aken by the Judge and Armstrong, and we are, therefore, relieved
from the necessity of a description. Besides, we are now too much
interested in Armstrong, to allow us to pay much attention to the
beauties of external nature. Of such infinite worth is a human being;
so incalculably grand and precious those faculties and powers which
connect him with his magnificent source; so fraught with mystery the
discipline he endures, a mystery in which each one endowed with the
same nature, has part, that the natural and the visible shrink into
insignificance in comparison with the unseen and spiritual. Of
what consequence is a world of insensate matter, when brought into
competition with the immortal spirit?

Vain would be the attempt to describe the tumult of feelings that,
like billows of fire, dashed through the soul of the unfortunate man.
Sitting, as he supposed, for the last time, by the side of one dearer
than life, his eyes no longer dwelt upon Faith, with that expression
of calm and boundless love, whence she had been accustomed to drink in
so much happiness. Yet, was the love all there, but it was a troubled
love, a love full of anguish. What sweetness! what confidence in him
he read in her face! It was like the placid surface of a mountain
lake, in which the skies delight to mirror themselves--no emotion
hidden, no thought concealed--and, for all this innocent confidence,
what was his return? He was entertaining, in his mind, a dreadful
purpose; carefully concealing it so that it should be beyond the
power of suspicion, and inveigling her into a snare, which, upon being
discovered, must fill her young heart with an agony worse than death.
But no thought of swerving from his purpose crossed now the mind of
Armstrong. Considerations like these had long been reflected upon, and
in connection with others, been able, indeed, to retard the execution
of his design, but not, as it seemed, to defeat it. Whatever weight
they might have had, they were obliged to yield to more powerful
antagonists. He was no longer a free agent. A force, as with the grip
of a vice, held him fast. A scourge, whose every lash drew blood, as
it were, from his heart, drove him on. Beautiful, magnificent, the
harmonious and healthy play of the human faculties; horrid, beyond
conception, the possible chaos of their diseased action!

Meanwhile, Faith, ignorant of what was passing in her father's
mind, endeavored to interest him in the objects which attr