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my ribs.

room.

“I understand the matter Doudney's shoulder : Miss Caley sat perfectly, my boy! It was just such a opposite to me, and, as my eyes met foggy afternoon as this that Sarah and hers, I fainted again, just a little, I mated in. There's no resisting them enongh to serve as an excuse for saying in the spring of the year. Give me

nothing. I brightened up on our aryour hand, my boy! I wish you joy, rival at our hotel, took Doudney's arm and all that. I do, 'pon my word, and at the door, and staggered up to my no joking!”

• My dear Doudney, I am not by any “ Poor fellow!" I heard Mrs. Doud. means strong yet, and this enervating Dey remark; "it has been too much for atmosphere

him." "Oh, yes! Certainly! The atinosphere, and all that sort of thing! I understand !" “But really, Doudney, I,

would call the ladies and help me to the carriage, for I feel faint."

Faint! Oh, yes, fuint ! A good symptom, that! I was faint: : you might have knocked me down with a feather. But you do look white about : the lips! Come, I'll help you to the gate, and then I'll call the girls, and we'll drive home post-haste. Perhaps Miss Caley has some salts or something to relieve your kind of faintness. Come, lean

wish you

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me."

I believe I fainted in the carriage, for I remember no more, distinctly, until I ob. served that we were riding rapidly towards home. My head was resting on Mrs.

THE SWOOP AND CAPTURE

“Leave me alone now, Doudney ; very kindly after you the other night, that's a good boy. I'm over the faint: at a party. She says that she is suro all I need now is to lie down and take a you will come home a great painter ono good nap."

of these days." As soon as the door closed behind If that had only come a week behim, I locked it, and threw myself on fore ! the bed ; then I got up and walked the The third letter was also from Dunfloor; then the bed again; then the can & Sherman, and, to my great surfloor.

prise, I read Well you know all Good Heavens! Am I a sane man, about that, Annie. It was the letter or only a weak, faint boy! Have I which sent me three hundred dollars, as gone and sold myself to that -! pay in advance for a picture. It was Sold-yes! and the price-mark sticks sent anonymously, you know, and I on my back-£40,000 !

have often told you with what astonishBut I do most certainly feel very ment I read it. It was long afterwards grateful to Miss Caley, and I have great that I learned the generosity of your affec-esteem for her.

father. Do you suppose that he would Esteem !-And here a thought or have sent it if he had guessed your feeltwo came into my head of Annie, ings towards the poor artist whom he Annie Clayton.

so nobly encouraged ? Fool! to link yourself with chains- I must hasten on the denouement golden chains even-to this (I of my story. It's after twelve o'clock ! called her by an opprobrious epithet It was late in the afternoon, but I then, Annie) while a hope remains—a determined, if possible, to leave Rome whisper of hope !

the next morning, by the diligence for Get thee gone! I will—I will—I Civita Vecchia. Mr. Hooker under. will get out of this scrape, in some took to get my vises for me, as far as way!

Leghorn ; and, after getting from him But how? I am well enough to leave a twenty-pound note, which I knew this cursed city ; but I haven't a baioc- would be sufficient to cover my indebtcho in my pocket; and, of course, it edness to Miss Caley, for the journey, would be rather too mean to leave in hotel-charges, and everything, I_rodebt to any one:

turned to my room, undiscovered. That The bright thought just then came evening I spent an hour or more in into my head, that my remittance might writing to Miss Caley. I wish I had bave arrived at the banker's. Our ho- kept a copy of the letter; but you may tel was not far from the Piazza di Spagna. I threw on

a cloak and very quietly stole out of the house. I found the excellent Mr. Hooker in his inner room.

“Has anything arrived for me?"

“ Yes, sir; our house at Florence has received and forwarded these three letters.”

You may imagine that I opened them eagerly. The first was from Duncan & Sherman, and contained £50. The second was from Charley B

He wrote of home news, and these sentences made such an impression on me that I remember every word : “She is well, and asked

FOR DEAR 1.(FE!

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be sure that I wrote a very proper one. sketch of Dante was missing, however, Sudden and unexpected news from and that is the “ last link” between me home; regret at the necessity which tore and Miss Caloy. me away ; parting words undesirable ; Almost asleep, I declare! Why, I hope to meet again ; the inclosed check thought it was a very interesting story to cover everything but my debt to Annie. An-nie her for kindness; love to the Doudneys; and "Yours most gratefully and sincerely"-that was the amount of it. I forgot: I bequeathed to her my portfolio of sketches, as a souvenir.

