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with you by employing the figure of the judge
aud the criminal, and denying the judge’s au
thority. You must, nevertheless, comprehend
my plain anil serious meaning, sir. I deny your
right to call me to account for duplicity, even if I
were guilty: and that on the simple ground that
you are not related to either of the young ladies
and in no sense nearer to them, if as near, as
myself. Do you comprehend, sirs
And Beausire, who had uttered these words
with perfect coolness, for he really desired the
youth's anger to moderate, and the interview
to proceed more amicably, looked calmly into
Tom Harcourt’s face.
There was no decrease of the angry flush. It
seemed to deepen, and the eyes flashed still more
furiously.
“ You have made a fine, a very fine speech,
sir! ” exclaimed the young man, almost explo
ding with rage; “and I suppose you think it very
grand and commendable to keep your temper
when I am angry! ’’
“ I do, Mr. Harcourt, if you will pardon the
interruption. I am naturally irascible, though
you might not think so.”
“ No, sir—l should think nothing could arouse
you I"
“ That is a proof that I have kept my tem
per.”
“ And made an harrangue 1” sneered the fiery
youth; “ the address of an advocate who uses
the tongue and not the sword.”
“Sir!” said Beausire, austerely, but speaking
with the same calm courtesy, “ when you are
older, and have suffered as much as I have, you
will comprehend that the tongue is often hotter
than the sword.”
“ Doubtless you think so 1"
“ I honestly do.”
“ And have tried to mako it take the place of
the weapon, which all gentlemen prefer! Well,
sir I your speech may have been very fine, —it
seemed stupid enough to mo—but it shall not
stop me in my design I”
“ Your design, Mr. Harcourt?”
“Yes, my design 1 my Bworn determination
to expose and punish you for your presump
tion ! ”
“ My presumption, sir 1 ”
“ Yes—your treachery 1”
The cutting words struck Beausire like a
whip, and the dark eyes flashed with that dan
gerous magnotic light, which in this man always
indicated danger. Ilis power of restraining
himself was, evidently, giving way, and the
iron lips slowly closing indicated the awakening
of the powerful and immovable will. He never
theless remained calm, and when he replied to
, the young man’s direct insult it, was iu a voice
as freezing as ice.
“Mr. Harcourt,” ho said, “I am tired of this
interview and it shall end. lam not accustom
od to insults, and your outrageous imputations
and expressions shall not be ropoated. If they
aro repeatod I will punish you for them—there,
sir, is what you havo forced me to tell you. A
moment, sir, before you reply. There will be
time enough when I havo done speaking. You
requested a private interview, and when I cour
teously yielded to that request you used my
compliance for the purpose of insulting me.
You havo insulted mo not once or twice, inad
vertently and by accident, but many times and
very grossly. You have proceeded so far as to
taunt me with my very modeujiqp—to express
your opinion that mycoolnesslrose from a want
of cownot vulgar animal courage; and to re
double your outragos. You liave presumed, in
explanation of your taunts and insults, to adopt
the character of a judge, to regard me as a crim
inal, and to declare your intention to expose and
yourself puuish my treachery—yes, sir, treach
ery was your word. When I ask what that
treachery is, you say it lies in my paying my
addresses to two young ladies at once; —so you
will punish me. Well, sir, I now announce *o
you as calmly as betore, that I regard your en
tire doportment in this matter as childish and
absurd. Ido not choose to deny your imputa
tions, aud declaro simply that I shall conduct
myself in future as I think best. I am not a
child, sir, to bo frightened by shadows, and I
havo seen too much peril iu my life not tosmilo at
the sight of a short sword in the hand of a youth
like yourself I"
BoSusire paused a moment, and his dark,
stern eye surveyed tho youth iu that silent pause
with unwavering intensity. Then his gazo re
laxed its austerity; his lip was not so iron-like;
aud something like the shadow of a smHe flitted
ovor the bold features. Before the youth could
reply, he said—
“ Mr. Harcourt, I am an older person than
yourself, and perhaps doublo your age in per
sonal experience and consequent moderation.
