for the first time entered my mind, but it '. THE FALSE ONE. assed away when she hid her face in my -

- . . rol 5. osom, and whispered, “Rather suspect A TALF: OF WOMAN’s HEART.

that the mother could hate the child, she “Had I hever loved so kindly, bore, the Almighty hate the thing of his . Had I never loved so blindly; own creation—the flower hate the dews Had we never met or parted,

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Walter!” No more words passed be. Never shone the sun upon a fairer creatween us then, my heart was too full ofture than was Edith Hasselden, and never joy for utterance. At length the darkness until now, upon a happier one. Her life deepened, and we arose; as Adel lifted had been a summer's morning—all brighther head from my shoulder a small folded ness and joy. Even Love, that urchin of paper fell from her bosom heavily to the storm and calm, of smiles and tears, had ground, I stooped to regain it, and held it been productive of nothing but happiness playfully for an instant before returning it. to her. The scene was changing now; Adel almost screamed in her anxiety to she had to endure her first trial, her lover re-possess it. “Give it me for mercy's was to bid her adieu, that evening, for sake, implore you,” she uttered in a voice some months, as he was abòot to pay a so excited, that it sounded strange and un-long-promised visit to an old friend of his like hers; my eyes then fell upon some father's in Paris. Edith was pacing the written words, “To my own Adel!” And garden, anxiously waiting his arrival,

this was not all, the hand that had penned She felt unhappy, beyond what the occa

those words was my brother's You are sion warranted; she did not fear he would perhaps surprised at my writing thus forget her, she was too true herself to suscalmly; my hand does not tremble, it is: treachery in him; her love was so cold as my heart, and that is marble. pure, so undivided, a thing so almost holy,

I heeded not the adjuration of Adel, but that it seemed impossible she could have opened the paper; it contained his minia-bestowed it qn one unworthy. No, it was

ture, and these words, “ I understand that not a doubt of his affection, or his con

the day is fixed—so much the better, or stancy, that caused her present uneasiness, the love-sick swain might make unplea-but an undefined presentiment of future sant discoveries. I think I had better'evil. ... . . . •

withdraw for a few weeks till it is all over, She did not know Horace Seaton; there and then, nous verrons. Here is the pic- were few that did. Even those far more

ture you begged so hard for; by the bye, conversant with the world than her, could

Walter would give much for one of those not deem that beneath that warm glowing

sweet persuasions you have lavished upon manner, there was hidden a cold, calcula:

me. Adieu. .. . . . iting, selfish heart. It was true, he loved

- FERDIN AND.” Edith Hasselden, as much as such a heart * Thus ended the scrawl. Have I writ-lever loves; she was young and beautiful, ten enough Need I repeat what I said and that gratified his pride; she loved him, —need I tell you how I acted? Were I and that pleased his vanity. - - to attempt the recital, I should go mad. He had kept his appointment with her, I have not seen Adel since that hour. and the moment of parting had arrived. From that hour life has been to me a They were sitting on a garden bench, both blank—utter desolation,-still I live on. appeared sorrowful, his arm was round Life!—a living death ! her, and he whispered words of love, and * - hopes of future happiness.

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Towards a deathless land;

It will not fear the seas of strife, have promised to remember me, and to wo.” o: i..... greet my return with pleasure; one more

To ..o.o. i. request, and I have done. Accept this

* - . - •. ring, and promise me, as you value my . . . . . - peace, that no other shall remove it. On - - * * - my return, dearest, it shall be replaced by

- . . . - another at the altar. Will you not pro

- - - . . mise me !

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The blushing girl hesitated; again that chilling, vague uneasiness, crept over her heart; but she banished it, and placed her hand in his.' The large dark eye of Edith, would have been startling at that moment, with its intensity of lustre, but that it was softened into mild beauty, by the tears which trembled in it. She looked at him with an expression, in which love and entire confidence were blended. “Horace,” she said, “I will—I do promise, that this ring shall never be removed, but at the altar. I will not ask you to re. member me, while away, it would be implying a doubt that you would not: but for me, I will think of you, day and night; 1 will hold this spot sacred; I will hold communion * none here, but Him, who now sees us, and who knows the truth or falsehood of our hearts. To Him will I pray for your happiness, whatever my fate may be.” They parted, and oh! how the fond girl cherished the memory of that partingscene, and the words he had uttered; for days afterwards she fancied that she could still hear his voice floating round her— could still feel the pressure of his hand as he passed the ring upon her finger. She little thought that they had parted for ever!—that that voice and hand, would henceforth be dead to her; that she had wasted her young warm heart's best and freshest feelings on one who would outrage them; those feelings, which the heart entertains but once; which we would give empires—worlds, to entertain again! He had promised to , write to her, and had broken that promise. Edith counted the hours each day, until the post was delivered, with a wild and throbbing heart; but each day proved him more and more forgetful. At length, strange rumours reached her of an approaching marriage tween Horace Seaton and a young lady in Paris, of great fortune. They crushed and chilled her spirit—and the gay—the “s, Edith, was no more. We will not—we cannot describe her feelings, when first she heard these tidings; she treated them as base calumny s she wroté to him—her letter was unanswered! She accidently met an acquaintance, who had just returned from France, and from him she learnt that it was too true. He had been for some weeks married She heard it with a calm and composed coun

