not the recompense great? With what can one compare the ecstasy of that moment, when lips on which we have hung so long with rapture murmur to us the words, 'I love'? Stay, stay; grant me but an instant's vision. Let me look on myself absorbed as I then was. I do behold me. I see,

I see. Oh, do not;-it has changed; like a dissolving view, it fades gradually away; and lo! the old act is replaced with its patch-work and its shifting scenes, and I am as I am wont to be. How long is this to last, and what change will the next world bring? We talk of the ruling passion strong in death. Will it not be strong after death? If yea, then what avails all our toilsome self-righteous drudgery? What avails this starched precision, this formal self-denial, this untiring resistance and renunciation? Can we love where we hate and hate where we love? Must not the truth out at last? Will not the fire which is smothered burn by and by the fiercer? FATHER of Mercies, forgive me! I err. I am lost in the turbulence of passion. Bring me back to THEE, great Consolation! THOU ART GOD. Once more Faith triumphs. Once more I am at peace.

Charming was the life we led in that sweet valley; happy the hours which passed so calmly there. There were no excitements, no artificial scenes; no feverish pleasures, no factitious allurements to heat and to distract the brain. If at times the heart beat fuller and quicker than at others, it sprung from a natural fervor produced by the scene or the occasion. At the house of Herr Fluellen things went on with uniformity and system; not by rigid rule and dull unmeaning method, which produce feelings of constraint and of disgust, but with that nice regard to order and propriety always evidenced by those who feel the value of existence. All were the happier for the delightful calm that reigned throughout the household. The Herr himself had his constant routine of occupation. On one day he would traverse the valley, and visiting the cottages, would inquire into the welfare of every member. If any were sick, they received attention; if any were rejoicing, they found a sympathizer. The suffering and the unfortunate were cared for; the well and the prosperous were made still happier by pleasant congratulations. The old were reminded of the many blessings with which they were surrounded; the young were admonished to filial duties, that they too might one day enjoy them. The lover and his sweet-heart were not forgotten or unheeded. They were addressed, not by any ill-timed joke or common-place witticism, so invariable on such occasions, yet so grating to the sense, but by simple, kindly words of encouragement and hope, which, expressed with heart-felt emphasis, seemed to strengthen the mutual affection that in the good man's presence, yet with down-cast eyes, was modestly avowed.

On these visits, Herr Fluellen did not confine his inquiries to the situation of the cottagers. He carefully inspected the fields and the gardens, and made suggestions which should improve their condition. In a word, he busied himself with every thing which concerned these humble people, who had learned to regard him with love and reverence. On another day the school which he had established was visited, the progress of the pupils noted; the dull were encouraged, the idle admonished, and the diligent praised. The affairs of his own farm (for, as I shall by and by

explain, these people were not tenants of the Herr) also claimed close examination. The several products of the soil were carefully looked after, and the result compared with the culture of the previous year: every thing seemed to merit his observation, and nothing to escape it. After attending to these various duties, he occupied himself in reading from his wellselected library, or in agreeable conversation with his family. Madame Fluellen, as I have remarked, was in delicate health, yet she did much to second the plans of her husband. She too visited the same families, carrying with her consolation and happiness; and she was the sympathizer with many a feeling, and the confidant of many a tale, which even to the Herr were topics absolutely sealed. In her own house she was gentle, yet decisive; and while she regarded her husband almost as a superior being, she preserved that influence which should always belong to the sex, and is so necessary to man.

