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. CHAPTER III.

NIGHT after night found Beauchampe at his post, gazing up at that curtained box with the adoration of an idolater to his divinity ! Sometimes its unknown occupant was absent, and at other times she remained perversely invisible. But still the impassioned lover was more than once rewarded by a sight of that fair, lustrous face-and the glimpse, though it lasted but for a moment, afforded food for the thoughts and dreams of a week. Beauchampe no longer went in company with the gay De Burgh, but sought a secluded seat whence he might gaze unnoticed, and drink in the surpassing beauty of that face in selfish silence.

Thus passed a fortnight, and still all the efforts of Beauchampe to discover who the fair stranger was, had proved unavailing. More than once he had endeavored to follow her carriage home, but the vehicle had been as often lost in the press of equipages. He no longer thought of returning to America- at least not for the present. He was resolved first to discover who the mysterious beauty was, that had thus moved his heart for the first time to love. and engrossed every other feeling of his soul into one all absorbing passion. The opera was about to close, for the prima donna had an engagement in Paris. Yet Beauchampe had made no approach to an acquaintance with the unknown beauty-indeed he was no further advanced toward it than on the first evening he saw her, since he did not even know her name or residence. He determined to make a final effort to trace her. He had just reached the carriage walk, on the last night of the opera, when he saw the manager approach- | ing, with a lady on each arm, and, though the figures of both were closely shawled, Beauchampe's heart told him | that the form of the slighter one was that of the fair stranger. This was the first time that he had succeeded in beholding her before she reached her carriage, and he fancied that he could see that her figure, shrouded as it was, was one of the most exquisite proportions. He saw her, however, only for a moment, ere she stepped into her carriage with her companion, when the manager bowed and the vehicle drove off. Hastily calling a hackney coach, Beauchampe sprang in and ordered the driver to follow the other carriage, but a distance sufficiently great to conceal his object. The carriage of which they were in pursuit, however, drove off so rapidly that it was with difficulty they could keep it in sight, in the devious course it pursued. But this velocity which , more than once, put the pursuers almost at fault, proved in the end a happy occurrence for the lover, since, in rapidly turning a corner the wheels of the carriage struck against a pile of stones and the vehicle was upset. Beauchampe, at this juncture, was but a short distance in the rear, and soon reached the shattered

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coach, from which he was the first person to extricate the sufferers. Both were much frightened, and the companion of the fair stranger, an elderly lady, had an arm broken. The young lady was, however, uninjured. Beauchampe proffered his services at once, sent the coachman for a surgeon, and handed the ladies into his own carriage, soothing and assisting the sufferer during the remainder of the ride, which happily for the injured lady was a short one. But to Beauchampe it was one of bewildering joy. He breathed the same air with her whom he had so long worshipped, and much as he had admired her beauty at a distance, he now admired her even more for the tenderness which she displayed toward the sufferer. Beauchampe had the tact when they reached the house, to remain just so long as his services could be of value, and then to retire. The eloquent look of thanks with which the young lady rewarded him, filled him with a joy such only as a lover can appreciate. The next morning he called to enquire after the suf ferer, and if he had been charmed by the few words which the fair stranger had uttered the night before, in terror and grief, how much more was he delighted by her conversation now that the smiles had resumed their place on her countenance, and all danger to her aunt had disappeared. Beauchampe sat entranced, until it suddenly occurred to him that he was protracting his visit beyond all etiquette. With a thousand good wishes for her aunt's recovery, therefore, he rose to take his leave. "My aunt has charged me to return you her thanks for your timely assistance and kindness last night," said the young lady, with a sweetness that Beauchampe had never seen equalled, " and she hopes in a few days to be able to express her gratitude in person. I need not say,” she continued with a bewitching frankness, and Beauchampe fancied her cheeks grew a shade more crimson as she spoke, " how glad we shall be to see you at any time !" The lover left the house that day feeling as if he trod, not on earth, but air. That sunny countenance, those soft grateful eyes, the melodious accents of that voice filled his memory throughout the livelong day, and haunted his visions at night. He was irretrievably in love. The divinity whom he had worshipped at a distance had not disappointed him when he met her, but his chains were , if possible, tightened. He had left his own card with the ladies on the night of the accident, but amid the confusion and alarm they had forgotten to acquaint him with their names. He had gathered, however, from the landlady- for the ladies were transient boarders-that the name of the elder was Mrs. Wareham. On his second visit he had learned that the younger one was a neice to the sufferer, and that she bore the same name. They were on a visit to


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 beach at Corisco Bay. The natives could not make it out at all. They were irritated about her conduct: "She no sick, she no complain, she no nothing, and then she go die one time."

The post-mortem showed a burst aneurism. The native verdict was "She done witch herself," i.e., she was a witch eaten by her own familiar.

The general opinion held by people living near a river is that the spirit of a witch can take the form of a crocodile to do its work in; those who live away from large rivers or in districts like Congo Français, where crocodiles are not very savage, hold that the witch takes on the form of a leopard. Still the crocodile spirit form is believed in in Congo Français, and to a greater extent in Kacongo, because here the crocodiles of the Congo are very ferocious and numerous, taking as heavy a toll in human life as they do in the delta of the Niger and the estuaries of the Sierra Leone and Sherboro' Rivers.

One witch-doctor I know in Kacongo had a strange professional method. When, by means of his hand rubbings, &c., he had got hold of a witch or a bewitched one, he always gave the unfortunate an emetic and always found several lively young crocodiles in the consequence, and the stories of the natives in this region abound in accounts of people who have been carried off by witch crocodiles, and kept in places underground for years. I often wonder whether this idea may not have arisen from the well-known habit of the crocodile of burying its prey on the bank. Sometimes it will take off a limb of its victim at once, but frequently it buries the body whole for a few days before eating it. The body is always buried if it is left to the crocodile.

I have a most profound respect for the whole medical profession, but I am bound to confess that the African representatives of it are a little empirical in their methods of treatment. The African doctor is not always a witch-doctor in the bargain, but he is usually. Lady doctors abound. They are a bit dangerous in pharmacy, but they do not often venture on surgery, so on the whole they are safer, for African surgery is heroic. Dr. Nassau cited the worst case of it I know of.

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. time you will not be bound by a promise, and thus forced from a sense of honor to fulfil a pledge of which your heart might repent. Think of all I have said, and I know you will acquit me of any harshness. But believe me, in any event, my dear Mr. Beauchampe, to be your true friend."

The lover saw that he could not change the resolution of Mrs. Wareham, and accordingly he was forced to submit. Eager to put his plan in operation, he lost no time in engaging á passage to New York. We will not attempt to describe his parting with Edith. Amid all her grief, however, there was no hope-hope for the future, bright and beautiful ! She had not seen disappointment like Mrs. Wareham, and life was sunny and alluring before her. With the tear that dimmed her blue eye at parting, there was mingled a smile to cheer her lover, and bid him look forward to a happy meeting. " Sweet girl," said Beauchampe to himself, as he drove away from the house, " she, at least, is not coldhearted ! She does not doubt my faith. Beautiful Edith, that smile is worth a world to me. And now for America !" During the long voyage that ensued, for it was protracted to an unusual length, Beauchampe thought often of that parting smile. It was to him a sign of hope. When should he behold that smile again ? CHAPTER v. THE first duty of Beauchampe, on returning to his country, was to acquaint his guardian with his resolution to abandon his fortune, since his heart could not endorse the vows which his uncle had made for him. The guardian was a man of the world, a cool old merchant of some sixty years of age, and he heard the determination of his ward with undisguised astonishment. "What !-throw away ten thousand a year and a lovely girl, for a mere whim, a passion that will not outlast the leaves. Pooh ! Pooh ! you are crazy, Beauchampe. You must not think of such a thing. Five hundred a year and a profession to support a family with ! —my dear boy, you never can do it.” " But I have made up my mind, and am willing to abide by my resolution," said Beauchampe, with a little warmth, "besides if you were to see Miss Wareham," he could not call her Edith before the calculating merchant-" you would not wonder at my choice." "And if you were to see Miss Harper, you would be cured of your romantic notion. By Jove ! if I were a young man I would move heaven and earth to win her. | Why all the young men have been crazy about her, in the few weeks since she has finished her education and come out !—and here are you, actually refusing her and ten thousand a year to boot, without so much as having seen her. You deserve to be cut off without a shilling."

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"But, my dear, sir, beautiful though she be, I do not love her!" " But you could love her if you were willing. No one can see her without loving her," exclaimed the old man with some warmth. "But I love another, and I am sure that Miss Harper would not wish me to bring her a cold unsympathizing heart. Her better nature must repel at being trafficked away as in a shambles !" "Well-well, you must call on me to-morrow at my house, when we will talk the matter over again. You will think better of it by that time." The next day Beauchampe paid his second visit to his guardian, and was received in the old man's library. The lover was firm, for the sweet face of Edith was continually in his memory, and could he barter her away for gold ? "I have one last argument to urge," said the old man, as he followed his guest down the hall, pausing, while he spoke, at the parlor door, which he threw open, "here is Miss Harper, and I leave you to express your resolution to her." So saying the old gentleman retired, leaving Beauchampe thunder-struck in the hall. His first impulse was to retire. But the young lady had heard his guardian's words, and he could not refuse the interview without rudeness. His situation was awkward in the extreme. But there was nothing left except to advance and extricate himself the best way he could from the dilemma. After a moment's hesitation, therefore, he stepped into the parlor, wondering in what manner he should open this strange and embarrassing interview. A female was sitting with her back toward him, half concealed by the rich curtains that shrouded the front windows. He felt satisfied that this was Miss Harper. For a minute she did not hear, or affected not to hear his footstep on the rich Wilton carpeting, and the embarrassed young man had nearly reached her side, before she seemed to be aware of his presence. "Miss Harper !" said he, and then paused, unable to proceed. The person turned around quickly and rose, revealing to the astonished gaze of Beauchampe the very counterpart ofthe features of the stage box beauty. 66 Edith ! Miss Wareham ! Do I dream ?" " And you are determined to refuse me ?" said she, with an arch smile. That voice and look removed every doubt, and catching the sweet girl in his arms, he answered her by imprinting a kiss on her pouting lips. " That's a practical argument," said the voice of his guardian, from the other parlor, " and has proved more conclusive than all my other ones. Ah ! Beauchampe did I not tell you that my ward was irresistible ?" "Yes! my dear boy," said the voice of Mrs. Wareham,


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.

