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210 “ And will be, you may depend. Bnt who else?” “ Then there is Miss Morgan.” “ Kate?” “ The very same—the matchless Kate. Ah ! Jack, you need not compare any one else to her. Juno; Hebe; Venus; The Loves; Tho Gra if Pshaw ! Tom. I’ll listen to all that with pleasure, when you have told me who is here.’ “ Just listen at the man. You who go mad whenever you begin to praise the object of your affection ” “ I beg your pardon, Tom ; but my fervor is real —earnest, while yours is, I fear, to a great extent, affected.” “ Give me leave to assure you, Mr. Jack, that you are mistaken.” “ I sincerely hope I am. Nothing would af ford me greater pleasure than to see you wooing Kate Morgan. If you are in earnest, say on." “Never mind; the fit is off now.” “ Then you can finish your list.” “ Yes. Then there is Miss Hillsman from A., and Miss Jekyl from South Carolina—a groat belle —and Miss Johnson from M., and—let me see. There are the Hepbumes and the—; —” “Oh the devil! Tom,” said I, impatiently, “ What do I care for all these people ?” “Who ever saw such a man? First he asks me who is here, and then he interrupts me, not allowing me to proceed. Then I stop giving the list, and fall to praising Kate Morgan. Then he abuses me as insincere, and tells me to re sume my list. At last. 1 What do I care for all these people ?’ ” • “Now, Tom, don't be stubborn, but tell me who is here from Florida ?” “ Oh! that’s it, eh ? There are plenty of peo ple here from that State —Mr. and Mrs. Barton —two young ladies named Hood —they are stars, too. Then there is Mr. Butler and ” “Grant me patience. Why, Tom, what on earth ” “Hold on, man! ‘What on earth* is the trouble with you f Let me finish my—what was I going to say? Oh! there is a Miss Bently, who is said to——” “ That will do, Tom. The list is complete.” “ And really, Jack, I am not surprised that you fell in love at first sight. If I had only seen her before you did!” “What then ?” “ Why I might have fallen in love with her myself.” “ And yet you talk of Kate Morgan.” “Yes. But here comes the baggage wagon. Take the key, and while you are making your toilet, I’ll see who’s in the parlor.” After bathing and dressing, I sallied forth from my room. The colonnade and the parlor, crowded with a gay, laughing throng when I first came, were now deserted. I rang the bell and sent my card to Miss Bently’s room. She was taking a walk. True to her habit at home, after the sun had sank behind the hills, she must go out into the open air—on a bounding steed when convenient—on foot otherwise. I started to the billiard room. That was like ly to be deserted also; but as I walked along, 1 heard my name called and, turning, I saw Fitz warren's pale countenance. “You here, Fitz?” I exclaimed. “ You come south, in the summer, instead of going north.” “ Yes. My friends—at least my friend,” said he, taking my hand in his vice-like grip, and speaking with more warmth than ordinary, “My friend, Jack, lives at the south. Why, then, should I go north ?” “ You look a little surprised,” he continued, " that I should talk so; but there are times, Jack, when even I feel a yearning after friend ship and sympathy. You are the only one to whom I have looked for either, lately.” “You always find what you seek, Fitzwarren," I replied. “ Frequently, though—generally, in deed —you seem to avoid, rather than seek, both.” “I know it, Jack,” he said, “ but forgive me. It is not my fault, but my misfortune; circum stances of a fearful nature, operating on a melan choly and sensitive disposition, have made one what I am—a gloomy, repulsive misanthrope— hating and hated.” I made no reply to this, and he went on. “ The events of ray early life, if you were ac quainted with them, would cause even you to avoid me.” “I don’t know, for you have never given me the slightest idea of them; but I think you are mistaken. Whatever you may have done that is wrong, from what I know of you, now, I should conclude you were forced into it by inex orable fate—some cruel necessity, which was a part of your nature.” “How well you have read me, Jack,” answer ed my friend, with a surprised look—“ and how favorably! Yes, you put the right construction upon it. There can be no doubt that I was born tho child of misfortune. I was brought into the world for one single purpose—to com mit a horrible crime, and to be accursed—miser able, in this life. As to the next world, concern ing which so many fables are related, I am per fectly easy, because I know no greater damna tion can await me in that, than