he would not willingly have perish with him, but lows. As he spoke to her, Mary fell down by the which, nevertheless, he would not utter until the bedside and covered her face with her hands. I links that bound him to the earth were about sepa-could see the large tears trickling through her finrating forever.

gers. The old man laid his hand upon that of In a few moments Dr. Selwyn appeared, and in Frank and said in a voice of great solemnity-"My reply to Frank's look of solemn inquiry, he told son, it has been decreed by one, the wisdom of him that he was indeed dying. My poor friend whose judgment we may not question, that thou heard his doom without a murmur; and putting his should'st early yield up thy life. But if it can lend hand in the Doctor's, he affectionately thanked him any consolation to thy present feelings, believe that for his tenderness and care, and then begged me to to no mortal hand would I as willingly have confilet the Rector and his family know what was about ded the trust of my daughter as to thine. And I to take place. I communicated to them the intel- feel that sorrowful as is her first experience of huligence as gently as I could. But although it was man life, it is better for her to remember the affecnot unexpected, yet it threw the family into deep tion of one such as thou art, though he live not, distress. The sweetness of Frank's disposition, than to expect all that the breathing world often yields to the human heart." He took his daughter's hand as she knelt and placed it in Frank's, "Seldom," said he, "has there been such a betrothal, the betrothal of the living with one about to die. But its recollection will be to my beloved child, as the presence of an angel, keeping her steadfast in that life of innocence and truth, which has made her seem beautiful to this departing soul."

and his patience during his illness, had endeared him to the old man's heart. Mrs. Allen loved him as a son. Mary as she followed her agitated parents to the chamber where he lay, seemed more self-possessed than either; but there was in her face an expression of tearless sorrow, that showed her heart was too deeply shaken to find relief in outward signs of grief.

As they stood around his bedside, he requested to be raised upon pillows. And then in a voice firmer and stronger than I could have expected from his dying condition, he spoke to the Rector. He thanked him for having sheltered him in his last hours, with the care and affection of a parent, a kindness that he more deeply appreciated, because he had come among them a stranger.

Hand in hand they remained, while a long silence dwelt in the chamber. My poor friend struggled to speak, but his lips moved without a sound. He opened his eye languidly, and for a moment he seemed half unconscious of all about him, but as his gaze rested upon Mary's, he turned his face more toward her, and with a look long and earnest, as if all his departing energies were summoned to fix her image indelibly upon his remembrance, he gazed mournfully and steadfastly on her. A moment more, and the look changed to a smile, and his face was again turned from her, and he was

len rose up from where she knelt; and bending over him, who now could give no look of tenderness and recognition, she pressed her lips to his forehead, and then silently turned and left the chamber.

"But," he said, and his voice for a moment choked with emotion, "it is perhaps as well that I should die now. I had intended to go down into my grave with my secret untold. But as it is, it seems ordered that I should not conceal those feel-dead. Without a word-without a sob-Mary Alings, which made the hope of life long dear to my heart; and which, when that passed from me, served above all other things to soothe the sorrow of an early death. It cannot now do any one harm to say, Mary, how deeply I have loved you. It was, perhaps, little to give you the withering blossoms Within that house of mourning, there was no of a blighted spring. But all that my heart could loud lamentation. The family moved to and fro offer was freely yours; and I had hoped, that if it noiselessly, but calmly. Even Mary, from day to pleased heaven to spare my young life, its riper day, took her accustomed place beside her father's thoughts would have been worthy of a being as chair in the library. Their grief seemed to be gentle and innocent. But now all these hasty pros-consecrated into a holy resignation. When the pects have passed away. Yet, while I am left to day came for the funeral, all the Rector's family feel that the possession of your love is denied me by an early death, I trust that the recollection of my affection will abide with you through all time. And that although left upon the world without brother or parent, there are few who will remember me; I trust that so long as you shall live, my memory will be preserved. Not to weep over, with vain tears, but to be recalled, as a sister shall recall all that was dear and hallowed in the associations of her childhood with some loved brother, whom she can meet no more forever."

followed poor Frank to the grave. There were a few in the church-yard beside ourselves. Mary's veil was closely drawn, so that I could not see with what feelings she looked down into the open grave, and heard the solemn words that consigned our beloved friend to the dust. I had frequently seen the Rector apparently more distressed than he was on this occasion. In other instances, he yielded to his feelings, and sympathized even to tears with those who wept over the burial of a departed relative. But in this case he seemed to feel the death

He ceased to speak and sank back upon the pil- of Frank as his own loss, and to consider that it

became him as an humble servant of God, to bear | fervent blessings upon her paler, sadder, and yet meekly and without a murmur, the withdrawal of more angelic countenance.

his stay.

