hasty breakfast, he was soon in his saddle in. sounds of healthy, labor. CHAPTER Mrs. Heron, with the instinct of an impressionable wo man, had written to her husbands to have this room prepared for Caterina. Contented; speckled hens, industriously scratching, for the rarely-found corn, may sometimes do more for a sick heart than a grove of nights. ingales; there is something irresistibly, calm. ing, in the unsentimental cheeriness of topknotted pullets, unpotted sheep-dogs, and par tient cart-horses enjoying a drink of muddy water. In less than a week from that time Cate rina was persuaded to travel in a comforta ble carriage, under the care of Mr. Gilfil and his. sister, Mrs. Heron, whose soft, blue eyes and mild manners, were very, soothing to the poor, bruised child-the more so as they In such a home as this parsonage, a, neste had an air of sisterly, equality, which was of comfort, without any of the statelinesss quite new to her. Under Lady Cheverel's that would carry a suggestion of Chevereli uncaressing, authoritative good-will, Tina Manor, Mr. Gilfl was not unreasonable in had always retained a certain constraint, and hoping that Caterina might gradually shake awe; and there was a sweetness before, un-off the haunting vision of the past, and res known, in having a young and gentle wo-cover from the languor and feebleness which man, like an elder sister, bending over her were the physical sign of that vision's blightcaressingly, and speaking in low, loving ing presence. The next thing to be done was to arrange an exchange of duties with Maynard, was almost angry with himself Mr. Heron's curate, that Maynard might be for feeling happy while Tina's, mind and body constantly near Caterina, and watch over her were still, trembling on the verge of irrecov-progress. She seemed to like him to be with exable decline; but the new delight of acting her, to look uneasily for his return; and ag her guardian angel, of being with her ev ery hour of the day, of, devising everything for her comfort, of watching for a ray of returning interest in her eyes, was too absorb ing to leave room for alarm or regret. tones. Qa,the third day the carriage drove up to the door of Foxholm Parsonage, where the Rex, Arthur Heron presented himself on the doorstep, eager to greet his returning Lucy, and holding, by the hand a broad-chested tapy-haired boy of five, who was smacking aminiature hunting-whip with great vigor. Nowhere was there a lawn more smoothshaven, walks better swept, or a porch more Prettily festooned with creepers, than at Fox holm, Parsonage, standing snugly, sheltered, by beeches and chestnuts half way down, the pretty green hill which was surmounted by the church, and, overlooking a, village, that straggled, at its ease, among pastures and meadows, surrounded by wild hedgerows and broad shadowing trees, as yet unthreatened by improved methods of farming. C Brightly, the fire shone in the great parlor, and brightly in the little pink, bedroom, which was to be Caterina's, because it looked away from the churchyard, and on to a farm home stead, with its little cluster of beehive ricks, and placid groups of cows, and cheerful mak เ though she seldom spoke to him, she was most contented when he sat by her, and held her tiny hand in his large protecting graspe But Oswald, alias Ozzy, the broad-chested boy, was perhaps her, mosti beneficial com panion. With something of his uncle's per son, he had inherited also his uncle's early taste for a domestic menagerie, and was very imperative in demanding Tina's sympathy in the welfare of his guinea-pigs, squirrels, and dormice. With him she seemed now andı then to have gleams of her childhood coming athwart the leaden clouds, and many hours of winter went by the more easily for being spent in Ozzy's nursery Mrs. Heron was not musical and had no instrument; but one of Mr. Gilfills cares. was.. to procure a harpsichord, and have cita placed in the draming-room, always.opany in the hope that some day the spirit of music. would be reawakened in Caterina, and she. would be attracted towards the instrument. But the winter was almost gone by, and he had waited in vain. The utmost improve. ment in, Tima had not gone beyond passive. ness and acquiescence-a quiet grateful smile, compliance with Oswald's whims, and an in.. creasing consciousness of what was being said and done around her. Sometimes she would take up a bit of woman's work, but she seemed too languid' to persevere in it; Her fingers soon dropped; and' she relapsed into motionless reverie. At last-it was one of those bright days'in the end of February, when the sun is stiining with a' promise of approaching spring Maynard had been' walking with her and Obwall' round the garden to look at the snow dups, and she was resting on the sofa after the walk. Ozzy, roaming about the room in" quest of a' forbidden' pleasure cane to the Harpsichoral and struck the handle of his whip on a beep bass note. The vibration rushed through Caterina like an electric shock; it seemed as if' at that in stant a new soul were entering into her, and filling her with a deeper, more significant life. She looked round, rose from the sofa, and walked to the harpsichord. In a moment' her fingers were wandering with their old sweet method among the keys, and her eoul was floating in its true familiar element of delicious sound, as the water plant that lies withered and shrunken on the ground expands into freedom and beauty when once more bathed in its native food. Maynard thanked God. An activé power whs reawakened, and must make a new epoch in Caterina's recovery. 