man; and his friends sometimes whispered to their own hearts that all was not as it should be, that there was something wrong within, that that fine and delicate organization, his mind, did not act as formerly; and they sometimes marked a kind of perverse vehemence, which did not tally well with that uniform sound sense and remarkable discrimination which had characterized the efforts of his earlier years. Ah! they guessed well-there was something wrong. There was a fountain in his heart which had been chilled, and which kept bubbling up its cool waters to remind him continually of his wretchedness; and there were moments, when withdrawn from business and the world shut out, he gave himself up to that deadly yet sweet sorrow which sooner or later saps the springs of existence. Grief should never be alone. It is one of the most selfish of our passions. The man of sorrows should be forced into the world-into the bustle, and roar, and change, and activity of life, where against himself outward and passing events shall catch his eye, and force him off if but for a moment from his wretchedness. It will finally loose the grasp of the disease, and thought by degrees may be turned into other channels, and the heart beat with its accustomed excitation. But even this did not save the bereaved husband. Perhaps it might had no other ills assailed him; but he had become recklessbad risked much-had entered largely into the excitements and speculations of the day; and every thing working against him, losses succeeding losses, the poor man sank under it and died-a bankrupt. But the saddest of my story is yet to come. There are some men in this world from whom nature seems to have withholden the commonest feelings of our race-men who have no humanity about them-men who despise and disclaim every thing like sympathy as troublesome and out of place, and who would as lief dwell in a desert or on an island shut out from the whole world, as any where else-save perhaps that they should not have their fellow creatures to prey on. In short, your cool, calculating, miserly souls, whose feelings all begin in self and end in self, and who can like Judas or Shylock, coolly set off so much suffering and so many ounces of human blood against so much money, with the same callousness that they could barter dog's flesh. It was into the hands of such a wretch, a Mr. Saxelby, that these orphan children fell now entering upon their twelfth year, and their privations it may be relied on were proportionate to his wickedness. The little that had been saved from the wreck of their once splendid fortune he contrived to sink by one means and another, and by the time they were sixteen it was formally announced that their means were exhausted, and that master Lyle Selden and his sister-must either work or starve. It was like a thunder clap. The brother had hoped to study his father's profession; his talents were commanding, his industry unexampled, and he had proudly looked forward to the moment when he should redeem that father's lost reputation, and lift his lovely, ah, how lovely sister! into the station which her exceeding beauty seemed so eminently to fit her for, and of which she would become such a witching ornament. This brother was a marked character. His person was manly, his voice firm, and his countenance the index of a soul that showed plain enough he was not born to be overlooked in the world. He was sensitive and exceedingly proud, yet a nobler heart never knocked against the ribs of mortality. But such a character as this is not calculated to gain friends. He was too open-gave his opinions too freely and his talents were altogether too commanding and brilliant. Your popular fellows are your middling ones. Lyle Selden was no middling fellow-you would find it out by the first word that fell from him though he were half asleep at the time, and though the subject were as trite as those about which we witness the first volitation of your incipient poetasters. He was an original-a marked man-and his opinions though they might be sneered at, had nevertheless more weight than half the school put together. As he was sensitive so was he often unhappy, and though he met the taunts brought to his ears by his few real friends, with I care not,' yet he did care-his heart inly bled, and his lonely hours were often embittered. As he was proud, this got him into difficulties; for though it was quite the reverse of vanity and self was the last one he thought of, yet it made his character a complex one which none understood unless he chose to enlighten them, and this save to a few his pride would not descend to. Hence he was thought callous and distant, when in reality his heart was the seat of every gentler feeling; and to those that had skill to look beneath the surface, he was linked by a friendship as unyielding as it was noble. But these were few, and his character is best told in one sentence,—he was respected and disliked. His sister was an opposite character. She scarcely ever thought for herself, and in person she was rather lovely than beautiful, and had that touching feminineness about her which is rather to be felt than told of. She was too gentle to be independent, one of those rare specimens of loveliness that are shaped by associations, that can be moulded into any thing by the energies of a master mind. In short, she was too trusting, and had a spice of that credulous confidence in her composition, which, if fortune does not try it sorely, makes a woman a perfect nympholepsy and a vision. Such were these orphan children, and in a world as we well know not famous for its charities. It will be taxing my reader's patience -who is anxious I see to come to the end of my story-to trace their lives minutely through the two or three following years. Their lot was a hard