he might paint as many more as he pleased at | the same price. But the artist knew that time would never come, and that he should never be strong and well again! Could it be that uncle Pierre, led away by his own love of music, had counselled unwisely? Had not his old father said at parting, "God's will be done!" It was done, and His will is not our will, or His ways our ways; but He knoweth what is best-we, only what seemeth best. Carl Malanotti might have lived to become a great artist; he might have painted angels, and yet never dreamed of heaven; or he might have rivalled the Signor L-, and won nightly plaudits from an admiring crowd; but God gave him instead a little golden harp! When a child, Carl's mother had given him a small, clasped bible, which was found in his bosom on the morning that he fainted. But was it treasured thus for God's love or hers? Were its holy precepts also hidden in his heart? Ay, amid all its wanderings, all its aspirings, although he knew it not until sickness and sorrow fanned the divine spark into a flame. Therefore it is that sickness and sorrow are oftentimes sent in love, and the earth-wearied turn lingeringly to heaven. And yet there were hours when the young heart of Carl Malanotti still clung to life. "Mother," he would say, "I will go back with you to Switzerland. I will paint pictures all the week, and play the organ on the Sabbathday in our dear old village-church. We shall be so happy!" "So happy!" repeated his mother, while she turned away and wept. A few weeks afterwards they left Paris, travelling by easy stages. The angel on the panel smiled upon Carl as he went forth, as if she had known that she had brought him wealth and honour, and that he would soon be at rest. And now his mother also noticed the strange resemblance to her who was no more. His living brothers and sisters welcomed back the wanderer to his home. Grete had grown more beautiful than ever; but the clear red and white of her dazzling complexion, and the bright, starry eyes had less of earth in them. Uncle Pierre wept aloud: he blamed himself, and above all, the hard-hearted manager. Carl blamed no one. "It was not good for me," said he meekly. "God, who alone knoweth what is in the heart of man, did not see fit to trust me with success. "His will be done!" added the old father. Sorrow, the purifier, had completed its work. The Count de M--, accompanied by some of his friends, came to superintend the removal of Carl's picture to his own residence. It is wonderful!" said they. "And the artist selftaught; and so young-he must not die !" The gifted are not immortal!" replied the Count de M--, while the angel smiled on as they hammered away at the panel. Carl played the organ in the old village church. Never was such music heard there either before or since. It was the solemn and yet joyous requiem of a departing spirit. In the evening he composed and sang a little hymn, just as he had done years ago when a child. "Come up hither," was the burden of each verse. "Come unto me," said the Saviour, with his loving voice, "Come unto me, all ye that sorrow and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest! I am the way! Come up hither!" Before the next Sabbath-day the weary spirit of the young poet had passed away. Many a time, on a still summer evening, or at midnight, when others slept, did Grete hear in imagination her brother's voice floating down, as it were, clearly and distinctly from heaven, and saying to her, in its well remembered tones of love, Come up hither!" And his aged parents have heard it also, when they sat alone thinking of their lost and gifted one. A twelvemonth after Carl's death the beautiful Grete died also. Isabel married and went to Paris with her husband, where she frequently saw the angel on the panel, which then stood in the magnificent gallery of the Count de Mand heard how every one praised it. The brothers were separated hither and thither over the world. The dear mother, and the old, greyheaded father, sleep tranquilly in the village churchyard. Uncle Pierre too has passed away from earth, and there is a new organist. In the cottage where Carl was born, and where he wrote poetry, painted his first picture, played on his wonderful violin, lived, dreamt, and died, dwell a poor but honest couple, who are glad to let their best room in the summer months to some wandering artist or chance traveller, whom a love of the picturesque may bring to that quiet place. And when inquiries are made concerning the faded picture, they tell you the simple history of Carl Malanotti, even as we have related it. LORD HENRY. The wind, like a wild dove, descends from the