Within a small room, the single window of which opened on a fanciful and fairy-like garden, that has been before described, sate a young man alone. He had been writing: the ink was not dry on his manuscript, but his thoughts had been suddenly interrupted from his work, and his eyes, now lifted from the letter which had occasioned that interruption, sparkled with delight. "He will come," exclaimed the young man; "come here to the home which I owe to him. I have not been unworthy of his friendship. And she" -his breast heaved, but the joy faded from his face. "Oh, strange, strange, that I feel sad at the thought to see her again. See her-Ah no! -my own comforting Helen-my own Childangel! Her I can never see again! The grown woman-that is not my Helen. And yet—and yet," he resumed, after a pause, "if ever she read the pages, in which thought flowed and trembled under her distant starry light-if ever she see how her image has rested with me, and feel that, while others believe that I invent, I have but remembered-will she not, for a moment, be my own Helen again! Again, in heart and in fancy, stand by my side on the desolate bridge-hand in hand-orphans both, as we stood in the days so sorrowful, yet, as I recall them, so sweet. Helen in England, it is a dream!" He rose, half consciously, and went to the window. The fountain played merrily before his eyes, and the birds in the aviary caroled loud | to his ear. "And in this house," he murmured, "I saw her fast! And there, where the fountain now throws its stream on high-there her benefactor and mine told me that I was to lose her, and that I might win-fame. Alas!" "Don't talk so; I can't bear it!" cried Mrs. Fairfield. "No wonder you are affected by the recollection of all his benefits. But when once you have seen him, you will find yourself ever after at your ease. And so, pray, smile and look as good as you are; for I am proud of your open, honest look when you are pleased, mother. And he must see your heart in your face as I do." With this, Leonard put his arm round the widow's neck and kissed her. She clung to him fondly for a moment, and he felt her tremble from head to foot. Then she broke from his embrace, and hurried out of the room. Leonard thought perhaps she had gone to improve her dress, or to carry her housewife energies to the decoration of the other rooms; for "the house" was Mrs. Fairfield's hobby and passion; and now that she worked no more, save for her amusement, it was her main occupation. The hours she contrived to spend daily in bustling about those little rooms, and leaving every thing therein to all appearance precisely the same, were among the marvels in life which the genius of Leonard had never comprehended. But she was always so delighted when Mr. Norreys or some rare visitor came, and said (Mr. Norreys never failed to do so), "How neatly all is kept here. What could Leonard do without you, Mrs. Fairfield?” And, to Norreys's infinite amusement, Mrs. Fairfield always returned the same answer. "Deed, sir, and thank you kindly, but 'tis my belief that the drawin'-room would be awful dusty." Once more left alone, Leonard's mind returned to the state of reverie, and his face assumed the expression that had now become to it habitual. At this time, a woman, whose dress was some- Thus seen, he was changed much since we last what above her mien and air, which, though not beheld him. His cheek was more pale and thin, without a certain respectability, were very home- his lips more firmly compressed, his eye more y, entered the room; and, seeing the young man fixed and abstract. You could detect, if I may standing thus thoughtful by the window, paused. borrow a touching French expression, that "sorShe was used to his habits; and since his success row had passed by there." But the melancholy in life, had learned to respect them. So she did on his countenance was ineffably sweet and senot disturb his reverie, but began softly to rene, and on his ample forehead there was that arrange the room-dusting, with the corner of power, so rarely seen in early youth-the power her apron, the various articles of furniture, put-that has conquered, and betrays its conquests but ting a stray chair or two in its right place, but in calm. The period of doubt, of struggle, of not touching a single paper. Virtuous woman, defiance, was gone forever; genius and soul were and rare as virtuous ! reconciled to human life. It was a face most lovable; so gentle and peaceful in its character. No want of fire; on the contrary, the fire was so clear and so steadfast, that it conveyed but the impression of light. The candor of boyhood, the simplicity of the villager were still there"Dear me, Leonard, will he want? lunch-o refined by intelligence, but intelligence that seemwhat?" The young man turned at last, with a deep, yet not altogether painful sigh-* "My dear mother, good-day to you. Ah, you do well to make the room look its best. Happy news! I expect a visitor!" ed to have traversed through knowledge-not "In den heitern Regionen * At home-"In the serene regions From this reverie Leonard did not seek to rouse | cording to this theory, illustrated by a man of nimself, till the bell at the garden gate rang loud vast experience, profound knowledge, and exand shrill; and then starting up and hurrying quisite taste, the struggles of genius would be into the hall, his hand was grasped in Harley's. infinitely lessened; its vision cleared and strengthened, and the distance between effort and success notably abridged. CHAPTER