"But I know what irritates the world is that proud, disdainful calm which will give neither sigh nor tear. It was not that he killed poor Hamilton, but that he never seemed to care! Ah, there is that evil demon of his life,--that cold, stoical pride, which haunts him like a fate! But I know he _does_ feel; I know he is not as hard at heart as he tries to be; I have seen too many real acts of pity to the unfortunate, of tenderness to the weak, of real love to his friends, to believe that. Great have been his sins against our sex, and God forbid that the mothers of children should speak lightly of them I but is not so susceptible a temperament, and so singular a power to charm as he possessed, to be taken into account in estimating his temptations? Because he is a sinning man, it does not follow that he is a demon. If any should have cause to think bitterly of him, I should. He trifled inexcusably with my deepest feelings; he caused me years of conflict and anguish, such as he little knows; I was almost shipwrecked; yet I will still say to the last that what I loved in him was a better self,--something really noble and good, however concealed and perverted by pride, ambition, and self-will. Though all the world reject him, I still have faith in this better nature, and prayers that he may be led right at last. There is at least one heart that will always intercede with God for him." It is well known, that, for many years after Burr's death, the odium that covered his name was so great that no monument was erected, lest it should become a mark for popular violence. Subsequently, however, in a mysterious manner, a plain granite slab marked his grave; by whom erected has never been known. It was placed in the night by some friendly, unknown hand. A laborer in the vicinity, who first discovered it, found lying near the spot a small _porte-monnaie_, which had perhaps been used in paying for the workmanship. It contained no papers that could throw any light on the subject, except the fragment of the address of a letter on which was written "Henri de Frontignac." THE NORTHERN LIGHTS AND THE STARS. The stars are watching at their posts And raining silence from the sky, And, guarded by the heavenly hosts, Earth closes her day-wearied eye. A reign of holy quietness Replaces the tumultuous light, And Nature's weary tribes confess The calm beatitude of Night: When from the Arctic pit up-steams The Boreal fire's portentous glare, And, bursting into arrowy streams, Hurls horrid splendors on the air. The embattled meteors scale the arch, And toss their lurid banners wide; Heaven reels with their tempestuous march, And quivers in the flashing tide. Against the everlasting stars, Against the old empyreal Right, They vainly wage their anarch wars, In vain they urge their fatuous light. The skies may flash and meteors glare, And Hell invade the spheral school; But Law and Love are sovereign there, And Sirius and Orion rule.