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"But how did this fatal accident occur, Rose?" | ber no more, for, unused to such scenes, my I inquired. Why have you never mentioned strength succumbed. it before?"

Paler than ever, Rose replied, with a faltering voice, “Because it was not an accident, Evelin" (she shivered, and put her lips close to my ear). "He was cast down intentionally."

"By whom, Rose?" My heart throbbed violently; strange thoughts were rushing through my brain.

"I dare not tell you; I am forbidden to reveal more. I was very young at the time, and things were hushed up; but poor Milly has been a changed being ever since."

"Mildred!" I exclaimed, in surprise; "what effect could this tragedy have on her, more than on other members of your family?"

"It had, it had, Evelin, because she desired to screen the guilty; but ask me no more, and let us quit this hateful place."

My mind was bewildered and uneasy. Who could the guilty person alluded to be, and wherefore such a mystery preserved? The wildest conjectures disturbed my imagination, while redoubled love and sympathy were given to the bereaved mother. But this tangled web was soon to be unraveled-unraveled in an awful and sudden manner, for that avenging arm was outstretched which no mortal can withstand.

We were preparing to return home, and I was happy in the near prospect of seeing dear Lodimer so soon. Harold Lovell left the castle at early morn in high health and spirits, to attend a race meeting, some few miles off, with several boon companions. A quarrel arose, and Harold, deeming himself insulted, and more than half inebriated, struck a desperate gambler, who demanded satisfaction on the spot. Harold fell, mortally wounded, and was borne back to Lovell on a litter, late in the evening. The father's despair, blessedly merged in insensibility, the sister's agony, we draw a vail over.

Mrs. Priestly, Mildred, and myself, with the medical attendants, alone were calm and of use, so far, indeed, as human aid extended. The domestics were wildly running hither and thither, but to no purpose: Harold Lovell was rapidly dying. Mrs. Priestly supported the expiring sufferer; she bathed his temples, and spoke words of peace. You would have deemed him the son of her fondest love, all dislike merged in pity and the tenderest solicitude. Suddenly Harold opened his glazing eyes to their widest extent; he recognized her, while a shudder convulsively shook his whole frame. He essayed to articulate, and at length these broken sentences were heard, "Forgive me, Aunt Priestly-now forgive. "Twas I did it! Edwin is innocent; I am the murderer. Oh! mercy! mercy!"

Mrs. Priestly had sank down beside the couch, as with clasped hands she raised her streaming eyes to heaven; then burying her face, she murmured-"I do forgive you, poor boy, and so does Edwin, freely." The spirit passed into eternity as she spoke these words. I saw Mildred fling herself into Mrs. Priestly's arms, and I remem

Mr. Lovell and his son were laid side by side in the family vault on the same day; the brokenhearted father surviving his beloved child but a few hours. That son's dying confession was repeated to him, although he took no notice at the time, and lived not to make restitution to the innocent; but to his daughters, as co-heiresses, the whole of his immense wealth descended; and | yet Mr. Lovell left a son-a good, noble-hearted son, whom he had unjustly disinherited. When the disinherited was told that the only words his departed parent had spoken after receiving his death-blow, the only token of consciousness he had evinced was in faintly murmuring, "Bless Edwin, my son," that son valued the world's wealth but as dross in comparison; nor would he have exchanged those precious words for all the uncounted riches of the globe! His father then had believed him innocent, and had blessed him; and Edwin, the ornithologist of Ivy Lodge, came to Lovell Castle, justly lord of all, but owning nothing save a thankful heart and a peaceful mind, to be clasped in the arms of his faithful sister Mildred, for they were twins, and linked together in heart. Then, and not till then, were the following particulars narrated to Rose and myself by Mrs. Priestly. Rose mourned deeply for her brother, but justice to the living demanded full disclosure of the truth.