I will be frank with you, sir, and say that I do
not wish to fight with you. Come, sir, take me
in my good-humoured moment, when the devil
in me—cultivated by a eommerco with Che
rokees, Frenchmen, and panthers—is asleep.
Tako mo at this amiable instant, and let us try
and get at the grievances you fancy. I greatly
esteem your father, sir—we are members of
ono household which would be affected very
sorrowfully whatever termination the proposed
encounter might result in,—lastly, I do not bear
toward you. sir, the least enmity, rather friend
ship. Speak, sir, and I will reply. Yes, I will
stand at tho bar as the accused, and you shall
be tho judge."
Beausire uttered theso words with that simple
and guileless good humour which characterized
him habitually, aud seemed to have lost his ir
ritation completely. Even the fiery youth was
affected, in a measure, by the frank voice, and
his wrath moderated to sullenness. But Tom
Harcourt could not forget all at once his fancied
wrongs. His moody mind returned to the scenes i
which had excited his anger, and, in an unfor- ,
tunate moment, his eyes fell upon the stone
causeway leading to the stream across the wet,
low ground which Amy had passed with Beau- ,
sire.
His brow again clouded over, and his eye i
flashed. Then came the thought: “ This man
is tricking me—he is guilty—he is afraid to i
meet me—he thinks to put me off with smiles i
and soft words, and affected magnanimity—and, I
when I question him, with falsehoods!” ]
“Curse him!” growled the young man, al- 1
most audibly, “ he's stolen her heart away by
his tricks, and acted his double part until I'm 1
wretched—and now he thinks to complete his i
treachery and falsehood by lying to me! The
man who acts a lie will tell one!” 1
' What did you say, Mr. Harcourt ?” asked t
Beausire, calmly. £
“ 1 sar. sir. that lam not satisfied!” 1
“Why, sir, how then can you be? lam
ready to auswer your questions.” c
“ I have none to ask.” £
“Why, you astound me. sir! No ques- i
lions!" H (
“None!” said Tom Harcourt, with the fiery i
flush in bis cheek again.
“ Will you explain yourself then, sir?” said t
Beausire, calmly.
“ I will! I ask no questions, because I have ]
no faith in your word I” ,
“Sir!” said Beausire, coldly, “new insults, <
tmm soisii&i -jrxsu &» mm&mm.
Ii -—— —— .... - ■■ —-■
after all my moderation! I have overrated
your magnanimity, sir!”
“ Bate me aa you will!” was the youth’s irate
reply, “my own opinion of yourself is not
changed—in spite of your eloquent sermons
upon things in general!”
“ My sermons, sir!”
“ Call them what you will I call them ser
mons, because people who preach seldom
fight.”
“Again, Mr. Harcourt! you return to your
outrages I I, in my turn, sir, will soon be com
pelled to use your favourite word ‘ Beware ’1"
The young man ground his teeth, and shud
dered with anger at the cold tone of the speak
er. His lip assumed quickly a bitter sneer, and
he said, with a scowl:
“That is a threat, sir!”
“No," returned Beausire, restraining himself,
r “but, as we seem about to fall back into the
r former discussion, I propose that this interview
shall terminate.”
, “It shall not, until you have promised me
£ what I came for!” cried the young man.
“ What you came for ?”
> “Satisfaction! Yes sir, the satisfaction of a
gentleman!” cried the furious youth, who had
. just seen upon one of Beausire’s fingers a fa
vourite ring of Amy’s, placed there by the maid
r en in an idle moment, and whose wrath was
, thereby roused to a crazy pitch “you shall give
me reparation, or I’ll publicly outrage you, in
the presence of the ladies!”
