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feeling of instant repulsion. Not that he was coarse or rude in his exterior-that was polished; but there were a sensualism and want of principle about him that could be felt.

They had been in the house only a week or two, when their oldest child, a beautiful boy, was taken ill. He had fever, and complained of distress in his back, and pain in his head. The mother appeared anxious; but the father treated the matter lightly, and said he would be well again in a few hours.

"I think you'd better call in a doctor," Mrs. Darlington heard the mother say, as her husband stood at the chamber-door ready to go

away.

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Nonsense, Jane," he replied. "You are easily frightened. There's nothing serious the matter."

"I'm afraid of scarlet fever, Henry," was answered to this.

“ Fiddlesticks ! You're always afraid of something," was lightly and unkindly returned. Mrs. Marion said no more, and her husband went away. About half an hour afterwards, as Mrs. Darlington sat in her room, there was a light tap at her door, which was immediately opened, and Mrs. Marion stepped in. Her face was pale, and it as some moments before her quivering lips could articulate.

"Won't you come up and look at my Willy?" she at length said, in a tremulous voice. "Certainly, ma'am," replied Mrs. Darlington, rising immediately. "What do you think ails your little boy?""

"I don't know, ma'am; but I'm afraid of scarlet fever-that dreadful disease!"

Mrs. Darlington went up to the chamber of Mrs. Marion. On the bed lay Willy, his face flushed with fever, and his eyes wearing a glassy lustre.

66 Do you feel sick, my dear?" asked Mrs. Darlington, as she laid her hand on his burning forehead.

"Yes, ma'am," replied the child.

"Where are you sick?"

66

My head aches."

66

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Is your throat sore?"

'Yes, ma'am."

"Very sore?"

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not come for two hours, in which time Willy had grown much worse. He looked serious, and answered all questions evasively. After writing a prescription, he gave a few directions, and said he would call again in the evening. At his second visit, he found his patient much worse; and, on the following morning, pronounced it a case of scarlatina.

Already, Willy had made a friend in every member of Mrs. Darlington's family, and the announcement of his dangerous illness was received with acute pain. Miriam took her place beside Mrs. Marion in the sick chamber, all her sympathies alive, and all her fears awakened; and Edith and her mother gave every attention that their other duties in the household would permit.

Rapidly did the disease, which had fixed itself upon the delicate frame of the child, run its fatal course. On the fourth day he died in the arms of his almost frantic mother.

Though Mrs. Marion had been only a short time in the house, yet she had already deeply interested the feelings of Mrs. Darlington and her two eldest daughters, who suffered with her in the affliction almost as severely as if they had themselves experienced a bereavement. And this added to the weight, already painfully oppressive, that rested upon them.

The nearer contact into which the family of Mrs. Darlington and the bereaved mother were brought by this affliction, discovered to the former many things that strengthened the repugnance first felt towards Mr. Marion, and awakened still livelier sympathies for his suffering wife.

One evening, a week after the body of the child was borne out by the mourners and laid to moulder in its kindred dust, the voice of Mr. Marion was heard in loud, angry tones. He was alone with his wife in their chamber. This chamber was next to that of Edith and Miriam, where they at the time happened to be. What he said they could not make out; but they distinctly heard the voice of Mrs. Marion, and the words

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"If you would like to have him called in, I Then the door of the chamber was opened, and will send the waiter to his office."

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Mrs. Marion looked troubled and alarmed. My husband doesn't think it anything serious," said she. "I wanted him to go for the doctor."

"Take my advice, and send for a physician," replied Mrs. Darlington.

"If you will send for Dr. M, I will feel greatly obliged," said Mrs. Marion.

The doctor was sent for immediately. He did

Mr. Marion went down stairs. The closing of the front door announced his departure from the house. Edith and her sister sat listening for some minutes after Marion had left, but not a movement could they perceive in the adjoining chamber.

"Strange! What can it mean?" at length said Miriam, in a husky whisper. Edith breathed heavily to relieve the pressure on her bosom, but made no answer.

"He didn't strike her?" said Miriam, her face growing paler as she made this suggestion. The moment this was uttered, Edith arose quickly, and moved towards the door.

"Where are you going?" asked her sister. "Into Mrs. Marion's room."

"Oh! no, don't!" returned Miriam, speaking from some vague fear that made her heart shrink.

