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denly extinguished. What could it mean? Did he doubt her affection? A tear fell upon the lute, and she said,,,I will sing

THE LADY'S LAY."

The deepest wrong that thou couldst do,
Is thus to doubt my love for thee,
For questioning that thou question'st too
My truth, my pride, my purity.

"Twere worse than falsehood thus to meet
Thy least caress, thy lightest smile,
Nor feel my heart exulting beat

With sweet, impassioned joy the while.

The deepest wrong that thou couldst do,
Is thus to doubt my faith professed;
How should I, love, be less than true,

When thou art noblest, bravest, best?

The tones of the Lady Loyaline's voice were sweet and clear, yet so low, so daintily delicate, that the heart caught them rather than the ear. De Courcy felt his soul soften beneath those pleading accents, and his eyes, as he gazed upon her, were filled with unutterable love and sorrow.

How beautiful she was! With that faint colour, like the first blush of dawn, upon her cheek with those soft, black, glossy braids, and those deep blue eyes, so luminous with soul! Again the lady touched

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De Courcy, by nature proud, passionate, reserved, and exacting, had wooed and won, with some difficulty, the young and timid girl, whose tenderness for her noble lover was blent with a shrinking awe, that all his devotion could not for awhile overcome. At the time my story commences, he was making preparations to join the Crusaders. He was to set out in a few days, and, brave and chivalric as he was, there were both fear and grief in his heart, when he thought of leaving his beautiful bride for

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years, perhaps for ever. Perfectly convinced of her guileless purity of purpose, thought and deed, he yet had, as he thought, reason to suppose that her heart was, perhaps unconsciously to herself, estranged from him, or rather that it never had been his. He remembered, with a thrill of passionate grief and indignation, her bashful reluctance to meet his gaze her timid shrinking from his touch and thus her very purity and modesty, the soul of true affection, were distorted by his jealous imagination into indifference for himself and fondness for another. Only two days before, upon suddenly entering her chamber, he had surprised her in tears, with a page's cap in her hand, and on hearing his step, she had started up. blushing and embarrassed, and hidden it beneath her mantle, which lay upon the couch. Poor De Courcy! This was indeed astounding; but while he had perfect faith in her honour, he was too proud to let her see his suspicions. That cap! that crimson cap! It was not the last time he was destined to behold it!

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of his dreams

flowers and his fountains and his dancing-girls of his harem and himself. The banquet lay untouched before him. The rich chibouque was cast aside. The cooling sherbet shone in vain.

The Almas tripped, with tinkling feet, Unmarked their motions light and fleet! His slaves trembled at his presence; for a dark cloud hung lowering on the brows of the great Lord of the East, and they knew, from experience, that there were both thunder and lightning to come ere it dispersed.

But a sound of distant plaintive melody

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Give me back my childhood's truth!
Give me back my guileless youth!
Pleasure, Glory, Fortune, Fame,
These I will not stoop to claim!
Take them! All of Beauty's power,
All the triumph of this hour
Is not worth one blush you stole
Give me back my bloom of soul!

Take the cup and take the gem!
What have I to do with them?
Loose the garland from my hair!
Thou shouldst wind the night-shade there;
Thou who wreath'st, with flattering art,
Poison-flowers to bind my heart!
Give me back the rose you stole!
Give me back my bloom of soul!

,,Name thy wish, fair child. But tell me first what good genius has charmed thy lute for thee, that thus it sways the soul?,,

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,,A child-angel, with large melanchoyl eyes and wings of lambent fire Franks have named him Love. He led me here and breathed upon my lute." ,,And where is he now?"

,,1 have hidden him in my heart," said the boy, blushing às he replied.

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,,My wife! my sweet, true wife! Is it indeed thou! Thy cheek is paler than its And what is the boon thou wouldst wont. Hast mourned for me, my love?" ask?" And the knight put back the long black locks and gazed upon that sad, sweet face. Oh! the delicious joy of that dear meeting! Was it too dear, too bright to last?

The youthful stranger bent his knee, and said in faltering tones ,,Thou hast a captive Christian knight; let him go free, and Love shall bless thy throne!"

,,He is thine thou shalt thyself release him. Here, take my signet with thee."

And the fair boy glided like an angel of light through the guards at the dungeondoor. Bolts and bars fell before him for he bore the talisman of Power and he stood in his beauty and grace at the captive's couch, and bade him rise and go forth, for he was free.

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De Courcy, half-awake, gazed wistfully on the benign eyes that bent over him. He had just been dreaming of his guardian angel; and when he saw the beauteous stranger boy with his locks of light his heavenly smile his pale, sweet face he had no doubt that this was the celestial visitant of his dreams, and, following with love and reverence his spirit-guide, he scarcely wondered at his sudden disappearance when they reached the court.

