ther-whither?—is the question ever suggested. The bleak, cutting wind, the driving snow, the wet pavements, the stern, dark, proud mansions of the rich, sometimes closed as the gates of Paradise, at others, shining and illusive in their light, as the palaces of fairyland; the temples of pleasure or infamy-places of idle or degrading traffic -the hovels of unmitigated, hopeless wretchedness--the hoarse, brutal mirth of drunken savages-the mad laugh of fallen woman-the whine of importunate beggar-the hungry gaze of ragged, shivering wanderer-the shrill wail of neglected, or houseless childthe yelping howl of the half-starved, slouching dog-the sobbing, panting hack, unable to spring, even when the lash cuts his quivering flesh-the loud prancing tread, and deep, steady roll of the horses and carriages of luxurious wealth, bearing the sons and daughters of opulence, unheeding all but their own short dream of pleasure,-unite in a portentous whole, over which we pause breathless, and whisper to our own souls-Is this the world as Almighty Benevolence has decreed? Is it thus to remain, with its awful predominance of contagious and reproducing evil? or when, and how, will come the mysterious, the unsearchable, the unimaginable End?

After returning late one December night from an evening party, I retired to my room in the Hotel; and throwing aside part of my dress, in the weariness of a satiated spirit, sat down enveloped in a robe de chambre opposite a bright fire that cheerily blazed up, throwing through the apartment, and over the furniture, its warm, ruddy glow, delightfully contrasted with the chill, damp, sleety streets, I had left a moment before. Trimming my lamp, I opened a pleasant volume of romance, not feeling inclined to severer study; and becoming interested in the story, some time passed unnoted. The sounds of those going to and from the different chambers near me, had ceased, and all seemed wrapped in the repose of midnight. Just then, some brawlers beneath my windows, which opened on the street, commenced hallooing, swearing, clapping hands, and with various discordant noises put to flight completely the visions my novelist had conjured about me.

Laughter, mingled with execrations, and above all occasionally a wild tremu

lous note of music, aroused my curiosity. I opened a window, and bending forward, tried to discover in the shadowy gloom beneath, what a knot of vagabond boys and men had found for the hour's brutaľ amusement. Diagonally opposite was a house of entertainment,—an oyster shop, or cellar, I believe,-before which flared a large, revolving lamp, that threw a strong light on the street around. Two or three half-famished and ragged men were looking on with stolid indifference, at about a dozen boys, filthy and scant of clothing, with faces prematurely haggard with misery and lined with vice, who were clapping, shouting, and leaping like imps of darkness, about a woman, in a light, thin gown, having a tambourine in her hand, which she twirled and struck from time to time, while executing as well as she was able, on the slippery pavement, the steps of some nondescript dance. She frequently lost her balance, and it was at each stagger, or fall, that the yells of applause and mockery became loudest. The good Dogberrys and their satellites of the city, were no doubt snugly snoozing out the inclement night in their warm houses, so that these wretched creatures continued undisturbed in their squalid riot.

"Sing, sing!" bellowed the biggest boys, "sing, as well as dance, you French

יין.

But I cannot put down the vile vernacular of our streets. I am incompetent, as well as unwilling, to record the grossness of these miserable beings, for the amusement of the pure and innocent. And the woman sang, or ra-ther shrieked tuneless the sounds were, except when a chance note of rare melody told how richly that voice might once have revelled in harmony. German waltzes, Spanish, French romances, were tried in succession, without exhausting the demands of her audience. She stopped, panting with exertion, cold as the night was, and thinly as her garments covered her. She spoke something which did not reach my ear; though I had no difficulty in conjecturing it, when one of the crew poured out of a can something she took, and swallowed with avidity. Again she leaped forth, poised on one foot, twirled round and round, flung up her tambourine, struck it boldly to her renewed song, and again I recognized the father's favorite " Die Gedanken sind frey, wir kan si ser rathen!" But

no music was there a raven croak, a squeaking trill, had succeeded to the mellifluous gushes of melody that floated in my memory fresh and thrillingly clear, as when first breathed in the saloon by the fair blue Rhine.

"This time, at least," I said, springing up," she shall not escape me."

Throwing aside my dressing-gown and slippers, my coat and boots were on in a moment. Down I rushed, and nearly upset a sleepy waiter, who was standing ready to close the hotel doors for the night. "Come," said I, "my lad, follow me."

