tion into the family circle, exciting as much astonishment as though I had been a real ghost.

'What's going to happen now?' cried my mother, with a humorous twinkle (and perhaps a little moisture) in her eyes not ill-pleased to see me emulate that worm-loving monitor, the 'early bird.'

was a

night-watchman' awhile, the

idea of which had quite taken my fancy; but somehow I did n't seem to suit, and had to turn my vast talents into another channel. Perhaps I was too faithful-which I have heard is a grave error on the part of watchmen in NewYork.

I was in love with two or three girls.

(The next Sunday night.) I got so tired, the last time I wrote, I went to bed immediately, and slept thirty-seven hours without once waking up. I could n't believe it, till I had been told at least fifty times it was Thursday night instead of Wednesday morning. This really seems like Saturday instead of Sunday night. How dreadful, to lose a whole day of such valuable time! I made a nice one of myself, though did n't I? There it is, you see; just as I told you: I'm not without my feelings. It is pleasant to remember I am so near the termination of my travail; for I am resolved this shall be my last literary evening. Considered with reference to our respective capacities, this work is as great, for me, as the twelve labors of old Hercules were for him. I do n't remember any thing else he did, of much importance; and I challenge any one to remember any thing else I've done that deserves a moment's consideration. I am the modern Hercules. I've done all I could. How is it with my abler contemporaries ?

After to-night, I think I may conscientiously wrap myself in my cocoon and let things take their course.

Let's see - where was I? Oh! in Massachusetts. My uncle could n't stand me forever, you know; so I eventually got back to New-York, somehow, and grubbed along the easiest way I could. It was n't any too easy, believe How I lived in general, I don't now know, any more than you. My memory is extremely poor in relation to all that happened in that period not quite all, but nearly so. I remember I

me.

'em- hanged if I haven't forgotten her name; call it Martha-was really goodlooking. She never seemed to get tired of me, which I thought extraordinary and a good sign. There was another— Miranda - (no wonder I do not forget her name, as you will see,) who could n't boast much as to her looks, but she was smart. I let her do all the talking. I never got tired of her, and I thought that a good sign. I really could n't tell which I liked best. When I was with Martha - was that what I called her ? — and observed her beauty, I decided for her. When I listened to Miranda, and reflected on the trouble she saved me, I changed my mind. This state of indecision made me wretched. I could commiserate poor Captain Mac Something, who sings:

'How happy could I be if—'

well, no matter; the idea is, if there were n't two of 'em. At last, being driven quite desperate, I hit on a plan which made me yell with joy. I tossed up a cent! Martha was that the name? - being 'heads' or 'tails,' I forget which, won. I suddenly discovered I had always liked her best; so I went and proposed to her. I found her all right. She frankly confessed she had been wondering for several years whether I would ever do it. The day was fixed, and I felt so relieved and happy I went home and took a nap. One day about eleven, somebody waked me up and said Martha-yes- wanted to know if I was ever coming. Then I remembered we were to have been married that day at ten. I felt a little nervous, and it took me some time to

fix up. When I got there, not seeing any signs of a wedding - no carriages, no little boys or any thing — I wonder ed somewhat, but mounted the steps confidently, and rung. When the servant came and saw me she said she was told to say Miss Mar- yes, Martha had concluded not to be married that day; and thereupon she grinned sarcastically, and banged the door in my face with emphasis. I came away thinking but meanly of that servant. I wrote to my intended that on reflection I had concluded we were not wholly suited to one another, and if she was of the same mind we would break off the match. I never heard from her.

I must say I felt relieved when I had surveyed the situation. How much trouble I had been saved! For it had always been work to talk to her. I now perceived that after all it was Miranda I loved. I went and proposed to her. She accepted me promptly, and said she had always believed it would happen some time. I had n't; but it was all the same. There was something comforting in her confidence; and her great decision of character I felt would be a good thing to lean on. At my request-in order to prevent mistakes-the hour was fixed at eight or nine in the evening. I was only a few minutes late, (though I'd come within an ace of forgetting the day,) and every thing was all right.

