แ Nothing especially disagreeable, as a friend-as a man whom one sees three or four times a week; but as a husband, several things." "May I, as only your mother, of course, a very insignificant creature to wish or have your confidence, ask these several things?" "In the first place, then, his person is not attractive to me." "Gracious heaven!" cried Mrs. Mansfield, starting up; "do I live to hear my daughter express such a sentiment! His person! Do Do you not know that to think of such an objection is-the-the-very reverse of modest? Where have you got such ideas? To a truly virtuous woman, what are a man's looks? I might expect such an objection from a girl of low mind and vicious ideas, but not from Anna Mansfield. So this is your reason for not marrying an excellent, kind-" "Not my only one, mamma," Anna interrupted gently; "it is one of them, but not the greatest. I named it first because it is, I think, very important; and I cannot see the impropriety which strikes you." A slight blush rose to her cheek, as she continued, "I should not like to engage myself to pass my life with a man whose appearance would be repulsive to me, if he had the right to take my hand-or-excuse me, mamma.I don't like to say any more on this point;" and then, as the color deepened, she added in a lower voice, "You saw Frederick yesterday put his arm around Maria's waist, as he lifted her from the saddle; and, not caring for the presence of you, his aunt, and us, his cousins, he a bridegroom of three months he kissed her pretty blooming cheek, and drew her close to him. She blushed, and said, 'don't, Fred,' but evidently was not displeased. Now, could I I endure-? Oh, mamma, pray don't talk about it. It makes me ill. have named one of the smallest, and at the same time one of the greatest objections. Why dwell upon a difference of opinion, in many essential cases—a total want of congeniality-sympathy-taste, when this trivial reason (provided he possessed the others) is in itself so strong? Dear mamma, don't be angry-don't be disappointed. You would not wish to make me truly miserable? truly miserable? Perhaps, in a year or two, Sally may be Mr. Gordon's choice; and Sally may take him as her beau ideal. Why do you want to get rid of me so soon?" "Ah, my dear," said Mrs. Mansfield, "you know how poor we are now. Here I am with you four girls, and an income not much larger than in your dear father's time I spent upon my own dress. Is it wonderful that I long to see you settled? Heaven knows that I am not one of those mercenary mothers who would give their children to any man with money. No, indeed. I would not be so wicked. But when a gentleman like Norman Gordon-an honorable, trustworthy, generous creature-wishes to become my son, do you wonder that I should desire it too? I knew his father before him-I knew his mother-all good people; it is good blood, my child-the best dependence in the world. You are nearly twenty years old,and there are three younger than you; how can I help being anxious? And I who know what 'love-matches' arehow many a girl goes to her ruin by that foolish idea, marrying some boy in haste, and repenting at leisure--children--no money-bills to pay-oh! my dear Anna, where is the love then?" "Mamma, am I making or thinking of making any such match?" "But you may do it. I want to save you from this. I have a horror of these romantic 'love-matches."" "Did you not love my father, mamma?" Anna asked in a low voice. "Of course I did. All women should love their husbands. All proper, well-regulated women do love their husbands." "And yet you wish me to marry without love!" "Love comes after marriage. every woman with good principles loves her husband. She makes the best of her bargain. Life is a lottery, and if you draw a prize or a blank, you must accept it as it is and be satisfied. Then, when a woman has sworn, in the face of God and man, 'to love, honor and obey' her husband, how can she reconcile herself to not doing it?" "But, if she should not? if she finds it impossible? Oh, think of that, mamma. Think of vowing solemnly in the face of heavenand breaking one's oath! Swearing to love, where you feel indifferencepromising to honor, where you see little to respect and vowing to obey, where your reason tells you there is no judgment to make obedience possible! Taking upon your shoulders, for life, a burthen you cannot bear, and which it is a crime to struggle under, or to cast aside!" "You know nothing about it, Anna," Mrs. Mansfield said impatiently; "it is not proper for a young girl to think and speak in this wild way. Your mother is here to guide and direct you. No good ever comes of a child arguing and setting herself up in this manner, to teach those older and wiser than herself. The Bible says, 'Honor thy father and thy mother'-it don't say, dispute with them.' I tell you what I heard from my VOL. II. 8 mother, and what every right-minded person knows, make a good choice in life; marry, and love will come afterwards.' Love comes with the-never mind. I will not say any more now. I hope sincerely man's feelings. But you are not you have been careful of poor Norapt to do that. You have lacerated mine enough, heaven