between the seconds ensued, which resulted as such conferences usually do, and they were on the point of aiming their weapons a second time, when they were interrupted by a scream, and in rushed Kate Shackly, followed by Helen Sanford and Mary Thornton.

*

The scene that followed beggars description. Astonished and delighted, Seton listened to the eloquent and moving appeal of Mary Thornton, as she begged of him to desist for Helen's sake, and for the sake of all who held him most dear. He thought he had never known her look so beautiful. Helen, with one hand on the pistol, which she had turned aside on her approach, gazed silently at Douglas, for a moment, as if in doubt whether to upbraid him for his folly, or to try the force of entreaty. At length she assumed an air of indifference, and delivering to him a letter which she held in the other hand, exclaimed,

Well, Douglas, if you are disposed to trifle with life, Helen Sanford will not stand in your way, though she never becomes the wife of a duelist! But here is a letter, apparently from one who had more regard for her feelings, who valued life for her sake. What news from Henry Clifton ?”

"Henry Clifton !" he exclaimed. "And did you know him? Yes, that was my poor brother's name once."

"Your brother?"

Without heeding the question, Douglas hastily tore open the the letter, and perused its contents.

"Oh, God," he cried, "how narrowly have I escaped! Why did I not remember his last injunction, never to fight a duel. Thank Heaven it has come in season to save me from a crime!" He turned away, as if to give vent to his feelings and at the same time handed the letter to Helen. It was sealed with black, and directed to Col. Douglas in a peculiar hand-writing, which Helen had immediately recognized, as resembling that of the poetry which Clifton left for her on his departure. She read,

"MY DEAR BROTHER,—

Come to me quickly, I beseech you! I am fast wasting away, and have much to say to you about that marriage of which you speak. Oh, this consumption, or rather remorse, is gnawing at my vitals! Come quickly, do. Yours,

FRANCIS DOUGLAS."

(Below, in another hand-writing.)

Sir,-We break the seal to inform you that your respected brother is deceased. Shortly after writing the above, he laid down, and quietly breathed his last"

"Yes," interrupted the Colonel, having recovered his composure, "yes, my poor brother is at last released from his troubles. He died of consumption, caused by remorse for having some years since killed a near and dear friend in a duel. Tortured by the stings of conscience, fearing to meet the friends of the deceased, and pursued by the rigor of the laws, he left his native state, Massachusetts, and, after spending some time in this vicinity, suddenly departed for the west, without the knowledge of his friends, under the assumed name of Clifton. Much alarm was occasioned by his absence, and what has added to his misery since his return, a few months ago, is the announcement that a poor wretch who had been seen in his company, and had, as it seems, robbed him of some trifles, was, upon this evidence, executed for murder. You may have heard of Charles Gibson."

Kate, who during the conversation had stood in the midst of the party, with arms folded and a vacant gaze upon the speaker, seemed by degrees to recollect herself, and at the mention of her lover's name, uttered a loud scream.

"Oh! they murdered him! I knew it, I knew it; will no one else be grieved? will no one's heart be broken? Well, well, the judgment is coming."

So saying, the wretched maniac moved away. The reader may perhaps have accounted for her actions from her language. From the confused reports she had heard concerning Clifton, and from having seen him in company with Helen at the willows, away from her home, she had suddenly imbibed a notion that they were in the situation of herself and her own unfortunate lover, and that Clifton would be certainly killed, if Helen loved him without her parents' consent; imagining, by a delusion not uncommon among crazy people, that Helen would then exchange places with herself. On the present occasion she had been deceived by the resemblance which Col. Douglas bore to his brother, and, beholding the weapons of death, concluded that Clifton was about to suffer the penalty, and hastened to watch the effect of her tidings upon Helen, whom she found engaged with Mary (her bride-maid) in preparing a wedding dress; having just received from the post-man the letter for Douglas which has been given. Startled by her frightful gestures and strange language, and still more by the announcement from a servant that Douglas had taken pistols with him when he went out, they both determined to follow her, accompanied by one or two servants for protection, and the subsequent report of pistols from the grove quickened their speed.

The remainder of the scene which occurred at the dueling ground, the explanations and reconcilement which ensued, need not be related, after the particulars we have already given.

"Helen," said Mary, a day or two afterwards, "do you believe it possible for a man who has loved one being with devotion to transfer suddenly his affections to another?"

"Nothing would seem impossible, my dear Mary, after what we have all seen of the vagaries of love. Those who are the most violent in their passions are said to be most suddenly cooled. I loved Clifton with devotion, as I thought: I may now say the same of Douglas. And you surely will not allow that man is more constant, or less likely to change than woman. But why do you ask?"

"Edward Seton has proposed to me, and I have accepted."

LINES FOR AN ALBUM.

WHEN, 'mid the pangs of present grief,
Fear points to woes to come;
When hope no more can bring relief,
Or pierce the dark'ning gloom;
How sweet the ties of friendship then,
The saddened heart to cheer;

The balm of tender sympathy,

The kindness of a tear.

