had but a glimpse of her.  It was one night, at the Colosseum.  We had been musing about that vast and solemn pile by the moonlight, which silvered it over with indescribable beauty, and at last, accompanied by our guides, bearing torches, we ascended through dark and broken passages to the upper benches of the amphitheatre.  As we were passing along one side, we saw picturesquely moving through the shadows of the opposite walls, with the immense arena between, the red-flaring torches and half-illuminated figures of another party of visitors.  I don’t know whether it was instinct, or acuteness of vision, that suggested Flora; but, with a sudden leap of the heart, I felt that she was there.  We descended, and passed out under the dark arches of the stupendous ruin.  The other visitors walked a little in advance of us,—­two of the number lingering behind their companions; and certain words of tenderness and passion we heard, which strangely brought to my mind those nights on the ocean-steamer.

“‘What is the matter with you?’ said Margaret, looking in my face.

“‘Hush!’ I whispered,—­’there—­that woman—­is Flora!’

“She clung to me,—­I drew her closer, as we paused; and the happy couple went on, over the ancient Forum, by the silent columns of the ruined temples, and disappeared from sight upon the summit of the Capitoline Hill.

“A few months later, we heard of the marriage of Flora to an English baronet; she is now my Lady, and I must do her the justice to say that I never knew a woman better fitted to bear that title.  As for Margaret,—­if you will return with me to my home on the Hudson, after we have finished our hunt after those Western lands, you shall see her, together with the loveliest pair of children that ever made two proud parents happy.

“And here,” added Westwood, “we have arrived at the end of our day’s journey; we have had the Romance of the Glove, and now—­let’s have some supper.”

TO ——.

ON RECEIVING HIS “FEW VERSES FOR A FEW FRIENDS.”

“(PRINTED, NOT PUBLISHED.)”

  Well thought!  Who would not rather hear
    The songs to Love and Friendship sung,
    Than those which move the stranger’s tongue
  And feed his unselected ear?

  Our social joys are more than fame;
    Life withers in the public look: 
    Why mount the pillory of a book,
  Or barter comfort for a name?

  Who in a house of glass would dwell,
    With curious eyes at every pane? 
    To ring him in and out again
  Who wants the public crier’s bell?

  To see the angel in one’s way,
    Who wants to play the ass’s part,
    Bear on his back the wizard Art,
  And in his service speak or bray?

  And who his manly locks would shave
    And quench the eyes of common sense,
    To share the noisy recompense
  That mocked the shorn and blinded slave?