knows." "Oh, mamma! when-how?" "In this business. When it would be so easy us all happy, and you prefer your for you to make own notions, and wilfully act up to them." A flush of transient anger and indignation swept gustily over Miss Mansfield's face; but she conquered the emotion, and playfully taking a volume from a book-stand near, said, with perfect good humor and meaningly, "May I read Clarissa Harlowe,' mamma?" don't bother me with any further "No, put it down, Anna, and nonsense." drew, glad to escape so painful and The daughter obediently withso disagreeable an interview. en "to it was by no means the last of such But although this was the first, conversations. Every day the subject was renewed, but gradually Mrs. Mansfield changed her tactics. She no longer scolded or insisted; her reproaches were silent looks of misery-pathetic appeals to heavher afflictions." She was very afgrant her patience under fectionate to her daughter-heartrendingly so. upon constantly to notice what a Anna was called tender parent she was distressing. Each necessary privation in their reduced household (the father's honorable failure and death had brought them from affluence to comparative poverty,) was prologued and epilogued by sighs and suggestions. "If only Anna could"—and then a sudden pause and deep respiration. "My own dear child," Mrs. Mansfield would sometimes say; "how I wish you had a new dress. That brown silk is very shabby; but we cannot, with our limited means, buy another, and yet I saw Jane Berryman sneering at it, with her flounced skirts spreading a mile behind her." "Indeed, mamma, I don't care for Jane Berryman's sneers. It is very good of you to be anxious about it, but I think the old brown very becoming." The next day a rich plaid silk, glossy and fresh, lay upon Anna's bed. "I could not stand it, my dear," said Mrs. Mansfield. "I must do without a new cloak this winter. A mother would rather starve with cold than see her daughter less handsomely dressed than she ought to be. Nothing is a sacrifice to me, for you, Anna." In vain poor Anna protested and tried to return the silk, and exchange it for the very necessary cloak, whose purchase was now impossible. Mrs. Mansfield positively forbade her, and the thin black shawl which covered the widow's last year's bombazine was worn with a prolonged shiver, whenever Anna was near enough to hear and see. Mr. Gordon soon returned to pay his usual visits-to offer his usual attentions to make his usual presents, at stated times, of things which could permissibly be tendered. The visits Mrs. Mansfield received with great delight the attentions were allowed; but the first basket of winter produce which arrived from Mr. Gordon's farm, she requested decidedly should be the last. Clara, the youngest girl, a child of seven, cried lustily because her mamma said "these will be the last potatoes we shall ever eat." From the solemnity of the tone, the little thing fancied that potatoes-a very important item in her daily consumption-were tabooed forever. She desisted when she found that it was only the potatoes from the Gordon farm that fell under the restriction. Day by day, week after week, this persecution continued. It was the unceasing drop of water that 'stayed not itself" for a single instant. In despair, Anna went to consult an aunt, whose opinion she highly valued-whose principles were undoubted -an exemplary wife and mother, and a kind friend always to her niece. Anna recited her woes. "What must I do to escape this torment, my dear Aunt Mary? I feel and know my duty to mamma, I trust; but this life is wearing me out." Aunt Mary smiled. "And you don't like Mr. Gordon, dear?" "I now detest him." "Oh! for shame. How can you say so? Indeed, my child, I cannot but agree with your mother. This is an excellent match; and it seems to me that if you have no positive objection against his character and standing, you ought to reconsider Mr. Gordon's proposal." 66 But, don't you understand that I don't in the least care for the man, except as an ordinary acquaintance. He is well enough as he is; but, do you too advocate a marriage made on such a foundation?" "Anna! a love-match makes no marriage of love." "Voilà une chanson dont je connais l'air!" said Anna, smiling bitterly in her turn. "You will all force me to marry this man, actually to get rid of him.” 66 Well, you could not do a better thing, I think?" Anna returned home disconsolately; returned to the same wearying, petty, incessant pin pricks, unencouraged by a single word. With all her affection for her mother, she could not but see her weakness in most cases; but on her Aunt's judgment she relied, and what had been the result of the interview?