, lest the apathetic soul should flee away in the torture of this withering idleness; and even the loved breath of our youngest child, breathed so gently and so sweet upon our cheek, and that ought to be so cool, is burning now. The sun is on his march of desolation. Phaeton once more has robbed his sire of the reins and madly drives the chariot through the zodiac signs. The scorpion and the great bear, and orion, the belted knight of heaven, are writhing under the burning hoofs of the enraged steeds. He shoots, like the comet that consumeth worlds, through the palaces of the clouds; and as his axle revolves, we see the lightning and hear the crashing thunder bellowing over our heads. The ocean and the lakes-the rivers and the rivulets, from the broad Atlantic down to the gentle stream that creeps amid the flowers of a lady's garden, are cool no more. Gods, will round-jackets cure it? will summer clothes abate the evil? will getting shaved twice a day do aught to stem the tide of suffering? Are there no gentle showers in yonder brazen arch—no drops of dew to fall upon the wilderness-no tear of pity to moisten the parched fields, and bring back the dying lily to its beautiful existence?

The cook has done her best to drown, in the aromatic coffee, all ideas of the passionate sun that is mounting the fiery walls of heaven, with his hordes of satellites, all clothed in burnished gold. The black demons of summer, the flies, creep down the ends of my fingers, get upon the spoon, and with all the insolence of people out of debt, drink of the coffee. The servant, in driving them away, dips his peacock feathers in the cup, and lo! my white pants, the pride of the wash tub, and my delicate vest, (exultations of washerwomen,) are spattered with deep brown stains. The window shutter flies open, and the honeysuckle has crept down, that the sun-beam may fall upon my forehead with its full powers. The waiter, even now dosing over the back of one of the chairs, has forgotten to ice the butter, and it looks like a melted lake. The biscuits are burning hot, and the unmindful cook has made no toast. Even the refrigerator is out of sorts, and the thermometer, smiling in the coolest place about the house, luxuriates with its silver blood up to 900. I'll plunge the measure of heat into the spring among the ice, and try and regu-licious thirst. It rises gradually over the top of the late the weather in that way.

It is singular, but true, that whenever there is a tremendous siege of hot, suffocating weather, without wind, or breeze, or infantile zephyr, or impotent breath of a zephyr, that the dust is sure to mount from its dry bed in the street, and make its appearance into your house. Just as my second cup was getting creamed, and my hand, gemmed with flies, was outstretched to receive it, a puff of dust took its position upon everything in the room. How it came in heaven only knows. How it mounted from the street no priest of the oracle of Delphos could tell; but there it was, sandy and choking. There is a mystery in dust that goes beyond my penetration, puzzles the will, and confounds the understanding. Shade of McAdam expound it to us! Not a breath of air stirs among the trees-the chickens, with their wings outstretched, and beaks open, pursue their search for food no longer-the sun, like a magnetizer, has touched their nerves, and even they, more voracious than the slandered pig, are still at last. The dog has scratched up the earth, and nestled him

There is a speck shading the western sky-a little cloud that inspires me with hope--with joy-with a de

horizon, and I now perceive that it stretches forth like an eagle who poises his wings amid the eternal moun. tains. From a speck of dust blown by the unfelt cur rent of the upper air, upon the face of the skies, it boldly spreads forth its mantle to shadow the earth. It is a dusky cloud, not black like the monumental clouds of gloom that battle with the winds after a fierce tempest upon the seas. It is grayish, with an inky fringe, and it rolls upward with its highest point whitened like a billow crested with foam. Gently on my forehead flows an almost imperceptible breath, as if a spirit troop was passing through the air, and breathing on me as they passed-a motion is perceived among the treesbands of flies crowd in at the windows-the sounds multiply in the streets, and I can almost imagine I hear a throb of joy coming from the dark bosom of the earth. I watch that cloud with a more abiding inter est than ever lover gazed upon the rising planet that signalled him to the interview with his mistress. The whole people are watching it—they seem to cry aloud " there is rain in yonder cloud!"

tea and toast.

Washington, July 12, 1839.

THE MAGNOLIA.

