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2 smoothing the golden curls with a caress ing hand. “You may not be so unhap py. You picture too dark a future for y ourself—too bright a one for us.” “ 1 think not. Have you not every hope of happiness—a kind old Uncle, and two generous, lively Cousins to love you ? Oh! I wish I could go with you. 1 have uo one to love me—l have no friend.” “You are wrong to say you have no friend, Ellie; but, why do you fear your Aunt so much ? is she unkind ?” “ Not absolutely unkind, Emily; but, oh ! if you could see her cruel eyes ! No one dare oppose her. I dislike # and fear her, and yet, do you know, when I am with her I cau scarcely tear myself away, and when away, I would prefer almost any punishment to that of being forced into her presence.” “ Strange,” said Emily, musingly. “I have heard of such a species of fascina tion, but I have never believed in it. I would like to see her. I don’t believe she would influence me any.” “Oh, no! Emily; she could have no power over you. flow Ido wish I had your courage.” “ Take courage, dear. I wish I could impart a little of my firmness to you. And you are going to Italy ? It is a long way; but, never mind, Ellie, we will meet again.” “ l)o you think so, Emily?” asked Ellie, hopefully; “do you really think we will meet again ? 1 did hope that my Aunt had forgotten me. I had not heard from her for more than a year, and have never seen her since Uncle’s death.” “ Lady Montague is your Uncle’s second wife, isn’t she ?” asked Eugenie, who had been listening to their conver sation. “Yes. Oh! if it were Aunt Lucy, I would be very happy, but she has been dead a long time.” At this moment a bell rang loudly in the entry, and bidding each other good night, the girls separated. # * * * When Reginald and Arthur found themselves alone in their room at the hotel, they found time to think over the day, and now, for the first time, a cloud shadowed Regie’s face. “ What is the matter ?” asked Arthur, noticing the shadow on his brother’s brow. “ I)o you remember, Arthur, what we were speaking about in the carriage when we first left home? That mysterious horror which spreads a gloom over all in the house except ourselves, and I be lieve that we only are exempt because we do not know what it is. That is one reason why I have never tried to trace nil f tho origin of’ tLo inyetovioUH sounds we have heard. 1 know Father does not wish us to know anything about it, and I think it has something to do with the general avoidance shown towards us, Now, if we take these girls to our home, iuay they not hear the same sounds that have disturbed us ? and how do we know that we can rely upon their discretion ? They may—almost certainly will—men tion it to Father. I fear that we have done wrong, and Father will be displeased with us.” “ Say with me, Regie, for it is my fault —if fault there is. I will give my cousins a warning, and I am sure all will go well. Don’t look so sad, Regie. I am sure it will be much pleasanter at home with those merry girls there. Why l wouldn’t give them up for any thing in the world I But, let us to bed; we must finish our purchases in the morning, and be ready to start in the afternoon for home.” * * * We will relate one little bit of conver sation between Arthur and Emily, and pass on. As they were passing a large and handsome Church, Arthur confiden tially informed his Cousin that he had not been to Church for six years. “Six years!” replied Emily. “Not been to church for six years! How is that, cousin—doesn’t Uncle Hugh go to church ?” “No; none of us go,” answered Ar thur. “ The last time we went, nearly six years ago, Father came home in a violent state of excitement, seemingly caused by some remarks which he had overheard. He immediately had the coat of arms on our carriage, with the motto, ‘ Haul et sans tasche ,’ (“elevated and without stain,”) erased, and a simple cross with ‘ Dicu Ayde' substituted. Siuce that time, my Father has never been in town, and we never go, unless compelled by some special business. We have worship though, every Sunday, in the Chapel.” “ You never go to Exeter —why, don’t you visit any one ?” “No one ! In truth, dear Cousin, ’tis but a gloomy abode I am taking you to. Selfish that I am, I have never even thought how would miss all the com pany you have been accustomed to. Never have I seen a visitor at the Hall. Wc boys were educated