Filled the whole universe of human hearts

With pleasure, like a flowing spring of life.

Tam. Our Prophet teaches so, till man's rebellion. Had. Rebellion! Had he 'leaguered Heaven itself With beings powerful, numberless, and dreadful, Mixed onset 'midst the lacerating hail,

And snake-tongued thunderbolts, that hissed and stung
Worse than eruptive mountains, this had fallen

Within the category. But what did man?
Tasted an apple! and the fragile scene,
Eden, and innocence, and human bliss,
The nectar-flowing streams, life-giving fruits,
Celestial shades, and amaranthine flowers,
Vanish; and sorrow, toil, and pain, and death,
Cleave to him by an everlasting curse.

Tam. Ah! talk not thus.

Had. Is this benevolence?

Nay, loveliest, these things sometimes trouble me;
For I was tutored in a brighter faith.

Our Syrians deem each lucid fount and stream,

Forest and mountain, glade and bosky dell,
Peopled with kind divinities, the friends.

Of man, a spiritual race allied

To him by many sympathies, who seek

His happiness, inspire him with gay thoughts,

Cool with their waves, and fan him with their airs.

O'er them, the Spirit of the Universe,

Or Soul of Nature, circumfuses all

With mild, benevolent, and sun-like radiance,
Pervading, warming, vivifying earth,

As spirit does the body, till green herbs,
And beauteous flowers, and branchy cedars rise;
And shooting stellar influence through her caves,
Whence minerals and gems imbibe their lustre.

Tam. Dreams, Hadad, empty dreams.

Had. These deities

They invocate with cheerful, gentle rites,

Hang garlands on their altars, heap their shrines
With Nature's bounties, fruits, and fragrant flowers.
Not like yon gory mount that ever reeks

Tam. Cast not reproach upon the holy altar.

Had. Nay, sweet.-Having enjoyed all pleasures here
That Nature prompts, but chiefly blissful love,
At death, the happy Syrian maiden deems
Her immaterial flies into the fields,

Or circumambient clouds, or crystal brooks,
And dwells, a deity, with those she worshipped,
Till time or fate return her in its course
To quaff, once more, the cup of human joy.
Tam. But thou believ'st not this?

Had. I almost wish

Thou didst; for I have feared, my gentle Tamar,
Thy spirit is too tender for a law

Announced in terrors, coupled with the threats
Of an inflexible and dreadful Being,

Whose word annihilates,-who could arrest
The sun in heaven, or, if he pleased, abolish
Light from creation, and leave wretched man
To darkness. . .

Nay, nay, I grieve thee: 'tis not for myself,
But that I fear these gloomy things oppress
Thy soul, and cloud its native sunshine.

Tam. (In tears, clasping her hands.)

Witness, ye heavens! Eternal Father, witness!
Blest God of Jacob! Maker! Friend! Preserver!
That with my heart, my undivided soul,
I love, adore, and praise thy glorious name,
Confess thee Lord of all, believe thy laws

Wise, just, and merciful, as they are true.
Oh, Hadad, Hadad! you misconstrue much
The sadness that usurps me: 'tis for thee

I grieve, for hopes that fade,-for your lost soul,
And my lost happiness.

Had. Oh, say not so,

Beloved princess. Why distrust my faith?

Tam. Thou know'st, alas! my weakness; but, remember,

I never, never will be thine, although

The feast, the blessing, and the song were past,
Though Absalom and David called me bride,

Till sure thou own'st with truth and love sincere
The Lord Jehovah.

OUTWITTING A LAWYER.

J. G. HOLLAND.

[Popular as have been the works of Josiah G. Holland, they have met with a severe reception from critics, and certainly do not merit a very high niche in the temple of literary fame. Yet Jim Fenton, the backwoodsman of "Sevenoaks," is a character that would do credit to any novelist, and stands as a redeeming feature in Holland's somewhat commonplace sensationalism. We give one of the numerous amusing scenes in which this racy character appears. In addition to his novels, Holland has attained a reputation by his Timothy Titcomb letters, and his dramatic poem of "Bittersweet," which gained a high degree of popularity, and is his most meritorious work.]

HE spent a delightful week among his friends in the old. village, learned about Jim Fenton and the way to reach him, and on a beautiful spring morning, armed with fishing-tackle, started from Sevenoaks for a fortnight's absence in the woods. The horses were fresh, the air

sparkling, and at mid-afternoon he found himself standing by the river-side, with a row of ten miles before him in a birch canoe, whose hiding-place Mike Conlin had revealed to him during a brief call at his house. To his unused. muscles it was a serious task to undertake, but he was not a novice, and it was entered upon deliberately and with a prudent husbandry of his power of endurance. Great was the surprise of Jim and Mr. Benedict, as they sat eating their late supper, to hear the sound of the paddle down the river, and to see approaching them a city gentleman, who, greeting them courteously, drew up in front of their cabin, took out his luggage, and presented himself.

"Where's Jim Fenton ?" said Yates.

"That's me. Them as likes me calls me Jim, and them as don't like me-wall, they don't call."

"Well, I've called, and I call you Jim."

"All right; let's see yer tackle," said Jim.

Jim took the rod that Yates handed to him, looked it over, and then said, "When ye come to Sevenoaks ye didn't think o' goin' a-fishin'. This 'ere tackle wasn't brung from the city, and ye ain't no old fisherman. This is the sort they keep down to Sevenoaks."

"No," said Yates, flushing; "I thought I should find near you the tackle used here, so I didn't burden myself." "That seems reasomble," said Jim, "but it ain't. A trout's a trout anywhere, an' ye hain't got no reel. Ye never fished with anything but a white birch pole in yer life."

Yates was amused, and laughed. Jim did not laugh. He was just as sure that Yates had come on some errand for which his fishing-tackle was a cover, as that he had come at all. He could think of but one motive that would bring the man into the woods, unless he came for sport,

and for sport he did not believe his visitor had come at all. He was not dressed for it. None but old sportsmen, with nothing else to do, ever came into the woods at that

season.

"Jim, introduce me to your friend," said Yates, turning to Mr. Benedict, who had dropped his knife and fork and sat uneasily witnessing the meeting and listening to the conversation.

"Well, I call 'im Number Ten. His name's Williams; an' now, if ye ain't too tired, perhaps ye'll tell us what they call ye to home."

"Well, I'm Number Eleven, and my name's Williams, too."

"Then, if yer name's Williams, an' ye're Number 'leven, ye want some supper. Set down an' help yerself."

Before taking his seat, Yates turned laughingly to Mr. Benedict, shook his hand, and "hoped for a better acquaintance."

Jim was puzzled. The man was no ordinary man; he was good-natured; he was not easily perturbed; he was there with a purpose, and that purpose had nothing to do with sport.

After Yates had satisfied his appetite with the coarse food before him, and had lighted his cigar, Jim drove directly at business.

"What brung ye here?" said he.

"A pair of horses and a birch canoe."

"Oh! I didn't know but 'twas a mule and a bandanner hankercher," said Jim. "And whar be ye goin' to sleep to-night ?"

"In the canoe, I suppose, if some hospitable man doesn't invite me to sleep in his cabin."

"An' if ye sleep in his cabin, what be ye goin' to do tomorrer?"