other, showing that it is not full. Probably the most perfect history that ever was written, so far as the use of all materials applicable to its scope was concerned, is Gibbon's Decline and Fall, &c. He collected these materials around him, until he seemed to sit in the midst of "Seven Hills" of authorities. The unremitting labor of a strong mind and a long life enabled him to reduce these hills into a magnificent slope, that smoothly and majestically descended from the first Cæsar to the last; and yet he settled almost nothing but the fact, that almost nothing could be satisfactorily settled. His decisions, made after a patient investigation which few minds could have made, have been questioned, and will continue to be questioned. His notes, after all, are the spice of his work; they give the sayings of those who lived with the Cæsars. We turn from Gibbon to them, as we would turn from the sound

of a modern voice, to voices coming from ages long past. Each page of his text, like a luxuriant modern sofa, seems to stand on these notes, which, like richly-carved antique feet, of all forms, peep out from beneath.

Thus it is with these letters-they are transcripts of the past. In the volume before us, Mr. Izard and his correspondents speak as they spoke in 1774, 75, &c., &c. It is not looking back upon far-removed and indistinct scenes with a spy-glass, which brings them back only in parts, and with changed dimensions; they give views taken at the time, and on the spot. We wish such views were greatly multiplied. Hence, we are pleased to see the volume before us, and will be pleased to see those which are to follow. Such leaves are, doubtless, much scattered, and becoming every year more

rare.

Those that can be gathered up are hence only the more valuable.

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"So Robert Hunt has taken himself off?" said Lewis Maynard, joining a group of students assembled on the college-grounds at S. "I do'nt wonder; what a deuced pretty rage he got into in the class this morning." "Why, I did not notice it-what did he do?" exclaimed a youth who had lately entered. "Do!" echoed the first speaker-"that's the beauty of it, he never does any thing. If he would hurl a book at the tutor's head, or knock somebody down in his wrath, it would be finishing the thing in a fine manly way. Instead of that, he turns red, then pale, trembles, clenches his hand, and is completely topsy-turvy for the rest of the day." "What was he angry at this morning?" returned the boy, who had before addressed him. Why, he's been trying for the valedictory ever since he entered college, and that great bully, George Addington, (is he anywhere near?) has been determined that he shall not succeed; and as he is too lazy and too stupid to oppose him studying, is purposed to do it by teasing; so ridicules, mocks and sneers at Robert, till he is just fit for the lunatic asylum. I'd fight him if I was beat to a jelly for it, or else be cool and indifferent, and take no notice of his batteries, for he'd stop soon enough if he saw it did not tease. But Robert Hunt is too cowardly for the first, and too much of a baby for the last. I wonder, for my part, why his mother did not keep him at home in pin-a-fores. But where has he gone?" "Down to the bridge with Gerald Morton," answered one of his companions. "Yes," continued Lewis Maynard, who had worked himself up into something of a rage: "I suppose Gerald is giving him a sugar-plumb, as usual, and that he'll walk him back again quite cooled down. I cannot imagine how Gerald can take such an interest in the puppy, unless Bob has a rich father, uncle, or something else, and he expects in one way or another to get paid for it." "Robert's father

has not as many dollars as Gerald's has thousands," interrupted one of those quiet, yet commanding voices, which make themselves heard-" and Robert Hunt is no coward, as you, and you, and you," and he pointed to one and another of the group, and then paused, with an emphatic you, at Lewis Maynard, "can testify, who saw him, at the risk of his own life, last winter pull little Dan Allan out of the river. Robert is no coward, but he considers it vulgar and ungentlemanly to fight, and is unhappily too sensitive to adopt the other alternative, and endure with stoicism the rough-and-tumble of this work-a-day world.' But I do not wonder that you, Lewis Maynard," and he pointed again at the youth who had been chief orator, "cannot understand this, any more than you can imagine how Gerald Morton can have no other motive than self-interest for his kindness to him." The boys, with one involuntary movement, turned and looked at the individual addressed; one near him whispered, "Will you stand that, Lewis ?" and after a pause of five minutes, "Coward-coward," was uttered by different voices in the group. Lewis Maynard's face had changed from red to pale, and pale to red, several times during the brief interval, but at the opprobrious term his eye flashed, and glancing around at his companions, he exclaimed, in a firm tone-"I am no coward, and I'll fight the one who dares call me so; but I did wrong, I acknowledge, in accusing Gerald Morton of anything mean, and selfish, and interested. I did very wrong," he repeated, "and I desire all, who heard me make the accusation, hear me retract it. Gerald is as noble a fellow as ever lived, and I only wonder how he can endure that little, snivelling Robert Hunt. Richard Graham," he continued, walking up to the youth who had corrected him, "your reproof was deserved; but I beg that you'll take back what you said, as to my not un

