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all shall, we trust, one day attain-when mind and matter shall no longer strive toa little lower it; there was lightning in its bosom, and it broke." gether, and we become only " than the angels."

"Their sky was all glory; but a cloud sailed into


We have seen the blind girl as a child, a
young maiden, a woman in the pride of her
loveliness; let us now behold her as a wife,
no longer the idol of a lover's dream, but
the sharer of his life-the joy, the comfort
of her husband's home. We would fain
describe her, but the words float from our
pen, and glide away into poesy-into that
sweetest picture of woman that ever
dawned on poet's brain. Stella was—

"A creature not too bright and good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles!"

"A being breathing thoughtful breath;

A traveller betwixt life and death;

A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit, still and bright,
And something of an angel light."

Philip Armytage lived this life, as near as man can do on earth. He brought the treasures of his lofty intellect to brighten his home; he did not relinquish his profession, but he adorned it with the refinements of a gifted mind. He had none of the vagaries of the poet; he did not consider that genius must necessarily be eccentric, and no one would have thought that the clearheaded, sensible man, whose courteous and winning manners were the ornament of the intellectual society which he collected round him, in his well-ordered home, or the gentle, affectionate husband, who read and talked cheerfully to his wife, during the long winter evenings, was the same high souled poet, whose brilliant imagination made his writings worshipped by some, and wondered at by others.

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When the long, pleasant, summer days came again, Philip and Stella took the wings of the dove," and fled away for a After this, what can we say but that time to a home far down in the country, Philip Armytage had, in truth" an angel the same where Stella's mournful childhood in the house." Rare, very rare, are such had been spent, and which was now left in this world; but we have known some, half desolate in the absence of its present and others, doubtless, have done the same. owner, Edmund Brandreth. The happy Alas! that while they were walking with wife of Philip Armytage trod, with her husus we knew them not, until they had spread band by her side, all those forest walks their invisible wings and flown to heaven! where the lonely blind girl had once wanThe home of Philip Armytage was one in dered, and the contrast made her, if possiwhich the world may see that poesy can ble, happier still. Life was to the young hallow daily life, and that the glorious light pair an enchanted dream of such deep joy of genius is not incompatible with the sub- that their hearts trembled under the burdued, delicious glow of the domestic fire- den, like flowers heavy with much dew. side. A man of talent is like a beacon set Young, rich, with minds gifted to behold on a hill, exposed to every wind of heaven, and enjoy, to the full, all that was beautiand to the gaze of innumerable eyes, eager-ful, and hearts that seemed as one in close ly watching lest its light should be extin- and loving union; what had they more to guished. If it flutter or wave for a mo- desire? Sometimes a light shadow of fear ment, like any other common fire, up rises would fit over them-a sort of vague doubt the cry of a hundred voices, and a hundred that as night comes after day, so grief ever hands are lifted to quench the unworthy follows happiness. But then love chased beacon. God help the man of genius! he the dim phantom away with its angel wings. walks through a road that is full of snares, It had been a long season of drought, so more, and deeper, for him than for men of that the very grass was parched in the mealess exalted minds and less sensitive na-dows, the birds became almost mute and tures; and all these set up a rejoicing fled to the deepest shades of the vast forest. shout if he only stumble. Yet it is not Very grateful now was the thick wood, impossible to tread the path in safety; whose verdant recesses formed the only remany strive thus to walk, and all honor to lief from this insupportable heat. Every those whose life proves that men may glory evening Stella and her husband took their at once in a lofty intellect and a blameless pleasant ramble together, from twilight and pure heart. Such an one approaches until the stars came out: the young wife nearest to that ideal of humanity-which added to every beautiful sight and sound

by her deep sense of enjoyment, while wondered where you were--if you were Philip's noble mind invested all things with safe; and dreading no danger for myself, I a halo of poesy, so that to walk with him felt a shuddering fear lest harm should was to walk with a magician, who unveiled come to you. Now I have you with me, the inner life of nature. my own husband.”

One evening they went out together as usual, but did not pass beyond the lawn, for twilight brought with it the tokens of a coming storm. Dark, vapor-fringed cumuli rose up o'er the bed of the departing orb, shutting out all the lovely purple and gold of a September sunset, and growing thicker and blacker, until they reached mid heaven, covering the pale moon, that in her feeble age followed quickly after the fading light. A heavy stillness succeeded-a darkness that might be felt, oppressing both mind and body with a dull weight. "Let us go in," said Stella, as she leaned wearily upon her husband's arm; the storm is coming nearer; and look! there is a flash."


"It is only summer lightning," Philip answered. "But come, dear, we will go within doors, and watch it from the window, it is so beautiful."

