over the stern with his eye fixed steadily upon the retreating shore. I also noticed, when he was aroused from his revery by the giving way of a rope, as he turned and the moon fell upon his face, traces of fresh tears. I felt a sympathy with him from that moment, and I longed to win his confidence and learn his history. I was persuaded there was in his heart a fountain of gentle feeling. We conversed as we walked the deck arm in arm, until we approached the subject of our own personal history. After I had in a frank manner related some of the more singular incidents of my own life, and expressed a desire to listen to his history, he freely told me his story; and it was no less touching than strange. "You are the only human being," he commenced, "I have seen in long years to whom I would say what I am now going to reveal; and after I have told you my story, you will be the only one now on earth who knows it. "Fifteen years ago this spring, I was passing, with my father's family, through one of the most beautiful districts of Massachusetts. Just as we were entering the quiet village of, our horses took fright from a kite which fell suddenly in the road before them. They ran with great violence, and threw us all from the carriage. My sister was so seriously injured that we could not proceed on our journey for several days. We all took lodgings at a neat and quiet hotel in the village, expecting to be detained a considerable time. "The day after the accident my sister requested me to make inquiry for a female friend, whom she had known in Boston some years before, whose parents lived in the village. She said they had been very intimate, and she would be glad to meet her once more. After some enquiry I found her residence. Mary was too ill to write, and told me it would be a sufficient introduction for me to say that I was her brother. But,' said she, playfully, 'Edward, take care of your heart, for she is a lovely girl.' Mary had often spoken of her friend to me with the deepest enthusiasm, and my fancy had already invested her with all the charms I dreamed of one day finding in some fair creature who would yet cross my path. I had just left the halls of Harvard College, and my heart was as free as the breath of that evening. As I opened the gate, I saw a very beautiful girl in a corner of the dooryard, training a honeysuckle over the arbor that led into the garden. Her head was uncovered, and the rich auburn hair was falling in luxurient curls over her shoulders. She did not observe me until a playful little dog came out from the arbor to dispute my entrance. She called "Blanch" back, with a sweet voice, and I approached her. She was in the freshness and beauty of youth; that fervid season when the young female heart begins to develope its pure affections; when the first thrill of love either has or soon will waken rapture from every chord of the soul. I inquired if this was the residence of Judge swered; "do you wish to see my father?" "Yes sir," she an "Not if I have the pleasure of addressing his daughter." The rich blood mounted to her cheek while I unfolded the object of my visit. "You may have heard of the accident the travellers met with in entering the village last evening. It was my father's carriage, and the lady who was injured was your old friend Mary of Boston." "Oh! is it possible! How much is she hurt? I wish I could see her." This was said with deep earnestness, and certainly as she came nearer to me while I related the circumstances of the misfortune, she appeared more lovely than any being I had ever seen. "My sister requested me to call with her love for yourself, and a request that you would visit her, if possible, this evening." "I shall be glad to go, sir-shall I find her at the house by the large elm?" "I will show you if you will give me the pleasure of your society." "Thank you, sir, if you will wait a few moments." The blood, which had left her face pale as marble at the intelligence I communicated in regard to my sister, spread its rich freshness over her cheeks again as she led the way into the house, and left me, to prepare for the walk. A group of family pictures hung around the room into which I was ushered, and there was one there which I knew at a glance was her's. I stood before it in wrapt enthusiasm, almost unconscious where I was, until I heard a slight noise in the hall. I turned and saw her standing by the door. She had seen me gazing on her picture, and we both felt a painful embarrassment as we left the house. Neither of us spoke a word. I cannot describe my own feelings, except by saying, that to me the past was annihilated and I was now a different being. Emotions, to which I had before been a stranger, gushed up unbidden. I felt conscious that, from that hour, my destiny would be linked in some manner, with the angel at my side. When we reached our lodgings I showed her to my sister's room and saw them sink into each other's arms. I went to my chamber to weep and yet I could not tell why. I had entered that room changed. The hopes and the joys of existence, which had been so dear to me but one short hour before, were nothing now but withered leaves. The current of my life seemed to stand still, uncertain which way to flow. In a moment every gem of heaven I had loved to gaze upon was forgotten, and a new solitary star shone there which I had never seen before. Oh! thought I, if this be love, how powerful is its transport! Day after day passed away, and every evening Frances came to see my sister. I loved her in the very depths of my soul, and yet I dared not breathe one word of affection into her ear. She