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WILD WORK; A Study of Western Life. BY MARY E. BRYAN. CHAP'iER XXX. ^ When she went in, she fouud her little neioe Nelly deep in consultation with Mrs. Vincent abont getting up a sumptuous dinner for the men who had so opportunely come to their res cue. Several negro women stood by, eager to help, as humble now as they had previously been insolent. They thought in their hearts that ‘slave time’ had come again, they did not know but their hus auds and sons would be hunted and shot down in the swamps, but all this would not prevent him from eating a hearty dinner and enjoying their pipe or a nap after wards. Such is the African nature. A long table was set on the back piazza and spread with a varied abundance—dishes of fried ham and eggs, of bacon and greens (the na tional dish) mounds of biscuits and potatoes, a huge peach pie, baked fowl, and sardines and crackers from the store. To this table a part of the hungry men sat down, while the others had their dinner on the porch of the 6tore, a dinner cooked in her best style, by Mandy, who flew around with an alacrity born of her anxiety for Tom. That prisoner had not yet been released, but his wife had contrived to whisper a word of hope in his ear. After din ner was over, all being satisfied with what they had eaten, Hirne proposed tc release the cook’s husband out of compliment to his wile’s skill and good-nature, adding that Tom was simply a numbskull who had let himself be led, and was ready now to swear on his knees to his fu ture good conduct. Tom was set free and his voluble gratitude was ludicrous to hear. He trotted off with his baby in his arms, the glad dest darkey in the parish. It was now sunset, and the men who had gone to Cohatchie had not returned. The oth ers were eager to cross the river and see what had become of their comrades and what was being done in Cohatchie. ‘Go on’ said Hirne ‘I and four others will be enough to stay and guard this place. I ap prehend no further trouble here. Send word to me immediately what they have decided to do with the Radicals.’ The men crossed the river, the last red sun beam glinting on them as they rode up the baDk on the opposite side. The four men who were left sat talking and smoking on the gal lery of the store, while the quiet dusk came down. Hirne went over to the house Zoe was sitting on a cool little side porch rocking to sleep the two years’ old baby that the new-comer had de posed. She was crooning softly the German cradle song : Sleep, baby sleep Thy rest shall angels keep.’ The picture she made was beautiful to the soul of the man so long used to bloody and turbulant scenes. He stood unseen listening to the soothing strain, looking at the girl’s sweet face, flecked with moon light and leaf-shad ows. The sigh that escaped him betrayed his pres ence. Sbe stopped singing and asked him to come in. He sat down on the steps at her feet. The stars were coming out—pale in the linger ing sunset radiance. ‘How still and sweet it is !’ Zoe said, breaking the silence. ‘I can hardly realize that a few hours ago such confusion and terror, and such evil passions were at work, or that in the woods vender that rise so dim end solemn in the moonlight, lies a mang ed human body to bear witness to the violence the day’s sun has shone upon. When will such violence and evil passion bo done away with ? We see so much of it here. I am heart-sick of it. Better the dreamy mono tony of a lotus-land. But that would be no Eden to yon men. Your restless spirits would not endure the quiet. I think men invented poli tics as an excuse for endless strife.’ He said nothing for a moment, only looking up into her face, so fair in the moonlight. Then he said slowly: ‘The nearest I knew of happiness for many a day came from change and strife. But now, somehow, these fail to quench the thirst in my breast. I feel myself growing out of taste for them, and to-night, as I sit here, facing the eve ning star, with your sweet hush-a-by song in' my ears, it seems to me it would be happiness to sit at the feet of one sweet woman and know her to be yours.’ Zoe made no answer. She had net heart to rebuke the man she secretly liked so well, the man who had just been the cause of saving her, it might be, from a terrible fate, but this pas sion, so suddenly grown bold and rash needed checking. She sat and thought how she might most gently adinister the check. It was Hirne who spoke first. •Yes, mine has been a storm-tossed bark; it’s little better than a wreck; there is no hope for it UDless—it might be anchored to this little hand.’ Suddenly turning, taking up her hand that lay lightly across the sleeping child, and press ing it fervently to his bearded lips ‘the hand that belongs to another. Does it? Tell me, are you still bound to that man ?’ ‘Y’es.’ ‘And you love him and will marry him ?' ‘I do not kn 1 mean, you have no right to ask such questions.’ ‘No right, why my happiness for life is bound up in your answer. Tell me you do not love him best. You are silent. .What a fool I am! Of course you love him best. Doubtless, he is one of fortune’s darlings. Hi= person is slick anti fair as his fortune, while I—I am rugged as my fate. I would be mad to think that you could love me better than the virtuous, elegant, successful gentleman which the accepted lover of such a woman is like to be. Y~et I have been guil ty of that very madness at times. Only for a min ute though Way out on the plains when the north er chilled my marrow as I rode, I have pictured a home and a lighted hearth, and within its rud dy radiance, a woman with a dainty shape and soft, dark eyes and the sweetest mouth this side of angel-land, sitting there, waiting to smile when she heard my step, to spring to kiss me— to clasp my rugged neck with her soft arms, to— pshaw ! it was the merest mirage, that picture that rose before me as I rode in the cold and dusk with miles of tall, dry grass bending and roaring under the wild trampling of the North wind. But 1 feel like fighting with fate for your possession. I don’t deserve you, only by my love. I have loved you ever since your eyes looked on me with sucL divine pity, as I sat chained in the hold of the Lavaca. I never could bear pity before. It grew almost as sweet as love when it shone out ot your eyes. Long afterwards when I carried you in my arms wet and shivering in deadly ague, when I held you to my heart for warmth, and covered your little marble hands with hot kisses, I fancied when yon were reviving you called my name—called it tenderly as if you loved it.' You think it pre sumption in me, a straDRer, a rough Texas ran ger, to talk to you so. You think in your gen tle heart, this man has done me a favor, he is unhappy, he is foolishly infatuated; I hate to repulse him unkindly, but I know nothing of him except that he is an escaped Government prisoner, that he gambles, fights, gets into scrapes, is an alien from society. A black array of disreputables certainly. She were a rash girl who would let such a man woo her; and for a dainty, proud, sweet woman like you!—And yet Miss Vincent, bad not circumstances thwarted my life and twisted my nature, I would not have been so mean a rival of that other man whom yon mean to bless with your hand. My birth is good. My parents were honorable people. I am not poor, vagabond though I seem, and I am not devoid of talent. I have been called a genius by my comrades to whom I sang, or recited mv wild rhymes by a camp fire. Some of these it may amuse you to read sometimes. I have them here in my pocket, scribbled in an old note book—a blood-stained relic of war days. I was not a bad soldier, Miss Y r incent, and I earned a rank of M«jor by good fighting. I have never done a wrong to any human being that I know' of, though my hand has been ready to punish the oppressor and the cowardly' imposer upon the weRk. ^am not sueh a foe to society either. I hate its shams, I care nothing for its applause, but I do not despise my fellow men. 1 would like to do them good it I could. I am educa ting two boys—orphan sons of brave soldiers —and I pension two widows whose husbands fell fighting at my side. I don’t tell you all this to praise myself; but I would like the woman I love toiknow my better side that she might not shrink from me as an iniquitous monster—in nately wicked. That I am what slickly re spectable and cold blooded ones call wicked, is due as much to fate as to innate crookedness. •If yon knew my story—’ ‘Tell it to me; you promised onoe that I should hear it.’ •You have not forgotten that? Then you have thoaght of me, my 1 will tell you my story, though you will think stifl worse of me maybe, but you shall hear it. I was born and reared in Texas. My parents had lost a large fortune in Virginia, and bad come to Texas as much to hide their poverty as to retreive their fortune. I was a passionate, willful child, but love and kindness could control me. My pa rents did not understand this; their plan was to quell the offending Adam in me by harsh rule. My brothers, who were cast in a gentler mold, they loved and praised. I was looked upon as a black sheep, punished inordinately in child hood, given over to my own devices as I sprang into precocious manhood. As a consequence,I felt myself an alien. 