"Received his letters! Oh! no-he never wrote to me.'

"Never wrote to you? Oh! what can this mean? the night before Edward sailed to Europe he came to my room and told me the whole history of his love. From the first evening he saw you till that moment, he loved you deeply, tenderly, passionately. Soon after you parted he wrote to you and told you all, and sent that letter by the hand of Mr. who promised to deliver it immedi

ately to you.'

666

Oh! God!' she exclaimed, 'I see it all, and that cruel man has sacrificed me to his revenge, because I could not love him'-and she fell senseless into my arms. In a few moments she recovered, but she was almost frantic with grief. But tell it all to me now, Mary-let me know the worst.' I continued, "Edward waited a long time for an answer and received none; but he wrote to you again and sent it by post. In a short time he received your reply,'

"Oh, no! that cannot be! I never wrote to him, and that letter was forged.'

hope has begun to shed its beams upon her soul. But still, I fear she cannot recover fully from the shock. She is more cheerful, and has regained some of her elasticity and bloom. She lives in expectation of seeing you once more. Oh! then fly, my dear brother, and God send you quickly to your broken-hearted Frances. You will find in this packet a letter from her."

I seized the remaining letter which I had supposed was from my sister, and found it was only superscribed by her; it was from Frances; it was brief, but it told more than tongue or words can tell.

"Oh! Edward, this is a crushing blow. If prayers could avail, I should to-night be in your arms. Months of agony and gloom had passed away, and I was preparing to die.But oh! that I may live long enough to behold your face once more. Why have we been called to suffer all this? It is all dark. But let us submit to it. And oh! can we hope? Yes, Edward, we will yet meet again, and then one hour will atone for it all. But should it prove that we have already seen each other for the last time, when you lie down to die, console yourself with the thought that Frances loved you better than the whole world, to the last. But I will not die till you come. Oh, then, haste, dear Edward, to your own Frances."

"That letter I saw, dear girl, and it seemed like your writing; but I could not believe it expressed the real sentiments of your heart. It told him to hope no longer, for you never could love him. Edward was overwhelmed with grief and his heart seemed broken. But he compared that letter with one of your own written to me, and the contrast was sufficient to leave room for hope. He came here to see you, and unfortunately you had the day before gone to Boston. He crossed the coun-I try to New York and called at your lodgings. You had just left, and no one could tell where. He returned to Boston and sailed for Europe, to forget, if possible, in a distant land, that he ever loved you.'

"P. S. Mary has told you all in her letters."

If when I had finished reading these let ters, I had been told that for a thousand years was to endure the fearful tortures of the inquisition, I should not have felt as I felt then. Burning revenge toward the fiend who had broken into the bower of our early love only to destroy-a wild desire to annihilate the breadth of the Atlantic in an hour-Oh! Mary, Mary, why did you not tell the awful fear that she would die before I me all this before? Dear Edward, would to reached her, all burst in one tremendous God I could see you, and then I should be will-wave over me. But it was not time now for ing to die.'

666

66

Edward, I never saw such grief as her's when she had heard my story. ~ She embraced me with the kindest love, and wept in a wild paroxysm of grief. Edward, I pity you; but you may be able to bear up under this.But poor Frances-her heart is broken.

"Where is the vile wretch,' I asked, 'who has practised this wanton deception?'

"I cannot tell you. After importuning me for mouths, unsuccessfully, he left the village, and has not been heard of since.'

"It was late that night before we touched our pillows, and such a night I pray I may never see again. It was a night I shall long remember. I have remained with Frances till now, and shall continue with her till you return and oh! brother, I need not tell you to fly to America. Frances is now calm, and

thought, but for execution. In one hour I was on my way to Paris. I sailed from Havre the day I reached it, and in six weeks from the time I received those letters, I was in the hall of my father's house. My sister sprung into my arms and fainted. I placed her on the sofa and knelt by her to catch the first sound that came from her lips. She spake and sealed my despair--“she's dead”—

What passed in my bosom during the next few days words can never tell.

into the old church yard and found my way to her grave. She was sleeping under the solemn shade of a lofty sycamore, and the evening wind was sighing her requiem through its branches, and scattering now and then an aged leaf upon her tomb. A chaste column marked the spot of her repose. It bore this simple inscription,

The Grave of
Frances

who died

her 18th year.

in

"Her sun has gone down while it is yet day." I could have been forgiven, I thought then, by the whole world, for weeping, and I bedewed her fresh grave with such tears as a man can shed but once. For there is one fountain, and it lies in the very depths of the soul, which can be unsealed only by such a misfortune as this. It opens for those tears we shed when we kneel for the first time over the ashes of our first and only love, and then leaves the heart desolate as it closes forever. Here I opened a sealed packet that Frances had committed to Mary's keeping to be given to me, with her last request that I would read it for the first time at her grave.