2 Présently there were low liquid notes blending themselves with the harder tones of the instrument, and gradually the pure voice swelled into predominance. Little Ozzy stood in the middle of the room, with his mouth open and his legs very wide apart, struck with something like awe at this new power'in "Tin-Tin," as he called her, whom He had been accostomed to think of as a playfellow not at all clever, and very much in need of his instruction on many subjects. A genii conting with broad wings out of his milk-jug would not have been more astonishing. She paused, and burst into tears-the first tears she had shed since she had been at For Holm. Maynard could not help hurrying toWards her, putting his arm around her and leaning down' to kiss her hair. She nestled to him, and put up her little mouth to be kissed. The delicate-tendrilled plant must have something to cling to. The soul that was born anew to music was born anew to love. CHAPTER XXI. ON' the 10th of May 1790, a very pretty sight was seen by the villagers assembled near the door of Foxholm'church. The sun was bright' upon the dewy grass, the air was alive, with the murmur of bees and the trilling of birds, the bushy blossoming chestnuts and the foamy flowering hedgerows seemed to be crowding round to learn why" the church, bells were ringing so mertily, as Maynard Gilfil, his face bright with happiness, walked out of the old Gothic door-way with Tina on' his arm. The little face was still pate, and there was a subdued melancholy in it, as one who sups with friends for the last time, and has his ear open for the signal that will call him away. But the tiny hand rested' with the pressure of contented affection on Maynard's arm, and the dark eyes met his downward glance with timid answering 'love, There was no train of bridesmaids, only pretty' Mrs. Heron leaning on the arm of a dark-haired young man hitherto unknown in Foxholm, and holding by the other hand lit tle Ozzy,, who exalted less in his new velvet cap and tunic, than in the notion" that he was bridesman to Tin-Tin! Last of all came a couple whom the villagers eyed yet more eagerly than the bride' and bridegroom; a fine' old gentleman', who looked round with keen glances that cowed the conscious scrapegraces among them, and and a stately lady in blue-and-white silk robes, who must surely be like Queen' Char lotte. a' Caterina was singing the very air from the Orfeo which we heard her singing so many "Well, that theer's" what I coall 'n' pic months ago at the beginning of her sorrows. tur," said old Mester" Ford, a true Staf It was "Ho perduto, Sir Christopher's favorite, fordshire patriarch, who leaned on"a" stick and its notes seemed to carry on their wings and held his head very much" on one side, aff the testlerest' memories of her life, when with the air of a man who had little hope of Cheverel Manor was still an untroubled the présent generation,' but would at all' home. The long happy days of childhood events give it the benefit of his criticism. and girlhood recovered all their rightful pre-Th yoong men now-a-days the poor dominance over the short interval of sin and squashy things the looke well attöof, but the" woon't wear, the wooh't' wear. Theer's ne'er un 'll carry his 'ears like that Sir Cris'fer Chuvrell." "'Ull bet yer two pots," said another of the seniors, 66 as that youngster a-walkin' wi' th' parson's wife 'll be Sir Cris' fer's son -he fevors him." memories-those shadows have all melted away in the dawn of baby's smile. In these hopes, and in the enjoyment of Tina's nestling affection, Mr. Gilfil tasted a few months of perfect happiness. She had come to lean entirely on his love, and to find life sweet for his sake. Her continual lan ural consequence of bodily feebleness, and the prospect of her becoming a mother was a new ground for hoping the best. Nay, yae'll bet that wi' as big a fule as yersen; hae's noo son at all. As I oonder-guor and want of active interest was a natstan' hae's the nevey as is t' heir th' esteate. The coochman as puts oop at the White Hoss tellt me as theer war another nevey, a dell finer chap t' looke at nor this un, as died in a fit oall on a sooden, an' soo this here yoong un's got upo' th' perch instid." At the church gate Mr. Bates was standing in a new suit, ready to speak words of good omen as the bride and bridegroom approached. He had come all the way from Cheverel Manor on purpose to see Miss Tina happy once more, and would have been in a state of unmixed joy but for the inferiority of the wedding nosegays to what he could have furnished from the garden at the Manor. "God A'maighty bless ye both, an' send ye long laife an' happiness," were the good