To

Even while I write it has darkened the western hea- | bordering on the Catawba river. It has also been ven, and a glorious shadow has fallen from its pinions. found in Florida and Kentucky. In all of its The thunder is awake-I hear the muttering giant, and different situations it seems to prefer a light, virsee that he has seized his spear, which already gleams gin soil. It may be frequently seen growing very around the universe. His banner is unfurled, and his luxuriantly on some rugged and abrupt hill side, mighty hosts are crowding up the sky-paths from where it is protected from the sun by the surrounding growth. Indeed, a cool situation seems The drops are every mountain pass and hoary sea. to be greatly conducive to its prosperity. Yet it falling on the trembling trees--the rush of the tem- is not exclusively restricted to this its native and pest is on my ears--the thunder and the lightning are favorite situation. It bears transplanting very abroad, the heat reigns no more--there is music among well, provided some attention is paid in having it the spheres, as if a thousand bards had struck their occasionally irrigated during dry seasons. musical harps, and sang united around the footstool of ensure its future growth, with some degree of the Most High. While the war of majesty and glory certainty, after removal, I would recommend, as a is in progress, I will turn me on yonder couch and sleep precautionary measure, the planting of rose bushes, until the servant wakes me to cool air and comfortable lilacs (syringa vulgaris) or other small undergrowth about its roots. These will keep up a coolness and moisture during the heat of summer. The Magnolia may also be raised from the seed; and this method is, perhaps, the most advisable when young plants cannot be easily procured. It is admitted by the most assiduous collectors in Botany, that this species of Magnolia has the largest leaves and flowers of any other tree in North Amidst the great variety of trees indigenous to America. It is in the vegetable kingdom that we the United States, there is, perhaps, none which behold the finest delineations of nature amply and Her choicest pencilling, her more forcibly claims attention or commands ad- richly portrayed. miration than the Magnolia. This beautiful most delicate tints, and brilliant hues, we find genus or family of trees, consists of about fifteen attractively displayed on the variegated flower. species, and is almost equally divided betwixt the And with what pleasurable emotions do we reUnited States and China. The generic term cognize her beautiful finger-work as exhibited in Magnolia is derived from Magnol, a distinguished the large and snow like blossoms of the MagnoThe lia. The magnitude of the leaves is not a little French botanist of the eighteenth century. genus is arranged under the class, Polyandria, and remarkable, and naturally suggests to the inquiorder Polygynia, of the sexual system of Linnæus. sitive mind the idea of coolness, shade, and protecThe two most interesting and ornamental species tion. They are frequently found measuring from are the Magnolia Grandiflora, and Magnolia eight to twelve inches, in breadth, and from Macrophylla. In Florida where the former flour- twenty-five to thirty inches in length. These ishes in extreme luxuriance and grandeur, the dimensions, it is true, are vastly inferior in size forest, during the flowery season, is represented as to the leaves of the Palm trees of Ceylon, which being sublimely picturesque, and presenting one are said, by a distinguished writer, to be capable of the most enchanting views in nature. It not of sheltering whole families from the inclemency unfrequently presents a living column of eighty of the weather. But it may be observed, that in or ninety feet in elevation, almost unobstructed tropical climates all plants assume a more luxuriby branches, and terminating in a spreading top ant growth, and the magnitude of the leaves seems of the deepest perennial verdure. It has a pyra- to be the result of benevolent design by the author midal, or semi-elliptical head, when not injured of the universe in consulting the health, the comby accident. From May to August, in favorable forts, and the pleasures of the inhabitants destined situations, it is generally covered with brilliant to live beneath the scorching rays of a torrid sun. white flowers on the extremities of the young Even in a medical point of view, the Magnolia is branches. Another species of Magnolia frequently worthy of attention. The bark of all the species met with in our forests, and which has been culti- are known to possess camphorated, aromatic, and In intermittent fevers, chronic vated to some extent, is the cucumber tree (Mag- tonic qualities. nolia Acuminata.) It derives its familiar name rheumatism, &c., several species have been adfrom a resemblance betwixt its cone, or seed-ves-vantageously used. But it would be foreign to sel, and the common garden cucumber. But it is this sketch to enter into detail. The preceding the Magnolia Macrophylla which attracts the great-remarks are made with a view of pointing out the est share of attention, and on which it is chiefly in-most desirable species of Magnolia, and presenttended to make a few desultory observations. The ing to the general reader a brief outline of its extent of this species in the United States is extremely limited, and its diffusions but partial wherever found. Nuttall observed it on the banks of the Cumberland river, Tennessee, but of very small size. He also points out its most noted locality in a "narrow tract of about two miles in length, twelve miles south-east of Lincolnton, Lincoln county, North Carolina." The limits, however, of this species are more extensive than those assigned by the above distinguished naturalist. In Lincoln county I have been enabled to discover several other localities in the section of country

natural history. In Philadelphia and other northern cities, where the Magnolia has been successfully cultivated, a great value is attached to it as an ornamental tree; but in our own more favored clime, in this respect, it is too frequently doomed to realize the line of the poet,

"Born to blush unseen,"

and deck its secluded retreat in solitary grandeur. To the lovers of Flora, and particularly to the ladies, who delight to see dame nature attired in her inimitable drapery, from the purest white to

the most exquisite and variegated tints, is the appeal made to cultivate the Magnolia. Wherever known in the United States it has acquired the merited appellation of "beauty of the forest," and is justly deemed the most splendid and magnificent tree in North America.

A BACKWOODSMAN BOTANIST.

LIFE IS BUT A DREAM.*

Oh human life, thou mystery of mysteries the first, Whose shadowy veil no mortal grasp can rend aside or burst,

Art thou, indeed, as some have deemed, a visionary dream,

Whose shifting scenes of light and shade, are not, but only seem?

And is it but a fairy world of fancy's gay domain, This gorgeous globe of land and sea, of mountain and of plain,

And rivers bright that lave the walls of cities proud and fair,

Hoar forests, flowers of myriad dye, whose fragrance charms the air?

Yon sun, that like a golden shield, all glorious, hangs on high,

The crescent moon of silvery hue, that gems the liquid sky,

The host of heaven whose ancient fires of unconsuming light,

Illume like beacons far descried, the watches of the night?

Are these but phantoms of the mind, that doth itself delude

With dazzling shapes, the meteor forms of visionary brood,

Which mighty worlds we fondly deem, launched forth in infinite space

By God's almighty arm, to run a fixed, though trackless race?

Hark! 'tis the thunder's awful voice that, booming, peals on high,

While vivid lightnings flash their blaze athwart the Jurid sky,

Is that dread sound of tempest birth, an echo of the soul, And spirit-born those winged fires that flame from pole to pole?

Nought but the fiction of a dream, each animated form, That cleaves, or ranges air, earth, sea, with life and motion warm,

And he who reigns with lofty brow, the monarch of them all,

The godlike creature whom with pride creation's lord we call?

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Sad thought! to deem that all we prize and cherish, is but nought,

That all things precious to the soul, exist not, but in
thought,
That she whom now with fond embrace unto my heart
I clasp,

Is nought but unsubstantial form alone, that melts within the grasp!

The generations, that have passed forever more away, Strewing time's shores with human wrecks, since nature's primal day,

With those who linger yet, the thronging multitudes of earth,

Are they, indeed, but ghostly forms of reeling fancy's birth?

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Whose bonds the touch of death alone can sever and set free

The long bound prisoner waked at length, to life and liberty?

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