"tear down and build greater." One of the out-houses was "David, Noah, Andrew, Zepha, and we will also state that every one of these, as well as In pursuit of their daily avocations as "tillers of the soil," the dress and appearance of the Hutchinsons are suited to their work, and they engage in it so heartily and cheerfully that there is no doubt they enjoy it above any other mode of living they could possibly adopt. The utmost kindness and affection are manifested in their intercourse one with another, and they seem highly grateful to their city friends for the support so generously showered upon them. That support, we take the liberty of saying, has not been unwor thily bestowed. There are now a large number of people at work in that vicinity who, until recently, were destitute, or nearly destitute, of employment, and whose improved condition is owing entirely to the liberality and enterprise of these mountain warblers. Long may they live to gladden the hearts of the poor by their kindness, and delight the senses of all by their melodies. Yours truly, LOVE AND PASSION. tion of society, while the lowly lark, unseen and little prized, "Mr. Clay!" repeated the last footman on Mrs. K.'s flower-laden staircase. I have let you down as gently as possible, dear reader, but here we are in one of the most fashionable houses in May Fair. Pardon me a moment! Did I say I had let you down? What pyramid of the Nile is piled up like the gradations between complete insignificance and the effect of that footman's announcement? On the heels of Ernest, and named with the next breath of the menial's lips, came the bearer of a title laden with the emblazoned honours of descent. Had he entered a hall of statuary he could not have been less regarded. All eyes were on the pale forehead and calm lips that had entered before him; and the blood of the warriour who made the name, and of the statesmen and nobles who had borne it; and the accumulated honour and renown of centuries of unsullied distinctions-all these concentrated glories in the midst of the most polished and discriminating circle on earth, paled before the lamp of yesterday, burning in the eye of genius. Where is distinction felt? In secret, amid spendour? No! In the street and vulgar gaze? No! In the bosom of love? She only remembers it. Where then is the intoxicating cup of homage -the delirious draught for which brain, soul, and nerve, are tasked, tortured, and spent-where is it lifted to the lips? The answer brings me back. Eyes shining from amid jewels, voices softened with gentle breeding, smiles awaken. ing beneath costly lamps-an atmosphere of perfume, splendor and courtesy-these form the poet's Hebe, and the hero's Ganymede. These pour for ambition the draught that slakes his fever-these hold the cup to lips, drinking eagerly, that would turn away in solitude, from the ambrosia of the gods! Clay's walk through the sumptuous rooms of Mrs. R——, was like a Roman triumph. He was borne on from lip to lip-those before him anticipating his greeting, and those he left, still sending their bright and kind words after him. He breathed incense. Suddenly, behind him, he heard the voice of Eve Gore. She was making the tour of the rooms on the arm of a friend, and following Ernest, had insensibly tried to get nearer to him, and had become flushed and troubled in the effort. They had never before met in a large party, and her pride, in the universal attention he attracted, still more flushed her eyelids and injured her beauty. She gave him her hand as he turned, but the greeting that sprang to her lips was checked by a sudden consciousness that many eyes were on her, and she hesitated, murmured some broken words and was silent. The immediate attention that Clay X. Y. Zhad given to her, interrupted at the same moment the un dertone murmur around him, and there was a minute's silence in which the inevitable thought flashed across his mind that he had overrated her loveliness. Still the trembling and clinging clasp of her hand, and the appealing earnestness of her look told him what was in her heart, and when was ever genius ungrateful for love! He made a strong effort to reason down his disappointment, and had the embarrased girl resumed instantly her natural ease and playfulness, his sensitive imagination would have been conquered, and its recoil forgotten. But love, that lends us words, smiles, tears, all we want, in solitude, robs us in the gay crowd of everything but what we cannot use-tears! As the man she worshipped led her on through those bright rooms, Eve Gore, though she knew not why, felt the large drops ache behind her eyes. She would have sobbed if she had tried to speak. Clay had given her his arm, and resumed his barter of compliment with the crowd, and with it, a manner she had never before seen. He had been a boy, fresh, frank, ardent and unsuspicious, at Annesley Park. She saw him now in the cold and polished armour of a man who has been wounded as well as flattered by the world, and who presents his shield even to a smile. Impossible as it was that he should play the lover now, she felt wronged and hurt by his addressing to her the same tone of elegant trifling and raillery which was