or, had he, indeed, knocked down some old miser on the highway, for the sake of his purse?

Borel Bunting, perhaps thou hast enough "of the milk of human kindness," to pardon this insinuation! In truth, we were not in earnest. We could not seriously believe that thou wouldst be guilty of any such tricks. We must account for thy sudden prosperity in some other way; that is, (which is doubtful!) if we have a right to meddle at all in the affair. Like old maids, however, (and now and then a young one,) we cannot forego the pleasure of telling all we know.

The reader may remember, in a former part of this chapter, that the editor was illiberally remarking upon a new American tragedy, when a stranger made his appearance, and presented Borel an introductory letter? On the succeeding day a number of the Literary Herald was issued which deserves our especial notice, inasmuch as it contained an elaborate and commendatory review of the tragedy in question.

Commendatory? Strange! strange!

No matter. It had been discovered that this production possessed much originality of thought; that every page glowed with feeling and energy; that the plot, moreover, was developed in a skilful and masterly manner. The poetry, too, was rich

and eloquent-the style pure and classical-the sentiments such as would do honour to the head and heart of Seneca. In sooth, there was nothing but what received the unqualified approbation of the editor.

The eulogy ended with some "elegant extracts," (taken at random, and by no means the best!) that were intended to show the author's style, and prove, beyond a doubt, that he was not inferior to any dramatist who ever wrote.

"My dear author," says the reader, "what do you mean by all this ?"

"Indeed, we scarcely know. We do not deny that we love to deal in the mysterious. Our rule is (have you read the title page!) to give only an 'outline.' Like Lord Byron, (excuse the comparison!) we despise the minutia: one thing, however, we might remark, viz. that Borel Bunting's opinion respecting the tragedy underwent a remarkable change in a remarkably short time."

It may be asked who the stranger was, to whom we have alluded.

This is not certainly known. He was stately in his appearance, with gray eyes and sandy whiskers. He might, indeed, be the author of the tragedy; but this is no business of ours or he may have been one who had more money than

brains; and was ready to exclaim with the ambitious Christopher Solemn-" Now will I give you fifty pounds, if you will persuade the world that I am a GREAT MAN."

4

CHAPTER X.

Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.

It is to be all made of sighs and tears ;

It is to be all made of faith and service ;

It is to be all made of fantasy,

All made of passion, and all made of wishes;
All adoration, duty, and observance ;

All humbleness, all patience, and impatience;
All purity, all trial, all obedience.

Possess'd an air and grace by no means common.

BYRON.

IN love for the fifteenth time! What a mystery is this! Oh thou strange and incomprehensible passion! to what canst thou be compared ? At times thou art gentle as the zephyr; at others, thou art mighty as the tempest. Thou canst calm the throbbing bosom, or thou canst fill it with

VOL. I.-I

wilder commotion. Where thy fingers are laid in token of peace, there every tumult subsides. A single smile of thy benign countenance calleth new rapture to the anguished heart, and scattereth every doubt, every fear, every perplexity. But enough of this.

I was gathering flowers upon the banks of the river, near Essex; I observed a beautiful female standing upon the edge of a rock which extended some distance into the water. She was reaching out her hand for a beautiful water-lily; as I feared, she lost her balance and fell into the stream.

What a charming incident! I hurried to her rescue; and, dashing into the water, seized hold of her dress. She clung to me with more than "woman's strength." Her arms encircled me with wild and frantic desperation. I drew her to the water's brink, and carried her to a green bank, where she sat down upon the turf. Her delicate form was completely drenched; her hitherto curling locks fell heavily and in masses upon her neck and shoulders.

When she recovered from her fright, I inquired her name.

"Violet!" she answered, with a most bewitching smile.

"Violet !" I repeated to myself: "what a pretty