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'home,' were to vanish. A houseless, forlorn wanderer on the face of the earth Poor Gerald-nay, rich Gerald-rich in fortitude and resolution-rich in a pure heart-rich in a high intellect rich in everything that is noble, good, and exalted!-mary a millionaire might have envied the penniless Gerald Mor

ton.

Robert Hunt followed his friend very soon to town, but had a weary search before he could discover him. He had passed from one gloomy, dirty street to another, till he reached, at length, a long, narrow avenue, lined with tall, dingy-looking brick houses, with that peculiarly melancholy expression which no houses but those in a city can possibly have. The very sunshine, as it streamned through, brought not a ray of gladness to the soul, but rendered the filth and misery more apparent. Robert's heart sank as he ascended the steps of one of them. Could Gerald live here? Children's cries met his ear, oaths and imprecations-everything spoke of poverty and distress. The slatternly woman who replied at length to his repeated summons, said that "she did not know whether Mr. Morton was in or not, but his room was in the third story, and he might see for himself." Robert opened the door and entered. Gerald was not there; and he surveyed the premises with a groan. A carpetless room, bare, dirty walls, the windows obscured by smoke and filth, and excepting a miserable cot and rickety chair, the apartment was entirely destitute of furniture. And Gerald lived here-Gerald Morton, whose life had been like a fairy-tale-victories, success, and happiness. Gerald, so luxuriously nurtured, so tenderly cherished; all that the most unbounded love and wealth could bestow, at his command! None of Robert Hunt's own miseries ever gave him the sense of exquisite pain, which he experienced for the first ten minutes in that wretched room. He covered his face with his hands, and groaned aloud. When he raised his head his eyes fell upon the pictures of his friend's father and mother, which rested in magnificent frames against the wall-most incongruous looking objects for such a place the sole link between Gerald's past and present existence. His mother's had been taken in the prime of life, and

love, and happiness: a radiant, joyful, beautiful face, fair and dimpling, with laughing eyes, and careless, unstudied, girlish grace, it stood out from the canvass; the head set so faultlessly, on the snowy, swelling throat, and one hand holding back the luxuriant waves of soft brown hair. It might have been Hope, or Eve in her innocence, or a Peri, or fairy, or creature celestial: not a sorrowing, yearning, care-stricken mortal. She died before a hope had withered. The picture diverted Robert even from his sorrowing thoughts; and as he was regarding it his friend entered. A cry of surprise, a warm embrace, tender, hurried, affectionate words, and Robert raised his head from his friend's shoulder, and looked at him. Gerald was weary; his face had grown thin and pale; his clothes were dusty, and looked old and shabby; yet there was something in his face which checked Robert's condolence and pity. It was neither pride nor reserve, but a collected, cheerful, confident look. His eye was bright and calm. No sickness of the soul was there. Poverty had done its work on the body; the cheek had grown pale and haggard; the manly, athletic figure, (even in that short space,) had wasted, but the heart was strong and firm. How could Robert pity him? He evidently did not pity himself. No! more than in his prosperous, successful days, Robert Hunt envied Gerald Morton. As he stood there leaning carelessly against the rough mantel-piece, the very room seemed light, and gay, and bright around him. Well, Gerald," said his friend.

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Well, Robert," he answered. With the first it was a question, the last was confirmatory. It was well with him. "What are your prospects?" continued Robert. I have none," answered his companion. Somebody, then, must have lelf you a little legacy, I'm sure,” said Robert, "for never a man spoke despairing words in that tone." No, Robert," answered Gerald, "I have neither prospects nor money, and am in a famous way of trying the experiment of the effect of starvation in brightening the wits." Robert looked aghast. "Where are all your friends, and your father's friends?'' "Why," said Gerald, "if I had any idea of being misanthropical, I might say I had none.-The truth is, dear Robert, everybody

