a well-built figure which showed strength and grace in every movement. He accordingly addressed him in quite a gentlemanly manner, and inquired of him the way to the village. After he had received the desired information, and was about taking his leave, the youth said, ‘Are you not Major Elfonzo, the great musician—the champion of a noble cause—the modern Achilles, who gained so many victories in the Florida War?’ ‘I bear that name,’ said the Major, ‘and those titles, trusting at the same time, that the ministers of grace will carry me triumphantly through all my laudable undertakings, and if,’ continued the Major, ‘you, sir, are the patroniser of noble deeds, I should like to make you my confidant, and learn your address.’ The youth looked somewhat amazed, bowed low, mused for a moment, and began: ‘My name is Roswell. I have been recently admitted to the bar, and can only give a faint outline of my future success in that honourable profession; but I trust, sir, like the Eagle, I shall look down from lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man, and shall ever be ready to give you any assistance in my official capacity, and whatever this muscular arm of mine can do, whenever it shall be called from its buried _greatness_.’ The Major grasped him by the hand, and exclaimed: ‘O! thou exalted spirit of inspiration—thou flame of burning prosperity, may the Heaven-directed blaze be the glare of thy soul, and battle down every rampart that seems to impede your progress!’ The road which led to the town presented many attractions. Elfonzo had bid farewell to the youth of deep feeling, and was now wending his way to the dreaming spot of his fondness. The south winds whistled through the woods, as the waters dashed against the banks, as rapid fire in the pent furnace roars. This brought him to remember while alone, that he quietly left behind the hospitality of a father’s house, and gladly entered the world, with higher hopes than are often realised. But as he journeyed onward, he was mindful of the advice of his father, who had often looked sadly on the ground, when tears of cruelly deceived hope moistened his eye. Elfonzo had been somewhat of a dutiful son; yet fond of the amusements of life—had been in distant lands—had enjoyed the pleasure of the world, and had frequently returned to the scenes of his boyhood, almost destitute of many of the comforts of life. In this condition he would frequently say to his father, ‘Have I offended you, that you look upon me as a stranger, and frown upon me with stinging looks? Will you not favour me with the sound of your voice? If I have trampled upon your veneration, or have spread a humid veil of darkness around your expectations, send me back into the world where no heart beats for me—where the foot of man has never yet trod; but give me at least one kind word—allow me to come into the presence sometimes of thy winter-worn locks.’ ‘Forbid it, Heaven, that I should be angry with