The woman's answer touched the chord of memory, and I felt that we had gone through a similar ordeal.

I rose from my sick bed, entirely changed, and I trust that my life, since that time, though not so useful as it might have been, has not been without benefit to my species. The sirocco had burnt into my very soul, and I bowed my head, and submitted without groaning, after a while-and now wait for the hour when the grass, if not the laurels, will whisper over me.

I converted my small savings into a letter of credit, and went abroadtraveling for five years, through Europe and the East. I saw a great deal of human nature, I think; for I mixed with peasants and nobles-the high and the low, the rich and the poor-coming, for all my pains, to the final and most rational conclusion, that humanity is much the same in every land—that Giovanni laughs or groans under much the same influences as John-that a knot of ribbon and a festival pleases Lisette in Paris, as it does Molly in the country here that it's all the same old story.

I was beginning to count the florins in my purse now, when, one day, a packet, with a red seal, was brought me, by a servant of my friend the consul's, and I had the pleasure of being informed, by Israel Jones, attorney-at-law, etc., etc., of my native county, that I was sole legatee of my respectable uncle, deceased, who had always quarreled with me, and that the estate was estimated to be worth from seventy-five to one hundred thousand dollars. I was glad to hear it, and, as I had seen enough of Europe, I thought I would return home, or to what had once been a sort of home to me—to the spot where I had been, for a brief season, wholly, completely, supremely happy. The song says truly, that "tis home where the heart is;" and I was just as strongly drawn toward the old place, and figure, as when I sat in the counting-house at Rio de Janeiro, and sent my heart across the seas, to Annie, praying for me in another land.

Do you know why I loved her? We are considering, let us say, a mere series of events, and, therefore, we may philosophize. My unabated love, then, for this woman, in whom I had implicitly trusted, and who had broken my heart, sprung from the fact, that, as a living person, she was completely dead to me.

As far as I was concerned, she did not exist-she was mouldered to dust, beneath a piece of emerald sward-out of her breast grew flowers. It was the Annie of my youth-for when I returned I was already growing old-the Annie of former years that I loved. Since the momentary glance which I had caught, on that evening as she passed onward in her carriage, I had never laid my eyes on her; and I did not wish to see her. All was broken between us-she was nothing to me, I nothing to her; we went different ways-I and Mrs. Lackland.

My Annie was not Mrs. Lackland. She was the ever splendid and gracious vision of my youthful dreams and hopes -the pure, faithful maiden, with the kind, frank eyes, holding no trace of guile. My Annie never could have yielded to the threats of a base and degraded woman, and broken an honest heart, which was wrapped up in herruined a man, who cared nothing for life without her love. Mrs. Lackland lived in a splendid house-my Annie in the humble cottage beneath the elms. Mrs. Lackland rode in an elegant carriage, and wore satins, and jewels, and birds of paradise-my Annie walked, and was clad in a little blue dress, and chip hat. Mrs. Lackland was a false woman, pining in magnificent miserythe Annie of my memory and my heart was an angel, with an angel's purity and happiness in her azure eyes. But I will not continue this dissection of my heart-I will proceed with my story, which draws to an end.

The five years of my second absence had worked greater changes even than the three years formerly-or as great. Every familiar face seemed to have disappeared from the scene-even the faces of those who had wounded me most cruelly; and I walked alone, not even encountering enemies-only strangers.

Lackland the elder had completely failed in business, two years before, and I soon heard had wholly impoverished Mrs. Peters, who sank under the blow, and died, soon afterwards, of apoplexy.

Young Lackland had become the slave of intemperance-had treated his wife with notorious cruelty, and, finally, the father and son, with the wife of the latter had disappeared, no one knew where. Thus every face was gone-I had not even a successful rival to welcome me. I went to the little house, and found a

new tenant, who stared at me, and evidently thought me a suspicious character, when I looked around the walls of the little parlor, and sighed wearily.

I asked the name of the owner of the house, and, on the next morning, purchased it. Three months afterwards, I occupied the house myself.