sky, Of magnificent Day sends a long lane of light Lord Henry looked up, and Lord Henry looked round, His young heart impressed by the calmness profound waves, Through fairy-built mansions, and coralline caves. Lord Henry's the last of a race of renown; Bred up in the country, he knows not the town. A creature of fancy, of field, and of flood, Oh! little cares he for the gift of high blood; The wild bird and bee his companions have been, And rather he'd rove through the shady wood green Than mix with his compeers. All lonely and shy, From the dance and the banquet Lord Henry will fly, To roam by the forest, to roam by the tideYet not by the last, for the last is denied ; For Lord Henry's mother, she dreamt a strange dream, When her son saw the daylight, and thrice it did seem The same vision arose in her dreams of the night, Like a sea-dirge; and floating, all lifeless and pale, The warning of Providence. Fervently prayed moon, And stare men to madness; of rocks, that as soon She made him vow never to bathe there, or float On its treacherous billows, in vessel or boat. She but kindled his fancy; alas! she forgot His mother replies; and the oath he still kept. One after the other, in silvery light. The wild hollow dirges that rang on his ear- The mermaid's lament, or the sea-maiden's hymn; To purple and topaz; and this lonely grot All is still-all is still! not a cloud in the sky; Yet through him thrills quick a mysterious delight. and rare As the arms of a Venus; and pearls in her hair; eyes Gaze into Lord Henry's. Lord Henry replies, With a look full of wonder, and terror, and shame: "What art thou?" he falters, "and what is thy name, Thou wonderful creature!" His heart it beat thick, Lord Henry turn'd red, and Lord Henry turn'd pale, Unconsciously smil'd; for his own caught each trace, "I come from my home, from my lone coral cave, Where the pearl-shells are gleaming beneath the green wave; Where the pure amber glows, and the red coral trees "Thou beautiful mermaid, thou fill'st me with dread! "Oh! hush thee, Lord Henry! what use were to me My beauty will fade not; Time passes me by; Are innocent, pure as the fruits that suffice The sunbeams, refined from their harsh earthly glare; There rages no storm-wind-pure as zephyr the air- "Oh! silence, young mermaid! it makes my heart beat With a thrilling delight but to hear thee repeat Then laugh'd the sly mermaid at Henry's desire; Grew ever less fearful, as each graceful fold Her pure All is still! all is still!-save the young hearts that beat, And the eyes that gaze on, or are cast down, to meet in the air There trembles a tone like the sigh of despair; Like a lover's lament, it breathes trembling around; Oh! never did mortal voice utter such soundSuch an aching complaint of love, grief, hope, desire, As the sea-girl pour'd forth o'er her tortoise-shell lyre: Now rising in air, with unearthly wild tone- Still sweeter, still sweeter it thrills on his ear, Like the breath of the sweet south, that wafts to and fro The passionate odours of blossoms that leave And he wept, and he wept as his young heart would break. He gaz'd through his tears, as her magic song ended, And the mother who watch'd and whose fond love had guided, And into the mermaiden's white arms he glided! With a strange cry of pleasure, of pride, and of joy, Her white arms encircle the beautiful boy; She has won him, she has him, she holds him now tight, And her bright eyes are flashing in fairy delight. There's a change in the sky, there's a curl on the wave, There's a warning cry rings, as when wild tempests rave; The sea-bird gives out, with a free, swan-like motion, All is still-all is still; night descends on the world, Woodlands. THE WOODBINE. Light, and dew, and sun, and shower, Large its honey-blossoms grew, In a verdant wood 'twas growing, Where all lovely things were blowing; Where the eve the breeze did bring, Like a bee with loaded wing. Was it not a happy flower, Happy? Yes, if round some thing, Ah! but list! the woodbine flower Had its choice within the bowerThe ash, the oak, the eglantine, Paid their court unto the bine; And the aspen in alarms But it heeded neither's charms, LOVE'S LIFE IS ITS DEVOTION. (Song.) BY GEORGE HALSE. Love is a balm, yet 'tis a bane; Its food is sorrow and despair, Yet, truly echoed, what can mete From pain or poverty? Oh no Love's life is its devotion! This treasure's neither sold nor bought, Nor won, like baubles, at a thought; Spontaneous emotion. Once nobly won 'tis never lost- THE NEW ORGAN FOR ST. PHILEMON'S. (An American Story.) BY THEOPHILUS PRINGLE. I don't know, Mr. Editor, that I can be called a saint-in fact, if anybody were to say