I found a letter written with her own hand, a few days before she died.

gifts. Let me ask of you one dying request and I will make you a dying promise-Oh! Edward, follow the Saviour and be a Christian, and then our separation will be only for a season. For myself let me say, we know little, it is true, but I promise you, If I shall be permitted, I will hold communion with you, I will come to you and be your ministering spirit. I will cheer and console you in every hour of sadness and drive grief away from your heart. I will be your guardian angel through life. If I can I will visit you when you come to my grave, and give you, if possible, some token of my presence. I will be as near you and as constantly as I can. If we knew that this could be all, it would be a blessed assurance. We do not know, but we can hope.

"And now, dear Edward, the being I have loved best on earth-the one whom I have prayed to see but once more before I die—the one whom I hope to greet in heaven and sing his safe arrival there-farewell. My latest prayer and thought shall be for you-farewell farewell. Your own

FRANCES."

There was a spirit in these lines which breathed of heaven. They expressed the last fond feelings of her soul, and I would not have parted with the consolation they afforded my wounded heart for the whole world. I recalled her request and her promise. I could not separate them. I knelt before the Father of the Universe, and by that grave I sealed my vows to be his obedient child. In a moment the deep struggle in my bosom ceased, and I felt a sweet submission to God's will. For the first time in my life I looked up to Heaven, and with a tender, confiding, and grateful love, exclaimed, “Oh! my Father"

"MY OWN DEAR EDWARD: I have waited long months for you to return, and it has been my only prayer for this world that I might see you once more before I die. But I feel that the sands of life are fast falling, and that in a little while this feeble hand will grow cold in death. Since the evening that we parted at our door, and you held me in your arms, every throb of my heart, to its last pulsation, has beat and shall beat for you-I have loved you better than all else this side of heaven. But my only concern now is for you; for my--and then experienced a calm impression self I have no solicitude. You have received that the ground on which I knelt and the air my letter---you know how deeply I love you, around me was holy. I heard no voice which and you will try to reach home and see me be- spoke to the outward ear; but retreating fore I die, but you cannot; I know your heart within my soul I seemed to hold communion will be desolate; you will be alone in the world with that pure and glorified being I had loved. when I am gone. But let the thought that I|| And not an hour has since passed that I have have loved you deeply, and loved you to the not felt that the smile of God and the guardianlast, sustain you. And oh! Edward, when ship of my sainted Frances lingered around you come to break this seal, and weep over me. I stayed in that peaceful church-yard my grave, cast your eye beyond it, for we for hours, but I did not feel that I was alone. shall meet in Heaven, I pressed those parting gifts to my heart and left her grave.

'Where no farewell tear is shed.'

Oh! what a glorious thought it is, that in heaven there shall be the rapturous meeting of friends---there the cold mildew of disappointment shall never fall to blight the flower of love---there the wicked shall cease from troubling and the weary and aching heart shall find an eternal repose.

"You will find in the hands of your sister my miniature, and some other little treasures prized; accept them: they are my parting

Since that time, at almost every anniversary of her death, I have gone to her native village to visit her resting-place. It was but a few days before we sailed that I stood there. Fifteen long sad years had rolled away since her death, and yet it seemed but a brief period. The green grass had overgrown the mound, and the same broad arms of the sycamore still sheltered her repose. Her parents, too, were resting by her side.

No. 10.

Fine Thoughts.-The Unequal Marriage.

You cannot wonder, now, my dear sir-my companion said-that this has been to me a

Selected for the Ladies' Garland.

319

somewhat dreary world. I have felt no dis- THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE.

BY MRS. ABDY.

