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186 . easiness, and me great delight. He knows only [ whence they come—know you whither they have gone: into the most hallowed chamber of f my heart. Mail your letters anywhere but at Princeton; my answers will be retnrned through a confidante in Morristown, f Your Louisa.’’ Thenceforward Mr. Mitten could hardly do anything but write letters. The two friends . soon became so much attached to each other, | that they interchanged pledges of perpetual union. The “ hundred thousand dollars’’ were f now safe, and college honors sank to insigifi canoe in the estimation of Mr. Mitten. He studied only to graduate, and in the short space |f of four months, dropped trom the head below the middle of his class. The “ hundred thou -3 sand” were a good way off, and his demands for * money were immediate and pressing. To meet the exigencies of the time present, he concluded to try his skill at cards with the “ Regular . Panel” of Princeton. He was very successful, ■ but still he forgot Mr. Beach. The club, of course, had refreshments, to counteract the effect L of sedentary habits and constant watchings. They met at Mr. Mitten's room, and as ho had 3 been very successful, he was very libyfal . in his supplies of good cheer. The young gen | tlemen enjoyed themselves quietly until about 1 one o’clock A. M., when they became rather troublesome to a Professor in an adjoining do"' I J mitory. The Professor rose, dressed him*-’ I '' and Went to Mitten’s room door —limped > awhile and knocked. . “Walk in,” said -bitten. { The Professor attempted to open the <*’ or > but it j was locked. A shuffling of feet, * moving ot [ chairs, and a rattling of glasses, cre “ e ® r “’ I and the door was opened. Tb Professor step ped in, found a table set out »* the middle of the . room, with two candles od b b, ' rnt dov '’ n nearly to the socket-two fello- 3 , 0 " Mutcn 3 with all their clothes on, atleep-two more in Ins , room-mate’s bed, c/ered over with a counter pane, except as " the heel of one boot-anoth . er just bed unde ' “ least he was near that bed) L another 3eated at the table studying the ' Greek lexicon —while Mr. Mitten, who opened the d'Ci'iwas pacing the room in manifest indig t na* on - Though not exactly intoxicated, he had simulated his nervous system up to an unwont ed degree of independence—while the Professor was very coolly making liis observations, (for he , was a man of nerve.) “ Well, sir,” said Mitten, «I hope you havo nosed about a dormitory in L which you have no business, to your satisfac ‘ tion.” (Here one of the sleepers, whose face was to lights, turned abruptly over with a sleepy snort: and the Greek student saw a funny word in the Lexicon at which he gave a little chuckle. “ Not quite,” said the Professor, calmly. " Well, sir,” continued Mitten, “ I think I can convince the Facnlty, and if not the Faculty, , the Trustees, that you have no right to be pok -1 ing about another Professor’s dormitory of , nights." ‘ May-be so,” said the Professor coolly, and still “ poking about.” This was the Professor of Mathematics, who had repeatedly provoked Mr. Mitten, by pressing questions upon him at recitation which lie could not answer. This is considered very impolite I in all Colleges. ‘ (to be continued.) • — _ [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] 1 THREE YEARS OF HEART-HISTORY. ■ BY KATY-DID. “ Put down the tongs, Joe, and stop punching at the fire; it makes my head ache.” “Why, ma, I’m just watching the sparks fly; l they look so pretty as they go up the chimney,” i replied Joe, an urchin of some six summers, who, notwithstanding the maternal injunction, i , proceeded quietly with his amusement. “ You, Joe, mind what I tell you; put down those tongs this minute,” and Joe reluctantly re f linquished his occupation, and walked sullenly away. “Do stop whittling that stick. John; see how i you’ve littered up the rug,” again expostulated l Mrs. Holmes, and that young gentleman contin ued his occupation for about a minute longer, ( then put his knife in his pocket, and sauntered towards the window. “ Mother,” he said, in a discontented tone, “how much longer is this f rainy weather going to last? I’m tired to death of staying within doors." “ How should I know, John ?” was the ma ternal reply. “You seem to think I must know l everything.” Just here, a sudden outcry was heard in a dis f tant corner of the room, and the afore-mentioned Joe called out, “ Ma, make Robert stop pulling my hair I” at which Mr. John Holmes laughed outright. “You, Robert,” exclaimed his mother, “are you not ashamed to impose on your younger brother?” “Well, ma,” exclaimed impenitent Robert, “he went and broke my bird-trap, I had just f finished, and, besides, I a’n’t pulling his hair now; I stopped long ago.” “No, I never, ma,” put in Joe, “he put it i down just where I was going to knock my stick,” and the evidence, on both sides, seeming 1 so