the key of the conversation around them. She knew too, that she herself was appearing to disadvantage, and before a brief hour had elapsed, she had become a prey to another feeling -the bitter avarice which is the curse of all affection for the gifted or the beautiful-an avarice that makes every smile given back for admiration, a gem torn from us—every word, even of thanks for courtesy, a life-drop of our hearts drank away. "The moon looks On many brooks, The brook can see no moon but this," contains the mordant secret of most hearts vowed to the love of remarkable genius or beauty. The supper-rooms had been some time open; from these and the dancing-hall, the half-weary guests were coming back to the deep fauteuils, the fresher air, and the graver society of the library which had served as an apartment of reception. With a clouded brow, thoughtful and silent, Eve Gore sat with her mother in a recess near the entrance, and Clay, who had kept near them, though their conversation had long since languished, stood in the centre of a small group of fashionable men, much more brilliant and far louder in his gaiety than he would have been with a heart at ease. It was one of those nights of declining May, when the new foliage of the season seems to have exhausted the air, and though it was near morning, there came through the open windows neither coolness nor vitality. Fans, faded wreaths, and flushed faces were universal. A footman stood suddenly in the vacant door. "Lady Mildred The announcements had been over for hours, and every eye was turned on the apparition of so late a comer. Quietly, but with a step as elastic as the nod of a water. lily, Lady Mildred glided into the room, and the high tones and unharmonized voices of the different groups suddenly ceased, and were succeeded by a low and sustained murmur of admiration. A white dress of faultless freshness of fold, a snowy turban, from which hung on either temple a cluster of crimson camelias, still wet with the night dew; long raven curls of undisturbed grace falling on shoulders of that undescribable and dewy coolness which follows a morning bath, giving the skin the texture and the opaque whiteness of the lily; lips and skin redolent of the repose and purity, and the downcast but wakeful eye so expressive of recent solitude, and so peculiar to one who has not spoken since she slept. These were attractions which in contrast with the paled glories around, elevated Lady Mildred at once into the predominant star of the night. "What news from the bottom of the sea, most adorable Venus ?" said a celebrated artist, standing out from the group, and drawing a line through the air with his finger as if he were sketching the flowing outline of her form. Lady Mildred laid her small hand in Clay's, and with a smile, but no greeting else, passed on. The bantering question of the great painter told her that her spell worked to a miracle, and she was too shrewd an enchantress to dissolve it by the utterance of a word. She glided on like a spirit of coolness, calm, silent and graceful, and, standing a moment on the threshold of the apartment beyond, disappeared, with every eye fixed on her vanishing form in wondering admiration. Purity was the effect she had producedpurity in contrast with the flowers in the room-purity; (Ernest Clay felt and wondered at it) even in contrast with Eve Gore! There was silence in the library for an instant, and then, one by one, the gay group around our hero followed in search of the new star of the hour, and he was left standing alone. He turned to speak to his silent friends, but the manner of Mrs. Gore was restrained, and Eve sat pale and tearful within the curtain of the recess, and looked as if her heart was breaking. "I should like-I should like to go home, mother!" she said presently with a difficult articulation. "I think I am not well. Mr. Clay-Ernest-will see, perhaps, if our carriage is here." "You will find us in the shawl-room," said Mrs. Gore, following him to the staircase, and looking after him with troubled eyes. The carriage was at the end of the line, and could not come up for an hour. Day was dawning, and Ernest had need of solitude and thought. He crossed to the Park, and strode off through the wet grass bathing his forehead with handsfull of dew. Alas! the fevered eyes and pallid lips he had last seen were less in harmony with the calm stillness of the dawn than the vision his conscience whispered him was charmed for his destruction. As the cool air brought back his reason, he remembered Eve's embarrassed address and his wearisome and vain efforts to amuse her. He remembered her mother's reproving eye, her own colder ut terance of his name, and then in powerful relief came up the pictures he had brooded on since his conversion in the chariot with Lady Mildred, visions of self-denial and loss of caste opposed to the enchantments of passion without restraint or calculation, and his head and heart became wild with conflicting emotions. One thing was certain. He must decide now. He must speak to Eve Gore before parting, and in the tone of his voice, if it were but a word, there must be that which her love would interpret as a bright promise or a