The honeymoon, so far as I recollect, (and that is precious little,) was pleasant. Barring one or two hints of vague disapproval for I early showed symptoms of relapse,-Miranda indorsed me handsomely, and we got along together very well. I forget what I was doing for our support at that time. I do not think, however, it was equivalent to an El Dorado; but we must have lived out of it, anyway. At length, as things began to assume the air of a settled routine, my interest weakened, and I backslid noticeably. I suppose this must have affected my business, whatever it was some bustling affair or other, I think; per

haps auctioneering, or letter-carrying, or collecting, or soliciting advertisementsat any rate, I know that the era of curtain-lectures soon dawned, and I began to wish regularly day would, too.

'Did n't you take me for better or worse'?' I inquired mildly, one night, after about two hours' expostulation from Miranda, based on the trivial fact of my inclination for matutinal rest.

'But the 'worse' was what could n't be helped!' she replied, rather snappishly.

'Well, this can't!' said I.

"Then there ought to be some 'better' for consolation!' retorted the 'aggerawator.'

'And some appreciation, too!' I returned, in the same tone.

Nice, was n't it?

About the next thing in my history I am at all positive about, is Miranda giving public lectures on Woman's Rights, or something in that line, I taking the money at the door. She had come out in her true colors-which, I should say, were blue for the person and black for the dress—and lent her hand-or, more correctly, her tongue-to the glorious enterprise of enlightening the world on those points which it does n't care any thing about, and can't be made to. Of course I had to help. She was the general; I belonged to the ranks.

Besides the labor of taking the money, I had to do all the rest of the work, such as getting bills printed, (sometimes on trust,) putting 'em up, soaping editors, and talking with the blear-eyed admirers of Miranda. My morning naps were frequently disturbed by the fierce scratching of her pen or her declamation. Then she wanted too much money. It was a dollar for paper, or ink, or pens, or mucilage, every day or two. Every fourth or fifth lecture she must have a fresh pair of kids.

Of course, I put up with her extravagance a long while, as I did n't see what she could do without me, and suffered many toils, deprivations of sleep, etc., on her account; but finding she would

go on, and feeling I was slowly wearing out, I one day yielded to my convictions of duty, and found a refuge in this attic. It is ten or twelve years since, I fancy, but I am barely rested from her yet.

. She was the most indefatigable person I ever knew. She ought to have been merciful to her own husband. Pen can't tell how much I suffered from the woman, in the way of lectures, etc., which she always tried on me two or three times before bestowing them on the public. I did my best to listen, out of kindness to her; but I used to wonder what sort of minds the people must have who came to hear her. Sometimes I went to sleep, while her unpleasant voice was yet sounding in my ears. I often dream of seeing her lank figure behind a table, an attenuated candle-box supporting her manuscript and perhaps a tallow dip,

her bony arms gesticulating, and all her infinitely tedious stuff addressed to me. I always wake from those fearful visions in a cold fright.

I never was so tired in my life. There is a sort of ringing in my ears-one of which does n't hear very well-and my hand trembles as though it had St. What's-his-name's Dance. Once in a while my weak ear gets out of tune. If I chance to be treated with music at those times, I have the rare felicity of hearing it in two keys at once, about a quarter of a tone apart. The effect is unique. At this moment a generous Italian with his organ-by that token it is Monday morning—is playing one of my favorite airs, 'Infelice!' In consequence of my ear, I'm afraid I take advantage of the poor fellow. I'll to bed.

ONCE upon a time there was a beautiful wood-nymph named Silvia, who dwelt beside a clear springing fountain. And Silvia sat all day in her bower and played most beautiful melodies on her pipe, which was the stem of a full-grown water-lily, and its mouth-piece was that flower of love, a glorious purple pansy. And as Silvia's pipe exceeded all others in beauty, so her songs were sweeter and clearer than had ever been heard before; so sweet were they, that all the people said:

'How beautiful are the songs of Silvia, the wood-nymph! They are soft and low as the murmur of the brook by the mossy rock when the autumn sun shines upon it.'

