came to the door described, he modestly put out the light, not to wake Mr. Parson. The moon shone faintly through the panes. He found the bed; threw off his coat, shoes, and hair-bag, laid himself softly beside the slumbering shepherd of souls, and went to sleep, tired with many adventures.

CHAPTER XXII.

When Mr. Quint awoke, the morning sun already played gracefully among the leaves of the gardentrees, which showed themselves through the window. It was already late for him. He had wished to be at home at the break of day. The old parson slept still, but, as it appeared, somewhat restlessly. Mr. Quint, to save making an excuse, was in the act of slipping away noiselessly, when the spiritual man threw his arm across the horrified Quint, and exactly over his neck, between the chin and breast. Here the arm remained motionless, and as heavy as lead. Mr. Quint almost lost his breath.

It may now be said, if it has not been said before, that too great modesty was the principal fault of Mr. Quint. Another, less well disposed than he, would perhaps have thrown back the very reverend arm, without ceremony, into its proper bounds, but he did not dare to do it.

Slowly and imperceptibly, like the hour-hand of a dial, he sought to withdraw himself from under the heavy burden. He succeeded pretty well, although the creaking of the old wooden bedstead threw him twice into a deadly fear. He had reached out half the way, and the right foot already showed a disposition to leave the bed forever, when a halt was made. The unfortunate inclination to sneeze again arose in Mr. Quint, and so quickly, so briskly, so powerfully, that nothing would serve but to dampen the heartfelt sound by holding in his breath, against all rules and regulations in such cases provided. The more mighty thereby was the quaking of his whole body. The bedstead shook and creaked, as if it would fall together. The shepherd of souls must awake; and, in this new embarrassment, Mr. Quint immediately feigned that he slept.

Truly his spiritual neighbor made some movements, but let his arm remain on Quint's neck, and likewise appeared to be disposed to sleep. Mr. Quint wished not for more. He remained motionless, with closed eyes, and thought ad interim upon the occurrences of the past day, the unsuccessful betrothal, upon the solitude of the woody hill, and the thunder storm.

His frame of mind had suffered great changes during the night. He was not so courageous by far as the evening before. His fancies were fled-he had now to deal with the bare truth.

Explanations must necessarily take place between himself and Mr. Pyk. His becoming the jest of the colleges of the vale was inevitable. He trembled anew at thinking of a thousand disagreeable occurrences; he feared to become ludicrous to his own household; and wished that between him and the past day there lay the space of a hundred years, instead of one night. As his good genius whispered this in his

ear, he hit upon the thought of taking a long Burney, on account of urgent, important, secret business, that he did not precisely know himself. Out of that he could spin pretences in abundance to account for his yesterday's non-appearance; he could write to Mr. Pyk, and make the thing credible with his pen. He could write to Bessy herself a touching letter. will read it, thought he; she will read it with sorrow, and will wish the absentee at home. What a delight! Mr. Quint blessed the happy thought; he scolded himself for not having hit it sooner—yesterday.

She

While he ruminated as to the where to, for how long, for what purpose, &c., &c., and while he imagined himself already among unknown men, in a strange land, there longing in home-sickness to re-visit his native valley-and as he thought of the pleasant returnas he pictured, in the most glowing colors, all the delights of meeting old friends, a strange voice sounded suddenly in his ear-" Oh, heavens!"

But it was not a man's voice. Mr. Quint thought he should have given up the ghost. He raised his eyes, without altering his position. There was no one in the room. The parson lay quietly beside him; but such a sweet, angelic sound could come from no priestly throat.

The burdensome arm, so often mentioned, withdrew itself. The ecclesiastic turned on the other side. Mr. Quint perceived that the arm passing before his eyes, with its delicate white skin, and small hand, and tender fingers, could not possibly belong to an old bishop of souls. Not without anxiety and fear of making some dangerous discovery, did he raise himself to squint at his neighbor.

There lay a beautiful female head, with the face turned away. It was wrapped in a fine linen cap, from under which the thick golden hair rolled wantonly over the half bared neck. The unknown was resting on the bed in Sunday clothes, and seemed not to have reckoned upon spending the whole night there. A more disagreeable quid pro quo could scarcely have happened to him. Now, good night, traveling plans! Whoever found him here, whoever saw him go out of the bed-chamber, would make remarks that might be prejudicial to his good fame. Mr. Pyk, Bessy, the whole confederacy of relations might learn it. "Then that was the reason why he did not come to the betrothal," would be said; "now it is to be seen, how will he get clear?"

