t. Now the leviathan of the waters was heard thundering nearer and
nearer; now it relented, now again pushed on, foaming and splashing; now
it lay still. And, there on the front of the deck, was seen by the light
of lamps and rockets, a pale, graceful young woman, her eyes brilliant
with tears, and lips radiant with smiles, waving her handkerchief to her
friends and countrymen on shore.

It was she again--our poor, plain, neglected little girl of former days--who
now came back in triumph to her fatherland. But no more poor, no more
plain, no more neglected. She had become rich; she had in her slender
person the power to charm and inspire multitudes.

Some days later, we read in the papers of Stockholm, an address to the
public written by the beloved singer, stating, with noble simplicity, that
"as she once more had the happiness to be in her native land, she would be
glad to sing again to her countrymen, and that the income of the operas in
which she was this season to appear, would be devoted to raise a fund for
a school where _eleves_ for the theatre would be educated to virtue and
knowledge." The intelligence was received as it deserved, and of course
the Opera was crowded every night the beloved singer sang there. The first
time she again appeared in Somnambula (one of her favorite roles), the
public, after the curtain was dropped, called her back with great
enthusiasm, and received her, when she appeared, with a roar of hurrahs.
In the midst of the burst of applause a clear and melodious warbling was
heard. The hurrahs were hushed instantly. And we saw the lovely singer
standing with her arms slightly extended, somewhat bowing forward,
graceful as a bird on its branch warbling, warbling as no bird ever did,
from note to note--and on every one a clear, strong, soaring warble--until
she fell into the retournelle of her last song, and again sang that joyful
and touching strain,

"No thought can conceive how I feel at my heart."

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE. BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON. (FROM
BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.)

Book I.--Initial Chapter: Showing How My Novel Came To Be Written.

SCENE, _the Hall in Uncle Roland's Tower_; TIME, _night_; SEASON,
_winter_.

Mr. Caxton is seated before a great geographical globe, which he is
turning round leisurely, and "for his own recreation," as, according to
Sir Thomas Browne, a philosopher should turn round the orb, of which that
globe