her bounden duty to prefer him to all the rest of mankind, even though he had only an unsullied reputation and an honest heart, for he was entirely devoted to her. How silly he was! Did he not know that Harley Quin was a suitor for the same hand? Did he not know, also, that that very respectable gentleman was in the employ of an extensive English trading-house, probably as a silent partner? that he wore a diamond breast-pin worth the price of a farm? and that he mounted a saddle that was gemmed with jewels and plated with gold? Yes; he could not help knowing the fact: and, moreover, he knew that the ambitious friends of the lady constantly held up the advantages of an alliance to the supercilious snob. Major M testified that women are all alike, all false, and he had the means of knowing, for his heart had been broken a dozen times by the jilts; and he exhorted our friend to eschew heart-alluring damsels, all and sundry; for to tamper with them was like trying a sword's point on a stone. Another had the kindness to report that Constanza was always pleasant and free in the company of Harley Quin, and that she smiled knowingly when his name was mentioned, quite differently from her manner when the military beau was sneeringly alluded to. In attempting to appropriate to his own use and behoof the rose-bud that was gradually maturing into beauty, had he not by mistake, plucked the wormwood that grew by its side? Respect for the lady was urged as an inducement for him to cease his annoyance. He would flare up for a second, than cool down as he reflected, and promise to think of it. Would think of it! Alas! poor me. I had made myself responsible for all the business, and vainly sought an outlet whereby to shirk my responsibility. I called sophistry to my aid, and even deduced a moral from the circumstances of the case, to wit: As the swift pace of the horse is the cause of all his ill-usage; and as the soft fur of the fox is the cause of his being hunted and killed; so were the bewitching manners of Constanza the cause of her being pestered, and no fault should be imputed to me for having first brought them together. What right had she to be so very lovable? otherwise the bewildered mind would not have been so prone to revert to celestials in her presence. A person does very wrong to be always interesting and captivating, and he or she should always have a supply of iciness on hand in case of necessity. So thought Major M, who had been forty years in coming to such a sage conclusion.

Thus things went up to the time when I was called away from the scene of action. The next time that one of Rocket's mess crossed my path we had a long talk about old times, and the love-lorn lieutenant was not forgotten. Hear the end of his troubles.

About a month or so after you left us,' said my informant, we lost Rocket. We missed him very much. The fact is, that ever since he got into that scrape with Miss M, he was not good for much. Dear me he got as sober as a parson. How some men do take things of that kind to heart, don't they? It was almost like losing a near relative.'

'So the poor fellow is dead!' I exclaimed.

'Dead! No, my dear boy, not dead — married!'

my

'Married!' What a relief. I could have danced to hear that chum was not numbered with the defunct. Married! and whom, pray, did he marry? Did he marry after all? Well, now!' 'Whom would he marry, indeed? whom but that girl he was always making such a fuss about, the elder daughter of Mr. M-?' 'What about that English fellow?' I asked. He knew that Harley Quin was meant, by the contemptuous tone of voice.

'He turned out to be a swindler; that is, he was a poor penniless wretch, with nothing to recommend him when his reputed wealth turned out to be a bubble. A small clerk, only. Every body has cut him since. A low fellow, decidedly.'

'What a narrow escape Miss M must have had with him,' I suggested, though well knowing that Constanza never could have tied herself for life to such an uncongenial lump of mortality as the aforesaid Harley Quin.

'Quite a mistake on your part,' he replied. She and Rocket understood each other from the first. Yet many a wise head was deceived by the line of policy followed by them. As for the father of the girl, he doated on his contemplated son-in-law, Rocket, but withheld his consent for awhile. The fact is, that the old gentleman had the prospect of being entirely ruined by the war, and he was too honorable not to let Rocket know the embarrassed state of his affairs. Then he found out that his daughter had selected a true piece of steel. By-the-by, the Rockets are now in the United States. His talents are already giving him a high position, and he will, before long, be a prominent man.'

