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We are informed that she was tried, found innocent, and | and stout of limb! Fair faces filled the windows; the is at liberty, "To act a worthy part," and the song concludes:

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—A SUGGESTION! People will not economize their negatives. They insist upon doubling them upon every opportunity, at the slighest provocation and with an utter disregård of sense or grammar. Inasmuch, therefore, as conversation can't be got up to the level of grammar, we propose that grammar be brought down to the level of conversation. Let that law be expunged which makes a double negative equivalent to an affirmative, and messieurs and mesdames the people, can amplify on "It didn't made no difference;" "There ain't no house there," and the like, with the perfect concurrence of the schools. If laws cannot be observed, they had better be removed from the statute book, and the one we speak of is almost a dead letter.

-A FRENCH gentleman highly amused us a few days since by the relation of one of his contretemps in the early period of his residence in this country when his knowledge of English was but glimmering and uncertain. He chanced to break the key of his room door, and going to his landlady, attempted to explain the accident by declaring that her "look was bad!" The lady in question had only one eye, and lacked also other elements of beauty. She colored, her eye flashed, and her lip trembled. It was an infamous insult, and her rage could scarcely be controlled. "What do you mean, sir?" said she. "Your look is bad," reiterated the Frenchman, a little staggered at the evident commotion his remark had caused. The lady started up, her arms akimbo. You insult me, sir. What do you mean by this language?" "I know not vat I say, but I know vat I mean," replied the Frenchman, beginning to suspect that he had been guilty of some atrocious blunder; "I mean your look is bad-see" (rushing to the door and pointing to the lock), your look, madame, is bad!" "Lock, lock, sir," exclaimed the lady, her indignation suddenly vanishing, and beginning to smile. The Frenchman, scrupulously polite and gallant, saw his blunder, and was overwhelmed with confusion. "Oh, madame, pardon! ze lock! stupid! Pardon, madame!"

-ON the Fourth of July we went to see the inauguration of the Equestrian Statue of Washington. We took our place in a third story window. It rained. A congregation of umbrellas was below us; umbrellas to the right; umbrellas to the left. It was a pity to see the éclat of the occasion so endangered by the unfortunate weather. But (auspiciously) before the hour for the ceremony arrived the clouds withheld their water, broke apart, and the sun struggled with them. Umbrellas declined, and the crowd grew denser. Drum and fife ushered the gay troops upon the scene. In the middle of the square loomed up the statue, which mortal public had not yet beheld, a huge canvas cloth ignobly shrouding it from sight. A hollow square was formed by the troops, with the statue in the centre. Far down Fourteenth street plume and banner flaunted in the light. People stood on tip-toe and stretched their necks over the shoulders of the military. Blessed were the tall

house tops were lined. Urchins from long frocks to ambitious pantaloons crowded the stoops and the doorways. The assemblage was vast, dense-and patriotic to the tune of an incessant feu de joie from squibs and pocket-cannon. The appointed hour drew near. Workmen appeared and went up on the statue. They began to tug at the canvas. It was wet and clung fast. The workmen crawled in and out among the horse's feet, thrust their heads between his legs, and peered out between the openings of the canvas. More ladders were brought. More workmen ascended, and sacrilegiously clambered over the statue. The canvas began to lift. Ten thousand eyes stared with an impatient eagerness. Washington's foot thrust itself through an envious rent. The huge haunches of the horse became exposed. A part of Washington's boot rewarded the up-stretching necks-then his knee-then his thigh. They ripped the canvas, and his arm and hand stretched out. His head and shoulders alone remained encased. By this time the sun was out brilliantly, and lit up the whole scene gaily and gloriously. Ropes were adjusted-the canvas remained suspended by a single point. The work stopped. Officers galloped to their places. The soldiery presented arms. The musicians took up their instruments. The commander lifted his sword. It waved through the air-down rushed the canvas-the sun flashed upon the brow and head of the figure for the first time-then drum and trumpet and the loud shout rose up, sound on sound, shout on shout! It was a splendid scene. We never saw the equal of its kind. The soldiery far as the eye could reach, with flashing bayonets, gay plumes and banners, the dense crowd, the mass of green in the park, through which flashed the crystal upleaping water of the fountain, the statue so nobly looming up in the midst of the scene, the rich and splendid contrasts of color, presented as a whole a picture really superb. Our party applauded it, exhausted their vocabulary of praise and delight.