“ Mr. Harcourt, you are actually insane 1” ex
claimed Beausire, flushing hot at the idea of an
indignity of that description inflicted on himself
in Isabel's presence. “ You publicly outrage
me /”
“ Yes, publicly! yonder before all I before the
whole world 1 Ah! you think to sneak into an
honourable family and play the hypocrite and
dissemble at your leisure! You think you can
trifle with the feelings of the young and inex
perienced ladies of the household! You sup
pose that 1 will submit to this, and pocket your
insulting coolness, and abandon the field! You
mistake, sirl I will punish you, sir! I will
publicly brand you as a hypocrite, as traitor and
a coward, unless instantly you leave this place
—or give me satisfaction. ’ Take your choice,'
, sir! ”
And furious, raging, mad almost with jealousy,
, wrath, aud hatrod, the young man approached
, Beausire as though he were about to strike him.
] The hunter did not move or betray any emotion,
j The cold, unwavering expression had come back
. to his eyes, and he said in a voice, wholly unaf
, fected by emotion:
, “ Do I understand, sir, that you give mo the
alternative of meeting you, or submitting to a
, public indignity?”
Yes, sirl” came hotly from the youth,
i “Then I select- the former, Mr. Harcourt. I
will meet you when and whore you will—with
what weapons you will.”
“That is your affair, sir,—you are the chal
lenged.”
“Then I fix upon the level ground in Cub
Hollow yonder, sir—to-morrow at sunrise.”
“ That is agreeable to me, sir."
“By-the-bye, sir,” added Beausire, coolly,
“has Colonel Harcourt any small swords? I
regret that I am unsupplied.”
| “ A number, sir," returned the youth, bowing
i with sullen courtesy, “I will furnish two, of
. equal length." '
“ Thanks, sir," said Beausire, “ we can easily
, arrange the rest. Shall we now return?"
“ As you please, sir.”
And inclining stiffly, the youth went back
l with his companion, who was as serene as tho’
nothing had happened.
Ten minutes after their disappearance a clump
’ of bujhes at a short distance from the scene of
, the colloquy moved slightly, and, first looking
, warily around to soe that the coast was clear,
Father Ignatius issued forth, aud followed slowly
in the wake of the young men.
His sallow face was alternately red and pale,
and ho muttered:
“Wrath against the day of wrath! Woe,
woe! But woe to him by whom offences come I
—woe above all to the hypocrite!—woe, not to
him, —to me/”
LXIX.
HOW FATHER IGNATIUS FAINTED AT THE SIGHT
OF A MINIATURE.
As the priest ascended the hill toward the
old dwelling, which glowed in the last purple
rays of the setting sun, he gesticulated violently,
and seemed to be torn by a host of bitter and
conflicting passions.
What was passing in the depths of that lonely
and malignant heart, which, feeding daily, as it
were on violent emotions, bad become diseased
and discoloured? Was the scheming brain con
triving some new wickedness—some more cer
tain means of removing a rival from his path,
and gratifying his revenge at a single blow ?
Or was the gloomy soul of the unhappy priest
lacerated by remorse—and the good spirit strug
gling with the bad ?
The latter was the origin of his agitation.
One of those moments had come when the con
science of this man, long dormant, and held
down, so to speak, by the violence of his pas
sions, assorted its authority, and overwhelmed
him with penitence and anguish. In an instant,
as it were in the twinkling of an eye, his de
pravity had appeared to him in all its hideous
deformity—and the remnant of truth in his na
ture had made him wretched. For the time, his
love for Isabel and his hatred of Beausire both
disappeared like obscuring mists—and he saw
the naked, terrible, repulsive crime of which he
had been guilty staring him in the face with its
hateful eyes, and like a serpent, hissing in tri
umph over that paralysis of soul which made
him the victim of the tempter.
To such a point had this terrible conflict pro
ceeded, and so horrible was the tempest of pas
sionate anguish and remorse in the bosom of the
unfortunate man, that his eyes began to glitter
with a wild, insane light, and his gait to grow
uncertain and tottering. His face was bathed
in an icy sweat—his thin lips writhing to and
fro revealed the close set teeth—and the clenched
hand moist, yet burning, was raised above his
head with despairing agony.