When I last saw her, more than a year had passed since Frank's death; her seclusion was then even deeper than it had been during the first few months after his loss. Although not eighteen, she

heart was gradually wearing her life away. She was as calm and apparently as resigned as ever, but it needed only one look at her wasting frame, to know that she was maintaining an unequal stroggle with her grief. But in nothing had her wonderful beauty altered. One expression of her dark blue eye was even more spiritual than it had been in the innocent, careless days of childhood, and the rich clusters of her sunny hair, seemed even more lovely when they were contrasted with the marble whiteness of her cheek.

When the funeral was over, I returned home. I had in my possession a miniature of Frank, which he had sent me from London the year before. It was a striking likeness, and I valued it as almost seemed many years older. The sorrow of her the only memorial remaining to me of an intercourse that had lasted for many years, without a single interruption to our friendship. But I remembered that there was one whose claim upon his memory was holier than mine. I sent her his picture, and a lock of his hair which I had secured the day he died. None save her father and mother and myself knew of the singular relation which Mary Allen held to Frank Hastings. And when, therefore, it was observed that for many weeks after his death, she mingled in the society of the neighborhood even less frequently than before, her I felt that she could not remain long on this earth. absence was attributed to the distressing influence And it was, therefore, with no feeling of surprise that a death, under her father's roof, would be likely that I heard two years after, when residing in this to exert. I was the only stranger whom she ap- country, from my venerable friend, that he was peared always glad to see. She had grown thinner and paler, but her rare beauty remained undiminished. It was if possible even heightened by an expression of subdued sadness, which her countenance habitually wore. I never referred to what had passed, until she one day mentioned Frank's name. She begged that I would tell her all I knew of his past life. For she said with a melancholy beloved children. smile, that she had been with him but a few days, although they seemed like years in her life-time. But yet she would feel as if she had dwelt yet longer with him, if I would tell her of all that had gone before. Whenever we met it was of him that she wished to hear. Of this theme she never wearied, and as it seemed to lighten the continuing burden of her sorrow, I did all that I could to make the memory of his past life a picture familiar to her heart.

As time went by, I thought that her manner would regain something of that gaiety which had marked her girlhood. But although she was not gloomy, yet I could see that the recollection of her sad betrothal was never absent from her mind. She still sat through the long days at her father's side; still smiled cheerfully when he spoke to her; and watched over him with silent love. The flowers in the garden,-her favorite birds,-all things that she had tended in a happier day, were still cared for with patient attention. But the careless fancy and sorrowless heart of the girl, were gone forever. She was yet more constant in her errands of mercy and charity than before. The home of poverty, the bed of sickness, and the house of mourning, were now her familiar haunts. And the murmured thanks that used to follow her happy face as she glided around the couch of suffering and the chamber of desolation, now deepened into

childless. He said that she had gradually given way, perfectly resigned to her approaching fate, and seeming even happy in her knowledge that she must soon die. He told me that she lay buried beside him, whom she had loved better than life, and that he now waited patiently until the time should come, in which he could sleep beside his

THE CHRISTIAN MARTYR.

"The sky was cloudless. the sun was in the West; but shining in his broadest beams; the whole spare before me was flooded with his light; when as I gazed upon the Martyr, I saw a gleam issue from his upturned face; it increased to brightness, to strong radiance, to an intense lustre that made the sunlight utterly pale. A lofty joy, s look of supernal grandeur, a magnificent, yet ethereal beauty transformed the features of the old man into the likeness of the Sons of Immortality."

I

Croly's Salathiel.

hear triumphant trumps above me ringing,

I see angelic pinions floating by-
And soft-toned voices sacred anthems singing,
In rapturous melody roll down the sky.