An oration followed. We could not hear it. Aggravating and annoying fact! Why do not our out-of-door speakers adopt the ancient accoustic mask? What is the use of addressing remarks to an assemblage which not one out of ten can hear? In the present instance we presume the oration was eloquent. There was much cheering-at which signal we waved our handkerchiefs and cheered too-at what we do not know to this day. There was a good deal of emphasis and gesture-so much was evident, and nothing After the speech the troops marched around the statue and saluted it. When all was over we departed, glad, happy, patriotic, and delighted. We have room to add only

more.

one word more-the statue is a noble one.

-A TOUCHING incident occurred at Randall's Island on the Fourth. Among the children who exhibited remarkable talent in the speeches and dialogues presented during an exhibition of the city orphans, was a pretty, fair-haired boy, with soft blue eyes and a natural grace that won general sympathy and admiration. After the celebration was over this child became a subject of conversation in a group of visitors, and a lady present insisted that a little fellow like that ought to be taken out and educated by some one rich enough to afford the luxury of a benevolence so exquisite. Scarcely had the words left her mouth when Governor Anderson, who had overheard the observation, stepped forward and offered to put the boy to a good school at his own cost, till he was sixteen. This proposal was scarcely made

when Dr. S. R. Childs of this city-a great hearted man as
this act will prove-seconded the noble offer by a promise
to assume the expenses of a collegiate education for the
boy after he had benefited by the kindness of his first bene-
factor. These generous proposals were received with enthusi- 'actions worthy of the day and worthy of the men.

asm by the guests, who all agreed that after this the little
fellow should have two birthdays—that which gave him
what seemed a miserable birthright of life, and bright beau-
tiful fourth of July, 1856. Generous acts like these are

LITERARY.

Paul Ferroll is an English reprint, and a novel of more decided character and talent than any we have read in a long time. Its interest is positively intense, and its power quite remarkable. The story is of a murder. Paul Ferroll, disappointed in love, marries a woman whose unfortunate temper soon threatens his married life with misery. Not long after the marriage, the cause of separation between him and his first love is removed. Paul is a man of powerful will- —a will that masters all, conscience, feeling, sensibility. He possesses, moreover, a cool, audacious, unscrupulous philosophy. He appears, therefore, to reason much like this: I am miserable as I am, the woman I truly love is lost to me forever, unless by my own hand I remove the bar between us. If my wife is murdered I may be discovered and die for the crime-that would not be worse, better even, than life with her; if not discovered I shall be happy with the woman of my heart. I'll take the risk. It is to gain everything-or lose nothing more than what is lost already for happiness is simply life. The deed is done, without regret, hesitation, shrinking, but so well arranged that suspicion in no wise rests on him. He marries, and lives for twenty years with his new wife, happily, without remorse, unconscious of a pang for his crime, with a wonderful philosophy, condensating into every hour sensations of happiness, a very miser of his time and his wife's society, calmly conscious that any moment in bringing his crime to light would terminate his life and happiness. At the end of twenty years an old domestic is arrested, tried, and condemned for the crime. With perfect coolness Ferroll, to save the innocent, a course always from the first quietly resolved upon in case of any such contingency, reveals him self as the murderer. His wife dies from the shock. He is tried and condemned, but succeeds in escaping by his daughter's aid, to America-and the story does not leave him until his career is ended. This material is very simple, but the story is worked up with a metaphysical subtlety and philosophical skill positively wonderful. The moral we consider a fearful one. It is murder almost justified. It is a nicer and even more curious phase of the crime than De Quincey describes, and aptly should have a place in that reviewer's next paper on "Murder considered as a Fine Art." (Redfield.)

