Originally intended for the bar, his bias for general literature had led him to forsake the dusty route of professional study, that he might pursue the flowery walks of poetry and fiction. This devia. tion, although it gained him not fortune, had procured him fame; and he already ranked high among aspirants for the laurel.

Harry Wilbur was not a resident of the Brooklyn cottage. He inhabited a high attic in a fashionable boarding-house in New. York, and it was only at intervals that his avocations permitted him the indulgences of leisure. Besides the unavoidable claims of business, there were other taxes upon his time. His society had been much sought for of late years by lionizing party givers, and he had contracted a large circle of acquaintances whose patronage was too important to permit him wholly to neglect their numerous invitations. When, however, he could steal from the wearing fa tigue of mental labour, and the heartless round of worldly visits, to form one in the little coterie over the water, he brought with him a mind rich with inexhaustible stores, and a wit as varied as it was brilliant.

It was only in the society of Mary Moncrief that gaiety was the characteristic of Henry Wilbur's conversation. Elsewhere it assumed a tone of lofty enthusiasm. Perhaps it was his intercourse with that vivacious girl, which inspired those tales of sparkling humour that about this time gave so much celebrity to his pen. Be that as it may, he never appeared so happy as when under her brightening influence.

O Summer! golden Summer! when thou sittest upon thy verdant throne, pageant flowers passing before thee in gorgeous procession, and gentle zephyrs whispering their soft flatteries in thy ear, how cunningly dost thou play upon the human heart, and awaken from its mystic chords the melodious symphonies of love!

Clinton Moncrief and Gertrude Wilbur became necessary to each other's happiness. They enjoyed together moonlit sails and romantic rambles-readings under ancient trees, and songs beneath starry canopies. Ennobling thoughts were interchanged, and bursts of hilarity participated; slight words became treasured up as funds for future reflection; a tremulous joy agitated their features when they met, and blissful reveries beguiled their hours of solitude.

We are aware that in order to produce an orthodox love story, some hair-breadth escape ought now to have occurred. Gertrude should have been shielded from a rabid dog by the prowess of Clin. ton, or had her steed arrested on the brink of a precipice by his Herculean arm. She should have fallen into deep waters that her lover might have swam in to her rescue, or at least have stood among burning rafters while he dashed fearlessly through the flames.

Sorry we are to say that nothing like all this happened. The season was very cool, and not a dog went mad. There were no precipices to leap over, unless our heroine spurred her Bucephalus from the heights, and she invariably preferred to ride in a different direction. In a boat, she sat as quiet as a lamb; and old Isaac went the rounds every night to see that not a spark of fire smouldered upon the hearth-stone of his dwelling. Notwithstanding this paucity of danger, Gertrude had every confidence ih the chivalry of Clinton, and the quiet lapse of time impressed his image more indelibly upon her heart than if it had been heaving the while with the stormy fluctuations of passion.

During the first month or two of their intercourse, the Lieutenant and Harry Wilbur manifested the strongest disposition to friendship. Nothing could be more amiable than their cordial greetings, nothing more brotherly than their harmonizing views. At last they seemed mutually to recoil, and there was an occasional acerbity in Clinton's manner that would have provoked one less forbearing than Wilbur to retaliate somewhat roughly.

One lovely Autumnal evening they were all standing together at the gate of Commodore Moncrief's grounds. It had been a calm, mild day, and the South wind was still

"

'Searching for the flowers, whose fragrance late he bore."

Star after star came hurrying to its nightly watch, the waters of the bay glowed like molten silver in the moonlight, and distant shores and fairy isles presented an umbrageous contrast to the lucid splendour of the skies.

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Why is it," said Mary, her sweet face assuming an expression of tranquil thoughtfulness unlike its usual merry aspect, "why is it that one feels so much better on such an evening as this, than in the broad daylight? It would really appear almost wicked to laugh in the face of all these glorious stars!"

It was very seldom that Mary hazarded any thing approaching to the sentimental, for nature had infused but little blueing in her composition. She uttered this, however, in a tone of deep feeling, and Henry Wilbur's eye kindled with all the rapture of a poet.

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Why is it?" said he. "It is because sunshine lights up the world with a vivid distinctness, and gives to every loathsome worm that crawls upon its surface, to every worthless straw that floats in its atmosphere, a visual importance. We live among these things, and our thoughts become lowered to their standard. At night all is concealed that is gross or trivial, and obscurity adds vastness to magnitude. We turn from the dim revelations of earth to the bright fields of heaven, and while we long to traverse them in dis

Originally intended for the bar, his bias for general literature had led him to forsake the dusty route of professional study, that he might pursue the flowery walks of poetry and fiction. This deviation, although it gained him not fortune, had procured him fame; and he already ranked high among aspirants for the laurel.

Harry Wilbur was not a resident of the Brooklyn cottage. He inhabited a high attic in a fashionable boarding-house in NewYork, and it was only at intervals that his avocations permitted him the indulgences of leisure. Besides the unavoidable claims of business, there were other taxes upon his time. His society had been much sought for of late years by lionizing party givers, and he had contracted a large circle of acquaintances whose patronage was too important to permit him wholly to neglect their numerous invitations. When, however, he could steal from the wearing fatigue of mental labour, and the heartless round of worldly visits, to form one in the little coterie over the water, he brought with him a mind rich with inexhaustible stores, and a wit as varied as it was brilliant.

