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[Selected.] Love is Best. j> ( . ..if the rosy Islands of tlie West, There winds a glen of all the glens most fair, Where, day and night, the North wind is at rest, For love lives there. XUme wandering in the noontide of my life, A goddess stept from out the shadowy green, W .th pensive eyes, and lips, by Love’s sweet strife, Opened between. y ( j through the dewy coolness of the leaves, Echoed a voice which taught us how to woo-- Xbe voice of Love, in visionary eyes— “ Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” And, cheek to cheek, we lay among the bent, And through the room we wandered hand in hand, And all the goodness of the Lord we spent Upon that Summer land. Then, stooping down, she whispered in my ear— “ There is a marvellous fountain in the wood, And, drinking there, whoever cometh here, Shall find it good. “For, drinking there, his name shall grow a name, Known unto men through all the far abodes, And, mounting up as iucenae smoke, his fame Shall reach the gods.” Then, turning quick, I touched her on the mouth, And said, “O! sweetest, let this matter be, I aek not anything of North or South, But love from thee ! “I never more will lay my lance in rest, Nor in the storm of battle shall my crest Break, like the foam, against the foeman’s breast, For Love is best. “And I am aweary of all the world, And roaming o’er the seas with hungry heart; In this deep bay my tattered sails are furled; I will not part ', “from thee and from the tresses of thy hair, Tangling my sense, and from thy perfect breast, And from the sweetest lips Love anywhere Has ever kissed. “Trample upon me with thy dainty feet, Upon thy slave, who breaks his captive bow; But from thy feet, which trample on me, sweet, I will not go.” [From the London Herald, July 30.] PATH IMMENSE CROWD AT THE R. C. CHAPEL TOILET OF THE BRIDE AND BRIDESMAIDS —THE WEDDING BREAKFAST. The long talked of event in the musical circles of Europe has at length taken place. There is no longer an Adelini Patti ; she is now Madame la Marquise de* Oaux. The favorite “officier de or dormance” of the Emperor of the French, and Aide-de-Camp of the Empress, as the Director of the Court “cotillion,” has carried off the prize. The marriage cere mony in France is both a civil contract and a religious service, but as it had been decided the union should be celebrated in this country, the formalities became more complicated. Thus the publication of the harms took place at the Mairie, of the firs t Arrondissement in Paris. Here is a copy of the publication thereof: “M. Louis Sebastien Henri de Roger de Calruzac, Marquis de Caux, fils°du Compte et de Dernoisselle Iluguefc de Varange, actuellement femme du Due de Yahny, et Mile. Adele Jeanne Marie Patti, proprietaire, lille de M. Salvatore Patti et de Catharine Bhirza, rentiers.” The legal status being thus established in the French Capital, the domicile of the Marquis, then came the exigencies of English and French law with reference to London. The first instalment of the forms required was effected last Monday, at the French Consulate in the city. His Brace, the Duke of Manchester, and Mr. Costa, were the witnesses of the contract tor Adelini Patti, and the Prince de la Loir d’Auvergne, with M. Mure, the Secretary of the French Embassy, offi ciated as “ temoins ” for the Marquis. Now, so far as regards French law, this contract is binding, but not so with rela tion to the Church ; and the religious ser vice was, therefore, performed yesterday, at the Roman Catholic Chaphel, Clap ham, Park Road. Although as much privacy had been exercised as possible, the marriage of a popular puma donna comd not take place without its bein^ \ TI ? rV | n ie c^ia P was > therefore, corn” plotcly filled, and an immense crowd was collected at the exterior, unable to pene trate into the edifice. ‘-hoitly after 11 oclock, the bridal procession walked up to the Altar. The Bridesmaids were Mile, de Caudia 0.1 filter of Mano) Kami, Miss Mona irris, and Mile. Louisa Lau. The e ' vould have been weir-hed down with the presents of jewelry she had re wived, but, with excellent good taste all ornaments were dispensed with. She wore a white satin dress, with a very lorn* tram, trimmed only with a small frill, the body and sash of the same material trimmed with Brussels lace. The blonde veil covering the head, and Orange blos soms, with the hair simply dressed, com posed the coiffure. The uniform of the Bridesmaids was a white muslin dress, With light blue sashes and trimmin gs anu a bite tulle bonnets, decorated with forget-me-not*. Father Plunkett was the officiating Priest. The marriage cere monial, with the exchange of the two rings, the mutual declarations, and the giving of the small coin concluded, Low Mass was performed. The marriage cer