In the morning I was off by daylight.

That old portfolio in the corner is the one. It was forwarded to me at Paris by Mr. Hooker. I looked through it care

Je fully for letters; but there were none. The

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MISS CALEY: A REMINISCENCL.

TO CRAWFORD'S STATUE OF "AMERICA."

NAIR daughter of the nations! Is it thou,

,

Who crown'st with stars thy pure and ample brow,

And bold’st an empire's guerdons in thy band ?
Grand is thy presence !--glorious with the grace

And vigorous freshness of thy morning prime ;
And tender dreams of youth upon thy face

Linger 'mid dreams of power that dawn sublime.
Serene and clear, thy vision-lighted eye

Fronts the blue heaven that guards thy subject land,
'Neath whose wide dome tby trackless forests lie,

In whose pure air thy fortress mountains stand.
Thou hear'st far off the voice of either sea

Call to thine eastern and thy western shores,
And on thine ear the murmur vast and free,

Of winds that sweep thy wide savannabs, pours.
A regal virgin, strong of heart and will,

Whose lofty faith subdues ber maiden fears,
Who bids the impetuous soul of youth be still,

And looks undaunted to the coming years.
Who witb calm pulse surveys ber vast dominion,

Trusts to berself and Heaven in danger's bour,
And bids her eagle, with half-folded pinion,

Lay at her feet the tokens of her power.
Rise, fair, prophetic marble! Lift thy head

O'er the broad realm whose type thou yet shalt be,
When, with auroral grace around her shed,

She stands, majestic, strong, serene, like thee.
When, empress of herself, she holds in sway

The exulting vigor of her fervid youth,
And lifts her pure young forehead to the day,

Crowned with the stars of honor, faith, and truth.
When deeds of living light her form enshrine,

Like etar-gemmed robes; and when her steadfast eye
Forever seeks the eternal heavens like thine,

While idle at her feet her symbol arrows lie.

MEMOIRS OF GEORGE SAND.'

SECOND ARTICLE.

IN
N our previous article on the bio- to insist on their fidelity to the original.

graphy of George Sand, we left the The incipient authoress, by degrees, studious child, at six or seven years of struck out a path of her own, and, inage, receiving the elements of a desul stead of summing up the volumes she tory education under the guidance of had read, indulged in personal comments the inevitable Deschartres, and uttering and descriptions. an occasional protest against the pe- "I was more philosophical,” she tells dantic tasks which formed the unsavory us, " than my profane historians, more outriment of her opening mind. She enthusiastic than my sacred historians. resided chiefly at Nohant, pursuing the Yielding full scope to my emotions, same routine, until she arrived at the without attempting to agree with the age of early womanhood. The only judgment of my authors, I colored my studies, in which she took a real inter- recitals with the hues of my own est, were history, geography, music, and thought, and I even remember that I elegant literature. Her teaching was of did not abstain from giving a little ema singularly mechanical character. She bellishment to the dryness of certain was made to learn merely for the sake details. I changed no essential facts; of learning, without regard to its effect but, when an insignificant or ambiguous on her happiness, or her moral improve- personage fell into my hands, obeying ment. Her affection for her grand- an unconquerable impulse of ART, mother led her to overcome her aversion gave to him such a character as I could to the insipid lessons which were forced naturally deduce from his position or upon her; she committed to memory station in the general drama. Unable innumerable verses of poetry, of which to submit blindly to the judgment of the she could not comprehend the meaning; author, if I did not always justify what delved over the wearisome pages of he condemned, I at least undertook to Latin classics; studied the art of versi- explain and palliate it. If I found him fication, which was like putting her too cold towards the objects of my ennatural poetic talent into a straight- thusiasm, I gave myself up to my own jacket; and puzzled out interminable ardor, diffusing it over my narrative in sums in arithmetic. which was so repug. terms that often drew forth a smile from Dant to her taste, that she could scarcely my grandmother by their naïveté of ex. add up a column of figures without an aggeration." attack of vertigo. As a sort of com- She pursued almost the same process pensation, she plunged into the depths in her musical studies. She faithfully of history, and, studying it in her own performed the dry tasks enjoined by way, made it a source of perpetual her teacher, learning, with care, the amusement. She regarded it entirely pieces she was to play to her grandin its picturesque and romantic aspect. mother: but, when she felt tolerably The lofty characters which it exhibits, sure of success, she would arrange them the beautiful actions, the strange adven- in her own fashion, adding new phrases, tures, the poetic narratives, with which changing the regular forms, improvis. it abounds, inspired her with intense ing at random, singing, playing, and enthusiasm, and she found the greatest composing both music and words. delight in clothing them with her own At about the age of twelve, she began language, and repeating them for the to try her hand at writing, without the edification of the family. In this way, aid of her historical authors. She comshe first got the taste of blood as a posed several descriptive pieces, in writer, first learned to enjoy the plea- which moonlight and shady valleys sures of composition. Her little his- played an important part. These won torical recitals were highly satisfactory the applause of partial readers; but she to her grandmother, who thought so was not to be flattered into any convicwell of their execution, that she ceased tion of her own merits. Even at that

