During my sojourn at my brother's, after rendering any help that was required at my hands, and my labors I confess were very light, and probably not very efficient, I had still much leisure time at my command. Remote from any habitationfor with only one or two exceptions, his clearing formed the furthest line of settlement in the township-there was little opportunity for visiting. The mighty forest girded in the few acres of cleared ground on three sides, while in front it was bounded and divided from the opposite township by the waters of the larger and lesser Katchawanook: the Indian name signifying alternate rapid, and still waters. With few inducements to walk, as regarded my social position in the neighbourhood, I was thrown upon the few resources that remained open to me, and these I eagerly sought for in the natural features of the soil. Whatever I beheld had the charm of novelty to recommend it to my attention; every plant however lowly, became an object of interest. The season of flowers, with the exception of some few autumnal ones, was over; but while roaming over the new clearing, threading my way among stumps and unburned log-heaps, I some times found plants that were totally new to me, with bright and tempting berries that I forbore to taste till I had shewn them to my brother, and from him learned their name and quality. Among these were the bright crimson berries of the strawberry blite, or Indian strawberry, the leaves of which I afterwards boiled as a vegetable. That elegant little trailing plant Mitchella repens, sometimes called partridge-berry and also twin-berry, from the scarlet fruit having the appearance of being double. The delicate fragrant jessamineshaped flower, that terminates the long flexile leafy branch, was not then in flower; the fruit has a mealy, spicy taste and is very pretty, resembling the light bright scarlet of the holly-berry in its color. In damp mossy spots I found the gay berries of the dwarf cornel* the herbaceous species; there also was the trailing arbutus with its shining laurel-like leaves and scarlet fruit and nearer to the lake on the low swampy shore grew the blueberried and the white dogwood with wild grapes (frost grapes) that hung in tempting profusion high among the bushes, mixing its purple fruit with the transparent clusters of the high bush • Cornus Canadensis. low round, dwarf dogwood. † Eva orsi, bear-berry, Kumikinnick. * Corums sericen, red-rod. Cornus alba. cranberry, which, stewed with maple sugar, often formed an addition to our evening meal. Into the dark angled recesses of the forest I dared not venture unattended, unless it were just a few yards beyond the edge of the clearing, for the sake of some new fern or flower that I coveted. One of my walks was along the irregular and winding banks of a small creek that flowed within a few feet of the house; to trace its wanderings through the cedars that fringed its banks-to mark the shrubs and vegetables, the mosses and flowers that clothed its sides-to watch its eddies and tiny rapids-to listen to its murmurings and to drink its pure cold waters-was one of my amuse ments. Another of my favorite rambles was along the river shore: the autumnal rains had not then fallen to swell its currents. The long dry ardent summer of 1832, had left the limestone bed of the Otonabee dry for many yards along its edge, so that I could walk on the smooth surface as on a pavement. This pavement was composed of numerous strata of limestone, each stratum about an inch or two in depth, every layer was distinctly marked. Between the fissures were seedling roses and vines, ferns and various small plants; the exuviae of water insects with shells and other matter,lay bleaching upon the surface of the stones. It was for want of other objects of interest that my attention was first drawn to the natural productions of my adopted country, books I had none to assist me, all I could do was to note facts, ask questions, and store up any information that I chanced to obtain. Thus did I early become a forest gleaner. How many solitary hours have I passed upon the river bank, gazing with unwearied eyes upon its ever moving waters, hurrying along its dark bed, foaming, leaping, dashing downwards, now sweeping with resistless force against the stony walls that bounded it on the opposite side, now gliding for a space calm and slow, then with accelerated force hurling back its white spray, as if striving against the propelling force that urged its onward career. Often did I repeat to myself Moore's lines written at the falls of the Mohawk River, "From rise of morn to set of sun I've seen the mighty Mohawk run, 'Neath rocks that frowned and flowers that And as I watched the woods of pine American guelder-rose, viburnam oxyvoccus. O! I have thought and thinking sighed Contrasted with the quiet, slow flowing rivers of England, how different is the character of this wild picturesque Otonabee, running its course