500 THINGS THAT HAPPEN EVERY DAY. NO. I. 







a herd of graceful deer sipping the morning dew ; chequering the 

 forest glades, they steal beneath the Jong-lived oak. The skulking 

 huntsman comes with deadly aim, and the gayest forester falls lifeless as 

 the turf he lies upon. Why does he perish and the rest survive ? What 

 has he done to merit assassination rather than his companions ? " And 

 why," exclaimed Dacre, " am I marked out for misery while thousands 

 smile around me ? Am I more worthless than they ?" He examined his 

 heart, but could detect no malignant feeling there. He reviewed his 

 past life, but his memory was unburdened with the recollection of any 

 crime. One act stood out in bold relief, like a fair promontory stretch- 

 ing far into a troubled sea; and he scrutinized the motives that led to 

 that act. They were mixed, but the better ones appeared to prepon- 

 derate. He had married from no sordid desire, he had much to lose and 

 nothing to gain, except the pleasure arising from the consciousness of 

 self-sacrifice. He had sacrificed himself, but where was the promised 

 pleasure ? He had joined the noble army of martyrs, but he would not 

 enjoy the exquisite hallucination of martyrdom. 



Evening threw her shadows over the fragrant earth. The sun of 

 summer shone through the branches of the forest ; the leaves trembled 

 in the gentle wind, and the echo of the distant brook tantalized the ear 

 as the breeze rose and died away. The shepherds were busy on the 

 hills folding their shee,p, and the rustic maidens singing in the valley, 

 milked the patient mothers of the herd. Groups of happy children 

 gathering garlands in their favourite fields, sauntered slowly homeward 

 as the supper hour approached. The labourer with shouldered shovel, 

 retreating from his toil, met, as he hied along, the urchin crew, and 

 answered to the sacred name of " father." Fair earth seemed sinking to 

 repose, and wooing her children to partake of her rest. At this hour 

 Dacre was wandering through the woods, envying the blitheness of the 

 birds and pondering on his fate, when suddenly a hand, gently laid upon 

 his arm, disturbed his reverie. 



" You are not happy," said a voice expressive of all human ten- 

 derness. 



" Why are you not happy ?" inquired a look which the angels hardly 

 wear. 



" Can I make you happy ?" whispered the earnest expression of a face 

 which seemed the throne of every deep emotion blended. 



Pen arid ink are incapable of carrying on the dialogue that ensued. 

 The palavering of senators, the wrangling of theologians, or the 

 squabbling of philosophers, may be set down in writing ; but the dream 

 of heart unto heart uttering speech, and soul unto soul showing know- 

 ledge, as far transcends the powers of description as the rolling mist, the 

 summer brook, or the fugitive lightning. Dacre told the tale of his 

 misfortunes. Myrrha listened with compassion, and compassion, like 

 the crescent moon, waxed slowly full until it ripened into deep un- 

 clouded love. Days passed away, and Dacre and his companion breathed 

 their sighs to the autumn winds, mirrored their smiles in the crystal 

 brooks, and watered the earth with their tears. Their hearts were con- 

 genial, their minds fashioned in the same mould, and the current of their 

 thought like twin fountains, flowed together. They were formed to be 

 &pie,f}. But alas ! invisible to eye, impalpable to touch, immoveable, 

 insurmountable, a barrier stretched between them and their hopes. The 

 tne Andes traversed, the desert left behind ; the 