At a banquet, given in honour of De Courcy's return, some of the guests, flushed with wine, rashly let fall in his hearing an insinuation which awoke all his former doubts, and, upon inquiry, he found to his horror that during his absence the Lady Loyaline had left her home for months, and none knew whither or why she went, but all could guess, they hinted.

De Courcy sprang up, with his hand on the left of his sword, and rushed toward the chamber of his wife. She met him in the ante-room, and listened calmly and patiently as he gave vent to all his jealous wrath, and bade her prepare to die. Her only reply was Let me go to my chamber; I would say one prayer; then do with me as you will."

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,,Begone!"

The chamber door closed on the graceful form and sweeping robes of the Lady de Courcy. But in a few moments it opened again, and forth came, with meekly folded arms, a stripling in a page's dress and crimson cap! the bold, bright boy with ,,Pure as Aurora when she leaves her couch, whom he had parted at his dungeon-gate! Her cool, soft couch in Heaven, and,,,Here! in her very chamber!" The knight

blushing, shakes
The balmy dew-drops from her locks of
light."

Safely the knight arrived at his castlegate, and as he alighted from his steed, a lovely woman sprang through the gloomy archway, and lay in tears upon his breast.

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sprang forward to cleave the daring intruder to the earth. But the stranger flung to the ground the cap and the golden locks, and De Courcy fell at the feet, not of a minstrelboy, but of his own true-hearted wife, and begged her forgiveness, and blessed her for

her heroic and beautiful devotion.

CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND.

THE MYSTERY OF VISITING.

THERE is something wonderfully primitive and simple in the fundamental idea of visiting. You leave your own place and your

chosen employments, your slipshod ease and privileged plainness, and sally forth, in special trim, with your mind emptied, as far as possible, of whatever has been engrossing it, to make a descent upon the domicile of

another, under the idea that your presence
will give him pleasure, and, remotely, your-
self.
Can anything denote more amiable
simplicity? or, according to a certain fa-
vourite vocabulary, can anything be more in-
tensely green? What a confession of the
need of human sympathy! What bonhommie
in the conviction that you will be welcome!
What reckless self-committal in the whole
affair! Let no one say this is not a good-
natured world, since it still keeps up a re-
verence for the fossil remains of what was
once the heart of its oyster.

Not to go back to the creation (some proof of self-denial, in these days of research), what occasioned the first visit, probably? Was it the birth of a baby, or a wish to borrow somewhat for the simple householdry, or a cause of complaint about some rural trespass; a desire to share superabundant grapes with a neighbour who abounded more in pomegranates; a twilight fancy for gossip about a stray kid, or a wound from the blind boy's butt-shaft?" Was the delight of visiting, like the succulence of roast pig, discovered by chance; or was it like the talk which is its essence, an instinct? This last we particularly doubt, from present manifestations. Instincts do not wear out; they are as fresh as in the days when visiting began but where is visiting?

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A curious semblance of the old rite now

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guarded, lest they mete out too much consideration to those who bear no stamp. The neck must be stiffened, lest it bend beyond the haughty angle of self-reservation in the acknowledgment of civilities. The mouth is bound to keep its portcullis ever ready to fall on a word which implies unaffected pleasure or surprise. Each motion must have its motive; every civility its well-weighed return in prospect. Subjects of conversation must be any but those which naturally present themselves to the mind. If a certain round is not prescribed, we feel that all beyond it is proscribed. O, the unutterable weariness of this worse than dumbshow! No wonder we groan in spirit when there are visits to be made!

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But some fair, innocent face looks up at us, out of a forest home, perhaps, or in a wide, unneighboured prairie, and asks what all this means?,,Is not a visit always a delightful thing - full of good feeling the cheerer of solitude the lightener of labour the healer of differences antidote of life's bitterness ?" Ah, primitive child! it is so, indeed, to you. The thought of a visit makes your dear little heart beat. If one is offered, or expected at your father's, with what cheerful readiness do you lend your aid to the preparations! How your winged feet skim along the floor, or surmount the stairs; your brain full of ingenious devices and substitutes, your slender fingers loaded with plates and glasses, and a tidy apron depending from your taper waist! Thoughts of dress give you but little trouble, for your choice is limited to the pink ribbon and the blue one; what the company will wear is of still less moment, so they only come! It would be hard to make you believe that we invite people and then hope they will not come! If you omit anybody, it will be the friend who possesses too many acres, or he who has been sent to the legislature from your district, lest dignity should interA coat of mail is, strangely enough, the fere with pleasure; we, on the contrary, first requisite when we have a round of think first of the magnates, even though we calls to make; not the,,silver arms" of fair know that the gloom of their grandeur will Clorinda, but the unlovely, oyster-like coat overshadow the mirth of everybody else, of Pride, the helmet of Indifference, the and prove a wet blanket to the social fire. breastplate of Distrust, the barred visor of You will, perhaps, be surprised to learn that Self-Esteem, the shield of,,gentle Dulness"; we keep a debtor and creditor account of while over all floats the gaudy, tinsel scarf visits, and talk of owing a call, or owing of Fashion. Whatever else be present or an invitation, as your father does of owing lacking, Pride, defensive, if not offensive, a hundred dollars at the store, for value remust clothe us all over. The eyes must be ceived. When we have made a visit and