1 hunted and fished by myself or with the overseers son—a dissolute youth. I read every book in the queer, miscellaneous li brary my father brought with him from the States. Rinaldo llinaldini, Mephistopheles in England, and Byron's Corsair, as well as Rasse- las and Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. I carried the battered books with me stock-minding on the prairies, I read them at night by the light of a tallow dip, I scribbled verses on the fly leaves, and saw visions and dreamed dreams. At seventeen I fell in love—gave up my whole crude, fermenting nature to a mad passion for a girl with blue eyes and long lashes—one of those blushing, dimpled creatures that near-sighted fools imagine artless and angelic. I thought her truly an angel and lived in elysium when she promised to marry me—boy that I was, not yet eighteen. On the very night before we were to have eloped, she had promised to marry another man. I had heard that day that the marriage w ould be, but I wculd not believe it. That even ing I went to her house. As I opened the door, 1 saw lights, an unusual gathering of friends, and my angel dressed in celestial white,standing before the priest, her hand in my rival’s. 1 hardly know what I did, but my madness broke up the wedding. The only thing I remember distinctly after that sight of the white-robed bride, is standing by the roadside at night with my brother holding a saddled horse. He was roughly shaking me. ‘Get to your senses; mount and ride,’ he said, and in answer to my inquiry ‘What had happen ed ?’ he said, ‘Look at your bloody hands. You have had a fight with Melvoi. lie has given yon a scratch on the shoulder and you have stabbed him, maybe to death. They’11 be after you; mount and go; there's money in your pock et.’ ‘At first I refused but he prevailed on me to go. Neither he nor I thought I was seriously wounded, but before the day dawned I fell oif my horse with faintnesR from loss of blood, and w’as picked up by a Spanish half-breed and nursed till my strength came back. Then I mounted my horse again and went on, hardly caring where, but with my face towards the set ting sun. I passed over into Mexico and got among the Indians. They were friendly, but I did not stay with them. I built me a hut and camped to myself, and lor over a year led a sort of hermit’s life—not once seeing a white face. Ouce I helped the Indians in their fight with a tribe that encroached on their rights. At last 1 grew restless. I wanted to hear my native tongue, and to look into a white lace,—I had a little store of geld dust and some stones I knew to be of value. I left my hermitage and started eastward. As I neared the borders of my native State, my heart beat faster. I heard the sound of running water and rode to the boundary river just as a horseman on the opposite side ap proached its banks. He greeted me with a hal loo, spurred his horse down the bank and across the stream, and dismounted and shook hands with me where I stood. I drank from the river and pledged him ‘Our Country,—the United States forever.’ ‘Take back the toast,’ he oried, ‘there's no United States,' and then for the first time I learn ed that the South had severed from the Union and was fighting for her independence. He himself was in the service and had been sent on a secret mission to Mexico. The news of war stirred my blood. I pressed on tojoin the army. Stopping at home, I found changes there. I nad not Killed the man Laura was to have married. He recovered, but before heiwas well, Dews came that he was an imposter, that he had already a wife, So my rash act had saved her from that marriage. But she was most unhappy. Her father had died—she had lost her mother long before— and she was left without money, dependent upon relations who made her a drudge, and grudged her the bread she ate. It hurt me to hear this, though the girl had deceived me so. I would not see her, but I begged my father to offer her a home with him. I was going straight to the seat of war, and I asked him to take her into his family in my place. He did so, and I went to Missouri and joined Gen. Price’s di vision. Afterwards my two brothers went to ^Srginia and fought under Lee. My father fol lowed them—went back to his native country and bought back his old home, taking Laura with him. I went home once severely wound ed and remained three months before I was strong enough to sit in the saddle. When I re turned to the