With all his well known innocence, Mr. Quint felt the greatest torments of conscience. Appearances witnessed too plainly against him. He, a devout, virtuous man, whom any father would have trusted his daughter with, lay here on the same bed with Heaven knows what woman, or girl! Here no protestations would avail; no declarations that the tollkeeper's wife had shown him the wrong room, or that he had missed the room of the parson. It was too late now.

And, whoever the beauty or ugly one might be who had passed the night beside him, what would she think, believe, say, on awaking, at the sight of an unknown bed-fellow?

Leaning upon his arm, as motionless as a statue,

Mr. Quint yet gazed upon the apparition, incapable of any proper resolve. "Am I, then, born for misfortune?" sighed he to himself.

The sleeper awoke, raised herself dreamingly on her arm, looked wonderingly at the man before her, and Mr. Quint O, what would he have not given for the breaking of the last great day; for the sound of Gabriel's trumpet, and heaven and earth crashed together. It was little Bessy who gazed at him with her blue eyes.

Whoever makes the least claim to delicacy of feeling, without carrying shyness so far as our bashful shepherd, can imagine his amazement in finding himself, half lying, half sitting, near his beloved, as if by magic, at the same moment that he thought himself far from her, separated perhaps forever. His whole adventure with the girl, from the dance of the red slippers till now, had been so singular that it really needed philosophical strength not to believe it witchcraft.

Bessy, on the contrary, was less astonished. She had heard of none but him, on the preceding day; she had thought of none but him; what wonder then that she had dreamed of him by night, and, in the first moment, took the awakening at his side for the continuation of the dream, with other accompaniments.

Though wavering between sleep and waking, her mind soon understood the reality, although that was more incomprehensible to her than the vagaries of any dream could have been.

"My God!" cried she, "Mr. Quint!"

Bessy," stuttered the poor man-" it is certainly, very certainly, and truly not-intentionally that I am here!"

"Ah, that I believe!" returned Bessy, with a sigh, and now thought for the first time on her yesterday's sorrow, when she had waited vainly a whole day for the bridegroom, and, after fruitless hopes, had finally concluded that he must either be unfortunate, or not love her; for they had sent messengers to him, had learnt his departure, had sought him throughout the valley, but nowhere found him. Unfortunate, or unfaithful! was the unanimous opinion of the guests present, who separated late, after a consolatory banquet; for which reason, the aunt and the unbetrothed, caught by the thunder storm, had also found it convenient to pass the night in the toll-house, as well as Mr. Quint.

"The wife of the toll-keeper showed me this room," continued the philosopher, "and thought the Reverend Mr. Parson slept here. I am very sorry. I am—"

"You will certainly be angry with me, Bessy!" stammered Quint.

"I should have been so yesterday-" returned Bessy, with maidenly blushes.

"Oh, say naught of yesterday," cried Mr. Quint; "I have sinned upardonably. You cannot forgive me!"

He threw down his eyes sadly. Bessy read in his countenance both unaffected sorrow and undissembled love, and had already forgiven him every thing.

"But listen to me, I will confess all to you without reserve; and then if I am yet worthy of your friendship-ah! dared I then hope for forbearance from you, and that the done might be as if undone, oh, then I should not deserve the happiness-but God would not have under his heaven a more blessed man than I. Yes, truly, I will confess what passed yesterday."

So spake Mr. Quint, and related his misfortunes with the most credible honesty and minuteness.

What would the dear girl have rather heard than this tale, in which every word was a new declaration of love? and, as he spoke of his retreat on the hill, his grief, and resolution to renounce the world, and make a long journey, she became sad, and said: "O no, you must not do that!"

"And I should have done so!" sighed Mr. Quint"I should have done so if-" Here his hand moved toward hers; here he faltered-but the trembling, involuntary pressure, the stammering, and the sinking of his voice, and the tender entreating look, all betrayed more than his words expressed.

She trembled. Speak she could not. Her glance was lost in his. The future swam before them in its eternal distance. A more beautiful heaven spread itself above, in the glow of morning; a lovelier earth bloomed beneath them. For them there was naught earthly, naught mortal, naught unholy. With the feelings of angels, they wandered through creation, and the call of the Creator to blessedness filled their hearts.

"O, we shall be happy!" cried Mr. Quint, with upraised eyes.

"Happy!" stammered Bessy, and her head sunk slowly with a sigh on his breast.

Beneath the pressure of his hand he felt the delicate golden ring on Bessy's finger. He thought of the fatal yesterday, of the miscarried betrothal, and Mr. Pyk's probable anger.

"It is not too late!" said he, drawing off his ring and placing it upon Bessy's finger.