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tenance; but a withered, blighted, breaking heart. - r - # + # - + + Three years had elapsed, and Edith Hasselden stood gazing from her casement upon the lake below, while the soft moon . shone in unclouded loveliness. The next day was to be her marriage-day. A gentleman, named Fortescue, had seen and admired her; love is too strong a word. He admired her beauty, was not repulsed by her coldness, and, after a few months’ acquaintance, obtained a cool, careless consent from her, to become his wife. She was strangely altered; no longer the buoyant enthusiastic girl, with looks and thoughts equally fresh and glowing: she had become the calm, unitmpassioned, dignified woman. Tears had washed every trace of the rose from her cheek, and what with her paleness, and the constant repression of every feeling on her countenance, she had acquired the appearance of one of Canova's statues; cold, yet wonderfully beautiful. . . She stood sometime at her casement in deep thought: at length she murmured, “It must be '" and turning from the window seated herself at a desk, from whence . she removed a small packt of letters. She trembled violently ae she rose and walked towards a fire at the other end of the room She held them over the flame for an instant, and in the next they were burning. “So perishall remembrance of him,” she she said. . . . - - ... • Again she walked towards the window, and took from her bosoma miniature; she appeared collecting courage to destroy that also, A pang shot over her heart and brow as she gazed upon the picture; She pressed it convulstvely to her lips; and . bitter tears, in spite of her desperate effert to repress them, burst forth in torrents, as if from a source long pent up; she passed her hand over her brow as if to ease its burning pain. “I cannot, oh, no!—I cannot destroy his picture,” she said again, and she looked on it long and fixedly; dreams of other days flitted before her, and she sobbed as if her heart would burst. But this emotion passed away, she was again still, and calm, and beautiful as Parian marble. She unclasped, the logk of the chain which supported the miniature of Horace seaton—again she gazoupon

*** *

it. The thought that at that time to. morrow it would be guilt for her so to gaze came across her mind, and she resolved though she could not destroy, never again to behold it. She placed it in paper which she carefully sealed, and locked it in her desk. “Now, then, thank heaven, it is over and I shall become another's without one thought of him lingering in my breast,” she murmured; but the tone of misery and utter desolation was in contradiction to her words. It was morning, and Edith was arrayed in her bridal dress. Not the quivering of a lip, not the trembling of an eye-lid, betrayed what was passing in her heart. She walked steadily up the aisle of the church; she uttered the responses in a low yet audible voice; but this calm was unnatural, and was soon to be destroyed. The ceremony was nearly over, and Fortescue took her hand upon which he was to place the wedding-ring. He started at its death-like coldness, and was sur

prised to see a jewelled one, which he had

noticed her constantly wearing, was not removed. She had forgotten that. And now the recollection of the vow she had made never to let another remove it than he who, however, false he had proved, was still Horace Seaton, the playmate of her childhood, the idol of her first affections, flashed upon her. The long, long interval of weary days and sleepless nights, and wasted years, faded away, and she remembered only their parting hour, and his parting words, “I will replace it with another at the altar !” At this moment the bridegroom attempted to withdraw the ring; it was too much, the bow was overbent and snapped; it was the last feather that broke the camel's back, and this last stroke overcame poor fragile Edith Has. selden. “Never, never !” she murmured, as she struggled to release her hand. In the ... the ring was removed, and fell on the marble steps of the altar. She gazed upon it for a moment, in speechless misery, and then a loud wild scream escaped her, so loud, so wild, that the hearers felt the blood run cold in their hearts. . She fell. Fortescue thought she had fainted, and he raised her head from the floor, but

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it fell heavily on his arm. He shuddered; the adour had forsaken her lips, those!

His face was pale as a sculptured death;
No statue was ever so cold :
You'd have thought the chill Tyrant had stolen his
And his knell had already been tolled:
But there gleamed in his eyes a sepulchral fire.
A wan and unearthly light,
And they gazed, when you gazed, with a steadtst-
ness dire
As the gazer's soul they'd blight.
Not a groan or a sigh on the deep sigh broke,
But his brow in despair's still laug spoke
Of griefs that on earth would never depart—
Of hopes long crushed—and a blighted heart!

I saw him again cre, his heart was cold,
When his soul was hastening home,
Aud a change I marked that flattering told
Of health and peace to come;
"Twas the hectic of death that died his cheek,
And tinged with a crimson grow,
As we see in the west a rosy streak,
That gleams on the winter snow.
|Brightly it sleeps as the ruby hue
Of summer suns at the evening view,
But warmth to the snow it can never impart,
As sad and as cold as the blighted heart!

