accompanied by her guitar, breathed forth this im passioned lay:

"Give me the night, the calm, beautiful night,

When the green earth reposes in heaven's own light,
When the moon and the stars keep their vigils above,
And nought is awake save the spirit of love.

"When visions of memory visit the heart,

Like the dreams of the past, which too soon must depart.
And the soul fondly dwells on the scenes of delight,
Give me the night, the calm, beautiful night.

"Spirit of love, in yon isles of the blest,

Where the bright and the beautiful ever have rest,
Spread thy wings o'er the earth, now so smiling and fair
And breathe all thy tenderness, loveliness there.

"Though the tear will escape as the heart heaves a sigh,
And thoughts, all too deep for emotion, reply,
Yet the soul lingers still o'er the scene of delight,—
Give me the night, the calm, beautiful night."

She ceased; but in my soul, that, until then, hai not known aught of companionship, there was created a sense of fullness and deep joy, an all-pervading consciousness that I was blessed, supremely blessed Years have passed away, but memory of that how shall live forever.

My Isadora, but for thee,

E'en doubly dark this world would be.

He who may never hope to gaze upon earth or sky, who can never behold the light of the sun, nor look upon the face of a friend, can only adequately appreciate the music of the human voice. To him only

can music impart its highest delight, and change his midnight darkness to a noonday splendor. Who can estimate fully the influence of music upon the heart and the life? What can do more to soften and refine the feelings? to purify and elevate the whole nature? And why should it not exert as great a power now, as in the earlier ages of society? Why not have as much influence upon the civilized, as the savage man? Those who have been the most constantly af fected by it, who are best capable of appreciating its effects, tell us that there is nothing that can so exalt and ennoble the moral and religious element. Who can calculate the influence it exerts in our churches? What is so well designed to lift the mind from earth to the contemplation of heaven? And then, too, consider the influence of music upon our social feelings. There is nothing like the concord of sweet sounds that can so move the heart to noble deeds and lofty daring, and that, at the same time, can prompt to that spirit of kindness and disinterest edness that softens and beautifies our social inter course. However, the power to appreciate music is the gift of God. Shall I not say it is one of the noblest vouchsafed to man? Blessed is he who possesses it, and can appreciate it. For amidst all the vicissitudes of this strange life, he has within him that which can sustain and cheer him. It is a pleasant thing to see the smiling faces of those around you, tc look upon the speaking countenances of your friends, to read the burning thoughts that come forth in each

glance of the eye. But the beautiful face soon becomes pale and emaciated; the eye soon loses its brilliancy and luster, the form its grace, and the step its elasticity; but the music of the voice can neve: die. Like the soul, it is divine and immortal. Great is his privilege for whom nature, with its myriad objects of beauty, has power to delight-who can look upon the green, beautiful earth-who can gaze upor the heavens, adorned with its innumerable lights. But there is yet a greater boon, there is a depth in music which transcends all else.

"O, say, is there a star above,

Like the low, sweet voice of one you love!"

There is no faculty I possess with which I would not part, rather than relinquish the high satisfaction which music affords. Gladly would I open these sealed orbs, and look out upon the vast, magnificent universe; but I would not accept so great a boon, if it must be obtained at the sacrifice of the deep delight, of the inexpressible joy, of the unutterable happiness, which music alone can impart.

MRS. S. H DE KROYFT.

"The darksome pines that o'er your rocks reclined,
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,

The wandering streams, that shine between the hilla
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to rest the visionary maid:
But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black melancholy sits, and round her throws,
A death-like silence, and a dread repose;
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades every flower, darkens every green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods."

IN the preceding biographical sketches, it has beer our uniform purpose to collect all the authentic sta tistics, relative to the lives of our authors, we could find in either European or American literature, and form a chain of events, interspersed with such original remarks as the occasion and our own experience under similar circumstances, seemed to suggest.

But in noticing our present authoress, having been unable to procure any accounts of her strangely eventful and interesting history, save those she haɛ given to the public in her beautiful and universally

admired volume, entitled, "A Place in Thy Memory," we deem it proper to digress from our former rule, and give them principally in her own language and connection.

The beautiful metaphoric drapery thrown around these references to her life and misfortunes, and the simple, natural, and deeply feeling manner in which she tells her tale of woe, form paragraphs so sacred that it seems like ruthless sacrilege to divest them of their original attire.

The following tender and pathetic lines, that must move every reader to tears, susceptible in the slight est degree to feel for others' woes, serve us as a partial introduction to her history:

ROCHESTER, October, 1846. "DEAR CLARA :-'Tis autumn, and to-day the winds rowl mournfully among the trees. Four long weeks I have been pillowed on a sick couch, and though with much of its drapery around me, I can to-day sit in an easy chair. Fever still burns on my cheeks, and my brow is pressed with throbbing pain. Last night they fed me opium, and I slept a pleasant sleep. I dreamed of other days. I thought that we again, arm in arm, paced the halls of the old seminary, and talked confidingly of bright realities in the future. The chime of the welcome school-bell again rang in my ears, and I heard the halls echo with the familiar tread of many feet, and mingling voices, all buoyant with hope and love. This morning, I engaged a