An old looking-glass. Somebody finds out the secret of making. all the images that have been reflected in it pass back again across its surface.

Our Indian races having reared no monuments, like the Greeks, Romans and Egyptians, when they have disappeared from the earth their history will appear a fable, and they misty phantoms.

A woman to sympathize with all emotions, but to have none of her own.

A letter, written a century or more ago, but which has never yet been unsealed.

A dreadful secret to be communicated to several people of various characters, grave or gay, and they all to become insane, according to their characters, by the influence of the secret.

Stories to be told of a certain person's appearance in public, of his having been seen in various situations, and of his making visits in private circles; but finally, on looking for this person, to come upon his old grave and mossy tombstonę.

The influence of a peculiar mind, in close communion with another, to drive the latter to insanity.

To look at a beautiful girl, and picture all the lovers, in different situations, whose hearts are centered upon her.

Nathaniel Hawthorne,

Invocation to Light.

O holy light thou art old as the look of God, and eternal as His word. The angels were rocked in thy lap, and their infant smiles were brightened by thee. Creation is in thy memory. By thy torch the throne of Jehovah was set, and thy hand burnished the myriad stars that glitter in His crown. Worlds new from His omnipotent hand were sprinkled with beams from thy baptismal font. At thy golden urn, pale Luna comes to fill her silver horn; Saturn bathes his sky-girt rings; Jupiter lights his waning moons, and Venus dips her queenly robes anew. Thy fountains are

shoreless as the ocean of heavenly love, thy center is everywhere, and thy boundary no power has marked.

Thy beams gild the illimitable fields of space, and gladden the farthest verge of the universe. The glories of the seventh heaven are open to thy gaze, and thy glare is felt in the woes of lowest "Erebus." The sealed books of heaven by thee are read, and thine eye, like the Infinite, canst pierce the dark veil of the future, and glance backward through the mystic cycles of the past. Thy touch gives the lily its whiteness, the rose its tint, and thy kindling ray makes the diamond's light. Thy beams are mighty as the power that binds the spheres.

Thou canst change the sleety winds to soothing zephyrs; and thou canst melt the icy mountains of the poles to gentle rains and dewy vapors.

The granite rocks of the hills are upturned by thee, volcanoes burst, islands sink and rise, rivers roll and oceans swell at thy look of command. And oh thou monarch of the skies, bend now thy bow of millioned arrows and pierce, if thou canst, this darkness that thrice twelve moons has bound me.

Burst now thine emerald gates, oh! Morn, and let thy dawning

come.

Mine eyes roll in vain to find thee, and my soul is weary of this interminable gloom. The past comes back robed in a pall which makes all things dark, and covers the future with but a rayless night of years. My heart is the tomb of blighted hopes, and all the misery of feelings unemployed has settled on me. I am misfortune's child, and sorrow long since marked me for her own. Mrs. S. H. DeKroyft.

From Richelieu.

Richelieu. And so you think this new conspiracy The craftiest trap yet laid for the old fox?

Fox!-Well, I like the nickname!

Say of the Greek Lysander?

Joseph. I forget.

What did Plutarch

Rich. That where the lion's skin fell short, he eked it

Out with the fox's! A great statesman, Joseph,

That same Lysander!

Joseph. Orleans heads the traitors.

Rich. A very wooden head then! Well?
Joseph. The favorite;

Rich. A weed of hasty growth,

First gentleman of the chamber, titles, lands,

And the King's ear! It cost me six long winters
To mount as high, as in six little moons
This painted lizard-But I hold the ladder,
And when I shake he falls! What more?

Joseph. A scheme

To make your orphan ward an instrument

To aid your foes you placed her with the Queen,
One of the royal chamber, as a watch

I' th' enemy's quarters

Rich. And the silly child

Visits me daily, calls me "Father,"

prays

Kind Heaven to bless me. Senseless puppet

No ears nor eyes! And yet she says: "She loves me!"

Joseph. Your ward has charmed the King.

Rich. The King is weak - whoever the King loves

Must rule the King; the lady loves another,

The other rules the lady, thus we are balked

Of our own proper sway. The King must have

No goddess but the State:—the State! That's Richelieu!
Joseph. This is not the worst; Louis, in all decorous,

And deeming you her least compliant guardian,
Would veil his suit by marriage with his minion,
Your prosperous foe, Count Baradas!

In my closet

You'll find a rosary, Joseph; ere you tell

Three hundred beads, I'll summon you. -Stay, Joseph;

I did omit an Ave in my matins

A grievous fault; atone it for me, Joseph.

Enter JULIE DE MORTEMAR.

Richelieu. That's my sweet Julie! why, upon this face Blushes such daybreak, one might swear the morning Were come to visit Tithon.

Julie (placing herself at his feet). Are you gracious? May I say "Father?"

Rich. Now and ever!

Julie. Father!

A sweet word to an orphan.

Rich. No; not orphan

While Richelieu lives; thy father loved me well;
My friend, ere I had flatterers (now I'm great,
In other phrase, I'm friendless) — he died young
In years, not service, and bequeathed thee to me;
And thou shalt have a dowry, girl, to buy

Thy mate amid the mightiest. Drooping?-sighs?—
Art thou not happy at the court?

Julie. Not often.

Rich. (aside). Can she love Baradas? Ah! at thy heart
There's what can smile and sigh, blush and grow pale,
All in a breath! Thou art admired

art young;

Does not his Majesty commend thy beauty —

Ask thee to sing to him?—and swear such sounds

Had smoothed the brow of Saul?

Julie. He's very tiresome,

Our worthy King.

Rich. Fie! Kings are never tiresome

Save to their ministers. What courtly gallants

Charm ladies most ? - De Sourdiac, Longueville, or

He is more tiresome than his Majesty.

Rich. Right, girl, shun Baradas.

Yet of the flowers

Of France, not one, in whose more honeyed breath

Thy heart hears summer whisper?

I mean

Know

-I-Does your Eminence - that is

you Messire de Mouprat?

Rich. Well!- and you —

Has he addressed you often?

Julie. Often! No

[Exit HUGUET.

Nine times: nay, ten; - the last time by the lattice

Of the great staircase. (In a melancholy tone.) The Court

sees him rarely.

Rich. A bold and forward royster!

Julie. He? nay, modest,

Gentle and sad, methinks.

Rich. Wears gold and azure?

Julie. No; sable.

Rich. So you note his colors, Julie?

Shame on you, child, look loftier. By the mass,

I have business with this modest gentleman.

Julie. You're angry with poor Julie. There's no cause.

Rich. No cause you hate my foes?

Julie. I do!

Rich. Hate Mauprat?

Julie. Not Mauprat. No, not Adrien, father.