gardener's rather tremulous words. "Thank you, uncle Bates; always remember Tina," said the sweet, low voice, which fell on Mr. Bates' ear for the last time. The wedding journey was to be a circuitous route to Shepperton, where Mr. Gilfil had been for several months inducted as vicar. This small living had been given to him through the interest af an old friend who had some claim on the gratitude of the Oldinport family; and it was a satisfaction both to Maynard and Sir Christopher that a home to which he might take Caterina had thus readily presented itself at a distance from Cheverel Manor. For it had never yet been thought safe that she should revisit the scene of her sufferings, her health continuing too delicate to encourage the slightest risk of painful excitement. In a year or two, perhaps, by the time old Mr. Crichley, the rector of Cumbermooor, should have left a world of gout, and when Caterina would very likely be a happy mother, Maynard might safely take up his abode at Cumbermoor, and Tina would feel nothing but content at seeing a new "little black-eyed monkey" running up and down the gallery and gardens of the Manor. A mother dreads no But the delicate plant had been too deeply bruised, and in the struggle do put forth a blossom it died. Tina died, and Maynard Gilfil's love went with her into deep silence forevermore. EPILOGUE. THIS was Mr. Gilfil's love story, which lay far back from the time when he sat, worn and gray by his lonely fireside in Shepperton Vicarage. Rich brown locks, passionate love, and deep, early sorrow, strangely different as they seem from the scanty, white hairs, the apathetic content, and the unexpectant acquiesence of old age, are but part of the same life's journey; as the bright, Italian plains, with the sweet Addio of their beckoning maidens, are part of the same day's travel that brings us to the other side of the mountain, between the sombre, rocky walls and among the guttural voices of the Valais. To those who were familiar only with the gray-haired Vicar, jogging leisurely along on his old chestnut cob, it would perhaps have been hard to believe that he had ever been the Maynard Gilfil who, with a heart full of passion and tenderness, had urged his black Kitty to her swiftest gallop on the way to Callam, or that the old gentleman of caustic tongue, and bucolic tastes, and sparing habits, had known all the deep secrets of devoted love, had struggled through its days and nights of anguish, and trembled under its unspeakable joys. And indeed the Mr. Gilfil of those late Shepperton days had more of the knots and ruggednesses of poor human nature than there lay any clear hint of in the open-eyed loving Maynard. But it is with men as with trees: if you lop off their finest branches, into which they were pouring their young life-juice, the wounds will be healed over with some rough boss, some odd excrescence; and what might have been a grand tree expanding into liberal | been sketched out by nature as a noble tree. shade, is but a whimsical misshapen trunk. The heart of him was sound, the grain was Many an irritating fault, many an unlovely of the finest, and in the gray-haired man oddity, has come of a hard sorrow, which has crushed and maimed the nature just when it was expanding into plenteous beauty, and the trivial erring life which we visit with our harsh blame, may be but as the unsteady motion of a man whose best limb is withered. And so the dear, old Vicar, though he had something of the knotted, whimsical character of the poor, lopped oak, had yet who filled his pocket with sugar-plums for the little children, whose most biting words were directed against the evil-doing of the rich man, and who, with all his social pipes and slipshod talk, never sank below the highest level of his parishioners' respect, there was the main trunk of the same brave, faithful, tender nature that had poured out the finest, freshest forces of its life-current in a first and only love-the love of Tina. ANONYMOUS WRITERS.-The identification of an anonymous writer by the test of style is an object on which many persons have exercised their ingenuity. Without repeating the sharp censure which Pope was accustomed to pass upon such persons, I must be permitted to express my opinion that those attempts have too often been made with excessive hardihood of critical pretension. Thy choice of odes is also chaste; No want it hath, it hath no waste. "A grace it is for any knight I do not entirely reject the test, but contend" that phraseological resemblances, if adduced as proofs of authorship, should always have the support of other circumstantial evidence. Every man who writes for the press has opportunities of reviewing his composition, and must therefore be somewhat aware of its peculiarities. Now, if he should wish to conceal his name, would he not strive to avoid those peculiararities? Besides, the style must vary with the subject, with the variable feelings of the writer, etc. As an illustration of this question, which holds an important station in the history of literature, I shall transcribe some verses which bear the signature of an author of whose composition some thousand and tens of thousands have read specimens. If any one who does not remember the verses can name the author, I must be content to modify the above-declared opinion. A stately steed to stable; Is any comparable? A knight was, and a poet; To wait upon thy muses; ALLUSIONS IN EPISTLE TO SIR JOHN HILL. The following lines occur in A Friendly Epis For hiccup gave a pinch of snuff, Some person has written on the margin "Cheyne " and " Foote." The explanation is not quite satisfactory. Can any of your readers help me to a better?