The Huguenot Exiles is a novel by an American author, the scene being laid at the period of the sufferings of the French Huguenots under the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. This period of history has always seemed to us as affording fine scope and material for the historical novelist, and we have frequently expressed our surprise that so good a period should remain untouched. We are glad to be able to give the author of this volume high praise for the

admirable manner in which he has performed his task. He has given us a truly superior work. There is, perhaps, & little straining, an overdoing in most of his scenes, a piling up of the horrors,-while his villains are too unmitigatedly fiendish, and his heroes too saintish, but the effect as a whole is fine. Some of his descriptive passages are absolutely grand. (Harper & Brother.)

-Clara; or Slave Life in Europe, a translation from a German author, comes to us with preface from the pen of Alison, the historian. Mr. Hoklander is the German novelist's name, of whom Alison says, "In graphic description of character in all grades of society, and occasional pathetic power, he recalls Dickens; in the evolving of the story, when to all appearance hopelessly involved, he resembles Bulwer." Sir Archibald Alison, Baronet, is authority so high that it becomes presumption for us to dispute his mandates. And yet we would rather have Sir Archibald Alison, Baronet, write histories for us than choose novels for us. We really do not much like Clara-but one cause may be in the translation. The story is very Sue like, and the simplicity of the style descends fairly into childishness. The plan of the story is an attempt to prove "that all classes have their own fetters, that the conventional chains of civi lized life are even more galling than the rude fetters of the African, and that many a white slave would have something to envy in the lot of Uncle Tom." (Harpers.)

-Ticknor & Fields, of Boston, have published the Life, Explorations and Public Services of John Charles Fremont, in a neat volume, copiously illustrated, and written in a peculiarly charming style. Aside from political or partisan considerations the life of Fremont cannot fail to interest every American reader. His career has been crowded with the annals of fiction can produce. incident and adventure, and affords as perfect a romance as

lover of incredible adventure and startling incident, an abun -The White Chief, By Captain Mayne Reid, will afford the dant feast of marvels. No difficulties daunt the gallant captain in his conduct of a story. Impossibilities fade before him. There is no extravagance which he cannot be guilty of, and if the exploits of his heroes fall short of Munchausen's, we are inclined to set it down to the captain's lack of invention rather than to any doubt on his part of the credulity of his readers. Notwithstanding all this, his books are very readable ones-if it is only to see the extent of the absurdities he will introduce. The illustrations to this volume are sufficiently suggestive of the horrible to satisfy the appetite of the most decided lover of sanguinary fiction. (R. M. De Witt.)

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STEPHENS. CHAPTER V.-THE BURNING CEDAR.

MRS. ANN S.

"Is there no house, no living soul near to give us help?" said James Harrington, lifting his white face to that of Ben Benson, while his voice shook, and his arms

trembled around the cold form they half supported, half embraced. "If there is a spark of life left it will go out in this cold-if she is dead-"

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the U. S., for the Southern District of New York.

"Don't! oh, Mister James, don't!" cried Ben wring- | reel like a craft that has lost her helm! Steady, siring his hands with fresh violence, "them's cruel words steady, or she'll be hurt!" to stun a poor fellow's heart with-she ain't dead, God don't take his angels up to glory in that 'ere way!” James laid Mabel reverently from his arms, and stood up casting anxious glances through the storm.

"There is a light, yonder upon the hill-side,-you can just see it through the drifting clouds-go, Ben, climb for your life and bring us help!" "Ben stooped down, clapped a hand on each knee and took an observation.

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There is a light, that's sartin," he said joyfully, settling himself in his wet clothes and making a start for the hill; but directly he turned back again.

"If she's so near gone as you speak on, Mister James, it wouldn't be of no use for me to go up there for help --she'd be chilled through and through, till there was no bringing her back, long afore I could half-way climb the hill!"

"I fear it, I fear it!" said Harrington, looking mournfully down on the white face at his feet, "God help her!"

"See," said Ben stretching forth his hand toward the burning cedar, "God Almighty has gin us light and fire close by-the grass is crisped and dried up all around that tree. What if we carry the madam there? I'll go пр the hill with a heart in it arter that!" Ben stooped as if about to take the cold form of his mistress in his arms, but as his hands touched her garments some inward restraint fell upon him, and he drew back, looking wistfully from Harrington to the prostrate woman he dared not raise from the earth even in her extremity.