seemed so pure that every thing was hallowed by her touch; so kind-hearted and joyous that every thing was gladdened by her presence; and yet as unconscious of her loveliness as the wild flower that has never been looked on but by the eyes of Heaven. Yes! I loved her, and every time I met those deep eyes my heart glowed with a purer love, a more entire devotion. Those were days of enchantment, but they could not last. The time came for me to leave her, and I felt that I was leaving the gate of Paradise to wander over a blighted world, from which every thing that was once beautiful had departed, and for ever. It was the last evening we were to pass in that village, and she had parted with Mary as I met her on the stairs. I asked her if she would walk awhile on the bank of the stream that flowed behind the village. She consented, and we turned down a green lane that led to the river side. The shadows of twilight had fallen over the scenery, and one of the sweetest landscapes in all New England was reposing under the soft light of the moon. I knew that in a little while I should see that lovely form, perhaps, no more. I wished to fan my hopes into a flame or extinguish them at once. I have a thousand times since that hour deplored that I did not then tell Frances all my feelings; it would have saved us both a world of misery. But I could not. I made the effort, but it was unavailing. It was the most bewitching period of my life. There was an indescribable charm over existence. I dreamed that the heart of man was without envy and the world without a foe. Thank God! it is all over now, and I will tell it all. We held converse about the glorious heavens above us and the verdant earth beneath our feet; of the world and all its enchanting pleasures. One word I left unsaid, and that word was all the world to me. I did not, I could not whisper "love!" It was a charmed word I could not utter. We passed on and came up through an avenue of trees to her father's house. We stood at the door where we were to part; again I tried to summon resolution to make my confession, but a painful agony stifled the effort. I then thought I would write to her after our separation, and asked her if I might do so. She said she would always be glad to hear of my welfare. I pressed her hand with the wildest enthusiasm. That pressure was gently returned. I gazed on her with affection which I could not repress, and said "farewell." She returned the word and pressed my hand long and fervently. The moon-beams silvered a tear which was falling from her cheek. I could not resist the impulse of my affection, and clasped her to my breast, and kissed that tear away. It was a moment of exquisite happiness which a man can experience but once or twice in the longest life, giving a momentary glimpse of heaven and then losing itself again in human cares or less vivid joys. "New hopes may bloom and days may come, Of milder, calmer beam; But, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream." We parted, and I saw her no more. The next morning we left the village. I had not yet learned how necessary the sight of her form, the sound of her voice, or the spot where we first met, had become to my happiness. Her image was before me night and day. She mingled in every scene of joy or sadness: she inspired every hope, and shed over all the future a soft and holy light. A few days, I wrote to her, poured out my whole soul, and requested an early answer. I should here say that I placed my letter in the hands of a young gentleman whom I had frequently seen in that village, who was about returning, and who engaged to deliver it to Frances in person. I now felt relieved from the harassing anxiety which had weighed on my spirits; for my confession was made, and I should soon know the result. But, day after day and week after week passed by, and I heard not a word from Frances. I was sure she must have received my letter, and it was certainly entitled to an answer. Why did she not write, if it was only to banish hope? Then came the revulsion. A bright star had risen upon my path-I had followed it till it led me to despair. I had been guided by an angel to the bowers of Paradise, and then expelled for ever. That was a dreary summer to me. The world, it is true, was glad and beautiful all around me; joy lighted on every hill-top; and the blithe carol of pleasure was heard along the silver streams; but I was un blest. Nature seemed to spurn me from her when I tried to forget my misery and court the joys I once felt in her companionship. But it was possible Frances had not received my letter. She would not have given me leave to write to her unless she had intended to answer me, for she was too kind and generous ever to deceive. I knew that I was not worthy of her love. She was too pure for the love of earth. But still when I thought of the many hours I had passed with her, and the parting scene, and that falling tear, I could not but hope that she would suffer me to minister to her life, and spend my own in making hers happy. These reflections determined me to write to her again. I entreated her to answer me, if she said but one word, and that word were fatal to my hopes. In a few days I received her reply, and when I read it the charm of life fled for ever. She stated that she had received both my letters, and now wrote to me for the first and the last time. She had passed many pleasant hours in my society, and at one time thought she loved me; but she now regretted that she had even on one occasion discovered an affection which was only transient; she could not love me except as a friend, and I must