having finished the burning lines, and kissed again and again her well loved name, he espied below upon the margin of the well filled page, "To Henry Lovel!" Oh, could the fearful workings of that blasted heart be exposed to the eye of mortals! Oh, could I tell the boiling fever of his soul when he threw himself upon his horse, and spurred him on with the maddening impetuosity that belonged rather to a Fury than a man. He rushed on,-on,-nor stopped nor rested once until he reached his destination. 'T was dusk, -and the lovers were walking beneath the pale moon, happy in the society of each other. A horseman rode up, and in another instant poor Henry lay dead upon the turf.

It would be tedious to relate how Anne Harvey's parents repented, alas, too late, of their conduct towards their child, or how she, an orphan, wandered about a wretched maniac and died of a broken heart; suffice it to say, that he whose passion was the cause of all this misery to himself and others, fled his country, deprived of fortune and happiness, a conscience-stricken exile in a foreign land.

It was a fine morning in Autumn, that I took advantage of the delightful weather, and rode slowly toward the pretty little village of C. As I passed the old burial-place I observed the grave-digger fashioning out the last resting-place of departed man. Dismounting, I tied my horse to the bough of a tree, and approaching the old man, asked him if he could inform me of the spot, where Anne Harvey lay buried.

The old man threw out some earth, and leaning on his spade, and looking at me for some moments, pointed to the grave-stone which stood next, and resuming his position went on with his melancholy labor. With a little difficulty I scraped off the mould that had been growing on it for years, and read upon the slab the simple words, "Anne Harvey, aged 18." Exactly similar on the other side was a stone, on which was engraved in legible characters, "Henry Lovel." Again drawing near to the sexton, I asked him for whom he was preparing that grave.

He said that it was for an old man, about sixty or seventy years of age, who had been found weeping like a child over that tomb. He seemed to have travelled a very con

siderable distance, and had a knapsack on his back,-appeared exhausted, was carried to a neighbouring house, and, dying there, with his last breath desired that his body might be buried in that spot."

While I was yet speaking, a hearse preceded by a minister, and followed by three or four poor persons, apparently unconcerned and uninterested, came slowly into the church-yard, and took its solemn way toward the reverend old elm tree that drooped its long gloomy branches over the three graves. The plain black coffin was lowered into the pit: no mourners sung the solemn dirge; no wife, no grateful children shed tears of sorrow on the wanderer's grave. Down, down it went, and the hoarse creaking of the cords seemed to wear away my very heart-strings. The minister pronounced in slow and solemn words the prayers for the soul of the deceased; the two or three heedless spectators went unconcerned their way, and the sexton began to throw the cold clods upon the coffin; as each sounded low and hollow on the board, I felt a chill to come over my breast,—I wept the fate of the unfriended old man. The minister as he returned by, said "So pass the vanities of this world!" I made reverence to the holy man, and as I took my way out of the rustic church-yard, looking for the last time upon the three graves, I gloomily answered with tears in my eyes, "So they pass!

A BILLET-DOUX.

LADY! how coolly you have broken

The vows we made, the faith we plighted;

The promises so warmly spoken,

How very calmly they are slighted!

The deep, immutable affection,

We felt but lately for each other-
How it has changed upon reflection,
Or been transplanted by another.

It was a soft and balmy even,

And we were wandering together;
The stars were very bright in heaven,
The dew was falling on the heather:

The stainless beauty all around us

Had touched our hearts and thrilled our senses,

And night's deep quietude had bound us

With thousand witching influences.

You, with a freedom half immoral,

Upon my arm were fondly leaning:
And from your parted lips of coral,
Came words of most expressive meaning.
You spoke of ties by time unriven,

Of vows that nought on earth could sever,
Of promise that was freely given-
Of love unchangeable for ever!

We parted-how a week may alter
Our feelings and our expectations:
How soon alas! the tongue may falter
In its devoutest adorations.