As he stooped a strange light had flashed into James Harrington's eyes, and he made a motion as if to push the poor boatman aside.

Ben did not see this, and, as we have said, his retreat was a voluntary impulse. He saw James Harrington take up the form he dared not touch, with a feeling of deep humiliation, submitting to the abrupt and stern manner which accompanied the action, as a well deserved rebuke for his boldness.

A small ravine separated the point of land occupied by the little party from the burning cedar, and toward this Harrington bore his silent burden. His cheeks grew deadly pale from a feeling deeper than fear or cold, and his eyes flashed back the gleams of light that reached him from the burning tree with a wild splendor that no mortal man had ever seen in them before.

He held Mabel closer and closer to his heart, which rose and heaved beneath its burden; his breath came in broken volumes from his chest, and an insane belief seized upon him, that though dead he could arouse her from that icy sleep, by forcing the breath of his own abundant existence through her lips.

Fired by this wild thought he bowed his head nearer and nearer to the pallid face upon his shoulder. But the voice of Ben Benson brought him back to sanity again.

"Be careful, sir! The hollow is full of ruts and broken stones! She is too heavy-You stagger and

James Harrington stopped suddenly, as if a war trumpet had checked his progress. His face changed in the burning light. His arms relaxed around the form they had clasped so firmly a moment before.

"Take her!" he said, with an imploring look. "Take her! I am very weak. You see how I falter-Take her, Benson. She is not heavy, it is only I that have lost all strength!"

Ben reached forth his brawny arms, as we sometimes see a great school-boy receive a baby sister, and folded them reverently around the form which Harrington relinquished with a sigh of unutterable humiliation.

Ben moved forward with a quick firm tread, following Harrington, who went before trampling down the undergrowth, and putting aside the dropping branches from his path.

The cedar tree stood on a slope of the bank, and had cast its fiery rain over the herbage and brushwood for yards around, leaving them crisped and dry.

Harrington gathered up a quantity of the. sered grass, and heaped a dry couch upon which Ben laid his charge within the genial heat that came from the cedar tree. Then they gathered up all the combustible matter within reach, and began to kindle a fire so near to the place where she lay that its heat must help to drive back the chill of death if there was a spark of life yet vital in her bosom.

Harrington knelt beside Mabel. He chafed her hands between his own, manipulated her forehead, and wrung the water from her long hair. But it all seemed in vain. No color came to those blue fingers. The purple tinge still lay like the shadow of violets under the closed eyes, no motion of the chest-no stir of the limbs. At last drops of water came oozing through the white lips, and a scarcely perceptible shiver ran through the limbs.

"It is life!" said Harrington lifting his radiant face to the boatman.

"Are you sartin it ain't the wind a stirring her gown?" asked Ben trembling between anxiety and delight.

"No, no-her chest heaves,—she struggles. It is life, precious, holy life; God has given her back to us, Ben!"

"I don't know-I ain't quite sartin yet, if she'd only. open her eyes, or lift her hand!" exclaimed the poor fellow.

Here a faint groan broke from the object of his solicitude, and she began to struggle upon the ground. "Go," said Harrington, "search out the light we saw she will need rest and shelter more than anything now."

"I will, in course I will-only let me be sartin she's coming to."

The good fellow knelt down by Mabel as he spoke, and lifting her hand in his, laid it to his rough cheek.

"It's alive-it moves like a drenched bird put back in its nest-I'll go now, Mister James, but d'ye see I

felt like thanking the great Admiral up aloft there, and didn't want no mistake about it."

"Yes, we may well thank God: she lives," said Harrington, looking down upon Mabel with tears in his eyes.

"Then I do thank God, soul and body, I thanks him," answered Ben, throwing his clasped hands aloft, "and if I was commander of the stoutest man-of-war as ever floated, I'd thank him all the same."

With these words Ben disappeared in the undergrowth and proceeded in search of help.

Admonished by the throes and struggles which proclaimed a painful return of life, Harrington lifted Mabel to a sitting posture and supported her there. His heart was wrung by every spasm of anguish that swept over her; yet at each one, he sent up a brief thanksgiving, for it was a proof of returning consciousness. Still she looked very deathly, and the sighs that broke through her pale lips seemed like an echo of some struggling pang within.