army, Laura was my wife. She made me believe that she had always been true to me, that her father had forced her to do as she had done; I believed her, trusted her, mar ried her the night before I left, and tore myself from her arms in a passion of grief and tender ness, to retnrn to my duty. I thought of her only in weary marches, in campB and battles, and in the long days of pain and loneliness and torturing longing for home when I lay a pri soner in a Northern hospital. I had been taken up wounded and insensible from the battle field. In the same battle my two brothers were killed. One fell by my side; as I stooped to put the canteen of water to his dying lips, a fragment of shell struck me in the breast and another here where this lock covers the scar on my temple. When I was free again, the war was over; our cause was lost I harried home, or to the place where my home had been. I found only a heap of ashes. I asked for my wife, my parents; the neighbors told a sickening tale. A party of marauding yankees had burned my home, bound my father, struck him with bayonets and otherwise maltreated him until the old man died. They had sacked and fired the house. My mother died a few days after from the shock of grief and terror and the exposure to the cold of the winter night. ‘But my wife! my wife!' I cried. The people looked at each other and shook their hea<ts. ‘She is dead then; the de mons killed her.’ Still they shook their beads. At last one said: ‘It is a pity she had not died, friend. The yankees occupied the town after wards, and she went off with one of tbem with the same officer that had commanded the maraudiug party that killed your father and burnt your home.’ Could a man hear these words and keep his brain cool? Mine was on fire, yet outwardly I was calm. 1 went at once, I hunted out the wretch who had murdered my father and dishonored my name. I ought to have shot him down like a beast without giving him a chance for bis life, but I could never do that. I provoked him to fight, and I killed him in fair combat. I was taken and thrown into jail. I made no defense. I knew none would he admitted ; I had killed an officer of the con quering and glorified Yankee army; I was a Southerner—a Confederate officer. I was tried, condemned to be Long. Afterwards the sen tence was commuted to confinement in the pen- etentiary for life. I was three years an inmate of the prison- One night there was an attempt on the part of the prisoners to burn the build ing: I helped to save it. I silVtod the life of the keeper when some of thejfincendiaries were about to kill him. For this I was recommend ed to mercy, set free—pardoned. Pardoned after suffering three years of misery and dis grace for having done a just deed. I had rath er they had hung me, but for one thing. The chance to get revenge, I have hunted for this revenge. I have taken it wherever I could get it; what ever I could do to thwart or harass the aliens that rule our land, I have done. I have been a wanderer here and there, wherever there was a chance for me to strike a blow against my enemy.’ ‘And the woman,' asked Zoe, ‘your ?' ‘My wife ? I never saw her face but once after I parted from her twelve«hours after our mar riage. One night, as I was passing along a street in New York, I heard m usic and wild merriment in an upper hail. 1 glanced up, a blaze of light streamed from the window, a wo man came to the window and stood there look ing down. She wore a gossamer robe, jewels were on her bare neck. It was Laura—just as fair, blooming and seraphic; no shame or re morse had changed her. That night, while the revellers were dancing, a portion of the build ing gave way. Laura was a.jnong the hurt. She was injured so badly that 'i£he never walked again. I provided for her comfort until she died, but I never saw her, except that one glimpse ot her at the lighted window. She was a soulless syren— a soft-eyed, pink-cheeked simulater of innocence. 1 am glad you are in no way like her, my dark, proud little love, with the true eyes and the firm, tender mouth. Don’t be angry with me. I mean do disrespect. One may love the angels, or the mild-eyed ma donna and praise her, sitting at her feet, as I at yours. I have told you the circumstances that made me what I am. You know that I have been condemned to die on the gallows, have lain in the states prison, though I never wrong ed a woman or harmed an innocent man. But ah! mine were rough ways and a wild life, and blood and chains will stain, though one be shed in a just cause, and the other unjustly worn. I'm not fit to be your associate, my white inno cence.’ He sprang to his feet as if the thoaght stung him to the quick. ‘ Yon are glad. I -vour Huf>’- & .nd that is tc be, has no such stains; that he is a reputable man, who has made money and taken care of himself and kept to smooth, beaten ways. Society smiles on him: so it might on me, had I been as little tempted and made of colder stuff. Then you might have respected me, given me your hand as a sign that you took me for an honest man and a triend, if no more.’ She stretched out her hand suddenly • I do take you for an honest man and a friend,’ she said. ‘I believe in your honor. You have passed through the furnace of trial, you were more than mortal if you did not bear the scars, but scats are only skin deep. Your real nature has assimulated none of the strife and evil in which circumstances have lei you to partake; and you may yet ’ She was going on to read him a homily, but she faltered, embarrassed. Tuat clasp in which he held her hand, that look, were too lervent for the friendliness she wanted him to pledge her. ‘Oh my sweet,’ he said, bending over her. ‘ That otner man may be worthier of you, but he can never love you as I di/L If you would be my saint, I would worship goodness—in yon —forever, your voice could calm my demon of revenge, and unrest—you—’ He had knelt down at her feet, still holding her hand, as if it were a last hope. He started as he heard horsemen riding up to the front gate and heard his name called aloud. ‘Here,’ he answered and in a moment they had ridden round to the back gate, and he went out to see them. Zoe rose with her pretty sleeping burden and went in. Harrying back, she stood on the steps and heard the answer to Hirne’s question ‘what news from Cohatchie.’ ‘The Radical officers are to be sent out of the State to-morrow with an escort to' protect them.’ ‘Sent off? Were they not convicted of having incited the negroes to rob and murder the white people of the parish ?’ ‘They were. One of the darkeys that was hung confessed that he was put up to firing on the patrol by the Radicals.’ ‘And are all those frantic calls for armed men to help put down a riot instigated by Radicals to result in the hanging of a few negroes, while the real offenders are sent safely away ? Are the men here so mortally afraid of prospective blue- coats and bayonets that they lcVmurderers go free?’ ‘No Cap’n, all are not such cow’ards’ cried a deep, coarse voice and Cobb rode forward. There are mon yonder who are mad enough at the cowardly verdict. They’ve got nerve to break it up, but they want sombody to go ahead. Let me speak to you a minute Cap’n?’ He drew him aside and talked with him in low tones. Zoe heard Hirne say aloud. ‘I’m with you. I'll saddle my horse and be ready in ten minutes.’ ‘Y’es’ Cobb replied. ‘By tie time we cross the river and ride to Cohatchie it’ll be daybreak; and our foxes leave cover at sunrise.’ Zoe shuddered. She knew well what that meant. ‘I will see Hirne before he crosses the river,’ she resolved. ‘I will tell him my reas ons for believing these men innocent.’ She called him in a low tone as he was going on through the yard to saddle his horse that had been listened near the store. He came to her on the piazza and she began with trembling earnestness. ‘Don't go on that mission to-night, Captain Hirne.’ ‘ Are yon afraid to have me leave you ? A guard will stay here to protect you. I have no idea the negroes will attempt any harm.’ ‘ I know they will not. I would not be afraid to stay without protection. Levi is dead. Only his influence gathered the negroes togeth er into that hasty show of violence—half-armed handful as they were, come together with a erode notion of self-defense and revenge.’ * How is that ? You don’t believe the move ment here was a part of the riot planned by the Radicals ? ’ ‘ I do not believe any riot was planned by the Radicals. It would be too senseless an act for a party that had already the balance of power in the parish to plan to kill itself out in such a way. I have other reasons f*r believing that the disturbance among the negroes meant no deliberate plot but was a consequence of their being scared by the excitement and hostile dem onstrations in Cohatchie and a little confused, revengeful feeling because of some cruelties committed upon them last week by some un- knowt , lawless pir on.' ‘Mis* Zoe, do you moan to 6ay you do not believe there was any negre riot about to break out ?’ ‘ I do. Where is the ground to believe there was any ? There was some sore feeling among the negroes about the shoo ing of one of their number and some other outrages done by some outlaw, but it amounted to nothing. The shot that was fired by a hare-brained negro was after the excitement had broken out and while armed white men were riding about. The confession that he was put up to it by Rtdicals was a con fused one I hear, and may have been dictated by fear, and hope of shifting blame from him self. The report of firearms, said to have been heard by a youth as he rode through a Held at Brownton, a mile or two below here, may have meant nothing. No one else there heard or saw anything of a body of armed negroes.’ ‘What then did the excitement in Cohatchie mean—this great hue and cry and calling to gether of armed men to suppress a riot? ’ ‘ Captain Hirne, I believe it was a political plot, not on the part of the people—I do not think they are privy to it—but of one man. or maybe more, for the purpose of securing office for himself as well as of ridding the country of Radical rule. You will say that last is a good motive. I grant that the riddance is one that every southerner must desire. I long, as earn estly as yon can, to see onr country freed from the tyranny of this alien rule. I would feel that almost any means would be justifiable to attain it—except assasination. It would be an awful deed to kill these six men under guard in Cohatchie when it is more than probable they are innocent of the crime charged upon them. They may have been in some instanees the agents that carried out another’s unjust exac tions, but they are men who have lived among us, whom we have received into society an it have found no fault with socially, who have been cordial and friendly and have done many a kindly act to some of our citizens. Ore of them has just married a girl from our people; ail but two haye families. I cannot bear to think of them shot down upon our soil, alter they have resigned their offices and only asked to be allowed to leave the State and that their wives and little ouos shall be suffered to follow them. Captain Hirne, have nothing to do with their killing, I beseech you.’ The Texas ranger stood like a blood hound suddenly checked and lea: hed in sight of the quarry. The wrongs he had received made him over-ready to believe everything evil ot the people at whose hands he had suffered. His indignation was roused by th~ picture Cobb had painted of the plotted riot and the R idieal com plicity. All the old strife was stirred up in his breast; the smouldering lire of vengence and hate 1 had blazed up once more. But he would harm J no innocent man, he would only punish the guilty. And he listened in grave, startled atten- ] tion to Zoe's words. ‘That is a strange revelation,’ he said. ‘A political plot, one of our men the instigator! Miss Vincent will you tell me how you know that to be true ?’ ‘I do not know it, I only believe it; partly, from putting various things together, but chief ly from what I heard from the lips of a man who a<.<•!<>r«s he wsn employed in a p.ovioud plot to bring on a riot in a somewhat different way. That plan failed, the man was badly wounded; he was on this place, and it was while he was so low that he told me this. I knew of his sending to the instigator for money, and of his receiving notes and messages troin him. Yet this wounded man was a stranuer— an acknowledged desperado.’ ‘ Where is this man ?’ ‘He is here.’ ‘ Will you send him to me ?’ ‘ I will. I believe he will repeat to you what he told me.’ As she turned off she siw a dusky form slink closer into the shadow of the vine-hung post near her. It was Cobb. Standing on the ground below them, he had caught the import of Zoe’s appeal to Hirne, and resolved to lorestall her. He watched her and saw her And Dan, who was leading his horse tro.u the stable. ‘I’m going with them if I die for it. I can’t stand it any longer,' Dan said. She stopped him and made her request that he would tell Hirne what he had told her, con cerning Alver. ‘ Anything to please you,’ Cobb heard Nolan say, ‘I owe Alver a grudge, anyhow, and if he has done anything to Jim, he wont plot much more. ’ Zoe went back to the house and Cobb approach ed Dan who was fastening his horse to the paling. ‘ Where’s your Captain ?’ Nolan asked him. ‘Yonder, • said Cobb, pointing to the store, ‘but you had better think twice, my friend, be fore you blab to him what you've got on your tongue. If you don’t value your life you do money, I reckon. You keep what you know to yourself and it’ll be a constant sword over Alver, and as good as a sma 1 bank account to you be- s.des. You can check on the Colonel when you’re hard up occasionally, but blab it and where’s the good to you or anybody ? Another thing, don’t you stand in your own light. Them fellers don’t start off empty-handed in the morning. It may be interesting for you to know that, before you do anything to spoil sport.’ Dan thought a moment. ‘I believe you’re right,’ he said, ‘I'll take your advice.’ He went up to Hirne and said, ‘I am the man Miss Y r incent told you about. I am sorry she did, for 1 don’t know anything. That was all a hoax. I said some foolish things when I was out of my head with fever, She ask ed me about tbem afterwards, and I didn't re tract. I added to them, just to seem big and important in her eyes. It was foolish, but I thought nothing would come of it, one way or another. Now she’s made a serious matter of it, I must out with the truth.’ ‘Are you telling me the truth man?’ Hirne said in his incisive way. ‘Do you think I’d tell you anything else ? I—’• Cobb came up. ‘Not saddled up yet Cap’n ?’ Where’s your horse? I’ll get him ready for you.’ ‘Thank you. I’ll go over and say good bye to the people who have been so kind to us. * ‘They’re all gone to bed I believe,’ Cobb said, but Hirne went on to the house. Zoe was in at tendance on her brother. He waited' awhile, and thinking she had retired, went back to the store. ‘Women—at least angels like that young girl —are too tender hearted for justice. They can not comprehend the stem necessity of punish ment,’ he said to himself. Ten minutes afterward, he and Cobb, Dan No lan and the soldier who had brought the news from Cohatchie, rode down to the landing and put themselves over the river in the flat Not till they were half way across the river did Zoe find out they were gone. (TO BE CONTINUED.) A youngster who had been stung by a bee told his father he had kicked a bug that had a splin ter in his tail. Two Women. BY MRS. LOUISE CROSSLEY* The first volume of poetry ever published in America, appeared in 1642 The author was I Mrs. Ann Bradstreet. daughter of Thomas Dud ley, governor of Masstcbsetts from 1634 to 1650. Here is the title of the work, verbatim et Literatim: ‘Several poems, compiled with great variety of wit and learning, full of delight; wherein espe cially is contained a complete discourse and de scription of the four elements, constitutions, ages of man, seasons of the year, together with an exact epitome of the three first monarchies viz: the Assyrian, Persian, Grecian, and Roman Commonwealth, from the beginning to the end of their last reign, with divers other pleasant and serious poems. By a gentlewoman of New England.’ Shade of Apollo! If a volume should appear with such a title in this fast period, would ou* lightning-express readers ever get beyond the ti tle ? But in those slow-coach days, it was, no doubt, aufait in literature, and we are told that Mrs. Bradstreet recieved for her poetical tal ents the title of the Tenth Muse, and the most j distinguished men of the day were her friends, and the admirers of her genius. The third e li- tion of this volume of poetry was published in 1658, and the preface thus sketches the author’s character. ‘It is the work of a woman honor ed and esteemed where she lives for bar gra cious demeanor, her emiuent parts, her pious conversation, her courteous disposition, her ex act diligence in her place, and discreet manage ment of her family occasions; and moreover, these poems are the fruits of a few hours cur tailed fiom sleep, and other refreshments.’ So, we see that she was a model among wo men, as well as an author ‘at the head of the American poets at that time.’ I should think a woman wno had written three histories in verse, ‘from the beginning to the end,’ might bo capa ble of most anything. That Mrs. Bradstreet was a model wife, read the lines below, and then deny it if you can. They are quoted from a poem addressed to her husband, during a tem porary absence: If ever two were one, then surely we; If ever man were loved by wife, then thee; If ever wife were happy in a man. Compare with me, ye women, if you can. Queen Caroline, wife of George II. of England, was in some respects, more tuan an ordinary woman. To great beauty, and many gentle and womanly qualities, she united a clearness of per ception and strength of understanding that often aided the King’s feeble intellect. Taking j great interest in the affairs ot her royal husband s ! kingdom, she had well acquainted herself with : the English constitution, and her interposition and counsel were often beneficial to the country. These services she always gave in the most un assuming