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Edwin had never been a favorite with his father, a fall in infancy having rendered him unsightly, and probably occasioned the delicate health which induced that love of studious repose so opposite to those qualities which Mr. Lovell admired in his younger son. A tutor was provided for Edwin at home, while Harold, with his cousin, Jocelin Priestly, was sent to a public school. With unfeeling thoughtlessness, Jocelin used often to amuse himself by joking at the expense of Edwin's personal deformity, calling him hunchback," and many other nicknames, all of which the amiable youth bore with unflinching patience and fortitude, ever returning good for evil. The quarrels and rivalry between Harold and Jocelin were violent and unceasing; and, previous to the last vacation, they had risen to a fiercer pitch than formerly, Jocelin Priestly having carried off a prize from Harold, which the latter declared was unfair. Jocelin's spirits were outrageous, and in reckless levity he made so unceasing a butt of the unfortunate elder brother, that Edwin determined to keep himself as much aloof as possible from the boisterous pair, whose bickerings and headstrong passion disturbed his equanimity. Mildred, whose love and veneration for her beloved brother was returned by him with a depth of affection which only the isolated can feel, vainly tried to make peace and preserve concord. Mrs. Priestly, with a mother's doating partiality for an only child, never allowed Jocelin to be in fault, though she would chide his exuberant spirits, and liked not that he should wound the gentle Edwin, whom she dearly loved. Mr. Lovell, on the other hand, laughed at the

lads' faults; and, when he could not laugh, winked at them: Edwin was a milk-sop, and Harold and Jocelin fine, high-spirited, handsome fellows, who would grow wiser as they grew older." Mrs. | Priestly "hoped so"-she "prayed so; and Jocelin was so clever and handsome, that a little steadiness was all he needed; there was nothing else amiss." So argued the blind mother; and, next to Harold, his uncle Lovell's affections were lavished on this nephew.

When these two youths made their appearance at the castle, Edwin frequently retired to the western turret, where he could read and meditate alone, and enjoy the lovely landscape. Here he was resting on a projecting stone, which served as a bench, part of the edifice screening him from view, when Jocelin Priestly appeared on the summit with a telescope in hand, and, with boyish recklessness, jumped on the low parapet, balancing himself on the extreme verge, as he applied the glass to his eye. In another moment Harold came leaping up the turret-stairs, boiling with furious passion; and, darting forward, he clutched at the glass, screaming, as he did so, 'How dare you take my telescope, sir, when you know I forbade you?" There was a struggle, a violent thrust, succeeded by a scream of horror and despair, and Edwin beheld his brother Harold alone on that dizzy height.

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All this had passed in a moment of time apparently. Harold looked round with a wild, terrified glance, and fled, Edwin's limbs refusing to sustain him in his efforts to reach the parapet, as he lost consciousness, and swooned. Jocelin Priestly's fall had been noticed by a gardener, who gave an instant alarm; but the ill-fated lad expired in his distracted mother's arms, after articulating, "I am murdered."

He

Mr. Lovell discarded his son forever. would not harbor, he said, one who had vengefully taken the life of his beloved nephew; the law, indeed, could not reach the criminal, but a father's malediction could! So the hapless Edwin was disowned and disinherited by his indignant parent, who granted him a stipend barely sufficient for subsistence, and thrust him forth as an alien. Harold had not encountered his brother's placid gaze; he shrank from being alone with him, and when Edwin begged for an audience, it was refused. Mildred protested her brother's innocence. Edwin had never swerved from truth in his life; and, strange to say, there was another who sided with Mildred, and that other, the miserable mother of the victim. She had scrutinized and watched Harold Lovell closely; and when Edwin knelt beside her, and said, with quiet, but impressive calmness, “I am innocent, aunt; I never injured a hair of my cousin's head," he was believed by that jealous, breaking heart.

"But you were there, Edwin," cried the poor lady; you witnessed it: he came not to his end by fair means. Speak-your brother-was it he did this foul deed, for he envied and hated my son-the base, cowardly traitor!"