But Edith did not heed the words. Her light tap at Mrs. Marion's door was not answered. Opening it softly, she stepped within the chamber. On the bed, where she had evidently thrown herself, lay Mrs. Marion; and, on approaching and bending over her, Edith discovered that she was sleeping. On perceiving this, she retired as noiselessly as she had entered.

Ten, eleven, twelve o'clock came, and yet Mr. Marion had not returned. An hour later than this, Edith and her sister lay awake, but up to that time he was still away. On the next morning, when the bell rang for breakfast, and the family assembled at the table, the places of Mr. and Mrs. Marion were vacant. From their nurse it was ascertained that Mr. Marion had not come home since he went out on the evening before, and that his wife had not yet arisen. Between nine and ten o'clock, Mrs. Darlington sent up to know if Mrs. Marion wished anything, but was answered in the negative. Åt dinner-time, Mr. Marion did not make his appearance, and his wife remained in her chamber. Food was sent to her, but it was returned

untasted.

During the afternoon, Mrs. Darlington knocked at her door; but the nurse said that Mrs. Marion asked to be excused from seeing her. At supper-time, food was again sent to her room; but, save part of a cup of tea, nothing was tasted. After tea, Mrs. Darlington called again at her room, but the desire to be excused from seeing her was repeated. Marion did not return that night.

Nearly a week passed, the husband still remaining away, and not once during that time had Mrs. Marion been seen by any member of the family. At the end of this period, she sent word to Mrs. Darlington that she would be glad to see her.

When the latter entered her room, she found her lying upon the bed, with a face so pale and grief-stricken, that she could not help an exclamation of painful surprise.

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My dear madam, what has happened?” said she, as she took her hand.

Mrs. Marion was too much overcome by emotion to be able to speak for some moments. Acquiring self-possession at length, she said, in a low, sad voice

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been absent for a week. He went away in a moment of anger, vowing that he would never return. Hourly have I waited since, in the hope that he would come back. But, alas! I have thus far received from him neither word nor sign."

Mrs. Marion here gave way to her feelings, and wept bitterly.

"Did he ever leave you before?" asked Mrs. Darlington, as soon as she had grown calm. "Once."

"How long did he remain away?" "More than a year."

"Have you friends?"

"I have no relative but an aunt, who is very poor."

Mrs. Darlington sighed involuntarily. On that very day she had been seriously examining into her affairs, and the result was a conviction that, under her present range of expenses, she must go behindhand with great rapidity. Mr. and Mrs. Marion were to pay fourteen dollars a week. Thus far, nothing had been received from them, and now the husband had gone off and left his family on her hands. She could not turn them off; yet how could she bear up under this additional burden?

All this passed through her mind in a moment, and produced the sigh which distracted her bosom.

"Do you not know where he has gone?" she asked, seeking to throw as much sympathy and interest in her voice as possible, and thus to conceal the pressure upon her own feelings which the intelligence had occasioned.

Mrs. Marion shook her head. She knew

that, in the effort to speak, her voice would fail her.

silence. This was broken, at length, by Mrs. For nearly the space of a minute there was Marion, who again wept violently. As soon as the passionate burst of feeling was over, Mrs. Darlington said to her, in a Kind and sympathizing voice-

friendless altogether. Though you have been "Do not grieve so deeply. You are not with us only a short time, we feel an interest in you, and will not"

The sentence remained unfinished. There was the unhappy woman a home for herself and an impulse in Mrs. Darlington's mind to proffer children; but a sudden recollection of the em barrassing nature of her own circumstances checked the words on her tongue.

"I cannot remain a burden upon you," "But where quickly answered Mrs. Marion. can I go? What shall I do?"

The last few words were spoken half to herself, in a low tone of distressing despondency.

"For the present," said Mrs. Darlington, anxious to mitigate, even in a small degree, the anguish of the unhappy woman's mind, "let this give you no trouble. Doubtless the way will open before you. After the darkest hour the morning breaks."

Yet, even while Mrs. Darlington sought thus

to give comfort, her own heart felt the weight did Mrs. Darlington and her family; and none upon it growing heavier. Scarcely able to stand could have extended more willingly a helping up in her difficulties alone, here was a new bur-hand in time of need. But, in sustaining the den laid upon her. burden of her support, they felt that the additional weight was bearing them under. (To be concluded in our next.)