•No one observed those gestures, for the sun
bad now 3unk, and the gloom oi night settled
rapidly upon the landscape.
As the pries(, approached the dwelling lie saw
Isabel and Beausire sitting side by side upon
the portico; but as their backs were turned to
aim, they did not observe his stealthy and noise
less approach.
For an instant a sort of convulsion passed
over the features of the priest He shuddered,
and turned so pale that he seemed about to
faint Then, suppressing violently this rush of
emotion, he subdued his countenance to partial
repose, and continued to advance.
Beausire was holding in his hand the minia
ture of his mother, which the reader has seen
him exhibit to Isabel on their way toward Fort
Pleasant. The picture was still suspended
around the young man's neck by the slight steel
chain—but in order to enable the girl to look
at it more conveniently, Beausire, with a little
trouble detached it from the ring which secured
it to the chaW, and placed it in her hands.
As she now held it dose to her eyes, a slen
der ray of light streamed through the window
of the sitting room, and fell upon the miniature.
Father Ignatius, who had, more from habit
than design, it seems, drawn near with the
stealthy step of a panther, all at once beheld
the features of the picture.
He was so near the two persons'over whose
shoulders he was looking, that no trait was lost;
and now he suddenly recoiled, as though an
adder had stung him. All previous exhibitions
of emotion ol the part of the priest had been
slight in comparison with that which he now
displayed.
His eyes closed, his face became livid, and
and with a groan so terrible that it seemed to
concentrate into an instant the agony of months,
he fell back faintly against the trunk of the
great oak near by.
When the mist disappeared from before bis
eyes, he foundhimself seated upon the portico,
and Isabel holding a glass of water to his lips.
He looked at her absently, and said, in a faint
voice:
•‘Was I si<*r
“ Yes, father,” returned the young girl com
passionately,- *‘ wo heard you groan, and when
we turned you had almost fainted.”
“Did I say anything ?” he suddenly asked,
with a wild look.
“Say anything, father ?” asked Isabel in some
astonishments “ No, I do not think you did,
sir.”
The priest uttered a deep sigh of relief; and
said, with a weak smile:
These fainting fits often attack me, my
daughter, and as they would only excite unne
cessary sympathy, I must beg you not to speak
of this one. Thanks, many thanks, for your
goodness to the poor priest—you are very kind,
and true, and tender/
The unhappy man’s face coloured as he spoke,
but there was no longer any of the former wild
ness in his eyes, no bitterness in his smile.
In the terrible conflict the good spirit had
conquered—and the result will speedily appear.
Ito be dtamuED is oub kext.l
HOME COUBTEBIEB.
Home, of all places in the world, has, or
should have, the first and highest claims upon
our alfections, confidence and pleasures; but in
these degenerate days it sometimes happens that
our affections are centered there, our confidence
less frequently so, and, what is to be lamented,
our pleasantries are exercised and lavished more
profusely everywhere else. It is surprisingly
strange that the home circle of so many families
in this day of life, which tend so much, in their
very nature, to beautify its members and render
permanent the joys that can spring from no other
source. Why is it, we ask, that such are always
reserved to be displayed before strangers and
casual visitors ? It shows a kind heart, certainly,
to entertain, and we are commanded to do so
by the source of all love, but shows a heart
much kinder, still, to appreciate our every-day
associations, and make home happy with our
smiles and soft answers. It is a very small
thing to aay you," “ how shall I repay
such fkygiMMnHßKy easy, and fH we gener
allrfojfttrto nfe them in our every-diy life,
never dreaming bow gentry thoy would raise the
safoty-valve of the lioart, and exclude at once
the surplus weight which causes human
machinery to drag so heavily across the sands
of time. Some may argue that we are at home,
and must not look for such things, as though all
of these, and a thousand other, little courtesies
which might and should be practiced, were uot
embodied in the very word they bring as an
excuse for their non-observauce. What is
noME without them ? If you will show us a
circle fVom which all of these are excluded, we
will pronounce it a sadder spectacle than ive
ever wish to behold, from the fact that the
estrangement Irons natural affections will be the
predominant feature of the scene. We may be
learned, we may be rich in worldly goods, and
though the latter may and does exert a poworful
influence, yet without these small courtesies of
life we must remain a stranger to the sweet and
invaluable pleasures arising from a cultivation
and exercise of them. The whole race of
mankind is a chain, of which each individual
forms a link; taken together it is of iron, but in
its divisions and sabdivisions it is made by God,
the great alchemist, of gold, and each link should
be carefnl to act hia own part well, using much
of the oil of pleasantness, to prevent the friction
which wears away his lustre, for Time, with his
inflexible wand, will plant the wrinkles on our
brow, and sprinkle silver in our hair, quite soon
enough without any of our assistance.
