CHAPTER VI. "The youth Proceeds the paths of science to explore, "She had hair as deeply black As the cloud of thunder; And dark eyes flashing under. MARY HOWITT. full of monotony. THE life of a youth in college is One day is an epitome of the year. If he be ardent and ambitious; if his lip thirst for the dews of Castaly, and his spirit for the groves of Academus, he may, like Marcus, forget the realities of his condition in the classic life of his mind. Such was his thirst for knowledge, and the rapture with which he imbibed it, that it was a spring giving perpetual freshness and greenness to the intellectual and moral region within. Had Marcus isolated himself from his fellow-students during their hours of recreation, they might have envied his superiority; but he mingled in their sports with such hearty good-will, that he soon exercised over them the same rare personal influence he had done on others. Though his manner of associating with all was kind and courteous, there was only one with whom he had intimate and unreserved communion. This was a youth, named George Delaval, who, after Marcus had been at college a few weeks, evidently sought him out from that principle of affinity by which things seemingly entirely different are attracted towards each other. Delaval was a gay, dashing, young man, generous to prodigality, proud, and sometimes overbearing, but with a flow of animal spirits that made him exceedingly popular as a social companion. That he was very wealthy there was no doubt, for he scattered his money like grains of sand, regardless where it fell. Knowing his reputed riches and proud though reckless character, Marcus would never have manifested a desire for his acquaintance; but when Delaval shewed him the flattering distinction of seeking his society on many occasions, Marcus, with the natural frankness and geniality of youth, opened his heart to his advances, and soon conceived for him a warm attachment. He had never forgot the brunette of the fountain, and in a moment of confidence he described the meeting to Delaval, and his extreme desire to ascertain the name of the dark little enchantress. Delaval seemed excessively amused by the description and the impression she had made on the imagination of Marcus. "I dare say she is some bold little vixen, that would flirt her riding-whip over your shoulders with as much grace as she splashed about the water, if she had a chance," said Delaval. "I do not think I should like her at all. I have no taste for these dark beauties; give me one of your fair, blue-eyed, gentle lassies, that steal upon you as insensibly as the dawning light. I have no idea of ever being taken by storm." Marcus could not help thinking of his gentle violeteyed Katy, while listening to the description of Delaval, whose flashing black eyes mocked the lustre and the huc of jet. He frequently regretted afterward that he had mentioned the young incognita to his friend, for Mademoiselle Lightning became his standing jest, and Marcus felt as if he had wronged her, by exposing her to such light ridicule. He might never see her again-indeed he feared he should not; but her image was traced on his memory, in characters as vivid and thrilling as the lightning whose name she had sportively assumed. He One evening, as he sat in the recitation-room, waiting for his turn to be called up by the learned professor, and was carelessly turning over the leaves of a book he had carried with him, a letter dropped to the floor. took it up, supposing it one from his sister that he had accidentally left there, for he perceived that the direction was in a fair, feminine hand; but upon nearer inspection he saw that a stranger must have traced it, and the paper was of a most delicate transparent tissue. He looked at the seal, whose device was a kneeling figure, with lightning darting from a cloud into its breast; the motto, La Lampeggia degli occhi. With kindling curiosity he opened the envelope, and glancing at the signature, beheld the single word, "Lightning." With a burning blush he folded it hastily, and concealed it again within the leaves of his book, reserving its perusal for the solitude of the thicket. Delaval, who had observed the fallen note, the deep blush, and hurried concealment of the paper, rallied him the moment he had left the recitation-room, and insisted upon seeing the mysterious envelope. "Acknowledge, Delaval," said he, "that it is a practical joke of your own, and I will forgive you. You must have written this yourself to impose on my credulity, though I acknowledge you are a greater master of penmanship than I ever imagined you." Marcus here exhibited the beautiful and fairy-like superscription of the letter, and again repeated to Delaval his awakened suspicion. 66 Warland," replied Delaval, in a more serious tone than usual, "What grounds have you for assuming that I wrote that letter. I may sport in words to amuse a passing moment; but your epistle, I doubt not, is the product of some fair lady's pen. "We college "Nay, be not angry," said Marcus. boys do so many foolish things, we ought never to be offended at any charge. It is certainly very mysterious, very surprising. I never mentioned her to any one but yourself. How it came within the leaves of my book I cannot divine; unless," he added, "if you did not write the letter, you acted the part of the carrier-dove, and dropped it from your wings into my book. I am sure it is a very innocent jest, and I forgive you for it." "I will accept your forgiveness when I have earned it, Warland, by playing the part you see fit to have assigned me," answered Delaval, in a somewhat haughty and offended tone; "you must think yourself of more consequence than you are authorized, to imagine that I should trouble myself about such a wild-goose fancy. Is it what you would expect from me, Warland?" "No, Delaval," answered Marcus, with a blush; I must again ask you to excuse my charging you with an office so idle, on the plea of my extreme bewilderment. I am willing to believe that you have had nothing to do with it; but who could have been the bearer ?" “Well, Warland, if you are a brilliant scholar and a blithe companion, you are withal the most stupid fellow I ever beheld, to prate about the why and the how the letter of a young lady came into your possession, without having interest enough to peruse its contents. If I were the favoured mortal, I should have torn the paper into pieces before this, in my fiery impatience." "Its contents are sacred, whatever they may be. You will excuse me for reading them alone." The accents of grave rebuke that fell from the lips of Marcus were drowned in the gush of laughter that followed them from his wild companion. Plunging into the thickest part of the grove, he unfolded the mysterious letter, and no longer doubted its genuineness. 66 "MASTER MARCUS WARLAND-As the lightning darts from the east, and shines even to the west, and you know not whence nor whither," began his fair, but unknown correspondent, so do the electric rays of thought, flashing from one mind to another, instantaneously traverse intervening space, though mountains may rise, and oceans roll between. Compare me not, I pray thee, to the destroying bolt, that furrows the black storm-cloud with its burning ploughshare, but to those lambent fires that sport harmlessly round the evening horizon, brilliant but innocuous. Thou art ambitious. Well, be it so. Ambition is a glorious passion in a man, |