at home, and we had no play-fellows, except each other. Don’t go, Emily.” Arthur-looked wofully at Emily as he uttered the last words—rather faintly it must be confessed. “ Not go, Arthur ! Come now; you ask ine to give up too much. I expect to enjoy myself very much, when I onoe more find myself in a place that 1 can call home. You aon’t know what a lonely life we lead at boarding school, even though surrounded by companions. I am willing to endure the solitude of Sutherland Hall, if you can call it soli tude with two such companions as your brother and yourself ” Arthur’s face brightened up wonder fully while Emily was speaking, but he answered, still in a rather doubtful tone: “We are but a parcel of rude men, Cousin; there are but two women on the place—old Dora and her daughter, Mary; all of Father’s servants are old- -they are the same that he has had in the house for the last twenty years.” “Well, then, you need a house-keeper, and I will try to supply the need. So say no more about it.” “ But that isu’t all, Cousin,” replied Arthur, hesitatingly. “ What, more horrors yet?” asked Emily, laughingly. “ Nav, don’t laugh. Cousin ; this is something serious. There is a something, I know not what—felt, but not seen—that throws a gloom over the whole family; and this same thing it is, I believe, that has made us the recluses that we are—for I will not hide from you, that we are avoided by every one. There is, in short, a mystery at the Hall, of which Regie and myself know nothing.” “ A mystery, Arthur! Perhaps it ex ists only in your imagination ?” “Oh ! no. It is a sad reality,” an swered Arthur. “Promise me, Cousin, that whatever you may hear, or see, that you will mention it to no one but me.” “ I promise,” replied Emily, unhesi tatingly. And she kept her promise. Before closing this chapter, we will say a few words regarding the old Hall, which we have heretofore neglected. On the western coast of England, not many miles from the town of Exeter, there is a beautiful little bay, known by the name of Lea Harbor. It is a fine harbor for vessels, being very deep, and well protected, on three sides, by high chalky cliff’s, known as Lea Headlands. There is a somewhat narrow 7 passage through the cliffs, leading from the bay to the road, which winds around the base. This road passes through a narrow valley, and then winding away from the cliffs, and gradually ascending, terfninates at the Park gates of Sutherland Hall. The Hall, as we have said before, was an almost indescribable mass of various styles of architecture. Standing iD front of the Hall, you saw before you to the right, a large square building of freestone, with a broad piazza in front. In this por tion of the Hall lived the family.- Joining this was the portion which had formerly been called “Sutherland Hall.” It was built of dark stone, with heavy mouldings, and lofty towers. The doors and windows were firmly fastened, and the dust of years lay thick upon them. The Castle was never used, and decay was making rapid strides over the old grey stones. The flower gardens, the or chards, and conservatories were all kept in the most perfect order, and the grapes and flowers of Sutherland Hall were of the rarest kind. Hid away in the Castle was furniture of costly material and workmanship, but this was never used, for the Earl and his sons lived in the simplest manner. This was the future home of the sisters. We will pass over their journey, and open our second chapter with an account of their arrival. [to be continued.] Tiie Tiger to Show his Claws.— An officer of the Northern army, who knows Grant well, says that the people of the United States little understand the pe culiar mental making up of this taciturn, glum individual, who has no more senti ment than he has intellectuality, and was born a brutal despot, He may be cor rectly read by the great world, if it will o-hmee at his inhuman slaughter of his soldiers when he traveled his terrible bloody path along the banks of the Rapidan, and on to Richmond. He is said to have not the slightest degree of “gentleness” in his blood. He is cold, stolid, heartless; and was as hated by the rank and file of flic army, in conse quence of his lack of soul, as he was de spised by his officers for his ignorance and clownishness. This gentleman, who was an associate of Grant during a great por tion of the late war, declares that, if elected President ol the