It was only in the society of Mary Moncrief that gaiety was the characteristic of Henry Wilbur's conversation. Elsewhere it assumed a tone of lofty enthusiasm. Perhaps it was his intercourse with that vivacious girl, which inspired those tales of sparkling humour that about this time gave so much celebrity to his pen. Be that as it may, he never appeared so happy as when under her brightening influence.

O Summer! golden Summer! when thou sittest upon thy verdant throne, pageant flowers passing before thee in gorgeous procession, and gentle zephyrs whispering their soft flatteries in thy ear, how cunningly dost thou play upon the human heart, and awaken from its mystic chords the melodious symphonies of love!

Clinton Moncrief and Gertrude Wilbur became necessary to each other's happiness. They enjoyed together moonlit sails and romantic rambles-readings under ancient trees, and songs beneath starry canopies. Ennobling thoughts were interchanged, and bursts of hilarity participated; slight words became treasured up as funds for future reflection; a tremulous joy agitated their features when they met, and blissful reveries beguiled their hours of solitude.

We are aware that in order to produce an orthodox love story, some hair-breadth escape ought now to have occurred. Gertrude should have been shielded from a rabid dog by the prowess of Clinton, or had her steed arrested on the brink of a precipice by his Herculean arm. She should have fallen into deep waters that her lover might have swam in to her rescue, or at least have stood among burning rafters while he dashed fearlessly through the flames.

Sorry we are to say that nothing like all this happened. The season was very cool, and not a dog went mad. There were no precipices to leap over, unless our heroine spurred her Bucephalus from the heights, and she invariably preferred to ride in a different direction. In a boat, she sat as quiet as a lamb; and old Isaac went the rounds every night to see that not a spark of fire smouldered upon the hearth-stone of his dwelling. Notwithstanding this paucity of danger, Gertrude had every confidence ih the chivalry of Clinton, and the quiet lapse of time impressed his image more indelibly upon her heart than if it had been heaving the while with the stormy fluctuations of passion.

During the first month or two of their intercourse, the Lieutenant and Harry Wilbur manifested the strongest disposition to friendship. Nothing could be more amiable than their cordial greetings, nothing more brotherly than their harmonizing views. At last they seemed mutually to recoil, and there was an occasional acerbity in Clinton's manner that would have provoked one less forbearing than Wilbur to retaliate somewhat roughly.

One lovely Autumnal evening they were all standing together at the gate of Commodore Moncrief's grounds. It had been a calm, mild day, and the South wind was still

"

'Searching for the flowers, whose fragrance late he bore."

Star after star came hurrying to its nightly watch, the waters of the bay glowed like molten silver in the moonlight, and distant shores and fairy isles presented an umbrageous contrast to the lucid splendour of the skies.

"Why is it," said Mary, her sweet face assuming an expression of tranquil thoughtfulness unlike its usual merry aspect, "why is it that one feels so much better on such an evening as this, than in the broad daylight? It would really appear almost wicked to laugh in the face of all these glorious stars!"

It was very seldom that Mary hazarded any thing approaching to the sentimental, for nature had infused but little blueing in her composition. She uttered this, however, in a tone of deep feeling, and Henry Wilbur's eye kindled with all the rapture of a poet.

"Why is it?" said he. "It is because sunshine lights up the world with a vivid distinctness, and gives to every loathsome worm that crawls upon its surface, to every worthless straw that floats in its atmosphere, a visual importance. We live among these things, and our thoughts become lowered to their standard. At night all is concealed that is gross or trivial, and obscurity adds vastness to magnitude. We turn from the dim revelations of earth to the bright fields of heaven, and while we long to traverse them in dis

embodied freedom, our thoughts naturally revert to the high desti. nies of man."

"I wish I could always feel as I do now," said Mary, pensively. "I cannot join in your wish, dear Mary," replied Wilbur. “Our lovely Allegra is too delightful to be spared, and although the stars are especial favourites of mine, I would eschew their society for. ever, if they were so envious of her brightness as to attempt fading her into a Penserosa."

Henry's tones had never been so lover-like, and Mary did not seem in the least offended by their tenderness.

"Miss Wilbur," said Clinton coldly, and with a strong emphasis upon the frigid appellation, "Miss Wilbur, I fear the dews are too heavy for you and my sister. sister. Had we not better go in ?"

"Perhaps so," said Gertrude confusedly; and the ladies, folding their shawls more closely around them, were soon safely ensconced within the four walls of the mansion.

Never had Clinton appeared so unamiable as he did during the remainder of that evening, and when Gertrude went home, she lay awake half the night trying to recollect what she could have said or done to displease him.

We have noticed that one of Gertrude's strongest characteristics was her sisterly affection. Our holiest feelings too often become ministers of torture, as seraphs were commissioned to expel man from Paradise.

"Why are you so sad, my brother ?" said the lovely girl, as she was sitting one evening in the twilight with the object of her solicitude.

Henry had leaned his arms upon a table, and buried his face in his hands. He did not look up when she spoke to him.

"Dearest Harry, what ails you?" repeated Gertrude, stealing softly behind him, and laying her hand upon his head with the pri vileged fondness of a sister.

Henry started from his reverie, and looking up, beheld an expression of unutterable anxiety in the features of the sweet querist. "You are an angel!" cried he, and caught her to his bosom. "Then Henry," said Gertrude smiling, "you certainly ought to tell me what troubles you; for you know angels have great power, and perhaps I may be of some assistance. You always used to inform me when any thing annoying occurred," added she, a little reproachfully.

"Gertrude," said Henry solemnly, "I believe you love me! will you prove it?"

"Tell me how, my dear brother," said Gertrude. "I would die for you if necessary."