There was something almost courtly in Mr. Whitelock’s manner of addressing women. People in his own class of life, who observed it, thought it ridiculous, and never speculated as to how this politeness became engrafted on his nature. He placed a seat for Mrs. Dolland in his little parlor; and, though it was a warm autumn evening, he moved it to keep her out of the air that blew over a box of yellowish, stunted mignonette, and two sickly wall-flowers, which graced the sill of his back window; he also pushed his own chair as far as he could from the widow’s, but, like all persons with impaired vision, she moved nearer to him, and turned her restless eyes toward the door. “It is shut close,” said the bookseller. [_To be continued._ * * * * * =MEDITATIONS ON THE LAST JUDGMENT.= =BY ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH.= Thou, who, from majesty of light, Didst move Isaiah’s heart aright, And touch his prophet lips with fire, Once more a mortal song inspire. Uplift my powers above the sphere Of themes that daily earth me here; Give me, on things within thy Book, With the large eye of truth to look. So shall my daily works be sped, For when this heart of mine is fed On things of lofty consequence, My daily life is more intense. My mortal spirits most ally With nature and humanity, When most I bear, however known, Some deep emotion all my own. Night hovers! What with hand and thought My will would do, must soon be wrought; Lo! how the years no more return, Each with his own sepulchral urn. Give me, O Lord, an eye to see Illusion from reality: This world, and all its ample scene, Is like a grand cathedral screen; So vastly spread, and graven high With labyrinthine blazonry; Rapt to a whisper, I behold Art so sublime and manifold. Lo! half in light, and half in gloom, Sleeps at the base an ancient tomb, Whose prickly-blooming niches bear All forms of rapture and despair. Above, in solemn ’scutcheons hung, Are legends in an unknown tongue— The fingers of the God of light Touched on the awful walls of night. Through middle breadth, from side to side, The bounding-footed hours glide, And scatter blooms, like meteor things, About a glass with glowing wings.