farewell. He turned back. At the gate of the Park stood one of the guilty wanderers of the streets, who seized him by the sleeve and implored charity. "Who are you?" exclaimed Clay, scarce knowing what he uttered. "As good as she is," screamed the woman, pointing to Lady Mildred's carriage, "only not so rich! Oh, we could change places if all's true." Ernest stood still, as if his better angel had spoken through those painted lips. He gasped with the weight that rose slowly from his heart, and purchasing his release from the unfortunate wretch who had arrested his steps, he cross ed slowly to the door crowded with the menials of the gay throng within. "Lady Mildred's carriage stops the way!" shouted a footman, as he entered. He crossed the hall, and at the door of the shawl-room he was met by Lady Mildred her. self, descending from the hall, surrounded with a troop of admirers. Clay drew back to let her pass, but while he looked into her face, it became radiant with the happiness of meeting him, and the temptation to join her seemed irresistible. She entered the room, followed by her gay suite, and last of all by Ernest, who saw with the first glance at the Gores that he was believed to have been with her during the half-hour that had elapsed. He approached Eve, but the sense of an injustice he could not immediately remove, checked the warm impulse with which he was coming to pour out his heart, and against every wish and feeling of his soul, he was constrained and cold. "No, indeed!" exclaimed Lady Mildred, her voice suddenly becoming audible, "I shall set down Mr. Clay, whose door I pass. Lord George, ask Mr. Clay if he is ready!" Eve Gore suddenly laid her hand on his arm, as if a spirit had whispered that her last chance for happiness was poised on that moment's lapse. it “Ernest," she said in a voice so unnaturally low that made his veins creep with the fear that her reason was un seated, "I am lost if you go with her. Stay, dear Ernest! She cannot love you as I do! I implore you remember that my life-my life—” "Beg pardon," said Sir George-laying his hand famiharly on Clay's shoulder and drawing him away, "Lady Mildred waits for you!" "I will return in an instant, dearest Eve," he said, springing again to her side, "I will apologize and be with you. One instant-only one "Thank God!" said the poor girl, sinking into a chair and bursting into tears. Lady Mildred sat in her chariot, but her head drooped on her breast, and her arm hung lifeless at her side. "She is surely ill," said Lord George, "jump in, Clay, my fine fellow. Get her home. Shut the door, Thomas! Go on, coachman!" And away sped the fleet horses of Lady Mildred, but not homeward. Clay lifted her head and spoke to her, but receiving no answer, he busied himself chafing her hands, and the carriage blinds being drawn, he thought momently he should be rid of his charge by their arrival in Grosvenor Square. But the minutes elapsed, and still the carriage sped on, and surprised at last into suspicion, he raised his hand to the check-string, but the small fingers he had been chafing so earnestly, arrested his arm. "No, no!" said Lady Mildred, rising from his shoulder and throwing her arms passionately around his neck, “you must go blindfold, and go with me! Ernest! Ernest!" she continued, as he struggled an instant to reach the string; but he felt her tears on his breast, and his better angel ceased to contend with him. He sank back in the chariot with those fragile arms wound around him, and with fever in his brain, and leaden sadness at his heart, suffered that swift chariot to speed on its guilty way. In a small maison de plaisance, which he well knew, in one of the most romantic dells of Devon, built with exquisite taste, by Lady Mildred, and filled with all that art and wealth could minister to luxury, Ernest Clay passed the remainder of the summer, forgetful of everything beyond his prison of pleasure, except a voice full of bitter remorse, which sometimes in the midst of his abandonment, whispered the name of Eve Gore. N. P. W. THE TRIUMPH OF GENIUS. GENIUS, God-like, heaven inspired Genius, mankind will ever worship thee! It matters not where thou art foundwhether in the more elevated spheres of society, brightshining, co-mingled with wealth and grandeur, or beneath the rough exteriour of poverty, where not even the light of education has penetrated, even there thou wilt be confessed! for thou art not like the unwrought diamond which waits for the hand of the lapidary to produce those dazzling rays of beauty; but, like the glorious sun, which of itself bursts through the darkness, and pours forth light and glory over the universe. Let us glance for a moment at the early life of young Warren Gray, and mark how strength of imagination, and fire of intellect, will triumph over all obstacles. Poverty and hardships were his lot. Ere the stars paled in the dawning might he be seen commencing his daily tasks, and when the gentle twilight passed away, and the heavens were again resplendent with the countless gems of night, still the farmer-boy ceased not from his toil. It was to aid his honest but poor parents in the support of a large and helpless family that he thus laboured; ever