Josephine too had but of her employments I will not now speak, preferring rather that they should manifest themselves as my story goes on. Macklorne and I were no idlers. Sometimes we penetrated together the neighboring mountains, traversing one wild height after another, and enjoying a new prospect at almost every step. Sometimes we wandered for miles through the majestic forests, endeavoring to fancy an encounter with the berggeister, or 'spirits of the Alp,' in whose existence the inhabitants believe implicity. But the happiest seasons were those when, with Josephine and Annette, we made excursions in every direction, exploring objects of interest or curiosity. We visited many an old ruined château and many a neglected chapel. We discovered many a wild vale and many an unfrequented path, where, it is said, the race of phantoms and of fairies love to tread. At such times Macklorne invariably attended upon Annette-I accompanied Josephine Fluellen. Often we became separated during our walks, especially when we were proceeding to a well-known locality, and then Josephine and I learned to linger, without knowing that we did linger. At times, as we surveyed together an old ruin, or looked down on some beautiful prospect, something would be said, to which the other responded as if the thoughts of both were just then but as one thought, and our eyes would meet, and I would be thrilled through every fibre of my heart as her soul touched mine. Frequently the calêche was put in requisition, and then the maidens would drive slowly along, while Macklorne and I walked by the side of the carriage; until, the way no longer passable, they dismounted, leaving it in charge of the servant, and we would proceed on together. On one occasion, when Annette was for some reason prevented from going out, Josephine and I made the excursion alone. We drove on for several miles until we came to Thun, which stands beautifully situated on both sides the Aar. Passing through the town, we entered the charming region beyond, which was covered with vines and trees of a rich foliage. As we proceeded, my companion suddenly exclaimed, 'What an exquisite picture! I looked across the fields and beheld, following the track of a small stream, a little valley that at one point inclined into a rich meadow, over which were dotted thickets of beech and oak; three or four water-falls came tumbling from the rocks which rose precipitately on one side, while farther up, the hills were black with forests of fir. Directly at the foot of the ascent stood a small church,

apparently unfrequented, although a path led from it through the pasture to the main road.

'How enchanting! how picturesque!' repeated my companion; let us visit that old chapel and see if we can make any discovery.' We alighted, and leaving the calêche, walked across the meadow. There were no signs around of animated life, except that as we approached, some goats which were browsing high up on the ledge above, stopped to look at us for a moment, and then quietly resumed their occupation. The noise made by the falling of several streams of water across the face of the huge rocks, as they dashed from point to. point, and glided away to join the river, struck with a mournful echo against the old church, imparting a.sense of loneliness to the scene. We both felt it, and both hesitated to push open the door which protected the entrance. We did not delay long, but passing through, found ourselves in the body of the edifice. It seemed to be altogether deserted. We approached the altar; the furniture still remained, although covered with dust and in a state of dilapidation, and around were several old drawings representing different subjects which once decorated the walls.

'How mournful,' said Josephine Fluellen, 'these marks of neglect and of decay on consecrated ground! That the very emblems of our faith should be permitted to moulder and to perish: is it not a melancholy idea? It is not long since holy offices were dispensed here, and the faithful minister, some humble devotee, here gathered his flock together. There was the chapel for secret prayer; there the baptismal font, now broken. Hark! how strangely the murmur of the falling water sounds! it that a ruin always affects the mind with awe?'

Why is

'Is it not,' I replied, 'because, when comparing it with what it once was, we are afflicted with a sense that there is nothing permanent, and that all things are silently undergoing change?'

'Perhaps so,' said Josephine; but to me it would seem rather because we behold that vacant and tenantless which was intended to be used and frequented. This breeds an unnatural solitude, and we are terrified. what could have occurred to make this spot deserted?'

But

As she spoke, I cast down my eyes, and perceiving among the stones of the pavement, where many of the dead had been interred, something that looked like two small folding-doors, I stooped down to open them. Josephine seized my arm. 'Do not,' she said, 'seek to penetrate farther. Some vault will be disclosed full of revolting sights, or a subterranean cavern lined with horrors. Do not lift it.'