tificate was duly signed in the Vestry, by the same witnesses as at Monday’s con tract. The ages of the newly-married couple were given as twenty-five for the Bride, and forty-two for the Bridegroom The wedding breakfast was given at the residence of Mile. Adelini Patti, Pier pont House, Athens Road, Clapham Park. About sixty guests were invited. A large tent was pitched in the garden, and gaily decorated with the flags of France, Spain, Italy, England, and the United States, the countries in which the fame of the gifted artiste had been established. The health of the Marquis and Mar chioness de Caux was proposed by Mr. C. L. Grunesin, who gave a short sketch of the career of the prima donna since her debut at the Royal Italian Opera ; also, dwelling particularly on the virtues of the artiste , which had won for her so many friends in private life. The toast was received with great enthusiasm. (From Once a Week.} SOCIABLE SILENCE. There is a silence which is felt to be sociable, when the silent associates are Jried and trusty friends. Wherever, in fact, there is implicit confidence, and an underlying sense of general sympathy, it is often a relief to be able to hold one’s peace without any risk of misapprehen sion. Whereas, with a comparative stranger, one puts on company’ manners, and has to keep up the shuttle-cock of colloquial inanity, with all one’s battle door might. Everybody who has friends, must have felt this ; and though—nay, because the feeling is a common one, it may be interesting to show by examples how it has been expressed in* literature. Horace Walpole tells a story’ cf two old cronies, who, sitting together one evening till it was quite dark, without speaking, one called to the other, “Tom! Tom! ” “Well,” said his friend, “what do you say?” “Oh,” said the other, “areyou there?” “Ay,” said old Tom. “Why, then, don’t you say humph?” demanded the first. So that there was but a felt presence, the silence was enjoy able between these twain. The mute companionship was scarcely’ the less com panionable for being mute. Old friends, remarks Walpole in another of his letters, are the great blessing of one’s later years —half a word conveys one’s meaning. He makes this remark in reference to the loss of his intimate friend, Mr. Chute, whom he used to see ol’tener than any one, and to whom he had recourse iu every diffi culty. “And him I loved to have here, as our friendship was so entire, and we knew one another so entirely, that he alone was never 'the least constraint to me. We passed many hours together without saying a syllable to caeli other ; for we were both above ceremony.” It is the concluding couplet iu the following lines, that best attests the con fiding friendship that existed between Sir Walter Scott and Mr. Skene: To thee, perchance, this rambling strain Recalls our summer walks again; When, doing naught—and, to speak true, Not anxious to find aught to do— The wild unbounded hills we ranged, While oft our talk its topic changed, And desultory, as our way, Ranged unconftned from grave to gay ; E’en when it flagged, as oft will chance, No effort made to break its trance, We could right pleasantly pursue Our sports in social silence too. Wisely and well La Bruyere says that, merely to be with those we love is enough. To indulge iu reverie the while; to talk to them ; not to talk to them ; to think about them ; to think oil matters indifferent and irrelevant to them—but with themselves beside us—all goes well on that single condition : tout est egal. The Abbe Barthelemy speaks happily of those happy moments between like minded friends, when the very silence is a proof of the enjoyment each feels in the mere presence of the other ; for it is a silence productive of neither weakness nor disgust. They say nothing, hut they are together. On ne dit rien mais on cst ensemble. Rousseau is even raptu ruos in his eulogies of sympathetic silence; he dilates with enthusiasm on the quantity and quality of good tilings that are said without ever opening the mouth, on the ardent sentiments that are com municated without the frigid medium of speech. Fenelon expatiates on the charm of free communion, sans ceremonie, with a dear friend who don’t tire you, and whym neither do you tire; you see one an other; at times one talks; at others, listens; at others, both keep silence ; for both are satisfied with being together, even with nothing to say. For those who have managed that things shall run smoothly over the do mestic rug, says the author of Orley I arm, there is no happier time of life than the long candle-light hours of home and silence. “No spoken content or ©I fEM uttered satisfaction is necessary. The fact that is felt is enough for peace.” This fact is touchingly exemplified in the American story of The Gayworthys , in the instance of stolid Jaazaniah Hoogs, and