"Oh, Ellen!" exclaimed Mrs. North, " if these are the boasted accomplishments that you left me to gain, most bitterly do I regret the day that I committed my only daughter to another's guardianship."

"Pardon me, dear mamma," returned Ellen, somewhat softened, "I did not intend to wound your feelings, and am extremely sorry for the ill-natured things I have said; but, really, mamma, I couldn't help laughing,

indeed I could not."


Months passed away, and Mrs. North's utmost exertions were insufficient to eradicate the prejudices of Ellen, which she had imbibed during a year that she had travelled with her cousins. She had the utmost dread of what she called parvenue society, and was very careful never to recognize as acquaintances any but those who happened to belong to a particular circle. The consequence was, that she lost the opportunity of gaining a great deal of information, rendered herself unhappy, made enemies unnecessarily, and often incurred the ridicule of her friends. *****

It was more than a year after the conversation recorded at the commencement of our chapter, that Mr. North entered the parlor earlier than was his wont, and strode two or three times across it, then, with an air of dogged determination, stopped short, and exclaimed, "Well, it's of no use to conceal it any longer—its an ugly piece of business, and the sooner you know it the better." Mrs. North, in some surprise, closed the volume she was reading, and Ellen, astonished more at her father's strange manner than at his words, let fall her embroidery frame, and started to her feet. Mr. North continued in a softer tone, " You, my dear Jane, who have never been elated by prosperity, will, I know, bear our reverses well, but Ellen—what will her boasted accomplishments avail her, when she finds herself a beggar?"

"What do you mean ?" asked Mrs. North, with as much calmness as she could command.

"Simply that 1 have failed—not fashionably, but utterly and hopelessly, and on looking over my accounts to-night, I find I have not got a penny 1 can honestly call my own, not even enough to procure a shelter for our heads. This has not driven me crazy, as it does some men, because I know I have a sensible wife—" A sob from Ellen, who was extended on the sofa, interrupted him, and seeing that the face of his wife was very pale, he ventured to express a hope that all might not yet be as bad as he supposed.

It was in vain that Mr. North endeavored to encourage his family. His affairs were quite as much deranged as he had represent

ed them, and as he scorned all subterfuge, the news soon spread throughout the city.

It was with difficulty that Mrs. North preserved her calmness through the scenes that followed, and Ellen, finding herself neglected by the summer friends she had trusted, confined herself to her apartment.

A week passed away, and the family, having partially recovered from the shock, were once more seated m the pleasant parlor, endeavoring to devise some means of future support.

!" It is quite as bad as I expected," said I Mr. North, "but I will not retain a penny lawfully another's. I have been unwise, blind, mad perhaps, but I will not be unjust. If I only had a place where I could, with propriety, leave you and Ellen."

"Why not let us go to uncle's, papa?" asked Ellen.

"Because," returned the father, "although your punishment be just, it might not be salutary. You would now be among them the very being they taught you to despise."

"Oh, my cousins,"—Ellen began, but she remembered their exclusive notions, and the unexpected change in her other friends, and burst into tears. "Oh, dear, dear!" exclaimed the poor girl, "to think there was not one true friend among them all."

"Because the friendship was built on a wrong basis," said Mrs. North, not however, without a sigh, for she too had been deceived.

"A letter, sir!" said a servant, entering. Mr. North took the letter, gave it a cursory glance, and threw it on the table.

"Why don't you read it?" inquired his wife.

"Because we have more important business now than reading the letters of strangers," said Mr. North, examining the seal. "The post-mark is indistinct, and the hand-writing strange, some business communication I presume, and I have done with business."

