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dwelt vividly in my memory, and the loss of my port-monnaie, or rather of its contents, was a serious one to me in a strange city, with limited means, so that I determined to dress at once, and, seeking the police-office, to take all possible steps for its recovery. I therefore rose and began my toilet.

In a short time I was dressed in all respects save my coat, which I had thrown the night before over a chair in a careless way, and I now caught hold of it as carelessly by the skirt, when, as I raised it from the chair, something fell from its folds and dropped with a dull clang on the floor. I moved the chair, stooped to pick up the object-Ha! no! am I awake? Yes, by Heaven! There lay my red morocco port-monnaie!

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Half-stupefied by this miracle, I mechanically clutched it, tore open, and therein, so help me truth, lay, snugly packed away, the identical roll of notes dropped on the 'kino' floor and restored to me by the civil waiter!

I opened the sack; there were the gold quarter-eagles, dollarpieces, and silver: all untouched, all safe!

Piece by piece, note by note I counted them, feeling the while, much as I presume Rip Van Winkle did when he returned to his village after his long nap. They were all there!

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For a moment I thought I was going, or had gone, mad. Then the idea occurred to me, 'It was all a dream: the result of a laudanum nightmare; may that doctor be anathema! But stop,' said I to myself, after further reflection, there's a way of testing all this, without exposing myself to ridicule, or giving rise to doubts of my sanity by making inquiries at the kino. No! I won't go to the 'kino!' Under no circumstances will I seek that cursed 'kino' again! Dream or no dream: mad or of sound mind, I shall never dare to return to that horrible 'kino!' I have one certain test here, and I will abide by it; if it prove me the victim of nightmare, so much the better: I can laugh at it, now that it is over; if, on the contrary, it prove me the victim of ugh! at least the secret shall be buried in my own breast; no mortal but myself shall ever know it; no! no! I'll stand by the test!'

And I have, until now, stood by that test, and revealed it to no living being; but as 'murder will out,' so will every other burden on the spirit, whether of crime, or grief, or love, or hate, orReader, you shall know the test and its result!

I had, you may remember, won the first game of 'kino,' and received the 'pool.' It was in small silver, and I had dropped it in the little cash pocket of my over-coat.

There was, I recollected well, but one half-dime in that pocket previously.

With a fearful foreboding, half of hope, half of terror, I sought my over-coat where it hung against my chamber-door, and tremblingly approaching my hand to the fateful pocket, thrust my fingers desperately within it; gave a loud cry, and sank fainting to the floor! That pocket was full of small silver !

Philadelphia, Feb. 19, 1858.

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Valley Forge, (Pa.)

A plunge, a pang, and the fever of life,'
With its wasting cares, is o'er :

No sin to conquer, no sorrow to bear,
And rest for evermore.

A rush of waters seems bearing her down,
And a whirl in her dizzy brain,

When a light breaks forth from the great white throne,
And she totters on again.

The court is gained, and the house at length,
With its narrow and darksome stair:
Alas! for the feeble and shivering limbs :
How hardly they enter there.

Solemnly still, like the Jews of old,
In Moab's mournful clime,

We pause below, while a saint ascends
To offer a soul sublime.

In the dark, dark room, like a rift of light,
Lies the beautiful form of clay,

Holy and still in its wondrous calm,
For the spirit has passed away.

On the still white face upturned in death,
And framed with its curls of brown,
The mid-night moon (for the storm has passed)
Like a friendly face looks down:

It shines on the lily-curtained eyes

Like lakes in their summer blue,
Brilliant as stars with the moulted light
Of the spirit passing through:

For a radiant form in flowing white,
And girt with a golden zone,
With glittering harp and golden crown,
Has swept to the great white throne.

PASSION.

My fingers clasp a crystal vase,
And as I turn it to the light,

The amber fluid held within

Becomes that instant golden-bright.

My lips have touched the goblet's edge,
And I am filled with ecstasy

That thrills me through, till I am mad

To drink the subtle draught and die.

O PEYTON! take your eyes from mine!
They hold me so I cannot think:
My lips are on the charméd brim :
Take off your eyes, or I shall drink!

TOM BOLT'S NEV V Y.

BY KIT KELVIN.

It should be an apothegm, that every man has a skeleton, a grinning, ghastly skeleton, dangling in his door-way or business. If by his fire-side, it may be his companion, a wayward child, or constant sickness. If in his business, disappointment, ill-starred fortune, or complete failure. In some cases, this hideous array is blown away, bone by bone, until it disappears; but in others, sadly, it brings up the last of the funeral procession. Perhaps the latter preponderates. Illustrative of this axiom, the following brief story may be pertinent.