None could have sympathized more deeply with the afflicted mother and deserted wife than

DAYS GONE.

BY MRS. WHITE.

We sometimes sigh, that hours once seen
Over the threshold by Old Time,
May never more come back again,

Except in thought, or Poet's rhyme.
Days gone! days gone! how sadly sounds
This echo of the heart's regret,
Above the grave where youth's warm joys
(Like fallen stars for ever set)
Lie darkly down, beneath the flowers
That sweetly strew those vanished hours.

But when the alchemy of grief

Converts Time's golden grains to sand, And there is laid upon the heart

The ice touch of her trembling handWhen fiery bars of trial glow

Upon the path we have to tread,
And but for Hope's supporting hand

Our feet had stumbled in their dread,
We gladly cry, with grateful tone,
For ever pass'd-days gone! days gone!

THE MIRROR IN THE HALL.

BY ADA TREVANION.

The ivy green o'er Marsden Hall

Its fadeless wreaths hath flung,
And moss-tufts hang upon the wall
Where warlike bugles hung:
Tall weeds have overgrown the lawn
Where smoothest turf was seen,
And bound the colt and forest-fawn
Where lordly steps have been.

Within, no more the minstrel sings

While Beauty lists the lay,

For bard and dame are with the things
That long have pass'd away;
The gilding from the doors is gone,
The painting from the panes

And nought save one old mirror lone,
Of all the past, remains.

Crumbled beneath the hillock low
The skilful hand must be,

Which carved its worn frame, long ago,

With leaf and fleur-de-lis ;

And for the bloom, and grace, and might,
Its glass once mirror'd back,
It now but 'shrines the orbs of night
Upon their silent track.

And thus with man's proud, restless heart,
It tells me it will prove,

When from his mind the forms depart
Of earthly pomp, and love;

And his long-troubled waves of thought
At last in stillness lic,
Reflecting but the pure light caught
From holy things on high.
Ramsgate, Nov. 12th, 1851.

CALVIN'S DEATH-BED.

BY THE HON. JULIA A. MAYNARD.

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[John Calvin, the celebrated Reformer, was born in Picardy, in the year 1509. He originally studied civil law; but turning his thoughts to divinity, he found the tenets he professed made it unsafe for him to reside in his native country; he alternately settled at Geneva, where his influence, combined with others, caused the burning of Servetus, whose free-thinking opinions offended the theological tyrant whose severity towards dissentients was notorious in all respects, and who might not inaptly have been termed the Protestant Pope of Christendom. Calvin's learning, nevertheless, was great and profound; his doctrines forming the basis of the national church belonging to the shrewd people of Scotland. I think, however, that something hard and unloving in the nature of the man is not to be separated from the extreme severity of his tenets; and that though probably sincere, his sincerity was in strict harmony with his disposition.]

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Shade of Ser. John Calvin, lo! Servetus wanders still,

Restless, unquiet, to disturb your rest!

Cal. (Faintly and distractedly.) Wanders
within this dim, bewildered brain!
Who pil'd the stake? Not I, you cannot say!
Shade of Ser. You pil'd it, with your words—
O, cruel words!

You wrong'd the Gospel, and you murder'd me.
| John Calvin, retribution comes-repent!
'Tis your last hope; repent your guilty deed.
If I mistaken, blinded, led astray---
Denied the truth, it was not yours to kill;
But, by mild word and meek entreaty, gain
What you have crush'd perchance eternally.

Cal. Where were the toga'd crew of hot Vienne?
Were not the embers warm? My soul's on fire;
I did mistake, in my wild zeal, the truth,
And wrought the work of my antagonists.

Spectre of Gruet. Consistent Calvin, thus your Of solid strength. Self-praise you say this is!

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heart?

O! one word!

(Two Shades vanish.)

Adieu!

Cal. Is there no stay to prop this breaking
Gone-gone, poor ghosts, where I must follow you!
Give me a softer cushion-softer yet-
Where I may still these wildly throbbing brows.
John Calvin, the Reformer, ho! arise!

And shake aside this weakness of the soul!
Am I not mighty in my power of thought-
Geneva's idol-the Pope's sorest thorn?

Come! I must brace these failing nerves of mine,
Nor play the whining coward at the last.

