recover; and, kneeling down upon the ground by her side, he bent eagerly forward to catch her first words.

'Jacopo, dear Jacopo!' she murmured, while a strange smile played about her pale and quivering lips. 'What signifies your poverty, so we love one another? It is love, and not wealth or honor, which makes up the sum of human happiness upon earth!'

The artist turned aside and flung away the contents of the goblet with a wild laugh.

'Poor child!' said he, she is mad! They are all mad, I think.' And, raising her slight form in his arms, he bore her into the next house, and, laying her on the bed, without disturbing any of the family, went back to his task.

Great was the consternation of the good watchmaker and his household, when, on Meta's not making her appearance at her usual hour the following morning, those who went to summon found her with flushed cheek and glittering eyes, raving wildly of things that could have no existence save in her own imagination, and pausing ever and anon to wring her hands and weep like a child. Jacopo was sent for immediately, and declared her mind to be wandering, hinting the possibility of her having encountered some of those evil spirits which had been said of late to haunt the neighborhood-an idea which was eagerly seized upon, and believed by the superstitious inhabitants; recommending perfect quiet, and offering the assistance of his domestic, the old deaf woman, in whose skill he professed to have great faith, to watch by her bed side; while Vanderhoff, too much stunned and bewildered by this sudden blow to think of remonstrating, left him to do almost exactly as he pleased; and was grateful for the many hours which Jacopo stole from his favorite studies to devote to the afflicted girl.

In spite of the artist's precaution, however, many visited the sick-chamber from time to time who were not quite so deaf as the old woman whom he had

placed there; and it was noticed, and commented upon afterwards, that, in her unconscious wanderings, Meta spoke less of her lover than the idiot, Peter Speyke, upon whose name she was continually calling in piteous accents of agony and despair; from which they inferred that her love had all along been his, and that she was grieving over his absence; while a circumstance happened about this time which seemed to confirm the apparent justice of their suspicions.

In turning one day, the black ribbon which Meta constantly wore became unfastened, and along with a locket containing her mother's hair was a small ivory cross, with the initials P. S. delicately engraven on the back. And, while the women were curiously examining it, for there was no one else present but themselves and the old nurse, the invalid, on a sudden, seemed to become aware of what they were doing; and, fixing her starting eyeballs upon the cross, as one of them involuntarily held it towards her, uttered a succession of such shrill and piercing shrieks, that they were fain to bury their heads in the clothes. And none ever heard them but the recollection haunted them to their dying day.

Jacopo, alarmed by the confusion, came in hastily, accompanied by the poor old watchmaker, and, snatching away the cross with a wild curse, broke it in pieces, and flung the shattered atoms through the open casement; while Vanderhoff, now seriously afraid that his daughter's reason had, indeed, departed for ever, insisted upon having medical advice, which he had hitherto, at the artist's suggestion, declined calling in. And departing to seek for the best physician Danzig afforded, he was left alone with his betrothed; the nurse, who was worn out with watching, gladly accepting his permission to withdraw and seek a few hours' repose.

The girl had sank again to sleep, and, as he sat in that still chamber, his mind wandered away to the anticipation of the triumphs that awaited him. To

morrow was the appointed day, and he had already sent in his work; nor had the start of wonder and admiration with which it was received been lost upon the exulting artist. He had seen it amidst a host of rival competitors, like the moon on a starlight night; and bent down a charmed ear to the whispers of coming greatness which everywhere seemed to haunt and gladden him. But Meta, she who would have so rejoiced with him, where was she now? Stricken down like a withered flower in her beauty and her love; and, whether she lived or died, lost to him forever! Nay, through his set teeth, he might be heard praying audibly for her death, as if that pale girl alone stood between him and immortality.

Better than an hour passed away thus; and then Meta grew restless, and began talking to herself, while every word she uttered fell like drops of burning fire upon the frenzied ear of him who held his very breath to listen, and then turned away, horror-stricken and afraid.

'This must not be,' murmured the artist, at length; she must be silenced somehow, or I am lost!'

He approached the bedside as he spoke, while Meta hid her face in the clothes, and shrieked aloud when she saw him. 'Silence!' exclaimed Jacopo, scarcely less excited-'silence, I say!'

And the girl, quailing before his glance, became suddenly still, only wringing her hands and moaning at intervals; while, still keeping his eyes fixed upon hers, he laid his trembling grasp on the pillow, and was in the act of-smoothing it, perhaps! when the door opened, and admitted Vanderhoff and the physician.

The long-expected day arrived at length; and, before its conclusion, the name of Jacopo had spread like magic through his native city-the name of the successful candidate-the great artist of Danzig!-while his competitors, struck with the vast inferiority of their own performances, never thought of disputing the general verdict, but even assisted

in his triumph. The place engaged for the exhibition of the skill of the various artists was thronged by a motley crowd, all anxious to gaze upon this specimen of the rare genius of their countryman, for none thought of looking beyond the successful prize. It was a crucifix, exquisitely carved in wood, in an admirable style of art, and with wonderful truth of expression; so that it seemed fearfully beautiful to behold, raising an involuntarily thrill of horror and delight. The dying agonies of our SAVIOUR were here faithfully depicted; the anguish of the human being softened and hallowed by a touch of divine resignation. And yet the countenance seemed familiar too, and many could have sworn that they had seen it often and oftentimes before-it may be in those paintings and images of our LORD, which then, more frequently than in latter days, were to be met with in the houses and altars of Danzig; while some few turned away from its contemplation with no feeling save pity for its gifted artist, since, with all his genius, he could never be quite happy again, having lost her he loved; for they had just heard that Meta Vanderhoff died that morning in her father's arms, leaving Jacopo no consolation save her memory and his art.

