est of the mainland on the map
of Greece: there was a time when they were all one. The rocks and peaks
still stand to attest it."--"_Never_ is a word which has always brought
bad luck to him who used it from the tribune."

M. Troubat speaks of the correspondence of Sainte-Beuve as destined for
publication: the _Chroniques_ and _Cahiers_ are like anchovies to whet
the appetite for a longer and more continuous reading.

SARAH B. WISTER.

FOOTNOTES:

[C] _Chroniques Parisiennes_ and _Les Cahiers de Sainte-Beuve_.

A FEW LETTERS.

BROOKSIDE, April 12, 1872.

Dear Cousin Bessie: It does not seem possible that but two months from
to-day I saw you standing on your porch in good old Applethorpe bidding
me an April "farewell." I can see you now, as I saw you then,
smiling--or rather laughing--and saying, "Write! write often; and if you
can't find any _real_ news, make something up." I little thought then I
should so soon find material for correspondence. He was very sick at
first, but really seems better now. But I forgot you don't know anything
about him. Well! neither do _I_ much, but "what I have I give unto
thee." So, I'll begin at the beginning of my romance.

Day before yesterday, as I was engaged in the very romantic work of
ploughing, I heard a clattering of hoofs and the snort and pant of a
horse at full tear. In an instant the runaway was brought up, bang!
against my fence. It was the work of but a moment to leap over and seize
the animal. I then perceived his rider clinging, senseless, to the
saddle by one stirrup. It is a great mercy to him that he was not
killed, but he had been dragged but a short distance, and was therefore
not severely injured. I secured the horse to the fence as quickly as
possible, and then disengaged the gentleman. Upon removing him to the
house, sending for a physician and applying various remedies, his
consciousness was restored, and we soon discovered his injuries as well
as a little of his history. His wounds prove to be bruises about the
head and face (more disfiguring than serious), and a broken leg which
it will take several weeks to cure.

So here he is on my hands till he is well. I'm not sorry, either, for
"it is not good for man to be alone," and I find him my nearest
neighbor--like me an orphan, like me with a small fortune, consisting
principally of his farm, and about my age. I've no doubt we sh