fully harsh to her wants to marry her, and get her off his hands. I assure you you have a very good chance." "I mistrust that old colonel," said I, dictatorially; " as I trust his daughter. Somehow she and I chime in tune together;" and, as I spoke, I began to understand why you once said wofully, that you had not one friend in the world; and my thoughts wandered away to the garden where I had found you waiting on the steps of the terrace. came upon a black-robed monk, standing, veiled and motionless, with a skull in one bony hand. This cheerful object changed the current of our talk, and we parted presently at a fountain. Women with black twists of hair were standing round about, waiting in grand, careless attitudes, while the limpid water flowed. When I reached your door, I found the carriage waiting, and you and your father under the archway. "Come with us," said he, and I gladly accepted. And so we drove out at one of the gates of the city, out into "What do you say to the Elisire d'Amore' Lady Fanny and I have been performing lately?" Halbert was saying meanwhile, the Campagna, over which melting waves of very confidentially. "Sometimes I cannot help fancying that the colonel wants to take a part in the performance, and a cracked old tenor part, too. In that case I shall cry off, and give up my engagements." And then, nodding good-by, he left me. I met him again in the Babuino a day or two after. He came straight up to me, saying, "Going to the Ollivers', eh? Will you take a message for me, and tell the colonel I mean to look in there this evening. That old fox the colonel-you have heard that he is actually going to marry Lady Fanny. She told me so herself, yesterday." "I think her choice is a prudent one," I answered, somewhat surprised. I suppose Colonel Olliver is three times as rich as yourself? You must expect a woman of thirty to be prudent. I am not fond of that virtue in very young people, but it is not unbecoming with years." 66 Halbert flushed up. "I suppose from that you mean she was very near marrying me. I'm not sorry she has taken up with the colonel after all. You see, my mother was always writing, and my sisters at home; and they used to tell me . . . and I myself thought she, you know what I mean. But, of course, they have been re-assured on that point." "Do you mean to say," I asked, in a great panic, "that you would marry any woman who happened to fall in love with you ?" "I don't know what I might have done a year ago," said he, laughing; "but just now, you see, I have had a warning, and besides it is my turn to make the advances." I was immensely relieved at this, for I didn't know what I was not going to say. Here, as we turned a street corner, we color were rolling. Here and there we passed ancient ruins crumbling in the sun; the roadsides streamed with color and fragrance from violets and anemones and sweetsmelling flowers. After some time we came suddenly to some green hills, and leaving the carriage climbed up the sides. Then we found ourselves looking down into a green glowing valley, with an intense heaven above all melting into light. You, with a little transient gasp of happiness, fell down kneeling in the grass. I shall always see the picture I had before me then-the light figure against the bright green, the black hat, and long falling feather; the eager face looking out at the world. May it be forever green and pleasant to you as it was then, O eager face! As we were parting in the twilight, I suddenly remembered to give Halbert's message. It did not greatly affect your father; but how was it? Was it because I knew you so well that I instinctively guessed you were moved by it? When I shook hands with you and said good-night, your hand trembled in mine. "Wont you look in too ?" said the colonel. But I shook my head. "Not to-nightno, thank you." And so we parted. My lodgings were in the Gregoriana; the windows looked out over gardens and cupolas; from one of them I could see the Pincio. From that one, next morning, as I sat drinking my coffee, I suddenly saw you, walking slowly along by the parapet, with your dog running by your side. You went to one of those outlying terraces which flank the road, and leaning over the stone-work looked out at the great panorama lying at your feet:Rome, with her purple mantle of mist, regally spreading, her towers, her domes, and great St. Peter's rising over the house-tops, her seven hills changing and deepening with | to him, when-when he saw you did not disnoblest color, her golden crown of sunlight like me. I am behaving shamefully—yes, streaming and melting with the mist. Some- shamefully, but it is because I know you are how I, too, saw all this presently when I too kind not to forgive-not to forgive. reached the place where you were still What can I do? You know how it has alstanding. ways been. You don't know what it would And now I have almost come to the end be to marry one person, caring for another. of my story, that is, of those few days of my Ah! you don't know what it would be to life of which you, Esther, were the story. have it otherwise than as it is" (this claspYou stood there waiting, and I hastened ing your hands). "But you don't ask it. towards you, and fate (I fancied you were Ah! forgive me, and say you don't ask it." my Fate) went on its course quite unmoved Then standing straight and looking down by my hopes or your fears. I thought that with a certain sweet dignity, you went onyou looked almost handsome for once. You"Heaven has sent me a great and unexcertainly seemed more happy. Your face pected happiness, but there is, indeed, a bitflushed and faded, your eyes brightened and ter, bitter cup to drink as well. Though I darkened. As you turned and saw me, a throw you over, though I behave so selfishly, radiant quiver, a piteous smile came to greet don't think that I am utterly conscienceless, me somewhat strangely. You seemed try- that I do not suffer a cruel pang indeed; ing to speak, but the words died away on when I think how you must look at me, your lips-to keep silence, at least, but the when I remember what return I am making faltering accents broke forth. for all your forbearance and generosity. When I think of myself, I am ashamed and humiliated; when I