One venomed word,

That struck its coward, poisoned blow,
In craven whispers, hushed and low,-
And yet the wide world heard.

"Twas but one whisper-one-
That muttered low, for very shame,
That thing the slanderer dare not name,—
And yet its work was done.

I had an uncle once-a man

Of threescore years and three ;-
And when my reason's dawn began,
He'd take me on his knee;

And often talk, whole winter nights,
Things that seemed strange to me.

He was a man of gloomy mood,
And few his converse sought;
But, it was said, in solitude

His conscience with him wrought;
And there, before his mental eye,
Some hideous vision brought.

There was not one in all the house
Who did not fear his frown,
Save I, a little careless child,
Who gamboled up and down,
And often peeped into his room,
And plucked him by the gown.

I was an orphan and alone,—
My father was his brother,

And all their lives I knew that they
Had fondly loved each other;
And in my uncle's room there hung
The picture of my mother.

There was a curtain over it,-
'Twas in a darkened place,

And few or none had ever looked

Upon my mother's face,

Or seen her pale expressive smile
Of melancholy grace.

One night-I do remember well,
The wind was howling high,
And through the ancient corridors
It sounded drearily-

I sat and read in that old hall;
My uncle sat close by.

I read-but little understood
The words upon the book;
For with a sidelong glance I marked
My uncle's fearful look,

And saw how all his quivering frame
In strong convulsions shook.

A silent terror o'er me stole,
A strange, unusual dread;

His lips were white as bone-his eyes
Sunk far down in his head;

He gazed on me, but 'twas the gaze
Of the unconscious dead.

Then suddenly he turned him round,
And drew aside the veil

That hung before my mother's face;
Perchance my eyes might fail,
But ne'er before that face to me
Had seemed so ghastly pale.

"Come hither, boy!" my uncle said,I started at the sound;

'Twas choked and stifled in his throat, And hardly utterance found :"Come hither, boy!" then fearfully

He cast his eyes around.

"That lady was thy mother once,
Thou wert her only child;

O God! I've seen her when she held
Thee in her arms and smiled,—
She smiled upon thy father, boy,
"Twas that which drove me wild!

"He was my brother, but his form
Was fairer far than mine;

I grudged not that;-he was the prop Of our ancestral line,

And manly beauty was of him

A token and a sign.

"Boy! I had loved her too,-nay, more, "Twas I who loved her first;

For months-for years-the golden thought Within my soul was nursed;

He came-he conquered-they were wed;My air-blown bubble burst!

"Then on my mind a shadow fell, And evil hopes grew rife;

The damning thought stuck in my heart,
And cut me like a knife,

That she, whom all my days I loved,
Should be another's wife!

"By heaven! it was a fearful thing
To see my brother now,

And mark the placid calm that sat
Forever on his brow,

That seemed in bitter scorn to say,
I am more loved than thou!

"I left my home-I left the land-
I crossed the raging sea;—
In vain-in vain-where'er I turned,
My memory went with me;-
My whole existence, night and day,
In memory seemed to be.

"I came again-I found them here-
Thou'rt like thy father, boy--
He doted on that pale face there,
I've seen them kiss and toy,-
I've seen him locked in her fond arms,
Wrapped in delirious joy!

"He disappeared-draw nearer child;-
He died-no one knew how;

The murdered body ne'er was found,
The tale is hushed up now;

But there was one who rightly guessed
The hand that struck the blow.

"It drove her mad-yet not his death,-
No-not his death alone:

For she had clung to hope, when all

Knew well that there was none;

No, boy! it was a sight she saw
That froze her into stone!

"I am thy uncle, child,-why stare
So frightfully aghast ?-

The arras waves, but know'st thou not

'Tis nothing but the blast?

I, too, have had my fears like these,
But such vain fears are past.

I'll show thee what thy mother saw,-
I feel 'twill ease my breast,
And this wild tempest-laden night
Suits with the purpose best ;-
Come hither-thou hast often sought
To open this old chest.

"It has a secret spring; the touch
Is known to me alone;
Slowly the lid is raised, and now-
What see you that you groan
So heavily? That thing is but
A bare-ribbed skeleton."

A sudden crash-the lid fell down,
Three strides he backward gave,-
"Oh God! it is my brother's self
Returning from the grave!
His grasp of lead is on my throat,
Will no one help or save?"

That night they laid him on his bed,

In raving madness tossed;

He gnashed his teeth, and with wild oaths
Blasphemed the Holy Ghost;

And, ere the light of morning broke,
A sinner's soul was lost.

THE DEAD LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER.-WARE.

Out, out at sea, the light (so typical of God, seeing it ever watches man, and shines to warn him from the world of death) burns year by year, tended by willing hands. Of such a light I have a tale to tell. I would it were not true, but it is; yet, if you will not believe it so, 'tis wise, perhaps, for 'tis well to think life's tragedies are few.

This light-house which I speak about hath long since yielded to the sea; but at the time I speak of it was strong, stout oak. It was far away from shore, and the mad sea,

when slightly moved elsewhere, raged around this light. Sometimes through three long months the two keepers saw no other human faces than their own. What talked they of? There could be no news; the weather, sea, and passing ships were all in all to them. Did they quarrel, no one saw; had one of them murdered the other, no human voice was there to whisper, "Cain, where is thy brother?"

It was a Christmas eve, and the two watchers looked toward the shore, which in the day was rocky, far-off haze. The weather was rough, and likely to be rougher. Gay were the men, for you must understand that those who watch in distant, light-houses live so long at the light, so long on shore. It was a coming holiday for those two men, so they were merry. At last the boat had come.

Much laughter was there; for one of the arriving watchers, a great, rough man, of over six feet high, was sad-quite downcast. They said this Hal was deep in love, and piqued at leaving his young mistress several months. Few words he answered; he lumbered up the light-house steps, leaving his comrade and the men chatting village gossip blithely at the bottom of the stairs cut in the rock.

"Good-night," the boat's crew sang out loudly when the food for three long months, and the large cans of oil for the beneficent lamp, all had been landed; for they were hurried, the wind growing lusty. "Good-night," once more they said, but never answer came from the light-house. They laughed again; then, with quick-pulsing oar, they pulled toward land, whence blew the fierce, fierce wind.

The second watcher, comrade to Hal, stood, the water lapping around about his feet, watching the lessening boat and softening sound of the oars. At last he turned and went up the flight of stairs into the light-house. There he saw Hal, stretched at length on the rough wood floor. "Hal!" No answer came. "Hal" in a louder voice. No answer. "Hal!" half fear, half anger. Still the man lying on the ground spoke not. "What! surly, Hal? Why, come, look up, my lad!" Yet no reply. He then pushed him with his foot. The body yielded and returned. Then the man, terror-struck, leaned down and swept the face up to the light.

Great God! bubbling at the mouth, he sees a torrent of