Now, my reading friends, who have followed the thread of a small every-day story through a melange, how do you like the history and cure of my friend Rocket's disease? Ask himself, if you recognize him, and he will tell you that it is true. So MOTE IT BE.

W. H. BROWNE.

SONNET

ON HEARING THE VOICE OF THE LATE MRS. W. C. B., IN THE CHURCH OF THE REDEEMER,
MORRISTOWN, N. J.

WHAT Seraph-tones entrance my captive ears?

Can such proceed from earth, or earthly voice,

To swell the magic music of the spheres?

Yes! but from one whose heart makes heaven its choice,
And upward lifts her to the blissful plains,

Where, as they enter, listening saints rejoice
That mortal lips should emulate their strains:
There, when below this melody has ceased,
She joins the angelic choir in holier lays,
Sustains their harmony with power increased:
Oh! may she think of those who, while on earth,
She led in sacred song and chaunts of praise
To the REDEEMER's shrine to gain 'new birth.'

D.

LINES.

'T WAS night; the wind in peace was sleeping,
The stars their silent watch were keeping,
The earth seemed hushed in deep reposing,
Like soft dark eyes of beauty closing.
The full-orbed moon her light was pouring
On purling stream and torrent roaring;
On lowly hut and lofty tower;
On soldier's tent and lady's bower;
On sea and land, on all she kept
Her radiant eye while others slept.

On scenes of sadness and of pleasure,
On miser counting o'er his treasure,
On kings and nobles without number,
On millions who in death do slumber,
On battle-field with corses piling,
On prisoners tedious night beguiling,
On blood-stained warrior restless dreaming,
On sleeping childhood faces beaming;
On sea and land, on all she kept
Her radiant eye while others slept.

But hark! from out yon castle stealing
Sweet music comes; now louder pealing
The ear enchaining, soul entrancing,
Anon receding, now advancing,
Now breaking forth in wildest notes,
Then softly changing, gently floats
Upon the air; then dies away
Like rays of light at close of day;
While yet on all the moon still kept
Her watchful eye while others slept.

But see yon castle-gates unbarring
With trumpet loud and noisy jarring;
A crowd of warriors come out rushing
Like foaming ocean onward gushing,

O'er hill and dale, themselves wide spreading
To sound of martial music treading;
While over rock, and tree, and all,
Had fallen night's sepulchral pall;
While yet on all the moon still kept
Her watchful eye while others slept.

Where are they now? their spirits fleeting
Are with the loved and lost ones meeting;
Nothing they know of this world's sorrow,
No further trouble now they borrow;
They've passed away, we know them not;
Tradition only marks the spot

Where once their ashes mouldering lay.
They 've gone; but when day's passed away
In nightly course the moon still keeps

Her eye on all, e'en while they sleep.

ELLAS-LAND: THE FLORENTINE.

NUMBER NINE.

THE summit of Ellas-land over-looks afar the surrounding landscape. The horizon in the distance appears to be below us. Morning's early beams seem to reach us with an upward flight. At first, darkness becomes less prevailing, and objects are seen more distinctly. A faint and spreading arch of white light in the east is followed by a reddening flush and purple glow. Presently the hill-tops, alive with song of birds, and vocal with all the voices of day, mark their sharp outlines against the sky. Yet another look shows them gilded with the first golden beams of the sun, and then bathed abundantly in his glorious light. The valley, in whose immediate bosom lies the Beautiful River,' is seen only as a huge winding fog-anaconda. The smaller valleys separating the numerous hill-tops from each other, lift and throw back their white veils to salute you. Terraces of wine-bearing grapes circle the conical hills at a distance, like flounces upon the skirts of a lady's dress. We gaze off into azure space, and look down upon emerald slopes, fraught with health-bearing verdure, and breathe the sweet breath of new-born day, hours before the tallest steeple of the city is visible through smoke and fog. The coming of morning to Ellas-land is like the coming of Ella to my bosom, lonely by reason of her long absence, and covered with night. It does not come in the manner of those who seek grand effects, through the means of contrasts, or astonishment, and challenging admiration; but as one consciously at peace with herself, and serenely clothed in the brightness of God's favor, with all holy and gentle mes sages, moving ever in a fresh atmosphere of love and faith. My daughter! O my first-born! when shall the joyful East herald your coming? When again shall all the voices of my heart sing, and all its blossoms open, and all its treasury of delights awake?