They went in, and stood watching the storm. Stella felt no fear, for her husband was beside her. She rested her head on his shoulder, and felt his arm encircle her, and thus they looked on the gathering clouds, and the brilliant flashes of sheet lightning that momently illumined the whole heaven, and made the dark woods as bright and distinct as in broad daylight. Even when the heavy drops began to fall, and a low rumbling of thunder was heard in the distance, they did not turn away, for the minds of both were of too high an order to experience that weak sorrow which makes the feeble shrink from that grandest and most beautiful sight—a thunder-storm at night.

"You are not afraid, my dearest ?"

asked the husband.

"No, Philip," answered Stella. "I like to watch a storm coming on. I feel a kind of awful delight, as though I were drawn nearer to heaven, and heard the voice of God in the thunder. I have no fear, except that I would ever have those I love beside me as now."

Philip pressed his wife nearer to him with a smile. "Now you are quite safe, love." "Yes, with you. I remember the first storm I ever watched, after my sight was restored. It was here at this very window. I was foolish, my Philip, I know, but could not turn my thoughts from you.


For ever-for ever," cried Philip, stooping over her with intense love," my Stella, my-"

As he spoke, a dazzling, blinding flash enveloped them in one sheet of lurid flame; then came a burst of thunder, so long and loud, that it seemed as if the heavens were falling. But the husband and wife heard it not. They both lay insensible, Philip's arm still clasping his beloved. Philip Armytage woke to consciousness, and found Her eyes Stella still lying motionless. were fixed and open; her features white and livid, while her arm still twined round his neck, as cold and heavy as stone. uttered one cry of agonized despair, and then a desperate calmness came over him. He felt her heart; a faint pulse was still beating there. He lifted her hand; it did not fall down again, but remained stiffly extended. She was not dead, but remained in a trance if possible more fearful still than death.


All that night, the next day, and throughout another horrible night, did Philip hang over his insensible wife. No skill could wake her from her terrible repose; she lay immovable, breathing faintly, but a tinge of life was on her marble-like face, and the glare of her open eyes was fearful to behold. Philip tried to close them, but the eyelids shrank back again from the dilated pupils. He covered them with a veil, for he could not bear to see the horrible expression they gave to the beautiful face he loved so much.

When the second day was at its meridian, Philip thought he saw her breast heave, a faint hue dyed her white lips-they moved; and with a wild cry he clasped his wife in his arms, and strove to reanimate those pale lips with kisses.

"Philip," she murmured faintly, "I thought I was dead."

"You are living-here in my arms, my " cried the beloved-my heart's treasure, husband, almost weeping with joy.

"Ah, I remember the storm; it is all over now. It is night; but why have you put out the lamp? I cannot see you, love."

Philip shuddered at her words, for the room was flooded with the golden light of Il noon. He looked at Stella's eyes; their

expression revealed the awful truth; the | it pleased her; he no longer shrank from lightning had struck her, and she was once more hopelessly blind.


"Go not away-yet ah, dark shades I see

the pleasant sunshine, because she could behold it no more; but spent whole days in guiding her steps through the forest, describing everything he saw with the eloquence of love.

"Do you remember once when you said, 'I will be your eyes, dearest ?" Stella one "and now you are

Obscure thy brow-thou goest! but give thy day whispered to him;


Must it be so?-Then go-I follow thee;

Yes! unto death-unto the Silent Land."

FREDERIKA BREMER. STELLA awoke from that thunder-stricken trance unto darkness that no human power could henceforth sweep away-those sweet eyes were now blind for ever. Meekly, as became her nature, did she bow beneath the stroke, but Philip writhed under it in insupportable agony. Stella's health slowly recovered, and she rose up from her bed of sickness, and once more wandered about the house, pale, pensive, but still calm. Then burst forth her husband's wild despair. His frantic words sometimes reached almost to imprecations. He wished that the terrible lightning flash had struck him dead, rather than that he should live to see this wreck of his happiness. His whole nature seemed changed; the gentle, upright, pioushearted Philip Armytage was all but a maniac in his wild despair.

But Stella seemed to have gained all the firmness which he had lost. Patient, unrepining, she was to him like a guardian angel, soothing and cheering him, as if he had been the stricken one, and she the consoler. He would take her away, to try all that metropolitan skill could effect, and to amuse her, as he thought, with every enjoyment that London could furnish. But Stella knew it was hopeless, and though she submitted, to please her husband, still it was not long before her health failed in the close air of the city, and Philip bore her again to her native home.