through the vast pine forests unfettered for miles and miles,-now widening into extensive lakes, diversified with wooded or rocky islands-now gathering its forces into a deep and narrow channel between rocky banks fringed with every variety of evergreens, from the gigantic pine, the monarch of the Canadian woods, to the light feathery hemlock and dark spruce and balsam, casting their funereal shadows athwart its waters or mirrored deep, deep down upon its glassy surface. Now gentle, like a sleeping child, anon impetuous as an impatient war steed, that smelleth the battle afar off, and pants to meet its shock. The calm unruffled waters of England, designed as if by Nature to enrich and fertilize her soil, and contribute to the welfare and commerce of her people, are unlike the wild streams of Canada. The former may be compared to a highly civilized people, the latter to the rude, uncultivated Indians, and less refined settlers. Though less available for the purpose of transport; yet these inland waters possess a value in their immense power for working machinery, which is a source of incalculable wealth to the inhabitants of the country. Look at the inexhaustible pine forests, that clothe the banks of the lakes and streams. See the rafts of squared timbers that are borne down, year after year, on the bosom of those rapid flowing waters, and in due time find their way to the shores of the parent country. Might not a history of no mean interest, be written of one of these massive timbers, from its first dropping from the cone in its native soil, on the elevated ridge above some remote and nameless stream, to its voyage across the Atlantic and final destination in one of the British dock-yards. Shall we believe that no providential care was extended over that seed which was in the course of time to undergo so many changes, and which might even be connected with the fate of hundreds of human beings? We are taught by lips that spoke no guile, that the lilies of the field are arrayed in their glorious clothing by our Heavenly Father, and that He careth for the fowls of the air, that in Him all things live and move, and have their being. One word more, before I leave my favourite rivers. I was particularly struck by the extreme clearness and transparency of the water, in which every pebble and minute shell may be seen; every block of granite or lime-stone that obstructs its course, can be discerned at a considerable depth. Fragments of red, grey, and black and white granite, looking like bright and glittering gems, as the sun's rays penetrate the waters that cover them. Some future time I will give a description of Stoney Lake, which is a miniature of the Lake of the Thousand Islands; a spot so replete with beauty that none who have seen it can ever forget it. Those who wish to enjoy a treat, should visit this remarkable spot which possesses a thousand charms for the genuine lover of the beautiful and picturesque, for it is amid lone solitudes like these that the mind is naturally led to ponder upon the works of the Deity, and to worship him in spirit and in truth. Oakland's, Rice Lake. HENRIETTA SONTAG. LET not every singing mistress, however great her ability, anticipate such good fortune at St. with. She was indebted for her favorable recepPetersburg as that which Madame Czecca met tion to the gratitude of the amiable ambassadress, her former pupil, who not only recommended her, but sang at a public concert for her benefit. This for the Countess Rossi, in the midst of the high would have been nothing for Mademoiselle Sontag; Russian aristocracy, and of their haughty preju dices, it was an incredible deal. The concert was the most brilliant of the season, and its net proceeds were 14,000 rubles. The day after the concert, Madame Czecca showed the Countess the eash account of its result. "Ah! Henrietta," said she, "what have you done for me!" herself, sobbing aloud, into her arms. you will divine my feelings: the element of my existence is wanting. The sight of a theatre saddens me ;-the triumph of a singer humbles me; -the sound of the organ, which summons others to devotion, drives me from the sanctuary. I am a fallen priestess, who has broken her vow. Art, which I have betrayed, now spurns me, and her angry spirit follows me like an avenging spectre." Bathed in tears, she sank upon the sofa. "But Hetty," said Madame Czecca, trying to console her, " you are still an artist now as ever, and an artist you ever must be. You still practice your art, and if the circle you now enchant is but a small one, on the other hand it is much more select. The admiration of princely saloons may well compensate you for the applause of crowded theatres." "No, no, no!" exclaimed the Countess, springing quickly up, nothing can compensate the artist for abandoning her vocation-nothing, nothing in the wide world! They praise, and flatter, and worship me! What care I for all that? Can they do otherwise? They are all friends and acquaintances of my husband-our daily circle. I am still young, not ugly, courteous to every one. People are grateful for the momentary pastime I procure them. Perhaps, too, they are glad of opportunities to indemnify the singer for an occasional moment's oblivion of the Countess. But think, Czecca, of the stage with its heavenly illuRions; the sacred fervor which thrills us on the curtain's rising; the passionate anxiety which impels us, and the timidity which holds us back; the feverish extacy that throbs in all our veins! Such must be the hero's emotion when he plunges, eager for the fray, into the battle's whirl, confident of victory, and yet full of anxious anticipations. And then the public!