As I lay one night, wakeful with some uneasy thoughts, I heard my friend's voice in the next room, talking passionately with himself. A moment after, he came muttering into my chamber, and, evidently supposing me asleep, took down his skates which hung in the closet, and left the house. I dressed myself hastily, and took my own skates, and, descending to the shore-edge, found him as I expected, upon the ice. He turned his head as I stopped, but, accustomed to my presence at such times, he did not speak. As I fastened the last buckle around my ankle, he sprang upon his feet, and with the long safety rod in his hand (carried always in that part of the country as a security against the holes in the ice) he shot away down the Lake like the wind. We were both tall men and excellent skaters. The ice had frozen in a dead calm, and was without a flaw for miles along the shore, and with a strong westerly breeze directly in our backs, we skimmed it like birds. For the first mile or two I was occupied with the simple exhiliration of the exercise. The extreme polish of the ice sent us forward with very slight exertion at great speed, and it seemed to me as if we shot over the long shadows from the shore with a superhuman swiftness. We kept down, following the curve of the bank, where the water, from the shelter of the land, had frozen smoothest, till I saw by some marks familiar to me that we were ten miles from home. Still my companion led on. His strength seemed unabated, and leaning forward eagerly, he threw out his limbs in long and powerful strides, speaking not a word, nor even turning his head when we passed, as we did occasionally, the glare of a hunter's fire. I began to grow fatigued, but at the same time my interest in the adventure assumed a wildness which I tried in vain to shake off. The extreme rapidity of our motion, the dim haze of the moonlight, the partial distinctness of the naked trees on shore, and, when we crossed a longer shadow than usual, the transparency of the ice, reflecting every star as distinctly as a mirror far beneath us, all combined with the knowledge that I was following one who was wild with a mysterious fear, in exciting and bewildering my imagination. I could not speak to him. My heart rose in my throat at the effort. Another hour we skated on before the wind in silence. My limbs began to grow stiff, and obeyed mechanically and painfully the impulse of motion. Hill after hill went by, and I began to see more rarely the objects with which I had become familiar in my Summer excursions. We were getting beyond the point of my most adventurous voyages. The shore grew bolder and wilder, and the fires of

the hunters occurred more rarely, and still my companion's speed was unslackened. With my greatest efforts I could not overtake him. He was a better skater than I, and, with an instinctive quickness, he instantly apprehended my intention, and sprang on with increased velocity at the attempt.. My eyes began to grow dizzy. I have an indistinct remembrance of skating on and on, long after I ceased to feel or notice anything but the necessity for following the figure before me, and I remember nothing more till I was awakened by a rough shake in broad daylight. The embers of a large fire were glowing round a stump near me, my friend lay soundly asleep with his head across my body, and through a break in the trees I could see the broad icy bosom of the Lake stretching away in the clear light of the morning with a look of almost interminable distance to the opposite shore. It was with some difficulty that I could stir. With the help of the hospitable hunter who had granted my friend's request for a shelter by his fire, I gained my feet, and after a walk of three or four miles to a farm house, procured a sleigh, with which, after a cold drive of forty miles we reached home at noon.

1

Such was the hour-the voice is still
Which swept yon arch, and madly loud
Leaped like an impulse o'er the hill,
Or trembled on the maniac cloud.
The bird of eve has plumed his wing,
And sailing on the fragrant breeze,
Or on his vine tree slumbering,
Drinks in the thousand harmonies,
Which float along o'er earth and sea,
In one sweet gush of melody.

The stars are gathering, and so fair
Upon the flowers the dew is glistening,
"Twould e'en appear a song were there,
Had we but fairy powers of listening.
And the still bosom of the sea

Reflects the spangled hosts of heaven,
In its cold heart so silently,

"Twould almost seem the power were given
To search beyond yon ether sky,
And gaze upon eternity.

Like that wild impulse, which oft springs
When leaving this cold world of ours,
And borrowing fancy's glorious wings,
We float to heaven on breaths of flowers,
And dreaming on that world unknown,
We roam from star to star along,
And list to catch one glorious tone,
One echo of the angel's song-
Oh! what elysium thus to be
One joyous hour on fancy's sea!

Oh! there are moments when the soul
Would lose of earthliness the dream,
Roam like the breeze without control,
And muse upon that Power Supreme,
Till wandering, half joy, half fear,
Her thoughts are in the blue sky sleeping,
And that glad music greets her ear,
As she her starlight path is keeping-
How glorious thus from earth to rise,
And read her index in the skies!

Beautiful is the evening's hour,

When the war-cloud is summoned back,
And Iris forms her prismal bower

Where the wild lightning wheeled its track-
Yet there are hearts would idly dare,
While gazing on that starry crowd,

To doubt the Hand that guides them there,
And tinged with gold yon twilight cloud,
Who give to Chance the wondrous power
Of breathing beauty in a flower.

Be theirs a life with nought to bless-
An age of cold and senseless hours!
Their path one leafless wilderness
Of phantom joys and withered flowers!
For if there be a paradise

To glad us here, it is to feel

That all beneath those blue arched skies
Has some sweet mystery to reveal-
That every beautiful plant was given
An embryo of some joy in Heaven.

THE PIRATE'S DEATH.

THE Summer breeze burst cheerily
Upon the Spanish Main,

The swelling canvass bowed the mast,
And bowed it not in vain ;

For on before the blithesome wind

The dancing vessel flew

Her prow with sparkling foam-stars gemmed

The waves' transparent blue.

Good need had they for speed that day,

For fleetness in the race,

For close behind the pirate ship
Another gave her chase-

They gained upon the flying bark,
And mounting to the mast,
Up flew the rover's crimson flag,
To stream upon the blast.

And thus the Pirate Chieftain said :-
"Our race is not yet run,

There's yet a voice to speak for us

In thunder from the gun.

The hearts that quailed not at the storm,
In darkness and in night,

'Midst falling spars and drooping masts,
Shall shrink not from the fight.

"And should we fail-a noble death,
A glorious grave is ours!

We'll lay our war-torn frames amidst
The ocean's coral bowers.
The spirits of the land may sleep
Where worms can mark their prey-
Our grave shall be the pearly grot
Where blue-eyed mermaids play.

TOM LASCELLES! walk in! Sit down there in that red morocco "lap-me-delightfully," and spread yourself upon the three adjacent chairs. Alfonse! Mr. Lascelles's hat. Ugolino! put up your long nose for those gloves and toss them upon the table. Steadily, Sir! steadily!-pshaw! Buckingham abuse you! Try again-one, two, three! up with them! -human fingers could not have done it more daintily.

And now, my dear dandy, how are you? Seeing your French gloves reminds me of the French Revolution. What a beautiful affair they made of it! Trouble yourself to imagine a