think of him—” Here you suddenly broke off, and turned away your face. "What is it, my dear?" said I at last, with a queer sinking of the heart, and I held out my hand. 66 You caught it softly between both yours. "Oh!" you said, with sparkling eyes, "I am a mean, wretched girl-oh! don't think too ill of me. He, Mr. Halbert, came to see me last night, and—and, he says . . . Oh! I don't deserve it. Oh! forgive me, for I am so happy;" and you burst into tears. "You have been so good to me," you whispered on. "I hardly know how good. He says he only thought of me when you spoke of me Ah me! turned away your face forever from me. The morning mists faded away; the midday sun streamed over hills and towers and valley. The bell of the Trinità hard by began to toll. I said, "Good-by, and Heaven keep you, my dear. I would not have had you do otherwise." And so I went back to my lodging. Pioneers; or, Biographical Sketches of Leaders in various Paths. By the Rev. A. L. Simpson. T. Nelson and Sons. So far as they go, these sketchy notices of great men may prove not unacceptable to youthful readers, though too brief and superficial to be of any use to others than beginners. Nor is the selection altogether judicious, but objections on that head are declared by the author to proceed from individual tastes and accidental courses of reading. To this self-complacent plea we demur, on the ground that a writer on such a subject is assumed to possess the widest possible knowledge of the pathfinders of mankind, and consequently in a position to single out the real pioneers in each department of progress. However, we are willing to accept with a certain degree of graciousness Mr. Simpson's praiseworthy attempt to introduce to thoughtful students the names of some of the greatest benefactors of mankind. Under the head of maritime discovery we naturally meet with Columbus and Vasco de Gama. Gutenberg and Caxton very properly inaugurate the art of printing. Wycliffe, Savonarola, John of Wesel, and Martin Luther, appear as the forerunners of religious freedom. To Lord Bacon is ascribed the honor of exploding the pedantic philosophy of the Schools, and to Roger Bacon, Copernicus, and Galileo, that of commencing the scientific era, while Adam Smith and George Stephenson respectively introduce political economy and practical science.-Spectator. 4. Napoleon the First: "The Man of the World," 5. The Lady of La Garaye, 6. Temper of England on 4 January, Welcome Guest, PAGE 387 393 397 401 410 415 421 7. Application of Aluminium to Practical Purposes, London Review, 8. Verses and Translations, 9. A Proposal in the Fire, 10. The Principal Boarder, POETRY.-No Room for Jesus, 386. Seen with our Eyes, 386. Mad. Recamier, 386. To-morrow, 420. Love's Farewell, 420. On the Mount, 420. The Two Messengers, 432. Asleep on Guard, 432. SHORT ARTICLES.-A Lucky Chess-Player, 392. Alleghania, 400. Gorilla Hunters, 400. Prussian Crown, 409. Children's Garland from the Best Poets, 414. Handbook for Emergencies, 414. Notes on Fields and Cattle, 414. Fog, 422. NEW BOOKS. The Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events. Edited by Frank Moore. Part XI. With Portraits of Brig.-Generals J. K. F. Mansfield, and Irwin M'Dowell. New York: G. P. Putnam. The Pulpit and Rostrum, No. 25. The War for the Union; a Lecture, by Wendell Phillips, Esq. New York: E. D. Barker. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & CO., BOSTON. For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded free of postage. Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes, handsomely bound, packed in neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume. ANY VOLUME may be had separately, at two dollars, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANY NUMBER may be had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. NO ROOM FOR JESUS. Because there was no room for them at the inn-Luke 2: 7. In this great caravansary, that forms man's resting-place on his way from eternity to eternity, there is room for every interest but religion -for every friend but Christ.-Sermon. AH! little knew they of the guest immortal, Who sought the inn at Bethlehem that day, When, from the cold inhospitable portal, The virgin mother sadly turned away. The Roman's pride, the Pharisee's ambition, Soldier and priest, might easy entrance win, But Christ in vain entreated for admissionThere was no room for Jesus in the inn. No room for Jesus! and the same strange story Minds, in whose spacious chambers earthly learning, Usurps the kingdom heavenly wisdom claims; Majestic wills, that endless glories spurning, Chain down their energies to trivial aims. Hearts, large enough to taste seraphic pleasures, No room for Jesus! There is never wanted Room for the high, the wealthy, or the great; Unasked, unsought, a place to them is grantedOnly Emmanuel must knock-and wait. No room for Jesus, when the hope of heaven Enters no door his footprints have not trod, When he alone to mortal man has given Room in the holy Paradise of God! No room for Jesus! Let the world take warning, Lest it be called to bear its final doom, And in the solemn resurrection morning, It stand at heaven's gate to find "no room." No room for Jesus! Lord, assert thy powerCast out all claimants that oppose thy grace; We would not live without thy love an hourEarth is a desert, till thou showest thy face. THAT WHICH WE HAVE SEEN WITH And walked and talked in field and street, And leave the loom, and leave the lute, How many a brow with care o'erworn, How many a mourning maiden, Would leave the baffling, earthly prize, Which fails the earthly weak endeavor, To gaze into those holy eyes, And drink content forever! His sheep along the cool, the shade, And I, where'er he went, would go, If this be thus, O Lord of mine, In absence is thy love forgot? And must I, when I walk, repine, Because I see thee not? If this be thus, if this be thus, Since our poor prayers yet reach thee, Lord, Since we are weak, once more to us Reveal the living word! Oh, nearer to me, in the dark Óf life's low hours, one moment stand, OWEN Meredith. MADAME RECAMIER. 'Twas not her beauty-though acknowledged queen Of a wide empire-goodness, sweetness, truth, That speaks of her hath no unmeaning sound; |