manner. It is also stated by her biographer, that she had the rare good sense to see and acknowl edge her errors, without feeling any irritation towards those who opposed them. She once formed the design of shutting up St. James’ Park, and asked the prime minister, Sir Robert Walpole, what it would cost. ‘Only a crown, madam,’ was the laconic, but siguifiicant reply; and she instantly owned her imprudence with a smile. When, during the king's absence on the continent, she found her authority as regent insulted by the outrageous proceedings of the Edinburgh mob, who had violently put Captain Porteus to death, she ex pressed herself with great indignation. •Sooner,’ said she to the duke of Argyle, ‘than submit to such an insult, I would make Scot land a hunting-field ’ ‘In that case, madam,’ answered the high- spirited nobleman, ‘I will take leave of your majesty and go down to my own country to get my hounds ready.’ Such a reply would have irritated a weak mind, but it calmed that ot the queen. It is also stated, that notwithstanding the king's infidelity towards the queen, he loved her as well as he was capable oi loving any one; a distinction (if distinction it can be called) she well merited. She was not only the king’s political adviser, but, strange to say, was also his confident in all his love affairs, of which she openly approved. By thus consenting to the shameful but ruling vice of the royal profligate, she preserved her influence over him nndi- minished, and made herself the mistress of his mistresses. He always preferred her, however, to any other woman, and during his absence on the continent, though she often wrote him let ters ef nineteen pages, yet he would complain of their brevity.’ This, at least, was certainly in the role of a lover, married though he was. Queen Caroline made it a rule never to re fuse a desire of the king, who was very fond of | loug walks. More than once, when she had J gout in her foot, she would plunge her whole leg in cold water to drive it away, so as to be 1 ready to attend the king. This imprudence ! and over exertion under such circumstances, brought on an illness that terminated her life at the age of fifty-five. ‘The king showed the greatest sorrow at her death, and often dwelt on the assistance he had found in her calm and noble disposition in governing his kingdom. Some years ago a Frenchman, who like many of his countrymen had won a high rank among men of science, yet denied the God who is the author of all science, was crossing the great Sa- i hara in company with an Arab guide. He no ticed with a sneer that at certain times his guide, whatever obstacles might arise, put them all aside, and kneeling on the burning sands, called on his God. Day after day passed, and still the Arab never failed, till at last one evening the philosopher, when he rose from his knees, asked him, with a contemptuous smile— How do you know there is a God ?’ The guide fixed his eyes on the scoffer in won der for a moment, and then said, solemnly: ‘How do I know there is a God ? How did I know that a man and not a camel, passed my hut last night in the darkness ? Was it not by the print of his foot in the sand ? Even so,’ and he pointed to the sun, whose last rays were flashing over the lonely desert, 'that footprint is not that of a man.’ A clergyman was annoyed by people talking and giggling. He paused, looked at the dis turbers, and said: ‘I am always afraid to reprove those who misbehave, for this reason. Some years since, as I was preaching, a young man who sat before me was constantly laughing, talking and making uncouth grimaces. I paused and administered a severe rebuke. After the close of the service a gentleman said to me, ‘Sir, you have made a great mistake; that young man was an idiot.’ Since then I have always been afraid to reprove those who misbehave themselves in chapel, lest I should repeat that mistake and reprove another idiot.’ During the rest of the service there was good order. It has been decided by the chambers of depu ties that the palace of the Tuileries will be re built almost on the former model, and a sum of five millions of francs have been voted for the purpose. Persons who go to Paris ‘green,’ come home looking mighty ‘blue.’ The visitor is charged ten cents for a match and twenty-five cents for a candle which he doesn’t use, and other neces saries in proportion. Hotel rates have been so terribly increased since the Exhibition opened that a man, if he intends to remain a month or two can save money by purchasing a hotel and giving it away when he leaves. WK