Passion choked Mrs. Priestly's utterance, and Edwin was mute. Neither prayers nor entreaties induced him to explain past circumstances connected with the direful catastrophe. He bore the burden of another's guilt; he bore in silence the contumely that should have been heaped on another, and was banished from the parental roof. But conviction found its way to Mrs. Priestly's heart; and, though Mr. Lovell was implacable, nor would listen to a suspicion implied that he might be deceived, the mother intuitively shrank from contact with the false-hearted Harold Lovell. As years progressed, the truth became more and more firmly impressed on her mind; and to him, accused by his own father of being her only child's destroyer, she left the bulk of her fortune, and established the outcast in her near vicinity, firmly trusting that the Almighty, in his own good time, would bring the real culprit to light. Her heart fixed on this culprit, but Mr. Lovell continued in error and darkness. Those precious words spoken in his last hour proved, however, that darkness was dissipated, and error aban

Edwin was found on the summit of the western turret, his incoherent exclamations and agitation being considered proofs of guilt by his father and tutor. He solemnly asseverated his innocence, but refused to enter into particulars until his brother Harold returned, for Harold was absent, it was supposed, in the adjacent woodlands, where he ofttimes resorted to practice with his gun. When he did return, Harold with well-acted surprise heard the dreadful tidings, and demanded, in a careless manner, where Edwin had been at the time? When informed that he was found on the summit of the tower, and of the deceas-doned, when the dying man murmured a blessing ed's fearful avowal in his dying moments, Harold exclaimed, “Edwin has indeed avenged himself on poor Jocelin." And Edwin was branded as the dastardly wretch who had taken his cousin's life thus !

Edwin denied the foul deed with indignation and horror; but, when Harold's words were repeated to him, he hung his head, and blushed scarlet. He spoke no more, save to affirm his innocence; and, when questioned as to Jocelin Priestly having been near him on the tower just Defore he met with his death, Edwin admitted the fact; but, when further pressed, he became confused, and painful internal struggles were evident.

on his exiled son, who had sacrificed himself to shield an ungrateful brother from shame and opprobrium.

Within two years after her father and brother's decease, Rose rewarded the long and sincere attachment of a neighboring squire by becoming his wife. Lovell Castle was sold, and Mildred repaired to Lodimer; while, on the original site of Ivy Lodge, a more commodious dwelling was in course of preparation. There she resided with her beloved brother for the remainder of their joint lives, and Mr. Edwin found in his sweet companion not only a valuable coadjutor in his favorite pursuits, but an absolute rival in the affections of his feathered pets; while the

swan's nest among the reeds on Lodimer's fair | the key, and as he draws from it the electrical waters continued to be as carefully preserved spark, this strange little boy is struck through and guarded as it had been during the solitary ❘ the very heart with an agony of joy. His laboryears of the now happy ornithologist.

THE

A CHILD'S TOY.

HE afternoon was drawing in toward evening; the air was crisp and cool, and the wind near the earth, steady but gentle; while above all was as calm as sleep, and the pale clouds -just beginning in the west to be softly gilded by the declining sun-hung light and motionless. The city, although not distant, was no longer visible, being hidden by one of the many hills which give such enchantment to the aspect of our city. There was altogether something singularly soothing in the scene-something that disposed not to gravity, but to elevated thought. As we looked upward, there was some object that appeared to mingle with the clouds, to form a part of their company, to linger, mute and motionless like them, in that breathless blue, as if feeling the influence of the hour. It was not a white-winged bird that had stolen away to muse in the solitudes of air: it was nothing more than a paper kite.

On that paper kite we looked long and intently. It was the moral of the picture; it appeared to gather in to itself the sympathies of the whole beautiful world; and as it hung there, herding with the things of heaven, our spirit seemed to ascend and perch upon its pale bosom like a wearied dove. Presently we knew the nature of the influence it exercised upon our imagination; for a cord, not visible at first to the external organs, though doubtless felt by the inner sense, connected it with the earth of which we were a denizen. We knew not by what hand the cord was held so steadily. Perhaps by some silent boy, lying prone on the sward behind yonder plantation, gazing up along the delicate ladder, and seeing unconsciously angels ascending ard descending. When we had looked our fill, we went slowly and thoughtfully home along the deserted road, and nestled, as usual, like a moth, among our books. A dictionary was lying near; and with a languid curiosity to know what was said of the object that had interested us so much, we turned to the word, and read the following definition: Kite-a child's toy.