1 will not pause to speak of the bitter pleasure which I experienced in this house, where those golden days of the past had flown on, brilliant and serene, like a morning of June, in the light of eyes now dim, or dead to me. For long hours, I sat in the little parlor, where I had so often sat with Annie; dreaming of the past, and breaking my heart with her image. There she had stood, resting her white hand on the old mantelpiece, and looking at me, with eyes moist with tenderness, when I rose to go; yonder she had sat, by the little table, with the light upon her hair, the white collar around her snowy neck, her fingers busily sewing in the long evenings, as I sat beside her; finally, there was the window, and the curtain, which she thrust aside, to follow me with her kind, tender eyes. I will not further dwell upon those hours of agony and delight, of joy and anguish. One morning, I knelt down on the spot where she had stood so often, covered my face with my hands, and, crying like a child, prayed and sobbed; and rose, finally, and went away.

I returned to Europe, and remained abroad for ten years this time—a wanderer in many lands. As before, I occupied myself with that eternal, endless study-humanity. At the end of the ten years, I came back again, led by a presentiment that something connected with my past was to happen to me. I was not mistaken, as you will perceive, when I have briefly related what occurred, soon after my arrival.

Briefly, I say; for upon this I dwell even less than upon other scenes; and my history draws to its close.

VIII.

AT THE CORNER.

I came back, then, and found that the home of my early manhood was stranger and more unfamiliar to me than the desert, Damascus, Rome, or the furthest bounds of the East. 66 Here a god did dwell," as says the Latin poet; but his fane was desolate, and the contrast made the familiar scenes more strange than an VOL. VII.-41

untrodden wilderness. But the old house remained-because it was mine. While I live it will stand, as it did nearly half a century ago.

This house and the corner where I had first met with the woman who had ruined me, were the only landmarks by which I recognized the locality. As my object was to live in the dead days, rather than the living, I secured the apartments which I now occupy, and had thus before my eyes, constantly, the two objects.

The neighbors talked for a month about the foreigner who lived so secluded, and then they gave up talking, because they could discover nothing. All that they found out was, my habit of walking about after nightfall--and, after awhile, this habit failed, too, to excite curiosity. I went on dreaming and promenading.

One night I had walked to the other end of the city-had returned nearly to my apartments-and was passing the corner yonder, when a woman with a baby in her arms touched my sleeve, and in a stifled voice asked charity. I was wrapped in my cloak, wore a wide, drooping hat, and stood with my back to the gas-light. The light thus fell upon the face of the woman-it was Annie !

I stretched out one hand, and leaned thus upon the cold iron of the lamp-post, for a deadly faintness invaded my frame, and arrested my blood.

She was wretchedly clad, her face was as thin and pale as a ghost's, and her broken words were still further broken by a hacking cough. She said that she was suffering from hunger, and that her child would die unless I aided her-" For the love of God, sir!"

She held down her head as she spoke, and cried in silence, and this silence was broken by myself.

I strangled a groan and a sob, which tore its way through my breast, and said:

"Have you no husband?"

As I spoke, she raised her head quickly, with a wild light in her hollow eyes, and gazed at me with a look of startled surprise-almost terror-which I shall never forget.

"Yes!" I groaned. "I see you recognize me. I am George!"

She turned as pale as death, and tottered. I caught her in my arms, or she would have fallen to the ground.

"No! do not! do not!" she cried, wildly. "I am not worthy to lean upon your arm! Let me kneel to you, and ask you to forgive me, for I am miserable and heart-broken. But it was not my fault. They told me that you were unfaithful!—that you were dead! And my aunt forced me to marry the father of my child! Oh, no! no! Let me go away-I will receive nothing from I can die now that I have told you. you, George! God has led me here to give me one consolation before I die. It was not my fault! I struggled long! No letters came from you, and in a weak hour I yielded! Let me go-I am happy now, and can die more peacefully! Good-by!"

As she spoke thus, sobbing and shedding floods of tears, she withdrew herself from me, and turned to go. But the agitation of the meeting in her prostrated condition was too much for her, and her weak steps wandered. She would have fallen upon the pavement, had I not received her form in my arms. This time she had fainted.

I forced open the door of the house there at the corner, and laid the cold form upon a couch, in the midst of a startled group assembled around the evening fire. A few words, however, explained all; and very soon Annie revived, and was assisted to a chamber by the kind and compassionate ladies of the house.