THE MARTYRED PRINCESS.

FROM THE GERMAN.

THE Princess Josephine was the beauty of her father's court, rivalling even the matured splendor of her mother, the majestic Maria Theresa. When her sister, the Archduchess Caroline, who had been betrothed to the Duke of Parma, fell a victim to that then scourge of mankind, the small pox, Josephine was selected to fill her place, as much on account of her loveliness, as because her mother deemed that her soft and pliant disposition would render a fitting tool in her hand, to watch the intentions of the Court at Parma, and report them to the Queen of Hungary.

Of all this, however, Josephine was ignorant. She had heard much of the beauty and manly courage of her betrothed lover, and it was with a happy smile, therefore, that she stood before the altar and gave her hand to his ambassador. Never had she looked lovelier than on this occasion. Her clear and lofty brow ; her deep soft blue eyes; the quiet and soul-lit expression of her face, seemed now to be even more beautiful than they were wont to be ; while the delicate blush suffusing her fine countenance threw a charm around her indescribable. And when her father pressed her to his bosom, and blessed her, and the tears gushed into her melting azure eyes, the audience, who witnessed the ceremony, thought they had never seen one half so lovely.

That evening the Princess sat alone, for the last time, in her favorite boudoir. She held in her hand a miniature of her husband, and she blushed as she looked on the manly beauty of his face.

Suddenly fine music was heard ; they were playing an Italian air, slow and melancholy in its expression. Josephine knew the words of this music ; it painted tender and passionate love. She blushed as she looked at the portrait, which she held in her hand ; she looked forth, until the view was lost in the distance, perhaps to think over the future, dreaming as youth loves to do, when imagination lends its brilliant illusions to reality. These images of happiness enchanted her heart, when the door of the apartment opened. It was the Empress.

Josephine arose, strongly moved at the sight of her mother. Maria Theresa was cold and proud in her demeanor, she suffered no opposition to her will ; it was not to be wondered at, that the countenance of the Princess should express embarrassment and reverence, rather than childlike affection at the sight of her mother. The Empress seemed at present, however inclined to tenderness. When her daughter offered her a seat, she advanced, took the hand of the Princess kindly within her own, drew her towards her, and then scated herself with her in the recess of a window. She then immediately opened the conversation.

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"These are Italian books," she said, " and the music I heard is also Italian. Ah, dear child, do you already seek to forget us ? Alas, these bonds which are so strong amongst ordinary people, with us are weak, if not wholly broken. How often, dear daughter of my heart, must I have appeared cold and stern to you ! But the cares of the throne as seldom allow to me a cheerful brow, as an outpouring of the heart. Dear child, when far away thou thinkest of thy mother, remember the cares with which she is overwhelmed." Josephine was deeply moved. She seized the hand of the Empress and bathed it in tears. Her mother now ventured to hint to her daughter her wishes. She kissed that soft, confiding face, and said, "I know you love me, Josephine, and will do my will - hear me now !" and she proceeded to reveal to her daughter her wish that she—a Princess, and a wife ! — should become a spy in her husband's cabinet. At first Josephine listened in doubt, but as the truth broke upon her, she turned suddenly from her mother. At length she found words. " No, no," she cried, while she sank at the feet of the Empress, "to observe his actions ! to penetrate his most secret thoughts that I may lay the information before the Austrian Court ! to excite his confidence in order to betray it ! No, no, this cannot be my duty . My love would then be nothing but ——————” 66'Softly, softly, Princess," interrupted Maria Theresa, while she repressed with difficulty the anger that sparkled in her eyes, " I was not prepared for such a burst of romantic love." "The character of a spy," said the Duchess, as she raised herself with dignity, "does not suit a daughter of Maria Theresa." At this moment, the expression of her face, assumed a character of grandeur and pride, such as had never before been visible in it. Her brow hitherto always serene, became furrowed. One might have mistaken the Princess Josephine for the Empress. She, when she perceived her daughter look so much like herself, lost all hope of making her the docile instrument of her will. "I believe indeed ," she said with derisive laugh, " that the little Colonel has turned your head. But we have not yet learned to tolerate self-will and disobedience. Leave it to me to settle this business.” "Dear mother," cried Josephine, endeavoring to retain her, "for God's sake, do not leave me with such coldness." The Empress withdrew her hand-their eyes met. As the Princess caught a glance of the pale face of her mother, in which was painted an expression of concentrated bitterness, she fell back fainting on her seat. When she recovered her senses, she exclaimed sorrowfully, " it is broken !" as she looked at the fragments of the broken chain, to which the picture of the Duke of


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THE MALE FLIRT.

BY ELLEN ASHTON. " HAVE you seen Mrs. Gordon since she returned from Europe ?" said James Ewing to his friend Henry Alford, as they stood on the steps of the Astor House, "Her widowhood has not impaired her charms ; she is even more beautiful than when she left here two years ago."

"Indeed !-and she has returned, I presume, immensely rich. Her husband was, you know, a millionnaire."

"Yes ! he died but a short week after they landed at Havre, leaving her all his immense wealth. He will be a fortunate man who wins the widow ; and she already has crowds of suitors. If I remember aright, Harry, you once had a sort of flirtation with her, and I was one among those who thought you, rather than the rich Powell, the favored one. Why, in the deuce, didn't you persevere ?"

"I was too poor," said Alford, with a shrug of the shoulders, " and she was no richer. It would have been madness to marry."

" Then why did you pay her such attention ? " asked Ewing in some surprise, "for many months you were constantly by her side. I always thought that some little difference- a lover's quarrel you know- had separated you, and that each was too proud to make any advances subsequently ." " Let us step into my room, and I will tell you. Egad, it's a wonder you haven't seen the truth long ago. I thought you knew more of the world." The two companions were soon seated in Alford's room when he began : 66 Emily Maxwell was, you know, a splendid girl. But she was poor. I saw and admired her. Yet my circumstances would not permit me to marry. Now young fellows like myself, who have access to good society and are yet without the means to support a wife, must either fly the company of the dear creatures altogether, or else indulge in what I call innocent flirtation- " "Innocent !" "Yes ! innocent-why, my dear fellow, you start as if a bomb had rolled under your chair, you needn't be so alarmed at my words. All I mean to say is thisthat, because one can't marry one isn't therefore to be deprived of love, I don't mean exactly your serious love, but a sort of half real half jesting feeling, such as one experiences toward a girl he is flirting with. You talk with her, walk with her, read with her, sing with her, and in short pay her pretty devoted attention for a while, but when you"find you are in danger of getting seriously in love, then you back out, and seek some new beauty VOL. I.- -19

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to flirt with. One may thus have all the little excitements of a courtship-the pique, the soothing, the flattered vanity, the one particular angel to whom you chat in a half whisper-without the danger of involving your honor by an engagement-" "But surely there is danger in this, if not to yourself, at least to the lady." "Oh ! no-you are a novice, I see, in these matters. The lady has the sense to see that you are only flirting, since you never seriously make love to her- that is you do not tell her you love her, for when a man does that, I hold he is as much bound to go forward and marry her as he is to pay a debt of honor. If I promised to marry a girl I would consider it binding, and keep the promise religiously. I have no charity for a scoundrel who breaks an engagement. But these innocent flirtations are different things. Why-what would the world be worth if one couldn't take moonlight walks with the girls, or have some one whom you visited, you know, especially. If you think the matter's getting serious for her, of course you'll back out. Meantime, however, a man's a fool if he don't have some one with whom he is flirting-its better than lemonade, however spicy-it gives one a sort of poetry of feeling, only surpassed by love itself:-and that you know is a luxury in which a poor dog, like most young professional men, cannot indulge." "And you mean to say that you carried on some such flirtation with Emily Maxwell." Alford nodded and smiled. " But have you not often thought that in her case it was carried a little too far ? Have you no misgivings of this ?" His companion adjusted his cravat coolly before the glass, as he replied, "It may be I did. I confess I have had once or twice uneasy thoughts about it ; and I certainly did think more of Emily than of any other girl I ever met, and on that account may have carried the matter a little too far in her case. But, if so, I've repented it. To be frank, I have never seen a woman since whom I admired as I did her." His companion made no reply, but looked abstractedly and somewhat mournfully into the grate. A silence of some minutes ensued. At length Alford suddenly looked up. " Do you believe in first love, Ewing ?" he said, "that is, do you think it outlives every subsequent affection ?" "I do." The conversation again stopped, and both companions fell into another fit of musing. At length Ewing rose and departed. As he left the Astor House he soliloquized with himself. "I wish that when we were on the subject, I had spoken out to Harry. He is a generous fellow in


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own heart I was forced to conceal my agony, for it would have been unmaidenly to confess that I loved one who had never solicited my affections. That six months of agony I would not ask even for an enemy, if one I have ! But I outlived it. I was proud, and I would have died with my secret, if on words only had depended its revelation. But my friends saw the truth in my hollow cheek and sunken eye. Yet they said nothing. At length Mr. Gordon, whom I had once refused, sought my hand again. I had no heart to give him it is true, but I yielded to the solicitations of my friends and married him. Of that step I never repented. From the moment when I promised at the altar to be his, I felt it had become my duty to love him alone, and I resolutely discarded from my heart every feeling at variance with my vow. I looked to God, and he enabled me to go through with the work. Do not flatter yourself with the common belief that a first love is never eradicated-the assertion is true only where the object of that love remains pure in the eyes of the lover. Years have passed since I learned to look on you only as on the rest of your sex-yes more, as one whom I never could love. You had trified with, and betrayed me I could no more confide in your truth. You were not the being my young fancy had painted. And now, Henry Alford, I tell you with as much calmness as I would tell the veriest stranger, that you are nothing to me.