rests on me, ii • now. I was shocked, and silent. I disliked to hear such language, but I had long been aware that Fitzwarren was a free-thinker, and now I was almost ready to believe he was a monomaniac. At any rate, I was fully convinced it would be folly to attempt to argue or reason with him, so I said nothing. “ Does my heterodoxy shock you, Jack ?” he now asked, with a sickly smile, relapsing into his usual coldness and indifference of man ner. “ Almost.” “Ah?” “ Yes; but, independently of that, and serious ly, I am, heart and soul, opposed to tabooing a man on account of his opinions. It has got to be too much the custom in this free country of ours to persecute people on account of their pe culiar belief in matters of religion." “ You are right, Jack. / don’t care a fig for the opinions the world entertains of me; but I know this, that a great many of the so-called “ Christians ” are totally and hopelessly devoid of the thing which their Bible says lies at the very foundation of their religion—charity. Ah! the smooth-faced hypocrites! I only wish I had the power which they arrogate to themselves — but which they do not possess, the blasphemers! —I would soon consign them all to the hell they are so busy trying to prepare for me.” “It would be useless to trouble yourself about it, Fitz,” answered I, “ the kind of ‘ peo ple ’ you describe will be sure to go there any way.” “We agree on that point, Jack. We differ, though, as to the number of this kind of ‘ chris tians' which exists in the world.” “Let’s waive all this, though,” continued Fitzwarren. “ You had started to the billiard room. Come on, and let me beat you.” (to be continued.) wmm mmmm'BM hip ud w 'XUBXD& [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] THE DYING YOUNG WIFE. BY ANNIE E. BLOI NT They tell me, when they gaze upon My dim and sunken eye, I'm passing from the earth —alas! I am so young to die! So young to feel the tide of life Fast ebbing from my heart; To look on those I fondly love, And feel that we must part ’Twas but ajew short years ago I stood a happy bride, And left my childhood's early home To test the love untried. The future seemed so bright to me; With joy my pulse beat high; Life's enp is scarcely tasted—yet They say that I must die! Oh God I to know my pulse each day Is flickering and slow; To feel the life-blood of the heart Grow sluggish in its flow I And when I struggle to forget, And smile amid the gay, A shadowy hand 1 seem to see, That beckons me away. I am so young—so very young, Oh! death, why come tome When life is new ? Go seize upon The winter-blighted tree; Take for thy prey some aged one Who's seen each joy pass by, And scarcely hath a wish to live— I am too young to die! They brought, to-night, my bridal veil And twined it o'er my brow— -1 seemed a shrouded nun—my face Is pale and sunken now. I forced a piteous, mocking smile, I tried, but could not speak, To see my silken bridal robe Scarce whiter than my cheek The world is bright and beautiful, The stream glides softly by; There’s beauty on the sleeping earth, There’s beauty in the sky: The lamps of heaven so brightly burn, The flowers so graceful wave; Alas! to-morrow eve those stars Will shine upon my grave. Ah! when the heart is cold and still, That once beat high and warm, And when a marble seal is pressed Above my fading form: And when I slumber, calm and still, In some lone, quiet spot, I know that I, once loved so well, Will quickly be forgot. Loved one! draw closer to me now, I’ve something for thine ear; Nay; weep not—from thy cheek wipe off That bitter, scalding tear. I would but pray that when the flowers Shall bloom my tomb above, That thou wilt sometimes think of me With tenderness and love. I know thy heart is sorely wrung With grief and anguish now; I see the look of wretchedness That settles on thy brow. And yet, ere many years have passed, Ere many moons shall wane, Thy grief will pass away—and thou ■Wilt learn to love again. Back, selfish tears! down, straggling heart! I know that it must be; Some other life thou’lt bless with that Fond love thou gavest me; i 1 know that when the chilling grave Hath ta’en me from thy side, Thou'lt fondly woo another one, . And win thy second bride. She'll press her lips to that warm cheek That once mine own have pressed; She'll twine her arms around thy neck, And nestle on thy breast. And thou wilt murmur love to her ! In soft and gentle tone, While I am sleeping in the grave, Forgotten and alone. Yet, sometimes, when at evening hour ( Her hand is clasped in thine — Thy hand, that in our early love, ( So