Nothing is more charming or than to
see a family, when alone from the wdgM, distri
buting this oil of gladness among qgmselves ;
and, on the other hand, nothing is more
disgreeable and unpleasant than to behold one
forever in a broil—with the thermometer at
fever heat, both summer and winter, save when
a visitor steps in who may cause it to become
temperate for a while. These blunt yeas and
nays, so characteristic of many, fall with a two
fold sharpness upon a heart that is learning love
and affection. That we all have faults is true,
but if we could just bear with the foibles of
each other, correct them kindly, or pass them
unnoticed, as we do those of strangers, time
would be deprived of half of its heaviness. Os
all selfishness none is half so blighting, so
withering, or so barbarous, as the selfishness
of kind words and actions; and of al places, our
homes should be exempt from the fiendish
principle at all times and under all circumstances.
Many a bright prospect has been blighted by
a crusty disapproval from a natural tie—many
a cherished hope has been relinquished, and
many a heart has been crushed, and gone with
its burden of woes, to an untimely grave, lor
want of a true sympathetic assistance.
Keep, oh! keep the golden clain
Free from tanker, rust, or stain,
'Tis a sacrofl, holy thing,
It perverted, ruin brings.
ill »
THE TOMB OF EZEKIEL.
For centuries past, the Jews of Messopotamia
have been in the habit of making yearly pilgrim
ages to the tomb of Ezekiel, within some sixty
miles of Bagdad. On their arrival some weeks,
ago, however, Nouri Mouri Moustapha Pacha,
the new Governor of the Province, published a
prohibition against the practice, alleging that
he intended to build OTer it a mosque for the
special use of Islamite pilgrims, by whom it
would, for the futuip, be exclusively visited. In
vain did the excluded Israelites urge the pre
scription of Centura 9; the new Governor was
deaf to every argument that could be used.
Thereupon the Jew! dispatched a deputation to
Constantinople to array their complaint direct
to the Porte. This has been done and a vizieral
letter was dispatched to Bagdad, ordering the
bigoted prohibition to be at once removed.
Let your dwelling places he marked with
what painters call impose. *
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
ESTHER'S TRYST.
BTMABT B. BEYA.M.
He came to me last night *
Beside a sea in the dim Land of Dreams,
I stood and watched a rising moon’s red beams,
When suddenly the light
Was broken by a shadow, and he stood,
Mute, motionless, between me and the flood
Os waveless waters. Pale he seemed, and stern,
As on that hour, whose memory will return,
Despite the anguished prayers, the burning tears,
The strivings to forget through weary yean,
The hour when last we met: ha looked as then;
The luminous midnight of his eyes again
Were turned upon me as his white lips said
“ Your promise; you’ll remember it—the dead
Await you.” Silentiy and slow he passed,
As the thin cloud that had the moon o'ercast,
And, while the horror of the words he spoke
Thrilled through me like a dying curse, I woke.
