im
in return, they tasted the joys of Venus without lighting the torch of
Hymen. The young woman became _enciente_, and died in giving birth to
twins--both daughters. Mr. Hedge brought these children up under his own
roof, and educated them liberally; yet while he treated them with the
most indulgent kindness, he never acknowledged himself to be their
father, fearing that if the fact became known, it would injure his
reputation as a man and a Christian, he being a zealous church member.
The girls themselves were ignorant of their parentage, and only regarded
Mr. Hedge as their generous benefactor. They had been taught to believe
that they had been abandoned by their parents in their infancy, and that
the old gentleman had taken them under his protection from motives of
charity. They were of a gentle disposition, beloved by all who knew
them, and by none more so than by Mr. Hedge, who maintained them as
ladies although he suffered them to superintend the affairs of his
extensive bachelor establishment. Their names were Emma and Lucy.

While these young ladies are engaged in disrobing the fair (but _not_
blushing) bride, let us seek the newly-elected husband, in the privacy
of his library.

A library--How we love to linger in such a place, amid the thousands of
volumes grown dingy with the accumulated dust of years!--We care not for
one of your modern libraries, with its spruce shelves, filled with the
sickly effusions of romantic triflers--the solemn, philosophical
nonsense of Arthur, the dandified affectation of Willis, and the clever
but wearisome twittle-twattle of Dickens--once great in himself, now
living on the fading reputation of past greatness; we care not to enter
a library made up of such works, all faultlessly done up in the best
style of binder. No--we love to pass long solitary hours in one of those
old depositories of choice literature made venerable by the rich
mellowing of time, and the sombre tapestry of cobwebs which are
undisturbed by the intrusive visitation of prim housemaids. There, amid
antique volumes, caskets of thought more precious than gems, how
delightful to commune with the bright spirit of dead authors, whose
inspired pens have left behind them the glorious scintillations of
immortal genius, which sparkle on every page! When the soft light of
declining day steals gently into the dusky room, and dim shadows hover
in every nook, the truly contemplative mind pores with a quiet rapture
over