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and letter to his quivering lips, and, with eyes bedimmed with tears, he read the following words :

“ It behoves the Duke of Swabia to select a wife among the princesses of his own rank. For a whole year, his love was the sole happiness of Gela's life-s0 it will ever be. Let that love be as eternal as it was pure and holy."

The unhappy Duke, casting himself on his knees, swore to obey the mandate, and he kept his word. The scarf, the dear pledge of his Gela's affection, accompanied him in all his expeditions, and in the hour of peril was wound around his casque. Yielding, at length, to the entreaties of his family, and the representa tion of his counsellors, he married Adelheid, daughter of the Margrave Theobald of Vohburg, in the year 1149; yet love was a stranger to their union; and when the imperial crown was placed on the head of the heroic Frederick, he immediately separated from Adelheid, whom, however, he treated with all the respect and courtesy due to her rank.

His love for Gela remained unchanged. At the place where her father's cas:le had stood he built a magnificent palace, which was his favourite place of residence ; and on the spot where he so unexpectedly met her in the woods he founded a noble city, one of the finest monuments of the age, to which he gave the name of Gelahausen. The last relic of the heroic race of Hohenstaufen has long since descended to the grave, and the name of Frederick Barbarossa adorns the page of history, but his love for the beautiful Gela still lives in the traditions of the people.


Dr. Greene, a personal friend, as well as warm admirer, of Handel's, brought to the great German an anthem of his own composition, requesting the favour of his opinion and remarks upon it. Handel readily received the production, promised to examine it immediately, and invited the doctor to breakfast with him the next day. Dr. Greene accordingly waited upon the illustrious musician. Handel, who had inspected the composition, received him with cordiality, gave him an elegant breakfast, and treated him with every politeness, but constantly continued to erade his visitor's questions respecting the opinion of his anthem. Greene, at length, too impatient to wait any longer for the great composer's decision on the merits of his piece, exclaimed vehemently,

My dearest friend, keep me no longer in suspense--tell me, I pray you - tell me what you think of my anthem ?" Handel, who had found it scientifically written, but very deficient in melody, answered, “ Oh, it is ver fine, my dear doctor, ver fine, indeed; only it do vant air, and so I Aung it out ov de vindow."

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Thou hast fought life's battle boldly-
Thou hast conquered in the fight :
Though thy brows shine now so coldly-
Coldly in their dazzling white-
Thou shalt wear a crown that beareth
Undimmed lustre ever more,
Thou shalt wander by the waters
Of that radiant Eden shore;
'Mong the crystal flowers that languish
Never for the dews of morning ;
Where comes never pain or anguish
Never more comes bate, or scorning :
Where the Eden trees are singing,
With the music of the blest;
Where go solemn seraphs winging-
Where the forms “ in white" are drest.
Nature's mourning for her lover ;
And the closed flowers murmur sorrow :
Ne'er on them will thine eyes hover
Never bless them with " Good Morrow."
Soon we strew upon thy bosom
Herbs and honey-death-sheets cold
Soon the pansies fine will blossom,
When thou’rt sleeping 'neath the mould.
O'er thee soon will winds be sweeping
In a cadence soft and slow :
O'er thee will One watch be keeping,
While thy cold head resteth low.

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NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN. An old paragraph from an English journal is going the rounds, in which it is alleged that Warren Hastings, when Governor-general of India, found in the district of Benares a subterranean vault, containing a printing-press of antique and singular fashion, with moveable types upon it, set as if ready for pricting ; and that from the best information that could be obtained, the discoverers were of opinion that the vault had been closed for at least a thousand years! It is scarcely to be credited that an art so peculiarly fitted to perpetuate itself, should be ever lost to the knowledge of mankind.




HAIR should be abundant, soft, flexible, growing in long locks, of a colour suitable to the skin, thick in the mass, delicate and distinct in the particular. The mode of wearing it should differ. Those who have it growing low in the nape of the neck should prefer wearing it in locks hanging down, rather than turned up with a comb. The gathering it, however, in that manner, is delicate and feminine, and suits many. In general, the mode of wearing the hair is to be regulated according to the shape of the head. Ringlets hanging about the forehead suit almost everybody. On the other hand, the fashion of parting the hair smoothly, and drawing it tight back on either side, is becoming to few. It has a look of vanity, instead of simplicity. The face must do everything for it, which is asking too much, especially as bair, in its freer state, is the ornament intended for it by nature. Hair is to the human aspect what foliage is to the landscape. Its look of fertility is so striking that it has been compared to flowers, and even to fruit. The Greek and other poets talk of hyacinthine locks, of clustering locks (an image taken from grapes), of locks like tendrils. The favourite epithet for a Greek beauty was “ well-haired," and the same epithet was applied to woods. Apuleius says that Venus herself, if she were bald, would not be Venus. So entirely do I agree with him, and so much do I think that the sentiment of anything beautiful, even where the real beauty is wanting, is the best part of it, that I prefer the help of artificial hair to an ungraceful want of it. I do not wish to be deceived. I would know that the hair was artificial, and would have the wearer inform me so. This would show her worthy of being allowed it. I remember, when I was at Florence, a lady of quality, an Englishwoman, whose beauty was admired by everybody, but never did it appear so admirable to me as when she told me one day that the ringlets that hung from her cap were not her own. Here, thought I, it is not artifice that assists beautyit is truth. Here is a woman who knows that there is a beauty in hair, beyond the material of it, or the pride of being thought to possess it. The first step in taste is to dislike all artifice; the next is to demand nature in her perfection; but the best of all is to find out the hidden beauty, which is the soul of beauty itself, to wit, the sentiment of it. The loveliest hair is nothing, if the wearer is incapable of a grace. The finest eyes are not fine, if they say nothing. What is the finest harp to me, strung with gold, and adorned with a figure of Venus, if it answer with a discordant note, and hath no chords in it fit to be wakened ? Long live, therefore, say I, lovely natural locks at five-and-twenty, and lovely artificial locks, if they must be resorted to, at five-and-thirty or forty. Let the harp be new strung, if the frame warrant it, and the sounding board hath a delicate

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