United States, he will proclaim himself Dictator in less than twelve months, and play the despot over the North, as well as the South, the balance of his life. The country does not know the man. Democrats, keep Grant where he belongs. MfTSI® ©f Ell B®Dm.l [Selected.] How the Raven became Black* A LESSON TO TALE BEARERS. BY JOHN G. SAXE. There’s a clever classic story, Such as poets used to write, * (You may fiml the tale ia Ovid,) That the Raven once was white, White as yonder swan a sailiog At this moment in the moat, Till the bird, for misbehavior, Lost, one day, his snowy coat. “ Raven white,” was once the saying, Till an accident, alack ! Spoiled its meaning, and thereafter It was changed to 44 Raven black.” Shall I tell you how it happened That the change was brought about ? List the story of the Cronis, And j ou’ll find the secret out. Young Cronis, fairest maiden, Os Thessalia’s girlish train, ■Whom Apollo loved and courted, Loved and courted not in vain, Flirted with another lover, (So at least the story goes,) And was wont to meet him slily Underneath the blushing rose. Whereupon the bird of Phoebus, Who their meeting chanced to view, Went in haste and told his master— Went and told him all he knew : Told him how his dear Cronis, False and faithless as could be. Plainly loved another fellow— If he doubted, come and see! Whereupon, Apollo, angry Thus to find himself betrayed, With his silver bow and arrow Went and shot the wretched maid! Now, when he perceived her dying, He was stricken to the heart, And to stop her mortal bleeding, . Tried his famous healing art! But in vain ! the god of physic Had no antidote; alack! He took her off so deftly, Couldn’t bring the maiden back! Angry with himself, Apollo, Yet more angry with his bird, For a moment stood in silence— Impotent to speak a word. Them he turned upon the Raven, 44 Wanton babbler, see thy fatb ; Messenger of mine no longer, Go to Hades with thy prate— -44 Weary Pluto with thy tattle ; Hither, monster, come not back ; And—to match thy disposition— Henceforth be thy plumage black!” MORAL. When you’re tempted to make mischief, It is wisest to refuse ; People are not apt to fancy Bearers of unwelcome news. \ SECOND MODAL. Something of the pitch you handle On your fingers will remain ; As the Raven’s tale of darkness Gave the bird a lasting stain ! # « THE PERFORMANCE OF “THE CREA TION.” josEni haydn’s “let there be light,’ 5 Every one wished to participate in this festival, which was to render homage to the veteran German composer, the great Joseph Haydn, on the occasion of the twenty T -fifth performance of the Maestro’s great work, “The Creation.” Ten years had elapsed since the first performance of “The Creation,” at Vienna, and already the sublime composition had made the tour of Europe, and had been performed amidst the most enthusiastic applause in London and Paris, in Amsterdam and St. Pctcrsburgh, in Berlin, and all the large and small cities of Germany. * * To-day, the twelfth performance of “The Creation” was to take place at Vienna, and Joseph Haydn himself was to be present at the Concert. The Committee of Arrangements had invited him, and he had accepted the invitation. Although his seventy-seven years were resting heavily on his head, and had paralyzed his strength, he could not withstand the honorable request of his friends and ad mirers, and lie replied, with a touching smile, to the Committee of Arrangements, whose delegates had conveyed the invita tion to him : “I shall come to take leave of the world with my ‘Creation,’ and bid a last farewell to my fair Viennese. You, will often yet sing my‘Creation,’ but / shall hear it for the last time!” “For the last time !” These were the words which had thrilled all the friends and admirers of the Maestro, and filled them with a desire to greet him once more, and render him homage for the last time. For all felt and knew that Haydn had spoken the truth, and tljat his end was drawing near. All, therefore, longed to take part in this last triumph of the composer of ‘‘The Creation,” whom Death had already touched with its inex orable finger. Hence, there was a perfect jam in front of the University building. * * As they could not be admitted into the Hall, they lemained in the street in front of the building; as they could uot hear Haydn’s music, they wished, at least, to see his face, and cheer him on his arrival at the door. But there