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among the clouds. Suddenly she perceived, within a few paces, the figure of the wanderer tossing his arms in the air, his eye inflamed, and his general aspect wild and distracted

he then appeared meditating a deed of sin,--she rushed towards him, and, clasping him in her arms, dragged him backwards, just as he was about to precipitate himself into the gulph below.

“Overcome by bodily fatigue, and agitation of mind, they remained for some time in a state of insensibility. The brother first revived from his stupor; and finding her whose image was pictured in his soul lying by his side, with her arms resting upon his shoulder, he believed for a moment that he must have executed the dreadful deed he had meditated, and had awakened in heaven. The gentle form of the lady was again reanimated, and slowly she opened her beautiful eyes. She questioned him regarding the purpose of his visit to that desolate spota full explanation took place of their mutual sensations, and they confessed the passion which consumed them.

“ The sun was now high in heaven--the clouds of the morning had ascended to the loftiest Alps and the mists, • into their airy elements resolved, were gone,' As the god of day advanced, dark vallies were suddenly illuminated, and lovely lakes brightened like mirrors among the hills their waters sparkling with the fresh breeze of the morning. The most beautiful clouds were sailing in the air-some breaking on the mountain tops, and others resting on the sombre pines, or slumbering on the surface of the unillumiated vallies. The shrill whistle of the marmot was no longer heard, and the chamois had bounded to its inaccessible retreat, The vast range of the neighbouring Alps was next distinctly visible, and presented to the eyes of the beholders, ' glory beyond all glory ever seen.'

“ In the mean time a change had taken place in the feelings of the mountain pair, which was powerfully strengthened by the glad face of nature. The glorious hues of earth and sky seemed indeed to sanction and rejoice in their mutual happiness. The darker spirit of the brother had now fearfully overcome him. The dreaming predictions of his most imaginative years appeared realised in their fullest extent, and the voice of prudence and of nature was inaudible amidst the intoxication of his joy. The object of his affection rested in

his arms in a state of listless happiness, listening with enchanted ear to his wild and impassioned eloquence, and careless of all other sight or sound.

“ She, too, had renounced her morning vows, and the convent was unthought of and forgotten. Crossing the mountains by wild and unfrequented paths, they took up their abode in a deserted cottage, formerly frequented by goatherds and the hunters of the roe. On looking down, for the last time, from the mountain top, on that delightful valley in which she had so long lived in innocence and peace, the lady thought of her departed mother, and her heart would have died within her, but the wild glee of the brother again rendered her insensible to all other sensations, and she yielded to the sway of her fatal passion.

“ There they lived, secluded from the world, and supported even through evil, by the intensity of their passion for each other. The turbulent spirit of the brother was at rest he had found a being endowed with virtues like his own, and, as he thought, destitute of all his vices. The day dreams of his fancy had been realized, and all that he had imagined of beauty, or affection, was embodied in that form which he could call his own.

“ On the morning of her departure the dreadful truth burst upon the mind of her wretched husband. From the first arrival of the dark-eyed stranger, a gloomy vision of future sorrow had haunted him by day and by night. Despair and misery now made him their victim, and that awful malady which he inherited from his ancestors was the imme. diate consequence. He was seen, for the last time, among some stupendous cliffs which overhung the river, and his hat and cloak were found by the chamois hunters at the foot of an ancient pine.

“ Soon, too, was the guilty joy of the survivors to terminate. The gentle lady, even in felicity, felt a load upon her heart. Her spirit had burned too ardently, and she knew it must, ere long, be extinguished. Day after day the lily of her cheek encroached upon the rose, till at last she assumed a monumental paleness, unrelieved save by a transient and hectic glow. Her angelic form wasted away, and soon the flower of the valley was no more.

“ The soul of the brother was dark, dreadfully dark, but his body wasted not, and his spirit caroused with more fear

ful strength. "The sounding cataract haunted him like a passion. He was again alone in the world, and his mind endowed with more dreadful energies. His wild eye sparkled with unnatural light, and his raven hair hung heavy on his burning teraples. He wandered among the forests and the mountains, and rarely entered his once-beloved dwelling, from the windows of which he had so often beheld the sun sinking in a sea of crimson glory.

He was found dead in that same pass in which he had met his sister among the mountains; his body bore no marks of external violence, but his countenance was convulsed by bitter insanity.”—Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine.


This little piece is extracted from a letter of the celebrated Politian to Petrus Medices :- I have not consulted the original, but taken the translation, as I found it in Creswell's Life of Politian.]

