He saw the smile so much like life,
And laid her gently on the bed,
And drew the heavy curtains back,
Scarcely believing she was dead.
Upon the covering of the couch

One round white arm he gently drew,
And from the crimson velvet rose

A seeming soft and life-like hue.
But 'twas delusion-and he clasped
The fair girl to his heart once more,
And thought of all the hopeless love

That trusting creature's young heart bore.
The gloom of death had passed away,
Again the business din was heard,
And by ambition, glory, power,
Man's restless heart again was stirred.
Within his gorgeous library

Sat Ernest by his dark-eyed wife,
But sadder was his thoughtful glance,
A gloom had fallen on his life.
In vain the beauteous Isabelle

Had sought by every witching charm,
By voice of song and sunny smile,

The coldness of his heart to warm. He'd fold her closely to his breast,

And call her " Isabelle, my wife,"
Then turn away with throbbing brow
To hide from her the spirit's strife.
He rose at length, and lifting up

A gorgeously embroidered screen,
A picture richly framed with gold
Was by the faint and dim light seen.
A young fair girl, upon a couch,

With long, thick curls of tangled hair,
And on the pillow closely pressed

A lily cheek all pale and fair.
Small fingers delicate and white,
Were lightly clasped upon her breast,
And finely rounded, snowy arm

By those rich golden curls caressed.
She turned with an inquiring glance,
And then to her the tale he told,
The while the small and jeweled hand
That fondly pressed his own, grew cold.

V.

Long years passed on-but in her heart The memory of that fair browed girl With her white fingers meekly clasped,

And that rich wealth of golden curl, Remained a chill, despairing weight.

And then the sad and mournful look Of him beside her, coldly kind

And kindly cold, she could not brook. Thus side by side with splendid pomp They passed adown the path of life, VOL. XX. 27

I'VE a natural modesty, my precious reader. A sort of mauvais honte, that clings to me so tenaciously, I cannot even introduce myself to you alone, and so as Dora and I are "hand in glove," I have literally crept beneath her protecting shadow; for Dora is half a head taller than your humble servant. "You don't believe I am bashful?" Well! that's the unkindest cut of all. What, doubt a lady's word! I had not thought you guilty of such rudeness. "I would not have told you of it so frankly, if I were?" Why not? Let me whisper in your ear a moment. 'Tis the safest way by half to own a thing of this kind at once. It saves a world of trouble. Therefore with this convenient knowledge I have mortified myself into a confession, and now throw myself on your mercy. Nay! do not look incredulous again. You may ask Dora herself, (when you have an opportunity.) So doubt on, my precious unbeliever, to the end of the chapter, while I tell you a story (shall I?) of a May-day ramble.

To be sure the day was coolish, yet the birds trilled and gurgled with summerish delight, and the warm sunlight broke in through the trees and laid a loving hand upon us, as if to make amends for the coolness of our reception. And then we were such a merry party in ourselves. There was May Lindsey, as bright and fresh as the day itself, and by her side, replying to her coquettish little speeches as quietly and absently as if she were a spinster on the shady side, instead of the bright dazzling creature she is, was Winthrop Lansing. I was fairly provoked out of all patience with the man. Had he no sensibility whatever to remain proof against so much loveliness? Mayhap the sweet girlish laughter that gurgled out its melody so frequently behind him, disturbed his gallantry. I should not wonder, for nobody has a more bewitching laugh than Dora Lawton, though I never heard that it ever disturbed any one; yet people are differently constituted I'll own, and the light tones and lighter laughter that were fast beguiling the fickle heart of Bob Russell, might have had the contrary effect on our young L. L. D. Truth is stranger than fiction, as you will see

when we get to the end of this May-day ramble.

There was Marion Lindsey's sister Kate, a little more than sixteen, with a bearing like a princess; and my thoughtless brother Will for her cavalier. Ah what a charming couple they made! Kate's slight figure was shrouded in a crimson shawl which did not conceal the undulating grace of her motion, and a little gipsey hat set on a cloud of gold. She reminded me of a picture I once saw of one of Scott's heroines, Rose Bradwardine, with a light in her eyes half dreamy, half coquettish. I don't wonder my gay, light-hearted brother, was captivated. And this brother of mine is a young sophomore, rather good looking, (resembles his sister,) and rather vain as young sophs are apt to be, (not at all resembling his sister in this particular.)

Ah! I had forgotten my vaunted modesty. Pardon me! do, while 1 tell you the rest of my story. I wonder if you like young school teachers as well as I do? we had a love of a one with us on that day-Kate Dexter, a perfect jewel of a "schoolmarm." Not a demure old maidenish jewel, but a fresh, charming young girl, somewhere in her twenties. I like male teachers too-sometimes. That is, if they are young. Oh! I hate your dull, stupid old prigs, with white starched neckcloths and steel-bowed spectacles, that are sometimes employed to "teach the young ideas how to shoot." Ah no! give me one like our Arthur Lovel; that deep eyed, deep hearted young enthusiast, with his melting tones and dreamy smiles.