"I will not deny that I might have repelled you at once when you sought again my society. I am no coquette, but I felt it due to my sex to treat you according to the rule on which you have always acted toward us. It was a mere flirtation, perhaps, on your part: I was not bound to suppose you serious until you spoke your love in words. Besides it would have sounded well abroad, that the widow Gordon had refused Mr. Alford before he had proposed-people would, one and all, have sneered at her as a vain, foolish woman. But mark me, I was not blind to the fact that you loved me. You may even regret the past. But for this I care nothing. Think not either that I love another. No other motive dictates my refusal than your conduct to me eight years ago. And now go, Henry Alford, and remember, when you hear or think of me, that I feel no more emotion at your name than I would at that of a stranger." Paralyzed, and confounded, a prey to conflicting emotions of mortification and baffled love, Alford sat, during these words, unable to articulate a syllable. And when, at their conclusion, Mrs. Gordon coldly rose, to intimate that the interview was over, he rose too, and mechanically taking his hat, bowed and left the room. He felt, both from the language and manner of the widow, that expostulation was vain.

That lesson was not lost on Alford. But he never married. Why, our readers, perhaps, can tell. Mrs. Gordon a year afterward was united to a gentleman every way worthy of her, and whom she had learnt fervently to love ere she surrendered to him her hand. Such is the history of but one out of hundreds of a class. Reader ! have you never met a MALE FLIRT?

TO MY SISTER. BY S. D. ANDERSON. SISTER, I've roved in other climes, Have crossed the heaving sea, Have heard Italia's vesper chimes Float o'er the starlit lea ; Have stood upon Rome's proudest height When scarce the night-breeze stirs, And trod by evening's palest light Amid her sepulchres. Have wandered o'er the classic plains Of Greece, land of the free, Oh ! cursed with worse than despot's chains, No hope remains for thee; No hope, yes look on Marathon, Sons of the chainless brave ! Again will rise fair freedom's sun From out thy father's grave. And I have stood upon the hills Of vine-clad, sunny France, Have listened to her murmuring rills, And joined the merry dance ; Have heard her music ' neath the skies So cloudless, and so bright, And gazed upon her maiden's eyes That matched them in their light. Oft have I joined the giddy throng Within the halls of pride, And yielding to the tempter's song, Have bowed me to the tide ; Have taught my tongue the idle praise That worldings love to hear, Unmoved to meet the passing gaze, Alike the smile or tear.

But still amid each scene of mirth Thy name has been to me A bright spot on the dreary earth, A star in memory ; Something to which my thoughts could cling, A pure unwavering flame, Like rose-buds in the early spring Has been my Sister's name.


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 A man had been accidentally shot in the chest by another man with a gun on the Ogowé. The native doctor who was called in made a perpendicular incision into the man's chest, extending down to the last rib; he then cut diagonally across, and actually lifted the wall of the chest, and groped about among the vitals for the bullet which he successfully extracted. Patient died. No anæsthetic was employed.

I came across a minor operation. A man had broken the ulna of the left arm. The native doctor got a piece—a very nice piece—of bamboo, drove it in through the muscles and integuments from the wrist to the elbow, then encased the limb in plantain leaves, and bound it round, tightly and neatly, needless to say with tie-tie. The arm and hand when I saw it, some six or seven months after the operation, was quite useless, and was withering away.

Many of their methods, however, are better. The Dualla medicos are truly great on poultices for extracting foreign substances, such as bits of iron cooking-pot—a very frequent form of foreign substance in a man out here, owing to their being generally used as bullets. Almost incredible stories are told by black and white of the efficacy of these poultices; one case I heard from a reliable source of a man who had been shot with fragments of iron pot in the thigh. The white doctor extracted several pieces and said he had got all out, but the man still went on suffering, and could not walk, so, at his request, a native doctor was called in, and he applied his poultice. In a few minutes he removed it, and on its face were two pieces of jagged iron pot. Probably they had been in the poultice when it was applied, anyhow the patient recovered rapidly.

Baths accompanied by massage are much esteemed. The baths are sometimes of hot water with a few herbs thrown in, sometimes they are made by digging a hole in the earth and putting into it a quantity of herbs, and bruised cardamoms, and peppers. Boiling water is then plentifully poured over these and the patient is placed in the bath and is covered over with the parboiled green stuff; a coating of clay is then placed over all, leaving just the head sticking out. The patient remains in this bath for a period of a few hours, up to a day


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. It was a matter of much wonderment to us youngsters | that Miss Susan had never married, for she had the remains of considerable beauty, was affluent in her circumstances, and setting aside a few peculiarities more of manner than of temper, was a very amiable woman. Her contemporaries told us that she had been hard to please, had refused several offers, and I have an indistinct recollection that uncle Bob said something to me of a young man lost at sea. She had a very compassionate heart, and one of her greatest delights was the getting up of benevolent societies, of which she was either President, Secretary or Treasurer. Bucklesbury, however, afforded but a narrow field for the exercise of her genius in this particular. Every body being able to set a joint of meat on table, her soup house languished for want of customers ; and a barefooted child in winter being a thing unknown, the stock of thick stockings and stout boots, which formed the capital of her Provident Society, was some years in going off. Excepting some domestic medicines of her own compounding, the recipes for which she kept secret, her supplies for the poor were generally unclaimed dividends. It was thought at one time that she and our friend the Major were about to make a match of it. This she stoutly denied, declaring that a man so fond of military amusements would never suit her. His cannonades were her especial aversion. Perhaps those little brass field pieces prevented her becoming Mrs. Lane. Greater trifles have produced greater results.

Tom Hardwicke was a nephew of Miss Susan's, and generally looked upon as the destined heir of her possessions, a supposition which, perhaps, led to his being brought to lead a life of genteel uselessness. When I first knew Tom he had lost both parents, and spent his time living about among his relations. His own possessions were small, and it was amazing how well he got along upon so little money. His mother, his last surviving parent, had been a great favorite in the place, and the orphan boy if he received little else, fell heir, on her death, to the good will of the community. The shopkeepers let him have every thing at cost, and sometimes at a little under. He was a good horseman, and no contemptible sportsman. . Under his tutorship I took my first lesson in angling in Bluebird creek, which skirted the village. No kinder hearted creature than Tom ever lived, and he was of great assistance to his aunt in her benevolent enterprises. It was a fortunate thing for any one with a broken arm or leg to fall under his notice. He had the first news of the existence of the varioloid, and had re-vaccinated half the people in the place before the physicians heard of it. Though no student, Tom read much, though with little system. He played a little on the flute, and had his head well stored with old ballads, with which, in an uncultivated but musical voice, he sometimes favored his friends. Poor Tom! he has been dead for many years, but there are hearts yet beating that cherish his memory.

I passed three days in Bucklesbury, during this past summer. I went to spend a month, but the change in every thing was too painfully great to bear. Twenty years make most perceptible alterations in a small place. The town contains three thousand people, but the spirit of love and cordial sociability has diminished in greater proportion. The society is cut up into three or four circles, which never touch not even in a point. The two congregations have split and re-split, and though there are now six churches, not one of them is half full, and it takes less than two years to starve out every clergyman that settles among them. Somebody invented a new religion there the summer before last, but what its tenets are I was unable exactly to ascertain. They have got a bank at one end of the town, and a poor house at the other. The place seemed close and crowded, and I detected an aping of city manners most disagreeable. "The old familiar faces" had nearly all disappeared, and the second and third generations of those whom I had loved looked coldly on me. I strolled out of town toward my old fishing ground, hoping to find nature, at least, unchanged. Oh nymphs and hamadryads ! they had dammed up the creek and built a paper-mill. Three days, as I have said, were the limit of my visit. The pleasure I had anticipated was not realized, and I left the town resolved to see it no more. The Bucklesbury I loved shall live forever in my memory ; as for this modern town which calls itself by its name, is an impostor. Slowly walked the stage horses up the hill to the point where the first view of the town is seen by those arriving by the northern road. In old times I had anticipated that view with delight, but now I turned not to take a last view. It was my own dear old Bucklesbury no longer.

THE SISTERS. BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO. IN Lavinia see manners and mildness combin'd, Grace plays on each feature, truth dwells in her mind : With feminine softness each bosom she warms, And by goodness she keeps what she wins by her charms. By her kindness and love all around her are blest, And her house, like her heart, is a mansion of rest. Her sister, young Charlotte, with soul light as air, To each guile is a stranger, and cheerful as fair ; With spirit delightful she joins in life's throng, By innocence guarded, she cannot go wrong; "Tis the absence of art gives her freedom and grace ; "Tis the pureness of heart gives the smiles to her face. Like two tints in a picture, these sisters I view, Though the shades are distinct, yet they blend in the hue ; For the color of virtue, as lasting as bright, Is spread o'er the whole, and makes each part unite.