derstanding anything noble and generous, however deficient I may be in these qualities myself. I certainly have the capacity and heart to admire them." "I do take it back," answered the individual addressed, warmly grasping the proffered hand, "I fully and entirely take it back; for much as I may have doubted your nobility and generosity before, you have eloquently proved yourself possessed of both, this morning." "And now, boys," cried Lewis Maynard, after a moment's silence, throwing himself into a pugilistic attitude-"Who's for a fight?" Nobody accepted the challenge; and the bell ringing soon after, each individual hurriedly obeyed the summons, having gained, perhaps, some new ideas as to what true courage, nobility, and generosity were, in the brief interval. Love was the motive of Gerald Morton's kindness to Robert Hunt-disinterested, ardent affection, which fills young hearts, aye, and old hearts too, (to the exclusion of every mean and unworthy feeling,) oftener than some people in this world will allow-Love, in spite of his weaknesses, or rather the more for them, for the deepest pity added strength to his affection. He had, as the boys said, led Robert away, but for some time he did not speak, leaving the soft sweet air and thousand sights of rural summer beauty beneath their eyes, to exert their tranquilizing influence, before he addressed his companion. At length they reached the bridge which spanned the river, where Robert, unable any longer to endure the violence of his suppressed emotions, flung off the affectionate clasp on his shoulders, and resting his head on the railing of the bridge, burst into an uncontrollable fit of tears. "Yes, despise me as you will," he exclaimed, "you cannot despise me more than I do myself; and as I have given way to the most unmanly anger, I may as well yield to these unmanly tears." Despise you. Robert?" repeated his companion, in a sorrowful tone, "how little you know what is in my heart." The boy was, perhaps, struck by the sincerity and emotion in the speaker's voice, for he raised his head, and gazed long and inquiringly in the other's face. "Gerald," he exclaimed, at length, "Gerald Morton, I believe whole heart and soul I believe you; love and pity you

you,

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with my

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feel for me, but not contempt. You are all that is fair, and frank, and noble,— but I-what am I?" and the boy, with a gesture of despair, buried his face again in his hands. Your greatest fault is this undervaluing of yourself, dear Robert," said his companion, kindly. "You exaggerate your faults or rather infirmities, to a most frightful extent, and then start in horror from the phantom you yourself have raised." No! there is no exaggerating them," returned Robert, sadly. "Have I not again and again vowed to myself, and vowed to you, that I would not let that fool, idiot, that puppy of a fellow," he muttered between his compressed teeth

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"George Addington, by his contemptible tricks rouse me to anger, and yet do I not daily yield to the temptation? But oh, Gerald-if you knew the bitter pride that poverty makes, and if you knew the hell upon earth I endure with this suspicious, sensitive temper of mine, you would indeed give me your deepest pity and sympathy." "You have them now-you have them now," said his companion, in a choked and agitated voice. "A child's glance will at times almost madden me," he continued, scarcely regarding the interruption; "every feeling that I have in the world seems to be a curse to me. I never look at my sisters' grace and beauty, but I gnash my teeth at the thought, that they will be sacrificed to some uncouth booby who has money, or waste their lives in the dreary, desolating struggle with poverty, which killed my poor mother. My father's gloom and misanthropy check the tenderness which should fill to the fount a child's nature; but I think how different he might have been, had fortune been kinder; and I have the picture of an old age like his before me, sternness and harshness, a distress to himself, and a terror to everybody else. I shall be just like him, only worse." Stop! Robert, stop!" exclaimed Gerald Morton-" do not talk any more such wild and desperate, nay, they are wicked words. We have each our destiny in our own hands, to make or mar, as we will. No man, unless he desires, need be the victim of circumstances. We must control fortune, not be governed by itshape our own way, not follow in gloom and despair that which the veriest trifles have made for us; and, my dear,