was a surging crowd, also, in the festively decorated University Hall. All had come in their holiday attire, and joy and profound emotion beamed from all faces. * * * And now the hour was at band when the Concert was to commence. The audience had taken their seats, the Or chestra ceased tuning their instruments, the singers were in readiness, and the» Committee of Arrangements had gone down to the street door to await Haydn’s arrival. He had been expected already for some time, and the audience began to whisper, anxiously : “Will lie, perhaps, not come after all ?” “Will his Physician not per mit him to go to the Concert, because the excitement might be injurious to him ?” # # * * Now the door opened, and a beautiful, though strange, group appeared in it. In its midst, on the shoulders of eight strong men, arose an easy chair, festooned with flowers, and in this chair sat the small, bent form of an old man. His face was pale and wan, and on his forehead the seventy seven years had drawn deep furrows; but, from his large, blue eyes beamed the eternal fire of youth, and there was some thing child-like and touching in the smile of his mouth. On the right side of his easy-chair was seen the imposing form of a gentleman, plainly dressed, but with a head full of majestic dignity, his face gloomy and wild, his high forehead, sur rounded by dense, disheveled hair, his eyes now gleaming with sombre fires, now glancing mildly and amiably. It was Louis Yon Beethoven (a Masonic brother), whom Haydn liked to call his pupil, and whose fame had, at that time, already penetrated far beyond the fron tiers of Austria. On the left side of the easy-chair, was seen the fine, expressive face of Salieri, who liked to call himself Gluck’s pupil; and, side by side with these two, walked Kreutzer and de menti, and the other members of the Committee of Arrangements. Thundering cheers greeted their ap pearance ; the whole audience rose. * * In effect, the exultation of the audience increased at every step which the proces sion advanced. Here two beautiful ladies ot high rank came to greet him, and presented to him, on cushions of gold-embroidered velvet, poems written by Collin and Cnrpani, and printed on silken ribbons. At the same time, many hundred copies flitted through the Hall, and all shouted, joyous ly, “Long live Joseph Haydn, the Ger man Maestro!” Joseph Haydn, quite overcome, his eyes filled with tears, leaned his head against the back of his chair. A mortal pallor overspread his cheeks, and his hands trembled as though he had the fever. “Maastro, dear, dear Maestro!” said the Princess Esterhazy, bending over him tenderly, “are you unwell ? You trem ble, and are so pale ! Are you unwell ?” “Oh, no, no,” said Haydn, with a gen tle smile, “my soul is in ecstacies at this hour, which is a precious reward for a long life of arduous toils. My soul is in ecstacies, but it lives in such a weak and wretched shell; and because the soul is all ablaze with the fires of rapturous de light, the whole warmth has entered it, and the poor mortal shell is cold and trembling.” The Princess Esterhazy took impetu ously from her shoulders the costly Turkish shawl in which her form was enveloped; she spread it out before Haydn, and wrapped it carefully around his feet. Her example was followed im mediately by the Princess Lichenstein and Kinsky, and the Countesses Kaunits and Spielmann. They doffed their beautiful ermine furs, and their Turkish and Persian shawls, and wrapped them around the old composer, and transformed them into cushions which they placed under his head and his arms, and blankets with which they covered him. Haydn allowed them smilingly to do so, and thanked, with glances of joyful emotion, the beautiful ladies who mani fested so much tender solicitude for him. “Why can I not die now ?” he said to himself, in a low voice. “Why does not Death kiss my lips at this glorious hour of my triumph ? Oh, come, Death ! waft me blissfully into the other world, for, in this world, I am useless henceforth; my strength is gone, and my head has no more ideas. I live only in and on the past !” “And yet you live for all time to come,” said the Princess Esterhazy, en thusiastically, “and while German art and German music are loved and honor el, Joseph Haydn will never die, and never be forgotten.” Hushed now was every sound. Sa lieri had taken his seat as Conductor 0 f the Concert, and