Joy-joy to the young, and happy pair,
The youth is learned, the maiden fair,
They are rich in friends, and in gold and lands,
And love has united their willing hands."
Thus the smiling world its sentence passed,
But the honey-moon has ceased to last,
And already contending views divide
The wearied bridegroom and sullen bride.

position to win the love of another, for my
heart is still pledged to Frances. Since her
death I have laid my father, mother, and sis-"
ter in the grave, and spent most of my life
at sea and in foreign lands; for I enjoy better
health, and I experience a quietness of feeling
on the ocean, and an excitement abroad, which
make me contemplate the past with less
gloom. But I never should have been able
to endure all this, if I had not been sustained
by the hopes and consolations of religion.—|
My misfortunes I consider the only agency
which led me to experience the blessedness
of personal religion. They have weaned me
from my strong attachment to the world, and
I have long anticipated my own death with
cheerfulness. I believe there is nothing
earthly and fading that can satisfy the rest-
less heart of man. But I do know that "a
life unmeasured by the flight of years," with
its sublime prospects and exalted hopes, can
completely fill the soul.

"You have told me a sad story, my dear sir," I replied. "But still the light of Heaven dispels its darkest gloom. It reminds me of the traveller, who, when he comes at evening to some mountain's brow, after battling storms and tempests through his journey, sees nothing but ruin spread over the ground he has traversed, beholds the sun when he is setting, casting from a clear sky a flood of golden light, promising a fair day to-morrow."

66

Come," said my companion, "let us go below, and in my state-room I'll show you her picture."

When we had entered the room and the door was closed, he took from a small writing desk a miniature. It was a picture of surpassing loveliness; there was a bland and beautiful expression over it-it was taken while she was yet in the bloom of youthful beauty. I kissed the picture, and he thanked me, and returned it again to its place with deep sigh, saying

a

Poor Frances ! But she is an angel

now."

My heart was too full for utterance, and we wept together.-New World.

FINE THOUGHTS.-Jean Paul has many fine thoughts. Here is one-" Man has two minutes and a half to live-one to smile, one to sigh, and a half to love—for in the middle of this minute he dies. But the grave is not deep; it is the shining tread of an angel that seeks us. When the unknown hand throws the last fatal dart at the end of man, then boweth he his head, and the dart only lifts the crown of thorns from his bleeding wounds."

From whence can such earthly jars proceed?
Alas! the riddle too well I read ;
They share no feelings or thoughts in kind,
They are not linked in the chains of mind.
He has a name and glory won,
Genius exults in her gifted son;
And she is soulless, and weak, and vain,
A cold, light daughter of Fashion's train.

He love's to gather from Learning's store
The treasures of scientific lore,
Or trace the deeds of a former age
In the classic or historic page;
And oft when the poet's strain beguiles,
He ventures to seek the muse's smiles,
And the lyre of few can boast a tone
So sweet and perfect as his own.

She to light trifles devotes her hours,
Weaves in gay garlands her greenhouse
flowers,

Then bends on the mirror a lengthen'd glance,
Turns over the leaves of a vain romance,
Perchance devising some art of dress
To heighten her native loveliness,
She shines in the bright and crowded hall.
At the welcome time when observed of all,

His speech and his actions bear impress
Of the calm, deep power of holiness;
In the earliest spring-tide of his days,
He sought not Pleasure's delusive ways:
And though votive crowds his steps pursue,
His spirit is like the sunflower true;
To earthly objects it is not given,
But it rests its steadfast gaze on heaven.
No thoughts sublime in her mind have birth,
Her hopes, and wishes are all of earth;
She hears him dwell upon holy themes,
As though his speech were of fabled dreams.
O! the gifted feel a pang intense,
When they lavish their burning eloquence,
To meet with the careless cold reply
Of hardened and heartless levity.

What marvel then if his steps he bends
To the quiet hearths of congenial friends;
Or seeks discourse with the wise and good
In his study's peaceful solitude;

She feels no joy at his coming tread,
But turns in disquietude and dread
From the power his varied speech displays,
To hang on the coxcomb's lisping praise.