The magistrates will come anon to view
My dying struggles, and note every word,

O, voice of truth! that vibrates through my brain,
And points the mottled errors of my life.
Hush! there's a stir! O, pride of spirit! shut
These babbling lips, that let my folly out,
As the blood tingles through my languid limbs
And tells me life is ebbing to a close,
And little is the space to speculate.

(Magistrates enter.)

First Magis. We blessings crave, O Counsellor, rever'd!

Second Magis. How will Geneva bear to lose you thus?

Cal. I give ye greeting, Sirs! This kindness is
All undeserved by me. The time draws near
When to yon unexplored and dark abyss,
With sin upon my head, I must descend,
Amid the pure elect my name is writ,
Uncover'd in my nakedness, unless
Foredoom'd the spotless robe of grace to wear.
Ah, Sirs! if I have ever, in my haste,
Offended by rash deed or angry word,

In my warm zealousness have urg'd too much,
I crave-I humbly crave-your pardon all.
This is no time to wear false colours. No!
But, cloth'd with just and white humility,
I do exhort ye to sweet charity.

I fear in this I have neglected much,
By precept and example; it weighs here!

[Pointing to his heart.

And whispering say-" Thus, and O thus he spake, Weighs heavily!-yea, heavily! And, now,

This wondrous man-this modern Solomon!"

Is this but empty vanity? How so?

What bell-like voice seems ringing in my ear?
I've done some good unto pure faith-made clear
Obscurest passages; my learned ken
And massive knowledge have pil'd up a tow'r

Accept the blessing of a dying man-

The prayers-the tears! My errors have been great. Farewell, my friends! God speed ye all-Farewell! Guard well our faith! our church, Geneva's pride! Aud be your lives a meck consistency!

(Magistrates depart, and scene closes.)

LASTING ATTACHMENTS OF MEN OF GENIUS.

No records are more interesting than those which tell of the attachments of men of geniusattachments often suddenly formed, and yet as remarkable for their constancy as for their fervency. Years may still speed on, but imagination supplies every charm of which they may have robbed the beloved one; the grave may have withdrawn her from other eyes, but still her pure spirit lingers by her lover's side, in the haunts where they so often met.

Love at first sight was exemplified in Raphael. His window overlooked the garden of the adjoining house, and there he saw the lovely girl who amused herself among her flowers; he saw her lave her beautiful feet in the lake; he fell passionately in love. He soon made his feelings known; his love was not rejected, and she became his wife. He is said to have been so passionately enamoured of her beauty, that he never could paint if she were not by his side. The lineaments of that fair face still live in some of his sublime productions; and thus while she gave inspiration, he conferred immortality.

Though among poets the most remarkable instances of ardent and enduring attachment may be found, their marriages have not, generally speaking, been happy. Milton failed

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in securing the felicity of wedded love, which he has so beautifully apostrophised. Neither the home of Dante, nor that of Shakspere, was one of domestic happiness. Racine's tender sensibility met with no responsive sympathy in his partner; and Molliere experienced all the bitterness of the jealous doubts and misgivings which he has so admirably depicted. Yet the Poet is of all, perhaps, the most capable of strong attachments. His warm imagination throws its glow over all that he loves; home, with all its fond associations; "the mother who looked on his childhood; and the bosom-friend dearer than all," are so impressed upon his feelings that they mingle with every mood of his fancy. True, some critics, of more ingenuity than judgment, have doubted the real existence of the romantic attachments by which some of the finest poets have been inspired; and endeavour to explain as ingenious allegories the impassioned and pathetic effusions which find their way to every heart. Beattie-of whom we might have expected better things-sees, in the ardent expressions of Petrarch's devotion to Laura, the aspirings of an ambitious spirit for the laureatecrown; and Dante has been said to have allegorised his energy in the study of theology