nearly' balanced, their mother decided the - question by bidding each take a seat, and stay [ there, till she gave him permission to get up. A step was heard uj the hall, and in a few f moments the door opened and Mr. Holmes, rath er a fine-looking man of abbut five and forty, entered; he was soon divested of.his wet over- I coat and seated before the fire, with a child on each knee, and in the following words ho im -1 parted to us the following piece of information: “Horace Granville, whose writings everybody is ( so crazy about, is in town; I met him to-day, and he promised to spend to-morrow evening f \ with us; his father was an old schoolmate of \pine.” And could it be, that to-morrow I would see \ HoiW Granville ? Didst thou never, reader, bngerover some favorite book, linger fondly, 3 parts over and over again, un til Cie auHmr seemed an old, familiar friend, wondering ww he looked like, and conjuring up, in thy mind, a picture of him, j with which to him and his writings? And what then, reaW if t hou knewest that to morrow would bring t h y presence that in fa tellect thou hadst look^, lp toj at a distance, with such wondering admiK*j on ? j i la( j l[nger j ed thus over Horace Granvilfey writings, though L admiringly, rather than lovinglW or they spoke not so much to the heart as to\e intellect. And to-morrow I would see him, it be? Here my revery was interrupted by sw era i vo _ f ciferous cries from the baby, which, I Bid been . taught too well, alas, by sad experience’Wre *fa ouly premonitory symptoms, only the preluiKto a performance, the duration of which I dared nW Y contemplate. I would fain have retreated to myS, dormitory up stairs, but it is no light matter, in such weather, to leave quarters so comfortable, (in temperature, I mean,) to sit in a room with- mes sovvaesur m vxiusssais. out a fire; so, thinking to submit to the lesser | evils of the two, I remained with an air of mar- | tyrdom. where I was. One shriek after another . it came, without the least variation or intermisyf sion, and the nurse’s most desperate efforts/b divertor pacify it, in which praise wort deavors she was encouraged by all and fisted by some, only succeeded in eliciting/h°w anc * then, a note still more energetic «ibers. “Truly,” I thought, “babies are/>vopierfulin vention.” Mr. John Holmes atb:ntive ‘ ly for a while, to this infantile per formance, until, his pati«ce •-‘ompletely ex hausted, he sprang toilet crying “Mother, do choke that baby, out to the kitchen, or do something wjtf it; * m tlr f to death of its eternal squJftg; stood it just about long enough,’VWords which found an echo in the inmost of**, at least, of-bless me! what was/i abo rt to sa y ! Rut 111 not finish the sentence: i‘ would be monstrous, unnatural, for yoiAnow — “ A babe in a house is a well sprig of peasure. a messenger of peace and 'Here *aintly through the tumult, was heard I the riling the tea-bell, and as the “little durli'tf” became more and more absorbed in the investing process of mastication, his cries bo urne gradually fewer aud fewer, until they ceas ed altogether. I usually retired to my room directly after supper, and read or wrote until long after mid night, and these were the hours, of all the twen ty-four, that I loved best. I went, as usual, this evening, and found a fire beginning to burn on the hearth; then, sinking down in a large arm-chair, that stood in front of the fire-place, sat there, I know not how long, my forehead resting on my hand, buried in thought; then, turning the key in the lock, drew a small table with writing materials before me, and bringing forth from its hiding place a quire of half-writ ten paper, began to cover, rapidly, page after page, with the motley ideas which had taken possession, while I sat looking into the fire, and watching the leaping and dancing of the blaze. A little patience, reader, and I will tell you how I came to be here. I was never a favor ite at home. I could see it by numberless little things, each day, which would have passed un noticed, save by the quick eye of jealousy. I had not the art of making myself beloved; I had none of that soft, confiding, affectionate dis position, which most girls possess to a greater or less degree, and which wins for them more or less regard and good will from all who know them, and I was too proud to seek to gain the love which had been denied me. Thus all the better part of ray nature remained undeveloped; thus were all ray warmer impulses chilled back, until I was often called cold and proud, and told I had no heart; and I would laugh, thinking, in my infatuation, so they told me, I had a head, it mattered little about the heart, though I knew I had a heart, that could beat more warmly than theirs could ever do. So, in my childhood and the first years of my youth, in the spring time, the hey-day of life, I learned to live, unloving aud unloved, and without much caring, for am bition was my idol. “Yet hath life Many a falser idol. There