bearing within him a spirit fluttering as the caged bird, to break away from its narrow confines and soar to that eminence to which the light of inborn genius marked the way. I have said the parents of Warren Gray were poorthey were so-yet if on them poverty barred the door, they were rich in contentment, in domestic love and happiness, and, more than all, they enjoyed abundantly those riches "which the world can neither give or take away.” From his earliest years, young Warren had evinced but little in common with other children. He was ever given to deep and serious thought, and rarely mingled with the sports of boyhood, but chose nature for his friend and com. panion. He saw that all around him was beautiful and glorious, and his young heart delighted therein; but as yet her loveliness was to him as some beauteous pageant, for education had not taught him to read her charms aright. The young children wanted bread-therefore no money had farmer Gray to bestow upon his son; and often would poor Warren pause at the little gate, or under the windows of the village school, and listen with yearning heart and tearful eye, to the busy hum of his more fortunate companions. At length, aided by a little instruction from his mother, through perseverance the poor farmer had learned to read and write; and from that moment a new existence seemed spread out before him. There was no hardship too great, no toil too severe, provided he could obtain thereby but one short hour of study. True, his books were limited to a few odd and tattered volumes; and from fragments of Shakspeare and Milton, from Bunyan and Doddridge, did the future poet imbibe deep and delicious draughts of inspi ration. Although the narrow book-shelf of Warren Gray might elicit a smile of contempt from the heir of wealth, who sits in slippered ease, surrounded by volumes in costly bindings, and in whose library the rich mahogany cases groan with the weight of rare and valuable books, yet to such, be it known, there was that in the bosom of Warren which swelled each sentence of those tattered pages into volumes of delight-opened for him the charmed book of naturedecked his path in life with all the imagery of a bright and pure spirit, and wrought for him a name which even now adorns the page of literature! for, reader, this story is no fiction. It is not, therefore, the possession of the greatest number ture which Nature had spread before him. His heart was of books-it is not by daily access to our large and valuable || in harmony with the charming scene, and deep and glowing libraries, that the mind of the student most improves. Will thoughts came up from his pure bosom. it not be found that a few good volumes, judiciously selected and repeatedly perused, form the best discipline for the young and ardent mind. And now, as the younger branches of farmer Gray's household were fast growing up into man and womanhood, and able to assist in the labours of the farm, did Warren entreat of his father that he might leave for a time this scene of homely joys, so insufficient for the happiness of his aspiring mind, and in the distant city seek some means by which his ever-craving thirst for knowledge should be realized. Warren Gray was suddenly aroused from his reverie by the sound of wheels evidently approaching the cottage, and a carriage passed beneath the avenue of elms and stopped at the gate. A note was placed in his hand, on which the following lines were delicately penciled: “Two ladies, unknown to Mr. Gray, request the favour of an interview. Followed, therefore, with the tears and blessings of his parents, alone and on foot, did Warren Gray take his way from the home of his childhood. Save the coarse homespun garments which he wore, no worldly effects had he to trouble him, neither money to buy him food-but the redripe strawberries peeped up temptingly from their green coverts, the sparkling brook came laughing and dancing in his path to allay his thirst, and, as evening came on, the With courteous politeness he instantly advanced to meet earth offered her beautiful bosom for his repose, and his unexpected visiters, who were now slowly approaching night spread her glorious canopy above him. The glow-up the gravelled walk. One of these ladies was evidently worm and the firefly lit up his leafy bower-while the chirping cricket, and low soft notes of the whip-poor-will wooed him to forgetfulness. Went ever prince to a more glorious couch! At length he found himself in the suburbs of a large and populous city-sumptuous equipages rolled lazily past himgay equestrians curveted their high-mettled steeds, and stages dashed reckless along, while the ceaseless din of a tumultuous city sounded in his ears. He entered the paved and crowded streets, and now for the first time a sensation of loneliness pervaded his bosom. He was alone-no eye met his with kindness-no voice greeted him-but on, on, passed the countless multitude, unheeding, uncaring for the humble and modest stranger. Thus entered Warren Gray into the city of P, And here, on the threshold of his career, a heartless world before him, for a few years we will leave him, honesty and purity of heart his shield against the many temptations