-a decided approval of Mrs. Mansfield's wishes. Let those who blame Anna Mansfield for her next step, pray to be kept from the same pit-fall. This is a mere sketch; but an outline which all who choose may fill up from the hints given. Those who believe that they would have been steadfast to the end, will have my admiration, if, when their day of trial comes, they hold firmly to the right; but as we look around, have we not cause to think that there are many Mrs. Mansfields, and, alas! many Annas? There came an evening at length, when on Miss Mansfield's finger shone a great diamond, which dazzled tiny Clara's eyes and made her uncognizant of the tears in her sister's, as she asked wonderingly, "Where did you get such a beauti-ful ring?" Mrs. Mansfield triumphantly said, "That is a secret, Clary." "No secret for you, my little darling," Anna answered very low and gravely. "Mr. Gordon gave it to me as a pledge that I am to marry him." "Do you love him, Annie?" Clara said, swallowing her surprise, with great, open, childish eyes. "Don't ask foolish questions, Clara," her mother cried angrily. But the tears now rolled down the elder sister's white cheek, and she held the little girl close to her bosom, as she whispered, you shall come and live with me, my own, and when you marry, I will not need, if God helps me, to ask you that question." The day came-hurried on-and Anna Mansfield was Mrs. Norman Gordon. She was the owner of houses and lands-gold and silver-a perjured conscience and a broken heart. Very fine possessions were they, truly, and very proud Mrs. Mansfield was and is, of the hand she had in this righteous barter. I see Mrs. Gordon frequently; she is very pale and cold, and kind. She has no children-Clara does live with her. Mr. Gordon is not happy, evidently; he has nothing to complain of in his wife. She is scrupulously polite to him, but there is not an atom of sympathy between them. He is prejudiced, uncultivated; and now that he has her, is terribly afraid of being ruled by her. It is a joyless household, and a very rich one. I have seen Mrs. Mansfield's greedy gaze lighten broader and broader as the blaze of plate-the measured footfall of a train of servants-the luxurious profusion of their constant service, were spread out before her. She treads the "velvet pile" of carpets with a happy step, and adores her daughter's noble brow, when she sees shimmering upon it-reflecting a thousand lights-the mass of brilliants that binds, in its costly clasp, the struggling thoughts of what was once Anna Mansfield. So we leave them. What of the end of all this? Is this grand automaton really dead, or does a heart, young and still untouched, lurk— strong, free and dangerous-in that quiet, unmoved and stately figure? THE END. TRIP TO CUBA. HAVANA. My dear Doctor, Dry as Dust. I am amenable to your censure. You charge me with departing from my programme, and indulging in vain fancies, while you were expecting from me those minute descriptions and substantial facts, so congenial to your taste the registration of which I had professed to make my chief inducement in writing out these notes for publication. You accuse me, in short, of having an eye to the ladies, in what I have written. My dear Doctor! you fall short of the mark-my offence is graver yet. I do not squint; and when I desire to say any thing particularly impressive, I usually have both eyes fixed on the ladies! Ladies go first, was the first lesson in manners taught me by my dancing master. "Ladies and gentlemen," is the address of every wellbred actor to the audience. I conform to my teaching, and having made my bow where it is best due, I now turn to you, and will give minute description and hard, dull, dry facts" dry as a remainder biscuit after a voyage"-to your heart's content. Ladies, you are forewarned-this chapter is not for you. A walk of less than five minutes took us from the landing place, at which our baggage had been inspected, to Woolcott's hotel, corner of calle de Lux and Commercial. The streets through which we passed were flanked by massive buildings of stone, often of one story, sometimes of two, with flat roofs; the walls being painted in glaring colors, such as bright sky blue or deep yellow. The hotel was one of the superior class of buildings, and we entered by a wide and lofty gate-way, leading by a flight of stone steps to the office of the landlord. Turning to the right, without ascending these steps, you find before you an open square, round which the apartments used for dormitories are arranged. In one of these, after a most tedious detention, arising from the departure of one set of boarders by one ship, and the installing another, who had just arrived, in their places-from the fewness of the servants, and their ignorance of your language, and from indifference in the landlord to the comfort of his guests, we were at length installed, with liberty to refresh ourselves and change our dresses, if we were willing to disrobe in the presence of strangers, who, by the contrivance of the landlord, were to share your sleeping apartment. The ceilings of the chamber assigned me were twenty feet in height; the floors were tile, disposed in white and blue squares. These chambers, on the basement story, were separated from each other by a partition of wood, and sometimes by one of canvas painted to resemble wood. Three beds were usually allotted to each chamber, and these were narrow sulkeys, supported on slender iron posts, furnished with a thin mattress of moss, (with pillows of the same,) with sheet, coverlet, and a pavilion of yellow gauze to check off the mosquitoes. The windows are unglazed, and besides the inva |