What wonderful children there are in this world, to be sure! Look at that American boy, with his kite on his shoulder, walking in a field near Philadelphia. He is going to have a fly; and it is famous weather for the sport, for it is in June-June, 1752. The kite is but a rough one, for Ben has made it himself, out of a silk handkerchief stretched over two cross-sticks. Up it goes, however, bound direct for a thundercloud passing overhead; and when it has arrived at the object of its visit, the flier ties a key to the end of his string, and then fastens it with some silk to a post. By and by he sees some loose threads of the hempen-string bristle out and stand up, as if they had been charged with electricity. He instantly applies his knuckles to

ing chest relieves itself with a deep sigh, and he feels that he could be contented to die that moment. And indeed he was nearer death than he supposed; for as the string was sprinkled with rain, it became a better conductor, and gave out its electricity more copiously; and if it had been wholly wet, the experimenter might have been killed upon the spot. So much for this child's toy. The splendid discovery it made—of the identity of lightning and electricity-was not allowed to rest by Ben Franklin. By means of an insulated iron rod the new Prometheus drew down fire from heaven, and experimented with it at leisure in his own house. He then turned the miracle to a practical account, constructing a pointed metallic rod to protect houses from lightning. One end of this true magic wand is higher than the building, and the other end buried in the ground; and the submissive lightning, instead of destroying life and property in its gambols, darts direct along the conductor into the earth. We may add that Ben was a humorous boy, and played at various things as well as | kite-flying. Hear this description of his pranks at an intended pleasure-party on the banks of the Schuylkill: "Spirits at the same time are to be fired by a spark sent from side to side through the river, without any other conductor than water--an experiment which we have some time since performed to the amazement of many. A turkey is to be killed for dinner by the electrical shock; and roasted by the electrical jack, before a fire kindled by the electrical bottle; when the healths of all the famous electricians in England, Holland, France, and Germany, are to be drunk in electrified bumpers, under the discharge of guns from the electrical battery."

We now turn to a group of capital little fellows who did something more than fly their kite. These were English skippers, promoted some how to the command of vessels before they had arrived at years of discretion; and chancing to meet at the port of Alexandria in Egypt, they took it into their heads-these naughty boysthat they would drink a bowl of punch on the top of Pompey's Pillar. This pillar had often served them for a signal at sea. It was composed of red granite, beautifully polished, and standing 114 feet high, overtopped the town. But how to get up? They sent for a kite, to be sure; and the men, women, and children of Alexandria, wondering what they were going to do with it, followed the toy in crowds. The kite was flown over the Pillar, and with such nicety, that when it fell on the other side the string lodged upon the beautiful Corinthian capital. By this means they were able to draw over the Pillar a twoinch rope, by which one of the youngsters "swarmed" to the top. The rope was now in a very little while converted into a sort of rude shroud, and the rest of the party followed, and actually drank their punch on a spot which, seen from the surface of the earth, did no

appear to be capable of holding more than one

man.

By means of this exploit it was ascertained that a statue had once stood upon the columnand a statue of colossal dimensions it must have been to be properly seen at such a height. But for the rest-if we except the carvings of sundry initials on the top-the result was only the knocking down of orre of the volutes of the capital, for boys are always doing mischief; and this was carried to England by one of the skippers, in order to execute the commission of a lady, who, with the true iconoclasm of her country, had asked him to be so kind as to bring her a piece of Pompey's Pillar.

Little fellows, especially of the class of bricklayers, are no great readers, otherwise we might suspect that the feat of the skipper-boys had conveyed some inspiration to Steeple Jack. Who is Steeple Jack? asks some innocent reader at the Antipodes. He is a little, spare creature who flies his kite over steeples when there is any thing to do to them, and lodging a cord on the apex, contrives by its means to reach the top without the trouble of scaffolding. No fragility, no displacement of stones, no leaning from the perpendicular, frightens Steeple Jack. He is as bold as his namesake, Jack-the-Giant-Killer, and does as wonderful things. At Dunfermline, not long ago, when the top of the spire was in so crazy a state that the people in the street gave it a wide berth as they passed, he swung himself up without hesitation, and set every thing to rights. At the moment we write, his cord is seen stretched from the tall, slim, and elegant spire of the Assembly Hall in Edinburgh, which is to receive, through his agency, a lightningconductor; and Jack only waits the subsidence of a gale of wind to glide up that filmy rope like a spider. He is altogether a strange boy, Steeple Jack. Nobody knows where he roosts upon the earth, if he roosts any where at all. The last time there was occasion for his services, this advertisement appeared in the Scotsman: "Steeple Jack is wanted at such a place immediately"and immediately Steeple Jack became visible.