The first effect of the recovery of her land and of the presence of as sured good fortune, upon the Florentine, I have already stated to you, was happy. She laid off her desolate-looking and worn garments, and with them much of the appearance of age. Freshly and pleasantly clad, her countenance more fresh, and her eye beaming with subdued but cheerful consciousness of success, she was a lady of agreeable presence and of winning manners, lacking neither intelligence nor dignity. We are apt to think of those circumstances which affect the body, as constituting the history of an individual; but if we could separately regard the fortunes of the soul, what histories, what changes, what mysteries should we not read? The Florentine soon relapsed into her restless and wandering mood, and the first we knew, had departed from among us, leaving only some kind messages, but no intimation of the direction or objects of her journey. In a great city, no person is of such consequence as not soon to be forgotten: she had been known to few, and to us only as a mysterious and unhappy person. Her disappearance

was like the sinking of a pebble in the ocean; causing a momentary ripple, and then to be thought of no more.

But while I acknowledge to have been careless of her fate, more so than any thing but preoccupation with professional cares would excuse, the thought of her did often come back to me. Sometimes it remained long, and refused to go hence. As weeks and months and seasons rolled on, and as Ellas-land became adorned with shrubbery, and endeared with rural delights, and mingled with all thoughts of home, the figure of the Florentine would more and more frequently rise in the midst, and sorrowfully move out from us into the surrounding void, or in opposite mood of thoughtful regard, infuse its lady-like aspects and shadowy presence among evergreens and flowering shrubs: it would seem to stand by the spring or glide along the walks. I conceived the idea of a painting, to represent her as a mythical personage, with a weird look, and figure emerging from a cloud. The accident by which I became enlisted in her service, all its results, the intimate and close dependence of all upon my thoughts of you though distant, excited my imagination. Often of a pleasant night, the silver rays of the moon, falling on natural objects, seemed to weave lights and shadows into a resemblance, more or less fantastic, of the Florentine. Sometimes the rosy light of dawn recalled to me her happy countenance - the first time I met her after she had made me the deed for Ellas-land-beaming with modest gratitude and satisfaction.

I held several consultations with Beard and Sontag about the picture. Should it be a single figure, to represent the Florentine alone? or should it be a landscape, and her figure mingled with some device of natural objects, like a vision or a dream? Should she be seen emerging indistinctly from the evening fogs, below and beyond Ellasland, to glance over its laughing surface in the calm upper air? Could it be so contrived that a shadowy, peaceful, and light-hearted Ella would balance and throw into artistic repose a scene whose portent is the weird unrest of the Florentine? Might it not be so contrived as to show the spring, the old elm, and our venerable bull-frog Martin Luther? What would be the effect of throwing upon the back-ground a storm-cloud, with the dark features of Black Hawk peering from it? Would there be any degree of possibility or artistic coherence in throwing branches of shrubbery so into relief and expression as to bring forth the outlines of Father Green, as a sort of superior and presiding genius, giving the whole combination an idea of trust and safety?

Mr. Sontag thought there was a fine chance for landscape-painting, but Ellas-land was too much improved and cultivated; grass was cropped, trees trimmed, walks laid out in serpentine bends. There was no old tree or broken branch, no tangled under-brush, not even a wild grape-vine dislocated from its support and swinging in the wind. If he did the picture, he would wipe out all signs of cultivation, and show Ellas-land in its primeval state.

Beard, on the other hand, caught up with eagerness the idea of an amiable but distraught countenance and figure, rising somewhat wildly from an indistinct ground, and stroked his long hair with satisfaction. He did not object decidedly to a second figure in the picture, but as I went on,