There the soft spring breezes once more brought faint roses to the cheek of the blind wife, and hope, almost joy, stole back again to her heart, for she knew that heart would soon throb with the pulses of a mother's love. Again life became sweet to her, and a little of her cheerfulness communicated itself to Philip's melancholy spirit. In his wife's presence he grew more calm, and for her sake he returned to those pursuits which, in the first burst of wild agony, he had vowed to relinquish for ever. He read to her, as of old; he wrote poetry, because

so, my Philip! you make me see with your


Philip groaned, "Hush, hush, I cannot bear it.' 22

Nay, nay, look at me; I am not sad; indeed, Philip, you do not know how happy I am. If I were now, as I once waslonely, helpless, with no one to love me— I might indeed lament; but with you, my husband, ever with me, giving up all for me, with the knowledge that my infirmity only proves how strong is your love, how can I murmur? My own Philip; you are the light of my eyes; there is no darkness for me when you are by."

And Philip could only press her to his heart, and weep.

But though when her husband was by, Stella appeared contented and cheerful, and indeed was so, yet there were times when she felt bitterly the deprivation of all those pleasures which had become so dear to her. She longed to behold that beautiful world which had been revealed to her sight, only to be shut out again for ever; and more than all did she yearn to look once more upon the face of her husband, to watch it kindling into genius, until it became, to her at least, as the face of an angel. She knew, by the tones of his voice, when it wore that look, and then her heart sank to think that she must see it no more for ever. At times, too, when in her darkness she was attiring herself, or arranging her long auburn hair, a natural sigh would escape her at the memory of the days in which her unsealed eyes first discovered that she was beautiful; and a throb of pleasure came to her heart at the thought that she was thereby more worthy of the long absent, but well-beloved one. Then, too, Stella would turn from the past to the dim future, and sometimes even weep that she would never behold the face of her child-that the blind mother would not trace, in its opening beauty, a likeness to the features more dear to her. And then, with these mother thoughts, came memories of her own lost parent, in solemn sweetness leading Ler from earth to heaven.

Thus the time wore on; Philip's anguish seen the sun of hope set ere noon, who was lulled by happy hopes for the future, would keep the poor mourning ones from and Stella's brow wore a holy calmness. their rest! Thus let us think of thee, O One day, an aged woman, who had nursed Death! gentle unlooser of life's burden, her in her infancy, shook her head as she who foldest thy calm, still arms round the looked mournfully on the changing cheek weary frame, and leavest the immortal and transparent hands; she knew well that spirit to rise rejoicing unto God. the mysteries of the coming birth alone For months after the death of Stella, the kept away the dread phantom, whose sha-world was a blank to Philip Armytage. dow already hung over the blind mother. His noble mind was a wreck, and if at times The hour of trial came; it brought a glimpses of reason and intellect came, like moment's joy, and then the gloom of des- wandering meteors through the ruins, they pair. In a few days, the faint wailing cry only showed more plainly the mournful desoof the young spirit which had entered this lation around. One soft woman's voice, and world of care was hushed; and silently, gentle woman's hand had power over him in slowly, the mother was following her babe his wildest moods, they were those of Mrs. to heaven. No earthly power could save Lyle. Many thought that his brain had her, and Philip knew it. As still and never recovered from the fearful lightning speechless as her whose life was ebbing stroke, so that any great sorrow was sure to away on his bosom, the husband waited for death to take his treasure from his arms. Stella lay in the heavy slumber which a temporary delirium had left behind. She did not even know on whose anguish-riven bosom her head rested. Once only she spoke like one dreaming.

"I see her, there, there, with white garments. Mother, I am coming; only let me bid him farewell.". And her lips closed, murmuring Philip's name.

An hour before death her senses returned. She bade Philip kiss her, then whispered faintly

"I am content, my husband, my beloved! You will come too, soon, oh! soon. is no darkness there."

She felt for his hand, laid it on her heart, and spoke no more. Death stole over that gentle one, not with gloom and sorrow, but with the peaceful shadows of a child's rosy sleep.

overthrow reason for ever. But the love which had suffered so much, and then been riven by death, was cause sufficient. Rarely do men love to such intensity, but when they do it is a fearful thing.