Ye sons of mind, will ny words avail-
Will ye study the moral of my tale?
Ye are raised above our common race-
Descend not then from your starry place,
To choose a bride from a grovelling sphere,
Who will shrink from your talents in servile
fear;

Ye must shadow your glories from her sight
Lest, like Psyche, she die in a blaze of light.

Your wedded bliss can be found alone
In her whose genius can prize your own,
Your taste improve and your thoughts inspire,
With the kindred spirit and answering fire.
The world may extol your honored name,
And bind your brows with the wreath of fame;
But its praise is light as the ocean foam,
Compared to the kindly words of home.
Knowledge may surely some skill impart,
To teach you to read the human heart;
O! then combine in your choice for life,
The enlightened friend and devoted wife;
One who, with glad, exulting glow,
Will share your triumph and fame below,
But, with holier fervor and deeper love,
Assist your steps to a world above.

From the Monthly Miscellany.
THE SILVER TANKARD.
On a slope of land opening itself to the
south, in a thickly settled town in the State
of Maine, some hundred or more years ago,
stood a farm house to which the epithet “com-
fortable" might be applied. The old forest
came down to the back of it; in front were
cultivated fields, beyond which the ground
was partially cleared, full of pine stumps,
and here and there, standing erect, the giant
trunks of trees which the fire had scorched
and blacked, though it failed to overthrow
them. The house stood at the verge of the
settlement, so that from it no cottage could
be seen; the nearest neighbor was distant
about six miles. Daniel Gordon, the owner
and occupant of the premises we have de-
scribed, had chosen this valley in the wilder-
ness, a wide, rich tract of land, not only as
his home, but prospectively as the home of
his children and his children's children. He
was willing to be far off from men that his
children might have room to settle around
him. He was looked upon as the rich man
of that district, well known over all parts of
that country. His house was completely
finished, and was large for those times, hav-
ing two stories in front and one behind, with.
a long sloping roof; it seemed as if it leaned
to the south to offer its back to the cold winds"

from the northern mountains. It was full of the comforts of life,-the furniture even a little "showy" for a Puritan; when the table was set, there was, to use a Yankee phrase, "considerable" silver plate, among which a large tankard stood pre-eminent. This silver had been the property of his father, and was brought over from the mother country.

Now, we go back to this pleasant valley as the month of June. It was Sunday, and it was on a bright and beautiful morning in though early, the two sons of Mr. G. had

gone to meeting on foot, down to the "Land

ing," a little village on the banks of the ri

ver, ten miles distant. Daniel himself was standing at the door, with the horse and chaise, ready, and waiting for his good wife, who had been somewhat detained; for even then, in those primitive times, the women would be a little backward-for the last word or the last housekeeping duty. He was standing on the door step enjoying the freshness of the morning, with a little pride in his heart, perhaps, as he cast his eye over the extent of his possessions spread before him. At that instant a neighbor of six miles distant, rode up on horseback, and beckoned to him from the gate of the enclosure around the house.

“Good morning, neighbor Gordon,” said he; "I have come out of my way in going to meeting, to tell you that Tom Smith-that daring thief with two others has been seen prowling about in these parts, and that you had better look out, lest you have a visit. I have got nothing in my house to bring them there, but they may be after the silver tankard, neighbor, and the silver spoons. I have often told you that such things were not fit for these parts. Tom is a bold fellow, but I suppose the fewer he meets when he goes to steal, the better. I don't think it safe for you all to be off to meeting to-day-but I am in a great hurry, neighbor, so good bye."

This communication placed our friend Daniel in an unpleasant dilemma. It had been settled that no one was to be left at home but Mahitable, a pretty little girl about nine years old. "Shall I stay or go?" was the question. Daniel was a puritan; he had strict notions of the duty of worshipping God in his holy temple; and he had faith that God blest him only as he did his duty; but then he was a father, and little Hitty was the light and joy of his eyes.