tenderly held mine: And sometimes, when her low-toned voice Shall softly sing to thee; Oh I let thy memory awake Some passing dream of me. ’Tis all I ask—l would not have Thee mourn my early doom Too long—nor shroud thy youthful heart In never-ending gloom. I would not have thee wildly weep, When I have left thy side; I only ask remembrance kind Os her—thy lost young bride. And ye —my children— motherless So soon, alas! to be; My little ones that lovingly Have nestled on my knee : , Soon shall the orphan’s fate be thine, Its anguish deep and wild — Oh God! I would thou now would’st take ' Each little angel child! I For soothe thy infant woes, When I am gone from sight? And who shall watch beside thy couch Throughout the livelong night ? And who shall join thy little plays, And kiss each baby brow ? Whose heart feel sad when thou shalt say, 4 1 have no mother now’ ? To-morrow ye will lift the sheet That hides my faded lace, And wonder why I don’t return Each timid, warm embrace; Thou'lt wonder why my morning kiss Thou hast so vainly plead, And why my lips are cold and still, Nor know thy mother dead. Thy mother's chair will vacant be ; Her garments, on the wall, Will useless hang—nor will she hear Thy eager, listening call Her voice around the hearth at eve Will never more be heard — In time, thy mother's name may be A long-forgotten word. Farewell, my babes! God grant that she Who fills my empty place, Will wear, when she shall look on ye, A gentle, loving face: God grant her eyes may ne’er be stern, Her voice grow cold and high In angry tones—alas! ’tis hard, Tis very hard to die! Tis hard to leave my helpless ones Consigned to stranger hand; To enter, in my early youth. The dim, mysterious land. Life is so young,- so bright, so new, I And hath so many a tic Os human love to bind me here — I'm very young to die. I>raw nearer yet, beloved one! With that fond look of old; Press kisses quickly on my lips— They fast are growing cold. Tell me again that yon forgive Each harsh, each thoughtless word— Tell me once more, for in the grave Thy voice cannot be heard ! If carelessly within thy heart I ever plaoed a thorn; If e'er I gave thee needless pain, , Forget it when I’m gone. Some youthful error may have grieved When I might know it not— Think only of my virtues, love, And be the rest forgot If ever thou should'st miss the voice That once to thee did sing; If ever life should seem to thee A bitter, weary thing— Come to my quiet lonely grave, And kneel in humble prayer; And I will steal from heaven above To meet and bless thee there. [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] THE PRIDE OF THE LAIRD OF STRATHSPEY. BY COUSIN' JESSIE. “Surge,” said Alice Cameron, laying her head upon old Elspeth Glendower’s knee, “ whose portrait is that which hangs in the dark recess in the library, with a curtain of green braize drawn across it? It is a beautiful young lady, with bright blue eyes and long golden curls showering down all over her white neck, and she has a ribbon, just the color of her eyes, knotted in them. Yesterday, I was reading in the deep window-seat in tho library, and grand papa came in, without seeing that I was there, and I saw him go up to it and draw the curtain away, and he stood there for about ten minutes, drew the curtain over it again, and sat down in the large leather chair that has tho armorial bearing painted on it, with his face buried in his hands, and I heard him repeat, like his heart was broken: 1 Alice, Alice!’ Then he gave a great sob, and I saw the tears falling through his fingers. I was so surprised, nurse Elspeth, that 1 let my book fall to the floor, and grand papa must have heard the noise, for he looked up, and when he saw me, he gave such a terri ble look, and called out oh 1 as sternly: 1 What are you doing there, Alice ? Go to Elspeth I' I tried to run away as fast as I could, but be fore I had got half way down the stairs, he called me back to him, and took me on his knee, and said I was a * timid birdie to bo so easily frightened,’ and then he kissed me and stroked my hair, saying all the while, as if he was talk ing to himself: ‘Just like Alice! Just like Alice! My own wee Alice! The same lair hair I God keep the blight from this Alice that fell on the other!’ So 1 asked: ‘ Who is Alice, grandpapa ? What blight do you mean ?’ ” “ Surely, Miss Alice, ye did na ask the auld Laird that!” interrupted Elspeth, with a faco of horror. “Yes. nurse; I didn’t know that ho would mind it, but the same terrible look came back into his face, but it only staid for a moment, and then faded away, and the tears came again into his eyes, and he said, quite gently: ‘ Don’t ask questions, Alice—run away to Elspeth.’ So I came away nurse, and tried to find you to ask you to tell me what it all meant, but you were so busy mending the tapestry in the state room that I did not like to worry you, but you have not anything now to do except that everlasting knitting—so wont you tell me all about it ?” and Alice Cameron coaxingly put up her rosy lips and kissed the withered faco of the faithful old retainer of the Cameron family. “ Aye! Miss Alice!” returned Elspeth, fondly laying her hand upon the young girl’s forehead, “ syne I held ye in these ould arms a wee, help less bairn, I ha’ tried to keep sorrow o’ every kind from ye, so why suld ye wish noo to hear o’ this ? ’Tis no a tiling to make ane feel glad, and a soir heart can no' be pleasant to blithe young thing like yoursel’.” “Indeed, nurse, I know that it must have been some great, very great trouble that grand papa has borne, or he would not have been so heart-broken about it. But do you know I think he must be very proud to be so angry be cause I saw him troubled ?” “Dinna tell me o’ the pride of Archibald Cameron, Laird of Strathspey,” exclaimed *Els peth, drawing lmr tall figure up to its full height, “for do I not ken fu’ wcel that it was that same sinfu’ pride o’ his that brought this great wae upon him, God forgi’ him. We a’ ha’ our weird, my nurseling, and sorrow comes sune enough to us all, wi’out our bringing it on oursel’s. I did no’ mean that ye should hear o’ this until ye yoursel’ had tasted some o’ the bitterness o’ life, but syne ye ha’ asked me, I will tell ye. Listen weel: “ Alice Cameron was your grandfather’s youngest bairn, and the blithest young thing that ever gathered flowers on the hill-side, or brightened the dwelling o’ a stern auld man like your grandfather. Tho portrait ye speak o’ does not tell the half o’ her charms. Oh! Miss Alice, it was a bonuie sight to sco her in the morn scouring the hills far and awa’ on the horse your grandfather had given her, wi’ her beautiful curls flying behind her in . the wind like streams of gold, and her red lips, wi’ the smiles and dimples cornin’ an’ goin’ like ye ha’ seen the pleasant April sunshine dancin’ o’er the meadows, her cheek like the Stuart roses, and her innocent blue e’en wi’ tho light o’ heaveu shinin’ in them. “Nae wonder that when Robbie Douglas met, one bright June morn, such a vision from Heaven, that he fell in love wi’ her. Weel, Miss Alice, time passed on, and the young gen tle heart could nao stand against the wooing o’ a pleasant young callaut like the Douglas. “Although they did not try to hide it from the auld Laird, still he ken’d nothing o’ it, for they always held their tryst early i’ the morn. But, one day—aye, Miss Alice, lam an auld woman now, and sune this withered body shall be laid in the auld kirk-yard, but s’uld it ever be grant ed me to remain on the earth as long as did the Lord's ancient servant Methuselah. I shall ne’er forget that day—the sunlight was a’ gane in, the clouds were cornin’ up dark and gray from ower the hill, an’ the sea was foamin’ andlashin’ itsel’ against tho rocks. But Robbie Douglas cared na’ for the gloom wi’out, for tho sunlight was in his heart, so he rode merrily to the door, and blithely went into the library to the auld Laird to tell him o’ the tryst between Alice and himself, an’ ask that she might be his bride. I canna’ tell what passed between them there, but when he camo out I saw that Robbie was a blighted man. A strange wild light burned in his e’e, and he wrung my hand wi’ a grasp like that o’ a man about to dee, and whispered: ‘ Take care o’ her, Elspeth, puir stricken lamb,’ and then, like his mind were wand'ring, he added: ‘ She w’uld ha’ made a bonnie bride, my wee Alice!’ And then he mounted his horse. ! ne’er heedin’ the storm that was ragin’ wi’out, | and rode awa’ to his ane home, and I ne’er saw • him mair. “ Miss Alice, ye ha' seen some flowers, that when a storm gathers o'er them, bow their heads never to hauld them up mair. Our Alice was ane o’ them. She ne’er complained, but she ne’er held up her head mair. Day by day her step lost its blitheness, and she got paler and ; thinner. Her e’en had no mair the light they ! used to ha’, but had a wisful’, yearnin’ look, an’ she used to come and iay her head upon my knee, and say: ‘Nurse, 1 am weary o’life. I should like to dee.’ Weel. the Laird said things s’uld nae gae on sae, that Alice must ha’ some thing to rouse her from her grief, and that he w’uld take her to the ball to be gi’en in Edin burgh the next week. So he wrote to town, and soon there comes a gran’ new gown, glisten ing white silk in ornaments o’ pearl. I’ll show them to ye now,” and taking a key from her side, Elspeth opened an old-fashioned bureau that stood in one corner of the room, and drew forth to the gaze of the wondering gaze of the won dering Alice, pearls of marvellous beauty. “ They are fit for a queen, are they not, my bairn?” They are to be yours when ye are of an age to wear them, for mysel’ tho’ I canna’ look at them wi’ any pleasureand, as she turned to restore them to their hiding-place. Alice no ticed that she brushed away a tear. “ I told the Laird such things w’uld nae do for Alice’s broken spirits, and on these auld knees I be sought him to send for Robbie Douglas before it was too late, and put Alico’s hand in his, but he only glared upon me wi’ that same look ye speak o’, and striking me awa’ from his knees, for in my agony I had clung to them, he said: ‘Woman! how dare ye interfere! I ha’ sworn a great oath that a Cameron shall ne’er wed a Douglas, and I shall keep it. Let me hear no mair of this!’ So I rose from the groun’, and looking straight in his face, said: ‘ Keep your oath then, proud man, but tak’ care, Archibald Cameron, that tho Lord does na’ humble that sinfu’ pride o’ yours in away that will make your heart sair for mony a long day, even in re moving from your eyes that puir bairn whose heart is breaking.’ “ Weel, the night of the ball came, an’ I dressed out Alice in tho glistening silk wi’ the pearls glistening like dew-drops on it, and led her down to her father. Tho auld Laird said not a word, but put her in tho carriage and then got in himsel’, and then, as he shut the door, he called out: ‘ Dinna set up for us, Elspeth, we we will no be back till twa i’ the morn.’ But something told me Alice w'uld na sta’ till then, so I went up to her own room, and sat down at tho window, so that I could see the carriage as it come back. I had na sat three hours before it drove furiously up to the door, and the Laird leaped out, callin’: ‘Elspeth! Elspeth! come to Alice!’ So I went down as fast as I could, an’ there she lay, all a shiverin’ an’ tremblin’, in her father’s arms. I took her up in my arms and carried her up stairs an’ laid her on the bed, but she raised hersel' up, and wi’ such a wistfu’ look as I shall ne’er forget, laid her hand on her dress, and said: ‘Take it awa’, Elspeth, I shall ne’er wear it mair.’ So I undressed her, an’ when I untwined the pearls from her hair she shivered, an’said: ‘Ay! nurse, they were so heavy they made my heart-ache, but that was nothing to tho pain here,’ laying her hand upon her breast, ‘ for I saw him to-night.’ Then she closed her e’en, and turning her faco to the pillow, lay so all night, ne’er stirring anco. So, when the morn came, 1 called the auld Laird, an’ told him Alice was dying. Ho would nao believe me, but when he camo to tho bed and took ane look at her, ho saw that what I said was true. Alice could no live an hour! We tried to rouse her, to get her to speak to us, but it was nae use, only ancc sho opened her eyes and smiled, and then closed them again, and that was the last o’ our Alice. At first your grandfather would nae believe that she was dead, but kept callin’ on her to speak ane word; to say that she had forgi'en him. But his re pentance came too late. Ye remember the words of the auld ballad: “For violets plucked, the sweetest showers Will ne’er make grow again.” “ An’, tho’ Archibald Cameron w’uld ha’ gi’en a’ his broad lands to ha’ her back, she was gano from his sight forever. Aye, Miss Alice, it is a sad thing to see the light fade out o’ a young e’en, and the lips that wo loved silenced for aye, but when wo know that we ha’ dune it a’, and had it nae been for us, those e’en w’uld still ha’ shone on in a’ their brightness, an’ the lips ha’ spoken the words that we yearn for, it is fearful, and it is because your grandfather knows a’ this, how he darkened those two young lives, that he prayed so earnestly: ‘ God keep the blight from this Alice that fell on the ither.’” — [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] MUSIC. THE CONCERT ROOM. We have lately dwelt on the charms of mu sic at nightfall, when heard through the “ ses sions of sweet, silent thought”; now, we speak of its effect as its notes awaken tho echoes in a thronged assembly, in rooms where “cloudless lamps” are making “a midnight hour only than morning less bright.” In the midst of all the apparent mirth that reigns at such a time, what