Next in my memory come a young southerner and his sister. She, a little, dark, indolently graceful creature, with the smallest possible hands and feet, and the softest black eyes in the world; and he, a proud, passionate fellow, with the southern fire breaking out in his energetic speech and liquid eyes. Last, though not least, comes Agnes Leslie, whom I will pass without a word of comment, for modesty forbids; and now introduce you to her companion-cousin Leslie Lindsey, a slight, aristocratic figure, with a pair of dark blue eyes that talk faster than his tongue. Do you recognize yourself, dear Leslie, in this slight sketch, or have your perceptive faculties become obscured since last we met? I was satisfied with my companion, though it seemed that some of our party were not with theirs. May's eyes waxed brighter as her companion became more abstracted, and her haughty little mouth took a look of ineffable disdain, and the thin nostrils dilated with every breath.

She was piqued quite out of her usual good nature. She, who had had half the marriageable men in the country at her feet, to be so neglected by this village lawyer! But Winthrop Lansing was of different metal; you could see that with half a glance. In one or two seasons, as I subsequently learned, he had gone through society, from its gilded door of bright anticipations, to the inner vestibule, and so had grown sick of city airs and city graces. And—but I will not anticipate. One thing was very evident,he was bent upon enjoying himself after his own heart, unmindful of the frowns that might be cast upon him from a score of belles. May's eyes were opened a little when we came to our destination, which was where a cluster of rocks nestled in amid a wilderness of trees. Divans and ottomans of Nature's own fashioning, with a carpet for our feet softer than a Wilton-its ground-work of green, relieved by butter-cups and daisies. The foliage was not yet thick enough to exclude the welcome sunlight, which stole through in warm rays upon the bare smooth rock, making a hearthstone fit for a princess. And I noticed a pair of small feet laid out to dry upon it; and presently our delinquent lawyer (no longer in a mist, for he had walked out of his abstraction when he discovered the feet aforementioned) came round and seated himself beside the owner of them. You would have tho't him a rising physician by the anxiety he manifested for the welfare of those little boots. deed you had better remove them, Dora, or allow me to do it for you," he said; and then the sweet voice of Dora Lawton broke in like the campagna attachment in one of Boardman and Gray's deliciously toned pianos.

"In

"No, Mr. Lansing, I think they will be much better for letting alone."

"So my advice goes for nothing," was the reply in reproachful tones.

"No, but you are unsphered when you give such advice. It isn't professional, you know." "It isn't professional advice, I'll allow, that I was giving."

"What then?" responded Dora, with an innocent yet blushful air.

I did not hear the reply, for he stooped till his face was on a level with hers-to gather a daisy. But I saw the rose color in her cheek deepen to crimson and a bright glance shot out from under dusky fringes. Then she started up with the blush yet warm upon her face, and half pettishly exclaimed, "I thought we were going to have a swing." Ah! that swing, reader! Some people

say they don't like to swing; how I pity them. They know nothing of the intense enjoyment to feel the rush of air, purer than you ever felt it before on your earth stained brow, and leaving the trees that seemed so high above you far beneath, while you are getting nearer Heaven as it were. I do not mean one of your new fangled affairs, curtained and cushioned to an indolent luxury. No! no! a regular country swing. There's a spice of danger in that too, which renders it more exciting. Luckily if all mishaps have as pretty an ending as ours did. That's the thing after all. It is n't the danger we ladies dread so much as an awkward ending. A scratch or bruise is nothing in comparison to it. I do so hate any awkward dilemma,-don't you, my rose-bud reader? Well, the rope was none of the strongest, yet it would have done very well if Bob Russell hadn't endeavored to perform some of his dare-devil feats upon it. I thought I heard it give way slightly, but I had made up my mind for another flight in the air with Dora for my companion; so I said nothing, yet other ears than mine had caught the sound, slight as it was, and "you had better not try it, Agnes, it isn't firm," cautioned Leslie, as I sprang into the swing.

"Nonsense! do you think that we, two such little mortals as Dora and I, can break this great strong rope?"

"But it isn't firm. It has given way somewhere."

"Don't you think it will bear?" said I, appealing to Carleton the southerner who stood beside me.

"Two such little mortals as you and Miss Lawton!" he laughed, quoting my words, and then laying his hand upon the rope to test its strength. Yes, indeed, you're much too light to break it even if it is worn a little."

"Yes, vanity is light, you know, Mr. Carleton; come, Dora."

"It is very careless," broke in Leslie again. I was in a perverse reckless mood that day, and I hated to give it up. Carleton with his usual impulsive gallantry exclaimed, "There is no danger, Mr. Lindsey. I've tried the rope, and I'll take the responsibility."