-that public over each individual member of which our knowledge as artists elevates us; but which, collectively, is the respectable tribunal whose verdict we tremblingly await;-you well know, my friend, how often we bitterly censure its caprices, how often we laugh amongst ourselves at its mistaken judgments; and yet, it is this public, this combination of education and ignorance, of knowledge and stupidity, of taste and rudeness-this motley mass it is, which, for money, say for a single paltry coin, has purchased the right to be amused by us, and to avenge on our honor a disappointed expectation. To curb that wild power, and lead it away captive; to unite that vast assemblage, without distinction of rank or refinement, in one emotion of delight, and to make it weep or laugh at will; to transmit to it the sacred fire of inspiration that glows in our own breast, to captivate it by the power of harmony, by the omnipotence of art; that is sublime, divine-that elevates the artist above the earth, above ordinary existence. Oh, Czecca, Czecca! once more let me befool Bartholo, once more let me fall beneath Othello's dagger, amidst the echoes of Rossini's heavenly music, and no complaint shall again escape me; I then shall be content; for then I shall once more have lived." She sank, sobbing, on the sofa. A servant entered and announced a stranger, who earnestly insisted to speak with the Countess. A denial had no other result than to produce an urgent repetition of the request. "Impossible!" cried the Countess: "I can see no one, thus agitated, and with my eyes red from weeping." "Never mind that," said Madame Czecca, “you are not the less handsome; and perhaps it is some unfortunate person whom you can assist." The last argument prevailed. Madame Czecca left the room and the stranger was shown in. He was a tall figure, in Armenian costume. His grey beard flowed down to his girdle; his large sparkling eyes were ardent and expressive. For a few moments he stood in silent contemplation of the Countess; and only on her repeated enquiry of the motive of his visit, did he seem to collect his thoughts; and then, in a somewhat unconnected manner, explained his errand. "I am a merchant from Charkow," he said, "and my life is entirely engrossed by my business and my family. Beyond those, I have only one passion, namely, for music and song. The great fame which the Countess formerly enjoyed in the artistical world, reached even to our remote town, and my most ardent wish has ever been to have one opportunity of hearing and admiring her. Your retirement from the stage seemed to have frustrated this wish for ever, when suddenly we learned that, out of gratitude to your former teacher, you had resolved once more to appear before the public, and sing at her concert. Unable to resist my desire to hear you, I left business, wife, and children, and hastened hither. I arrived yesterday, and had no sooner alighted than I sent for tickets. It was in vain; at no price was one to be obtained. Countess, I cannot return home without hearing you. You are so good; yester day, for love of a friend, you sang in public; make an old man happy, and rejoice his heart with half a verse of a song; I shall then have heard you, and shall not have made this long journey in vain." As the dewdrops of night are absorbed by the bright rays of the morning sun, so did the last traces of tears disappear from the smiling countenance of the charming woman. With that amiable grace which is peculiarly her own, she drew an arm-chair near the piano for the old man, and seating herself at the instrument, abandoned herself to the inspirations of her genius. Her rosy fingers flew over the keys,-the prelude echoed through the spacious saloon; the Countess had disappeared-Henrietta Sontag was herself again; or rather, she was Desdemona in person. The song was at an end; the musician, transported for the moment into higher regions, returned gradually to earth, and to consciousness. She looked round at her audience. The old Armenian was upon his knees beside her, pressing the folds of her dress to his brow. After the pause which followed the song, he raised his countenance; its expression was of indescribable delight