* Histoire de ma vie. Par Mme. GEORGE SAND. 13 tomos. Paris, 1853.

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early age, she had an instinctive sense awakened in her heart the need of a reof art, which led her to judge her own ligious sentiinent, if not of a definite productions by an ideal standard, and belief-as she had never been taught a thus to become conscious of their im- religion, she found it necessary to make perfections. From that time, she felt one of her own. A dreaming, frankthe sentiment which she has never lost, hearted, solitary child, left, in a great that there is something more in the soul degree, to herself, and already absorbed than can be embodied in form; that, as in the pursuit of an ideal, she could not no art can represent the charm expe- imagine a world-an idealized humanity rienced amid the freshness of nature, so without placing an ideal being at its no experience can do justice to the head. The sublime, creative God of spontaneous force of our inward omo- the Old Testament, the sublime fatality, tions. Hence, she has never felt any Jupiter, did not speak with directness complacency in her own literary efforts. enough to her heart. She perceived “I have never been satisfied,” says she, the relations of the Supreme Power " with anything I have ever written, with nature, but did not feel its prefrom my first essays when twelve years sence in humanity. “I did then," says old to the productions of my advanced she, " what humanity had done before life. I say this from no modesty on my I sought for a mediator-an interpart. Whenever I have seen or felt mediate person-a God-man-a divine any subject of art, I have hoped, I have friend of our unhappy race.” Homer pleasantly believed, that I could repre- and Tasso, who formed the crowningsent it as it had come to me. I have point in her first studies of Pagan and thrown myself into it with ardor. I Christian poetry, only caused embarhave completed my task, sometimes rassment by their descriptions of so with lively pleasure, and sometimes, in many great or terrible divinities. She writing the last page, I have said to my- was at a loss which to choose among self: This time, I have succeeded such a number. She was preparing for well.' But I could never read the proof her first communion, but the catechism without saying: This is not at all the was a perfect riddle to her. The Gosthing. I have dreamed, and felt, and pel narrating the divine drama of the conceived this quite differently. This life and death of Jesus, drew secret toris cold, out of place, too much said, and rents of tears from her eyes. Still the not enough said!' And if the work had atmosphere which she breathed could not been the property of a publisher, I not fail to infect her mind with a taint should have thrown it into a corner, of skepticism. Her grandmother, who with the intention of revising it, where was one of the strong-minded women it would have been forgotten in the at- of her day, carefully guarded ber tempt to accomplish another."

against all tendency to superstition, and Soon after her first attempt at ori. thus she was led to doubt the received ginal composition, she became the sub- faith of the Church. But this only inject of a singular experience, combining creased her wish to construct a religion artistic taste with religious sentiment, for herself. “Since all religion is a which shows the innate tendency of her fiction,” she would reason, character to pass the limits of conven- make a romance which shall be a relitionalism both in act and opinion. gion, or a religion which shall be a roFrom her earliest childhood, she had

I do not, indeed, believe in my felt the impulse to create an interior romances, but they give me as much world of her own, a world of imagination happiness as if I believed in them.” and poetry; and this, at length, ripened Indulging in such dreams, one night a into the wish of also constructing a re- name and personal form came into her ligious and philosophical world for her. head. The name had no meaning, but self. In the course of her studies, she was merely a casual combination of read the Niad and Jerusalem Delivered. syllables, such as is formed in dreams. On finishing their perusal, she felt sad This became the title of her romance that they had so soon come to an end. and the God of her religion. The The impression they made on her mind phantom, thus bodied forth in her imawas deep and powerful. Not only the gination, remained, for a long time, her beauty and tenderness of those poems, religoius ideal. He was the pure creabut their religious significance, took tion of her brain. Pure and charitable possession of her imagination. They as Christ, radiant and beautiful as

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mance.

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