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I felt it was an honor to be loved by one who thought thus,

I have said he had a lofty. notion of the female cha- racter. He disliked much of that which fashion tole rates; especially was he an enemy to waltzing, Often have I heard him say that he could never Jove a woman who would suffer an almost total stranger to encircle her waist in this amusement,’ How I feared lest eome ‘one would whisper to him.that I had once indulged in this pastime merely to bring new victims to my toils. But happily we met while { was on a visit to @ neigh- boring cily, where there were few to betray me. Yet the consciousness that I was deoeiving hin was always a thorn in my bosom, and often would I have tolil him all if I bud dared, Ah! never expect to win or retain aifection by such means. My punishment was at hand,

‘The time came, at length, at which I was to roturn home, and 2 large party was given in honor of me a few days prior 10 my leaving ‘the cily. Among the guests was a genticman who resided in our village. I trembled, 1 acarcely knew why, when I eaw him enter—I trembled more when he advanced toward me and asked me to waltz, I declined. He scemed somewhat surprised ; but I said nothing. Albert had overheard his request, and evinced, T thought, some surprise in his countenance, that an old friend, who must have known my sentiments, should have asked me to wultz.

“Tam so glad you have come,” said J, taking his arm, “for Mr. Carleton has bean asking me to waltz, He is one of your quiing kind, and is over pestering me on the subject”

T felt my cheek bum as I attered this untruth, but I feared that Albert’s suspicions had been aroused, and it wus necessary to allay them. His reply shewed me that my consciousness of guilt had awakened unnecessary fears.

«Lam surprised at the rudehess of Mr. Carleton in pressing you about a subject, on which he knows your opinions, Let us,” he continued, in tone that con- vinced me he had entertained no suspicion of the truth, + Jet us promenade!”

In lege than a week I took a tearful farewell of P—, and retumed to my native village. Tt was October when I reached home, and Albert was to follow me in the spring. Until then I bad to content myself with his letters instead of himself—letters, which how- ever dear, were nothing to the eloquent voice of the writer,

I had heard often through the newspapers of the triumph of my adored Albert at tho bar and in the Senate; for he hed already entered political life, and ‘was foremost in his party for talents and populerity. How my heart beat, how my eyes swam whon I perused the accounts of tho effect produced hy his eloquence. His success endeared him more and more to my heart :

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T felt as if his triumphs wero my own, and my pride rose in proportion. .

But much as I worshipped Albert my vanity was still strong within me, and I had been but @ few months at home before my iove of admiration led me into many acts of which my conscience told me he would disap- prove. At first my remorme waa great, when, after spending en evening abroad, I returned to my chamber with the consciousness of having, in-the excitement of company, sought as of old to attract admirers by those arty which I know Albert dewpised, and which he decmed me above descending to; but gradually this wore off, and by the time the winter was at its height, I was as eager as ever for the applause of sale, as full of the arts of the coquetto as I was before Albert had taught me to love, Often, however, I felt remorse for my conduct, and resolved to be really what may lover supposed me to be. But my vanity slweys triumphed ; and 1 consoled my more selfich fears by the thought that he could never tearn my conduct. 5

Tt was in the full tide of the annual round of parties which the winter brought with it, that I was invited to attend a ball at a neighboring village. I went of course, Mr. Carleton who had lately come into possession of a splendid fortune was there, and was the mark to which all the designing belles directed their charms,” He was ignorant of my engagement with Albert, for the matter had been kept a profound secret, and on this evening my vanity was elevated by the particularity of the attentions ho paid to me. 1 felt that I was envied by nearly all tay sex in the room, and my spirits rose in proportion at my silly triumph, At length Mr. Carleton asked me to waltz, For a moment I hesitated, since, far ax may folly had gone, it had not led me heretofore to break Albert’a exprese wish on this subject; but after reflecting that he could not possibly heor of it, and thinking bow it would add to ry present triumph, I consented; and with my partner’s arm fondly encircling my waist, and my breath mingling with his own, I was being whirled through this mazy dance, when, on [ooking up & mo- ment, as we approached the lower end of the room, I saw the face of Albert gazing on me in sorrow and surprise, He seemed to have just como in. As his eye caught mine an expression of mournful reproof, which was succeeded by a took of the keenest agony, passed across his fuco. I felt the room swim giddily around me, and uttering a stifled shriek, I sank in a dead faint to the floor. I recollect nothing more for days.

‘When I recovered my ecnsea I found myself lying on a sick-bed, with my dear mother watching tearfully beside me. She clasped me in her arms, and thanked heaven that I was still alive. Then, as my recollection returned to mo, and T eagerly asked if Albert had called, she drew me closer to her breast, and wept afresh. I

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CURING A LOVER.

BY B. B. тном.

CHAPTER I.

“ My dear Fanny, I am in a terrible state of agitation -I am ennuied-I am out of spirits-I am frightfully excited ; for you must know that I am threatened - yes, threatened with the exhibition of a most horrible scene here this very day." The speaker was a pretty actress who had turned the heads of all the beaux frequenting Covent Garden Theatre. She was consequently not without a spice of vanity-what pretty woman is ? although she had an under-current of good sense which prevented her head from being altogether turned by the flattery she daily received. The person whom she addressed was her confidante.

" What can be the matter, my dear Maria ? Has some one of your numerous admirers fallen out with you?"

"No-no ; the fops that cluster around me have neither head nor heart."

"What then- have you had a visit from your old aunt, Dorothea ?"

" Nor that either ; I have got rid of her." "Then what is it harasses you so much ?" " This- and oh ! my dear Fanny, do you not pity me? A young fellow (for such I suppose him to be) has written me a letter, stating that he intends to come here at four o'clock, and to blow his brains out under my very windows !!!" " Psha ! he's a fool." " Yes ; but a fool that is dying in love. A run-a-way from St. Luke's, that has been reading Werther. Here is the fiftieth letter, at least, that I have had from himfrom the poor deserted young man, who calls himself "Cornelius." At first he said he wished to live for my sake. That was bad enough ! but now he threatens to die beneath my lovely eyes'—that is awful ! Now, what I want to know is, has a lady a right to let an enamored swain die, when the individual himself has no desire to live !" "What you ought to do, in my opinion, is this admit him to your presence. If he be clever he will amuse us, and you may condescend to request of him to live. But if he be a fool- why then let him kill himself; perhaps it is the very best thing he can do for his family, and the most useful thing he may ever attempt for the benefit of society."

accountable for the bill, and never think of it ; the day of payment comes, and it is protested, and then- it is out of your mind for ever." " But would there not be something like a want of truth in all this ?" "Not at all- it would be mere coquetry. Such an admirer is like the last new novel- you may give an hour or so to it, if it is amusing, and if dull, why fling it in the corner." "Yes- but if the book should become so agreeable, that I may wish to read it to the third volume ?" 66 Why, then my dear-Providence may have great blessings in store for you ; and as to your poor Henry he-will be to be pitied." The chat of these two friends was interrupted by Miss Maria's chambermaid, who thus addressed her mistress"Oh ! la ! Miss, there is such a very odd man below stairs. He is a great, big, fat person, six feet high, and with such very, very red hair-and he must be ninety years old I'm certain ; and he is so vulgar, and speaks with such an accent-and he insists upon seeing you. I'm sure he must be an Irishman, or a creditor ; he is so very impudent-I shut the door in his face." " Then go and open it again, Sally. If he is an Irishman, he will amuse us with his brogue and his speechifications, being a composition of something that is not elevated enough for poetry, nor sufficiently intelligible to be prose. We shall laugh at him, and he in return will sing our praises in the wilds of Connaught or the banks of the Liffey ; and if, as I believe he is, a creditor, I will begin by- not paying him a single farthing. Then I shall get rid of him by giving him an order for a private box, and there I can look at him applauding me, because I am determined to-die his debtor. Sally, tell him to walk up : and Fanny, do you take a seat there, and if it be necessary come to my rescue." The two pretty young women set themselves down on the sofa together, while the servant hurried off to introduce the singular and mysterious visitor. CHAPTER II.

THE individual who now entered the room was a man apparently about sixty years of age. He was in height at least six feet three inches, and was as fat as Lablache. He had an immense nose, and an enormous face that was covered with a beard and whiskers that were half red and half white. His large grey eyes opened with astonishment upon the exquisite beauties that he saw before him. He became in an instant confused and “Yes—but if I tell him to live, he may, like a thousand utterly embarrassed. He had to make a bow ; but he others, plague me with the unmeaning, frivolous decla · bowed at the same time with head, hand, and foot- and, ration of his affection, when you know I care for none having performed this extraordinary feat, he continued to but Henry- that I intend to marry." gaze at the ladies, who threw at him the most enchant"Then, if he should become such a bore, you must ing looks, although they spoke not. At length silence only treat him as you do a promise to pay'-you are was broken by the stranger. VOL. I.-20


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asks for, Up to this moment, I assure you, I have never seen him.”

“But sure, if he sees you fuce to face it's all overs mad in love he'll be.”

“I admit that it will bo difficult to eure him.”

« Aye, hut are not you going to take a way that will render it impossible?”

“Not at all. Leave overything to me, anil T engage to send him homo to you as sensible as yourself.”

“And soon, Now mind, Mis.”

“Phin very day you shall 200 him, perfectly cured, at Charing Cross Hotel.”

“Why then, tong life and a good husband to you, Misa Gamott, Good morning to you, By the powers! bat you are beantiful. One would suppose that you were born in Cork.”

cmarren rrr,

A rew minutes after tho departure of Mr. Comey O'Donoughne, of Driskeen Park, Sally entered the apartment ; and by the announcoment of a very impor- tant jticce of intelligence, she put an end to the loud laughter of tho two friends. Sally announced that the young gentleman who had written fifty billets, the run- away from S81. Luke's, the unhappy “Cornelius,” was below in tho parlor, waiting for an answer to hia last letter, either to he admitted to an interview, or to put an ‘end to his existence in thewtrect. Miss Gumett instantly took up the pen, and wrote these worda:—

« We ought not to allow all fopls to perish, at lesat, without making one effort to eavo them, You may, therefore, come.

“Sally, said she, “take this to the young gentleman below staira, and then show hit into tho back druwing- room.”