-Notes and Queries From Fraser's Magazine.tremely probable that he will throw the EDGAR ALLAN POE. book into the fire, in indignation at the selfWE must go back to the days of the early conceit and affected smartness by which the dramatists of Marlowe, Dekker, Ford, Mas-preface is characterized. singer, and Otway-before we shall find in the history of literature any parallel to the The American edition of Poe's works conwild and morbid genius, and the reckless sists, of four handsome volumes of five hunand miserable life and death of Edgar Allan dred pages each, which, as regards paper, Poe. Never was there a sadder story than printing, and binding, are very favorable that of his wayward and infatuated youth, specimens of transatlantic publishing. The his wasted opportunities, his estranged first volume contains a memoir of Poe's life friends, his paverty-stricken manhood, his by Mr. Griswold, and notices of his genius by drunken degradation, his despairing efforts Mr. N. P. Willis and Mr. Lowell. Mr. Gristo reform, his gradual sinking into lower wold gives us the severer estimate of Poe's and lower depths of profligacy and misery, life and character: Mr. Lowell and Mr. till at last he died of delirium tremens in an Willis appear anxious to say as much good hospital, at the age of thirty-eight. And of him as possible. There is something his poetical genius, his extraordinary analy- that relieves the dark colors in which Poe is tic power, his imagination that revelled in usually depicted, in the brief notice of him the realm of the awful, the weird, and the by his mother-in-law, prefixed to the work. horrible; his utter lack of truth and honor, She She says... his inveterate selfishnese, his inordinate vanity and insane folly, all go to make a picture so strange and sad that it cannot easily be forgotten. We believe that this extraordinary man is but little known in this country; and we think our readers may be interested by a few pages given to some account of his life and works. יד "The late Edgar Allan Poe-who was the husband of my only daughter, the son of my eldest brother, and more than a son to myself, in bis long-continued and affectionate observance of every duty to me-under an impression that he might be called suddenly from the world, wrote (just before he left his home in Fordham for the last time, on the 29th of June, 1849) requests that the Poe has not been fortunate in his intro- Rey. Rufus W. Griswold would act as his duction to the English reading public. His literary executor, and superintend the publitales have appeared in no more promising cation of his works-and that N. P. Willis, shape than that of two volumes of railway Esq., should write such observations upon reading-much better printed and illus- his life and character as he might deem suittrated, indeed, than such volumes usually able to address to thinking men in yindication of his memory." are; but blighted, so far as the prospect of admission to the library is concerned, by From this statement of Mrs. Clemm, and paper covers and gaudy coloring. His poetry from a statement made by Francis Osgood, has been published in a handsome volume, it seems that those who knew Poe best were with some very pretty illustrations. But witnesses of a more amiable aspect of his this volume unhappily sets out with a bio- character. There is, unhappily, only one graphical potice of Poe, written by Mr. account of the melancholy phase of it which James Hannay, which we have read with was known to the public. We are told by considerable surprise. Should any man of Mr. Willis that the slightest indulgence in taste and sepse, not, acquainted with Poe, be intoxicating liquor was sufficient to convert so unfortunate as to look at Mr. Hannay's Poe into a thorough blackguard that preface before reading the poetry, it is ex-"with a single glass of wing his whole The Works of the late Edgar Allan Poe with nature was reversed; the demon becam: a Memoir by Rufus Wilmot Griswold, and Notices of uppermost, and though none of the usual his Life and Genius by N. P. Willis and J. R. Lowell. In Four Volumes. New York: Redfield 1856. The Poetical Works of Edgar Allen Poe: with a Notice of his Life and Genius by James Hannay. Illustrated. London: Addey and Co. 1853. Tales of Mystery, Imagination, and Humor; and Poems. By Edgar Allan Poe. Two Volumes. London: Vizetelly. 1852. signs of intoxication were visible, his will was palpably insane." The only excuse which can be offered for much of Poe's life is, that he was truly not a responsible agent. He was morally, though not intellectually, insane. |