in this world of ours is very much taken up with his Own plans,

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schemes, and interests, and has, consequently, little time to attend to other people's. I've no doubt I should have the sympathy and assistance of dozens, if they could take breath long enough to understand exactly my position. There are some, I acknowledge, to whom Gerald Morton, dressed comme il fait, in his father's handsome carriage, and Gerald Morton, dusty and on foot, are very different objects Is it possible you have found any difference?" asked Robert Hunt, hurriedly. "Certainly, my dear fellow, I expected it. I've been cut dead by numbers of my fashionable acquaintances. Mothers and daughters, who have hitherto been radiant and profuse in smiles and civilities, walk now, with most imperturba ble faces, past me, or dart into shops, anywhere to avoid speaking. One expects nothing more from them. They be long to the class, who, while you dress well, live well, talk gayly and lightly, and help them to fleet the time carelessly,' are the most delightful acquaintances in the world; but they vanish with the sunshine." Robert Hunt's face was eloquent with sympathy, anger, and grief. "Nay," continued Gerald, who saw the effect of his words, "Do not look so unhappy for me, dear Robert, for, indeed, I am not at all so; it is a long lane that knows no turning, and in the mean time I'm rich in hopes."

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We will pass over, (if you please,) a score or more of years, and bring no longer young Gerald, but getting-old Gerald, (some slight approaches manifest of relentless time,) before you. He was seated in a large arm-chair before a comfortable fire, and children of various sizes and ages were around him. A very pretty girl of seventeen stood leaning against his chair, and his face was turned towards her. 66 Now, father,"

she exclaimed, “ you have so often promised to tell us everything about yourself-not in snatches, but a nice long story, and you'll never do it; come, tell us to-night. Mr. Merchant said, the other day, that it was as good as a play. Everybody knows all about you but your own children." Plav! indeed," repeated Gerald Morton :Some parts of it rather like a tragedy,

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were they not, Louise?" he said, to Mrs. Gerald Morton, who sat on the other side of the fire-place. Well, now, father, this is not telling it," exclaimed Louise the Second: "come, do begin; tell us what you did when grandpa died." "I was left without a penny in the world, my dear-scarcely a decent suit of clothes; and for a short time there seemed to be a fair prospect of my starving." "That's contrary to your doctrine, father," exclaimed a roguish, saucy-looking boy; 66 you say nobody need starve that isn't bed-ridden." Nor need they," returned his father. "I didn't starve, but I labored under a disadvantage, my child, of which you'll never have to complain. I was the son of a rich father, and people set it down as a paradox, that as I had lived daintily, I could never work roughly; and while they were arguing the matter, I came (as I told you) very near starving. At length your mother's uncle, Mr. Rivers, concluded to make the experiment, giving me a mere pittance at first, then (as he saw I was fit for something) a very handsome salary, and even talked of taking me into the firm." "Then you fell in love with mother, didn't you?" interrupted Louise. "Yes," said Mr. Morton, "then your mother fell in love with me; and when we both went to ask (with the full expectation of obtaining them too) her uncle's blessings, we were received with a torrent of anathemas: and I favored particularly with the titles of beggar,'presumptuous, ungrateful,' and nobody knows what, till he cooled down with inquir ing, how the deuce I expected to maintain his niece?'" "And what did you say,-what did father say, moth

er ?"

"He looked very proud and superb for a moment or two," answered Mrs. Morton, "hurt and surprised, and a little bit angry. And then, with his irresistible way, (you know he has an irresistible way, when he chooses, Louise-."" He always has an irresistible way," replied his daughter, and she stooped, and kissed with the tenderest love, the clear, calm forehead turned towards her. "Well, he put on his most irresistible way then, and told your uncle, or rather my uncle, that he expected to maintain his wife as he maintained himself, by his own exertions ;-that he had no designs on his, (Mr. Rivers')