The instant Mise Garnett was atono with her friend, she resolved upon playing a trick upon the amorous

“young law-student. She waa an excellent actress, a most accomplished drosser, and, therefore, was pretty certain of hor success. With a disiuterestednens, and an absence of selfishness, which are very rarely found in a beautiful woman, she resolved ‘to metamorphose herself, if It were possible, into an ngly woman, First she placed over her splendid drear a large hack apron, which belonged to her waiting-maid; then she took a thick red, heavy shaw!, that effectually conccaled her exquisite neck and delicate waist. She next placed coarse mittens upon her fair end delicate hands; and then she put a very small quantity of carmine upon the tip of her nose, wiped whitish powder upon her brows, and then took @ stage snuff-box, filled with some harm- less mixturo, with which sho darkened her upper lip.

‘Thus mado up, thus disguised, thus ealumniated, outraged, and metamorphosed by hersclf, she took @ fong look at the glass, and saw thut her charming fuce

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and person were no longer scarcely recognizable. Being perfectly content that she should he able to gratify the wishes of Mr. O'Donoushue senior, she rung for her servant to admit Me, Cornelius to her presence.

Gornelius entered the room, and suddenly stopped ; for he was terrified ut his own happiness, He wax pale, moveless, without sight, and without voice, He suw himself in the house of the cclobrated actrosa; he was in the eame room with Ais “Juliet,” his “Desdemona,” dis “Letitia Hardy.” He was about to speak to her, fur from the theatre, fax from the public gaze, and alone too, It seem to him as if ho never could havo the courage to raise his eyes to that divine creature, nor the power to speak to her, nor the boldncee to answer her, nor the audacity to express his adoration of her, At last ho advanced two or three pacea, and then looked upon the two actresses, as if ho were trying to recognize which was the one that he had fallen in love with from the stage box. MisfBarnett did not feave him long in doubt,

«Toko a seat, Sir,” said she, “and remaii please, at a little distance.”

“A distance!” thought Comeling,as be pliced himself on the very edge of a chair.

«Well, Sir, what makes you sit there, with your eyes fixed on the ground, like a bold hoy at choot, who hos been scolded for not Icarning his lesson. Why don't you look at met”

“Oh, Heavens! this ix surely not Mixa Garnett,” exeloimed Cornelius, with his eyes fixed on the fady.

“Yeo, but it is Miss Garett. Oh! now T see what aurprivea you. I suppose you thought you would sce me in my own houve, as if I were dreascd up for the stage, and going on as ‘Juliet,’ You wanted to have me with my checks painted red, and my nose whitened,

if you

.and my neck bare, and my arma uncovered. Oh! my

good young Ind, that is all very well for the foot-lights; but when the curtain fulle I am plain Maria Garnett onco agnin. Tattend (0 the affairs of the house, F see the cookery is all right; and, you must know, I am unequalled at made dishes. When I get home [ am aa you see me now. Tkcep myeelf nice, snug, coxy, warm, and comfortable; and when T ata annoyed hy visitors, 1 —take snuff.”

“Then how in the wortd is it that you appear #0 very different on the stuge ?” said the diappointed lover, driven out of all patience; “how ie it that you enchain all hearts; that all who seo you feet inclined to write « poetry ? 2

“Tatking of pootry,” saidl xe, “have you seen the pretty verses that Tom Moore has written upon mie, Instead of the “Lines to Marin,” { sbould ltuve preferred him sending me @ good Cheshire cheose.”

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 and a half, and when taken out is well rubbed and kneaded. This form of bath I saw used by the M'pongwe and Igalwas, and it is undoubtedly good for many diseases, notably for that curse of the Coast, rheumatism, which afflicts black and white alike. Rubbing and kneading and hot baths are, I think, the best native remedies, and the plaster of grains-of-paradise pounded up, and mixed with clay, and applied to the forehead as a remedy for malarial headache, or brow ague, is often very useful, but apart from these, I have never seen, in any of these herbal remedies, any trace of a really valuable drug.

The Calabar natives are notably behindhand in their medical methods, depending more on ju-ju than the Bantus. In a case of rheumatism, for example, instead of ordering the hot bath, the local practitioner will "woka" his patient and extract from the painful part, even when it has not been wounded, pieces of iron pot, millepedes, etc., and, in cases of dysentery, bundles of shred-up palm-leaves. These things, he asserts, have been by witchcraft inserted into the patient. His conduct can hardly be regarded as professional; and moreover as he goes on to diagnose who has witched these things into the patient's anatomy, it is highly dangerous to the patient's friends, relations, and neighbours into the bargain.

The strangest thing, however, that I ever heard of being witched into a man I was told of by a most intelligent Igalwa, a Christian, and a very trustworthy man, and his statement was attested by another man, equally reliable, but not a Christian. They said that a relation of theirs had been witched two years previously. An emetic was administered, and there appeared upon the scene a strange little animal which grew with visible rapidity. An hour after its coming to light it crawled about, got out of its basin, and then flew away. I tried my best to identify the species, but the nearest thing I could get to it was that it was like a small bat. It had bat's wings, but then it had a body and tail like a lizard, which was distracting of it, to a naturalist. This thing, they said, had been given to the man when it was "small small," (i.e., very small) in some drink or food, and if it had been left undisturbed by that emetic, it would have grown up inside the man, killing him by feeding on his vitals. There was no


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stockings, nuno chillren, or superintend a kitchen. ‘When we claim for woman, therefore, the full benefits of education, we would have it borna in mind that sho in to be educated consistently with the duties she will bo called on to perform, and thase duties, as we have already said, are to checr our Gresides, to educate our “children, anil to regulute our houschold economy.

Bat before we pasa to these dutics in detail, it will be necessary to advert to one fact which should always be remembered in the education of woman, She is destined to become the object of the love of the stronger sex, and those qualities which are to win that love, must appeal rather to the faste than to the judgment. tis an every day remark, in the experience of both sexes, that they respect such a person, but can never fove him or her. And the reason is obvious—their intellect may be convinced, but their foncy is not subdued. Love, the holiest and purest passion of the heart is but anotber development of that longing for the beautiful, which is found in every soul, and which responds slike to a fine tandscape, a melodious song, or a lovely countenance. We seek to gratify the thirst for the beautiful in the being of our love, decking her with attribates unseen to every eye but our own, and eleva- ting her, through the aid of our imagination, into more thon earthly loveliness. Some seck this ideal beauty in the countenance, others in the mind, others again in both united; but in whatever form we picture it to ourselves it is THE BRavrcrut for which we still aspire. Its, therefore, necessary, in the education of tho softer sex, to bear this in mind; and thus the accomplishments, which some wholly despise, are not without their uses. This would be ead world indeed if we were deprived of the admiration of the beautiful; and even our love would wither away if it did not daily find food for this admiration in some reat or supposed quality in her we love.

Woman, therefore, should be educated with an cys to being, not only a useful, but a graceful and accomplished Being. And these accomplishments should be regulated by this lose for the beautiful. In dancing, the poctry of motion; in music, the poetry of sound; and in the other accomplishments which the eex study is to be found the secret by which eo many of us are first fasci- nated, and alwaya charmed, But accomplishments, it must till be remembered, are intended only to adorn the structure—and that however alluring they may be to a young lover, they form the least meritorious of the quatities which @ wife should possess. They are not to ‘he neglected, nor are they to be cultivated overmuch. At present they form the staple of @ fashionable education. Can anything be more shaued? Asif the eole object of 8 women’s life was to allute @ beau—as if playing on the harp, or dancing with grace were to be the occupa- tions of the wite,

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It should not be so, The reel duties which a woman ‘will bo called on to ful6l are, after all, those of the help-mate and the mother. To cheer our firesides by ber smiles, by her little kindnesies, by the thousand graces of her manner is the part of a true wife, aa well as to order the houachold ecanomy and educate our children. Bat to do the latter, woman should herself be educated. She who is to teach the youthful mind its firvt lessons should be something more then a plaything, should possess a minit stored with the richest treasures of knowledge. It is almost incredible how many of our principles in tater life, can be traced back to impresstona reccived in childhood. Many an ignorant mother hes laid the foundation of a child’s unhappiness in adult age, by instilling into its mind false prejudices, or giving the character a wrong cast in early youth. “Just as the twig is bent, the tree’s inclined,” is a saying fatl of truth; and we commend it to the serious consideration of every mother, of every true woman, of every teacher sho is engaged in educating the young.

‘A woman should possess general information on every subject of daily life; but it is not neceasary that she should be scientifically educated. The truc rela- tions of life are of more importance to her than mathe tmutics, astronomy, or the dead languages. ‘The ordering of a household shonld be taught to her in preference to conic sections, or the theory of the earth, The graces of mind and manner which endear her to her friends, are of more value to ber than the abstrusest learning in chomistry, or the full eormprehension of the controversy about the Greek fe. Yet, if after having acquired thia knowledge, and adorned herself with these accomplisle- ments, there should remain leisure to her, we do not object to her pursuing science in any or every depart- ment. But first, let her bo taught those things which appertain to her sphere in society. How many are educated on this system? Alaa! but few. Woman ie now taught only those things which make her a pedant oratoy. Wenecdarcformin femaleeducation, T,

I know a grove

Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,

Which the great lord inhabits not: and ¢0

‘This grove ia wild with tangling underwood, And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, ‘Thin grasa and king-cups grow within the paths, But never elsewhere in one place f knew

So many Nightingales; and far and near

In wood and thicket, over the wild grove

‘They answer and provoke each other's songe— With skirmish and capricious pasaagin

‘And marmurs musical, and swift jug-jug,

And one low piping eound more sweet than all— Stirring the air with such an harmony,

"Phat, should you close your eyes, you might almast Forget it waa not day. Connence.