are hopes Promising well, and love-touched dreams for some, And passions, many a wild one, and fair schemes For gold and pleasure, yet will only this Balk not the soul—Ambition only gives, Even of bitterness — a beaker full," My fondest dream was of becoming, some day, a distinguished authoress. “ Then,” I thought, and my heart swelled within me, as I thought it, “ all men will bow before me in admiration, and those who once refused to like me, even, will pass me by no longer, but bend with the rest.” My main delight was, in writing for the pa pers under a feigned name, for I knew thoy would not grant my pieces their full meed of praise, if they thought Linda Carrol was the writer. For a while, I found the dreamy life I led pleasant enough, but conscience would not sleep forever, and I suddenly awoke to a disa greeable consciousness of the utterly idle and useless existence I was leading, for I did little else than read and write, and I. was sure the world was no wiser or better for such produc tions as mine; so I resolved to combine the use ful with the agreeable, and wrote to an acquaint ance who resided in a distant city, to obtain mo a situation as teacher. He complied with my request, and on the evening with which my story opens, my seventeenth birthday, I had been in stalled in my new office as instructress to the two juvenile Holmeses, Robert and Joe, for about six weeks. I still continued to write under my fictitious signature, and would occasionally hear my writings discussed by visitors at the house, as well as by members of the family, and they would sometimes be read aloud in the evening, and surmises made as to who they were by, and I would sit by all the while, saying never a word, yet you may well imagine, not the least interested listener to these remarks; no one ever dreaming the quiet little governess knew anything more concerning their authorship, than himself. I resolved to await my own time for the denouement. I said I had gone to my room and begun to write; well, I had been so employed for about half an hour, when, much to my dissatisfaction, I heard a knock at the door. Quickly conceal ing my manuscript, I opened it. It was Eva, Mr. Holmes’ eldest daughter, a pretty girl of six teen, who had just returned from school. She sprang in, saying, “ I thought you must be lone ly up here, all by yourself, so I would make you a little visit; they are all so quiet down stairs. Father is writing, mother has a headache, John is in a bad humor, and as for Maud, she’ll hardly have a word to say to me, because I pro posed to her, just now, to let’s see which of us could catch Horace Granville. I’m almost fro zen, you kept me waiting so long at the door,” and, going to the fire, she threw on an addition al stick or two of wood, and seating herself on the rug at my feet, sat for a little while, looking silently into the blaze, and her thoughts must have been pleasant ones, for her lips were part ed in a half smile; then she looked up, and spoke “ out of the fullness of the heart,” I sup pose, for she said, “ I’m so glad, Mr. Granville is coming here to-morrow evening; I intend to do my best to captivate him. I wonder if he is handsome; he writes beautifully, I know that much. Wasn’t it odd, it was just last night, we were reading out one of his pieces; I mean to tell him so, too. Oh! Linda, I didn’t tell you, brother Henry will be at home some time next week; are you not glad? But, I forgot, you have never seen him. He’s a thousand times hand somer than John; he is about four years older —let me see what that would make him. John is about eighteen, so Henry can’t be more than twenty-two. He is studying for the ministry ; he did not begin directly after leaving college, but studied law for a while, then gave it up and began theology. You have no idea, how smart .and good he is.” Thus she prattled on for some Vie longer, then, giving me a good night kiss, off to her room. CIIAPTEU 11. | After having gone through the routine of the /ftexiday’s duties, towards its close I sat alone. ip the back parlor before the fire-place, looking mto the bright red coals and dreaming; I heard someone say: “We will find this room more comfortable,” but the words fell on an inatent ive ear and made but little impression; howev er, in a moment, I was completely startled out of my revery, by hearing Mr. Holmes say, “Mr. Granville, allow me to introduce you to Miss Carrol.” As I looked up to speak, I saw stand ing before me my beau ideal of manly beauty. He was of medium height and slender; his face was very fair, not girlishly so—no one could ever trace aught of effeminacy there; if those cold, clearly-cut features lacked in aught, it was in softness, and the fairness was that a student’s life brings with it; his keen black eyes burned beneath a brow white almost as Parian marble, while from above the lofty temples fell the rich masses of luxuriant black hair. In his face shone the majesty of thought, and