Then be thy book the modest shrine,
Where truth with beauty blends,
And love's fair flowers in garlands twine,
Culled by thy cherished friends;
So when, 'mid life's eventful scenes,
Thy joys shall all have fled,
Then may they on thy saddened heart
Their fragrant sweetness shed.

Yet, trust not, lady, to the power
Of aught beloved below,

To lighten every gloomy hour,
Or banish every woe ;—

Not to allay our griefs alone,

Were earthly friendships given;
They fix our love and hopes upon

Our better friend in heaven.

W. P.

AMERICAN POETRY.

THAT was a lovely creation of Grecian superstition, which gave to the visible forms of nature, life and beauty; which peopled the solemn groves and moss-grown fountains, the rock-ribbed caverns and balmy vales of fair Hellas, with viewless spirits, whose fancied presence hallowed each spot and endeared each

scene.

What this mythology was in the physical world to the Grecian, the same in the intellectual, as to its operation and effect, is Poetry.

The ancients when, perchance, they listened to the silvery murmur of some rivulet, seemed in their graceful imaginings, to be greeted by the voice of the fountain-nymph. The lightning which rived the gnarled oak, was to them the bolt launched from the thunderer's "red right arm." The blast which swept across the Ægean, was the breath of the storm-god, awakened to his work of dismay and desolation. The zephyr, as it sighed through the forest-leaves, spoke to them in the tones of some dryad of the wood. Hoar tradition started up with all the stateliness of the historic muse, to enshrine upon the altar of superstition the story of each crumbling ruin and fading monument. Imbued with the spirit of this exquisite fancy, they looked upon the meanest place with interest, and it gave to the sublimest spectacle additional grandeur and sublimity.

And thus it is with Poetry. That is an art which invests the humblest subjects with an undying charm, and which imparts to the loftiest theme, new beauties and fresh grace. This is that delightful art which, transporting us into a fairy world of novel creations, gifts us with keener faculties to perceive and appreciate whatever is perfect in art, or attractive in nature. This it is which elevating us above the petty cares and tumults of existence, bearing us upon eagle-pinions beyond the smoky atmosphere of our work o' day world, ennobles the character, refines the feelings, purifies the sentiments, and fits us for our station in a coming as well as in a present world.

It is the spirit of Poesy which tints the painter's pencil with its choicest colors. From her the sculptor's chisel derives its chiefest triumphs. She clothes the language of the divine in its most pleasing attire. She touches the lips of the orator, with a “living coal from off the altar."

Beneath her cheering beams all moral instincts blossom forth, endued with a vitality which the wintry blasts of vice can never chill, nor the hot breath of passion ever wither. By her magic

touch all that is lofty in thought or splendid in action, all that is generous in sentiment or great in example, is pictured forth with such vividness of truth, as to kindle emulation in the coldest bosom, and "create a soul beneath the ribs of death."

If such are the uses of Poetry, who shall rightly estimate the poet's influence? His influence is bounded only by the limits which confine mankind, for his are the sympathies which find an echo in every breast, and which, like the breeze that calls forth the music of the Æolian lyre, strike a responsive chord in every heart. "Tis his vocation, not alone to warm the fancy or to fire the imagination, but to instruct the mind and to inform the understanding. True Poetry is ever the most powerful ally of religion, and the best friend to virtue, and he soils the purity of his profession who prostitutes his muse to the viler passions which deform mankind. The beautiful realms of the imagination should never be invaded by the steps of vice, nor insulted by the tread of licentiousness.

Poetry is to the fine arts what refinement is to civilization; and the poet occupies among men of letters the same position with educated man in society. As the arts exalt a nation's character and improve its taste, so poetry may be said to correct the arts themselves. And as the educated man stands forth prominent above his fellows, so to the poet is assigned an equally conspicuous station in the literary world.

Turning to our own country, the common object of our hopes and fears, the source of our pride as well as of our humiliation, we need scarcely to put the question, how has she filled this department of national taste? For the melancholy truth stares us in the face that there is not a single line of American poetry which might not at the present moment be blotted out of existence forever, and the world would never feel the void. And whence comes this lamentable deficiency? Shall we attribute it with some writers to a native inferiority fostered by our situation and institutions, or shall we not rather ascribe it to those many circumstances which operate here to divert the attention to other and more gainful pursuits than that of letters? Why slumbers Halleck? Alas! his answer is a ready one. He tells us that now

"He's busy in the cotton trade
And sugar line."

Why sleeps the muse of Byrant? The vexed arena of politics, the strife and confusion of conflicting factions, furnish him too with an answer, though with no apology. The auri sacra fames, that accursed hungering after gold which proved the bane of antiquity, has fastened upon our vitals. How long was it after the Roman emperors had returned laden with the spoils of the vanquished East that Latin authors preserved that virtue, that inde