im? Retracing in another such recollections, shadowed and
mellowed down by time, we feel the wonderful sanctity of human life, we
feel what emotions a single being can awake; what a world of hope may
be buried in a single grave! And thus we keep alive within ourselves the
soft springs of that morality which unites us with our kind, and sheds
over the harsh scenes and turbulent contests of earth the colouring of a
common love.

There is often, too, in the time of year in which such thoughts are
presented to us, a certain harmony with the feelings they awaken. As I
write I hear the last sighs of the departing summer, and the sere and
yellow leaf is visible in the green of nature. But when this book goes
forth into the world, the year will have passed through a deeper cycle
of decay; and the first melancholy signs of winter have breathed into
the Universal Mind that sadness which associates itself readily with
the memory of friends, of feelings, that are no more. The seasons, like
ourselves, track their course by something of beauty, or of glory, that
is left behind. As the traveller in the land of Palestine sees tomb
after tomb rise before him, the landmarks of his way, and the only signs
of the holiness of the soil, thus Memory wanders over the most sacred
spots in its various world, and traces them but by the graves of the
Past.

It was now that Gertrude began to feel the shock her frame had received
in the storm upon the Rhine. Cold shiverings frequently seized her; her
cough became more hollow, and her form trembled at the slightest breeze.

Vane grew seriously alarmed; he repented that he had yielded to
Gertrude's wish of substituting the Rhine for the Tiber or the Arno;
and would even now have hurried across the Alps to a warmer clime, if
Du-----e had not declared that she could not survive the journey,
and that her sole chance of regaining her strength was rest. Gertrude
herself, however, in the continued delusion of her disease, clung to
the belief of recovery, and still supported the hopes of her father, and
soothed, with secret talk of the future, the anguish of her betrothed.
The reader may remember that in the most touching passage in the
ancient tragedians, the most pathetic part of the most pathetic of
human poets--the pleading speech of Iphigenia, when imploring for
her prolonged life, she impresses you with so soft a picture of its
innocence and its beauty, and in this Gertrude resembled the Greek's
cre