face of his kites with the horizon, so as to make his aerial horses go fast or slow as he chose; and side lines to vary the direction of the force, till it came almost to right angles with the direction of the wind. His kites were made of varnished linen, and might be folded up into small compass. The same principle was successfully applied by a nautical lad of the name of Dansey to the purpose of saving vessels in a gale of wind on "the dread lee shore." His kite was of light canvas.

In India, China, and the intermediate countries, the aggregate population of which includes one-half of mankind, kites are the favorite toy of both old and young boys, from three years to threescore and ten. Sometimes they really re semble the conventional dragon, from which, among Scotch children, they derive their name, sometimes they are of a diamond shape, and sometimes they are like a great spider with a narrow waist. Our Old Indian is eloquent on kites, and the glory of their colors, which, in the days of other years, made her girlish heart leap, and her girlish eyes dazzle. The kite-shop is like a tulip-bed, full of all sorts of gay and gor geous hues. The kites are made of Chinese paper, thin and tough, and the ribs of finely-split bamboo. A wild species of silkworm is pressed into the service, and set to spin nuck for the strings-a kind of thread which, although fine, is surprisingly strong. Its strength, however, is wanted for aggression as well as endurance; and a mixture composed of pounded glass and rice gluten is rubbed over it. Having been dried in the sun, the prepared string is now wound upon a handsome reel of split bamboo inserted in a long handle. One of these reels, if of first-rate manufacture, costs a shilling, although coarser ones are very cheap; and of the nuck, about four annas, or sixpence worth, suffices for a kite

In a Hindoo town the kite-flying usually takes place on some common ground in the vicinity, and there may be seen the young and old boys in eager groups, and all as much interested in the sport as if their lives depended upon their success. And sometimes, indeed, their fortunes In 1827 the child's toy was put to a very re- do. Many a poor little fellow bets sweetmeats markable use by one Master George Pocock. upon his kite to the extent of his only anna in This clever little fellow observed that his kite the world; and many a rich baboo has more sometimes gave him a very strong pull, and it rupees at stake than he can conveniently spare occurred to him that if made large enough it But the exhilarating sport makes every body might be able to pull something else. In fact, courageous; and the glowing colors of the kites he at length yoked a pair of large kites to a car-enable each to identify his own when in the air, riage, and traveled in it from Bristol to London, and give him in it, as it were, a more absolute distancing in grand style every other conveyance property. Matches are soon made. Up go the on the road. A twelve-foot kite, it appears, in aerial combatants, and, with straining eyes and a moderate breeze, has a one-man power of beating hearts, their fate is watched from below draught, and when the wind is brisker, a force But their masters are far from passive, for this equal to 200 lbs. The force in a rather high is no game of chance, depending upon the wind wind is as the squares of the lengths; and two Kite-flying is in these countries an art and mys kites of fifteen and twelve feet respectively, fast- tery; and some there be who would not disclose ened one above the other will draw a carriage their recipe for the nuck-ointment, if their own and four or five passengers at the rate of twenty grandfathers should go upon their knees to ask it miles an hour. But George's invention went Sometimes an event occurs on the common. beyond the simple idea. He had an extra line It is the ascent of a pair of kites of a distingué which enabled him to vary the angle of the sur- | air, and whose grand and determined manner VOL IV.-No. 22.-H H

sively in the old paths, as they are somewhat contemptuously styled; there is need and verge enough for pioneering new ones. "Beat the bushes; there is still plenty of game to be raised." But do not disdainfully discard the experience of those who have gone before. We do not insinuate by this that age and priority combined make an oracle. Yet there are comparatively few men who can not tell something that is worth hearing

presumption, gain credit for possessing a knowledge of its arcana-for the ability necessary to plumb its profounder depths and unravel its intricacies. The successful practice of this imposture, for it is nothing less, has led, and is still leading, many to sacrifice accuracy for variety, both in those departments which their circumstances, rightly considered, demand that they should thoroughly understand, and in those branches which tend only to add grace and finish-communicate some bit of knowledge which may to a liberal education.

save you the disbursement of some of those high school fees which, as Thomas Carlyle keenly observes, must be paid for experience.