intellect was stamped on every feature. I could feel the hot blood mount to my face, and bowed, awkwardly enough, in return to his graceful salutation. In a few moments Eva came tripping grace fully in. How lovely she looked, with her bright, blue eyes, rosy lips and golden curls 1 And then Maud floated in, with her queenly grace; how can I describe her? To what compare her regal beauty? She more resembled some bewilder ingly beautiful snow-queen, than aught else, in her cold, proud beauty. Maud Snowden had been an only child, and was now an orphan. She had been adopted by her uncle, Mr. Holmes, on the death of her parents, which occurred when she was quite a child, and had lived here ever since. She was just eighteen, only two years older than Eva; yet what a difference be tween the two! Horace Granville displayed his wonderful ge nius in his conversation, as well as in his writ ings; and Eva’s child-like manner, which well became her, and the open, thoughtless expres sion of her sentiments, or whatever came upper most in her mind, presented a pleasing contrast to the stately bearing and cold, cutting carcasm of her cousin; which seemed to have something of bitterness in it, as though she had already unjustly suffered. Maud Snowden seemed one born to be admired, not loved. Long after Horace Granville had left, that night, I continued to promenade the long bal cony, and this attracted no notice, for 1 would often walk thus until long after midnight, in dulging in pleasant dreams of the future, or weaving together my way ward fancies into some form and shape that I might afterwards transfer to paper. But, to-night I was restless, excited, I scarcely knew why. “ The night is too beau tiful,” I thought, “to sleep. Who could sleep on such a night as this ? Such nights were not made for sleep.” I lingered until the clock in the parlor struck two, then, startled by the late ness of the hour, I retired to my room, but still I could not sleep for a long time, and when I did, it was only to dream of Horace Granville’s black eyes. I had certainly nwVer met any one who had so much interested me as this stranger, with his pale, intellectual face, and dark eyes and hair. CHAPTER in. Aboqt a week had elapsed, and Henry Holmes, (of whom I had heard such a glowing description,) was expected home in the evening, and all the usual preliminaries to an expected arrival were goiug oh, such as brushing down cob-webs, painting hearths, dressing vases, and the like, with such elaborate attention paid to the preparation of cakes and dainties for the table, that one would be led to suppose the poor guest was to derive all the pleasure of his visit from the sensations of hij@ palate. There was a discussion being held, as to which room to prepare, for the guest. Mrs. Holmes said the only spire room in the house was next to the street, aud he always preferred a back room, because the noise immediately under his window disturbed him in his studies. I recollect having notice*), just back of the room spoken of, another, which! I was certain was not occupied; indeed, it must have been kept locked, for I had never seen it ppened but once, aud then Mrs. Holmes had cojne and unlocked it and gone in, and as the dooij was opposite mine, I mechanically glanced up and saw her take down a portrait that hung with the face to the wall, look at it for a few moments, then re-place it and come out; go. as 1 had been admitted to the family council, I suggested that this room possessed the requisite of beiug removed from the street, but, in a moment, I saw that I had made a mistake; that something was wrong. Maud started and turned very pale, Eva stole a hurried glance at her mother and Maud, then began to work with unusual industry on a pair of slippers she was embroidering, as a present to her brother, on his arrival; an embarrassing silence of some moments succeeded, tiieu Mrs. Holmes replied to my suggestion, by saying she thought the front room would do. That there was some mystery here was certain, yet it was one which I could not fathom, and what puzzled me most, was Maud’s sudden agitation; how she could be in any way concerned in it, 1 could.not imagine. The evening had arrived, and the grate had been newly replenished with coals, iri expecta tion of the arrival of the guest, and we all sat around to await his coming, the children imag ining every few moments that they heard the bell ring or wheels stop, and running to the window to look. At last, we really did hear a step on the stairs, and in a moment the door opened, and Henry Holmes eutered. He was ratlipr below medium height, and slightly made, with a singularly interesting face, without being exactly handsome in repose; he was dark, with black eyes and hair, and there was a slight shade of sadness on his face, yet when he smiled the sadness vanished entirely, and gave place to such an expression of love and peace, that you could not but feel he was good and pure; and then