Yet his locks were dark, and the summers were
Of his youth that for ever had flown,
And he deemed not the flowers at his foot that
orcw -
Should soon on his bier be thrown.
His soul was true and his heart was warm,
And his passions were warmer still,
Ere reason frowned on the fairy charm,
And the canker of grief could kill. .
But his wounds are "healed, and his soul's at rest,
Where sorrow ne'er comes in the world of the blest;
And heaven itself did a ray impart,
To cheer the last sigh of the blighted heart!


The PHILADELPHIA VISITER AND PARLOUR COMPANION, is publishhd every other Saturday, on fine white paper, each number will contain 24 large super-royal octayo pages, enveloped in a fine printed cover, forming at the end of the year a volume of nearly 600 pages, at the very low price of $125 cts. per annum in advance. $200 will be charged at the end of the year. Post Masters, and others who will procure four subscribers, and enclose Five Dollars to the propri. etor, W. B. ROGERS, 49 Chesnut street, Philadel. phia, shall receive the 5th copy gratis. All orders addressed to the publisher, post paid, will receive immediate attention. Editors by copying our prospectus, and sending”

paper of the same to the office, shall receive the Visiter for one year. o *

10 the West, Indies, where they both died

Hind of life for several years. The lowest

sound murdered in his bed, and suspicion of the crime fell upon Garcia. Guilty or othe evaded the pursuit of the police, and

and dark restless eyes. His lips were thin

owning his hair, and eyebrows seemed

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* * * * Manuel Garcia, the servant we have so frequently had occasion to mention was a Spaniard by birth. At the age of softeen he emigrated with his parents from Spain

in a short time of each other, from the ef. sects of an epidemical disease. The boy was himself attacked by the contagion, but survived it. Afterwards he shipped as cabin-boy in a brig, and came to the Uni*d States, where he passed a desultory

kind of pilfering and dissipation he was familiarwith, and was finally accused of muro, Atayern keeper near Baltimore was

had the address to insinuate himself into the service of Mr. West. In height he was below the middle-size, but thick-set— he had straight black hair, saffron skin,

indbloodless—his forehead low, and when

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to mee!—But, whatever might have been the character of his life previous,' Mr. West found him to be an attentive servant

He was assiduous in his endeavours to

Fo much so that his master singled

to out particularly to wait upon him.

*lf. He performed with alactity, and *Parently with

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. . . . . by H. N. Moons, author or “Many mornis.” . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - * - - — - • , - - . . . - - . . . . . . . . . . . CHAPTER V. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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and that gentleman expressed but the sincere dictates of his heart in saying he was sorry. . . . . . . . . - . . .

: “Then, sir,” said Manuel “since I have gained the esteem of an equally respected master, I will * to ask a slight fa

“Name it—it shall be yours.” “It is, that you will take into your service, in my place a destitute friend—one that has seen better" days, but is now willing to accept of an humble decupation for the sake of a livelihood.” . . . . .

... “To grant so simple a request as you have named, would scarcely be conferring a favour—at any rate but a slight one.” “H is all I ask, sir-all that I wish.” “It is granted,” said Mr. West. “Is there nothing else that I can do for you!” “Nothing—I thank you. You have, been to me a kind master, and H shall ever . remember you, sir, with gratitude.” “When do you leave to . . . . . “To morrow evening at dusk” ... . “What is the name of your friend?” “Thomas Clarke,”, “ . . . . . . . : “Well—send him as soon as you please

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... Accordingly, the né

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terwas sitting, a stranger, whom he intro

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. . find Mr. Clark as capable for your service ** as:I was.”—So saying, be furned towards ‘. . the door, and subsequent: to bidding his masterånd Clark farewell, went up stairs for his trunk, &c. and left the mansion.’’

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self very . . As Manuel had. owny eapable. He had emigrated: to this country from England, he said in answer ... to a question put so him by Mr. West, who was under the impression that he had seen him before. He even thought the face was familiar, but where to place.hiji, he could not recoleg: . months—a yearand-eighteen nighths also: gether—which brings issup to the date of ... Qetóbér, 1834–Qlark still remained in

the service of Mr. West, and, like his ... .o.o.o.o. ... #. confidence of the draft.hé served.—

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and her beauty...increased with her years. ... Mrs. West coiáñued unheard of, and her. ...; , thought of never beholding: her again;

othinking of honore.orgio a source of consolation in the daily aug.

ésigned himself to the

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... mentation of his daughters increasing ai. tractions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cold weather had how sef in; tıñusual

oly early, and the inmates of the mansion

o, were mostly confined to the shelter of its

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his cloak, commenged his wi

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. brought into the "parlour; where his mas-shining; but no móon; and after twelve o”

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in his new situation: not he for While he lives, he must be

wretched. Thé child must be taken from him...To which the one wrapped in the . o he would willingly an dertake to carryit of... . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... Nô,” exclaimed his companiónwill not answer—it must dić"

... “Die!”.'... . . . . . . . . . .

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so sooner or later; what's théodds.’.... . . . ame four on the following night

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