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miserable, unloved, prematurely-old man. Although singularly successful, without any effort of his own either, in all that is most prized in this world, yet the apparent blessings were changed to curses by the use he made of them. A distant relative died soon after he left college, and left him, by mere chance and caprice, a large fortune. Always generous, his father and sisters were handsomely provided for, and he became very much attached to a lovely girl, and appeared to be in a fair way of being happy at last, himself. But he got the idea that her whole family were violently in favor of the match for mercenary motives, and doing all in their power to bring affairs to a crisis. This produced a coolness and constraint on his part towards his mistress, and he ceased almost entirely in his attentions: she imagining that he had merely entertained himself flirting with her, and she was mistaken in ever supposing he had dreamt of any particular interest, married a man who had no such scruples. Her marriage opened Robert Hunt's eyes too late, and nearly killed him. He married, too, a very fine woman, but as he never had any great amount of love for her, their union was not a happy one. Honors fell thick upon him; he had every gift without solicitation that the sovereign people could bestow, but nothing could yield the peace and contentment which must have its source in the heart. And men, though they admired his genius, and respected his uprightness of character, feared and disliked him. His very children had a sense of awe and oppression in his presence, and it was like a shadow on the hearth when he entered. He saw it all, and it ate into his soul. He saw that the laugh and jest were hushed when he appeared; he saw that their caresses and love were lavished upon their mother, and that they gazed with fear and constraint in his face when he addressed them. And he knew it was all his own work, and he cursed himself for it, too. He did everything but govern himself and change. Did I say nobody loved him? Yes, Gerald Morton loved him yet, for he knew him to his heart of hearts, and loved him with a love passing the love of woman, for the deepest pity still lingered with it; and now was he going out this dark stormy night from his pleasant home to see him.

fortune, for he expected no more with me than if I was the niece of the poorest man in the land ;-that as to being a beggar,' presumptuous' and ungrateful,' he could not see what possible right he had to any of these remarkable appellations; and to conclude, that he had no idea of the thing meeting with Mr. Rivers' disapprobation, or he never should have offered himself to me, and now, of course, he would prosecute the affair no further; and he bid us both good evening." "What did you do, mother?" asked Louise. Why, I stood admiring him, and thinking how prince-like and noble he was, and all sorts of fond, foolish things, and yet being very much afraid I should have to go after him and declare I wouldn't be given up; but Mr. Rivers saved me the trouble, for he called out 'Do you know you are very impertinent, sir: and do you know you have a confoundedly cool, proud way of saying impudent things; and do you know that I like you all the better for it, you rascal? Take her; I'd rather she'd marry you without a penny, than the wealthiest man in the land."""Charming," exclaimed Louise; "now that certainly was quite like a play and you married mother?" "Yes," replied Gerald Morton, "and we lived with Mr. Rivers, and were very happy there, too; and he intended (the kind old man) to leave her most of his fortune, but died suddenly, without making his will, and she had but a most insignificant part, and was obliged to leave the house where she was bornwhere all her pleasant, childish days had been spent-""Just as you did, father, before," interrupted little Ben. "Yes-and then we went into a small, inconvenient house, with the plainest furniture in the world; but we were very happy there too-were we not, Louise?" "Happy! father," echoed his daughter, “I wonder where you wouldn't be happy? if you had only a crust of bread, you'd be happy." It was the same speech which Robert Hunt had made so many years before, and recalled his old friend and the scene on the bridge vividly. Poor Robert! his prophecy had worked its own accomplishment. "He should be just like his father, only worse." He had yielded, as it was his destiny, to his morbid tendencies, and was now a

