Nile-Radiation of Heat, 32; Prussian Or- Monument-Locusts-Inundations, WALTER AND MABEL. From the Dublin University Magazine. First love is a disease that none confess; Second, 'tis a disease no lecch can cure. -The case occurs in every day That rises on us-only some are tough And will not die, let happen what there may; These are not few: still there are left enough Too fragile to encounter storms so rough, That pine and pine away till health is flown And till life follows-while some lying stuff Tells on their tomb, that cough or fever, grown Triumphant o'er their strength, laid them beneath that stone. IRENE-BY LADY NORTHAMPTON. THE storm of the 6th of January, 1839, will be long remembered in those parts where its fury raged. Picturesque old ruins, the pride and boast of the neighborhood they adorned, whose sturdy gables and battlements had stood out bravely against many an assault, yielded that night and fell, a shapeless mass-the faithful ivy still clinging closely to the old gray stones and time-stained fragments. Grievous was the devastation in forest, park, and demesne; their goodliest ornaments were laid low. The elm, as more brittle than other trees, and having less firm hold of the soil, VOL. V.-No. I. 1 especially suffered; many, of great age, were either snapped across or torn up by the roots; and sad to the aching eyes of their possessors, was the spectacle of their stately forms, mangled, crushed, and disfigured, lying about in wild confusion, encumbering what they had adorned, or stretched across the avenue of which they had been, from time immemorial, the guardians and the pride. There is something, even to the most uninterested spectator, very moving in the sight of a noble tree lying prostrate-we are, ourselves, so puny and ephemeral in comparison, in stature, strength, and duration! Our little span of life with all its hopes, struggles, passions, and ambition, dwindles into such insignificance when we contemplate the patriarch of the forest, who has seen generation after generation of human beings spring up, flourish, and decay; and who, in green vigor still, will yet look down upon fresh generations for long years after we have crumbled into dust. An irresistible feeling of veneration fills the mind at the thought. And when we consider the length of time it takes to form the lusty trunk and giant limbs-the slow gradual growth-the spring showers, and summer suns, autumn dews, and win try storms, that have passed over its honor- how void of interest and importance seemed ed head-the children that have sported all the din outside compared to the struggle beneath its shade-the cattle that have of contending feelings, the tumult and the sought shelter from the blast-the innumer- strife in that poor human heart! Vain was able birds, the countless myriads of shining the fury of the hurricane; we heard it not, insects, that have found a home and suste- engrossed in anxious counsel. The sheetnance among its pleasant branches; when ed rain was driven against the windows in we think of all this, it seems almost sacri- fierce and angry torrents; but within flowlege to fell a fine old tree. The produce ed the bitter" waters of the heart," wrung and the existence of ages demolished in a from wounded love and hope deferred to few hours! a living, acting being, " done lead but to anguish and despair. Who to death;" its teeming bosom, giving sweet could attend to jarring elements, however promise of buds, and leaves, and glorious loud, when a conflict like this so deep, so verdure-or, still sadder sight, that verdure, all-absorbing, was going on? in fresh and full luxuriance, doomed--from "dancing lightly on the topmost spray," in the clear azure of heaven, and reflecting the sunbeams on every bright-green silken leaf, to lie a crushed and withering mass, soiled and bedabbled in the mire. There are many who disbelieve the doctrine of broken hearts, and laugh to scorn, as romantic and fanciful, the idea of dying of disappointed love. Could these skeptics have witnessed what I did that stormy night-had they followed, step by step, in Every dwelling-house, barn, and hay- all its sad passages, the narrative of her rick, that lay in the course swept by the whose wce made me unmindful of all beside, hurricane, suffered more or less that night. they would have given up their cold theoRoofs were blown off, windows forced in, ries. Alas! these cases are more common and the terrified inmates spent the hours than we suppose. It is because they are of repose in hurrying from room to rcom unknown that they are disbelieved. There of their houses, barricadoing doors and is no secret shrouded with such jealous windows, repairing breaches, and carrying their children and whatever was most precious in the way of ornamental china, clocks, and bijouterie, into a place of safety, where the storm had least effect. care within the breast of its possessor as Pine and pine away, till health is flown that stone. 66 I can never call to mind that night, which to so many suggests images of physical danger and alarm, of raging winds and struggling elements, without thinking of a mental conflict of which I was the witness, and, as far as regards sympathy, a sharer, during its hours; and, with the remembrance, there ever comes the conviction of how much more deeply we are affected by the contemplation of internal feelings and To avoid initials, I shall call the heroine emotions than by any external event passing of this ower true tale" Mabel and her bearound us. loved one Walter. She was one of my Our dwelling was comparatively shelter- earliest and dearest friends. I need not ed from the storm; at least we did not suf-describe her, for the well known print of fer as much as many of our neighbors. No Byron's "Maid of Athens" will convey a windows were blown in; and, by midnight, better idea of her appearance than any deany damage done had been so far repaired, scription my pen could attempt. Had she and the precautions taken pronounced so far sat for the likeness of the Grecian girl, imeffectual, that no more injuries were appre-mortalized by poet and artist, the resemhended. The roar of the tempest, howev-blance could not have been more perfect. er, was awful. The house shook and rock- The same gracefully bending figure, full ed from top to bottom; not an eye within its walls was closed in sleep; no one even thought of retiring to rest. But there was one among the watchers who paid little attention to the raging storm. I was the companion of her vigil; and, oh! throat, and classical contour of head. The same rounded cheek, intellectual forehead, and arched brow delicately pencilled. And then her eyes! so dark, so large, so soft, so rich, so velouté; so full of deep tender meaning, so intensely affectionate in |