'Forgive me,' I said; 'I cannot resist the impulse to know what is beneath; and while my companion still held my arm, I raised the doors. We beheld a large grave-stone, which appeared to be just rent in three pieces, through which was visible the figure of a woman slightly veiled with a shroud, as if coming forth' at the 'resurrection of the last day.' With one hand she seemed to be quietly raising a portion of the broken stone which lay over her head; in the other she held an infant struggling with its little hands to release itself from the tomb. The whole was sculptured in a masterly manner from one large block, and the swelling of the stone was so naturally expressed that the fragments seemed as if

they had just burst and were in the act of opening. On one part was inscribed the following:

'Here am I, LORD, and the child whom thou gavest me.'*

Below we read as follows:

'Anna Magdalena Langhans,

WIFE OF THE CLERGYMAN.

BORN 1723, DIED 1751.'

We stood regarding the affecting spectacle in silence. At length Josephine Fluellen heaved a deep sigh, and said in a low tone, as she drew me away, 'I know now why the chapel is deserted. He could not preach there.'

Like a dream doth it seem

When I think of the Past:

Gently the south wind the forest trees bending,

Showed the bright moon-light through thick leaves descending,

Lighting the wood-path with pale dancing light:

Whose arm was around thee on that lovely night?

LITERARY NOTICES.

THE SEA AND THE SAILOR: Notes on France and Italy: and other Literary Remains of the late Rev. WALTER COLTON. With a Memoir by Rev. HENRY T. CHEEVER. In one volume: pp. 437. New-York: A. S. BARNES AND COMPANY.

SITTING recently upon the upper eastern piazza of the 'Lake House' at Lake George, we took up this volume for perusal. A year before, in the same place, the author sat by our side, with languid eye and pale, wasted cheek, looking off upon the matchless scene of beauty before us. Now he is gone. His eye is dead to color and his ear to sound; and he has

'No more care for all that's done
Beneath the circuit of the sun :"

but he will live and be remembered in his works, as well as in the affections of those whose good fortune it was to share his friendship. The portion of the volume before us called 'The Sea and the Sailor' is made up mainly of two manuscripts without a name, in the shape of sermons or addresses, which Mr. COLTON was in the habit of employing when preaching in behalf of seamen. Other appropriate matter has been incorporated with these by the editor. The 'Notes on France and Italy,' jotted down by the author some twenty years ago, have been revised and placed in sections of convenient reference. A number of aphorisms, laconics, and selected editorials, succeed, which are followed, in conclusion, with specimens of WALTER COLTON in the Pulpit,' which the editor is fully justified in believing will be valued by a wide circle of the friends of the chaplain, on the ground of their intrinsic merit, as well as that of personal regard for the preacher.' From a chapter upon the characteristics of the sailor we take the following brief passages, with no little regret that they are all for which we can find space :

"He will not silently submit even to an opprobrious epithet on board a man-of-war. One of our officers in charge of the deck called a sailor a nondescript. He had scolded him for some supposed neglect of duty, and then said, 'Go forward! you are such a perfect nondescript, I don't know what to do with you.' Forward the sailor went, muttering to himself, Nondescript! what does that mean? Here, LARKIN, can you tell me what nondescript means?? • Why, what do you want to know what nondescript means for? Why, the officer of the deck called me a nondescript, and it means something bad, I know, for he was angry.' 'Well, I don't know what it means,' said LARKIN: 'send for WILKINS, he can tell. Now, WILKINS was a sort of ship's dictionary; and, though ignorant as any on board, he had a reason for every thing, and a definition beside. So WILKINS came. What is the meaning of nondescript ? inquired the aggrieved sailor. Nondescript,' said WILKINS, after a moment's pause; nondescript means one who gets into heaven without being regularly entered on the books. Is that all it means?? said the sailor; well, well, I shall be glad to get there any way, poor sinner as I am!' If there were more of that sailor's spirit ashore, there would be less wrangling on doctrinal points.'

ANOTHER feature in the character of the sailor is his humanity to dumb animals. Though he may knock down a French sailor for wearing a coat with a tail to it, he will never turn out a poor old faithful horse on a public common to die. He leaves such accursed inhumanity to those who surfeit the guest, and starve his steed.