his laugh was so boyish, and even joyous sometimes, that it was very pleasant to listen to. When the salutations were over, and we were all seated around the fire again, I noticed that Maud, usually so quiet and apparently immova ble, looked towards the new comer with such an eager, imploring look as quite surprised me. An expression of pain passed over his face for a momeut, then he shook his head sadly, as if in reply to her look. One afternoon Henry Holmes suggested, as I was a stranger, to show me the “ lions" of the place. We accordingly set out, and were joined on the way by Horace Granville. As we were returning, there was sitting by the wayside a woman, who seemed an epitome of poverty and wretchedness, and held in her arms a child, whose face looked wan and haggard, and wore the withered look of ago, unmistakeable charac ters written by the finger of want ami famine. Henry stepped up instantly, and taking off the heavy shawl which ho always wore so grace fully, put it around them, and taking out some change which he happened to have about him, gave it to her, bidding her buy bread for herself and child; and, as he promised to try the next day to find occupation for her, and spoke to her words of encouragement and comfort, his face wore an expression of mingled compassion and love which was almost holy in its purity, and well became him. Just here a sudden impulse prompted me to look up at Horace Graawiiie. He stood a little apart, his arms folded careless ly across his breast, and a scarcely perceptible shade of contempt in the expression of his lip, looking on the scene with the cold curiosity with which he would have regarded a picture which offended his taste; which he considered slightly revolting, yet tolerated for the sake of the insight which it afforded him into human na ture. I could not help comparing them, in my mind, as they stood there, and acknowledging to myself the infinite superiority in heart and feeling which Henry Holmes possessed over Horace Granville; and yet—strange infatuation —I knew, when a moment later Horace Gran ville’s eyes accidentally met mine, that my heart beat with a quicker throb than Henry Holmes could ever cause it. “ Why.do 1 love him? Curionsfool be still; Is human love the growth of human will?” CIIAPTEU IV. We were sitting around the fire one evening, when the silence was suddenly broken by Joe, who, rousing from ajorown-study, in which he had been absorbed for some time, asked. “Where is brother Carl, father ? and, why doesn’t ho come back?” No reply was made to Joe’s question, and he repeated it. “ Rose,” said Mrs. Holmes, to the afore-mentioned nurse, who, now out of employment, was sitting a little back nodding in her chair, and thereby affording con siderable amusement to Robert, “ Rose, carry Joe, and put him to bed.” Here Henry came in. He had been to the post-office, and stepped across the room to hand Maud a letter ; lier cheek flushed, as she reach ed out her hand for it with an eagerness of man ner quite unusual with her, but when she had seen the hand writing on the cover, her counte nance fell, and the color faded from her cheek. Instantly Henry’s face changed ; the expression of “ peaceful, sweet serenity,” so habitual to it disappeared, and gave place to one I did not like ; there was something of anguish in it, yet of jealousy too, and, I thought, of exultation, but it was only momentary, as if some bird of evil had flitted by, casting its dark shadow, fora moment on the clear bosom of some tranquil lake; then the same expression of almost holy com passion I had marked there once before, return ed to his face ; and in his manner to Maud, he was even gentler and more attentive than was his wont. Mrs. Holmes had issued invitations for a small party for the next evening, and late in the after noon I had laid down to try to sleep off a severe nervous headache, before evening. I had just fallen into a light sleep, with my handkerchief bound tightly around my brows, when I was completely startled, by feeling some drops of cold water in my face, and thero was Eva, stand ing by the side of the bed, with a morning gown on, and her hair floating loosely over her shoul ders. I confess I felt a good deal provoked, for she had woke mo from a most pleasant dream to a most unpleasant reality, and perhaps it w r as rather petulantly that I asked, “ What do you want ?” “ I want you to curl my hair for me. ” “ But they wou’t begin to come for an hour or two yet.” “ Yes, but you know I wanted to be sure to be ready soon enough, and allow myself plenty of time, so I can look my very prettiest to-night, for Horace Granville is to be among the guests; I wouldn’t have made you get up, you see, as you had a headache, hut you can curl it so much better than any one else. ” I got up, and began my work of converting those golden ripples into curls, which, after about halt an hour, I had completed to my entire sat isfaction, and bade her survey herself