I know that he is dead;
I know it by the look the vision wore—
Strange, unapproachable, ne’er seen before—
The awe and mystery shed
Around him like an'atmosphere; I know
Even by his voice, so distant, deep, and low,
Like a far bell, o'er waters, swinging alow—
That from the land of spirits he had come
To meet my soul, that awed, and still, and dumb,
Stood thus before him in that ahadow-land,
By which the gulf of death is darkly spanned—
The Shadow-land of Dreams. Yes, he is dead!
My God * what darkness this would once have spread
Upon my spirit—and now—even now—
Aranth, lay your cool hand upon my brow
And press its throbbing pulse; look In my eye*,
And see what a wild, troubled spirit lies
Within their depths; and yet they have not wept—
Tears are for gentle grief—nor have they slept;
Sleep is not for the haunted soul, and mine
Is wild with thoughts I dare not tell to thine.
And yet—bend nearer, sweet—
My saint, my angel, you may exorcise
The demon that my reason's |K>w^^fler.
Here, kneeling at your feet, ‘
Look down, and listen. Once my yountffcflvt bowed
In an unasking worship to that proud.
Dark spirit of my dream; there was no light
For me on earth except his smile, no night
Except his frown. It was a love as vain
As ever brought eternity of pain
To human heart: and yet, ’twas joy to know
Myself beloved—well worth all Joy below—
Or so 1 deemed while the wild spell was cast
Around my spirit; but it could not last.
I wakened from the dream, and joy was gone,
The rose was shattered, and tho thorn alone
Remained to pierce me. Yet love waa not dead,
It wep| the happiness forever fled,
Bat could not die. I said that we must part—
Home guardian angel strengthening my heart—
I clasped his hands, I knelt before him—then
His dark eyes softened, and 1 trembled when
Ilia voice came sweet and low. “Tis well,” he said
ills hand laid lightly on my bending head—
“We meet but once on earth, and let this be
To-night, beside the solitary sea.”
Aranth, we met—the night
Was strange with awful beauty ; over-head,
A cloud hung lowering, black, and dread,
with lurid £ v
Whene’er electric fires their sifcnt patl^™*'
Clove through its bosom, as the voiceless wrath
Os dying looks pierces the murderer's breast
But underneath this cloud that hung at rest, 1
A belt of open blue girdled the sky
And touched the distant sea, whose feeble sigh
‘Was all the sound we heard; from this far space
There rose a waning moon, pale as a face
That has seen death. But these I scarcely saw ;
lie stood before me; tenderness and awe
My spirit overpowered, as his eyes,
That seemed the soul of All deep mysteries,
Looked down on me, and by their power impelled
My glance to rise to his. Firmly he held
My hands imprisoned. “ Love,” he said, at last,
“One moment's meeting now was all I asked,
It ehall not be our last: it may be, hers,
We shall not meet again, but there, aye, there!
Beyond that dim gulf which men call the grave!—
Esther you tremble, but your i.ovb is brave;
Look full on me and swear, on your soul swear,
That when I call you, you will meet ine there—
Your eyes have promised, though your lips are mute.
We part, but not for long; at my life's root
Lies now, a slow, but fatal worm; before
Three autumns more shall hear the solemn roar
Os yonder waves, upon this lonely shore
In your wild dream I'll stand, and at your side
Call you to be my own, eternal bride;
But fail me, Esther, and a curse I’ll lay
Upon you, that shall haunt your soul for aye.
Aranth, that vow! that vow!
Still, still, through my seared brain it seems to burn;
Death calls me wildly, wheresoe'er I turn,
Its breath seems on my brow;
It beckons, with pale arms, from yonder wave.
Bidding me make the cool, green depths my grave;
It looks up at me with a serpent's eyes,
Where yonder flask of subtle essence lies,
In this cold steel, I feel its icy hand
Seeking to draw me to that unknown land
To keep the tryst I've sworn. How ehall my soul
Be free'd from this too terrible control ?
Then he was all the god I knew, but now
I've learned before a holier shrine to bow.