mingled, however, with a trace of sadness. He would have risen, would have spoken-but could not. The singer's little hand came to his assistance. He pressed it convulsively to his lips, rose to his feet, and, in so doing, slipped a costly diamond ring from his finger to hers. Then he tottered to the door. There he stopped, turned round, and fixing a long and penetrating gaze upon the singer-" Alas!" he exclaimed, in tones of deepest melancholy, "how great the pity!" And, with the last word upon his lips, he disappeared. Henrietta Sontag returned to her piano; she The struggling pangs which woman's trembling would have continued singing, but her voice failed her. Deeply affected, she rested her head upon the music-stand, and, in mournful accents, repeated the Armenian's words. Yes," she said, aloud, "the pity is great indeed!" And, sadly pondering, she sank upon the sofa.*-Pictures from St. Petersburg. THE BRIDE'S-MAID. THE bridal's glittering pageantry is o'er; And pleasure's drowsy train demands repose. In that dread hour, had nerved her to conceal The task is o'er, and she is now alone more Could she behold him as he really is, Stripped of the veil in which too partial love But see! the dawn's grey streaks are stealing Hath dressed its idol. She would turn away, through The high-arched windows of a stately room, And feature, sits she in her blank despair, And marvel that a heart so pure as her's THE PRIEST. I HAD been on an excursion to Gatschina, and was about to get into my carriage to return to St. Petersburg, when I saw pass by a priest of about forty years of age. He was a handsome man, with an interesting physiognomy; what particularly struck me in his appearance was his profusion of hair. Anything so long and luxuriant as its growth I had never before seen, and I could not help gazing after him in wonder. The hair was of a chesnut-brown, naturally glossy, and fell waving in such abundance over his shoulders and down almost to his hips, that I could not but doubt whether it was all natural. lowing him with my eyes, when he paused in I was still folfront of an inn, looked back at me, and seemed uncertain which way to go. Suddenly he came to a decision, and approached me with a quick step. I delayed getting into the carriage. When he was close to me he looked hard at me, and, seeing at once I was a foreigner, he addressed me in excellent English, expressed his regret at having missed the diligence, and asked if by chance I was going to St. Petersburg. I replied in the affirmative, and offered him a place in my vehicle. He gratefully accepted, on condition that he should pay his share of the expense; a few more words were exchanged, and we entered the car riage. As he had doubtless at once discovered, from my broken English, that he was mistaken as to my country, he now apologized for his error in excellent French; and when I told him that he was again mistaken, and that I was a German, he continued the conversation in perfectly good German. With the exception of a slight accent, such as I was accustomed to in the Courland students at Leipsic, I observed nothing in the least foreign in his mode of expressing himself. I risked the supposition that he was half a country be proud of its daughter.-Note by the German Editor. man of mine, for I thought he was from the Baltic Gems that a princess might be proud to wear Invidious eyes were on her when she stood Years after these lines were first published news reached us of the brilliant triumph which, in London had been achieved by art over social prejudices, Genius had cast off the cramping fetters of convenance. Henriet a Sontag was again enchanting the public. Let German y provinces, but learned, to my no small surprise, one's contemporaries from a bad romance than that he was from beyond Kasan. from all the police-registers in the country." "A bad romance," I replied, "signifies nothing; that which is but little read can afford no standard by which to form a judgment." There are no places where acquaintance is more quickly made than at the card-table and on the road. I soon got intimate with my priest, who was genial and communicative, and told me many "Think you so?" said he, "I must disagree things which, out of discretion, I should not have with you; the bad ones are those which are most dared to inquire. At first we were conversing read; as to the good ones, a great many people on general subjects, and when the expression say they have read them who have never looked vertrakt* escaped me,-without interrupting me at them. But the bad ones are devoured, and it he looked me steadfastly in the face, and seemed is not by the author, but by his readers, that I engrossed with something quite different from estimate the taste, the cultivation, the moralwhat I was talking about. When I ceased speak-ity of the people. Unhappily the reders of the ing, “Pasluschi," (my dear,) he said, abruptly present day exact neither depth nor truth; quitting