I was in the street, and in that instant a wild scream, ending in a protracted groan, burst from the midst of the squalid group towards which I ran. Pushing them aside, I saw the poor woman had, in finishing her dance, fallen, and they told me her leg was broken. I desired some of the loungers to help us with her to the door of the Hotel. At the slightest motion she shrieked in agony, but we carried her up the steps into the hall; and there, the master of the house, disturbed by the unusual bustle, met me, and civilly inquired why she was not taken to the Hospital-he could not have his house made a "repository for beggars, or worse. "Never mind," I whispered, and satisfied him for the time. One of the gentlemen lodgers was a skillful surgeon; he had heard the confusion, and came down also to learn the cause of the unusual noise. The necessary articles were soon procured; the limb set and bandaged; part of her clothes changed; and the miserable sufferer placed in a comfortable bed. I engaged one of the housemaids to sit up with her; and from time to time I went myself to the room, to see how she was resting. Next morning Mr. Boniface insisted she should be taken away; and indeed the surgeon advised the city Hospital as the best place for attendance and comfort. I went there, and obtained an apartment separate from the other patients; found a steady, sober nurse; engaged the sympathies of the physicians in my protégée's favor; and saw her safely transferred to the care of those respectable persons, with tolerable hope of her speedy restoration to health, and ameliorated prospects for the future.

But the days of Clotilde were numbered. She was then far gone in con

sumption. I had immediately written to her uncle to come for her, if he could, but before my letter was answered, I had followed Clotilde to the grave.

When I first visited her, she did not recollect me; but when reminded of my former introduction to her notice, her heart was touched with early memories, and tears, the first, perhaps, those faded eyes had ever shed,-tears hot and bitter,-fell slowly, one by one, on her clasped hands. After some weeks of constant intercourse, in which I exerted myself to the best of my ability to comfort and soothe the poor creature, and lead back her passiontossed and guilt-stained mind, through the blessed and ever open portal of repentance, into a condition better beseeming that of her fast sinking frame-(a task in which the voiceless eloquence of THE BOOK wherein I sought the best and only effectual aid, performed by far the greater part)—she expressed a desire that I should listen to a short account of her life since our meeting in by-gone years. It is impossible to convey the grace or pathos of her own words to paper, but as nearly as I can, I will relate it as she told me; not repeating the first part of her story, which has been already slightly but sufficiently detailed.

Leaving all that early time, Mr. H, to be spoken of no more, let me tell you why my life became so embittered after my marriage. Rosenfeld loved me with the passionate energy of his nature; but it was as his amusement in hours of relaxation; as the graceful mistress of his household; as the jewelled idol of his pride. He never confided in me-he never trusted me; his schemes, his busy schemes were never unfolded to me; nor was I called on for sympathy or opinion. I could but now and then detect the result of some half heard conversation with his confidants; the machinery was all a mystery. equality of interests. I longed to know and to advise. I had perhaps a little too much of an inquisitive nature, and rated too highly my own powers of intellect, which, it most deeply mortified me to find, were overlooked, or worse, despised by Rosenfeld. His conversation never went beyond a few caressing epithets. My poor Fido, my little greyhound, was treated upon more equal terms by me, than was his wife

There was no

by Rosenfeld. Luigi staid a good deal at the villa. Stories ran, and laughs annoyed me, about Rosenfeld's solicitous attendance at the soirées of Prince M's acknowledged mistress. I was piqued, if not jealous. Jealous I could not have been, for I did not love him enough to be thoroughly jealous. When the first affections of a warm heart are thrown back on itself, they soon cool, and die away, almost unperceived by the possessor. Luigi was useful to me-necessary as a companion; we were of the same age, the same tastes-I never thought of harm, but indeed Luigi did; he was still lamenting of the wrong he was doing, while I saw nothing wrong in our natural friendship and daily association. It would have been easy to have repulsed Luigi; wildly as he loved me, I had but to command, and be obeyed. He would have gone, and I need never have descended from my palmy height for him. But I did not.-God knows why I fled with him!-I have often thought how little I understood myself. I believed it was love. Oh, Mr. HI never loved!-never, as I am sure I was capable of loving! Rosenfeld might have been the object of my heart's enthusiasm, but then he must have pursued a different system with me. No, I never loved, as I have heard, and seen, and read of love, and as I have been loved, Mr. H- ; for Rosenfeld and Luigi each poured out the full treasure of their hearts, as well as they knew how-as much as they in their natures, could feel, and express of devotion; but it was not the wealth of love I wanted, and which alone would content my unregulated and passionate imagination.