of poverty and oppression. CHAPTER II. Genius has triumphed where now is the poor farmerlad we saw so lately forlorn and destitute, contending with innumerable hardships and biting poverty, that he might cherish that mental fire which glowed so pure and bright within him! Lift the curtain which has concealed him from your view, and in that tall, elegant youth, who stands the centre of a circle of delighted and attentive auditors, fascinating by his manners, charming by his wit, behold Warren Gray! Yes, Genius has triumphed! he is no longer the unknown, despised stripling-society now regards him as one of her most distinguished ornaments, he is courted and admired by talent, by wealth, and beauty, and the poet has crowned his name with imperishable fame! It was a cool and balmy afternoon in June. A slight shower was just passing away, the beautiful blue sky smiled again through the light, floating clouds, and grass, tree, and shrub rejoiced anew in the freshness of revived verdure. The lovely flowers still hugged to their bosoms the sparkling rain-drop, and the birds skimmed merrily the pure air, made vocal with their cheerful notes. The poet sat alone. From his window, around which the sweet-briar scattered fragrance, he looked forth upon the beautiful pic. past the meridian of life, and her step feeble. She was dressed in the deepest mourning, and a long black veil fell nearly to her feet. But in the other light elegant figure at her side, whose foot scarce seemed to press the earth, Gray saw only grace and beauty. Her snowy dress, her veil of dazzling purity floating airily around her, she appeared to the imagination of the poet as one of those beautiful sylphlike beings, which his fancy and his pen had so oft portrayed, come now to gladden his senses with blest reality! Politely declining to enter the cottage, the strangers for a few moments proceeded in silence down the walk. At length, turning to Warren, the elder said: "Pardon this intrusion upon your privacy-our errand is short, but to us is fraught with much happiness." Warren bowed-the lady continued: "Be assured, you are no stranger-for who that has read those chaste and glowing effusions of your pen, emanating from a heart overflowing with benevolence and goodness, but must feel they have read your inmost soul! Your history is known to us, and it has long been our wish to behold one who so nobly surmounted those difficulties which beset his path in early life." "To whom, my dear madam," interrupted Gray, “am I indebted for this kind interest?" "My name, my young friend, is of no consequence. You see before you an afflicted mother-one into whose domestic paradise consumption hath entered, and plucked one by one those lovely flowers which constituted her earthly hap piness. This dear girl alone is left me, but alas, even now I fear the dread fiat hath gone forth, and that she too will soon be snatched from my embrace!" Tears choked further utterance. 'Mother, dear mother," cried the young girl, "weep not for me-for when I leave you, I go to a heavenly paradise." Gray could not speak, but his manly bosom throbbed with pity, as the touching tones of that sweet voice fell on his ear. After a few moments silence the elder continued, placing at the same time in the hands of Gray a beautiful purse: "Accept this small memento of my regard-persevere in your glorious career of fame, and remember there are hearts made happy, and hearts ever prayerful for your earthly and eternal happiness. Farewell." Gray remained silent-emotion impeded all utterance, but he pressed the hand which tendered the purse to his lips. At this moment the young girl extended to him a choice and beautiful bunch of flowers, saying, in the same sweet voice: "Less perishable than these frail blossoms is the friendship with which Mr. Gray has inspired me-farewell." So saying, and before the agitated Gray could find words to express his gratitude, she sprang into the carriage, which drove rapidly away, leaving him entirely overcome by the conflicting emotions this scene had engendered. Pressing the bouquet to his lips, he shamed not to bathe it with his tears. The voice, the fragile form of her whom he was told was soon to vanish from this earth touched each tender chord of his sympathizing bosom. Unfolding the small paper which encircled the precious bouquet, what was his surprise to find the stems of the flowers passed through a rich diamond ring, on which his own cypher was engraved, while on the paper was traced: opened, and Gray found himself within the vestibule of what appeared a large and elegant mansion. He was now conducted into a spacious parlour, where in a few moments, with feeble step and faltering voice, he was received by the elder of his unknown visiters. "I thank you, my dear friend," said she, extending her hand, "this is, indeed, kind. Nerve yourself for a scene of sorrow-for my sweet Cora, my last earthly treasure, is fast sinking from my sight. Come with me-she expects you." Gray could make no reply, but his face was pale as marble, and his step trembled, as he followed up the long, winding-stairs. The silence of the tomb seemed already settled over that house of death, for not a sound save