Alas! how fleeting and transitory is the breath of popularity! Before nightfall the very same crowd of worshippers, who now bowed down, awe-stricken, before the spell of a mighty and powerful intellect, stood round about his dwelling with fierce yells, and sought for the artist only, that they might wreak upon him a terrible vengeance; or, in their own wild and energetic language, 'tear him limb from limb!'

The truth was, that, in the mean time, a report, originating, most likely, with the physician who had attended Meta in her last moments, and listened wonderingly to the dark revealings of her wandering spirit, afterwards corroborated by a thousand trivial circumstances, got about that the idiot apprentice, whose

sudden and mysterious disappearance all could remember, had been murdered by his master, most likely through jealousy, and the body concealed somewhere about the premises; this wild supposition accounting for the shrieks and cries which had been heard at times issuing from thence. And, the rumor rapidly gaining ground among the lower classes, they collected in a dense mass, and sallied out at once to the dwelling of the suspected artist. But, not receiving any reply to their shouts and imprecations, entered, at length, finding no one in the deserted habitation but the old deaf woman, who, bewildered by their numbers and savage gestures, stood by in stupid silence; while the crowd, despairing of getting any intelligence out of her, commenced tearing up the flooring and walls, destroying, with senseless fury, every thing that came in their way; but, for a long time, found nothing to justify such an outrage; until, on removing a secret panel in the mysterious workshop, out fell the cold and stiffened body of the idiot, wholly uncovered, with the arms extended, and nailed hands and feet to a

And now, recol

rude wooden cross! lecting how, in Jacopo's late chef-d'œuvre, they had been struck with the familiarity of the countenance, the horrible truth flashed upon them all at once. In order to depict with more fidelity of expression the dying agony he had to portray, Jacopo had actually impaled and crucified his unfortunate apprentice!

It is said that, in the fearful excitement which followed, the poor old woman fell a sacrifice to the brutal fury of the mob; but the artist himself, of whose insanity no doubt remained, managed to escape from Danzig, and was never afterwards heard of. It is fortunate that some lover of the art succeeded, for a time, in secreting the fatal cross, which would have otherwise been inevitably destroyed; and, many years after, it was again brought forth, and placed in the cathedral, where it may be still seen to this day, although the name of the inventor has long since passed into oblivion, from which we would not recall it even if we could. Such is the wild and melancholy legend attached to the Cross of Danzig.

THE

RISING

GENERATION.

THE delicate green foliage of an acorn has broken through its bed of woodland mould and opened to the sun. If, during its first spring-time, the sparkling waters of the neighboring river are in the morning exhaled in cloud, in the evening to drop in gently falling dew; if no winds harsher than the zephyrs do blow; then, after many years are past, in that spot the traveller shall behold a towering oak, whose hundred arms and giant strength bid defiance to the elements in its branches the birds build their nests, and in its shade repose the beasts of

the field. On the contrary, a late and untimely frost, or the tramp of an ox's hoof, may wither or crush the tender shoot, and deformity or even death may follow.

This rural description in general terms and in simile embodies an important principle as to the mind of childhood and youth. It is born, and with mild and judicious regulation would remain hopeful, trusting, loving and teachable, meek and self-sacrificing. Unconscious of evil, it finds an unfailing source of happiness in its own innocence and the

supposed innocence of others; and with an all-embracing purity and charity, 'thinketh no evil.'

As an introductory premiss we desire that this statement, as it is of importance, should be elaborated; and, in intimate conjunction therewith, touch upon the sequent duties of parent and guardian.

Those philosophers who have made metaphysics their study, inform us that the infant's primal realization of personal identity is consequent upon its first perception of external objects through an impression upon the senses. In like manner, to each 'little one' that is not translated while in the possession of a blissful ignorance which has place for nothing but the instincts of simplicity and purity, there must be some definite and distinct occasion when the dream of an earthly elysium is rudely dispelled. The dreadful truth of human depravity must, then, be revealed; but thrice unfortunate is he who becomes its voluntary revelator to the guilelessness of childhood.

Lytton tells his readers that some single marked event finds us boys to-day and leaves us men to-morrow. So the young susceptibilities, when their yearnings and unquestioning confidence are disappointed and betrayed, shrink into the darkness of despair, never again to emerge from the shadow. The flowers lose their sweetness, the brooks their voices, the stars their brightness, and the forest songsters grow mute, no longer chanting of angels and of heaven. The weeping child pillows its head upon its mother's breast, and there pours forth its sobbing recognition and acknowledgment of the dawn of sin, misery, and death.

