ed on the future," sheer nonsense, to waste so much thought on what only is to be !" To divert the minds of his guests, who were considerably abashed by this little incident, the Man of Fancy led them through several apartments of the castle, receiving their compliments upon the taste and varied magnificence that were displayed in each. One of these rooms was filled with moonlight, which did not enter through the window, but was the aggregate of all the moon-shine that is scattered around the earth on a summer night, while no eyes are awake to enjoy its beauty. Airy spirits had gathered it up, wherever they found it gleaming on the broad bosom of a lake, or silvering the meanders of a stream, or glimmering among the wind-stirred boughs of a wood, and had garnered it in one spacious hall. Along the walls, illuminated by the mild intensity of the moon-shine, stood a multitude of ideal statues, the original conceptions of the great works of ancient or modern art, which the sculptors did but imperfectly succeed in putting into marble. For it is not to be supposed that the pure idea of an immortal creation ceases to exist; it is only necessary to know where they are deposited, in order to obtain possession of them. In the alcoves of another vast apartment was arranged a splendid library, the volumes of which were inestimable, because they consisted not of actual performances, but of the works which the authors only planned, without ever finding the happy season to achieve them. To take familiar instances, here were the untold tales of Chaucer's Canterbury Pilgrims; the unwritten Cantos of the Fairy Queen; the conclusion of Coleridge's Christabel; and the whole of Dryden's projected Epic on the subject of King Arthur. The shelves were crowded; for it would not be too much to affirm that every author has imagined, and shaped out in his thought, more and far better works than those which actually proceeded from his pen. And here, likewise, were the unrealized conceptions of youthful poets, who died of the very strength of their own genius, before the world had caught one inspired murmur from their lips. When the peculiarities of the library and statue-gallery were explained to the Oldest Inhabitant, he appeared infinitely perplexed, and exclaimed, with more energy than usual, that he had never heard of such a thing within his memory, and, moreover, did not at all understand how it could be. "But my brain, I think," said the good old gentleman, "is getting not so clear as it used to be. You young folks, I suppose, can see your way through these strange matters. For my part, I give it up.' "And so do I," muttered the Old Harry. "It is enough to puzzle the ahem!" Making as little reply as possible to these observations, the Man of Fancy preceded the company to another noble saloon, the pillars of which were solid golden sunbeams, taken out of the sky in the first hour in the morning. Thus, as they retained all their living lustre, the room was filled with the most cheerful radiance imaginable, yet not too dazzling to be borne with comfort and delight. The windows were beautifully adorned with curtains, made of the many-colored clouds of sunrise, all imbued with virgin light, and hanging in magnificent festoons from the ceiling to the floor. Moreover, there were fragments of rainbows scattered through the room; so that the guests, astonished at one another, reciprocally saw their heads made glorious hy the seven primary hues; or, if they chose-as who would not?-they could grasp a rainbow in the air, and convert it to their own apparel and adornment. But the morning light and scattered rainbows were only a type and symbol of the real wonders of the apartment. By an influence akin to magic, yet perfectly natural, whatever means and opportunities of joy are neglected in the lower world, had been carefully gathered up, and deposited in the saloon of morning sunshine. As may well be conceived, therefore, there was material enough to supply not merely a joyous evening, but also a happy lifetime, to more than as many people as that spacious apartment could contain. The company seemed to renew their youth; while that pattern and proverbial standard of innocence, the Child Unborn, frolicked to and fro among them, communicating his own unwrinkled gaiety to all who had the good fortune to witness his gambols. your presence in the banqueting-hall, where a slight collation is awaiting you." "Ah, well said!" ejaculated a cadaverous figure, who had been invited for no other reason than that he was pretty constantly in the habit of dining with Duke Humphrey. "I was beginning to wonder whether a castle in the air were provided with a kitchen." It was curious, in truth, to see how instantaneously the guests were diverted from the high moral enjoyments which they had been tasting with so much apparent zest, by a suggestion of the more solid as well as liquid delights of the festive board. They thronged eagerly in the rear of the host, who now ushered them into a lofty and extensive hall, from end to end of which was arranged a table, glittering all over with innumerable dishes and drinking-vessels of gold. It is an uncertain point, whether these rich articles of plate were made for the occasion, out of molten sunbeams, or recovered from the wrecks of Spanish galleons, that had lain for ages at