But 'mid them all, a tone of solemn sweetness,

Thrills through each fibre of my bursting heart,
And whispers to the entranced soul its meetness,
In that celestial choir to bear a part.

theoretical deductions, the publication of which as-
tonished and delighted the scientific world. What
Leverrier had inferred from the action on other
planets, of some body which ought to exist, was
verified, at least so it was thought at the time, by
actual vision. Neptune was actually discovered
by other astronomers, and the glory of the learned
theorist shone with most dazzling lustre. But alas,
for the glory of Leverrier, the communication of
M. Babinet was intended to show that Neptune, the
planet discovered so à-propos, by the telescope of
Galle, was not, after all, the planet that Leverrier
was searching for in the retirement of his closet.
It had been appropriated most unjustly-M. Le-
verrier must let it go-must take his collar off of
Neptune, and claim him no longer. Leverrier, it
was urged, had placed his planet at a distance from
the sun equal to 36 times the limits of the terres-
trial orbit: Neptune's position is 30 times these
limits, making a difference of nearly 500,000,000
miles; Leverrier had assigned to his planet a vol-
ume equal to 38 times that of the earth: Neptune was
only one-third of this size. Leverrier had stated the
revolution of his planet round the sun to be per-
formed in 217 years: Neptune performs its revolu-
tion in 164 years. "Thus," exclaims M. Babi-
net, "Neptune is clearly not the planet which M.
Leverrier would find, and his theory so far as re-
gards Neptune falls to the ground." M. Babinet's
attack has found a smart echo in one Abbé Moigno,
a writer of feuilletons for the Presse newspaper.
Leverrier is very irascible. Moved, as well he might
be, by this attempt to dispossess him of his planet,
and provoked perhaps by the sharp barking of the
Abbé, (the lion ought to have disregarded the
gad-fly,) he writes an article for publication in the
Presse. In the note to the editor, requesting its
insertion, he says, "My answer is but an extract
of the complete refutation of the assertions of M.
Babinet, which I made yesterday, Monday, at a
public sitting of the Academy of Sciences." The
article of Leverrier is too long for translation to
your pages, and perhaps is too abstruse to interest
the majority of your readers, but I must extract
from it a specimen or two of the spirit and blunt-
ness with which he contradicts the positions of M.
Babinet. I fear he will quite lose his dignity be-
fore the contest is over.
He says,

The Academy of Sciences, the reports of whose proceedings used frequently to be of a character to find a welcome in the pages of the Messenger, has for several months past emitted almost nothing of general interest. The journals of the day have ceased to take any notice of its sittings. The fact is that the revolution of February, by the shock which it gave to industry, paralyzed invention and checked the spirit of discovery in matters connected with material improvement. When trade languishes, and enterprise withdraws its labors and its capital, the genius that invents, and takes the lead in progress, sleeps too. When confidence revives, and, as a consequence, commerce and manufactures resume their activity, we may again hope to witness the energetic and successful pursuit of knowledge which tends to their development. Of late the only sittings of the Academy at which anything occurred worth relating to you, have been those of the 29th ult., and of the 11th instant. Although the proceedings upon these occasions had little of a practical nature, they cannot but be of interest to most readers of a literary periodical. On the 29th ult., M. Babinet, a fellow member of the Institute, Is it true that there are enormous errors in rewith M. Leverrier, and one of the most noted phy-lation to its distance from the sun? No! That is sical astronomers of France, made a communica- false !" tion respecting the planet, Neptune, which is usually called Leverrier's planet, the discovery of it "Is it true that the theoretic mass of Neptune, having, as was supposed, been made by him from ' differs from the mass deduced by observation of the

"Is it true that the direction in which I placed Neptune, bears with it an enormous error, except for the epoch of the discovery by M. Galle, or for a very few years before and after? No! That is false !"

Again,

66

A gain,

VOL. XIV-88

satellite, to such an extent as to furnish an irresis- make her appearance in the new and trying chartible argument against the identity of the theoretic Neptune, with the observed Neptune? No! This is false !"

acter of Desdemona in the Moor of Venice. Alfred de Vigny's translation of this, one of the finest productions of the great English Dramatist, is to be revived for this occasion.