To keep that promise, I must lose the heaven,
The-rest, the peace, that wait for the forgiven.
Save me, my God! has been my anguished cry,
Let not a spirit's curse upon me lie.
I love him still; this wild love is a part,
A clinging fibre of my very heart.
But not for this shall my soul's hope be given,
Its flickering hope, its far, sweet view of Heaven.
SHE IS DYING!
M Hush—she is dying!” The sun-light streams
through the plate glass widows; the room is
fragrant with the sweet breath of Southern
flowers; large milk-white African lilies; Toses
a nightingale would stoop to worship; cape
jessamines and camomiles with their large
glossy leaves.
Through the open casement steals the faint
musical tinkle of playing fountains; and the
light, tempered pleasantly by the rose curtains
of embroidered satin, kindles up gorgeous old
paintings with a halo bright as a rainbow. It
is as if fresher sunshine were falling earthward
on the bower of beauty.
The canary sings in the gilded cage her
canary; the mocking bird raises his clear notes
higher and higher on the perfumed air.
Why do you clench your hands until the nails
draw the rich, rosy bloom through the thin,
quivering skin ? Why do you grind your teeth
together, and hiss between them that one word—
hush ? It’s a beautiful home, lam sure; and
that lady with her hand upon her bosom is fair
as any dream vision of the painter.
Surely nothing could be purer than that broad,
high brow—nothing brighter than those golden
curls.
And she loves you, too! Ah! yes; any one
can read that in the deep violet eyes, raised so
tenderly to your own. Ah! that is it; your
young wife loves you!
[For the Soothers Field end Fireside.]
TWILIGHT.
BY J. HALSTED CABBOLL.
The influence exerted on mind by the vicissi
tudes of times and seasons, has been a subject
of notice from the earliest pdtfod of history. It
is hardly to be supposed that even the original
pair in Eden were insensible to the grateful
changes occasioned by the occurrence of that
‘'evening" and that “morning," which consti
tuted the first day of their associated existence.
The mind instinctively craves such changes as
appropriate seasons for its alternate activity and
repose. Os all those intervals of time in which
nature seems to change its hues, and life itself,
to part with its monotonous realities, none has
been more universally noticed and prized than
the how of twilight. Philosophers have em
braced it as favouring their profoundest reflec
tions, and poets have suDg their sweetest strains
under its soft and mystic inspiration. It is ob
vious that the very moment in which this hour
is heralded and ushered in, is adapted to impart
to it a peculiar charm, and to prepare the mind
to enjoy its soothing and suggestive influences.
Another day is about to be folded up in the
shadows of the irrevocable past. The sun’s de
parting rays, which linger only on the summits
of the distant bills—his gorgeous glories as he
lights up a sea of clouds on the western horizon,
and flings over them the richest hues of purple
and gold—these are the heralds that announce
the approach of the peaceful twilight hour.—
But it comes not yet—these heralds all retire,
and the glow which their splendid livery left on
the sky gradully fades away. The din and tur
moil of day cease, and man, respited for awhile
from the toil of the primeval curse, returns to
enjoy the quietude and rest of his home and his
hearth. The jaded ox, loosed from the plough,
slowly wends his way to the well-known stall,
and the bird on wearied wing seeks its accus
tomed l«fsr perch. A deep, and still deepening
silence ensues, interrupted only by the momen
tary murmur of the wild bee on its hurried flight
to its home. The day has now fled, and a veil
woven of commingling light and darkness is
hung over earth, half obscuring, and yet vague
ly revealing its various objects. Soft dews be
gin to fall, and a balmy and refreshing coolness
to pervade all the air. This is the twilight hour.
What mind has not felt its potent charms?