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Tom Bolt was an old retired sea-captain. He had never married: had accumulated a fortune upon the waters, and was coupling otium cum dignitate, as far as his salt notions induced him. He had been a sailor, man and boy,' for over forty years, and was a perfect specimen of his class. With a large person, he had a voice deep, slightly raspy; trained, no doubt, by continuous combats with gales and salt water. He could be irascible on a short notice; but ordinarily provoked good cheer wherever his presence was found. He had a dog, a cat, a pet-parrot, and a house keeper. Charitable institutions had made themselves vampires upon him, and extracted benevolent sums from him, from year to year. To this he did not object; but he yearned for some one of his own to bestow his property upon, when he had accomplished his pilgrimage. But here the old sailor was unfortunate. He knew of no one whom he could claim. His relatives had never been numerous, and those that had been, had passed away in the life-struggle. He had looked about for a protégé, but had never found one to fill the vacancy. Numerous applications had been made by sordid, selfish ones, for their weakly, indolent representatives; yet the eye of the mariner always discovered a lack of sense, manhood, or brightness, that caused disappointment on the one hand, and a feeling of justice on the other. Tom Bolt was constant at church, made hearty responses, and was a pillar of moneyed strength, if not of righteous example to the society. His cellar always held a choice selection of old wines, St. Croix, and Jamaica, which were by no means spared whenever a visitor dropped in upon him. Every body loved him, for he had a kind word for the poor - also money a cheerful salutation for a friend, a warm welcome for children, and a song or a yarn, when occasion required. And this was Tom Bolt. But he had a skeleton. I will tell you what it was.

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Some fifteen years before he moored upon land, a nephew bearing his own name (he always called him nevvy) he had taken to initiate into the service. He was a wild, reckless boy, heedless of his in

terests, and deaf to counsel. He was put into the fore-castle, and received no favors from the cabin. To a youngster, this discipline was mysterious and unnatural, and the young blade made severe trouble for his uncle. Yet, as the last of his race, he was indulged by pardon, and sometimes by a palpable over-looking of his glaring faults. This acted upon him as encouragement; and rather than diminishing his flagitious acts, they increased. His elder shipmates advised him to look well to his reckoning, or the old uncle would shipwreck him, without a tarpaulin or toggery. But it did not avail.

There was no settled malice on the part of the boy. It was young spite and indifference. To activity he added more than the ordinary amount of intelligence for one of his years; and were it not for a seeming treachery, he would have been rapidly promoted.

Finally, with patience exhausted, and ire predominant, the old sailor, as his vessel ran into Havre, sent for the relation. He came with a familiar rush into the cabin, and stood covered.

Nevvy doff your tarpaulin. You are wrecking every inch of your cargo of manners, if you ever shipped them.

The nevvy saw at one glance there was a determination that augured poorly for him.

Nevvy, you are the only son of as brave a sailor as ever went down among the sea-weeds; but there are barnacles all over you; and you are more of a piratical craft than a friend. I took you to make a captain; but you have run on a lee-shore, and here you are at Havre, alone, and without friends. Do ye understand ? ›

'Ay, Sir! you are going to heave me overboard.'

'What else can I do with a bad cargo in a gale? Nevvy, you are hereafter to shin aloft elsewhere than on the 'Peacock.' Go forward, and then ashore. If you ever think better of your course, come to me, and I will over-haul you once more.'

And so the Nevvy left.

Some three years after, the uncle heard that the Nevvy had met his end. He fell from aloft, and his absence was not noticed until it was too late to return for a search.

This item of intelligence affected the old sailor. He blamed himself, his rashness, and his want of greater patience. But it could not be otherwise; and he endeavored to console himself that pure justice had been righteously administered.

So Tom Bolt was alone; and this was his skeleton.

Occasionally the house-keeper would be the repository of his reflections. They generally found utterance at night, when his paper was read, and the dog barked in his sleep, and old Tabby purringly rubbed against his boots. Such a home-scene illustrative of comfort and confidence, awakened the dormant affections of the mariner, and his conscience bit him to exclamations.

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'Betty! I was a cruel sea-dog, full of bark. No leave of absence my hull. I see it now. And here I am, old and alone: no kin to care for the old hulk: laid up in ordinary: timbers shivered and

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