"Wilt thou give me thine, dear Bessy?" said he. She handed him the ring.

ing him the door. In the purity of her heart, she thought of nothing evil. The greatest evil that she knew of was his despising her, and wishing to loosen himself from her and Mr. Pyk, and perhaps from a hasty engagement. This it was that had extorted secret tears from her yesterday. In tears she had thrown herself on this bed, and had fallen asleep.

The betrothal was concluded. Neither spoke a

oath of eternal faith that the lips could not pronounce. The morning sun beamed on the happy pair, with its purple colored light.

"O, Bessy-my Bessy!" cried Mr. Quint..

Had Mr. Pyk really put in requisition the entire magnificence of Solomon, he could not have celebrated more gloriously the betrothal of this pair than

THIS glen, fenced in with beech woods, hath a deep
Religious stillness in its lovely gloom,
Which settles on the spirit in its moods
Of sadness with a quiet sanctity,

That half assuages the perplexities

And ills of life. Here, when thy heart is tired
Of the mad turmoil of the world, and all

Its hypocritical observances:

When thou art weary of humanity,

Or sick of that idolatry to which,

Amid the din of cities, thou hast been

A willing worshiper,-thou shalt not look

In vain beneath these stooping boughs for friends

To soothe and comfort thee. Experience

Is a stern teacher, yet if thou, for all
Thy persevering bondage to the world,
Hast gained no recompense save weary days,
And cares, whose bitterness has made thy wealth
A very mockery:-if thou hast scorned
Thy better nature, and surrendered up
Its finer sympathies thus to be used

And infamously squandered,-thou shouldst bear
Her rod without complaining. Lose thyself
In the hot thoroughfare,-pile high thy wharves
With the rich freight of merchantmen, and fill
Thy cellars with the juice of vintages,
Yet deem it not a mystery, if thou

Inheritest therewith the wretchedness

Of having learned, by care and suffering,

What wisdom could not teach thee. Thou shalt find
In her morality a truth beyond

The wisdom of the world, yet not until,
With many tears, thou hast endured the deep
Humiliation of adversity:

Not till thou feelest, and that keenly, too,
How black a beggary of soul can sit
Upon a broken fortune, shalt thou own
The virtue of her counsels. They who were
Thy flatterers, while yet thy quays were heaped
With costly merchandise, will then have grown
Cold in their friendship, and their very looks
Shall freeze thee. Haply, in the crowded street
Where once thy voice was clamorous and stern,
Among the sons of commerce thou shalt pass
Unnoticed and ungreeted, till the last
Sad remnant of thy years is worn away
In grief and bitterness.

Such is the deep,

Detestable hypocrisy which thou

Must take for that most holy charity

Which the world prates of. "T is for thee to learn
The truth of this great lesson,-that the earth
Is full of evil, and when thou art grown

Disgusted with its care and wickedness;
When all the usages of men to thee
Are vile and hateful,-it may be that thou
Wilt seek out purer fountains. Lost amid
The dust and uproar of the bustling mart,
Thou hast forgotten that society

Which might have made thee fitter to withstand
The torment of thy sorrow, and the shock
Of thy humiliation. All that thou
Hast earned in thy detested slavery

Hath in its turn been lost, and what is left

Is but a legacy of wretchedness,
Made up of scorn and insult. Men will look
Contemptibly upon thee, as on one
Whom gold made virtuous, yet if thou hast
That deep communion with the beautiful,
Which is more precious than the charity
Of the tumultuous and heartless world:
If thou hast not forgotten, in the depth
Of thy affliction, that morality
Which dwells in the rich gloom of waving woods,
And on wild mountains-thou hast found a joy
Amid thy deepest sadness, which the world
Shall never take from thee. Approach with awe,

For in these temples He who dwelleth not

In sanctuaries reared by human toil
Shall hear thee, and regard thy feeble prayer,
And give thee consolation! In the sweet,
Cool twilight of these boughs and dancing leaves
Thou shalt find naught to make thee sorrowful,-
For the great world with its idolatries,
And that accursed bondage, into which
Man sells himself for gold, are here unknown

And unregarded. Timidly o'erhead,

The blaze of noon let in through the green roof
Drops in large spots of gold upon fresh beds
Of sprouting wintergreen and mosses strewed
With opened pine-cones. Enter this green nook,
And hear the music of the wind that bends
The branches o'er the pool, for it shall kiss
Thy cheek in sympathy, and thou shalt pass
Back to the haunts of men with fresher thoughts
And firmer resolution. Oh! if thou

Wouldst shake off from thy heart the heavy weight
And torment of adversity,-be wise,
And deem it not vain idleness to gaze
Upon the face of Nature. Thus thy life
Shall pass away in quietude, and when
Thy steps tend downward to the sepulchre,
Thou shalt not go embittered with the thought
That thou couldst find no friends to comfort thee
When thou hadst felt the bitter, biting scorn
Of the unsteady and inconstant world.