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 want of information or verbal testimony in the case, but I should have felt more sure about the affair if I could have got that thing in a bottle of pure alcohol. The only other case of this winged lizard I heard of was at Batanga, when a witch-doctor had been opened and a winged, lizard-like thing found in his inside, which, Batanga said, was his power. I was reminded of this case, however, the other day when I was in Cameroon. Two traders that I know had been up river, and had had to remain out all night in an open boat. One of them was pretty ill after the experience, and he is, I hear, since dead.

"No, Miss Kingsley," said the other to me," it is not fever; we don't quite know what it is, but we think Mr. must have swallowed a parasite."

With no intentional slur on the medical profession, after this discussion on their methods I will pass on to the question of dying.

Dying in West Africa particularly in the Niger Delta, is made very unpleasant for the native by his friends and relations.

When a person is insensible, violent means are taken to recall the spirit to the body. Pepper is forced up the nose and into the eyes. The mouth is propped open with a stick. The shredded fibres of the outside of the oil-nut are set alight and held under the nose and the whole crowd of friends and relations with whom the stifling hot hut is tightly packed yell the dying man's name at the top of their voices, in a way that makes them hoarse for days, just as if they were calling to a person lost in the bush or to a person struggling and being torn or lured away from them. "Hi, hi, don't you hear? come back, come back. See here. This is your place," &c.

This custom holds good among both Negroes and Bantus; but the funeral ceremonies vary immensely, in fact with every tribe, and form a subject the details of which I will reserve for a separate work on Fetish.

Among the Okyon tribes especial care is taken in the case of a woman dying and leaving a child over six months old. The underlying idea is that the spirit of the mother is sure to come back and fetch the child, and in order to pacify her


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THE LOST MIDSHIPMAN.

A STORY O F MADRAS.

HARRY BROUGHTON was one of the noblest and most generous of his sex. I well recollect the first day I saw him. We were just about to leave Hampton Roads on the cruise from which Harry never returned, when the Captain's gig dashed alongside, and with the old skipper came a slight, girlish, fair-haired boy, apparently a mere child, dressed in the uniform at that time worn by the midshipmen of our navy. The poor little fellow had been sent to sea to learn an honorable profession, because his father since his bankruptcy could not educate his son at home as became his former station. He stood uncertain for a while on the quarter deck, alone, neglected, abashed, until the Captain suddenly recollecting himself turned round, and introducing him to us, ended by committing Henry Broughton to my oversight as the eldest midshipman on board. We were soon on intimate terms, if I may call that intimacy which subsists between a youth of nineteen and one like him. But Broughton had a mind above his years, he was besides so frank, so gentle, so winning in his manners that you could not, for the life of you, escape loving the bold and generous little fellow. He soon became a favorite with all on board. Even the rugged old tars would do any thing to please him, and the severity of the first lieutenant himself often relaxed itself when little Harry Broughton, as we all called him, had offended against some paltry rule of discipline. Always the first to turn out in a gale ; never to be found skulking like some of the other youngsters, from his watch,—but at all times ready and eager to volunteer on any extra duty, he had gradually wound himself into the heart of every one on board, from the land lubbers in the waist to the Captain in his after cabin. If we went on shore, Harry Broughton was sure to be one of our company, for he was such a favorite with strangers on account of his beauty and youth, that we were always better welcomed if he was along. Besides he was so generally beloved, and was such a merry little companion that few were willing to forego his company. He was sick once for a few days, and there was as much anxiety in the ship while he was dangerous, as if the Captain himself had been laying at the point of death. "Poor little boy," said the kindhearted doctor to me, as his patient lay tossing in the delirium of a fever, murmuring every now and then his mother's or his sister's name, "he may never live to see the ones he loves so well again"-and he never did live to see them, though his death did not happen as the tender-hearted surgeon supposed.

We had been out nearly three years, cruizing on the Pacific station, when we were ordered home,-and glad were we all to hear the news, which was to restore us to a sight of the dear faces we had left behind. We stretched across the Pacific under a favorable wind that seemed to partake of our eagerness. Every thing on board was joy. The long, beautiful moonlight nights came and went like the sound of music, and a hundred gallant fellows danced away the evening watches to the rude sound of their violin. I remember one of those evenings in particular. We were bowling along under an easy sail through the beautiful waters of the Pacific, gliding by little fairy islands that seemed to start like green Edens from the water, and stealing amid the reefs of coral rock that rose around us in every direction. It had been a sultry day, but now the night had come, and the cool breeze deliciously fanned our cheeks, while the moon floated in liquid beauty above, flooding the heavens in a sea of light, and silvering the crests of the long waves as they rolled lazily up from the darkness below. Far away the horizon seemed gradually to become less boldly defined, rising and sinking in thin tissue-like clouds, and then softly melting away into the heavens above. No sound came over the solitary seas, and only the faint ripple of the waves was heard as they dashed against our sides. The men were forward dancing, and amid the shuffle of feet and the rough but merry laughter, came up the lively notes of the violin. I was standing near the side talking with young Harry Broughton, and insensibly our thoughts reverted to the happy homes we had left behind us in America. Poor little fellow, how eagerly he longed to see that sweet mother and lovely sister of his once more. He could, for nearly an hour talk of nothing else, and as he dwelt upon them his young heart became more agitated with thronging recollections, until at last I saw in the moonlight the hot tears running, one by one, down his young cheeks. He saw I observed him, and looking up said,

"Indeed, Mr. Seyton, you musn't think wrong of me for this, I can't always stand thinking of mother and Fanny, when I recollect how many thousand miles are between us, and that perhaps I will never live to see them again. Indeed, Sir," and he wiped away the tears hastily, " one cannot always command his feelings." “ Harry,” said I, " you need not fear any one would think less of you for loving your mother and sister. God knows I would be too glad to shed tears if I only had a mother to shed them for!" " Oh ! Sir, I'm sure you would, I never knew how I cared for her till I left her, and now I often think of all she used to say and do, and wish I had loved her more when I was at home." "Ah ! you are right, Harry. I once had a mother, but I've lost her now, and I would have given worlds when she lay dead in the room, if I could have called her back only to tell her how I loved her, and to ask her forgiveness for all the anguish I had caused her in my reckless youth."


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. " Keep her away-that's it-run her along here till we pick out a better place," said Tiller.

"Isn't that a good opening, Mr. Tiller ?" said little Harry, pointing ahead.

"You've a sharp eye, Harry, it's the very thing-pull away there, my lads," and we shot into the surf.

Hitherto all had been careless on board, and jests had been flying plentifully about, but as we dashed into the troubled vortex every man in the boat felt that a crisis was at hand, which, though voluntarily met, was not the less dangerous, and accordingly the deepest silence pervaded all, broken only by the noise of the oars and the quick orders of the lieutenant.

"Larboard," shouted Tiller as he stood up waving his hand, "larboard a little more," and riding on an enormous wave we were whirled into the heart of the surf, with two gigantic billows madly pursuing us on our quarter. For a moment we thought the crisis passed, but all at once the wave seemed to lose its impetus, and gliding from beneath us broached us almost broadside to, while the foremost of our pursuers dashed against us and heeled us nearly over into the abyss. The other cne was scarce a fathom off, we were losing all command of the boat, and could see with horror-struck countenances the wild gulf below, when a voice came from our colleague outside the surf, " Look out, there's a shark on your quarter," and at the same instant Tiller, perceiving the imminency of our danger, thundered, “ Larboard, hard—ease off there,―larboard harder, for God's sake, down !" but the poor coxswain, startled by the ill-timed warning from the other boat, and conscious of the terrible situation in which we were, lost, for a moment, all command of his faculties, and before he could regain them sufficiently to obey the command of his officer, the other wave had struck us full on our broadside, and in another instant, with a wild cry of horror, we found ourselves struggling in the tumultuous surf. When I rose to the surface I struck boldly out, but the sight that met my eyes I shall never, never forget. The boat was already broken in pieces, and the fragments tossing wildly about, while her venturous crew were struggling here and there in the breakers. A poor fellow was just ahead of me buffeting the current which was setting strongly out, and gazing with agonising looks on a huge shark that lay eyeing him basilisk-like, just without the surf. The horror-struck man looked at the distant shore, then at his foe, then struck his arms wildly out, and as he felt the current gradually sweeping him, despite his fearful struggles, nearer to his terrible enemy, he screamed aloud for succor. But it was in vain. The other boat ventured as near as it could, but it would have been madness to have come closer. They called to him to strike aside and get more out of the current,

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but by this time the poor wretch was so alarmed that he scarcely knew what he did, and after a few desperate efforts, he gave a quick, shrill shriek, flung his arms wildly on high, and disappeared suddenly under the water. The next instant the blood-red hue of the surface told the horrid cause. All this had not occupied an instant, and it was with a quaking heart that I turned aside and struck away desperately for the shore. I felt that there was little hope of escape, but I was a good swimmer, and as long as I could command my faculties I knew I had at least some chance of reaching land. To do this I hastily scanned the prospect around me in order to escape the current, and find a place where the surf rolled in less frightfully. Here and there I saw a companion buffeting the wild tumult of waters, and out to sea several were being picked up by the other boat. But the horrid sight I had just witnessed forbade all further escape from that quarter, and I was just turning to plunge headlong through the surf when I heard a faint cry beside me, and saw poor little Harry struggling not two fathoms off. He seemed almost exhausted, and unable to make any headway against the set of the current, appeared striving only to keep his head above the water. "For the love of Heaven," he cried, " Mr. Seyton, here !" but as I dashed toward him the noble boy suddenly cried, " save yourself-I'm getting weak-tell mother and Fanny I died thinking of them." "Courage, courage," I cried, " I'll be there in a minute, my brave lad," and I strained every nerve to reach him, but the current was so powerful that it baffled for a while my most desperate efforts. One while the surf would sweep us far apart, and now dash us almost together. I saw with joy, however, that I gradually neared the gallant little boy. The boat outside meanwhile perceived our situation, and her crew fired with enthusiasm, cheered as they bent to their oars determined at all risk to succor us. "Seyton,-hillo," shouted the lieutenant, losing sight of us for a minute, " come outside, quick-for your life !" I was now almost up to little Harry, who still continued supporting himself in the water with weary strokes and rapidly failing strength, when suddenly our companions in the boat shouted, "The shark ! the shark !" and the huge monster shot along not twenty yards off between us and our only hope the boat. I had not before noticed that in my efforts to reach Broughton, the current had been sweeping us more to sea, and I now saw with horror as I made two or three desperate strokes, that I had got into the same tide which had proved too powerful for the poor wretch a few minutes before. My brain reeled as I looked. The boat was rapidly approaching, but the surf was too wild to suffer it to come to where we were, and between us the frightful monster venturing as close


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LOUISA SANFORD ; OR, THE EVILS OF INTEMPERANCE. Every inordinate cup is unblessed, and the ingredient is a devil."