a field of study would bo opened to the observant spectator, if by art of some mental anatomy ho could lay bare tho “ red-leaved volume of each , heart,” and read there the real emotions excited! That they would be very different from the outward manifestations we can hardly doubt, for there is a mysterious tie linking still the sad with the beautiful, and often do we feel, even when the music is of tho lightest description, that intensely mournful emotion mastering our spirits—a deep, yet not unpleasing melancholy. Why this is, we do not pretend to explain, un less we adopt in brief the conjecture of Leigh Hunt, who attributes this saddening influence to the connection between all lovely and holy things and their fleeting state on earth. We look, we listen, and even in the act, tho objects of our admiration pass away; the music ceases, and henceforth in no future stage of life’s pilgrimage shall tho same notes arrest the ear again. Therefore, while the face wears the con ventional mask of smiles, the heart is full of tears. Such a spectator as we have supposed, would probably bo struck, too, with the absolute want of anything like real sentiment or appreciation of the beautiful and true, that exists in many breasts. It is too obvious, in the conduct and speech of a majority of the audience, that they have never cultivated the emotional part of their nature, and what must be the barrenness of the internal life! Sentimentality and nonsense are the usual appellations given to any exhibition of feelings rendered venerable and hallowed as the primary gift of the Creator to His sentient crea ture, man, while in the state of innocence; that Creator, who Himself rejoices in the glories of His works, and stoops to listen with pleasure to tho music of the lesser intelligences. But not pausing to discuss the popular defect of taste in the abstract, we return to the subject proper.— The assembly in a concert room may be divided into three classes, —the real lovers of music who, whether they have an ear for the science or not, have souls to drink in its inspiration; the critics, who contend on the merits of the me chanical execution; and the indifferent, who gather to the popular resort to see and to be seen. Let us for a little while enter with the motley crowd, and study at random some of it characters. “Here are the prude severe, the gay coquette, the sober widow and the sprightly maid,’’—the grave divine, the astute lawyer, the responsible editor, the absorbed merchant j and the brainless fop. The fop and the coquette are very well repre sented by the young couple before us, who with supercilious mien and vacant, loud laugh, are en gaged in the interchange of unintelligent syllab lings, of impertinent remarks relative to the dress and comparative beauty of certain of the performers, and laudation of their own precious selves. If they notice the music at all, it is On ly to mako the profound criticism, “That’s sweet,” or “ Isn’t it nice ?” or, perhaps, to com pare it sneeringly with some fashionable opera or boarding-school performance. The lady tos ses her head and flourishes her fan, as if she were fresh from the perusal of Addison’s far famed essay on the use of that little instrument, and had taken every word in earnest; the gen tleman bows and smiles, and is her “ most de voted.” i Passing on into the crowd, we catch sight of a lady who belongs to the first class. Every feature of her countenance is soul-lit; her ex pression changes with each quivering gush of melody. What a striking face it is 1 The high brow, pure and CBlm as Parian mafble, large ha zel eyes full of spirit and feeling, a remarkably handsome mouth, —in which certain subtle but inflexible lines in the curve, a pressure of the lower against the full upper lip that denotes in domitable fortitude and self control, —mark her as one who could suffer yet be strong. By her side sits a friend who feels the music, but in a widely different way. To her its notes bear the solemn cadence of a dirge; they have that saddening power we have spoken of. Her dark lashes sweep her pale cheek as she sits buried in thought, her lips contract momently as if in pain, there is a nervous quivering of the eye-lids, denoting a strange unrest. The music has written a plain history of grief on the com monly placid face. She has loved and lost and wept, hence her heart-strings tremble to the song. Here is a masculine countenance formed for intellect; its seal is on the massivo forehead, in the lines of thought, of wit and humor traced there. The gentleman is evidently of a genial