And said, “To-night I'll ask forgiveness of her."

I went home over-early on that eve,
Having contrived to make myself believe
By various signs I kind o' knew and guessed
A thunder-storm was coming from the west.
('Tis strange, when one sly reason fills the
heart,

How many honest ones will take its part;
A dozen first-class reasons said 'twas right
That I should strike home early on that
night.)

Half out of breath, the cabin door I swung With tender heart-words trembling on my tongue,

But all within looked desolate and bare; My house had lost its soul: she was not there.

A pencilled note was on the table spread, And these are something like the words it said:

"The cows have strayed away again, I fear; I watched them pretty close; don't scold me, dear.

And where they are I think I nearly know:
I heard the bell not very long ago.
I've hunted for them all the afternoon;
I'll try once more: I think I'll find them

soon.

Dear, if a burden I have been to you

And haven't helped you as I ought to do, Let old-time memories my forgiveness plead; I've tried to do my best-I have indeed. Darling, piece out with love the strength I lack,

My thunder-storm had come, now 'twasn't needed.

I rushed out-door; the air was stained with black;

Night had come early on the storm-cloud's back;

And everything kept dimming to the sight, Save when the clouds threw their electric light,

When, for a flash, so clean-cut was the view,
I'd think I saw her, knowing 'twas not true.
Through my small clearing dashed wide
sheets of spray,

As if the ocean-waves had lost their way;
Scarcely a pause the thunder-battle made
In the bold clamor of its cannonade.
And she, while I was sheltered, dry and

warm,

Was somewhere in the clutches of this storm

She who, when storm-frights found her at her best,

Had always hid her white face on my breast!

My dog, who'd skirmished 'round me all the day,

Now, crouched and whimpering, in a corner lay;

I dragged him by the collar to the wall;
I pressed his quivering muzzle to a shawl.
Track her, old boy!" I shouted; and he
whined,

I followed him as faithful as I could.

game.

All night we dragged the woods without avail;

could trace

Upon the pale but sweetly resolute face,

the trail.

Three times again my cabin home I found, Half hoping she might be there safe and sound,

But each time 'twas an unavailing care; My house had lost its soul: she was not there.

When, climbing the wet trees, next morning

sun

Laughed at the ruin that the night had done, Bleeding and drenched, by toil and sorrow bent,

Back to what used to be my home I went. But as I neared our little clearing-groundListen! I heard the cow-bell's tinkling sound;

The cabin door was just a bit ajar;

It gleamed upon my glad eyes like a star. "Brave heart," I said, "for such a fragile form!

She made them guide her homeward through the storm."

Such pangs of joy I never felt before; "You've come!" I shouted, and rushed through the door.

Yes, she had come and gone again. She lay

away

WILL CARLETON.

T

HE use of carved blocks for the multiplication of copies of playing-cards and devotional pictures gave birth to principle which has effected, and is still effecting, the most important changes in the world. These devotional pictures had short legends or texts attached to them; and when a text had to be printed, it was engraved in a solid piece, as well as the picture. The first person who seized who seized upon the idea that the text or legend might be composed of separate letters capable of rearrangement after the impressions were taken off, so as to be applied, without new cutting, to other texts and legends, had secured the principle upon which the printing art was to depend. It was easy to extend the principle from a few lines to a whole page, and from one page to many, so as to form a book; but then were seen the great labor and expense of cutting so many separate letters upon small pieces of wood or metal, and another step was required to be made before the principle was thoroughly worked out. This step consisted in the ready multiplication of the separate letters by casting metal in moulds. Lastly, instead of using the old Chinese mode of friction to pluce impressions, a press was to be perfected. All these gradations were undoubtedly the result of long and patient experiments carried on by several

individuals who each saw the importance of the notion they were laboring to work out. It is this circumstance which has given rise to the interminable controversies as to the inventors of printing, some claiming the honor for Coster of Haarlem, and some for Guttenberg of Mentz; and, as is usual in all such disputes, it was represented that the man to whom public opinion had assigned the credit of the invention had stolen it from another, who, as is also usual in these cases, thought of it in a dream or received it by some other mysterious revelation. The general consent of Europe now assigns the chief honor to Guttenberg.

During the summer of 1837 a statue of John Guttenberg by Thorwaldsen was erected at Mentz (or Mayence), and on the 14th of August and the following days a festival was held there, upon the occasion of the inauguration of the monument. Abundant evidence has been brought forward of late years to show that Guttenberg deserves all the honors of having conceived, and in great part perfected, an art which has produced the most signal effects upon the destinies of mankind. At that festival of Mentz-at which many hundred persons were assembled from all parts of Europe to do honor to the inventor of printing-no rival pretensions were put forward, although many of the compatriots of Coster of Haarlem. were present. The fine statue of Guttenberg was opened amidst a universal burst of enthusiasm. Never were the shouts of a