And then, as if he feared to trust himself with his cousin’s character, or that it was a distasteful subject for some reason, he turned to the minister, and began talking about Cherry Mountain and the scenery in Cooes.

Mr. Remington called out, at the top of the hill,—­

“Now it is my turn!  Let me ride, and I will give your character!”

“Oh! we don’t need it, I assure you,” said I; “we understand him entirely.”

“Not a bit of it!” said he, shaking his brown curls; “I am the transparent one.”

He stepped up on the wheel-hub to get his bag, and to say he should strike off for Middleton on foot.  He would see us very soon in New York, and claim our promise to visit him.

Being relieved from the fascination of personal beauty and presence, with only the impression of character remaining, I was a little ashamed to find how much I had liked, without being at all able to esteem him.  It was with a very different feeling that I looked at Mr. Lewis, whose ugly, positively ugly face was being perpetually transfigured with emotion and variety.  Without grace of feature or figure, he impressed one as a living soul; and this inward light gave a translucent beauty to the frail, chance-shapen vase, which all Mr. Remington’s personal advantages of form and color failed to impress us with.  Only dark eyes of un-sounded depth, and a voice whose rich cadences had an answering rhythm in the inward man, showed what his attractions might be, or were, to a woman.  We became curious to see Mrs. Lewis, of whom we gained no idea from his casual references to her.

* * * * *

LYRICS OF THE STREET.

VI.

PLAY.

From yon den of double-dealing,
With its Devil’s host,
Come I, maddened out of healing: 
All is lost!

So the false wine cannot blind me,
Nor the braggart toast;
But I know that Hell doth bind me: 
All is lost!

Where the lavish gain attracts us,
And the easy cost,
While the damning dicer backs us,
All is lost!

Blest the rustic in his furrows,
Toil- and sweat-embossed;
Blest are honest souls in sorrows. 
All is lost!

Wifely love, the closer clinging
When men need thee most,
Shall I come, dishonor bringing? 
All is lost!

Babe in silken cradle lying,
To low music tossed,
Will they wake thee for my dying? 
All is lost!

Yonder where the river grimly
Whitens, like a ghost,
Must I plunge and perish dimly;
All is lost!

INTERESTING MANUSCRIPTS OF EDMUND BURKE.

Macaulay opens his most remarkable article on Milton by saying, “The dexterous Capuchins never choose to preach on the life and miracles of a saint, till they have awakened the devotional feelings of their auditors by exhibiting some relic of him,—­a thread of his garment, a lock of his hair, or a drop of his blood.”  If we were in the mood, we might take advantage of interesting manuscripts of Edmund Burke, which are now before us, to say something of this remarkable character.  But we shall confine ourselves for the present to a passing glance at the manuscripts which have strayed across the Atlantic.[A]