the light fall of his own footsteps broke the solemn stillness. "Wait here a moment," whispered his companion, and softly opening the door of a large, darkened apartment, she vanished from his sight. In a few moments the door again opened, and beckoning to Warren to approach, she ad "Wear this ring, for the sake of one whose last hours vanced to meet him, and, taking his hand, conducted him to will be made happier for having known thee." The purse also contained bills to a large amount, but no name-no trace by which his generous friends could be discovered. the bedside of the dying. Drawing aside the white silken curtains, a fair young face met the tearful eye of Gray-so fair, so lovely, that it would seem Death had stolen the guise of Health with which to welcome his victim, while Weeks passed on. In vain did Gray strive to penetrate his icy fingers even now pressed the marble brow, and playthe mystery-all inquiries, all search proved fruitless-buted with those long dark ringlets. the figure of that fair girl was ever before him-and the tones of her sweet, mournful voice, chimed in his ear like fairy dirge at midnight. Months passed. Again Warren Gray received a note, written evidently by the same fair hand, but evincing a tremour and feebleness which pierced his heart with grief. Enclosed were bills to the same amount as he had before received. "Money is not for the dying," wrote the unknown, and seldom is it strewn in the path of Genius. Take, then, the enclosed." There was no post-mark, no clue which might lead to the discovery of his unknown benefactress-the mystery was impenetrable. CHAPTER III. Upon seeing Gray, a smile of ineffable sweetness lit up the features of the dying girl, and, feebly extending her hand, she said, in a voice whose mellow clearness contrasted strangely with her sinking frame : "Forgive me for imposing this melancholy scene upon you-but I wished to see you once more before I closed my eyes upon this beautiful world. I have a strange request to make, and—” Here the hue of death suddenly stole over her countenance-her eyes closed, and for a few moments she scarcely seemed to breathe-but the faintness passed off, again opening her eyes she continued: "Will you comfort my poor, widowed, childless mother when I am gone-will you yield to the request of a dying girl, and give her a legal right to call you her son!" Warren answered in a low, faltering voice, while he press he in vain essayed to check, fell from his eyes. A venerable clergyman at that moment approached the bed-Warren sank on his knees, with the hand of the dying Cora clasped in his, and the ceremony which was to link the living to death by so strong a bond commenced. It was over. Warren arose, and imprinted a kiss upon the cold brow of his bride. A radiant smile overspread her angelic countenance-she stretched forth her arms-life fluttered for a moment on her beautiful lips, and the spirit had passed November at length came on in dreariness and gloom-ed that pale, emaciated little hand to his lips, and the tears all nature wore a face of sadness and decay. The dry and yellow leaves whirled through the garden walks, and beat against the windows of Warren Gray's cottage, and the wind made mournful music through the now naked branches of the elms. It was evening-the shutters of the cottage library were closed, and Gray had seated himself at his little table, to pour forth in imperishable verse the sad thoughts which oppressed him, and to which the dreary scene without accorded but too well, when his meditations were interrupted by the entrance of a servant bearing a note. Fear-away! ing he knew not what, Gray hurriedly broke the seal, and while every limb trembled with emotion, read as follows: "The dreaded moment has arrived! Will Mr. Gray accompany the bearer, that he may soothe the dying hour of my poor child." A carriage was in waiting, in which, with feelings it were vain to portray, Gray hastily took his seat, and was driven rapidly in the direction of the city. After passing through many streets, murky with dampness and gloom, they at length turned into one much broader, and bearing evident tokens that there dwelt wealth. The driver now checked his horses to a walk, and soon Gray perceived the wheels were passing over layers of straw. The carriage now stopped, the steps were noiselessly let down, while, at the same moment, the street-door was gently A few short months closed the life of the bereaved mother-but Warren Gray had the happiness of knowing that her last hours were soothed by his kindness. She left him sole heir to a large and valuable property-but the nature of the noble Gray revolted from using wealth to which he felt he had no claim, save in the generosity of his departed friend. He renounced it therefore immediately in favour of the relatives of his benefactress. Years have passed away since these events-but not so the fame and usefulness of Warren Gray-the poet,-the philanthropist. His name still connects itself with goodness and virtue, and the charms of his poetic genius still fascinate and enchant the senses. Fe is yet unmarried-nor ceases he to lament the untimely death of the young and lovely Cora-his spirit bride. C. H. B. |