and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wonderful Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of wool, ready to be spun; in another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar, gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and conch shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various-colored birds' eggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china.

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel.

THE BROKEN HEART.

Every one must recollect the tragical story of young E-, the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was so youngso intelligent-so generous-so brave-so every thing that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country-the eloquent vindication of his name-and his pathetic appeal to pos terity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation-all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution.

But there was one heart whose anguish it would be impos

sible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her, whose whole soul was occupied by his image? Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth-who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, from whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed.

But then the horrors of such a grave!—so frightful, so dishonored! There was nothing for memory to dwell on, that could soothe the pang of separation-none of those tender, though melancholy circumstances, that endear the parting scene-nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish.

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her, by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity that scathe and scorch the soul-that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness-and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but she was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude. She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the

blandishments of friendship, and "heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely."

The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay-to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching-it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness-that she drew a crowd, mute and silent, around her, and melted every one into tears.

The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead, could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance, that her heart was unalterably another's.

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

DISTINCTIVELY American in theme and spirit was the lasting work of James Fenimore Cooper; his attempts to portray European scenes and characters are justly neglected. But he is still the most prominent of American romancers of the old frontier and the sea. He was born at Burlington, New Jersey, September 15th, 1789, but his boyhood was spent at Cooperstown, New York, a village founded by his father, Judge Cooper, in 1790, when that portion of the state was a veritable wilderness, inhabited chiefly by Indians, trappers and pioneers. Cooper's early education was conducted by his father, a man of strong character and some attainments, and the boy entered Yale College at the early age of thirteen. Leaving college after three years of study, he entered the navy as a midshipman, and remained in the service until a short time after his marriage in 1811.

Observation and experience on the New York frontier and in the naval service had given him a mass of material available for fiction, but he did not attempt authorship until he was thirty years of age. His first romance, "Precaution," which attempted to portray polite society, was a failure. Two years later, however, "The Spy," based upon experiences of one of Washington's secret agents in New York during the Revolutionary War, made Cooper famous throughout his own country and soon afterward in Europe.

In 1823 appeared "The Pioneers," an exciting story of life at the outposts of civilization, and also "The Pilot," his first sea story. These books were the forerunners of two series, in their widely differing veins. Yet three years passed before

the appearance of "The Last of the Mohicans," abounding in sharp contrasts of Indians, pioneers and British and French soldiers in the time of the French and Indian war. Cooper is now charged with having greatly idealized his Indian characters, but his contemporaries commended him for fidelity to the types he had studied.

After publishing "The Red Rover," his second sea story, Cooper went to Europe, where he remained six years, residing in different cities. Intensely patriotic, as well as easily offended, he was greatly irritated by European comment on his country and its people. He therefore printed in English newspapers and reviews some vigorous corrections of misstatements regarding America, and he also published a book with the same purpose. His manner was so combative that the controversy he provoked continued for years. Meanwhile he was earnestly observant of European politics and published three novels abounding in political speculation and action, which have fallen into the background.

His first prominent work after his return to his native country was a "Naval History of the United States;" after which he wrote novels in rapid succession, as well as his "Lives of Distinguished American Naval Officers." But unfortunately he became again involved in useless controversy, attacking New England and the Puritans. Always interested and active in politics, he was an object of severe newspaper criticism. Cooper, combative and proud, had some legal ability, and instituted many libel suits, all of which were successful, and yet wasted his time and talents. He died at Cooperstown, September 14th, 1851.

In Europe, Cooper has often been termed "the Walter Scott of America," and the comparison is apt to the extent that he, like Scott, took patriotic, passionate interest in embodying in literature such interesting characters and experiences of his native land as were vanishing. The value of his work becomes apparent when the reader now notes how small is the remaining fiction of the periods treated by Cooper. The accuracy of Cooper's descriptions of men and scenes was sufficiently attested in his own day, when there still survived participators in wars with the Indians, French and British,