After a long season, Philip's mind awoke from its sleep. With declining health came restored reason. He lost that delusion, which had constantly haunted him, in which he fancied that the lost one was ever present by his side. It might have been a dream or not; God only knows. If the departed become ministering spirits, as may be, what office would be sweeter to that blessed angel than to watch over and soothe There the bewildered mind of him whom she had so fondly loved on earth? Calmly, with a kind of mournful joy, did Philip Armytage see the world glide from him. Its pleasures were like shadows to him now. He lived near the fatal yet beloved home whose gloom was now brightened by infant smiles and gay young voices, the children of EdLet us pause for a moment to think of mund Brandreth. These loved to gather Death-Death, as he comes in the midst of round the knees of the pale, but ever-gentle life, and youth, and love, when the world mourner, and hear him talk of her who was is yet sweet, and the journey has been too gone-of her darkened childhood, her happy short for the limbs to grow weary. Yet, youth, her sweetness, and her suffering; even so; blessed are they who never know and then they would listen with him to the the burden and heat of the day! To murmuring of the trees in the old churchthem the Dread Presence comes as a white- yard, the more fanciful of them thinking it winged angel, ere they have time to invest was her voice whispering to them in the still him with shadows that are alone the crea- evening twilight. But when the solitary tion of man's fearful heart. He comes one had kissed them all, and bade them smiling, to waft them from earth's pleasures good night, he would stretch his arms out to those which are eternal. It is better to in the darkness and cry with a low yearndepart while love's roses are blooming than ing voice

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to linger until they fade. Therefore, My Stella, my beloved, let me come to blessed are the young who die beloved and thee."

loving still! And for those, few in years, And at length the longing prayer was but many in sorrows, who have already heard.

From Bentley's Miscellany.



WHILST Paris, France, and the leaders and | armies of factions, were preparing to tear the republic to pieces, the shadow of a mighty spirit was hovering over the soul of a young girl, and about to disconcert both men and events by placing the arm and the life of a woman across the path of the destiny of the revolution.

In a lonely by-street of the city of Caen, then the centre of the Girondist insurrection, may still be seen an old, grey, weatherbeaten house, at the end of a court-yard. There, in the beginning of 1793, lived a grand-niece of our great tragic poet, Pierre Corneille. Poets and heroes are of the same race. There is no other difference between them than that of conception and achievement; the latter realize the conceptions of the former; but the thought is the same. Women are naturally as enthusiastic as the former, and as courageous as the latter. Poetry, heroism, and love, are of the same family.

This house belonged to a poor, aged, infirm, and childless widow, named Madame de Bretteville. She had had with her, for a few years, a young relation, whom she had brought up for the support of her old age, and to enliven her solitude. This damsel was then in her twenty-fourth year. Her stature, though tall, did not exceed that of the generality of the fine graceful women of Normandy. Her complexion partook of the ardor of the south, and the rosy hue of the women of the north. Her hair, which seemed dark, when tied round her head, or opening in two waves on her brow, had a golden tinge at the extremity of the tresses. Her eyes, large and extending to the temples, were blue when she was lost in reflection, but changed to black when she became animated; they were shaded by long eye-lashes, darker than her hair, and adding depth to the soul which beamed in her eye. Her nose united with her forchead by an imperceptible curve; and her Grecian mouth and lips had a wavering, indefinable expression between tenderness and severity. Her prominent chin, * This graphic account will appear in M. de Lamartine's next volume of the History of the Girondists, which is not yet published.

divided by a deep dimple, gave to the lower part of her visage a character of manly resolution, which contrasted with the perfectly feminine grace of the rest of her countenance. Her cheeks, glowing with youth, possessed the firm fulness of health. The least emotion would cause her to blush or turn pale. Her broad, though somewhat thin chest, was a bust for a sculptor. Her skin was white. Her arms were strong and muscular, her hands long, and her fingers tapering. Her costume, conformable to her limited means and the solitude in which she lived, was of sober simplicity. She trusted to nature, and disdained every artifice and caprice of fashion in her dress. Persons who knew her in her youth, describe her as being uniformly dressed in a dark-colored robe, cut like a riding-habit, and wearing a grey felt hat, turned up at the edge, and ornamented with black ribbons, as was then the mode among women of her condition. The sound of her voice,. that living echo which sums up all the deep feelings of the soul in a vibration of the air, left a deep and tender impression on the ears of those whom she addressed. They would speak of the sound of that voice ten years after they had heard it, as a strange music indelibly impressed on their memory.

This young damsel was named Charlotte Corday-d'Armont. Although of noble extraction, she was born in a cottage in the village of Ligneries, not far from Argentan. Her father, François de Corday-d'Armont, was one of those provincial gentilshommes whom their poverty almost confounded with the peasantry. Occupied with agricultural pursuits, he beguiled his leisure with political and literary studies, then much diffused among that uneasy class of the population.

It was the time when the Girondists were contending, with glorious courage and prodigious eloquence, against their enemies in the Convention. The Jacobins, so it was believed, wanted to snatch the republic out of the hands of the Girondist party, only to plunge France into a bloody anarchy. In place of those great men, who seemed to be defending at the breach the

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