THERE is a deep, unpleasing melancholy in the toll of a bell ! how it harrows up our feelings, and makes our hearts ache ! That doleful sound is the messenger of the departure of some spirit to "that undiscover'd country from whose bourne no traveller returns," telling that some form once filled with life and vigor, and blooming with health and beauty, is about to be consigned to the cold and silent tomb. How many eyes are streaming with tears ! how many hearts are left desolate ! What a sound for reflection ! perhaps, ere long it may sound our funeral knell !

" There is in souls a sympathy with sounds, Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touched within us, and the heart repliesWith easy force it opens to the cells Where Memory slept."

How fraught with misery is that mournful sound falling upon my cars, spreading far over hill and dale, telling that some friend is gone, and associating in my thoughts the recollection of a sad event with which that sound is connected, wafting me back to a far- distant period, and arousing in my heart sensations which have long lain dormant. I have often heard the toll of the church-bell, yet it has ever produced a feeling of awe in me, since being connected with an event which I shall here narrate. Louisa Sanford was the only child of Colonel William Sanford, one of the wealthiest and most respectable planters in the South. He had devoted the earlier portion of his manhood to the practice of law in the city of Augusta, and possessing a superior intellect, and considerable talents, both legal and literary, he soon became eminent in his profession. Having a handsome appearance, and above all an unblemished moral reputation , he had little difficulty in engaging the affections, and obtaining the hand of Louisa Styles, one of the most beautiful, wealthy and accomplished young ladies in the city ; a circumstance which placed him far above the world ; and being regardless of fame, he, shortly after his marriage, abandoned his profession, purchased a plantation a short distance from town, and removed to the country to obtain that repose and retirement his nature loved. Mrs. Sanford, being an orphan, had no fashionable mama to urge her stay in the city ; and having an affectionate and conciliating disposition, it was with pleasure she renounced all the gaieties of town for a life in the country. They had been married but a few years before Mrs. Sanford fell a victim to consumption, leaving an inconsolable husband and Louisa, the

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subject of this narrative, an infant about one year old. Colonel Sanford was, for several years, a prey to the deepest melancholy, and frequently subject to alienation of intellect ; but time, the assuager of all griefs, gradually restored him in a degree, though he never entirely recovered his former gaiety of spirits. Louisa was now the only being on whom he could bestow his affection and care ; and as each succeeding year made her more interesting, how plainly could her father see all the beauty and loveliness of his dear lost wife concentrated in his child, How kind and devoted a father was he ; not even neglectful of those delicate attentions which mother's bestow on their children. Having nothing to occupy his time but the improvement of his beautiful residence, he superintended the education of his daughter. Possessing a mind of the first order, and having omitted no opportunity of improving it, he was well calculated to impart to Louisa that instruction so necessary to the adornment of a young lady ; not neglecting to have her taught all the minor accomplishments. Louisa possessed a sprightly intellect, and having so competent an instructor as her father, she had acquired more useful knowledge at the age of fifteen than young ladies, who are sent to boarding-schools, usually do at twenty. When Louisa had attained her fifteenth year, her father concluded it was time for her to see a little more of the world, and forthwith made arrangements for making a tour through the Northern States. It was in the pleasant month of April, 18-, that Colonel Sanford and his daughter set out on their journey, in their own private coach, so as to jaunt leisurely through the States they intended visiting, make observations on the country, and if they took a fancy to any particular spot, to sojourn there so long as suited their inclination ; a mode decidedly preferable (to one who travels for pleasure and information ) to being whirled along on a railroad at such a rapid rate that you have no time to view scenery, for every thing seems blended into one ; or travelling on a steamboat with the constant dread of striking a snag, and sinking, or getting blown up. Colonel Sanford travelled as far north as New Haven, and he was so charmed with that beautiful town, that he concluded to remain there some length of time. A few weeks after his arrival, he visited various female schools, and finding one, the discipline of which pleased him so well, that he entered Louisa, resolving if she would consent to a separation from him, he would leave her and visit England. There was an attraction and a charm in the society of Colonel Sanford, which, notwithstanding his habitual reserve and melancholy, won the hearts of all those with whom he became acquainted ; so that it was not long before he had a circle of admiring friends. Intelligent, and well-bred, and having almost constantly by his side his beautiful


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. consent to their marriage until George had agreed to live with him.

"How can you," said he to Louisa, "leave your father's hearth so dreary and desolate as it will be when you go from me ?"

Louisa assured him that she had no wish to quit her dear home, and she knew George would not be so cruel as to take her from him. A few months after their arrival, Louisa and George were united, and their nuptials were celebrated in the most splendid manner. Never before had those halls so resounded with joy and merriment, and none amid that glittering throng was so joyous and happy as Louisa. Methinks I now see her sylph-like form, gliding with grace and elegance through the mazy dance. Happy, light-hearted girl ! little did she imagine that she was wedded to a man destitute of all moral character ! little did she dream of the misery her young heart would soon have to suffer ! What a wise order of Providence, that we are not permitted to look into futurity ! Our most happy moments would be constantly embittered by some reflection of a disagreeable nature.

George and Louisa had not been married a year, before he became heartily tired of a country life ; it was not in accordance with the habits he had formed previous to his marriage. He began to take rides in the city, every day prolonging his stay more and more ; frequently returning after dark, and to the great surprise and deep mortification of his wife, often highly intoxicated. At last he made known his intention of removing to town, and urged as a reason, that it best suited his business ; and Louisa could hear from, and see her father almost every day. But it was more with a view of concealing his irregular conduct, and freeing himself from the immediate observance of his father-in-law. Colonel Sanford had by this time discovered, to his great horror, the habits of his son-in-law, and warmly opposed his leaving his house, thinking that keeping him in the country, with Louisa's affection and devotedness to him, would yet turn him from the errors of his ways ; but all his remonstrance was unavailing, for George persisted in his determination to go. Colonel | Sanford purchased them a house, and furnished it in a beautiful and elegant style. It was with a heavy heart that Louisa quitted her dear paternal home. Poor girl ! she had even now shed many bitter tears of grief, and felt that keen sorrow which none but a confiding and affectionate wife can feel, when she sees her husband, the idol of her heart, him to whom she has plighted vows of eternal love, reeling with intoxication, and growing cold and indifferent to her. Her father saw it all ; her pallid cheek and tearful eyes had not been unobserved ; and how keenly did he feel for his dear child. Leonard, after removing to town, began to devise VOL. I.- 22

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plans to get a larger portion of the property in his possession, and he induced his father-in-law to establish him in the mercantile business. Colonel Sanford fondly hoping that he would have a fondness for business of that nature, and become himself again, readily invested a portion of his property in that way ; but it was not long before it was all squandered. The sums which he had borrowed before his marriage had to be repaid, duns beset him at almost every corner of the streets, and he drank more and more, to the entire neglect of his business. Night after night, he left his devoted wife with no one but the servants. How heart-rending it was, to one of her sensibility, to see her husband sinking every day deeper in vice, and becoming callous to her entreaties. She used every means in her power to induce him to remain at home, but he was deaf to her. The wine cup had more charms for him than his beautiful and affectionate wife. How many a heart has been made desolate and wretched, how much domestic peace and happiness have been forever destroyed by that "demon wine !" Leonard had drunk of this poison until it had eradicated every feeling of refinement and sensibility in his nature. It is an old adage "that when things get to their worst they must mend." Louisa thought her husband could not get any worse, and closely did she hug to her bosom the hope that he would yet reform ; but vain was that hope. Her father was in the fall of 18- elected senator from the county of Richmond, and had now to leave for the seat of government. He visited his daughter, the day previous to his departure, and urged her to accompany him, as he could not bear the thought of leaving her in her present distracted state of mind, and be so long absent from her ; but she would not consent to leave her husband. Leonard was constantly in the habit of staying out all night, but he was absent from his house several days, and his wife knew not where he was, and she dared not send a servant to his various haunts to inquire for him, for it had more than once subjected her to his abuse. Oh ! the agony, the anxiety she felt during these days, imagining every thing horrible to have befallen her husband ; with no one to unbosom her feelings to, for she was too proud and high-minded to tell her sorrows to a mere acquaintance. She had few visitors to relieve the monotony of her dreary life, for as it is the destiny of woman (no matter what her merits or demerits may be) to sink or rise with her husband, her friends were gradually falling off. At length he came home at a late hour of the night, and called to his servant for a light. Louisa heard his footsteps in the hall, that sound that had so often made her heart bound with joy ; she listened, but he approached not her chamber ; he had ascended the stairs, she called to him, but he made no reply ; she followed him, and looking into the room he had entered,


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many young men of the highest order of tulente and intellect, who might be an honor to themacives and an ornament to their country, have had their prospects and the bright anticipations of their friends forever blasted ; and finally sank to an untimely and dishonored grave by indulying in this poisonous liquid. Like the Upas tree, it destroys all that comes within its influence; it scorrhes and withers up all the fountains of ailection and sociability, and makes man rather @ beast thon & rational creature. Leonard lived a few years after this awful occurronee, and finally died the death of @ Drun- dard in one of the Western States.