With her

In that chamber she died. last breath she explained all, and begged my forgiveness. The diabolical plot, concocted by the woman Peters and Lackland, was revealed in all its hideous deformity. They had endeavored at first to tempt the girl by rich presents, and by representations of my poverty. Then, finding this unavailing, they stated that I was married to another. Finding that the girl did not believe this, a letter was forged, announcing my death. This was so adroitly done, that Annie had been convinced. That I was unfaithful, she never would believe; but she was forced to give credence to the story, that I had fallen a victim to the fevers of the tropics. When she was still prostrated by this intelligence, Mrs. Peters, to whose house she had gone on the death of her mother, commenced a systematic attack upon her. She resisted for a whole year; and then, worn out, despairing, more dead than alive, went like a phantom to

the altar, and yielded herself up. Mrs. Peters was rewarded for her exertions, and the girl was the wife of Lackland.

He possessed a body-the heart and soul were paralyzed or dead. They gave her splendid dresses-she received them passively. They endeavored to cheer her spirits-she gazed blankly at them, with eyes fixed far away, as on that evening when she had passed me in her carriage -a phantom covered with satin and jewels.

Then had come the failure of the elder Lackland-the intemperance of her husband—the ruin of the family. Since that time she had been carried from city to city by her drunken and tyrannical husband-abused, ill-treated, struck more than once-and then, this man had been killed in a drunken brawl, leaving her worn down by ill usage and sickness, with an infant at her breast.

She had struggled against her misery for a little space-then had come to understand that the seeds of death were in her frame; and she had bent her steps toward the scene of her brief happiness and after misery, to lie down and die upon the threshold of her early home, or on the grave of her mother. She had reached the place, without money, and exhausted by her journey, during which the exposure had aggravated her complaint, and, for the first time, had begged assistance from a stranger.

That stranger was myself

You know now, from this brief relation, the whole current of this woeful life, in which a poor girl was betrayed and brought to the grave, by a base and inhuman woman, swayed only by avarice, and a cowardly man, who was guilty of forgery to effect his purpose. She told me everything in those last moments, when all was again clear between us-when no cloud obscured the past-when, faint and pale, like a white flower of autumn, she slowly faded, and went from me.

It was the thin, white hand of my Annie which I held now in my own, and covered with tears and kisses, praying, as I did so, with agonized supplications, that God, in His mercy, would preserve her life, and bless me with the privilege of consoling and comforting one whom I loved still, as no woman ever was loved.

But it was unavailing. She slowly sank-the slow, gentle, gradual undula

tion of her slender form became fainter-with her hand in mine, and her dreamy eyes fixed to the last upon my own, she went away from me; having to console her the conviction, that my love was greater even than before, and that I would be a father to her child.

And past that corner, where I had first met her, young, smiling, with the light upon her hair-past that corner she now went again, with nodding plumes; but, oh! such sable plumes, which waved mysteriously toward another land! There, I pray God, that I may join her; that we may once more be united- forever united, where the light upon her hair is the light of heaven. There, the two hearts, so cruelly severed upon earth, will never again be separated-and hand in hand we shall live and love eternally- for God is love.

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IX.

CONCLUSION.

My story is done, good friend. I have related it calmly-with no sobs, no tears, as you see.

Why should I? I do not look back, shuddering and moaning; because, from that dim region, a figure rises stretching toward me the softest and tenderest hands, smiling upon me with the kindest and most loving eyes-consoling, and soothing, and whispering to me of fairer scenes in another existence.

I think I am happy. You consider me sad sometimes, when I am only tranquil. The dim look in my eyes, which you often refer to, with the solicitude of a friend, does not spring from sorrowful recollections--for I am thinking of Annie. All the grief and passion has disappeared-tranquillity and kindness remain. I enjoy many things-I do not keep away from my species. Dives invites me to dinner, and I go; and when Mrs. Grundy sends me word that a few friends will assemble at her residence, on Thursday next, I put on a white waistcoat, and go up and fulfill my social duty, by talking to all the elderly ladies, and exchanging views

with Mrs. Grundy upon the events and personages of the day, upon which occasions I generally hear a good deal to amuse me. As a contrast to this "high life," I entertain myself, as you know, with Lazarus, who is certainly a low fellow, I must admit; but he interests me. I have told you that I sometimes call at Miss Tabitha's, who certainly is an extraordinary likeness of a former friend of mine, long since dead-Mrs. Peters.

As I retire, after one of these little evenings at Miss Tabitha's, I am apt to murmur to myself, 'forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us."

