"My sweet Ellen, then I blessed thee As my young and wealthy wife, But I knew not half the blessings With which thou wouldst dower my life!" Here he ceased, good Thomas Harlowe; And as soon as ceased his voice-- That sweet chorusing of woodlarks Made the silent night rejoice. [From Fraser's Magazine.] PHANTOMS AND REALITIES.--AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. (_Continued from Page 468._) PART THE FIRST--MORNING. VII. "I am not about to relate a family history," he began; "but there are some personal circumstances to which I must allude. At nineteen, I was left the sole protector of two sisters, and of a ward of my father, whose guardianship also devolved upon me. It was a heavy responsibility at so early an age, and pressed hard upon a temperament better adapted for gayety and enjoyment. I discharged it, however, with the best judgment I could, and with a zeal that has bequeathed me, among many grateful recollections, one source of lasting and bitter repentance." "Repentance, Forrester?" I cried, involuntarily. "You may understand the sort of dangers to which these young creatures were exposed in the spring-tide of their beauty, protected only by a stripling, who knew little more of the world than they did themselves. Upon that point, perhaps, I was too sensitive. I knew what it was to struggle against the natural feelings of youth, and was not disposed to place much trust in the gad-flies who gathered about my sisters. Well--I watched every movement, and I was right. Yet, with all my care, it so happened that an offense--an insult such as your heartless libertines think they may inflict with impunity on unprotected women--was offered to one of my sisters. Our friendless situation was a mark for general observation, and it was necessary that society should know the terms I kept with it. My enemy--for I made him so on the instant--would have appeased me, but I was inaccessible to apologies. We met; I was wounded severely--my opponent fell. This fearful end of the quarrel affected my sister's health. She had a feeling of remorse about being the cause of that man's death, and her delicate frame sunk under it." "Perhaps," said I, "there might have been other feelings, which she concealed." "That fear has cast a shadow over my whole life. But we will not talk of it. I must hasten on. There was a fatal malady in our family--the treacherous malady which is fed so luxuriously by the climate of England. My remaining sister, plunged into grief at our bereavement, became a prey to its wasting and insidious influence. You saw that the servant who opened the door was in mourning? I have mentioned these particulars that you may understand I was not alone in the world, as I am now, when the lady you have seen came to reside in my house. At that time, my sisters were living." "And she?"