in the East, he sought not intercourse with mankind, to unfold or increase his stores of knowledge. Those who heard him converse, spoke with admiration of his colloquial powers, his command of language, and the eloquence that hung upon his lips. But this was a privilege rarely enjoyed by any one; for he studiously avoided society, though there seemed in his nature nothing like moroseness or misanthropy.

But the chief delight of his existence was communion with the mighty Niagara. Here, at every hour of the day or night, he might be seen, a devout worshipper. He gazed upon it in the gray dawn, while wrapped in its veil of mist; at high noon his spirit drank the full splendor of its meridian glory; he stood by its side when it was spanned by the lunar bow; and at the solemn hour of midnight, his spirit went up in prayer and praise, with the deep voice of its waters. Neither storms nor the piercing cold of winter prevented his visits to this great temple of his adoration.

-

When the frozen mists, settling upon the lofty trees, turned them into columns of crystal, - when every branch and shrub, glittering with transparent ice, waved in the sunbeam its coronet of diamonds,he gazed, unconscious of the keen atmosphere, charmed and chained by the magic of the dazzling scene. time, a beaten track was worn by his feet from his cottage door to the cataract.

In

He was accustomed to bathe daily in the river below the falls. One bright but rather chill day, in the month of June, 1831, a man employed about the ferry saw him go into the water, and a long time after, observed his clothes to be still lying upon the bank.

Apprehension was excited, and inquiry made. The anxiety was but too well founded. The poor hermit had indeed taken his last bath. It was supposed that cramp might have been brought on by the unusual coldness of the air or the water. The body, caught amid the boiling eddies of the whirlpool, could not be recovered for many days.

When it was at length rescued from the floods, and borne

back to his desolate cottage, his faithful dog was found guarding the door. Heavily must the long period have worn away, while he watched for his only friend, and wondered why he delayed his coming. He looked at the approaching group suspiciously, and would have opposed their entrance, had not a low, stifled wail announced that he recognized the lifeless form to be that of his master.

They laid him upon his bed; the thick, dripping masses of his beautiful hair clinging to and veiling the features lately so handsome and expressive. On the pillow was his pet kitten; to her, also, the watch for the master had been long and wearisome. In his chair lay the guitar, whose music was probably the last his ear heard on earth. There were also his flute and violin, his portfolio and books, scattered and open, as if recently used. On the spread table was the untasted meal for noon, which he had prepared for his return from that bath which had proved so fatal. It was a touching sight the dead hermit mourned by the dumb animals that had loved him, and ready to be laid by stranger hands in a foreign grave.

So died this singular and accomplished being, at the early age of twenty-eight. Learned in the languages, and in the arts and sciences, improved by extensive travel, gifted with personal beauty and a feeling heart, -the motives for his solitary life are still enveloped in mystery. It was, however, known that he was a native of England, where his father was a clergyman, that he received thence ample remittances for his support, and that his name was Francis Abbott. These facts had been previously ascertained; but no written papers were found in his dwelling, to throw additional light upon the mystery in which his life was involved; why he should choose to withdraw from society, which he was so well fitted to benefit and adorn, must ever remain unexplained.

We visited, in the summer of 1844, the deserted abode of the hermit. It was partially ruinous; but we traced out its different compartments, and the hearthstone where his winter

evenings were passed amid books and music, his faithful dog at his feet, and his kitten on his knee.

At our entrance, a pair of nesting birds flew forth in alarm. Methought they were fitting representatives of that gentle spirit which would not have disturbed their callow young, or harmed the trusting sparrow. If that spirit had endured aught from man which it could not forget or reveal, — if the fine balance of the mind had been broken by the pressure laid upon it, we would stand upon the sufferer's grave, not to condemn, but to pity.

XIII.-COUSIN DEBORAH'S LEGACY.

CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL.

COUSIN DEBORAH was an old, unmarried lady, who had no other property than a moderate life annuity. The furniture of her house was faded and antique; the linen was well darned; the plate was scanty, and worn thin with use and frequent scouring; the books were few and in no very good condition. She had no jewels or trinkets; her days were passed in a dreary state of tranquillity, stitching, stitching, stitching, forever, with her beloved huge work box at her elbow. That wanted nothing; for it was abundantly fitted up with worsted, cotton, tape, buttons, bodkins, needles, and such a multiplicity of reels and balls that to enumerate them would be a tedious task.