temperament, but he is paying only a cursory attention to the concert to-night. His pre-en gaged air is not complimentary to the skill of the performers. Their efforts pass across his mind as tho summer breeze across a wood—very pleasantly, but stirring not one leaf in the tree of Thought. Yonder, under the full blaze of the chandelier sits a lady, decidedly made up from top to toe like the peacock; her dress is the best part of her. “ There can be no kernel in this light nut, her soul is in her clothes.” She is got up with infinite pains, and the show is “ for this night only.” Ah! here is a critic—this cadaverous, long visaged individual who is anathemizing aloud the “wretched music” and wishes she had stay ed at home. So do all her party. And here is another, that queenly looking woman, her haughty head poised back on a Juno pair of shoulders, her lips writhed with contemptuous smiles. Judging from outward appearances, that magnificent physical development is not matched by the soul within. What could Mont gomery mean when he wrote: “Through every pulse the music stole, And held sublime communion with the soul; Wrung from the coyest breast the ‘ prisoned sigh,’ And kindled raptures In the coldest eye.” It is not thus with our friends to-night. Let us go. for who would see tho influence of music so profaned? Stop, though, one moment; see that little girl gliding like a spirit or fairy through the crowd. How beautiful she is I What a perfect oval face with the pouting cherry mouth just ready for a kiss! What would not the fashionable lady who copies nature in rouge, give for such a delicate peach bloom as mantles those dimpled cheeks? Never in-later years do you find a love-light like that which beams in the depths of those soft dark orbs.— The whole expression is so spiriltielle, so fasci nating, and yet so calm, that one almost be lieves, as the little thing seats herself and gazes fixedly at the musicians, that she is only a beau tiful picture, painted by a master hand, with pen cil dipped in poetic inspiration. Though of mor tal mould, ’twas of such as she tho Saviour de clared, “is the kingdom of Heaven.” Lovely child! With one glimpse of thee we may well leave the concert room, assured that memory will never preserve a brighter vision to rise be fore us hereafter, when we think of music at nightfall there. Ziola. — Singing of Birds. —The singing of most birds seems entirely a spontaneous effusion, produced by no lassitude in muscle, or relaxation of the parts of action. In certain seasons and weath er, the nightingale sings all day and part of the night; and wo never observe that the powers of song are weaker, or that the notes become harsh and untunable, after all these hours of practice. The song thrush, in a mild, moist April, will commence his tune early in the morn ing, pipe unceasingly through the day, yet, at tho close of eve, when he retires to rest, there is no obvious decay in his musical powers, or any sensible effort required to continue his har mony to the last. Birds of one species sing in general very like each other, with different de grees of execution. Some countries may pro duce fine songsters, but with great variation in the notes. In the thrush, however, it is re markable that there seems to be regular notes, each individual piping a voluntary of its own. Their voices may always be distinguished amid the choristers of the corps, yet some one per former will more particularly attract attention by a peculiar modulation of tune; and should several stations of these biids be visited the same morning, few or none probably would be found to persevere in the same round of notes; whatever is uttered seaming the effusion of the moment. At times a strain will break out per fectly unlike any preceding utterance, and we may wait a longtime without noticing ariy re petition of it. Harsh. strained and tense as the notes of this bird are, yet they are pleasing from their variety. The voice of the black-bird is infinitely more mellow, but has much less va riety, compass or execution; and he, too, com mences carols with the morning light, persover ing from hour to hour without effort, or any sen sible faltering of voice The cuckoo wearies us throughout some long May morning with the unceasing monotony of its song; and though there are others as vociferous, yet it is the only bird I know that seems to suffer from the use of the organs of the voice. Little exertion as the few notes it makes use of seems to require, yet by the middle of June it loses its utterance, becomes hoarse, and ceases from further essay.