she with her own thoughts, that she did not notice the convulsive sobs that shook the confessional, as she described in eloquent words the intensity of her love for Alfred. She depicted her anguish at their separation, the struggle between desire and duty when she received the letters, and finished by praying that it might not impede her entrance into the heavenly world, that purified and holy it was still enshrined in her heart of hearts. As she paused for the benediction, overcome with the exertion, the door of the confessional suddenly opened, and raising her eyes, Rose uttered a shriek of surprise, and sank fainting in the arms of Alfred de Beaujeu! Forgetting all else but that he held his beloved at last within his grasp, he lavished the caresses of affection upon her senseless form, begging that she would grant him but one look in the name of their long cherished love. His voice recalled the spirit from the verge of the unknown world. Opening her eyes, she fixed upon him a look of unutterable affection, murmured his name, and fell back heavily upon his arm - he gazed upon the dead! Once more he saw her, dressed in bridal robes, the orange wreath fastening the veil that concealed her golden hair, the wedding ring upon her finger- all even as he had pictured in his airy visions, there she lay-the bride of Death! The confessor of the convent (who had been unexpectedly called away, and requested the Superior of the Jesuits to send another brother in his place to the Sacré Coeur, which explained the opportune appear. ance of Alfred,) returned in time to perform the funeral service for the deceased nun, and none dreamed of the mighty agitation that swelled to bursting the heart of the priest who assisted him at the mournful ceremony, and no eye saw the look of intense love that, lingering, took its last fond farewell of the dead novice. The next day Father Alfred petitioned for a transfer to the order of La Trappe, and not a monk of that most severe of severe communities practises more unceasing austerities than Alfred de Beaujeu. Trust me, gentle reader, many a romance lies hidden beneath the priestly cowl, and the smouldering embers of disappointed affection would ofttimes be found, were the heart of the cloistered nun laid bare to view. HEAR, blue-eyed PALLAS! Eagerly we call, Near the Carpathian's sparkling water stands, Walled in with trees, which, sweeping wide around, Like the glad incense of our prayer, which floats In white and gold, come from the dusky glades — The loveliest of our beauty-blesséd isle Their small white feet glittering like stars that smile They bear thy robe of pure and stainless white, Those, chiefly, done of old, When, bearing in the van, thou didst the Giants fight. Brain-born of ZEUS, thou who dost teach to men Science and Art in renovated youth, And taught fair Greece to love and seek the truth; Thou to whom artist and artificer, Fearing thy potent anger to incur, Bend down beseechingly and pray for aid, In all the cunning mysteries of their trade; The life of those thou lovest well prolong, Come, PARTHENOS, to thy beloved home, Where hungry oceans foam, And there dispensest light barbaric nations through. Oh, come not to us clad in armor bright, With flashing spear and helm of blazing gold, Wreathed with live serpents! Not in warlike guise, The lightning in thy right-hand flashing far, From thy Tegæan shrine in Arcady, Thy sacred dragon gliding e'er the waves, While nymphs, emerging from deep ocean caves, And EOLUS bears incense from the shores And his wild torrent pours I' the Indian sea, and all the trees rich odors rain. Thou who the daring Argonauts did'st guide By Lemnos and by sunny Samothrace Fair isles that sit the waves with stately grace— (While taught of thee, their sweet task they fulfil, Thou did'st our humble ceremonies bless, And smile upon their budding loveliness: When new flowers sprang in every sunny vale, And blander breezes and serener skies Thenceforward blessed the isle. Oh, good and wise! Oh, radiant goddess! shall this sacred day And fade to evening gray, And thou not deign to glad our anxious, longing eyes? ON BEARDS. NUMBER TWO. ALBERT PLEK. LORD, worshipp'd might He be! what a beard thou hast got! -His beard grew thin and hungerly, and seem'd to ask him sops as he was drinking!' - WHY should a man whose blood is warm within, sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?' - WITH beard of formal cut.' SHAZOPERE. grave TOWARD the termination of my Essay of the last month on this and momentous topick, O thou bright and courteous Editor of the rising and extending KNICKERBOCKER! I had perceived myself to be suddenly falling into the gay and discursive humour that doth alas! so easily beset me; and that is so adverse to, and subversive of a nice and logical consideration of the grave social enormity to which the population of this metropolis is becoming prone: -I can only mean the enormity of Beards. I therefore closed, after the expression of a few hasty thoughts; intending to resume the subject when I should bring myself to a more quiet and philosophick tone and frame of mind. I thought also of the familiar Latin proverb, which is not however (as I am classically informed) the proverb of an ancient date, but which nevertheless, whether ancient or modern, carries the judicious purport on its front, that it does not become us to dispute on matters of Taste; and I desired thereupon to examine the other side of the proposition, and to know whether countervailing thoughts might not arise in my breast in favour of this imitation as a matter of taste by civilized man, of the proper appendage of the goat. Alas, that I should say so! like so many wiser and better men, the longer the time may be that I spend in reflection, the more fixed and perfect is the conviction that I, I only if it must be so, I only am altogether in the right. Taste! say I, TASTE! Suppose a wretch should decide upon going home and shooting his father and mother-shall it be considered a matter of Taste whether of the two he shall first plump over? Suppose a man found guilty of having eaten a potato with a woodcock; or of having dismissed his plate during the autumnal months with the head of that delicious bird untouched upon it-is he ever thereafter to be permitted to make use of the word TASTE? Suppose a Gentleman upon a Summer day to receive from the gar den of a kind friend at HELL-GATE, (pardon the word, I believe it to Now slowly, leaf after leaf, all cool, all spotless, all dewy, all moist, all invigorated, all crisp, leaf after leaf, has been gently folded, tenderly sheltered, in a pure white damask napkin, (O call it dried, absorbed, not wiped !) and quietly, deftly, gracefully, daintily placed into the cool glass bowl; the hollow of each leaf lying upward to receive (from a box-wood or Swiss-poplar spoon) a small quantity of the dressing immortalized by the pen of the late Reverend and distinguished Sydney Smith in the following lines: 'Two large potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve, Of mordent mustard add a single spoon, Four times the spoon with oil of Lucca crown, Our judicious host, mindful that much of the day's happiness of his guests is now at stake, wields artistically his wooden fork and spoon, and while he distributes the contents of the bowl among his friends with the justice and liberality of the gods, takes care to see that each part of each leaf enjoys its due proportion of the dressing. He accomplishes this without in the least degree bruising or discomposing or diminishing the crispness of even the most tender of the leaves, and hardly disturbs its repose until he has deposited it in the centre of the plate of the convive." Now suppose this convive, this guest, instead of transferring it unbroken unbruised unruffled into the penetralia of his mouth, by means of rolling it gracefully around his silver fourchette, should proceed to mince and chop and hash it up upon his plate with his steel knife, destroying all the lacteal veins and vessels of the tortured plant that at |