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dear Robert, your father's errors, inasmuch as you feel the germs of them in your own bosom, should be viewed with the greatest leniency and tenderness; at the same time that you resolve with all your strength, and might, and power, not to yield the eightieth part of an inch to these baleful, morbid tendencies.". Yes," said Robert, looking with a despairing admiration at his companion, you can talk like an angel—and what is more-you can act like one. Ah, Gerald, why must you have everything? wealth, love, genius, and a temper that would make life with a crust of bread happy." "Not quite," answered Gerald Morton, laughingly; "but as you have set me the example in flattery, I'll turn the tables on you. Let lady Fortune go for once, we'll see what Nature has given you a handsome face, a graceful and goodly outside-you can't deny that, Bob; a very wise head for such a young pair of shoulders. President Mason asserts it, the whole college acknowledges it; and a heart full of strong affections, and warm admiration for everything that is lovely and of good repute. The only shadow on the picture you've thrown yourself; for never tell me that a man endowed so liberally, cannot fight the foul fiends, melancholy and despair, even unto the death. I tell you, Robert Hunt, you make your own troubles." "And poverty?" asked his companion, reassured and strengthened by his words. Poverty!" echoed Gerald Morton, almost scornfully. "What man with a head and hand in this country need fear poverty; a competency is within the reach of all who have ordinary talent and prudence, and what do you want more?" Little did Gerald reck the need he'd soon have of the fortitude and resolution he was so commending. On the afternoon of that same day, as he was alone in his room, he received a message from the President, requesting his immediate presence. My dear young friend, I have bad news for you," exclaimed the kindhearted old man, when Gerald appeared (breathless and glowing with his haste) before him. 66 My father has failed, then?" asked Gerald Morton." Well, sir, I've thought such a thing very possible; a merchant's is the most precarious life under the sun; but that is not such very bad news, for in my philosophy, sir, poverty is no evil." "Your

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father has failed," answered the President, hesitatingly" but, my dear Gerald, it is not that alone: can you bear something worse?" A dim dreadful apprehension slowly seized Gerald Morton, he trembled violently, his face grew deathly pale. “Oh! sir, do not say, do not say he's dead"-he wildly exclaimed; "do not cut off all hope. Tell me that he has but the feeblest breath of life in him, that I'll once more hear him call Gerald,' and I'll bless you;' and he awaited in breathless agony the one little word from his companion; but it was not spoken. "No! no!" shrieked Gerald Morton, throwing his arms frantically over his head-" he's dead! he's dead!" and fell senseless on the floor. When Gerald revived, a number of his companions were around him, and Robert Hunt was kneeling on the floor by his side, bathing his face with some strong perfume. He gazed at first from one to the other in amazement, but catching a glance at the President's face, the whole melancholy truth flashed across him. He covered his face with his hands. "How did it happen, sir?" said he at length, in a choked, subdued tone.

The President made a sign, and the collegians left the room, all save Robert Hunt, who, with the keenest love and sympathy on his face, still retained his kneeling position by the side of his friend. "Can you bear to hear it yet, Gerald ?" asked the President. "Yes, sir," answered the youth. But oh! in how different a tone from the clear, hopeful one of the morning—such a subdued, quiet despair in the voice. "I think you better wait till to-morrow, my son," persisted the kind old man.