Cousin Deborah particularly prided herself on her darning; carpets, house linen, stockings, all bore unimpeachable testimony to this branch of industry. Holes and thin places were hailed with delight by her; and it was whispered-but that might be a mere matter of scandal - that she even went so far as to cut holes in her best table cloths for the purpose of exercising her skill and ingenuity in repairing the fractures. Be that as it may, the work box was as much a companion to her as dogs or cats are to many other single ladies. She was lost without it: her conversation always turned on the subject of thread papers and needle cases; and never was darning cotton more scientifically

rolled into neat balls, than by the taper fingers of Cousin Deborah.

The contents of that wonderful work box would have furnished a small shop. As a child, I always regarded it with a species of awe and veneration; and without daring to lay a finger on the treasures it contained, my prying eyes greedily devoured its mysteries, when the raised edge revealed its mountains of cotton and forests of pins and needles. And I have no doubt that Cousin Deborah first regarded me with favor in consequence of being asked by my mother to give me a lesson in darning a most necessary accomplishment in our family, as I was the eldest of many brothers and sisters; and, though very happy among ourselves, the circumstances of our dear parents rendered the strictest industry and frugality absolutely indispensable in order to make "both ends meet."

She was proud of me, on the whole, as a pupil, though she sometimes had occasion to reprove me for idleness and skipping stitches; and between us, it is impossible to say how many pairs of stockings we made whole in the course of the year. We resided near our cousin Deborah; and many a time I was invited to take tea with her, and bring my work bag in my hand, as a matter of course, and to sit with her for long hours without speaking, intent on our needles, the silence unbroken save by the ticking of the eight day clock.

I sometimes found it very dull work, I confess. Not so Cousin Deborah. She needed no other society than that of her work box; and I do not believe she loved any human being so well. Her whole heart was in it; and the attachment she evidenced towards me, as time went on, was fostered and encouraged by our mutual zeal in performing tasks of needle work. Not that I shared in her devotion: I was actuated by a sense of duty alone, and would far rather, could I have done so conscientiously, have been dancing and laughing with companions of my own age. But ply the needle I did, and so did Cousin Deborah; and we two became, with the huge old work box between us, quite a pair of loving friends; and at least two evenings in every

week I went to sit with the lone woman.

She would have

had me do so every evening; but, though there were so many of us at home, our parents could not bear to spare any of us out of their sight oftener than they deemed indispensable. At length Cousin Deborah's quiet and blameless life came to an end. Having shut her work box, locked it, and put the key in a sealed packet, she turned her face to the wall, and fell asleep.

When her will was opened, it was found that she had left her books, furniture, and plate to a family that stood in the same relationship to her as we did, but who were in much more prosperous circumstances than we. To me she devised the huge old work box, with all its contents, "in token of the high esteem and affection with which I was regarded" by the deceased. I was to inherit the well-stored work box, only on condition that it was to be daily used by me in preference to all others. "Every ball of darning cotton, as it diminishes, shall bring its blessing," said Cousin Deborah; "for Ada Benwell" (that was my name) "is a good girl, and has darned more holes in the stockings of her little brothers and sisters than any other girl of her age. Therefore I particularly commend the balls of darning cotton to her notice; and I particularly recommend her to use them up as soon as she can, and she will meet with her reward in due season."

My mother was a little disappointed at the contents of our kinswoman's will, and expressed her displeasure in a few sharp remarks, for which my father gently reproved her. The subject of the legacies was never again discussed by us. The work box was in constant requisition at my side, and the balls of darning cotton rapidly diminished. One day, as I was sitting beside my mother busy with my needle, she remarked, "You have followed our poor cousin's directions, my dear Ada. She particularly recommended you to use up the balls of darning cotton as soon as possible; and look, there is one just done."

As my mother spoke, I unrolled a long needleful, and came