To prove to you that I am not the sad, miserable old misanthrope and disappointed individual the world may think me to show you that I am still pleased with the simplest things-I will add, that even the sight of my little school-friend, the one with the blue dress, who passes my window every morning, touches and pleases me. Her name is Annie Lackland.

The child lives with the family at the corner yonder; and when I make a friendly call upon these excellent people, she calls me Uncle George." I have a fine young relative, about eighteen, who is studying for the bar, and the rogue has already fallen desperately in love with the little maiden of fifteen. Well-the match will not be imprudent, as my whole property will go at my death to the young people.

What a fine evening it is! My story has filled the afternoon, and the golden crowns are slowly rising from the summits of the elms, which glitter in the sunset. The little mansion basks in the warm light-and look at that pigeon which has lit upon the portico, embowered in the fragrant honey-suckle!

The street is filling with the merriest children they dance, and laugh, and play in front of the old house, which smiles upon them-the fountain in the square is tossing up a cloud of cooling foam-and look! down there! do you see? There is Annie at the corner!

THE protection of commerce is a seri

ous thing; for modern science, skill, and enterprise have given to navigation a broad development, which makes past achievements shrink to insignificance. Over three-fourths of the earth's surface, the pathless keel glides onward, and innumerable vessels weave a mesh of circling tracks around the world such as no Ariadne of the sea can unravel. To us, the Argonauts, Ulysses, Æneas, and all who. through the Pillars of Hercules, sought Atlantis, are only heroic by courtesy of the imagination. However we may admire Vasco, Columbus, or Cook, we cannot conceive any Camoens so insane as to frame a Lusiad in this age of steamers. Two thousand years ago, commerce cautiously crept along a few hundred miles of shore; now, all seas are whitened with its sails, and the obscurest precincts of barbarism testify to the ubiquity of commercial enterprise and the extent of modern navigation. From Archangel to Patagonia, from Grinnel Land to Cape Town, and throughout Oceanica, the adventurers of commerce range in quest of whatever will minister to human necessity, convenience, taste, or luxury. No longer is the shore hugged; but it is, rather, dreaded as dangerous. No peril suffices to prevent each year from contributing its increment to the amount of life and property afloat, until we may well ask when and how this rapid crescendo will terminate. It is a fearful thought, that the sea is becoming a great cemetery. Had we a true census of the living now on the ocean, and of the dead beneath its surface, we should stand alike aghast at both results. Vast, indeed, is the multitude of those who now 66 go down to the sea in ships," and vast, too, is that portion of man's wealth which has at some time been thus transported. When, therefore, we advocate the best possible system of aids to navigation, our advocacy concerns an interest such as none can gainsay, and a seafaring multitude whose security touches the inner life of the nation.

Isolated states can only take fragmentary parts in establishing a univer

sal system of aids to navigation, which shall look to giving security to the world's commerce as a unit. Each civilized community is certainly bound to make its own coasts as secure as it can. Barbarous shores, where no local power exists competent to erect a light-house, have hitherto been mainly left in congenial darkness. But the time must come, perhaps it has come, when civilized nations, in the name of our common humanity, shall associate themselves for the purpose of devising and executing some appropriate system of aids to navigation, wherever they may be needed.

It would be an enduring honor to our country, judiciously to take the initiative in this field, and thus to testify that its fostering care follows the American flag over all waters. It would certainly be no impossible achievement of diplomacy, to form a Board, forever neutral, in which all the associated nations should be duly represented according to tonnage, and which should have power to light all shores now in darkness. Till such a consummation is realized, each nation is, at the least, bound to take good heed that no unnecessary dangers beset its own coasts.

Two widely dissimilar systems of light-house support have been extensively practiced. The first continues to prevail in England, Scotland, Ireland, Holland, Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. It consists in levying special light dues on vessels passing each light, either by special collectors or by arrangement with the collectors of national customs. The other system prevails in France, Prussia, Russia, and the United States. The government, assuming the system of aids to navigation as a national trust or duty, proceeds, in these countries, by direct appropriations, to construct and maintain the works required for this object. The first system is miserable in theory and practice. It has in England led to utterly indefensible extortions. It affords either too little revenue to properly effect its purpose, or so much as to breed gross corruption and maladministration. It lacks