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Oh no, sir, tell me now," said Gerald, with a beseeching look. "Your first supposition was correct," began the President-"the firm of Morton, Atkinson & Co. are bankrupt, owing to the embezzlements and villainy of one of the junior partners, who fled as soon as it was discovered. Mr. Atkinson went immediately down to your father's house to consult with him, and take the necessary steps about the matter. They sat up till late that night talking; indeed it was two o'clock before Mr. A. left him, and the servants found him in the morning in the same position, in an arm-chair, before a table covered with papers; but he was dead, quite dead. A disease

of the heart-so the physicians say --which he has had for years, and this sudden shock killed him. The last words he said, as he pressed Mr. Atkinson's hand at parting, were, "I can bear this very well; but my poor boy-." "I think I'd better go to my room," said Gerald faintly. He had overrated his own strength; each word was a dagger to his heart. "And now leave me for a short time, Robert," he exclaimed, as his faithful friend assisted him to a seat; "a little time alone, and then I'll see you." And Robert went out and left him with his grief. "Oh! I have had such wicked thoughts," said Gerald Morton, holding out his hand to his friend some two hours after-" such wild, wicked thoughts. To think that that ́man's villany killed my father; to think he was murdered, absolutely murderedRobert, it drives me mad. He might have been in prosperity and comparative health now, but for that scoundrel. Ah! Robert, you need not tell me this is wrong-I know it-it is all as it should be; this man was but the instrument of one who doeth all things well." And in spite of his firm, manly heart, Gerald Morton burst into an agony of tears. "We loved each other so dearly," he continued; "I was but a baby, three years old, when my mother died, and he was father, mother, all to me. Ah! what more than feminine gentleness and patience he lavished upon me. He never gave me but a look, Robert-it was sufficient to subdue all my childish petulance, and I kept not my highest thought from him. Father father" and with that wild cry Gerald rose up strong and firm; his face was pale, but his voice was once more clear and calm. "I need not ask you, President Mason," he said, going to that gentleman's apartment some hours after, "whether you'll trust me for the payment of my last year's expenses here. I know you will, sir; and now, with many, many thanks for all your kindness-good-bye." The President pressed his hand, but was too much overcome to reply; and when he raised his head, Gerald was gone. With the money in his possession, he paid all his little debts; the only one remaining of any consequence, was for keeping a horse which had died a fortnight before. He described his posi

tion briefly to Mr. Jenkins, and said, on going out, that he would send the money as soon as possible. "Aye, aye," muttered the man, "fair words cost little-what business had a beggar's brat to be keeping a horse?" Gerald's blood boiled; his first impulse was to fell the man to the earth. "He's poor, however," was his next thought; "he's goaded to harshness by poverty." And then a vision of this poverty, dark and cheerless, rose before him— abusive words, cold looks, neglect and suffering, with not a ray of love or tenderness to gleam across his path; and it recalled his one master-griefhis father! What were all, if he had but his father! Gerald paused; a comforting, blessed thought rose within his heart. Could his father have endured poverty, with age, and sickness, and increasing infirmities in its train ?

Could he relinquish the luxuries which habit had rendered necessary; emerge from the intellectual, melancholy seclusion in which for years he had buried himself, and without youth or hope, and their thousand bright words of encouragement, wrestle once more with the world? He could not-he was therefore removed in mercy; and on that wretched night, from his misery and destitution, Gerald thanked God that he had taken away his father. His heart was light that he alone was to suffer. He wept, but it was with happiness, and a strong, bold, resolute spirit as of yore, possessed him. He could do all, he could endure all. His father had borne the pang but for an evening; it was lightened to him therefore, for a life-time.

It was several days after the funeral, a gay, sunny day,

"When flowers and trees, and birds and bees,

Most beautiful things,"

were doing their utmost to make earth glad.

Human hearts nature, alas! has in her keeping. Gerald's head rested on the garden-gate. He had taken his farewell of his home. The next day there was to be an auction, and the place itself, and every vestige and remnant of the old familiar things, were to pass into the hands of strangers.

All that sweet childish reminiscences had endeared; all that made