Last night, at the French opera, was given the

M. Leverrier follows each of these strong assertions by an array of arguments, which abler persons than myself must appreciate and value. Le-308th representation of "Robert le Diable." verrier has also published an edition of his defence for general circulation. He there gives to the writers of the Presse and of the National, the following side-wipe, en passant.

"It is evident to all persons, that the feuilleto nists of the Presse and National are nothing but instruments whose excuse is found in this Proverb: • Every body must live.' Every one will pronounce with severity upon these Bravi of the pen, who would perfidiously assassinate a man in his scientific honor, without affording him the opportunity of self-defence."

Gen. Cavaignac, in order to encourage as much as possible all species of legitimate amusement, and keep the people from getting up 308 representations of the Revolution in Paris, is announced, with several members of his government, as having engaged boxes for the season at the Italian opera. The papers asserted too a few days ago, that he and other high functionaries had resolved to spend their whole salaries to the last franc in balls and fetes: in hope thereby to set examples which would be followed, imparting activity and life to several branches of industry peculiar to Paris, and which the events of the revolution have completely prostrated. In fact, all the papers have rung lately with accounts of several grand official entertainments.

I ought to add, in Leverrier's behalf, that the great majority of his brethren side with him in the contest and that in the Academy of Sciences, when M. Babinet ventured to assert that "the identity of the planet, Neptune, with the the- There is quiet still in the political world here: oretic planet, was no longer admitted by any body," but there are evident signs of a fermentation in MM. Biot, Cauchy, and Faye immediately declar-progress, which will before many months cause ed themselves exceptions from this broad assertion. another explosion. The sooner some military ty But the caricaturists are not sparing Leverrier. rant puts his rein and curb upon France, the betWhat does a French caricaturist spare? He is ter, I believe, for herself and the world. The represented in ridiculous attitude and with piteous elections just concluded rivet my conviction, that face, his clothes all bedizzened with stars, cres- the French are unfit for self-government and the cents, and suns, as approaching Gen. Cavaignac Republic impracticable. and asking him if he has suppressed his planet? The General laughs, and tells him no! He has not suppressed it, but nobody can be sure of his star in times of revolution.

The Napoleon excitement is rising again; occasioned by the re-election of Louis Napoleon Bonaparte and his arrival in Paris to take his seat as a member of the National Assembly. His adherents are obtruding him upon the public notice in every possible form,-prints, newspapers, pamphlets,

In the mean time, popular amusements in the streets, of the kind so much in vogue here since February, being now no more practicable under statuettes. Some of these are so bare-faced that Cavaignac's provisional dictatorship, and that other resource, the clubs, which for three months completely carried the day against the theatres, being but moderately attractive under the severe rule now in force, the theatres have resumed their ancient éclat. The Italian opera opens next Tuesday for the season. The principal singers are already at their posts, and the New Director has at last followed the example of the other theatres, and established a considerable reduction of prices of admission.

Meyerbeer has arrived in Paris, and his new opera of "Le Prophete," is definitively to be prodaced at the French opera, where the roles are already distributed.

Balzac is engaged writing a new role for Bouffé, an actor of Paris of extraordinary versatility of

powers.

Gen. Cavaignac has had to suppress them and arrest the authors. Louis Napoleon is, I think, destined to give the Republic much trouble. In a short speech, on the day of his entrance into the assembly, he pronounced his adhesion to the Republic, but in terms which, if compared with what he has formerly written, will appear not to be inconsistent with persistence in his ambitious projects.

W. W. M.

According to Lord Bolingbroke, Virgil preferred Livy and Tacitus to any Grecian historians. He founds this idea upon the celebrated lines commencing, "Excudent alii," &c. This is a singular blunder on his Lordship's part, for Virgil died before Livy had written his history,

and before Tacitus was born.

Gilbert Wakefield in his edition of Pope, supposes the A new Comedy of Scribe has just been accepted well-known "Song by a Person of Quality," to be a seri at the French theatre; where M'dlle. Rachel, re-ous composition, and in a long commentary goes about to turned from her tour in the provinces, is about to prove the whole a disgrace to its author.