serves us, a mere Duessa a form of snow, impudently pretending to vitality. We are put off with this congelation, a compound of formality, dissimulation, weariness, and vanity, which it is not easy to subject to any test without resolving it at once into its unwholesome elements. Yet why must it be so? Would it require daring equal to that which dashed into the enchanted wood of Ismena, or that which exterminated the Mamelukes, to fall back upon first principles, and let inclination have something to do with offering and returning visits?

are about departing, we invite a return, in the choicest terms of affectionate, or, at least, cordial interest; but if our friend is new enough to take us at our word, and pay the debt too soon, we complain, and say, "Oh dear! there's another call to make!"

A hint has already been dropt as to the grudging spirit of the thing, how we give as little as we can, and get all possible credit for it; and this is the way we do it. Having let the accounts against us become as numerous as is prudent, we draw up a list of our creditors, carefully districted as to residences, so as not to make more cross-journeys than are necessary in going the rounds. Then we array ourselves with all suitable splendour (this is a main point, and we often defer a call upon dear friends for weeks, waiting till the arrivals from Paris shall allow us to endue a new bonnet or mantilla), and, getting into a carriage, card-case in hand, give our list, corrected more anxiously than a price-current, into the keeping of the coachman, with directions to drive as fast as dignity will allow, in order that we may do as much execution as possible with the stone thus carefully smoothed. Arrived at the first house (which is always the one farthest off, for economy of time), we stop the servant inquires for the lady for whom our civility is intended, while we take out a card and hold it prominent on the carriage door, that not a moment may be lost in case a card is needed. ,,Not at home?" Ah then, with what pleased alacrity we commit the scrap of pasteboard to John, after having turned down a corner for each lady, if there are several, in this kind and propitious house. But if the answer is,,At home," all wears a different aspect. The card slips sadly back again into its silver citadel; we sigh, and say ,,Oh dear!" if nothing worse and then alighting with measured step, enter the drawing-room all smiles, and with polite words ready on our lips. Ten minutes of the weather the walking the opera family illnesses on-dits, and a little spice of scandal, or at least a shrug and a meaning look or two and the duty is done. We enter the carriage again urge the coachman to new speed, and go through the same ceremonies, hopes, regrets, and tittle-tattle, till dinner time, and then bless our stars that we have been able to make twenty calls ,,so many people were out."

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But this is only one side of the question. How is it with us when we receive visits? We enter here upon a deep mystery. Dear simple child of the woods and fields, did you ever hear of reception-days? If not, let us enlighten you a little.

The original idea of a reception-day is a charmingly social and friendly one. It is that the many engagements of city life, and the distances which must be traversed in order to visit several friends in one day, make it peculiarly desirable to know when we are sure to find each at home. It may seem strange that this idea should have occurred to people who are confessedly glad of the opportunity to leave a card, because it allows them time to despatch a greater number of visits at one round; but so it is. The very enormity of our practice sometimes leads to spasmodic efforts at reform. Appointing a reception-day is, therefore, or, rather, we should say, was intended to make morningcalls something besides a mere form. say you will always be at home on such a day, is to insure to your friends the pleasure of seeing you; and what a charming conversational circle might thus be gathered, without ceremony or restraint!

No wonder the fashion took at once. But what has fashion made of this plan, so simple, so rational, so in accordance with the best uses of visiting? Something as vapid and senseless as a court drawing-room, or the eternal bowings and compliments of the Chinese! You, artless blossom of the prairies, or belle of some rural city a thousand miles inland, should thank us for putting you on your guard against Utopian constructions of our social canons. When you come to town with your good father, and find that the lady of one of his city correspondents sets apart one morning of every week for the reception of her friends, do not imagine her to be necessarily a „,good soul,“ who hates to disappoint those who call on her, and therefore simply omits going out on that day lest she should miss them. You will find her enshrined in all that is grand and costly; her door guarded by servants, whose formal ushering will kill within you all hope of unaffected and kindly intercourse; her parlours glittering with all she can possibly accumulate that is recherché (that is a favourite word of hers), and her own person arrayed with all the solicitude of splendour that morning dress allows, and sometimes

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