One day, as many came to refresh themselves at Silvia's fountain, the youthful shepherd Ellyricus, having drank at the spring, threw himself down on the soft grass, to rest his tired limbs and to listen to the sweet sounds which flowed from Silvia's pipe.

was sad; though he was in the spring of life, he felt that the leaves of autumn had fallen on his heart. Need I tell you what great sorrow had fallen on his young life? It is enough that I say, that what had been the joy of his heart had become a joy no longer; that to which he had looked with the fondest anticipation had, like the apples of Sodom, turned to bitterness and ashes in his grasp, and his heart was cold and sad and desolate.

But as he listened to Silvia's song, 'it came o'er his heart like the sweet sound that breathes upon a bank of violets, stealing and giving odor;' and it seemed to lift, one by one, the sear autumn leaves from his heart; and the bright gates of the Golden East seemed to open once more to him with joy and hope.

But remembering how all his life had been sad, he exclaimed:

'Why should I hope? this joy, like all the others, comes only to deceive me. I will hope no longer,' and he arose and

Yet as he went he could not help exclaiming :

'How beautiful is Silvia's soft voice, and her little hands! Oh! that Silvia would look upon me and love me!' And in the soft twilight, a gentle echo caught these words, and whispered them in Silvia's ear.

The next day Ellyricus felt that he could not but go again to the fountain. He would drink from it once more before he left it forever; but he would not listen to those beautiful words which he felt could, in the end, only deceive him.

Silvia sat alone in her bower, her lute lay neglected on the rustic seat beside her, her head rested on one of her little hands; she was musing. He little thought that she was thinking of the words which the echo had whispered.

Ah!

He threw himself down on the grass: he would look at her once more. that little motion. Silvia raised her head! Oh! that start! that sensation of mingled joy and surprise that gave that flush to her cheek and shone in her eyes!

'Tell me, O fair lady! hast thou ever felt this, when eyes that thou knowest of have looked into thine unawares?'

Silvia did not speak, but she took up her lute and sang a beautiful song. Many beautiful songs had Silvia sung; she had sung of the warbling of the birds and the murmuring of the streams; she had echoed the song of the south wind to the forest leaves; but none were half so beautiful as this.

The burden of it was:

'Amor vincit omnia.' And as Ellyricus listened, he said:

'Surely, if Love conquers all things, why may love not conquer Silvia?' And, throwing himself at her feet, he cried: 'O Silvia! Love conquers all things, and has conquered Ellyricus. Silvia, Silvia, love me!'

And Silvia said:

'How shall I know that you love me? Even in our own Arcadia, who is there that speaketh truly?'

'Oh! ask any thing of me,' he cried. 'What shall be the proof of my love?

And she said: 'It shall be this: for one year you shall wander in other countries and see the beautiful of all lands; and then, if you still love Silvia, meet me here one year from this day, at this hour of sunset.'

'You ask a hard thing,' he replied; 'but I will do it; and may this long, long year be quickly gone.' And he kissed the hand held out to him in parting, and was

Silvia took up her lute again and sang this song:

GLAD is the glance that yon setting sun Throws with a smile on my fountain bright, Saying so softly the day is done;

But sad is the smile of my love to-night.

Soft is the voice of my woodland spring
In the soft haze of the deep twilight,
Glad is the voice of its murmuring;

But sad is the voice of my love to-night.

Sad is my love, How sad is the word!

The shadows fall sad from the mountain

height,

And o'er the sad lake their sigh is heard,
And sad is the voice of my lute to-night.

All that year Ellyricus wandered. He saw the blue eyes and fair hair of the North, the dark eyes of the South, the Blest stood before him, but Silvia's dark-haired daughters of Araby the charms were to him greater than all.

The last day of that long year he stood upon the hill which overlooked the valley and the fountain. There was Silvia's bower-in a few moments he would be with her! How the thought down the hill-side, thinking of all that thrilled him! Then, as he hastened he had seen, and how Silvia was dearer to him than all, he sang:

SHE is a maid of artless grace,
Gentle of form and fair of face.
Tell me, thou ancient mariner,
That sailest on the sea,
If ship or sail or evening star
Be half so fair as she.

Tell me, thou gallant cavalier,
Whose shining arms I see,
If sword or steed or battle-field
Be half so fair as she.