signed now t 0 the Orchestral. The audience listened in breathless silence to the tumultuous notes depicting in so masterly a manner the struggle nf light and darkness, the chaos of the de ments. The struggle of the elements be comes more and more furious, and the music depicts it in sombre, violent notes, when suddenly the horizon brightens, the clouds are rent, the dissonant sounds pass into a sublime harmony, and in glorious notes of the most blissful exultation, re sounds through the Universe the grand, redeeming words, “Let there be light P And all join in the rapturous chorus, and repeat, in blissful concord, “Let there be light!” Haydn took no notice of it; he heard only his music ; his soul was entirely ab sorbed in it, and, lifting both of his eyes to Heaven, he said, devoutly and humbly. “It comes from above !” The audience bad heard these loud and enthusiastic words ; it applauded no longer, but looked in reverent silence toward the aged composer, who, in the midst of his most glorious triumph, ren dered honor to God alone, and lowed piously and modestly to the work of his own genius. The performance proceeded; hut Haydn hardly heard much of the music. His head leaned against the back of the chair; his face, lit up by a blissful smile, was deathly 7 pale ; his eyes cast fervent glance." of gratitude toward Heaven, and seemed, in their ecstatic gaze, to see the whole Heavens opened. “Maestro,” said the Princess Esterhazv when the first part of the performance was ended, “y T ou must no longer remain here, but return to your quiet home.” “Yes, I shall return to the quiet home which awaits us all,” said Haydn, mildly, “and I feel sensibly that I shall remain no longer among men. A sweet dream seems to steal over me. Let the per formers commence the second part; and my soul will be wafted to Heaven on the wings of my music.” But the Princess Esterliazy beckoned to his friends. “Take him away,” she said; “the excitement will kill him, if he stay T s any longer.” They approached his chair, and begged permission to escort him home. Haydn nodded his assent silently and smilingly, and his eyes glanced dreamily” around the Hall. Suddenly he gave a start as if in great terror, and rose so impetuously that the furs and Turkish shawls, which had been wrapped around him, fell to the floor. His face crimsoned, as if in the light of the setting sun; his eyes looked up with a radiant expression to the box yonder— to his Emperor, whom he had loved so long and ardently, for whom he had wept in the days of his adversity, for whom he had prayed and sung at all times. Now he saw him who, in his eyes, represented fatherland, home, and human justice ; he felt that it was the last time -his eyes would behold him, and he wished to bid farewell, at this hour, to the world, his fatherland, and his Emperor. With a vigorous hand he pushed back the friends who would have held him and replaced him in his chair. Now lie was no longer a weak and decrepit old man: he felt strong and active, and he hastened forward with a rapid step through the Orchestra to the Conductor’s seat and the piano in front of it. lie laid his hands, which trembled no longer, on the keys, and struck a full concord lie turned his face toward the imperial box ; his eyes beamed with love and exultation, and he began to play his favorite hymn with im pressive enthusiasm—the hymn which he had composed ten years ago, in the days of Austria’s adversity, and which lie had sung every day since then—the hymn. l 'Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser, unsern gate a Kaiser Franz /” And the audi ence rose and gazed with profound cur • tion upon Joseph Haydn’s gleaming face, and then up to the Emperor, who was standing smilingly in his box, and tin Empress, from whose eyes two largo tears rolled down her pale cheeks; an". with one accord, the vast crowd com menced singing : “God preserve the Emperor,” etc. Haydn’s hands dropped exhauste'j from the key’s ; his form rocked to fro, and, half fainting, lie sank back i’d' the arms of Salieri and Krutzer. The audience paused; all forgot imperial hymn, and looked only at - veuerable Maestro, whom Saliori 1 Kreutzer lowered now softly iu to easy-chair, which had been brought t • them. “Take me home, dear ones,’ he faintly; “sing on, my ‘Creation soul will remain with you, but iny • can no longer stay. Old age has luoy •* its strength. Farewell, farewell,