under the guise of a passion for Beatrice. But the great charm of Dante's poetry is its deep earnestness and truthfulness, and those touches of tenderness which are scattered throughout his sublime work, like the wild-flowers of home unexpectedly met with in drear and remote regions; the facts of an imperishable attachment can be traced throughout his whole poetry. It is the custom in Florence for friends, accompanied by their children, to assemble together on the first of May, to celebrate the delightful season. A number of his neighbours had been invited by Folco Portinari to do honour to the day. Dante Alighieri, then a boy of nine years, was among them; young as he was, he was instantly attracted by the loveliness of one amidst the group of children. She was about his own age, the daughter of the host. Through all the vicissitudes of a long and eventful life, that early impression was never effaced-he loved her ever after with an intenseness of passion and unshaken constancy that gave a colour to his whole existence-in the various paths of life which he was destined to tread; her image was ever present, inspiring the desire for distinction; their early intercourse, like the sweet May morning on which they had first met, was bright and happy; the purity and artlessness of youth made it so. The young companions of Beatrice rallied her on the devotion of the youthful poet, and the gay sallies with which she herself treated the ardour of his love, only served to make her the more engaging in his eyes. She was induced to bestow her hand elsewhere; more, it has been said, in accordance with duty than inclination; for it is supposed her heart was not insensible to the love of the gifted youth, whose devotion, purity, and intellectuality might have found their way to one harder than hers. Dante fell sick and slowly recovered; whether her marriage was a subject of which he could not bear to think, it is certain that it is not once alluded to in his poetry. Beatrice did not long survive her marriage: within the year she was borne to her grave. The anguish of Dante was so intense, that it brought on a fearful illness, in which his life was long despaired of. Boccacio mentions that he was so altered by grief that he could scarcely be known. Beatrice occupied all his thoughts on the anniversary of her death, he sat alone thinking of her, and pourtraying "an angel on his tablets." The influence which she had over him was as powerful in death as it had been in life-still to be worthy of loving, and of joining one so good and pure beyond the grave was his constant aim; all that he desired in renown, all that he wished for in fame, was to prove himself not undeserving of having devoted himself to her in the camp-in the highest diplomatic positions, this was his great object in all his trials, and they were many and severe: this inspired him with a lofty dignity, and supported him under insults and injuries which would have broken many a proud spirit; but sublimed above the concerns of earth, his affection was such as might be felt for one translated

to a celestial abode. By continually dwelling on but one subject, his mind became utterly estranged from passing events, and he often fell into such fits of abstraction and despondency that his friends fearing that his reason would be completely upset, anxiously sought to give him some new interest in life, and at length prevailed on him to marry: this made him still more wretched; he could not, if he would, detach his mind from dwelling on her who had been his early and his only love, and to all his other misfortunes that of an unhappy marriage was added.

Like the attachment of Dante for Beatrice, that of Petrarch for Laura was the result of a sudden impression: he had hitherto ridiculed the notion of the power of love, but he was yet to experience it in its most extreme intensity. He was twenty-three when he first saw Laura de Sade, then in her twentieth year: he has himself recorded over and over again the exact hour, day, and year; it was at six in the morning on the 6th of April, 1327; it was at the church of Santa Claire at Avignon. Everything connected with that memorable meeting has been dwelt on with fond minuteness by the poet: the dress which she wore, the green robe sprigged with violets; every movement, every look was for ever treasured in his memory: the celestial beauty of her countenance bespoke the purity for which she was so remarkable in that age of licentiousness, and in contemplating her loveliness, reverence for virtue mingled with admiration. Petrarch and Laura often met in society, and became intimately acquainted; he was charmed with her conversation: she appears to have been in every way capable of appreciating Petrarch, and deserving of the influence which she possessed over him, which was exerted only to exalt his sentiments and strengthen his principles: though unhappy in her marriage, true to her vows, she preserved all that purity of thought which gave such an unspeakable charm to her beauty. The chivalrous spirit of the age encouraged a devotion to the fair sex, and platonic attachments were the fashion of the day, so that the dignity of Laura was not compromised when Petrarch made her the object of his poetical devotions, and the celebrity which he gained by this homage to her charms may have gratified much better feelings than those of vanity; the faith which she had pledged, though to an unworthy object, she held most sacred: she repressed the feelings of the enthusiastic poet whenever they appeared transgressing the bounds of friendship. Once, when in an unguarded inoment he ventured to allude to his passion, the look of indignation with which she regarded him, and the tone in which she said, "I am not the person you take me for," overwhelmed him with shame and sorrow. hopeless passion, of which he only dared to speak in song-and even the allowed indulgence of thus giving it expression, had a fatal effect; his health gradually declined; he grew pale and thin, and the charming vivacity which had been the delight of his friends utterly forsook him ;

The

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