In those days, as old Livy writes, there were vast solitudes and mighty woods in all those regions. The city, which was destined in after days to overshadow a conquered world by the terror of her eagle wings, was then but a small town, built upon two of the seven hills which it encompassed within its mighty circuits a century or two later than the period to which my narrative relates. That period was to Rome as the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries are to the histories of France and England, the debateable land as it were, the disputed frontier between the realms of fact and fable-the epoch of romance, of poetry of action, as opposed to that of words, in either-and as in the latter times knight errantry and the chivalresque attach all eyes, so in the former do heroism and the old heroic present themselves in the most brilliant and attractive lights.

The gossiping old garrulous historians of those days, Heaven's blessing on their credulous simplicity! revel in their descriptions of these worthies; they tell us not only what they did, but how they looked, and what clothes they wore, and what they said, and all about them--and now-a-days come a whole tribe of learned Goths and Sarmatians and tell us that we must not believe one word about the old familiar friends of our schoolboy-day--that there was no such wolf as suckled Romulus, and no such horse as carried Curtius into his gulf, and no such woman as Lucretia, no such avenger as the elder Brutus. But, on the other hand, hath not the poet taught us that, "where ignorance is bliss 't is folly to be wise!" and is it not bliss to believe, to luxuriate in the belief, that those glowing portraits in "Livy's pictured page" are real likenesses of real men and women? Is it not therefore wisdom? | There were then in those days vast solitudes and mighty woods, where, if things go on much longer as they have been of late years doing, there seems every prospect that there will be vast solitudes again—in the vicinity of Rome-the empress and "the Niobe of Nations!" But mark the contrast; those were the solitudes of Nature-the freshness of the untamed forest-the youth of the world, virgin yet of empires! These are the wastes of effete civilization-the sad sterility that succeeds over-culture-the imbecility of age worn out by its own greatness! And as the last is stern and terrible and soul-depressing-so was the first lovely and gay and spirit-stirring, and full of hope and promise. There was a vigor, a glorious, hardy, bold vitality about those old hard days, that, despite their rudeness, their want of delicacy, their ferocity at times, to my thoughts presents a beautiful

contrast to the effeminate and characterless debility of our boasted nineteenth century. Virtues were then bold, if crimes were atrocious! There were no gentlemen and ladies in those days! No! they were men and women. Poor vulgar wretches, they were contented to be men and women! and right bold men they were! and very, very women! Conceive a lady -I mean a modern lady-aye! if you will a republican lady-a thing of tournures and minauderies, a creature redolent of mousseline and patchouli, the mother of a Regulus, or the approving matron of a Brutus. Fancy-fancy a lady Clœlia!

It was a clear, calm, cold autumnal day-cold for the shores of sunbright Italy-the wide rich woods that covered all the hills and half the champaign country were dyed in the rich evanescent hues that tell of coming winter-the death of the year! The harvests all were reaped—the vintage was all gathered, but not housed with the blithe harvest home; nor pressed in the foaming vats with the rejoicing chorus of "Evoe! Evoe! Liber!" Joy! joy to the god Bacchus! the god who unbinds the heart and sets it free from sorrow!

For the first time since Rome had been a city, were her fields harvested by hostile swords, her abundant vineyards a prey to the rude spoiler-for the first time had her hardy sons been shut up within their rampired fastnessses, thanking their strong walls and the broad river that swept round them for that security which they were wont to owe to the square shield and the short broadsword, to the stout pilum and the stouter arm that wielded it! The Tiber had saved Rome; and had not saved but for Horatius and his fires! Bridgeless it now rolled and free between the Roman city and the great Latin camp! And on this was triumph, and loud mirth, and revelry, and song, and feasting-and on that, shame, and despair, and silent sorrow; wailing and wo and famine!

Rome's bravest chiefs were penned up in the circuit of their walls, to perish ingloriously without a blow-for the base commons had revolted, had refused to lift lance, or buckle brand, or muster in their centuries at trumpet call to battle. Rome's fairest maids were captives, hostages basely yielded to the insulting foe-Clolia, the pride, the beauty, and the boast of Rome, and fifty more, the flower of the patrician houses! And how should Rome go forth to battle, when at the first lance hurled, the first blow stricken, all these must perish, or endure worse outrage? And yet-and yet so vast was the patriotism, so high the national pride of those patrician houses-they offered,