"There, Leslie, three against one!" said I, and away we went into the sweet fresh air.

"Higher! Mr. Carleton, higher!" I called out, and away we went again till the larks fairly took us for one of them. "Isn't it delicious, Dora ?"

It was enchanting! I looked down, far down;

it was now into the little ravine beneath us, and then, in a twinkling, back we went, when I answered Leslie's look of anxiety with one of triumph. "One more!" I hallooed, and up, up we went into the blue ether. I was away in a land of unreal visions, when a sudden quiver of the rope brought my wits back from their woolgathering. "Dora, the rope has broken," said I, as coolly as I was able.

"Which side ?"

"I don't know; keep your hold."

There was a shock-a sudden and vivid remembrance of Leslie's caution—a sound of numerous voices in an indistinct murmur. Then came a dim consciousness, a reeling vision, and for a moment life stood still. The next I felt a cool dashing of water over my brow, and an earnest voice ejaculated, “Thank God, they are alive!" So after all, there was no tragic ending to my wilfulness, to serve as a warning to all obstinately inclined youths and maidens. We had only a few rents in our dresses. I wanted to cry terribly after it was all over, but I was ashamed to when I remembered my reckless daring; so 1 put on a wonderfully brave look, and tried to laugh it off. It wouldn't do, for I caught a pair of calm blue eyes regarding me with an incredulous expression, and then a voice murmured in my ear, "You might as well give it up, little girl, and let the tears come." And they did come-I couldn't help it, though I tried hard to hide them, they would gush through my fingers in spite of me.

Carleton, poor fellow, was terribly frightened, and declared if we had been severely injured he never would have forgiven himself. "I was completely unnerved, Miss Leslie," he said; so much so that I played a mere child's part, thereby losing a share in a golden opportunity for a display of my gallantry."

"And who was our preserver?" I questioned. "Mr. Lansing, yonder. Look, a picture for a painter, Miss Leslie."

So it was,-Dora sitting upon a moss covered stone, under a spreading tree, plucking to pieces with her small fingers a bunch of wild flowers that not a half hour since had decked her hair, while Lansing, with his head uncovered, and the gentle May breezes lifting his dark locks from a forehead beautiful in its white expanse, and the rich color trembling in his cheeks almost like a girl's, was playfully endeavoring to assist her in mending a prodigious rent in her dress. I do not think he was very successful, for it seemed to progress very slowly, though no

doubt pleasantly, for his tongue was more active than his fingers, and meanwhile the rent in Dora's dress is slowly closing up under his unskilful fingers, another one somewhere in the region of that little heart of hers, is rapidly growing larger under the influence of that oily tongue of his. It was passing strange! here had this man of the world, young, talented, and high bred, passed through the ordeal of gay society, where the highest physical beauty, the most exquisitely cultivated intellect and the rarest fascinations, were within his reach. He had but to stretch forth his hand to pluck the queenly rose, and yet he had turned away and chosen this little blue violet. For Dora is not beautiful nor elegant. You would not admire her so very much, you would only think she was quite a pretty brunette. Yet there is something fresh and piquante in this little brown gipsey, with her satin smooth hair and hazel eyes. Something altogether sweet in her rippling laugh and buoyant spirits. I did not wonder he turned from the low lute tones and ravishing beauty of Marion Lindsey to this little wood flower. He had seen enough of exotics, and he was not a man to be beguiled away from nature even if he had lived apart from her so long. He was true at last to the instincts God had given him. He had found his destiny in sweet Dora Lawton.

But where is the slighted beauty all this time, -May Lindsey? Ah! that is the best of it. Our regal Marion, with her aristocratic pride and guarded heart, had been listening to the dreamy spiritual conversation of Arthur Lovel, the poor schoolmaster, whom she had deemed so much beneath her, till her pride and pique had entirely vanished under that nameless charm he exerts over every body. I never estimated it more highly than when I saw this gay coquettish girl carried out of her lightness and subdued to the deepest tone of harmony with one of the rarest minds in nature. Nay! nay! my precious reader. I'm not making her out in love with him. She liked him exceedingly-that is all, and how could she help it? You would as soon think of disliking a brother as Arthur Lovel. So after all I have n't ended with a marriage. I have only shadowed forth the destiny of my friend Dora, and given you an inkling of the state of some other hearts. If you can weave a romance out of either, you may only be anticipating some future effort of my own. I say may, for as yet the parties themselves have gone no farther than the agreeable first chapter. May the farther

THE sunlight in my way

Hath never changed to gloom, And therefore at Thy feet I lay,

In their unwasted bloom, The flowers that into beauty sprung When hope her magic harp new strung.