in the glass and see if it suited her—in which she has tened to obey me. As the glass gave back the bright reflection of the face before it, probably impressed with the truth of the criticism, she said : “Oh 1 I did not tell you, Linda ; I heard Horace Granville said I was the prettiest girl in the room, at the party the other night; he thought I had such a bright face, and yet it had a look of such innocent sweetness ; and he said he thought thero was something very attractive about my manners. Don’t you wish he had said it about you ?” Os course all this was manna to my soul, but before I could.reply, she went on, “ I think he is so handsome; I wonder what he will think of me to-night; wouldn’t it be odd, supposing we should tall in love with each other? I for got to thank you for curling my hair; I am eter ually obliged to you, especially if it is the means of my captivating Horace Granville—but I must go finish dressing;” and in the warmth of her gratitude she gave me a kiss, before she made her exit. As soon as she had gone, I laid down to finish my nap, aud tried hard to go back to the dream which had been so unceremoniously broken oft’, but in vain; 1 soon fell into a light sleep, how ever, from which I was aroused by a ring at the door. The first guest had arrived, and I began to dress. I scarcely acknowledged to myself the care with which I braided the long, dark locks of hair, and wound them around my head; I, who had hardly ever thought about my looks before; but somehow I felt as though I would like to look well to-night. I Chose from among my dresses, a sky-blue silk, aud delicate folds of lace protected my otherwise bare shoulders; theu, as ruy eye fell on some wreaths of delicate blue flowers which Llenry Holmes had gathered tor me that morning, I selected the most grace ful vine, and fastened it within the plait which encircled my head just back of it, let it droop upon my shoulders on cither side; then 1 went to the mirror to see the effect of this unusual care with my dress. I was surprised, startled; 1 had never thought of being good-looking be fore; indeed I had never thought much about whether I were or not. 1 felt inclined to reason with myself, as to whether the image reflected from the glass could be my own; for excitement had added a flush to my cheek aud a spar kle to my eyes, and my becoming apparel had contributed almost ns much to improve my ap pearance. “And why," I thought, “should I not link as well as Eva? She is sixteen, lam ju.-t seventeen—a prettier age—l am as fair as she is. True,l have not her sun-bright curls and bright bine eyes; but, why should biue eyes be admired more than black; and I am sure my forehead is much higher and broader than hers.” Then I nirned away, and blushed—felt humilia ted to think that 1 had been standing before the glass surveying my beauty, and weighing my chatnis a oh tho.e of another. He •• Eva tripped in, looking as lovely as a fairy “Areyou ready, Linda? I want you to go down airs with me: Ido not want to go in by myself But how lovely you look I Whatjn the world have you been doing with yourself? I never saw you look so well before; you look perfectly angelic; I’m afraid for Horace Gran ville to see you. I wonder which he likes best, light hair and blue eyes, or dark hair and black eyes? lam afraid he will fall in love with you; why you are trembling, as if you were really afraid he might.” Maud was seated at the piano, where she had been playing, and a group was standing around, conversing. Some one said, “ I saw in a news paper the other day, an address delivered before some society by a Mr. Holmes, very highly com plimented—was it yours?” to Henry. Maud’s face assumed the same eager, anxious expres sion, and again that look of disappointment, when the initials—ll. L.—were mentioned. I glanced almost involuntarily at Henry Holmes, for I had learned to look for some mysterious connection between Maud and himself—again, for a moment, that unparalleled expression came over his face; but this time there was less of anguish in it, and more of bitterness, and there was something of exultation m his tone, as he replied: “ Yes, it was mine,” to the question whiqh had been asked him. The conversation turned upon literature, and Horace Granville said: “ I read a book lately, in which I was in tensely interested. I began to read early in the evening, and morning had begun to break before I knew it was bed-time. I would like to know the author, that I might converse with him on the theories he brings forward.” And he told the name of the work—it was my first book— my heart gave a bound and beat rapidly. I wanted to say: “It is mine, I wrote it,” that he might acknowledge that I possessed some power over him ; that if I could not interest him with my lips, I could at least with my pen; but I would not, and the conversation changed to other things. They spoke of selfishness, and Eva said: “ I cannot bear selfishness; I think it