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which emanates from his own pen is rare- tion, proposed Dom Pedro II. as an honly seen; but I have before me some origi- orary member of that learned body. The nal lines by the monarch, which a mem- proposition was seconded by Marshal S. ber of the diplomatic corps at Rio copied Bidwell, Esq., and the vote was carried from the album of one of the Imperial by acclamation. The same society, on a household. They were doubtless never subsequent evening, was briefly addressed intended for the public eye; but the just- by the Rev. Dr. Osgood, whose remark in ness of their sentiment in English, if not regard to the Emperor of Brazil is as true the mellifluousness of their Portuguese, is as it is forcible: 'Dom Pedro II., by his appreciable by every reader of this work. character, and by his taste, application, "In 1856, the Honorable Luther Bradish, and acquisitions in literature and science, the accomplished and dignified presiding ascends from his mere fortuitous position officer of the New York Historical Socie- as emperor, and takes his place in the ty, at the June meeting of that associa-world as a man.' "

From Blackwood's Magazine.

THE LUNATIC MADMAN: A TRUE TALE.

I was but nineteen years of age when | and burningly, like the brand of a red-hot the incident occurred which has thrown iron. I see them written in the wrinkles a shadow over my life; and, ah me! how many and many a weary year has dragged by since then! Young, happy, and beloved, I was in those long departed days. They said that I was beautiful. The mirror now reflects a haggard old woman with ashen lips and face of deadly pallor. But do not fancy that you are listening to a mere puling lament. It is not the flight of years that has brought me to be this wreck of my former self; had it been so, I could have borne the loss cheerfully, patiently, as the common lot of all; but it was no natural progress of decay which has robbed me of bloom, of youth, of the hopes and joys that belong to youth, snapped the link that bound my heart to another's, and doomed me to a lone old age. I try to be patient, but my cross has been heavy, and my heart is empty and weary, and I long for the death that comes so slowly to those who pray to die. I will try and relate, exactly as it happened, the event which blighted my life. Though it occurred many years ago, there is no fear that I should have forgotten any of the minutest circumstances: they wero stamped on my brain too clearly

of my brow, in the dead whiteness of my hair, which was a glossy brown once, and has known no gradual change from dark to gray, from gray to white, as with those happy ones who were the companions of my girlhood, and whose honored age is soothed by the love of children and grandchildren. But I must not envy them. I only meant to say that the difficulty of my task has no connection with want of memory-I remember but too well. But as I take the pen, my hand trembles, my head swims, the old rushing faintness and horror comes over me again, and the well-remembered fear is upon me. Yet I will go on. This, briefly, is my story: I was a great heiress, I believe, though I cared little for the fact; but so it was. My father had great possessions, and no son to inherit after him. His three daughters, of whom I was the youngest, were to share the broad acres among them. I have said, and truly, that I cared little for this circumstance; and, indeed, I was so rich then in health and youth and love, that I felt myself quite indifferent to all else. The possession of all the treasures of earth

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