"Day after day, I discovered how weakly I had flung away reputation and peace, for one whom I felt inferior to myself, that is, inferior in acquirements, in intellect, in strength of mind, and firmness of purpose-but oh, far surpassing in deep tenderness, in good. ness of heart, in everything amiable and sincere. It is for Luigi I most mourn -and the fate I brought him to. I reproach myself less about Rosenfeld. He might have made me a different woman. I was plastic beneath his hands, but he would not take the pains to mould my capacities to the forms of beauty and truth he idealized in others. "When I met young Sand in Paris, I

was still untamably wilful and proud. The demon in me was yet unsubdued. My own parents were dead. I knew my uncle Otho was morose, and, as I in my insane impiety regarded him, overscrupulous in religion. Oh, I could never -so I thought-have lived through his years of homilies! I was indeed frenzied! No fortune-my inheritance left bound up in that sullen uncle's keeping -a prey to serpent griefs and vulture memories which I vainly strove to defy or forget-stung but not healed by that unchastened remorse which religion has not yet made repentance-the superadded fear of that hideous Labaure, and his claim on me, had surely disordered my brain! I gathered up some remaining jewels, sold them, and fled to your country. In England, I believed I should be discovered and answered. Well, I surely thought my fine voice would have gained me entrance into your theatres. But nothere was no one to speak for me, no one to push me on. The managers could hardly venture to trust their own opinions, and those called to judge, were prejudiced, or had favorites of their own to bring forward. I was yet handsome, what could I do?-somehow people saw very bad things in my face. I fell in with some needy Italians, we used to sing in little mean concerts for small pittances. I had not much character to lose, but when one young man proposed marriage to me, I thought it better than having neither name nor protection. Ah! he was a wicked, cruel, vile wretch; he had none but base and black designs in marrying me. He was idle and selfish, and would live easy and well, and I should be his slave in any way, and earn money for him, no matter how. I rebelled-he was savage-there," she continued, uncovering her neck, "he once stabbed me with a stiletto-go, woman,' he would say, 'sing, dance, do anything, but bring me money.' And for what, Mr. H? I will tell you. He was several years younger than I; of course he cared not for me; but my toil, my shame, was to assist in supporting a young girl he professed to love exceedingly. He bought old Battista's organ-Battista was her father, and a kind man. He went around with me from place to place; all I earned he took from me, scarcely allowing me food or common clothing. So at last I was sick-very ill of fever;

and being as he thought very nearly dead, he gathered up all he could find, left our poor room, and I never saw him more. Thank God! the master was gone, the slave got better; but still feeble, with scarce sufficient clothing for decency, I could not, as once, draw around me my poor street audience. I used to live strangely for those last summer months. Do you believe, Mr. H-, for weeks I lived in the fields near some houses in the suburbs; slept at night among some clustering bushes, and begged here and there for a crust through the day. But winter came at last. A Frenchman one day travelling with a basket of toys, gave me an old tambourine. With that novelty, for some weeks I have renewed my efforts to entertain my former friends of the street; with what success you can but too well understand. Oh that night-that dreary dark freezing night when you rescued me from my long, long years of punishment!

"I am exhausted now Mr. H- ;

I

am so fragile, I who used to be a great, stout, coarse, bold woman, trudging through heat and cold; strong, but with a breaking heart! Send me now that old meek gentle-spoken priest who has already been so kind to me. What better proof could there be of the divinity of that religion to which I have been led by so rough and burning a path of sin and suffering, than that it could give peace to a spirit like mine, and teach me even to contemplate with composure that event which, in spite of your kindly meant encouragements and efforts, I know to be now so near."

In a few days after this sad narration, Clotilde did indeed pass away, like a dying note of her own soft music.

I have since more than once heard the air and the words "Die Gedanken Sind Frey;"—what feelings they have the power to stir up within my heart, the reader can but faintly imagine, from the cold and imperfect medium of the narrative in which I have attempted to explain their origin.

A NEW book of poetry-so new, indeed, that though the early sheets have been placed in our hands by a friend of the author, it cannot yet, as a book, be said to have any present existence for the public, any other than a future and prospective being,-a shadow cast before of a coming volume,-a refracted view of an approaching duodecimo, not yet risen above the common level of the horizon to the universal gaze,-being as yet, if we may be allowed to quote and apply in our own way one of its own lines,

"Unbadged, unbonneted, unbound."

We will call it a new volume, too, with other warrant for this, the highest praise of any book, if it be true, than the publishers' imprint of the present year. It has, even in the midst of faults neither few nor small, an unequivocal originality and young force

and freshness of its own, vigorous in its very rudeness and immaturity, together with a certain earnest spirit of Americanism which comes to us like a breath of new life, of the west wind from our own lofty fast-rooted American mountains, over the stagnant vapors of the East-the East whence blows that sirocco so deadly to American energy.

There are topics in this volume which may have been written of more eloquently by others, by Emerson in his so called prose lectures, which lack nothing of poetry but the name; but the reader will not often find a more honest assertion of the true claims of that which constitutes the element of all poetry, springing up from the depths of the human heart and looking with a capacious eye upon all human things; of that wisdom which is the offspring of love, and that sympathy of the unperverted heart which has no prejudices,