XVI. A FULL and happy hour passed away in Har'ey's questions and Leonard's answers; the dialogue that naturally ensued between the two, on the first interview after an absence of years so eventful to the younger man. The history of Leonard during this interval was almost solely internal, the struggle of intellect with its own difficulties, the wanderings of imagination through its own adventurous worlds. The first aim of Norreys in preparing the mind of his pupil for its vocation, had been to establish the equilibrium of its powers, to calm into harmony the elements rudely shaken by the trials and passions of the old hard outer life. The theory of Norreys was briefly this. The education of a superior human being is but the development of ideas in one for the benefit of others. To this end, attention should be directed-1st, To the value of the ideas collected; 2dly, To their discipline; 3dly, To their expression. For the first, acquirement is necessary; for the second, discipline; for the third, art. The first comprehends knowledge, purely intellectual, whether derived from observation, memory, reflection, books, or men, Aristotle, or Fleet-street. The second demands training, not only intellectual, but moral; the purifying and exaltation of motives; the formation of habits; in which method is but a part of a divine and harmonious symmetry-a union of intellect and conscience. Ideas of value, stored by the first process; marshaled into force, and placed under guidance, by the second; it is the result of the third, to place them before the world in the most attractive or commanding form. This may be done by actions no less than words; but the adaptation of means to end, the passage of ideas from the brain of one man into the lives and souls of all, no less in action than in books, requires study. Action has its art as well as literature. Here Norreys had but to deal with the calling of the scholar, the formation of the writer, and so to guide the perceptions toward those varieties in the sublime and beautiful, the just combination of which is at once CREATION. Man himself is but a combination of elements. He who combines in nature, creates in art. Norreys, however, was far too deep a reasoner to fall into the error of modern teachers, who suppose that education can dispense with labor. No mind becomes muscular without rude and early exercise. Labor should be strenuous, but in right directions. All that we can do for it is to save the waste of time in blundering into needless toils. The master had thus first employed his neophyte in arranging and compiling materials for a great critical work in which Norreys himself was engaged. In this stage of scholastic preparation, Leonard was necessarily led to the acquisition of languages, for which he had great aptitude—the foundations of a large and comprehensive erudition were solidly constructed. He traced by the plowshare the walls of the destined city. Habits of accuracy and of generalization became formed insensibly; and that precious faculty which seizes, amidst accumu lated materials, those that serve the object for which they are explored-(that faculty which quadruples all force, by concentrating it on one point)-once roused into action, gave purpose to every toil and quickness to each perception. But Norreys did not confine his pupil solely to the mute world of a library; he introduced him to some of the first minds in arts, science, and letters-and active life. "These," said he, "are the living ideas of the present, out of which books for the future will be written: study them; and here, as in the volumes of the past, diligently amass and deliberately compile." By degrees Norreys led on that young ardent mind from the selection of ideas to their æsthetic analysis-from compilation to criticism; but criticism severe, close, and logical-a reason for each word of praise or of blame. Led in this stage of his career to examine into the laws of beauty, a new light broke upon his mind; from amidst the masses of marble he had piled around him, rose the vision of the statue. And so, suddenly one day Norreys said to him, "I need a compiler no longer-maintain yourself by your own creations." And Leonard wrote, and a work flowered up from the seed deep buried, and the soil well cleared to the rays of the sun and the healthful influence of expanded air. That first work did not penetrate to a very Such, 'very succinctly and inadequately expressed, was the system upon which Norreys proceeded to regulate and perfect the great na-wide circle of readers, not from any perceptible tive powers of his pupil; and though the reader may perhaps say that no system laid down by another can either form genius or dictate to its -esults, yet probably nine-tenths at least of those in whom we recognize the luminaries of our race, have passed, unconsciously to themselves (for self-education is rarely conscious of its phases), through each of these processes. And no one who pauses to reflect will deny, that ac fault of its own-there is luck in these things, the first anonymous work of an original genius is rarely at once eminently successful. But the more experienced recognized the promise of the book. Publishers, who have an instinct in the discovery of available talent, which often forestalls the appreciation of the public, volunteered liberal offers. "Be fully successful this time," said Norreys; "think not of models nor "Oh, my dear lord, what else can it be? Du not judge her harshly." of style. Strike at once at the common human | looking