The prattle and play of childhood, who does not remember them with feelings of regretful joy? Like upon a harsh awakening from a delightful dream, we would fain forget the busy anxieties of this weary pilgrimage and return to the rest of the ideal the good and the beautiful. The griefs of the world will surely come, and, however late, too soon.

Let it be no part of ours to arouse the child to the reality of suffering and pain. Remembering our own wanderings and sorrows, we shall not forget that infancy is from God; with an organism, while unstained, that must be much like unto an antitype of the thoughts and emotions that welled in the bosom of unfallen Paradise.

Such is childhood. And are not the parents, or those occupying their place, responsible for the disposition and attainments of their unsuspecting charges? For, as we speak of refined society, and take no note of exceptions, the reply must be: 'Most certainly, yes.'

Humanity as a unit is an aggregation of guilt. But for this, ancestry, down to and ending with Adam, are responsible. And the wisdom of inspiration, as well as the results of observation, inculcate this truth: the intuitions of infantile existence, if not absolutely and ethically just, may easily be made and preserved so; and to this end, as both interest and duty demand, save the gentlest supervision, children should be left untrammelled. And that the breast of childhood is originally nearly, if not altogether, spotless, may be, in a measure, inferred from the many recorded cases of the melting influence that a forgotten lullaby or parting blessing, suddenly recalled to recollection, often exerts upon the most desperate villains. The harpstrings of the sensibilities, too often harshly swept, lose their tone and jar into neglectful discord. Yet, touched by familiar fingers, the mournful symphony of departed melody thrills their pulseless chords.

In this treatise we are guided solely by American society and educational institutions considered as we find them. We have no desire to draw a disadvantageous comparison between ourselves and other peoples; our purpose is merely to outline a few leading and very general principles. We will not exercise and recreate as do the students at Rugby and Oxford; therefore, to study as they study would be madly to court insanity

and suicide. We must first accumulate normal stamina and tension of nerve; until then, it is folly to emulate the midnight hours and application of Ruhnke, Humboldt, and their Anglo-Saxon fellows. Thus, in the happy freedom and innocence which is briefly suggested, would we have the child spend its earlier years. Than this there is nothing more essential: children must accumulate health, vigor, and cheerfulness, or the constitution will fail when emergencies make their unexpected and inevitable requisitions, and old age will prematurely whiten the hair and bow the head. That too early application and responsibility are more fatal than the breath of pestilence, cannot be too strongly impressed.

By the Greeks and Romans the daughter of Esculapius was worshipped in magnificent temples. Towards Hygeia we seem to have lost not only all sense of poetic devotion, but also even of prudent respect. Not only do we refuse homage and credence to the fair goddess herself, as a personal and living deity; but what is more baneful and less to be expected, we forget the beneficial principle of which, according to our own scholiasts, she is but the type. It is a fact that should be sufficiently alarming, that our people, not only the aristocracy of wealth and literature, but even our farmers, as freshly published statistics indicate, are degenerating mentally and physically. The British fisheries were once, and almost for ages, deemed inexhaustible; and with reason. The fishes were fabulously abundant, and taken almost without an effort. But a decrease has at last become apparent. Recent researches have shown that the schools are not, as has been heretofore so generally supposed, common to the whole immensity of the deep, but limited in number, and those almost stationary. The long-continued draughts are beginning to produce their effect, and of which, accordingly, a late writer in the Westminster Review warns his countrymen in these emphatic words: 'WE HAVE

BROKEN IN UPON OUR CAPITAL STOCK.' Nor can we boldly and unremittingly tax the energies of our mental and corporeal constitutions without subjecting ourselves to a like necessary retribution. Each day, therefore, should have an allotted portion, however brief, devoted to muscular development and cheerful relaxation.

Our Hygeia is universal; her sanctuary exists wherever the ether, the light, the trees, the sward, the rocks, and the waters are found. The method of adoration, so that the spirit is sincere and free from care, is not essentially important. The erudite editor of the last annotated edition of good old Izaak Walton, as might be expected, is enthusiastic in praise of the angle; he maintains, with his author, that it generates a Christian and contented frame of mind, and even placates the very king of terrors. Among the many instances given in proof of his second assertion, one must suffice. A certain Henry Jenkins, a disciple of the 'meditative art,' fished the streams of his native Yorkshire a full century after his contemporaries had gone to the dust of their fathers. This patriarch lived to testify in a court of justice to an occurrence which had happened one hundred and twenty years before, and of which he had been an eye-witness. He did not resign his line and pole, and fall asleep until he had seen the good old age of one hundred and ninety-six. Let Venator and Anceps also plead; but they must argue their own respective causes: they, too, have merit, in not a few respects, perhaps, even superior to that of our own favorite pastime-but it is not for us to celebrate it.

It is true that the sports of the field cannot be universal; but there are means of cheerful exercise within the power of all. When our game has become but a curiosity for the parks of the wealthy; when such intoxicating fields of speculation as California and Nevada no longer exist unoccupied; when money has ceased to be the all-engrossing object of pursuit; then, and we fear not till then,