But be it so perhaps 't were better,

The dream were broke, that fell upon us : And Reason's hand should loose the fetter, Which young Romance had fastened on us!

I will not tell you how I started,

When first I read your cold epistle :
I was a while quite broken-hearted,
And tried in vain to smile and whistle.

I penned a score or two of verses
Upon the fickleness of woman,
Muttered a thousand hasty curses,

And swore your conduct was inhuman.

But now I think with calm endurance
Upon your changes of opinion:

And smile at the serene assurance,

With which you threw off love's dominion.

And idle hopes and idle fancies

Like dew-drops from the sun have vanished

And gilded dreams and high romances

Are from my thoughts for ever banished.

And, lady, now the boyish vision,

Which once I deemed more bright and splendid Than any day-dream of ambition,

Is over and for ever ended.

But I have done with vain reflection

The seal is set-upon my letter:

Thus ends our mutable affection

And thus we break love's fragile fetter !

THE MAIDEN'S SORROW.
(Schiller.)

THE massy clouds are dark,

And the forest branches roar;

While a maiden weeps and sighs

On the solitary shore;

The deep rolls proud in its restless might,
And its waters are dark with the shadow of night.

"The world is but a desert,

And my quiet heart is dead;

Not a gleam of sunshine on my path,
For joy and hope are fled.

I have quaffed the goblet of life and love,
And long to go to my rest above!

But thy bitter tears are shed,

And thy sighs are heaved in vain;

For sorrow may not wake to life

The slumberer again!

For the spirit of joy to thy Father pray

He will pour on thy path the glory of day.

But shed the bitter tear,

Though the sacrifice is vain;

And sorrow-though thou may'st not wake
The slumberer again;

For a breaking heart may find relief

And a soothing joy, in a holy grief.

PASSAGES FROM A DIARY.

BY CHARLES SHERRY.

May 3d. I CANNOT rid myself of this monstrosity! Why not let the day pass with no other record than a good action, or a valuable acquisition, or an indefinite though pleasant remembrance? I will tell you why not-my noble self. It is very seldom that you do a good action,-a truth all who know you are very well acquainted with. You are entirely too indolent to make any valuable acquisition; for you know nothing of misery or mathematics, and the stern spirit of the

times says, that a familiarity with both is indispensable. And why trust to your memory-a tablet on which so many histories are written only to be effaced? The fact is that you cannot get along without a Diary.

4th. Met with an old fellow, who is truly an original. I used to see him some seven years ago in my native town, where he was quite a conspicuous character. He had been to sea in his younger days, and was always of a roving disposition; but he became tired of it, and gave it up at about the age of forty. He soon took to his glass and bad habits and in a year or two was walking about with an axe and beetle to obtain employment as a woodcutter. He is now, I should think, fifty.

;

"Well, Tom," I asked him, "pray how are you getting along now?"

He took off his hat, and bowed very low, for he hardly recognised me. "Why really, Sir, I am getting along very, comfortably. Squire F. has taken me to bring up, and so ye see I am found in food and clothes, lodge well, and want for nothing."

"And how do you spend your time? What work do you have, and what leisure?"

66

Why, , you must know I am kept hard at work all the week-one way or another; and all the rural amusement I wish for is going to meeting of a Sunday."

15th. Just had an interview with a peripatetic gentleman who is known by the title of Your Honor. He is an itinerant vender of dainties; carrying on an extensive contraband trade with the students, in domestic cakes, cigars, steel pens and oranges. In old days he was allowed free access to the college domains, but fear of the "constables and confessors" (meaning professors, for he is rather careless of his pros and cons) has of late debarred him from his accustomed privileges. He accordingly watches his opportunity, and drops in, in disguise; doing up a bundle of cakes, he assures us, so as to look like a bundle of books. I think there has been an interesting tinge of melancholy about him ever since he was forbidden the premises.

As Your Honor must ever be an interesting character in college history, and as it has of late become common to sketch the personal appearance as well as the mental char