up and fixing eyes in which stood tears, heart-throw away the corks-swim out boldly. upon Leonard's ingenuous brow. One word more-never write a page till you have walked from your room to Temple Bar, and, mingling with men, and reading the human face, learn why great poets have mostly passed their lives in cities." Thus Leonard wrote again, and woke one morning to find himself famous. So far as the chances of all professions dependent on health will permit, present independence, and, with foresight and economy, the prospects of future competence were secured. "And, indeed," said Leonard, concluding a longer but a simpler narrative than is here told -"indeed, there is some chance that I may obtain at once a sum that will leave me free for the rest of my life to select my own subjects and write without care for renumeration. This is what I call the true (and, perhaps, alas! the rare) independence of him who devotes himself to letters. Norreys, having seen my boyish plan for the improvement of certain machinery in the steam-engine, insisted on my giving much time to mechanics. The study that once pleased me so greatly, now seemed dull; but I went into it with good heart; and the result is, that I have improved so far on my original idea, that my scheme has met the approbation of one of our most scientific engineers; and I am assured that the patent for it will be purchased of me upon terms which I am ashamed to name to you, so disproportioned do they seem to the value of so simple a discovery. Meanwhile, I am already rich enough to have realized the two dreams of my heart-to make a home in the cottage where I had last seen you and Helen-1 mean Miss Digby; and to invite to that home her who had sheltered my infancy." "Your mother, where is she? Let me see her." Leonard ran out to call the widow, but, to his surprise and vexation, learned that she had quitted the house before L'Estrange arrived. He came back perplexed how to explain what seemed ungracious and ungrateful, and spoke with hesitating lip and flushed cheek of the widow's natural timidity and sense of her own Homely station. "And so overpowered is she," added Leonard, "by the recollection of all that we owe to you, that she never hears your name without agitation or tears, and trembled like a leaf at the thought of seeing you.” "Ha!" said Harley, with visible emotion. "Is it so ?" And he bent down, shading his face with his hand. "And," he renewed, after a pause, but not looking up-"and you ascribe this fear of seeing me, this agitation at my name, solely to an exaggerated sense of—of the circumstances attending my acquaintance with yourself?" L'Estrange rose abruptly, pressed Leonard's hand, muttered something not audible, and then drawing his young friend's arm in his, led him into the garden, and turned the conversation back to its former topics. Leonard's heart yearned to ask after Helen, and yet something withheld him from doing so, till, seeing Harley did not volunteer to speak of her, he could not resist his impulse. "And Helen-Miss Digby-is she much changed?” Changed, no-yes; very much." "Very much!" Leonard sighed. "I shall see her again?" "Certainly," said Harley, in a tone of surprise. "How can you doubt it? And I reserve to you the pleasure of saying that you are renowned. You blush; well, I will say that for you. But you shall give her your books." "She has not yet read them, then ?—not the last? The first was not worthy of her attention," said Leonard, disappointed. "She has only just arrived in England; and, though your books reached me in Germany, she was not then with me. When I have settled some business that will take me from town, I shall present you to her and my mother." There was a certain embarrassment in Harley's voice as he spoke; and, turning round abruptly, he exclaimed, "But you have shown poetry even here. I could not have conceived that so much beauty could be drawn from what appeared to me the most commonplace of all suburban gardens. Why, surely where that charming fountain now plays, stood the rude bench in which I read your verses." "It is true; I wished to unite all together my happiest associations. I think I told you, my lord, in one of my letters, that I had owed a very happy, yet very struggling time in my boyhood to the singular kindness and generous instruc. tions of a foreigner whom I served. This fountain is copied from one that I made in his garden, and by the margin of which many a summer day I have sat and dreamt of fame and knowl edge." "True, you told me of that; and your for eigner will be pleased to hear of your success, and no less so of your graceful recollections. By the way, you did not mention his name." "Riccabocca." "Riccabocca! My own dear and noble friend! is it possible? One of my reasons for returning to England is connected with him. You shall go down with me and see him. I meant to start this evening." "My dear lord," said Leonard, "I think that you may spare yourself so long a journey. 1 "And, perhaps, to a sort of shame that the have reason to suspect that Signor Riccabocca mother of one you have made her proud of is but is my nearest neighbor. Two days ago I was a peasant." in the garden, when suddenly lifting my eyes to "That is all," said Harley, earnestly, now yon hillock I perceived the form of a mar scated Harley was no less so. But as if by a sudden impulse, the soldier bent down his manly head and kissed the poet's brow; then he hastened to the gate, flung himself on his horse, and rode away. CHAPTER XVII. among the bushwood; and, though I could not | her whom death had robbed of the fame that she see his features, there was something in the very might otherwise have won-with her who—" outline of his figure and his peculiar position, He paused, greatly agitated. that irresistibly reminded me of Riccabocca. 