"No, not done with it," said his wife, cheerfully, "only laying plans to begin anew. But if you will read your letter, when you have finished, I will disclose to you a little plan of my own." Mr. North broke the seal, and listlessly cast his eye upon the page. The contents however seemed of more consequence than he had imagined, for his face suddenly became flushed, his lips quivered, and the big drops collected in his eyes, rolled down his cheek, and lodged upon the paper. He had not wept before, and his wife was alarmed. "There, read it!" said he, passing the letter to her hand, "I cannot." Mrs. North read aloud:

"Dear Ned—A piece of news which reached my ears last night has made me I bold enough to write and demand a favor of you. Now don't refuse me, for I have set my heart upon it, and shall follow my letter to town as soon as possible, to use force, if necessary, in carrying you off. I have a house close by my own that I shall be glad to lease, and it would be such a delightful thing to have you for a neighbor, that I am determined to carry the point with you. You may as well sell off your fine furniture, for you would have no use for it here, and I have good, solid, farmer's stuff enough to make your new mansion quite decent and comfortable. I insist upon your coming, at least to spend the summer with us, but will promise when you gel weary of a country life, to detain you no longer.


"The vulgar old codger V said Mrs. North in a low tone to Ellen, but Ellen had, at the commencement of the letter, as if she more than guessed its author, buried her face in the sofa cushion?, and she only replied in a tone quite as low as her mother's, "Oh, mamma, how can I see him?"

She did see him, however, and was readily pardoned. The house in the country which •Mr. Selwyn had purposely purchased on hearing of the misfortune of his friend, proved a little paradise, where Mr. North spent a long and happy life. As to the "strapping red-haired daughter," she was found to be the sweetest little Hebe that ever bloomed among the wild flowers, and breathed the pure air of the country, and to our heroine she was the best and dearest of friends.

The moral to our little story is apparent, yet would we say to the young, the thoughtless, and the proud, judge not from outward appearances. Worth often clothes itself in a homely garb, and folly, meanness, and imbecility, stalk proudly in the halls of fashion, as 'the diamond hides its brilliancy in the sands of India, while the false jewel glitters in the gilded casket.


"Well, Julia, suppose I ask your father; his refusal cannot make things much worse than they are at present? Suspense, Julia, is the cause of the most miserable feelings."

"We must not be hasty, Robert; our situation requires caution; by a little management we may possibly succeed, gloomy as the prospects seem to be. Now don't say any thing to Pa about it yet,—I had much rather you would not. The best possible way for us to accomplish our wishes, is not to advance too soon."

"Too soon—too soon, Julia! Have we not waited two long years and more? and you have been all the while preaching the same doctrine,' too soon?' Too soon, indeed!"

"Well, now, don't be angry; throw that frown from your countenance and look pleasant, and we will immediately set about some plan by which to effect what you so much desire. Come, smile away your anger—the skies of love are sometimes clear."

Robert Moultrie loved Julia Hallowell and she loved him; two years and more had passed since they had agreed—come weal, come wo—they would trudge through life together. Two long, long years! Two years seemed an eternity to wait and to delay a happy consummation.

Julia's father was a wealthy shipper of the port of Charleston, S. C. Some old inhabitants remember the firm of Hallowell & Haddington. He was an upright and highly honorable man; but whose ipse dixit was law supreme wherever his power could be exercised.

Robert Moultrie was a clerk in the counting room, and his salary, which was his sole dependence, though far above the pittance usually allowed to young men similarly situated, and amply sufficient to warrant his assuming the expenses of a family, did not elevate him to that importance in society which would justify him in presuming upon the hand and heart of the daughter of a wealthy shipper.

The character of this young gentleman was unimpeachable, and he was as much respected for his talents as he was for his correct deportment; but {but is a wicked word) the curse of Gehaza was upon him—he was poor.

Robert had been in the counting room of Mr. Hallowell since he was fourteen years of age; he had grown up in his family and by the side of this lovely heiress, who had been promised to a thing of wealth and show. That thing was in the Indies, amassing riches to lay at the feet of his bride, but his soul had on it the stain of dishonor, and Julia had vowed before God she would never be his wife. Mr. Hallowell knew that Robert generally attended his daughter to church, and that he went and came with her when she visited her acquaintances and so on; but he never dreamed that the wily Cupid was witching his darts successfully into the bosoms of both: and the arrows of the little god were firmly fixed, and he dealt out the silken cord until they were far out upon the sea of love, too far to proceed or return without each other.