the subject of the previous conversation, "pray repeat that word vertrakt !” I repeated it, and asked what there was in it that struck him? GLITTER is what they will have-glitter and that which dazzles, that is offered to them; that is what authors provide and readers greedily devour, and therefore are neither worth anything. Look at Eugene Sue's last work, as yet but half pub "I do not know the meaning of that word," he replied, "and only conjecture it from the connec-lished; I have seen it only in the feuilleton of tion of what you say; but I have heard the word once before in my life, and then, if I do not mistake, from your mouth. The tone of your voice struck me at once; I have heard you speak before to-day." As I could not remember to have before met him, I named those places I was most accustomed to frequent. No, no!" he said, "not there!" He again looked hard at me, and slowly repeated the word vertrakt. "Pasluschi!" he suddenly exclaimed, “tell me, do you know the bookseller Curth or Leibrock ?" Yes." replied I, "in the Nowsky." Thereupon he told me the day on which he had seen me there, heard me speak, and had his attention attracted by the word vertrakt. This opened the way to a fresh subject of conversation; from Leibrock, the bookseller, to literature, the transition was not very wide; but, the Rubicon once passed, how was it to be recrossed? and on the fields beyond it I did not feel altogether at my ease, for it is tolerably long since I made acquaintance with the Fathers of the Church, and it was no easy matter for me to recall them to my memory. But my embarrassment was of no long duration; my priest soon released me from it. With the acute perception of a connoisseur he quickly detected that I was not at home on this field, and led me to one more familiar to me; for to him no subject was untrodden ground. He spoke of politics, belles-lettres, journalism; and my surprise rose into astonishment when he introduced Tieck, Borne, and Heine into the conversation. Yes, still more than that; he was acquainted with George Sand's writings, and knew that she is Madame Dudevant. I did not conceal my astonishment. "It surprises you," he said, "to meet with a Greek-Catholic priest to whom such worldly matters are not unfamiliar. Pasluschi! the surest road to heaven leads across the earth, and if at times one soils one's shoe-soles, then it is that one feels the most ardent desire for the wings that should bear him heavenwards. Man's best and highest study is that of man himself, and believe me that one often acquires a better knowledge of the Debats, but I would wager that, when the thing is complete, the publisher will sell a hundred thousand copies.” "The thing! Do you then think the work so bad? your "Bad? No; that is not the word; it is a sort of stuff for which I have no name ready; lend me 'vertrakt;' judging from the manner in which I heard you apply it, that is, perhaps, the word that best expresses my view. Such a work, which glitters, but with false stones; which shines, but only from rottenness, like decayed wood; which is pleasing to the palate, but mortally poisonous; such a rertraktes (diabolical) work, which, under the mask of morality, corrupts all morals, plainly shows that the reading world is pretty well corrupted already, for otherwise no author would dare to write it." "You will at any rate admit that the romance of the Mysteres de Paris is based upon deeply moral views, and that it is the author's aim to lead us through vice to virtue." "Oh yes, so long as we do not remain sticking in vice by the way. He first poisons us, and then hands us the chemical analysis of the poison; of which, however, we have then no need, since the pain in our vitals tells us, without the aid of science, the nature of the drug. Every work is immoral which irritates the senses by luxurious pictures, and repulsive when it then essays to cool them again by a flood of terror and disgust. Hypocrisy is at the bottom of the whole, or, at least, silly pretension and braggadocio. What business have these plans for the improvement of the world in the pages of romance? Romances have only to do with the state of the mind-with the inward man, in short; the description of his external circumstances should be subservient to the end of developing and explaining the motives and condition of his mind. But here just the contrary is done; a phantasmagoria is shown us which is intended as a representation of certain conditions of the human mind, when, in fact, it is nothing but a series of silly plans for social reform, based upon theories still more absurd. What business has all this nonsense about cellular prisons, coali tions of workmen, and other socialist stuff, in a romance, from whose volumes assuredly no states Signifying odd, strange. It has other meanings, and man will think of gaining wisdom? If the author is some what of a cant term. puts forward these views seriously, if they are |