his leal-hearted wife Wealthy. We see Jaazaniah in his chair, the three legged chair tilted up, the man- whittling a stick, and whistling. Wealthy is busy chopping, following her own solitary thoughts, hut feeling a certain habitual comfort in having him at her elbow. Standing up for the poor soul, she main tains in one place that his thoughts come out in his whistling ; he could never make such music as that out of nothing. “You never heard it, nor nobody else, as I have. Why, when we’re sitting here all alone .... he’ll go on so, [whistling,] that I hold my breath for fear o’ stopping him. It’s like all the Psalms and Revelations to listen to it. There’s something between us then that’s more than talk.” Presently it is beside his death-bed that she sits, in the same expressive silence. “She sat by him for hours; sometimes laying her hand softly down upon the coverlet, and letting his seek it, as it always would; and the spring breath and music in the air spoke gently for them both, and there was something between them that was more than talk.” One thinks of Dr. Johnson in his last illness, visited by Malone, and proving so unusually silent that the visitor rose to leave, believing him to be in pain, or incommoded by company. “Pray, sir, be seated,” Johnson said. “I cannot talk, hut I like to see you there.” Indeed, great talker iu every sense as the Doctor had been in his prime, he was never in sensible to the value of sympathetic silence During his tour to the Hebrides, his com panion, Roswell, took the liberty, one evening, of remarking to Johnson, that ho very often sat quite silent for a long time, even when in company with a single friend. “It is true, sir,” replied Johnson. “Tom Tyers described me the best. He once said to me, “Sir, you are like a ghost; you never speak till you are spoken to ” Roswell was apparently incapable of see ing anything enjoyable in social silence. Not so his every-way bigger friend. A delightful essayist of the present time, discussing the companionship of books, accounts it no forced paradox to say that a man may sometimes he far more profitably employed iu surveying his book shelves in meditative mood, than if he were to pull this or this volume down and take to reading it; “just as two friends may’ hold sweeter converse in perfect silence together, than if they were talking all the time.” Henry Mackenzie’s Montauban con gratulates himself on the footing upon which already he stands with his new acquaintance, Monsieur do Roubigne : “He does not think himself under the necessity of eternally talking to entertain me; and we sometimes spend a morning together pleased with each other’s socie ty, though we do not utter a dozen sen tences.” It is of Julia de Roubigne, in the same epistolary novel, that another letter-writer declares, after adverting to the sprightliness of a Mademoiselle Dor ville, —“Oh, Beauvaris! I have laid out more soul in sitting five minutes with Julia de Roubigne in silence, than I should in a year’s conversation with this little Dorville.” Elia accounts that to be but an im perfect solitude which a man enjoys by himself, and applauds the sense of the first hermits when they retired into Egyptian solitudes, not singly, but in shoals, “to enjoy one another’s want of conversation. The Carthusian is bound to his brethren by this agreeing spirit of incommunicativeness.” In secular oc casions, Elia adds, what is so pleasant, as to be reading a book through a long winter evening with a friend sitting by— say a wife—he, or she, too (if that be probable,) reading another, without in terruption, or oral communication. “Can there be no without the gabble of words? .... Give me Master Zimmermann, a sympathetic solitude.” Lamb’s reference to the agreeing spirit of incommunicativeness cultivated in monastic retreats, may remind us of what is told of a celebrated meeting between St. Louis, King ot France, in disguise, and Egidius of Assisi, a rich citizen, “famous for many graces,” writes Sir James Stephen, “andfor not a few mira cles.” At Perugia, tiie two Saints met, and long knelt together in silent embrace. On the departure of the King, Egidius was rebuked by his bretheren, for his rudeness in not having uttered a word to so great a sovereign. “Marvel not,” he answered, “that we did not speak; a divine light laid bare to each of us the heart of the other. No words could have intelligibly expressed that language of the soul, or have imparted the same sacred consolation.” One of the most popular of French authors, comments, in his autobiography, on the analogy he professes to have ob- served between the two races of sailors, and forestrangers, and tells, for instance, how the mariner, or the woodman, will remain by the side of his best friend, in the one case on the ocean, in the other, deep in the forest, without