1 hastened out of the garden and ascended the hill, but he was gone. My suspicions were so strong that I caused inquiry to be made at the different shops scattered about, and learned that a family consisting of a gentleman, his wife, and daughter, had lately come to live in a house that you must have passed in your way hither, standing a little back from the road, surrounded hy high walls; and though they were said to be English, yet from the description given to me of the gentleman's person by one who had noticed it, by the fact of a foreign servant in their employ, and by the very name 'Richmouth,' assigned the new comers, I can scarcely doubt that it is the family you seek." LORD L'ESTRANGE did not proceed at once to Riccabocca's house. He was under the influence of a remembrance too deep and too strong to yield easily to the lukewarm claim of friendship. He rode fast and far; and impossible it would be to define the feelings that passed through a mind so acutely sensitive, and so rootedly tenacious of all affections. When he once more, recalling his duty to the Italian, retraced his road to Norwood, the slow pace of his horse was significant of his own exhausted spirits; a deep dejection had succeeded to feverish excitement. "Vain task," he murmured, "to wean myself from the dead! Yet I am now betrothed to another; and she, with all her virtues is not the one to" He stopped short in generous self-rebuke. "Too late to think of Now, all that should remain to me is to insure the happiness of the life to which I have pledged my own. But-" He sighed as he so murmured. On reaching the vicinity of Riccabocca's house, he put up his horse at a little inn, and proceeded on foot across the heath-land toward the dull square building, which Leonard's "You did right, my dear Leonard; but my rea-description had sufficed to indicate as the exile's sons for seeing my old friend forbid all scruples of delicacy, and I will go at once to his house." "You will tell me, my lord, if I am right." "I hope to be allowed to do so. Pray, stay at home till I return. And now, ere I go, one question more. You indulge conjectures as to Riccabocca, because he has changed his name -why have you dropped your own?" "And you have not called to ascertain ?" "Pardon me, but the family so evidently shunning observation (no one but the master himself ever seen without the walls), the adoption of another name, too, lead me to infer that Signor Riccabocca has some strong motive for concealment; and now, with my improved knowl-that! edge of life, I can not, recalling all the past, but suppose that Riccabocca was not what he appeared. Hence, I have hesitated on formally obtruding myself upon his secrets, whatever they be, and have rather watched for some chance occasion to meet him in his walks." "I wished to have no name," said Leonard, coloring deeply, "but that which I could make myself." "Proud poet, this I can comprehend. But from what reason did you assume the strange and fantastic name of Oran ?" The flush on Leonard's face became deeper. "My lord," said he, in a low voice, "it is a childish fancy of mine; it is an anagram." "Ah!" "At a time when my cravings after knowledge were likely much to mislead, and perhaps undo me, I chanced on some poems that suddenly affected my whole mind, and led me up into purer air; and I was told that these poems were written in youth, by one who had beauty and genius -one who was in her grave-a relation of my own, and her familiar name was Nora-" "Ah!" again ejaculated Lord L'Estrange, and his arm pressed heavily upon Leonard's. "So, somehow or other," continued the young author, falteringly, "I wished that if ever I won to a poet's fame, it might be to my own heart, at least, associated with this name of Nora-with new home. It was long before any one answered his summons at the gate. Not till he had thrice rung did he hear a heavy step on the gravel walk within; then the wicket within the gate was partially drawn aside, a dark eye gleamed out, and a voice in imperfect English asked who was there. "Lord L'Estrange; and if I am right as to the person I seek, that name will at once admit me.” We are The door flew open as did that of the mystic cavern at the sound of "Open Sesame;" and Giacomo, almost weeping with joyous emotion, exclaimed in Italian, “The good Lord! Holy San Giacomo! thou hast heard me at last! safe now." And dropping the blunderbuss with which he had taken the precaution to arm himself, he lifted Harley's hand to his lips, in the affectionate greeting familiar to his countrymen "And the Padrone ?" asked Harley, as he en tered the jealous precincts. "Oh, he is just gone out; but he will not be long. You will wait for him?" "Certainly. What lady is that I see at the far end of the garden ?" "Bless her, it is our Signorina. I will run and tell her that you are come." "That I am come; but she can not know me even by name." "Ah, Excellency, can you think so? Many and many a time has she talked to me of you, and I have heard her pray to the holy Madonna to bless you, and in a voice so sweet-' "Stay, I will present myself to her. Go into the house, and we will wait without for the Padrone. Nay, I need the air, my friend." Harley, as he said this, broke