h yes," the critic says, "it is an easy thing to write; only
follow nature, and you cannot err." But nature is as broad as the
universe, as high as the heavens, and as deep as the seas. It is but a
small portion we can condense even on hundreds of pages of foolscap
paper. If that portion be of love, the cold philosopher turns away in
disdain and talks of romantic maids and moonstruck boys, as if the
subject were fit alone for them. And yet love is the great motive
principle of nature, the burning sun of the social system. Blot it out,
and every other feeling and passion would sink in the darkness of
eternal night. Byron's awful dream would be realized,--darkness would
indeed be the universe. They who praise a writer for omitting love from
the page which purports to be a record of life, would praise God for
creating a world, over whose sunless realms no warmth or light was
diffused, (if such a creation were possible,)--a world without flowers
or music, without hope or joy.

But as the sun is only an emanation from the first great fountain of
light and glory, so love is but an effluence from the eternal source of
love divine.

"Bright effluence of bright essence increate." And woe to her, who,
forgetting this heavenly union, bathes her heart in the earthly stream,
without seeking the living spring whence it flows; who worships the
fire-ray that falls upon the altar, without giving glory to him from
whom it descended. The stream will become a stagnant pool, exhaling
pestilence and death; the fire-ray will kindle a devouring flame,
destroying the altar, with the gift and the heart a _burning bush_, that
will blaze forever without consuming.

Whither am I wandering?

Imagine me now, in a very different scene to the president's illuminated
drawing-room. Instead of the wild buzzing of mingling voices, I hear the
mournful sighing of the breeze through the weeping grave trees; and ever
and anon there comes a soft, stealing sound through the long, swaying
grass, like the tread of invisible feet. I am alone with my mother's
spirit. The manuscript, that is to reveal the mystery of my parentage,
is in my hand. The hour is come, when without violating the commands of
the dead, I may claim it as my own, and remove the hermetic seal which
death has stamped. Where else could I read it? My own room, once so
serenely quiet, was no longer a sanctuary,--for Margaret Melville dashed
through the house, swinging open the doors as abruptly