It has been iterated and reiterated, that there is no royal road to knowledge. This is true of knowledge, as it is true of any thing that is worth having. And this brings to our recollection a

In "those days," the chance was that genius often passed away unnoticed or neglected. In "the good time come," we fear that a similar injustice will be done, and in a larger measure. The modest, the sound-thinking, and really learned, will withdraw from a field where they find as companions or competitors only strutting jack-manifestation of spirit displayed by some portions daws and noisy shallow smatterers, who have decided that they were born for other purposes than to tread in the work-a-day paths of life. A portion of the old as well as the "rising generation" would do well to look to the present state of things. There is too often a desire on the part of parents to push their children into positions for which they are totally unfitted. There is a sphere for all, which, when chosen with a due regard to ability, and not adopted through caprice or vanity, will lead to usefulness in society and comfort to the individual.

of the "rising generation" to which we have not yet adverted. This is called the non-mercantile idea-a growing dislike to all manual and merely commercial pursuits, and an over-fondness for what are known as the learned, and more especially the literary professions. This desire, we fear, proceeds often from a wish to avoid labor; and, where this is the case, we can assure all such that literature is not the sphere for indolence.

We neither impugn the honesty nor ignore the talents of the "rising generation." We would only tender them a parting advice: Think, learn, and act, reverently and cautiously, and in the spirit of that philosophy which has won for England her most enduring laurels—which taught

We have little fear of that audacious phase in the character of the "rising generation," which devotes itself to a probing of those things which have to do with our eternal destiny. A wellconducted inquiry of this kind is a healthy symp-her Newton to discard for years, until fact suptom, and tends to fix good impressions: and, as for those whose temerity exceeds their judgment, the Christian knows that his bulwarks are too many and strong ever to be shaken by any blast of human breath or stroke of human hand. Still, let every stumbling-block be removed, and no safeguard neglected, which may be of service to those of feeble knees or weak and timorous mind.

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ported theory, what was perhaps the broadest glimpse of truth ever vouchsafed to the human mind. Do so, as they dread the realization of the outline drawn by the master-hand of Jean Paul Richter-"The new-year's night of an unhappy man." His graphic picture we hold up to the gaze of the "rising generation." The season is appropriate. We are all fond at this time of retrospection, and are full of resolves for the future. Perhaps we may strike some chord now in jarring dissonance, that may yet vibrate to divinest harmony.

"An old man stood on the new-year's midnight at the window, and gazed with a look of long despair, upward to the immovable, ever-blooming heaven, and down upon the still, pure, white earth, on which no one was then so joyless and sleepless as he. For his grave stood near him; it was covered over only with the snow of age, not with the green of youth; and he brought

The "rising generation" are those upon whom the hopes of the world will ere long rest, who are soon to have the reins of government in their own hands, and must play their part in the great drama of life, at a time when its stage affords more ample room for the development of true nobility, richer opportunities for distinguishing a life by action, and of signalizing it by discoveries almost magical—a time, in short, open to greater achievements than any that have been won since this globe was first spun into space. The greater the talent and the wealth of oppor-nothing with him out of the whole rich life, ne tunity, so much more are the dangers increased, and the more wily the machinations of the Spirit of Evil. While the "rising generation" adopt as their motto "Excelsior," and cultivate an inquiring spirit, let it always be an earnest and definite one, not "blown about by every wind of doctrine," not falling into every quagmire of vain conceit, until the mental eye is so besmeared that it can no longer discern the true zenith. Yet. withal, it is not necessary to tread exclu

thing with him, but errors, sins, and disease, wasted body, a desolated soul, the breast full of poison, an old age full of remorse. The beautiful days of his youth turned round to-day, as spectres, and drew him back again to that bright morning on which his father first placed him at the cross-road of life, which, on the right hand. leads by the sun-path of virtue into a wide peaceful land full of light and of harvests, and full of angels, and which, on the left hand, descends

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