"Mabel," said Harrington catching his breath as the name escaped his lips, "Mabel, do you understand?-are you better, Mabel ?"

The name once spoken it seemed as if he could not repeat it often enough, it fell so like music upon his soul.

"Mrs. Harrington," muttered Mabel in a troubled tone, "how came that name here! It is of earth, earthy."

"We are all of earth," answered James, strong in self command. "You have been ill, Mrs. Harrington, drenched through, and almost drowned-but, thank God, your life is saved."

"My life is saved, and am I yet of earth? Then what is this light so heavenly, and yet so false !"

The storm which overwhelmed your boat struck this light. It is from a tree smitten with fire."

"And you?" questioned Mabel, but very mournfully. "You are General Harrington's son, and I am his wife?"

"Even so, dear lady!"

Mabel turned her head and tears stole softly from beneath her closed lashes. How could she reconcile herself to life again? To be thus torn back from a sweet delusion, was more painful than all pangs she had suffered.

They were silent now. For one moment they had met, soul to soul, but the old barriers were fast springing up between them, barriers that made the hearts of both heavy as death, yet neither would have lifted a hand to tear them away.

Mabel at last quietly wiped the tears from her eyes and sat up. She still shivered and her face was pale, She struggled faintly—a thrill ran through her frame, but she smiled yet, only the smile was so touchingly and both lips and eyelids began to quiver.

"Who calls me?" she said, in a whisper. "Who calls and where am I?"

Her eyes were open now, and the refulgence falling around her from the burning cedar, seemed like the glory of heaven. In that light she saw only James Harrington bending over her. A smile bright and pure, as if she had been in truth an angel, stole over her face. "Yes," she whispered with a sigh of ineffable happiness, "he may call me Mabel here."

He could not distinguish her words, but knew from the light upon her face, that she was very happy. His own features grew luminous.

"Mabel, have you ceased to suffer?" he said.

Her eyes were closed in gentle weariness now, but the smile came fresh upon her features, and she murmured dreamily:

sad.

"I must have been quite gone,-why did you bring me back?" she said.

"Why did we bring you back," repeated Harrington with a sudden outburst of passion, "why did we bring you back!" He checked himself and went on more calmly. "It is the duty of every one to save life, Mrs. Harrington, and to receive it gratefully when, by God's mercy it is saved.

"I know, I know," she answered, attempting to gather up the tresses of her hair, "I shall be grateful for this gift of life to-morrow; but now-indeed I am, very thankful that you saved me."

"It was Ben more than myself-but for him you would have been lost," answered Harrington, rejecting her sweet gratitude with stoicism. "He followed you in his boat through all the storm, and was nearly lost with

"There is no suffering here—nothing but heaven and you!" our two selves."

Oh, James Harrington, be careful now! You have heard those soft words-you have drank in the glory of that smile. In all your life what temptation has equalled this?

For one delirious moment the strong man gave himself up to the joy of those words: for one moment his hands were uplifted in thanksgiving-then they were clasped and fell heavily to the earth, and a flood of bitter, bitter self-reproach flowed silently from his heart. Mabel moved restlessly, like a child that had been lulled to rest by the music of a dear voice. She thirsted for the sound again.

"Did not some one here call me Mabel?" she asked. Harrington was firm now, and he answered calmly: "Yes, Mrs. Harrington, it was I."

"Poor Ben!" she said, "faithful always, I had not thought of him, though he saved my life."

Harrington had claimed all her gratitude for Ben with resolute self-restraint; but when she acknowledged it so kindly, he could not help feeling somewhat wronged. But against such impulses he had long armed himself, and directly cast them aside.

"How strange everything looks," she said, "are those stars breaking through between the clouds? They seem very pale and sad, after the light that dazzled me when I first awoke: then there is a mournful sound coming through the trees-the waters, I suppose. After all, this earth does seem very dark and sorrowful, to which you have brought me back."

"You are ill yet-you suffer, perhaps?"
"No, I am only sad !"

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