“ Among so many discordant opinions of those who write, or who give rules for writing letters, I do not despair of finding an apologyOne will say, for instance, these letters are very unlike Cicero's. I shall answer, not without good authority, that Cicero is not to be regarded as a proper model in epistolatory composition. Another will pronounce me the mere echo of Cicero. To him I shall reply--that I feel myself highly gratified in being deemed able to express even a faint resemblance of such an original. A third could wish I had adopted the mannor of Pliny, the orator, whose taste and judgment are so highly spoken of.—My answer will be, I entertain a thorough contempt for all the writers of Pliny's age. Does my style, in the opinion of a fourth, savour strongly of that very author? I shelter myself under the authority of Sidonius Apollinaris, an authority by no means to be despised, who assigns to Pliny the palm in letter writing. Is it discovered that I resemble Symonachus? I blush not to imitate one, whose brevity and frankness are admired. Am I thought unlike him? It is because I object to his dryness. Some of my letters will perhaps be pro'nounced too long. Plato wrote long letters, so did Aristotle, Thucydides, Cicero. Others, on the contrary, are too short. Here I shall plead the examples of Dion, Brutus, Apollonius, Marcus Antonius, Philostratus, Alciphron, Julian, Libanius, Symmachus : and moreover of Lucian, who is commonly, but falsely, supposed to have been Phalaris. I may perhaps be censured for the choice of subjects, ill. adapted to an epistolary style.--I plead guilty to the charge, provided Seneca be included. Is my short sententious manner disapproved of? I shall appeal again to Seneca. Am I not sufficiently abrupt and sententious ? Let Dionysius speak for me, who argues for a looser form' in epistolary composition. Is my diction too plain? Philostratus recommends plainness. Is it thought too obscure? Cicero is obscure in his letters to Atticus. Is it found negligent? A graceful negligence is the most pleasing ornament of a letter. But it is too exact-How then! on letters, which are designed as presents to our friends, is it possible that too much care and pains can be bestowed ? Is there an appear. ance of too great nicety of arrangement? I shall be vindicated by the Halicarnassin. No arrangement at all? Artemon must defend me.

“ As the Latin language has moreover what may be termed its Atticisms;' if my language is deemed not sufficiently Attic so much the better, for what was Herod, the sophist, censured ?-But that being born an Athenian, he affected to show it too much by his language. But do I atticize too much?—Let me urge the example of Theophrastus, in whom, though no Athenian, an old woman could detect this foible. In fine, is my manner thought too serious? I am pleased with gravity.--Not grave enough? I love to indulge in sportive flights of fancy. Is my language too figurative? As letters approach very nearly to conversation, figures are to them what graceful action is to the latter. Is it destitute of figures ? This want of figures is precisely what characterizes a letter. Does the letter betray the genius or character of the writer ? This openness is recommended. Does it conceal them? It is because a composition of this nature should be without ostentation. Has the whole an appear. ance of roundness in its finishing ? This is the Grecian manner. Is it without that kind of polish? Philostratus would have it so. Loose and unconnected ? Aquila approves this. Has it measure and nerve ! Quintilian professes himself pleased. Is it not sufficiently dramatic? A letter is not a dialogue. Too dramatic? It is in its nature as nearly allied

to dialogue as it is possible. But you express yourself on common topics in common terms and on new topics in new terms? Then my language is exactly adapted to the subject. Nay-but you express new ideas in common terms, and common ideas in new.-Very right; it is because I am mindful of the old Greek proverb, that precisely commends this.”


[This is copied from a periodical work published some years ago in the

University of Cambridge. It was conducted by several young men of acknowledged merit, but for want of proper support was dropped after a very few numbers.]

, VARIOUS have been the speculations of philosophers who have endeavoured to acertain with precision the existence of a universal passion. Young, and Boileau, with other authors of equal celebrity, have each supported a favourite hypothesis, which they have defended with ingenuity, and illustrated with the splendour of poetical imagery; but as all arguments relative to this subject have hitherto proved inconclusive, I hope it will not be deemed presumption in me if I venture to dissent from every opinion which has been offered, and endeavour to prove that the passion most inseparable from human nature, which attaches itself even to the most exalted souls, is curiosity. If we trace to its source this disease of the mind, we shall perceive that the mother of mankind first laboured under its visible influence; not the most positive interdiction, not the denunciation of a punishment the most severe, could prevent her indulging this disobedience, she would not have fallen; but knowledge was to be obtained, a secret to be discovered, and the sense of duty and danger alike vanished beneath the magic power of curiosity. Although since the days of Eve this propensity has ever been most prevalent in the fairer part of the creation, particularly when the desperation of six-and-thirty proves the dreams of love to be merely visionary, yet it by no means adheres exclusively to the female breast, an assertion which some writers have had the temerity to support, but

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