*Do tell me, Robert, what is the matter with you, I have been a witness to your downcast looks and sorrowful appearance, until I have grown melancholy myself. What's the matter with you, boy V

This question was asked by Mr. Hallowell, one day when he and Robert were in the counting-room alone, and if any individual has ever passed through a like fiery trial, he can have an idea of Robert's feelings when the man whose daughter he had loved, was contriving the best plan to get from him the secret cause of his downcast looks, and addressing him in such kind and affectionate language. It went too deep, however, into the recesses of Robert's bosom for him to return a quick reply. Mr. Hallowell plainly saw that something was working upon his mind that made him unhappy, and he wished if possible, to remove the cause; he urged a candid revelation of all that affected his feelings, and promised his assistance to relieve him, whatever it required. Robert succeeded, however, in putting him off that time, and trembled at the thought when at their next meeting he related the matter to Julia.

"I thought," said she, laughing, " you were not so anxious to ask the old gentleman as you appeared to be. Now that was a stumper, Robert. Why did you not tell him l Why did you not: Ha! ha!"

"Julia, do you think he suspects?"

"Not a whit more than he does the king of the French!"

"Well, Julia, to tell the truth about the matter, I left this morning with the intention of telling him all about our affection for each other ; and if he refused, I was determined to act for myself, without further advice; and when I came before him, I felt something in my throat choking me, and I could hardly talk to him about business, much less about love affairs."

The lovers met often, and the voyage from the Indies being threatened, it became necessary that they should prepare for the trials that seemed to await them. In short, Mr. Hallowell was endeavoring to discover the cause of his clerk's unhappiness, more for the good of the young man than because he cared for the unimportant mistakes made by him in his accounts. The next opportunity that offered, he repeated the former question, and insisted upon an immediate reply.

Robert stuttered and stammered a great deal, and at last came out with it—' I am attached to a young lady of this city, sir, and have reason to believe that she is much attached to me, but there is an obstacle in the - way, and—"

"Ah, indeed. And does the obstacle amount to over a thousand dollars! And if it does not, you shall not want it. I'll £ up a cheok now. "Have all the parties consented V

"Why, sir, the cause of my—the reason —she—that is—the cause of my uneasiness, is, I am afraid her father will not consent!"

"Why, who is he? refer him to me; I'll settle the matter."

"He is a rich man, sir, and I am not rich."

"His daughter loves you, does she V

"1 think—a—yes, sir."

"She says so, any how, don't she?"

"Why—I—yes—she—she—yes, sir, she has said as much."

"Is the old fellow very rich?"

"I believe, sir, he is tolerably well off!"

"And he won't consent? By the powers of love he must be an old Turk—he won't hey 1 here, give me his name—I'll soon settle the matter. But stop, has he any thing against you? Does he know me V

Here the old gentleman went over a string of questions which Robert felt no disposition to answer, and which it is not worth our while to relate. The conclusion of the conference left Robert in the possession of the check for a thousand dollars, a letter of introduction to Parson Green of the Presbyterian church, and the following advice from the lips of his father-in-law in perspective. He was to run away with the girl, to use Mr. Hallowell's carriage, and George, his black waiter, was to drive, and so forth.

Robert governed himself in strict accordance with the advice given; and before dark the parties were before Parson Green, whose scruples of conscience were quieted by the introductory letter. They were soon pronounced husband and wife, and jumped into the carriage, followed by the blessings of Parson Green, whose fee was a small part of the thousand dollar check; George was directed to drive1 to a rich old childless uncle ! of Robert's who lived about five miles from the city, and to whom the secret was told. The old man, thinking the joke too good a one not to be enjoyed, sent out for some of the neighbors. Midnight still found the jovial assembly destroying the good things the aunt had provided.