exchanging a single word. But as the two entertain the same train of ideas—as their silence has been no more than a long tacit communion with Nature, “You will be astonished to find that, at the proper moment, they have but to exchange a word, a gesture, or glance of the eye, and they will have communicated more to each other by this word, this gesture, or glance of the eye, than others could have done in a longi discourse.” As Scott and Skene, with their sports, so can these right pleasantly pursue Their craft iu social silence too. Mr. Helps’ three Friends in Council return home, after one of their outdoor colloquies, or peripatetic piulosophisings “not sorry to be mostly silent” as they go along, and glad that their friendship is so assured that they can be silent with out the slightest danger of offence. Uncle Sol and Mr. Toots, in “Dombey & Son,” wait patiently in the churchyard, sittiug on the copingstone of the railings, until Captain Cuttle and Susan come back. Neither being at all desirous to speak, or to be spoken to, they are expressly de scribed as excellent company, and quite satisfied. Glance again at the same au thor’s picture of Mr. Willet and his com panions, Mr. Cobb, and long Phil Parkes, enjoying one another’s society at the Maypole ; and how enjoying it? “For two mortal hours and a half, none of the company had pronounced one word.” Yet were they all firmly of opinion, that they were very jolly companions—every one, rather choice spirits than otherwise; and their look at each other every now and then, is said to have been as if they’ were a perpetual interchange of ideas going on—no man among them considering himself or his neighbor by any means silent; and each of them nodding occasion ally when he caught the eye of another, as if to say, “You have expressed your self extremely well, sir, in relation to that sentiment, and I quite agree with you.” Mr. Shirley Brooks, in his last and best novel, says: “It is a happy time when a man and a woman can be long silent together, and love one another the better, that neither speaks of love. A few years later, and silence is perhaps thought to mean cither sorrow or sulks.” And if this reflection relate to fiction, here is a sketch from fact, which may go witli it—a reminiscence by Mary Anne Schimmelpennick of her early childhoad, and of happy hours spent alone with her mother, for whom absolute quiet was in dispensable during many hours of the day : “She was generally seated at her table with her hooks, her plans of land scape gardening, or ornamental needle work, whilst I was allowed to sit in the room, but to be in perfect silence, unless when my mother called me to fetch any thing, or addressed to me some little kind word, which seemed not so much to break the silence, as to make it more complete and happy by an united flow of hearts.” The lovers, in a modern poem on love, are taken to be a deal more eloquent in their silence, than in their converse : Which was most full—our silence or our speech ? Ah, sure our silence! Though we talked high tilings Os life and death, and of the soul’s great wings, And knowledge pure, which only Love can teach ; And we havo sat beside the lake’s calm beach, Worldless and still, a long and summer day, As if we only watch’d the insect-play, Or rippling wave. The young lover in Mr. Disraeli’s Love Story, expressly so called, apologi zes to Henrietta Temple for a loner term of significant silence, with the candid avowal that lie’s afraid lie’s very stupid. “Because you are silent ?” she asks, “Is not that a sufficient reason?” lie submits. “Nay, I think not,” replies Miss Temple; “I think lam rather fund of silent people myself; “I cannot bear to live with «, person who feels compelled to talk, because be is my companion. The whole day passes sometime? without Papa and myself exchanging fifty words; yet I am very happy; 1 do not feel that we are dull” So, when the tenant of Wildfell Hall is* being courted by Markham, the latter plumes himself on possessing the faculty of enjoying the company of those he loves, as well in silence as in conversa tion. One feels sure that this faculty, was possessed in a marked degree by all the Bronte family, to the youngest of whom we owe the rather grim and very characteristic story last named. There is a fragment in print of an un published play of Leigh Hunt’s, picturing an ideal home—a heaven this side the stars, (as happy husband tells his happy wife): — By men call’d home, who:? some blest pair are met As we are now ; sometimes in happy talk, Sometimes in silence (also a sort of talk, Where friends are match’d) each at its gentle task Os book, or household need, or meditation, To like effect, in all intents and pur poses, writes the poet of the Angel in the House , a sufficiently cognate theme ; where Frederick sends his mother this