one. Thrown out of a station to which their birth entitled them, the trials to which they were exposed had the same effect on them as it does upon every body else under similar circumstances, viz. made young Selden suspicious and fretful, soured his temper, and took from him even the little amiableness which the world had ever allowed was in his composition. While his sister, his too gentle sister, like the vine round the tree which supports it and moves with it as that is moved by the forest wind, so she changed with her brother though winning still, for in her any thing like harshness was softened down by a sweetness which nothing could destroy. What I am now about to lay before the reader, is one of those black passages in the catalogue of human suffering that may well make me shudder as I write, and if the facts are doubted as here laid down, my authority for them shall be given hereafter. Lyle Selden, despised and trampled on by the world, neglected and contemned by those that had abundant reasons for loving him, opposed by fortune in every shape, and seeing that all his best and most strenuous exertions to win his way availed not, but served only to heap up greater difficulties, committed a forgery, and that too under the signature of his guardian. That he was in a measure justified in taking some means to gain back the fortune stolen from him, may be admitted by all; but the law is not supposed to make any distinction in favor of such circumstances, and its dread sentence now hung over him, with nothing but the selfish griping hand of Saxelby to stay the blow. The event was not yet public, and here only was the last desperate hope of mercy. The agony of Luce's mind at this dread climax of suffering, must be imagined, not written. Every means was thought of every compromise was proffered-every suggestion that a tender and delicate girl almost maddened by the threatening evil could suggest, was resorted to, but they availed not. The hard hand of Saxelby could not yield-his ear could not catch the voice of mercy-his heart responded not to any cry-he must have justice. Luce was in the prisoner's dungeon, and worn with watching and grief and suffering, hung clinging to the neck of that brother who had wept and toiled for her so many years. She saw that brother broken down, the high purpose had flagged at last, the spirit had quailed, the spring had broken, and the heart that had beat so true and firm for her was now at her feet, and the storm had beaten it nigh to its death. Was there no hope? Could she do nothing? Was there nothing left for a brain on the brink of madness? No dreadful, desperate, damning resort? Ah! there was-it smote her like lightning-she lingered a moment-rose-clasped her brotherkissed him-and with a wild look burst from the prison. In a moment she was at the door of Saxelby, in the next at his feet. There she poured out her soul-proffered him all—all that woman values, life, soul, honor-it was accepted. It broke her brother's heart. She became a maniac. Such is a story of facts, and the half dead creature I held in my arms was that same unfortunate sister. I conveyed her to the inn of the village where I learned that she was a great trouble to the place, and to one or two excellent families who treated her with every affection. They were obliged to confine her. Yet she always baffled them and resorted immediately to her brother's grave, where she would spend night and day sitting on the turf, and singing some little ditty of former days. I learned also to my eternal indignation, that save these two or three families, the village thought her little better than a wanton-for Saxelby had died, and the facts were known. Oh, cursed, and doubly cursed be this queasy prudery of the world! Cursed be the spirit that casts out the repentant lost one, who craves our forgiveness! Cursed be they who rant so noisily of virtue, and prate of self-government! Tremble, and be merciful!-ye have not been tried. The story of this girl made an impression on me never to be forgotten, and having so well as I was able made arrangement for her future comforts, I left the village. I afterwards passed through the place and learned that she was dead. She had continued as formerly to spend her time at the church yard, pulling the flowers from this or that mound to scatter them over her brother, singing her little songs and talking halfreasonable and half-wild to every chance passenger. Thus she continued until late fall, when she was found one cold morning stiff upon his grave-one arm bent beneath her and her lips softly apart, as if the last words that passed them was her brother's name. * VOL. I. TO ********* ******. I LOVE to watch the twilight sky But oh, more deeply love I far, I love to watch the waving grain When o'er it floats the summer breeze; I love to view the rippling plain 24 Yet love I more the smile divine Which flits across that face of thine, I love to read in Eastern lore, I love to hear the gentle swell I love the torrent-music there; METRICAL TRANSLATIONS OF A LATIN STANZA. On the cover of the Magazine is a picture of old Governor Yale, with two lines of Latin poetry beneath it. These lines are part of an inscription sent to the College at an early period by the Governor, and are written beneath an engraving which now hangs in the Trumbull Gallery. The engraving, we understand, was for many years mislaid, and was at last discovered, so much injured that it could scarcely be deciphered. The inscription is as follows: Effigies clarissimi viri D. D. Elihu Yale, En vir! cui meritas laudes ob facta, per orbis Aequor arans tumidum, gazas adduxit ab Indis, Quas Ille sparsit munificante manu: Inscitiæ tenebras, ut noctis luce coruscâ Phoebus, ab occiduis pellit et Ille plagis. Dum mens grata manet, nomen laudesque YALENSES |