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"Oh, don't go, father," exclaimed Louise, "we thought we should have such a pleasant evening." "And to see that cross Mr. Hunt," said little Jeannie, "I shouldn't think you'd want to go, father; his scowl is enough to frighten the heathen.” “Charlie Hunt says he wishes his father was half as pleasant as you, father," said Ben; "he told me the children were always so glad when he went away from home." Mr. Morton sighed heavily, but went all the more for the children's speeches. Louise's little fingers tied the muffler around his neck, and she kissed him, and begged him the last thing, "to come home very early." And leaving warmth, and light, and love, he went to face the cold, stormy night. It was a long walk, and his thoughts were of Robert Hunt, from the time he left his own till he reached his friend's house; not on his faults, but the generous, noble traits in his character, his womanly affection and ten

derness, at the time of his own great sorrow; his forgetfulness of self when the weal of those he loved was concerned. And Gerald Morton reproached himself that he had ever ceased his warning and encouragements, and let the coolness which seemed to have environed Robert like a crust, ever spring up between him and the friend of his early love. There were lights flashing from every window in Mr. Hunt's house. He rang, but nobody answered; and hearing loud shrieks, he walked in. A group had collected around Mrs. Hunt, who was lying on the stairs in violent convulsions. Mr. Hunt had cut his throat in a sudden fit. of insanity, when alone in the room with her, and in a vain cry at the top of the stair-case for assistance, she had fallen in her agony to the bottom. Medical assistance was called in, but life was extinct. He died a victim to an uncontrolled, miserable, morbid temper.

SOME TRANSLATIONS FROM UHLAND.

BY WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER.

UHLAND.

IT is the Poet Uhland from whose wreathings
Of rarest harmony, I here have drawn,
To lower tones and less melodious breathings,
Some simple strains of truth and passion born.

His is the poetry of sweet expression,

Of clear unfaltering tune, serene and strong; Where gentlest thoughts and words in soft procession, Move to the even measures of his song.

Delighting ever in his own calm fancies,

He sees much beauty where most men see nought, Looking at Nature with familiar glances,

And weaving garlands in the groves of Thought.

He sings of Youth, and Hope, and high Endeavor,*
He sings of Love, (oh crown of Poesie !)
Of Fate, and Sorrow, and the Grave, forever
The end of strife, the goal of Destiny.

Like his own minstrels

"Sie singen von Lenz und Liebe, von selger goldner Zeit,
Von Freiheit, Männerwürde, von Treu und Heiligkeit."

Des Sangers Fluck.

He sings of Fatherland, the minstrel's glory,
High theme of memory and hope divine,
Twining its fame with gems of antique story,
In Suabian songs and legends of the Rhine;

In Ballads breathing many a dim tradition,

Nourished in long belief or Minstrel rhymes, Fruit of the old Romance, whose gentle mission Passed from the earth before our wiser times.

Well do they know his name amongst the mountains,
And plains, and vallies of his native Land;
Part of their nature are the sparkling fountains
Of his clear thought, with rainbow fancies spanned.

His simple lays oft sings the mother cheerful
Beside the cradle in the dim twilight;
His plaintive notes low breathes the maiden tearful
With tender murmurs in the ear of Night.

The hill-side swain, the reaper in the meadows,
Carol his ditties through the toilsome day;
And the lone hunter in the Alpine shadows,
Recalls his ballads by some ruin gray.

Oh precious gift! oh wondrous inspiration!
Of all high deeds, of all harmonious things,
To be the Oracle, while a whole Nation
Catches the echo from the sounding strings.

Out of the depths of feeling and emotion
Rises the orb of Song, serenely bright,
As who beholds across the tracts of ocean,
The golden sunrise bursting into light.

Wide is its magic World,-divided neither
By continent, nor sea, nor narrow zone;
Who would not wish sometimes to travel thither,
In fancied fortunes to forget his own?

New-York, April, 1846.

THE BEGGAR.

A BEGGAR through the world so wide

I wander all alone;

Yet once a brighter fate was mine,
In days that long have flown.

Within my father's house I grew,
A happy child and free;
But ah! the heritage of want
Is all he left to me.

The gardens of the rich I view,
The fields with bounty spread;

My path is through the fruitless way,
Where toil and sorrow tread.

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