the bottom of the sea. The upper end of the table was overshadowed by a canopy, beneath which was placed a chain of elaborate magnificence, which the host himself declined to occupy, and besought his guests to assign it to the worthiest among them. As a suitable homage to his incalculable antiquity and eminent distinction, the post of honor was at first tendered to the Oldest Inhabitant. He, however, eschewed it, and requested the favor of a bowl of gruel at a side-table, where he could refresh himself with a quiet nap. There was some little hesitation as to the next candidate, until Posterity took the Master-Genius of our country by the hand, and led him to the chair of state, beneath the princely canopy. When once they beheld him in his true place, the company acknowledged the justice of the selection by a long thunder-roll of vehement applause. Then was served up a banquet, combining, if not all the delicacies of the season, yet all the rarities which careful purveyors had met with in the flesh, fish, and vegetable markets of the land of Nowhere. The bill of fare being unfortunately lost, we can only mention a Phoenix, roasted in its own flames, cold potted birds of Paradise, icecreams from the Milky Way, and whip syllabubs and flummery from the Paradise of Fools, whereof there was a very great consumption. As for drinkables, the temperance-people contented themselves with water, as usual, but it was the water of the Fountain of Youth; the ladies sipped Nepenthe; the love-lorn, the care-worn, and the sorrow-stricken, were supplied with brimming goblets of Lethe; and it was shrewdly conjectured that a certain golden vase, from which only the more distinguished guests were invited to partake, contained nectar that had been mellowing ever since the days of classical mythology. The cloth being removed, the company, as usual, grew eloquent over their liquor, and delivered themselves of a succession of brilliant speeches; the task of reporting which we resign to the more adequate ability of Counsellor Gill, whose indispensable co-operation the Man of Fancy had taken the precaution to home; and the host, in his general beneficence, had engaged the Man in the Moon, with an immense horn lantern, to be the guide of such desolate spinsters as could do no better for themselves. But a blast of the rising tempest blew out all their lights in the twinkling of an eye. How, in the darkness that ensued, the guests contrived to get back to earth, or whether the greater part of them contrived to get back at all, or are still wandering among clouds, mists, and puffs of tempestuous wind, bruised by the beams and rafters of the overthrown castle in the air, and deluded by all sorts of unrealities, are points that concern themselves, much more than the writer or the public. People should think of these matters, before they trust themselves on a pleasure-party into the realm of Nowhere. EGERIA. BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. Not yet, not yet, can I for thee awake a moving strain, To weave the minstrel's careless rhyme would be a task of pain, But when the fount within thy breast, now sealed in deep repose, When from the lightsome word you turn, and gazing through a tear, When hallowed grows thy constant thought before affection's shrine, BLIND JACQUES. BY MRS. E. F. ELLET. AN admirer of M. Eugene Sue, in a letter addressed to him in the Journal des Débats, expresses himself profoundly affected by the picture of the Maître d'Ecole, in the Mysteries of Paris. But, he adds, "another image shapes itself before me-a living personage whom I have seen an image which contrasts with yours in such a manner as to complete your idea. He is blind, like the Maitre d'Ecole; of the common class, and in the possession of all his strength and faculties, in the midst of his misfortune; yet he finds a support where the other finds an abyss; the same loss elevates him which sinks the other to nothing. Every step of the Maître d'Ecole plunges him deeper into bondage and despair; for my hero, every moment that passes is a link fallen from his chain, a shadow chased from his soul. In a word, the one still seeks good; the other, evil: the one loves; the other hates." The sketch, simple, and drawn from actual life, has in our eyes a touching and beautiful moral. Perhaps something of its force may be preserved in a translation. E. F. E. About a year since, in the month of December, two men, one young, the other on the verge of old age, were walking along a stony road in one of the villages in the neighborhood of Paris. Coming towards them, and climbing the rough ascent, was a man harnessed to a sort of dray laden with a cask; he held his head down, and beside him walked a little girl of eight years old, holding by the end of the dray. Suddenly one wheel rolled upon an enormous stone, and the dray was nearly overturned on the side next the little girl. "He is drunk!" cried the young man, rushing towards them; but when he looked into the man's face, he turned back quickly towards his old companion, and said, "He is blind!" The other motioned him to be silent, came up, and, without a word, laid his hand on that of the drayman, while the little girl smiled roguishly. The blind And pressing the hand to his lips, "It is you again," he cried, "dear M. Desgranges, who have saved me from mischance; it is always you!" Why," asked the young man, "do you expose yourself to such accidents by drawing this cask?" "One must do one's business, Monsieur," replied the drayman, cheerfully. "Your business?" 