‘Silence!’ thundered Glenning, ‘thou bloody villain, nor dare insult the ears of manhood, by your damning proposition. I should prove myself a liar did I do it; you, you gave the offence, and ’tis from you should come the acknowledgment. But this is wasting time. That I am no coward, sir, I have fully shown by twice withstanding your fire. Now ’tis my turn—give us the pistols. Wretch,’—cried he, looking on Ralle with eyes flashing intolerably bright, and voice so hoarse that it could scarcely be heard—‘wretch! you have lived too long. I would not stain my hands, but I shall bless the world, by ridding it of you. Look your last on the sun—for, by the Eternal God! you certainly die.’ The pistols were handed them—the word given; this time, my friend aimed and fired. Ralle staggered back, and fell upon his knees; yet, he soon recovered himself, and rising to his feet, he certainly presented the most horrible countenance I ever saw. The ball had struck him on the jaw near the ear, and crushed it to atoms; and the blood spirted over him from head to foot. He uttered one dreadful shriek of agony; then—before I could interfere, rushed up, presented his pistol at the breast of Glenning, and shot him through the heart. Such a dastard act!—But let me close the scene. I have dwelt on it too long. We carried my friend to his dwelling—we tore open his garments—there was the ragged wound in his breast, and his heart’s blood gushing through it. * * * * * Poor, poor Isabel! she sleeps beneath the flowers she so much resembled—her name is left in our hearts. PEN AND INK. I do not know, I do not know, but yet I cannot think, That earth has pleasures sweeter than are found with pen and ink, This whiling off an idle hour with torturing into rhyme, The pretty thoughts, and pretty words, that do so softly chime. I know it must be sad for such, as cannot make the verse Dash gaily off, and gallop on, delightfully and terse, But when the thought is beautiful, and language ain’t amiss, O! tell me what on earth can bring a joy so pure as this. They sadly err and slander too, this lovely world of ours, Who say we gather thorns enough but never gather flowers,— Why, look abroad on field and sky, there is a welcome there, And who amid such happiness can weep or think of care? The natural world is full of forms of beauty and delight, The forest leaves are beautiful, there’s beauty in the light; And all that meets us makes us feel that grieving is unkind, And says be happy in this world, and fling your cares behind. The mental world is beautiful, and deck’d in beauty rare, Whate’er we see, whate’er we dream, we find it imaged there,— A halo circles all that is, the sprightly and the tame, ‘And gives to airy nothings too a dwelling and a name.’