What heart, even from childhood, has not yield
ed to its magic spell over the imagination and
the sensibilities? It is striking to observe the
influence of this hour of fading light on the
memory. It would seem as' if by the law of
contrast its shades and silence brought vividly
to our recollection the sunny period of boyhood,
when the whole sum of our existence appeared
to be condensed into the buoyant and joyous,
sports, the bright and blessed hopes, the raptur
ous and glowing anticipations of the young and
ardent mind. These visions (lent to light the
first steps in the pathway of our present being,
which seems ever darkening as we advance) are
recalled most vividly by our twilight musings,
and reinvested with a portion of their long faded
and extinguished splendors. Some of the most
beautiful and touching imagery of the poet, his
most felicitous combinations of fancy, and his
highest, and august forms of thought are
elaborated beneath the dusky quiet <X this -hoar
from those golden threads in the web of memo
ry which shine the more brilliantly by the con
trast But it is not on the memory only that
this hour of closing day exerts its suggestive or
awakening influence. It is the season preemi.
nently fitted to turn the mind inward in profound
contemplation on its own inherent energies of
thought and emotion. External and familiar
objects lose, in a degree, their engrossing in
fluence over the senses, by the very indistinct
ness in which the twilight envelopes them.
The cares of life, at this hour, relax their iron
grasp, and man has at least a momentary truce
in his war and battlings with fortune. It is a
pause in the rush and tumult of his existence
when the wing of time itself seems to droop, or
to movo so silently that for once he can hear his
own heart beat. It is now that the mind turns
to an intense contemplation of itself, and feels
“ the Pivinity stirring within." It has a more
vivid consciousness than ever before of its own
individuality and identity. For the moment, it
is isolated from the multitude of associated minds
and feels most deeply the reality of its personal
being. The busy hum of earth has ceased, and
even Nature's great laboratory, (save where she
distils her gentle dews,) seems to have suspend
ed its operations, and left the mind to silence
and self-communing. Now it becomes thorough
ly conscious of its own inherent capabilities of
thought and emotion. It finds within itself that
wondrous and inexplicable power by which it
ssems to be connected with, and to form a part
of, all the past and all the future of human his
tory—as though it were a living impersonation
of the entire generations of timel It is now
aware of energies of thought sufficiently expan
sive not only to extend through all finite dura
tion, but to range over illimitable space, and af
ter having reached the barriers which bound all
human knowledge, to break over them, pursuing
its conjectures through immensity, and wander
ing into eternity. In the silence of this pgnsive
hour the mind is more disposed than in the bus
tle of the day to listen to the “ still small voice”
of conscience within; and thus are developed
those great and agitating moral emotions which
are connected with thoughts on our character,
conduct, responsibility and destiny, and which
prove a susceptibility of heart capacious enough
to feel the very “ powers of the world to eeme 1”
Many a mind, at this hour of solemn contempla
tion, has become convinced of the emptiness of
all the earth could offer to the affections, and
has felt a melancholy and inexpressible longing
for some object of sufficient magnitude to corres
pond with the amazing breadth and depth of its
own capacity for love and happiness. Such are
its capacious and insatiable cravings as to lead
to the conclusion that the- “fountains of the
great deep” of its sensibilities will never be
“ broken up,” and their crystal waters flow free
ly, till they can find ready access to blend and •
lose themselves in the “ eternal ocean ” of love
and blessedness.
The influence of the twilight hour, also, aids
us in our most sublime views of the extent and
grandeur of the material universe, and of the
majesty of its Creator. It is not under the blaze
of the meridian sun and amidst the objects it
reveals, that our thoughts are trained to their
loftiest and widest circuits through the realms
of creation. It is only after he has sunk below
the horizon, and the fading light of day is leav
ing earth and its scenes in misty indistinctness
—it is when the shades of night begin to fall,
and star after star, as the kindling watchfires of
heaven, begin to brighten over the depths of
the firmament—it is then that our thoughts quit
this little planet that we now inhabit, and mount
to contemplate those immeasurable and magnifi
cent systems: stellar worlds, which, as a great
zone of gems, girdles all minor created things,
and constitues the vastness and sublimity of
the material universe! It is the hour of twi-