66 Certainly," ," answered M. Desgranges. Jacques is our water-carrier; but I must scold him for going out without his wife to guide him." "My wife was absent; and I brought the little girl; you see I have done well since I have met you, dear M. Desgranges, and you have assisted me.' "Allons, Jacques; finish serving your customers, and afterwards you may come to see me. I am going home." "Thanks, Monsieur Desgranges! Adieu, monsieur! Adieu And he went on, drawing his watercask, while the little girl turned her smiling, rosy face to look at the gentle men. "Blind, and a water-carrier!" repeated the young man, as they went on. "Ah, you wonder at our Jacques, my young friend! Yes, it is something remarkable; but what would you think if you knew his history?” "Will you tell it me?" "Willingly. It contains no uncommon events, and no dramatic incidents; but I believe you will be interested, for it is the story of a soul-a noble onestruggling against calamity. You may observe how, step by step, the victim climbs out of the abyss, and renews his life; how a crushed heart gradually recovers its vigor, and the helpless man finds he has yet a place in the world." The friends had arrived at the house of M. Desgranges, when he commenced the story: "One morning, three years ago, I was walking across the extensive dry plain that separates our village from that of Noisemont, and is partly covered with blasted rocks. I heard a violent explosion; I looked, and at the distance of four or five hundred paces saw a whitish smoke that seemed to rise from a cavity in the ground. Fragments of the rock at the same time were thrown into the air; a moment after, I heard dreadful cries, and a man sprang out of the cavity, and ran across the field like one insane, flinging his arms wildly about, uttering cries of pain, and stumbling almost at every step. His face, as well as I could perceive at a distance, and amidst his rapid movements, seemed covered by a large red mask. I hastened towards him, while from the direction of Noisemont came running men and women, with screams of terror. I was the first to reach the unhappy man; and saw with horror that his whole head was one frightful wound. His skull was laid bare; the skin was torn from his forehead and part of his face; and the blood streamed in torrents from his torn garments. As I took hold of his arm, a woman ran towards him, followed by twenty peasants, exclaiming, 'Jacques, Jacques! is it thou? I know thee not, Jacques!' The unfortunate man answered not, but struggled to escape from our hands, and as he did so, scattered the blood in every direction. Ah! ah!' cried the woman, in a voice of heart-rending anguish, 'it is he!' She had recognized him by a large silver pin that fastened his shirt. "It was indeed her husband, the father of three children, a poor miner, who, in blasting a rock, had received the whole explosion in his face, and was blinded, mutilated, perhaps mortally wounded. "He was carried home. I was obliged the same day to leave for a month's absence; but I sent him our doctor, a man who united the scientific knowledge of the city practitioners to the kindness of a country physician. On my return, when I asked him how was the blind man, he answered: 'He is lost. His wounds are healed; his head is uninjured; only his sight is gone; but he will not live. Despair will kill him. "I shall never see again!" is all he says continually. I fear that an internal inflammation has already begun.' "I hastened to the invalid; I shall never forget the sight that presented itself. He was seated on a wooden stool beside the chimney, in which there was no fire, a white handkerchief bound over his eyes; on the ground was lying, asleep, an infant three months old; a little girl, four years of age, was playing in the ashes; another, a little older, was shivering in the opposite corner; and at the other side of the room, his wife was seated on the bed, pale, emaciated, her arms hanging down. There was more of misery in this scene than met the eye. The conviction struck on my heart, that perhaps for hours not a word had been uttered in this abode of despair. The wife sat listless, and seemed no longer to care for anything in the world. They were not merely unhappy; they had lost all hope. At the sound of my footsteps, as I entered, both rose, but without speaking. "You are the blind man of the quarry? I asked. "Yes! Monsieur.' "I have come to see you.' "You have suffered a great misfortune.' "Yes! Monsieur.' "His voice was cold, and betrayed no emotion. He answered mechanically. He expected nothing from any one in the world. I said something of public sympathy, and of aid to be extended. 66 6 Aid!' exclaimed the woman, in a kind of desperation; they owe us aid, indeed! We ought to be relieved, for we have done nothing to deserve such a stroke as this! My children must not be suffered to die of hunger!' "She asked no charity; she claimed succor as a right. This imperious appeal touched me more forcibly than any lamentations she could have employed; and I emptied into my hand some pieces of silver from my purse; but her husband answered, in a tone of |