The storms no more the skies invest, The winds are heard no more; Low in the chambers of the west, Whence they arose, they’ve sunk to rest; The sunset storm is o’er. The clouds that were so wildly driven Across the darkened brow of heaven Are gone, and Even Comes in her mild and sober guise, Her perfumed air, her trembling skies, And Luna, with her star-gemmed, glorious crown, From her high throne in heaven, upon the world looks down. * * * * * WASTE PAPER; OR “TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR.” BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD. “Good bye, Vivian, don’t fall in love till you see Miss Walton. God bless you, my dear boy!” And Vivian Russell shook his kind uncle warmly by the hand and sprung into the stage coach, which was waiting for him at the gate. “All right!” said the guard—the bluff coachman smacked his whip, and away they sped along the road to London. They will not fly so fast, but that you and I, sweet reader, can overtake them when we list, though the swift steeds of Fancy must be harnessed for the purpose. To please you, then, we will follow them anon. In the mean time, sit you down by my side on this sunny bank, opposite the gate, where Vivian’s uncle still stands and gazes after the fast receding vehicle, and I will tell you all I know about him. You had time to see, ere he took his seat in the coach, that he was a tall, nobly formed youth, possessing, in an eminent degree, what the French call, “_Un air distingué_.” You could not but notice the thin silky intellectual looking curls, which waved on his classical head, (don’t laugh at the word “intellectual!”) Think a moment! Is there not expression even in hair? Does not thick, bushy, _stubby_ hair, especially if it curl, give you an idea of dullness, sensuality and want of refinement? If it doesn’t, my precious reader, take my word for it, you don’t see with your “mind’s eye,” or at any rate, with _my_ mind’s eye. Did you observe _his_ eyes? They are black, brilliant and expressive, full of that great rarity, in this whig and tory world, soul. His complexion is glowing and slightly brown by exposure. There is a dimple in his chin, his nose is just like that of the Apollo Belvidere, and his forehead, how shall I describe its beauty? broad, white, spiritual, beaming with thought, I cannot do it justice. There is the least perceptible curl on his beautiful lip; but you cannot see it when he smiles; for his smile is tenderness itself. In his manly bearing too, there is, perhaps, a dash of aristocratic haughtiness, at first, but it soon wears away upon acquaintance. The difficulty is to _become_ acquainted with him; I defy a dull or a vulgar person to do it.