-night, for self is the only theme of which I
can discourse. My spirit, too, is like the minstrel harp of which you
have to-night been reading, 'twill "echo nought but sadness;" but if it
please you, you shall have uncle Ethel's love story--well may we say
alas! for time,

"For he taketh away the heart of youth,
And its gladness which hath been
Like the summer's sunshine on our path,
Making the desert green."

More than sixty years have elapsed since the time of which I now shall
speak. We lived then, a large and happy family, in the dwelling where
our fathers' sires had died--sons and daughters had married, but still
remained beneath the shadow of the parent roof tree, which seemed to
extend its wings like a guardian spirit, as they increased in number.
'Twas near the city of New York, and stood in the centre of sunny
fields, which had been won from the forest shade. Our parents were
natives of the soil, but theirs had come from the far land of Germany,
and the memories of that land were still fondly cherished by their
descendants. The low-roofed cottage, with its many-pointed gables and
narrow casement, was gay with the bright flowers of that home of their
hearts--cherished and guarded there with the tenderest care--all hues
of earth seemed blended in the bright parterre of tulips, over which the
magnificent dahlia towered, tall and stately as a queen--the rich scent
of the wallflower breathed around, and the jessamine went climbing
freely o'er the trellissed porch and arching eaves--each flower around
my home bore to me the face of a friend--they bore to me the poetry of
the earth, as the stars tell the sweet harmonies of heaven--but there is
a vision of fairer beauty than either star or flower comes with the
thought of these bye-gone days--the face of my orphan cousin Ella Werner
arises in the brightness of its young beauty, as it used to beam upon me
from the latticed window of my home: for her's, indeed,

"Was a form of life and light,
That seen became a part of sight,
And comes where'er I turn mine eye,
The morning star of memory."

Ella's mother was sister to my father: she lived but long enough to look
upon her child, and her husband died of a broken heart soon after her.
Thus the very existence of the fair girl was fatal to those who best
loved her--not best, for all living loved her. In after-years it seemed
as though it was her beauty, that fatal gift, which ne'er for go