While others strive with woe

On life's tempestuous sea, My bark, where fav'iing breezes blow, Glides smoothly on to Thee ; The hidden rock, the treacherous sand, I fear not, guided by Thy hand.

Whate'er the future bring

Of darkness, tears or pain,
Oh let my child-like spirit cling

To Thee, nor once complain;
Since all the past hath been so fair,
I will not doubt thy future care.

While such rich gifts are mine,

Love, friendship, thornless ways, Accept, now offered at Thy shrine,

My humble hymn of praise; But words can ne'er the warmth impart That glows around my grateful heart!

H. J. LEWIS.

LETTERS FROM THE WEST.

DEAR REPOSITORY:-I trust no formalities will be required in my communications; for I fear I should make a poor hand at such kind of nice things; besides I always find enough to do to fix up more important matters for a familiar letter, and were I to expend my little ingenuity in arranging the precise forms of etiquette, I might fall short in substantials. So then let us have an old fashioned chat about things really important. Universalism, my friend, is a mutual friend of thine and mine, and any thing concerning it will be interesting to both of us, as well as to great many others who have look

ed into thy intelligent countenance for years with unrebuked familiarity; and who perhaps may look upon thee with pleasure as the thoughts of my own brain are reflected in kindness by thee. At any rate, I must own that I feel a little interest that way. Not that I am envious, respected Repository, of thy great influence and usefulness, but I would humbly seek thee as a medium, knowing thy susceptibility, through which to reach my fellow beings. In these days of extraordinary communications and mysterious mediums, I am ambitious to cominunicate something in the good old way. The old paths, trod by Patriarch, Prophet, and Apostle, still look inviting. The old way, to say the least, is reliable; and old truth is all I aspire to speak of. Universalism I take to be an old truth. How is it then with this old truth in these days of progress? Out here in the great West, I think Universalism remains the same "good tidings of great joy to all people." I believe none of its brightness is tarnished-none of its glory lost, by the vagaries of the present era in new fangled absurdities and new dressed follies. True, we have here new sights-new notions, and very great latitude of sentiment. But we have no light that is not dazzled by the splendor of that brightest ray of the Sun of Righteousness that illumines the whole creation of God in purity and bliss. Nothing has equalled, nothing can equal the bright array of lesser truths that cluster around this, and make the system we call Universalism, replete with man's redemption and God's goodness. Progress may run itself weary in the charmed circle of knowledge, virtue and glory through which our race in Christ are passing. Thought may revel to all eternity among the attributes of Jehovah as manifested in the Lamb of God, and there behold unexplored regions of wisdom and love in prospective. This - all this, old-fashioned Universalism brings to human view. What more can mortals ask? rather what mortal, taught of Christ, could be induced to leave the temple where he is taught to worship and seek to learn by uncertain sounds and mysterious indications? None, I am sure, but the half converted and unenlightened, like the disciples of old who forsook their Master and fled before they were truly converted.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN.

THERE is nothing better suited to leave a favorable impression of the reality and pleasantness of the Christian religion, than to witness the dying scene of a true Christian.

It was at the close of a beautiful day in September that I was called to see a dear friend bid adieu to all that this world offers, and take her departure for that happy land where all is peace.

The sun was just disappearing beneath the horizon, and all around was still save the bleating of the sheep just penned in their folds, and the whip-poor-will's song afar off in the grove. On one side, was the high hills, raising their lofty heads far above me, and on the other, the valley through which wandered the sweet little river, and over which were interspersed the fields of golden corn; far in the distance was seen the broad, blue ocean, rolling on in all its majesty and greatness, and made to look still more beautiful by the last rays of the setting sun which were reflected upon its watery mirror; and I thought what a sweet time was this to die.

Consumption had laid fast hold upon Florence Lee. Slowly had we seen her droop, but alas! we were not expecting the end so soon. When first I knew Florence Leslie, she was in the bloom of youth-a maiden of eighteen summers, gentle and kind to all around her, and none knew her but to love her. She was not what the world calls beautiful, but she had a pleasantness of manner that endeared her to us all. Early in life she had learned to put her trust in God, and covenanted to serve him and him only; and as far as lay in her power, she endeavored to follow in her Savior's footsteps; but for all this she, as every one else, had faults-for there is none that is perfect. She was at that time the picture of health. Those rosy cheeks and that healthful countenance showed no marks of disease; and soon after, as I saw her approach the altar, leaning on the arm of Herbert Lee, to be joined in the holy band of matrimony, I thought her cup of happiness seemed to be full, and she was happy then, for few young people enter life with brighter prospects than they. Young and prosperous, they looked forward to long years of plea

sure.

But let us pass over a few short years.

They had laid two little ones in the silent grave, and the hectic flush, the dry, hard cough, and the pallid features, all speak but too sadly of the fate of the once young and healthy Florence Lee.