not dream of marriage. I now felt that I should be a fool to dream an hour longer. I woke to the task of crushing the edifice that hope had reared-of forgetting the only being I had ever loved-of blotting out the fairest star that shone in my firmament. I plunged into the busy world, but her image followed me there. I fought against my passion in solitude, but the effort to destroy it only increased its power. A deep gloom settled upon my spirit, and had I not dreaded the thought of presenting my soul before the throne of God before He summoned it away, I would have ended a life which had become wretched beyond description. This life was misery, and the future was shrouded in thick gloom. My health, which had never been firm, began to yield. I expected to die in a few months-oh! how gladly would I have hastened the hour of my deliverance. Perhaps I might live to see another spring smile over the landscape and bring hope to me: but I contemplated the future with fixed despair. Sometimes a momentary gleam of hope would shoot up before my vision and make my pulses thrill for an instant, but it as soon vanished, leaving me in deeper dejection. I had always found it quite impossible to reconcile Frances' letter with my former views of her character. I thought she possessed too well-balanced a mind to act as she appeared to. Was it possible that letter had been written by another hand? I obtained one of her letters to my sister, for they often corresponded, and compared them together. There was a general resemblance in the writing, but still the contrast was sufficient to admit the hope, faint as it was, that the letter had been forged. I seized the first ray that broke through the darkness, as a drowning man grasps the straw which floats around his sinking body. I determined no longer to intrust interests upon which my existence itself seemed suspended, to letters. I would see Frances myself, and receive my sentence from her. If rejected, it must be from those lips where I once thought I had sealed our mutual love for ever. The next morning I took the western coach and resolved before I closed my eyes in sleep to know what my destiny was to be. I walked from the hotel to her father's house, and, with emotions which only such circumstances can inspire, pulled the bell. I was now standing on that spot where, in the enthusiasm of first love, but a few months before, I had held that beautiful child of heaven in my arms.. I heard no sound in the hall and rang again-and listened with painful anxiety for the door to be opened. At last it was opened. I inquired for Frances. The family had the day before gone to Boston! Fate was arrayed against me. On inquiry, I learned that Frances had gone on a long journey to the west, and the housekeeper only knew that they designed to proceed to New York and then to Cincinnati, I ascertained her father's address in New York and travelled across the country, by day and by night, until I reached the city.. I called at the house where they had taken lodgings, and the answer was that they had that morning-left, but no one could tell where! When I threw myself down upon my bed that night I prayed that I might die. With a despair deeper and darker than I ever thought could settle upon the human heart in a world where mercy flashes from every sunbeam, I returned to my home. What a change had come over me in a few short months! I resolved to struggle no longer against my love, but resign myself to its power, and let the star of hope shine on the cheerless path that led me to the grave. The dream made me happy. I was determined to indulge it to the last. I believed she would never be mine, but I loved fondly to linger around the ruins of that splendid castle which time had almost destroyed.. I knew that none of my friends were aware of the extent, possibly not of the cause of my unhappiness; but they were alarmed for my health, and advised me to go to the south of Europe for a time. I rejoiced when the suggestion was made, for I longed to be far, far away from anything which could remind me of the wreck of my hopes. Possibly I might in the whirl and excitement of the world, forget my unhappiness. I made preparations for the voyage. The evening before I sailed I went to my sister's room and revealed to her the whole history of my love. She was deeply affected, and hung upon my neck and wept as none but a sister can weep upon a brother's heart. Dear Mary! She is now in heaven. Oh! it is a glorious reflection, is it not, that there is a world where no sigh of anguish shall ever be heard! where no tear shall ever fall! Mary promised always to speak of Frances in her letters. The next evening the parting words had been spoken, and a fresh breeze. soon took us away from the land, where "I had seen the hopes that fed My youthful spirit, withered, dead, And watched the meteor-flashing ray That led me on recede away, And felt the strength that nerved my heart Till the last string seemed rent apart I wandered over Europe, and tried; on the classic shores of the Miditerranean, among the tombs of old empires and their gray monuments, to contemplate my history as I contemplated the ruins of beautiful Greece. I knew that I could not forget Frances, and this I did not wish to do; I only wanted to forget the dark and dreary disappointment-and worship her memory, as it rose like some classic form of antiquity.. Time and distance had now begun to mellow the rugged outline of those dark days. But there were moments when the past with all its painful scenes rushed back so visibly upon my memory, that they were no longer clothed in that softened |