THEY LOVE NO MORE. BY MARY 5: Lawson,

‘Fury love no more—the dream has passed Lik Or when, "neath Winter's searing list ‘The autumn buds decay. "Phere wae no harsh, nor bitter word ‘ ‘Vo woud the tender heart, No sndden strife: their bosoms stirred, Nor anger laste them part.

wumimer clouds away 5

Love failed slowly from each breast, ‘They scarce knew it had fled,

For still the eye come warmth express'd, Although Love's soul was dead;

‘Aa music's dying echo cast ‘Upon the passing wind,

A ling'ring memory of the past Still lived, within the mind.

‘Phey parted,—he without a sigh; Perchance, she felt come pain,

But eaw his cold unaitering eye, And knew regret waa yainy

‘Of feelings chang’d, they did not speak, He sought no fond delay,

‘Nor gazed upon the pallid check ‘Whero starting tears found way.

‘They mect amid the festive throng, With calm and smiling gaze— And listen 10 some aweot old eoug

Beloved in earlier daya;

‘Phey feel the pangs of worrow rise ‘To cloud their short lived mirth, But awift ae thought tho fecling dies,

And perishes at birth,

Yet vanish'd yoars have lett their blight Upon ench care-worn brow,

‘The Heavens have lost their glorious light, And earth ia darker now;

A shadow, and a gloom, ia thrown Where all was bright before;

‘Their trust in human faith hae flown, And they may love no more.

V1

THE LONG COURTSHIP. RY ELLEN ASITON.

“Par have been engaged these six years.”

Such was the reply which Charles Irvine made tu his friend Mrs. Alton, as the latter pointed out to him a couple on the other side of the way, and asked him if he knew them,

“Yea ¥" said he, “and I thought every body knew Horace Daval und Esther Marlowe—they have beew engaged these vix years”

“What is the reason they do not get married 1” enquired Mra, Alton.

“Ob! it is the old story—the gentleman is poor and the Indy in faithful, They met when both were very young, and fell in love. ‘Tho gentleman was only a stustent, it is true, but his heart was young ani full of hope. and he looked forward to a speedy realization of his droams of wealth. He pleaded his case so elaquently that Miss Marlowe pledged herself to become his bride when she was only seventeen, and he had just entered his twenty-first year, Six yeare have since passed and they are yct unmarried ; for Duval is # physician, ond you know how difiieutt it is for a young practitioner in medicine to obtain a livelihood. I hear that he bas ut length given up all hope of being able to cstablink himself in this crowded city, and haa determined to try his fortune here is leas competition. He safks

«T hope not.”

 * Why?”

«Because I fear for the: fidelity of the gentieman. Unless Dr. Duval is different from most of his sex, his feclings will, nay, must suffer a partial, if not total estrangement from Miss Marlowe, should his absence be protracted for any great length of time.””

« Fie, fie, my dear aunt, you slander our’ sex. would question the truth of all nen.”

“Understand me before you blame me, 1 do not condemn all of your sex, nor do I say that a protracted separation in the present case will certainly produce a disruption of the engagement, I only mean to say that the probabilities are in favor of so unhappy & termination to this long courtship; and in saying thie I base my conclusion altogether on the character and ‘situation of your sex in contradistinction to those of ny own.” 4

“Very ctoarly etated—you could not have done it better had you beea Chillingworth, the prince of togi- cians. But do you mean to say that the fault will be Daval’s in case this engagement should be broken off” through his absence.”

«“ Certainly—at least if Misa Marlowe instead of Dr. Duvat should be the cause of it, this ease would be

You

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 and prevent the child dying, it is brought in and held just in front of the dead body of the mother and then gradually carried away behind her where she cannot see it, and the person holding the child makes it cry out and says, "See, your child is here, you are going to have it with you all right." Then the child is hastily smuggled out of the hut, while a bunch of plantains is put in with the body of the woman and bound up with the funeral binding clothes.

Very young children they do not attempt to keep, but throw them away in the bush alive, as all children are thrown who have not arrived in this world in the way considered orthodox, or who cut their teeth in an improper way. Twins are killed among all the Niger Delta tribes, and in districts out of English control the mother is killed too, except in Omon, where the sanctuary is.

There twin mothers and their children are exiled to an island in the Cross River. They have to remain on the island and if any man goes across and marries one of them he has to remain on the island too. This twin-killing is a widely diffused custom among the Negro tribes.

I doubt whether the Bantus do it so much, but I distrust those Bantus in the matter of twins. They lulled my mind into an unsuspicious, restful state regarding twins, and then played it low, so I won't go bail for them. It was this way. When I first came out to the Coast, my friends told me everything they could lay tongue on until I frequently smelt their souls scorching, and a brief experience of my friends' conversation warned me that the phrase, "We've some very peculiar customs down here" was the Leit Motif of the entrance of twins into the conversation. Regarding this subject as unfit for general discussion, I therefore used to smother those twins by leading the conversation off by the ear immediately I heard the warning note, and exceedingly skilful in this I became.

When, however, I was past the Negro ports Bonny, Calabar, &c., and across the Bantu border line, below Cameroon, I found the subject did not arise, and I became lulled into a sense of false security. All went well for some time, until one day I was walking with an Englishman across a stretch


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. A keen observer, she had accumulated a large store of facts, from which to deduce her opinions. In no one did her nephew, Charles Irvine, place such reliance, especially on points in which her sex's opinions were generally sought for. He was staggered by her arguments on the present occasion, and as he thought on the subject he inclined more to her opinions. But yet he would not wholly admit the force of the reasoning.

Time passed on. Horace, or rather Doctor Duval, had left the city, according to his determination, and was now settled in a thriving town in one of the Western States. His letters to Esther Marlowe were at first frequent, and filled with hope and glowing pictures of the happiness that was in store for them. His business slowly increased, and he wrote to her that in eighteen months or two years at furthest, he would be able to return to the East, and claim her for his bride. At length his letters became less frequent, and often contained passages which Esther feared were cold, although she tried to persuade herself that they were not. Then came an interval of silence, and then a missive saying that he had been sick, but was now wholly recovered. How the tears fell from Esther's eyes as she read, how she wished that she had known of his danger, and could have flown to his side. Alas ! little was she aware of the change in her lover's affections. He had indeed been sick, and to the kindness of others he had perhaps been indebted for his life. He had learnt to think less of Esther, and more of her who had tended him with such constant care. New scenes, as Mrs. Alton said, had colored his mind- new friendships had struck their roots into his heart, insensibly pushing out the old occupants of the soil. He no longer thought hourly of Esther. He had begun to dream of another face than hers. There was a new voice sweeter to him than that of his affianced bride. Gradually his letters to her became less frequent and more formal. Miss Marlowe at length could shut her eyes no longer to the coldness of his language. Perhaps she noticed it in her reply-perhaps she suffered in silence. We willingly draw a veil over the sad story. It soon came to be known that the long engagement betwixt Doctor Duval and Miss Marlowe was at an end. How the rumor became public no one knew, for the lady herself never alluded to such a thing ; but there needed no other confirmation to it beyond the pale, dejected air and hollow cough of the suffering victim.

"Poor Miss Marlowe," said Charles Irvine to his aunt, " she is failing fast. Consumption, they say, has fastened his tooth of poison on her vitals, but alas ! I fear a broken-heart would be the better name for her disease." "I fear so too," said Mrs. Alton, " do you recollect our conversation some eighteen months ago on Esther and Doctor Duval ?"

"I do," said Irvine, " and I confess I am now a convert to your opinion." While this very conversation was transpiring, the object of it was sitting in an easy chair, propped up by pillows, in the last stage of her fell disease. Every few minutes a racking cough would seize her frame. Her eye was sunken, her voice was feeble, her cheek burned with the fitful hectic of consumption. Her mother and sister sat with tearful eyes gazing on the invalid. A servant entered the room bringing a phial which she laid on the little stand before the sufferer. Her mother, with a trembling hand, took up the phial, and unrolling it from the envelope, turned away to prepare the potion for her daughter. The newspaper, in which the phial had been wrapped, still lay on the stand. A word in the torn envelope attracted the attention of the sufferer, and she took it up. She had scarcely ran her eye over the paragraph which first attracted her notice, when a faint shriek burst from her lips, the paper dropped from her nerveless grasp, and she fell back apparently in a fainting fit. The mother let fall the phial, and sprang to her daughter's side. Alas ! it was only to grasp the hand of the dead. The paper which had fallen from the grasp of the invalid was picked up. It contained the following announcement, under the head of marriages :On Sunday, the 23d inst. by the Rev. James Atwood, Doctor Horace Duval, to Miss Mary Estelle, daughter of John Estelle, Esq. all of this place. This fatal paragraph had driven the last barb into the already bleeding heart of Esther Marlowe. She died a victim to the perfidy of her lover.

THE LOST CHILD. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

I WANDERED down a sunny glade And ever mused, my love, of thee; My thoughts, like little children, played, As gaily and as guilelessly.

If any chanced to go astray, Moaning in fear of coming harms, Hope brought the wanderer back alway, Safe nestled in her snowy arms. From that soft nest the happy one Looked up at me and calmly smiled ; Its hair shone golden in the sun, And made it seem a heavenly child. Dear Hope's blue eyes smiled mildly down, And blest it with a love so deep, That, like a nursling of her own, It clasped her neck and fell asleep.