from Giacomo, and approached Violante. The poor child, in her solitary walk in the obscurer parts of the dull garden, had escaped the eye of Giacomo when he had gone forth to answer the bell; and she, unconscious of the fears of which she was the object, had felt something of youthful curiosity at the summons at the gate, and the sight of a stranger in close and friendly conference with the unsocial Giacomo. As Harley now neared her with that singular grace of movement which belonged to him, a thrill shot through her heart-she knew not why. She did not recognize his likeness to the sketch taken by her father, from his recollections of Harley's early youth. She did not guess who he was; and yet she felt herself color, and, naturally fearless though she was, turned away with a vague alarm. "Pardon my want of ceremony, Signorina," said Harley, in Italian; "but I am so old a friend of your father's that I can not feel as a stranger to yourself." Then Violante lifted to him her dark eyes, so intelligent and so innocent-eyes full of surprise, but not displeased surprise. And Harley himself stood amazed, and almost abashed, by the rich and marvelous beauty that beamed upon him. "My father's friend," she said hesitatingly, "and I never to have seen you!" "Ah, Signorina," said Harley (and something of his native humor, half arch, half sad, played round his lip), "you are mistaken there; you have seen me before, and you received me much more kindly then-" "Signor!" said Violante, more and more surprised, and with a yet richer color on her cheeks. Harley, who had now recovered from the first effect of her beauty, and who regarded her as men of his years and character are apt to regard ladies in their teens, as more child than woman, suffered himself to be amused by her perplexity; for it was in his nature, that the graver and more mournful he felt at heart, the more he sought to give play and whim to his spirits. "Indeed, Signorina," said he demurely, "you insisted then on placing one of those fair hands in mine; the other (forgive me the fidelity of my recollections) was affectionately thrown around my neck." "Signor!" again exclaimed Violante; but this time there was anger in her voice as well as surprise, and nothing could be more charming than her look of pride and resentment. Harley smiled again, but with so much kindly sweetness, that the anger vanished at once, or rather Violante felt angry with herself that she was no longer angry with him. But she had looked so beautiful in her anger, that Harley wished, perhaps, to see her angry again. So, composing his lips from their propitiatory smile he resumed, gravely (TO BE CONTINUED.) A BRACE OF BLUNDERS BY A ROV ARRIVED at Bayonne from Paris, by the Malle-Poste, one glorious morning. How well I remember it! The courier, wh: used to play an important part in the economy of the old French Malle-Poste, was the most irritable man I ever saw. He quarreled with every one and every thing on the road. I fancy that he was liable to some slight penalty in case of reaching Bayonne later than a given hour; but had the penalty been breaking on the wheel, he could not have been more anxious to drive at full speed. Here let me note, by the way, that the pace of a French courier, in the good old times, was the most tremendous pace at which I have ever traveled behind horses. It surpassed the helter-skelter of an Irish mail. The whole economy of the Malle-Poste was curious. No postillion ever drove more than one stage: mortal arms could not have continued flogging any farther. The number of the horses was indefinite-now there were four; presently, five, or six, or seven; four again, or eight; all harnessed with broken bits of rope and wonders of fragmentary tackle. The coach box, on which the postillion used to sit, was the minutest iron perch to which the body of a man could hook itself. The coach itself was britzka shaped, with room for two. It was in this con veyance that I traveled over the frightful hill between Bordeaux and Bayonne. When w neared any descent a mile or two long, the postil lion regularly tied the reins loosely to some par of the frail box, seized the whip, and flogged, and shouted, until down we went with a grea rush, dashing and rocking from side to side while my irate friend, the courier, plied a sor of iron drag or rudder, with the enthusiastic ges tures of a madman. Watching my time, when, after one of these frantic bouts, my friend sank back exhausted, and quite hoarse with all his roaring, I quietly offered him a bunch of grapes, which I had bought at Tours. Their grateful coolness made the man my friend eternally, but had I offered him a captain's biscuit at that moment I could not have answered for the conse quences. So much depends on judgment in the timing of a gift! On arriving at Bayonne, the first notable thing I saw was a gendarme, who asked me for my passport. I had none. He looked grave, but I, young in travel, pushed him aside cavalierly, and bade my servant, who had arrived the day before, see to my luggage. The cocked hat followed me into the inn, but bidding it be off, I walked into a private sitting-room, in which a bed was a prominent article of furniture. I ordered for my breakfast some broiled ham and eggs, and was informed that I could not have ham, though in Bayonne. I should be served with chocolate and sugar-sticks, pump-water, and milk-bread. While breakfast was preparing, the cocked hat arrested me, and marched me off to the police-office. "Your passport?" said the Inspector. |