SORROW.

BY LAMARTINE.

The grieving soul is like
The soft sky of the night,
When the sleeping moon
Has hushed every sound
'Neath the glowing vault.

Purer and deeper,

You behold upon her footsteps
A thousand stars come forth
That in the bright morning
You dreamed not were there:

Islands of light

More brilliant than our's

And worlds beyond

And waves of light

Which are themselves worlds.

You hear in space

Those mysterious choirs

Of heaven, praising,

Or of passing angels

Or sanctified men.

And pure scintillations

From our fired souls

Human prayers-
Raise us from earth

Upon their flaming wings.

O! sorrow, that overflowest me!

Fall, then, from my eyes,
Fall, like that stream

Which the grateful earth

Believes the gift of heaven.

And blame not the hour, my soul,

Which recalls thee to God.

At birth and at death

Man must weep

O'er his exile and his farewell!

COUSIN NED.

Reader have you a cousin; and is he at all like mine? If not I heartily wish you had. Without one, your life, the circle of your sympathies, is incomplete. Brother, friend, lover, each draws from us affection of a peculiar nature, but quite different from that of cousin Ned. He is a racy fellow, full of jokes and strange stories, yet capable of great seriousness on solemn occasions. He has had more wonderful adventures than any other man of his age now living. He has traveled all over the world and yet somehow he seems always to be here, for we have hardly taken an affecting leave of him and wished him health and prosperity during his absence, when some morning he steps in unexpectedly, having, since we saw him, dipped snuff with some damsel of the Carolinas, lighted his cigarettes at the lips of some dark eyed Brazilian, or quaffed the genuine Souchong from the cup of some languishing Meen Fun, or other lineal descendant of the kings of the Moon. But one thing is certain, that in whatever latitude or longitude he chances to find himself, he always "does as the Romans do." The ladies all like him and he likes the ladies, and among the gentlemen, he is called a most glorious fellow. He sings the best song and tells the best story. He likes good suppers and good company, but he has the strictest regard for propriety and always quits, when he has put the rest in good humour. He is a universal genius. He likes to try his hand at everything and has a particu lar passion for music. When a boy, he came up from the country to visit an aunt who lives in town. Opposite his house, there was a church, and the morning after his arrival, at an early hour, were heard from the great organ in the church, the most unearthly sounds-such groans and screeches and long drawn sighs that it seemed as though its old pipes were breathing the cries of the fallen spirits. Hours passed and still those fitful noises continued, now bellowing with a perfect frenzy, then softening down into the gentle carol of a bird. But where was Neddy all this time? They supposed that his youthful spirit was recreating itself with the sights of the curiosity shops, or wondering at the marvels of the Museum, and that dinner time would bring him to a sense of his physical wants and to his friends. Not so; dinner time, came but Neddy came not. His friends were alarmed and commenced a search, every place of resort, every street and alley was explored, but in vain. The town crier was out and the police were on the alert, and they were dragging the river for Neddy, when some one bethought themselves of the church, where he might be watching the process of tuning, which was evidently going on. They went to the door, but it was locked. They sent

for the sexton; he came, pale and trembling. He had not unlocked the door since Sunday. There must be something supernatural in this affair, and his head shook and his heart quaked as he turned the key. Stealthily they crossed the porch and opened the inner door, where lo! instead of a ghost or goblin, there sat the lost boy perched upon the music stool, playing away for dear life at the Bay of Biscay, O!" He, with a little urchin whom he had found lounging on the steps, had been exploring the neighborhood, and having found the church door locked, nothing daunted, they proceeded to scale the high railings, and climb to the window through which they entered. The same spirit of enquiry led him to open the door of the organ. Though it was the first time he had seen the instrument, he determined to try his skill, and with the help of his acquaintance, who had seen such things before, and who acted as blower, had actually learned to play a tune. He there conceived a love for that instrument which he never forgot, and now when at home, he plays the organ "con amore" in the church which he attends.

At one time, he took a fancy to the histrionic art. His office was next to the theatre, and from being frequently invited to rehearsals, he came to take part in them himself. For many days the papers had flamed with puffs of Senor Franzesco Antonio de la Montalbano, a star from the theatre del Principe at Madrid, and a favorite and daily guest of the royal family of Spain. On the long wished for night, the house was filled. Senor Montalbano wore a magnificent moustache, a pair of whiskers and a perruque of black Hyperion locks, beneath which cousin Ned was completely disguised; and he trod the cothurnus with a dignity and grace which drew upon him peal after peal of the most rapturous applause. Garrick nor Talma never had a more brilliant night. He came out, and with his hand upon his heart and his eyes fixed upon a renowned beauty whom he had long "owed one," he bowed and expressed his gratitude and his bliss. The bouquet and sash of the lady were the reward of such distinguished notice. The next morning Senor Franzesco Antonio de la Montalbano sent up his card to the lady who presently came down to see him, attired in all her fascinations. The blue sash was tastefully tied in his waistcoat, and he often all unconsciously pressed to his heart some withered flowers which accidentally peered from his bosom. He was irresistible. He sang Spanish songs and touched the guitar most divinely; and what though he did very frequently snatch her hand and press it to his lips? It was the manner of foreigners and he did it so gracefully! That night she had a serenade. Could she mistake that voice? And how deep, how earnest were the strains he breathed! The next day his visit was repeated. They walked in the garden at twilight. It was in the love-breathing south, and the orange and jessamine were in bloom. Seated in that bower with the cool fountain murmuring beside them, she had once jested at his true heart story, and now in the