Early in the morning, Robert and Mrs. Moultrie were attended by their uncle and aunt to the house of Mr. Hallowell; the young couple, anxious for the effervescence of a father's wrath to be over, and the antiquated pair to witness the reception and act as moderators on the question. They were met in the parlor by Mr. Hallowell, whose first words were—

"You young rogue, you ; little did I know how my advice was to act upon me. Well, Robert," he added, laughing heartily, "you caught me that time; and you deserve to be rewarded for the generalship you have displayed. Here, my boy—my son, I suppose I must say—here are deeds for property worth eleven thousand dollars, and henceforward you are my partner in business.




Emblems of mortality
All around our pathway lie;
There are voices low, but clear,
For the cold and careless ear,
And their language seems to say,
"Thou wilt quickly pass away!"

Death is written on the flower
Which exists a fleeting hour
Redolent of fairest bloom,
Tolling on the air perfume,
And then droops its little head
Languidly upon its bed.

It is graven on each star,
On the brow of night afar,
Looking down with light of love
From its trackless home above,
Saying it hath sbone upon
Myriads that have lived and gone.

In the lonely solitude
Of the dim and shawdowy wood,
Borne along upon the breeze
Passing lightly through the trees,
There's a murmured tone and breath,
Speaking of decay and death.

Lo! the proud, majestic oak,

Which withstands the whirlwind's stroke,

And rejoicingly appears

Monarch of a thousand years,

Sprinkled with the frost of time,

Robbing it of pride and prime!

Death is imaged in the Spring,
Spreading out her balmy wing,
Sending sunshine, dew, and showers,
Opening the laughing flowers,
For her bland delightful smile
Withers in a little while!

And how plainly it is seen
In pale autumn's sober mien,
When, beneath her mellow skies
Trees are robed in Tyrian dyes,
And the wind, with plaintive tone,
Sighs for summer's glories gone!

It is mirrored in the dews,
Shadowed by the. rainbow's hues,
Pencilled on the gorgeous clouds,
Spoken by the feathered crowds,
Breathed among the vales and hills,
And reflected in the rills!

All around us, everywhere,
On the earth, and in the air,
There are emblems of this truth,
Telling hoary age and youth,
That the viewless angel, Death,
Soon will steal away their breath!

Vlica, JV. Y.




Types of immortality
Gem the earth, and sky, and sea,
Smiles below and smiles above
Speak of uncreated love—
All the vision can behold
This inspiring truth unfold.

He whose throne is high in heaven,
To his children here has given
Tokens of his boundless grace,
Gently leading them to trace
In His works around them strown,
Symbols of a better home.

Who would love the little flowers
Which adorn this world of ours,
If he thought he could not see,
In their matchless brilliancy,
Glimpses of unfading flowers,
Blooming in perennial bowers?

Who would love the stars of night,
Which dispense such softening light,
If he thought they were not homes
Where rio worldly influence comes—
Where departed spirits are,
Wandering from star to star 1

Who would deeply love the Spring,
With her buds and blossoming,
If her re-awaking power
Told not of a brighter hour,
When the deathless soul shall be
Clothed in immortality?

When at autumn's ruthless sway,
Rosy summer fades away,
Who could look on nature's death,
If he knew no gentle breath
Would revivify it, when
Spring should visit earth again?

Dark indeed this world would be,
Did not Faith's clear vision see,
Far beyond the mists of this,
Mansions of unfading bliss,
Where nor woe nor sufferings are,
Its zeraphic joys to mar.

Full of dread would be the gloom
Gathering around the tomb,
Did not Hope, with kindly grace,
Point us to that dwelling place,
And unveil its beauties to
Our enraptured fancy's view!

AA1I the flow'rets' painted dyes,
^^\11 the clouds and rainbows' guise,
All the radiance of the stars,
All the cold moon's "golden bars,"
Are but transient glimpses caught
Of that world with beauty fraught!
Utica, JV. r.

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