find her deriving instruction from a fly, buzzing against her window; and recording a very pretty disquisition on "the curious mechanism of its feet," by means of which it "ascends with such agility the smooth surface of the glass." At another time she moralizes on the politeness of a bee, that comes to pay its devoirs to the invalid; and at another, on the sanctifying influence of suffering.

Now follows a series of daily entries-brief, but painful-records of colds and coughs-faintings and fevers-headaches and hemorrhages-sleepless nights and restless days-no appetite for foodno strength for study-sad musings of the pastdark forebodings of the future--hope driven from the shores of time to seek rest for its weary wing in eternity. Then comes a gush of spring-like feeling, and the prisoner bursts her fetters:

66

Spring! I gather strength from the very word! It comes to my fancy laden with soft breezes and sunny days! Already the crystal wreath of winter has melted from my window, and the rainbow drapery has fallen from the trees. The honey-gatherers invite me forth to banquet. I will go!"

She leaves her room; but a prudent mother arrests her, and she is "again in durance." The next day, however, "the sun is bright, the breeze is warm, and the earth is dry." In the absence of maternal vigilance, she steals down stairs, and returns the call of her "honey-gatherers." But she

is soon missed and sent for. Her father administers a gentle reprimand, and she appeases "his gracious wrath" with "the trophies of the campaign."

The day following she is unusually fortunate. "A treat of fresh maple sugar'' proves a sweet remembrancer" of the days of mud and water," when she used to steal away from watchful eyes, and, reckless of wet feet, trip down to the Flat, and eat sugar out of the kettles."

Bright gleams of sunshine through the breaking clouds! Blessed beams and voices of morning to the wanderer of a dreary night! Next we have brief notices of "weeping April and laughing May." "The trees are full of crimson buds;

The woods are full of birds;
And the waters flow to music,

Like a tune with pleasant words."

With the return of summer comes the return of comparative health, and the renewal of intercourse with nature. Here is a beautiful picture:

"I strolled to my sylvan retreat. The rivulet murmured along, with its crystal song, between its green banks, brilliant with wild flowers, half hidden amid the pendant foliage. I seated myself beneath a protecting hickory, which towered into the blue sky. Delightful retreat for the muse!' thought I; but my muse made no response. So I arose, and traced the little brook, till the sun disap

peared behind the wood-crowned Ganandawah.

Fascinated by the beauty and stillness of the scene, I yielded myself to contemplation, and was soon lost in a delightful revery. The past floated in rosy clouds across the sky of memory, and the future spread itself out before the eye of hope, a rainbow world of song. When I bethought me of my locality, and the lateness of the hour, I recollected the lines in Hyperion:

.

'Is this the way I was going?
Whither, O streamlet! say?
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur,
Murmured my senses away.'"

For the seven months ensuing, the diary affords us no information, except that of the gradual improvement of health. Under date of "October, 1842," we meet with the following playful paragraph:

"For two whole days I have been sole mistress and domestic of the establishment; and I flatter myself I have performed the duties of the one, without compromising the dignity of the other. I have furnished the table and flourished the dish-cloth in a manner not often surpassed, I ween, by maids of much greater kitchen pretensions. But I must not neglect to acknowledge the very efficient aid' I have received from the fraternal triad in some trifling duties of the inferior department; while the prerogatives of the superior I have wielded single handed and alone.' Nor ought I to omit the con

fession of several small delinquencies, rather less favorable to my reputation as a house-keeper; such as spoiling the coffee for breakfast, forgetting the dessert for dinner, and overturning the tea-pot at supper. Minus a few such unimportant matters, I have doubtless acted the maid and the mistress with excellent skill and admirable grace."

CHAPTER VI.

LITERARY LABORS.

"Books are a part of man's prerogative;
In formal ink they thoughts and voices hold;
That we to them our solitude may give,
And make time present travel paths of old."
Overbury.

WITH a solitary exception--a mere notice of the New Year-Adaline's journal now goes dumb for a period of ten months. Her correspondence, however, affords some compensation. The following extract informs us how she improved her time:

"I am fully employed with my studies, writing, and a course of historical reading. Just now I am very busy with Tucker's Life of Jefferson, and The History of Scotland. Mr. Tucker does not possess the fascinating art of Wm. Wirt. I am pleased, however, with the book. His conclusions are philosophically drawn, and apparently in the spirit of candor. I am also reading Gibbon, and this may account in part for the contrast so unfavorable to the Biographer. Of late I have been quite familiar with Mrs. Hemans and Hannah More. The former seems an angel stooping to earth; the latter, a mortal soaring to heaven. The sweet little work of Frederica Bremer you sent me, I have perused with