But these Puritans were stern and unflinching. He settled the point. "I won't even take Hitty with me, for it will make her cowardly. The thieves may not come-neighbor Perkins may be mistaken; and if they do come to my house they will not hurt my child. At any rate she is in God's hands, and we will go to worship Him who always takes care of those who put their trust in Him.” As he settled this, the girl and the mother came out;

the mother stepped into the chaise; the fa- if you did,-because father would rather not ther after her, saying to the child, "If any have much cooking on Sundays." Then away strangers come, Hitty, treat them well. We she tripped about, making preparation for can spare of our abundance to the poor.- their repast. Smith himself helped her out What is silver or gold when we think of God's with the table. She spread upon it a clean holy word?" With these words he drove white table cloth, and placed upon it the siloff, a troubled man in spite of his religious ver tankard, full of the old orchard, with a trust, because he had left his daughter alone. || large quantity of wheaten bread and a dish Little Hitty, as the daughter of the puri- of cold meat. I do not know why the silver tan was called, was strictly brought up to spoons were put on; perhaps little Hitty observe the Lord's day. She knew that she thought they would make the table look pretought to return to the house; but nature this tier. After all was done, she turned to once got the better of her training. No harm, Smith, and with a courtesy told him dinner thought she, for me to see the brood of chick- was ready. ens. Nor did she, when she had watered them, go into the house, but loitered and lingered, hearing the robin sing, and following with her eye the bob-o-lincoln as she flitted from shrub to shrub. She passed almost an hour out of the house, because she did not want to be alone, and she did not feel alone when she was out among the birds, and gathering here and there a wild flower; but at last she went in, took her bible, and seated herself at the window, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out.

As she was there seated, she saw three men coming up towards the house, and she was right glad to see them, for she felt lonely, and there was a dreary long day before her. Father, thought she, meant something, when he told me to be kind to strangers. I suppose he expected them. I wonder what kept them all from meeting. Never mind; they shall see I can do something for them, if I am little Hitty. So putting down the bible, she ran to meet them, happy, confiding, and even || glad they had come; and without waiting for them to speak, she called to them to come in with her, and said, "I am alone; if mother was here, she would do more for you, but I will do all I can"—and all this with a frank, loving heart, glad to do good to others, and glad to please her father, whose last words were, not to spare of his abundance to the weary traveller.

The child had been so busy arranging her table, and so thoughtful of her housewifery, that she took little or no notice of the appearance of her guests. She did the work as cheerfully and freely, and was as unembarrassed as if she had been surrounded by her father and mother and brothers. One of the thieves sat doggedly, with his hands and face almost down to his knees, looking all the time at the floor. Another, a younger and better looking man, stood confused and irresolute, as if he had not been well broken to his trade, and would often go to the window and look out, keeping his back upon the child. Smith, on the other hand, looked unconcerned, as if he had quite forgotten his purpose. He never once took his attention off the child, following her with his eyes as she bustled about in arranging the table; there was even half a smile on his face.

They all moved to the table, Smith's chair at the head, one of his companions on each side, the child at the foot, standing there to help her guests, and to be ready to go for farther supplies as there was need.

The men ate as hungry men, almost in silence; drinking occasionally from the silver tankard. When they had done, Smith started up suddenly and said,-"Come, let's go." "What!" exclaimed the old robber, "with empty hands, when this silver is here!" He seized the tankard. "Put that down!" shouted Smith; "I'll shoot the man who takes a single thing from this house." Poor Hitty, at once awakened to a sense of the character of her guests, with terror in her face, and yet with a childlike frankness, she ran to Smith, took hold of his hand, and looked into his face as if she felt sure he would take care of her.

Smith and his companions entered. Now it was neither breakfast nor dinner time, but about half way between both; yet little Hitty's head was full of the directions-spare not of our abundance; and almost before they were fairly in the house, she asked them if she should get them something to eat. Smith replied, "Yes, I will thank you, my child, for we are all hungry." This was a civil speech The old thief, looking to his young compafor a thief, who, half-starved, had been lurk-||nion, and finding that he was ready to give ing in the woods to watch for his chance to steal the silver tankard as soon as the men folks had gone to meeting. "Shall I give you some cold victuals, or will you wait until I can cook some meat?" asked Hitty. "We can't wait," he replied; "give what you have ready, as soon as you can." "I am glad you don't want me to cook for you,-but I would

up the job, and seeing that Smith was resolute, put down the tankard, growling like a dog which had a bone taken from him,— "Fool! catch me in your company again;" and with such expressions left the house followed by the other. Smith, putting his hand "on the head of the child, said,-"Don't be afraid-stay quiet in the house, nobody shall