suggestive sketch of his wedded life : For hours the clock upon the shelf Has ail the talking to itself; But to and fro her needle runs Twice, while the clock is ticking once ; And, where a wife is well in reach, Not silence separates, but speech ; And I, contented, read or smoke, And idly think, or idly stroke The winking cat, or watch the fire, In social peace that does not tire. THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THE CELEBRATED FATHER O’LEARY. A letter from Boston informs us that the 1 Hot establishment is preparing to bring out the above work. There are few Irishmen who have not, at some time or another, heard of the fa mous Father Arthur O’Leary, but how many are familiar with more than his name? Even in the county of Cork, where he was born, or in the city of Cork, where a great portion of lift life was spent, where he built a Church and es tablished his fame as a polemic, a philan thropist, a patriot, a writer, and a wit, how many are there who could sketch his history, or delineate his character ? Now’ and then, indeed, we hear his witticisms repeated, and some striking passages of his writings quoted, but few can tell how much he did in the triple cause of coun try, humanity, and religion ; how, by the able productions of his pen, he crushed the hydra of Voltairian infidelity in Ire laud—what woes he averted from his fellow-countrymen by exhorting them against fruitless insurrection—how he vindicated the character of the “Papists” from the infamous charges brought against them by fanatical bigotry and wanton malevolence, and helped an oppressed and impoverishsd people into the long denied privileges of citizens and subjects— how he “flung open the gates of religious toleration to all Adam’s children,” and, at length, by the vigor of his thoughts and the energy with which he enforced them, became a power in the State, loved by the people whom he served, respected by the statesmen whom he enlightened, and honored by the ministers of every re ligious creed, since all beheld in him an expounder of truths which all alike ac knowledged and revered. Surely his character possessed something of the marvellous, who, though a “ Romish Priest,' 1 living, speaking, and writing in Ireland, in the full blaze of penal perse cution, advocating the rights of the peo ple, and the cause of the proscribed reli gion, yet was courted and loved by the foremost men of the land, became the fa miliar guest of royalty itself, and was, during the latter years of his life, the re cipient of a pension from the very State which ignored his political existence. Such is the man, an account of whpse life and writings will soon be presented to the public. “ If I did not know him,” said Grattan, in the Irish Parliament, “to be a Chris tian Priest, I should suppose him, by his writings, to be a philosopher of the Au gustan age.” Mr. Yelverton “was proud to call such a man as Father O’Leary his friend ; his works might be placed on a footing with those of the first writers of the day.” In the meantime, we hope that the “ notes” in the “ Sham Squire” will do no damage to the fame of this celebrated Priest.— Phila. ( Cath .) Universe. The Power of Music.— There is a pleasant incident related of Mendelssohn, who went, one hot summer, to rest his overtaxed brain in Zurich. There he was besieged by eager admirers, but would accept of no invitation until, hear ing that the blind pupils of the Blind School were anxious, as they said, to “see him,” be visited them. He spoke to the sightless assembly in the kindest words, and listened to their songs and choruses, some even of their own composing, with interest and pleasure. And then, the great musician asked permission to sit down at their piano, and wandered away into one of those wild and tender strains of speaking melody, for which he was so famous. His silent, rapt audience listened so intently to “The Song without Words' that a pin fall would have broken the stillness. One by ;one, over the eager faces, crept the air of deep, quiet joy, un til, in the midst of the flood of mingling harmonies, a voice came to them out of the very chorus they had just been sing ing. Then their enthusiasm knew no bounds. The great master had carried them away at his will, to heights of joy, and triumphant praise before unknown; he had whispered to them of sorrow, and the cloudy ways of life, in words of soft, unbroken tenderness; and now he stirred the inmost depths by a strain of their own weaving, into which he poured ! anew tide of living song, new grace, and new meaning. No words could tell what they felt; they could have pressed him to their very hearts for joy. This was not long before the great musician’s death; but he still lives in the Blind School at Zurich, and there still remains, as a precious relic, the master’s chair in which he sat. 5