that I was, I think that body would be a little out of the way. Nor am I an intolerable sinner, but what most people would call about "so so." Now you comprehend pretty accurately my standing in the community, and this settled in the beginning, I will proceed to tell my story. My wife, you must know, is a religious woman; and to accommodate her, as well as to appear respectable, I hired a pew in St. Philemon's church, and attended service at least once on every Sabbath. Our minister, Mr. Dearsoul, was a great favourite, especially with the ladies, and was allowed to do pretty much as he pleased. I liked him well enough, though I must own that his notions of morality and mine did not always just tally. Perhaps I am a little obtuse; but if so, it's my misfortune more than my fault. When I first took a pew in Mr. Dearsoul's church, I was a very humble individual who had just commenced business, and lived in a style that was by no means imposing. I went regularly every Sunday with my wife, and maintained as devout an exterior as most persons, even going so far as to join in the responses. But I remained a stranger in St. Philemon's for several years. The leading and influential members did not know me; and as for Mr. Dearsoul, he did not so much as call upon my wife to offer her spiritual comfort. Fortunately for us, we are independent sort of folks-that is, my wife and myself-and were not much annoyed by this indifference and neglect. We attended to our own concerns during the week, and went to church on Sunday for our own reasons. My wife's, as I have before intimated, were something better than mine. Well, it so happened that this thinking about and attending to our own concerns made our external condition prosperous. In a few years I built myself a house, and furnished it with some expense and taste. It is wonderful how quickly this was known. Long before my house was done, I was nodded to across the church on Sunday by influential vestrymen, stopped by them in the street, and honoured with invitations to visit them at their houses. Mr. Dearsoul, too, about this time, made the discovery that we were members of his church, and made us a pastoral visit, for which we were duly grateful. "We're getting of consequence, Esther," I said to my wife, as these indications assumed a more decided aspect. "What can be the rea son?" "We are getting better known, I suppose," she replied, very innocently. "So I should think. But isn't it a little surprising that Mr. Dearsoul, who is such a good man, and so watchful over his flock, never found us out before?" "His congregation is large." "Yes-but he looks over it every Sunday. We sit directly in front of him. I'm sure I've seen him looking at us a hundred times. I wonder, Esther, if it can be possible that he has heard of our new house that is building?" 66 For shame, Mr. Pringle!" said my wife, a slight glow of indignation warming her cheek. Maybe I am wrong to think that," I replied, in a way to soothe my wife's feelings. Dear, good soul, she never thinks harm of any one. And how should she? She has no standard of evil in her own heart by which to judge others. As for myself, I frankly confess that I am not so charitable. I have a wonderful propensity for looking below the surface, and sometimes, I must own, am apt to see a little more than is to be seen. After a while we got into our new house, which I am vain enough to think looks very handsome. There is no reason why it should not, for it cost me over seven thousand dollars, independent of the ground, and in moving into it I expended nearly two thousand dollars in extra furniture. Little over a week had passed, after we took possession, before my wife had calls from Mrs. Dearsoul and daughter, and from the wives of sundry influential members of the church. Within a month, Dr. Dearsoul invited himself and family to take tea and spend the evening with us. "Bless us, Esther," I said, "what does all this mean? Mr. Dearsoul is getting to feel quite at home with us. I am sure I never dreamed of this honour. I cannot help thinking our new house has something to do with it." "Now why will you talk so? It is downright scandalous! I don't believe Mr. Dearsoul would visit us any quicker in this house than he would in the old one." "But did it never strike you as a little strange that he didn't happen to find us out there?" "I'm sure he did visit us in the old house." "Oh, so he did, once-but that was after this one was nearly finished." "Now don't talk so, dear; you really make me feel unhappy," said my wife, with a look of distress. "I know you wrong Mr. Dearsoul, who is far above being governed by mere appearances," |