would be so much pleasanter if each one would forget self, and be regardful only of the comfort of others, always seeking to promote their hap piness, rather than his own.” “ I cannot but admire exceedingly, Miss Eva, this generosity, this regard for others,” Horace Granville said, “yet I cannot understand it, how one can feel so much interest in those around him.” “Ah! Mr. Granville,” she replied, “you should learn to practice self-denial; unless you have sacrificed your pleasure to that of others, you can form no conception of the pleasure it affords.” “ Thinks I to myself,” it is a pleasure, never theless, my fair friend, which I imagine you know very little about.” I do not think Eva meant to be untruthful, in what she said, but she wished to appear very well, and she thought generosity was a very fine thing, and was totally unconscious of her deficiency in it. (to be continued.) [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] A SKETCH. BY 8. C. 8. The cool breath of Autumn seems already to kiss the perfume from the summer flowers. Now and then, a faded leaf falls “ sere and yellow ” to its mother earth, tho’ the trees are still clad in their dark green foliage. The lethargy which deprives mind of its action, and which is so usual a consequence of excessive heat seems to be removed by these gentle minds. Thoughts run in their accustomed currents, Hope buoys the heart, and Memory, with the zest of a true artist, retouches her fading pictures. As I watch her work, pensive musings till my mind, for I see, alas 1 too plainly, tho changes Time hath wrought. One picture stands in almost its original beau ty. ’Tis that of a beautiful little boy whoso gold en curls, kissed by a sunbeam, stole thence their radiant hue. His blue eyes open wide and wouderiugly upon a lovely scene. The pebbled streamlet, shaded by verdant boughs, whose leaflets catch each whisper of the breeze; the perfumed flowers; the singing bird gleefully caroling to his patient mate; the fleecy clouds that float in the blue sky, all givo him joy, and his happy smile is his thank-ottering to the ben eficent Creator whose works yield so great hap piness. It is spring-time for Nature, and spring time, too, for this beautiful young life, the boy. But ah ! this beautiful scene is quickly dis placed by another, which Memory, with sadden ed countenance, is now presenting to mo with even more distinctness than the former. The same trees stretch their boughs, over an impetuous torrent; so hath the little streamlet changed, but their leaves lie crisped upon the ground, or tremble, changed in hue, upon their stalks. The singing bird gazes sadly upon his vacant nest, as he warbles a plaintive farewell; tho beautiful fragrant flowers have lost their sweet ness, and their severed petals are flying on the breeze. It is autumn I Beneath the half stripped branches of a clustered vine, I see a little un turfed mound covered with fresh fallen leaves in their mocking colors. A single bud 1 the last rose of summer,’ has been placed by some loving hand at the head of this lonely resting place.— Plucked ere its fragrance had been half distilled, it lies withered and chilled upou the sod. How like the gentle sleeper, yet how unlike too 1 No beautiful future, no promise of fruition, await the flower; but when, in the resurrection morn, the golden tresses shall be kissed by the uusettiug sun, the blue eyes will rest in un changing joy upon glories unfading aud eternal. Kissing. — As people who have enjoyed the kissing sensation tell us it is a.great luxury when judiciously prepared, we give place to a recipe from some one who discourses as if he knew what is good, and we would be pleased to bo in formed if such is the perfection of this tasteful amusement, by someone who dares to do such a thing, if tne recipe is really a good one : “ Os course you must be taller than the lady you intend to kiss. First, be sure that you have the lady’s free consent: then, take her right hand in your left, draw her gently towards you. Puss your right arm over her her left shoulder, diangnully down across her back, under her right arm, and press her to your bosom ; at tho same time she will throw her head back, and you will have nothing to do but to lean a little forward and press your lips to hers, and tbd thing is done. Don’t make a noise over it if you were tiring percussion c.ps, or tryjsg the waier gauges of a steam engine, nor pounce down upon it like a hungry hawk tipdh an inno cent dove, but gently fold the in your arms, without deranging theecop<*my ot tippet or ruffles, and by a pressure upo/ner mouth, revel in tho sweet blissfulness of/bur situation, with out smacking your lips J* L ' T 't as you would over a roast duck.” — f^nange. —ijgfcMPi An art’clo in Paris Debuts, treating of Ten nyson’s /dp's,/ftempts to prove that King Ar thur and h/Tound table was not u British or • Welsh conception at all, but a myth originating ainong/no Troubadours of Provence.