same spot, he spake the same words again. She hung her head, while the blush and the gentle smile told the fulfilment of his hopes. One arm of his lightly clasped her form, and the other was carelessly passed over his own face as he whispered her to speak, to raise those heavenly eyes that he might read in them the answer to his prayers. She raised her eyes, but "angels and ministers of grace defend us!" she was in the arms of cousin Ned! and the whiskers, moustache and beautiful wig of Senor Montalbano were lying at her feet, "I leave you with my fortunate rival," said cousin Ned, as he pointed to the ground and bowed his exit.

The next week she sailed for Saratoga, and he kept the secret until three years, when she had married a long, leau Georgian who drives five hundred slaves.

Cousin Ned writes poetry; and he publishes too sometimes, and many of his poems have gone the rounds from Maine to Florida. But this is not remarkable, for few are so forgotten by the gods as not at some time during life to have breathed their inspirations in some pastoral or warlike rhythm, or in a woful ballad to their mistress's eyebrow.

Neither were the pencil and pallet forgotten, in his devotion to the arts. And connected with his exploits in this branch of the poetical, I have the most irresistible recollections. I was visiting their country seat near one of our eastern cities, when one day he invited me to walk to his "sanctum" which he had built in a retired part of the grounds, for he knew that I was an admirer of genius and talent, and he had prepared for me a surprise. He said that he had been painting much lately, purely for amusement and experiment. But he was quite astonished at his own productions, and it was with a feeling akin to pride that he asked me to see them. He was going to invite some connoisseurs from town to come over, for he wished to consult them with regard to the propriety of sending them to the exhibition. But as people are prone to overrate the value of their own labors, and as he had unbounded confidence in my judgment, he wished me to pronounce upon it first and he would be guided by my decision. I disclaimed all capacity to criticise, but promised to be honest in my opinion. I could form no idea of the probable merit of what I was about to see, but judging from his merit in other pursuits I anticipated something very fine.

I entered and looking round, enquired where were the pictures. "Why this is one," said he, pointing towards the easel," and there is the other on the wall. This is a Madonna, and I will not tell you the subject of that, but wish you to tell me if you recog nize it. I was dumb. I looked at the pictures and then at him. What could he mean? But his countenance only betrayed an expression of anxiety; I saw nothing quizzical there. I knew not what to say. At length he spoke: "You are silent, I am afraid they do not please you." I saw that he spoke earnestly, and re

plied that I could not pronounce a hasty judgment upon such works. Then he began to explain the merits of the Madonna, and the various processes by which he produced certain effects. They were extremely novel and the effects were novel too. What should I do? I saw that he had feeling upon the subject, and I did not wish to wound him. Again he asked me if I recognized the landscape on the wall? After a desperate effort to recall what I had seen, that it might possibly be intended to represent, I replied as if I perfectly understood the resemblance, "Yes, but I think you have made the waters beneath the falls too tranquil." It was the want of spray and foam that for a moment misled me. "Why, what do you take it for?" exclaimed he. I replied, "Why, the falls of Niagara, to be sure, and I take that steamboat which is falling to be the "Caroline," which was sent over the cataract during "Patriot war." Now cousin Ned looked mystified. "Are you quizzing me, or do you really think that I meant to paint the falls of Niagara ?" I pleaded my sincerity; and with unfeigned distress either at his own disappointment or my want of perception, he informed me that the picture was a view of the river which flowed past the house, taken from the spot where we stood. I could resist no longer; the whole affair had become too ridiculous. I feared he had a slight aberration of intellect, and there was but one way of curing it; so giving way to my inclination, I burst into a fit of laughter and exclaimed: they are the most miserable daubs that I ever beheld, and I beseech you, if you care for your reputation, to let your artistic friends stay at home; and if you wish to make a disposition of your pictures, present the Niagara falls to the cook, for a fire-board, and elevate the Madonna upon a pole for a scare-crow. I have thought of that scene a thousand times since, and can never decide in my own mind "who was the dupe" on that occasion, though cousin Ned assures me that he was acting with the utmost honesty and simplicity: for I have heard too much of his acting.

Indeed, I could fill a volume and not give half that is interesting about him He is one of the most generous souls that I ever knew. His only pleasure is in promoting the enjoyment of others. Do we wish him to go with us to the concert, the opera or to church, -it is always the thing which he most desires to do. And in riding on horseback, fishing or sailing, rambling in the woods, lounging in print shops or picture galleries, or visiting prisons, asylums or icecream saloons, he is always the kind, gentle and agreeable cousin Ned.

Then he can bring in all those little accessories which are the spirit of such enjoyments. He can be extremely facetious, or he can talk sentiment all in earnest; and we can display every grace of mind and manner, he can be witty, grave or sweet without fear of killing him; because he is cousin Ned.

It is he who fans us at the opera, he ties our slippers and fastens our gloves; at the soiree he supports us and bathes our brows