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EVERY NUMBER EMBELLISHED WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.

THREE DOLLARS A YEAR.

VOLUME III.

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G. P. MORRIS AND N. P. WILLIS, EDITORS.

NEW YORK, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1844.

PAYABLE IN ADVANCE.

NUMBER 26.

THE plate for this, our last pictorial number, is worthy of one like me, who am very miserable, and whose future life

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EVERY NUMBER EMBELLISHED WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.

THREE DOLLARS A YEAR.

VOLUME III.

G. P. MORRIS AND N. P. WILLIS, EDITORS.

NEW-YORK, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1844.

THE plate for this, our last pictorial number, is worthy of an expensively embellished magazine. It is a head of Byron, from a drawing by Count D'Orsay, done in Genoa, and (we were assured by Lady Blessington) the best likeness ever taken of the noble poet.

REMINISCENCES OF SOPHIA GRAY.

(Concluded.)

AFTER hearing my reply as to the depth of the stream, which she had been gazing upon so intently, and the strength of its current, our heroine then raised her eyes to heaven, and I observed a tremulous motion of the lips, which indicated silent prayer, and while she remained with her eyes thus up-turned, I refrained from speaking, mentally vowing, such was the intensity of my feelings in favour of this lone, afflicted, and beautiful being, that no efforts of mine should be wanting to cherish, protect, and comfort her; and that I would travel the earth round, and spend the last shilling of my fortune, to avenge her on the man; whoever he was, that might have injured a hair of her head. And this vow was made with the serious intention of carrying it out to the very letter. Such is the rashness of youth.

"You have manifested, sir," she said at length, "a deep interest in me, and I wish it were possible for you to read my heart, that you might know how grateful I feel for your kindness. I thank you, both for what you have done and what you have offered to do for me, but I shall not long stand in need of any assistance. I shall ask only your prayers in my behalf."

Saying this, she drew from her finger a ring of a peculiar pattern, and begged me to accept it as a token of her gratitude, and as the gift of one who was the most miserable and foully used of her sex, yet whose bosom never harboured an unkind wish or thought concerning any human being."

I received her gift scarcely knowing what I did, and the next moment she darted away from me, and ran as fast as she possibly could towards the stream. I immediately perceived her design, indeed her language and demeanour had prepared me for some such act; yet her departure was so sudden and quick, that four or five steps were gained before I started in pursuit; and this distance, short as it was, had well nigh rendered her attempt at suicide completely successful. I overtook her, however, upon a rock within a very few feet of the stream, where, as I subsequently learned, the water was quite deep, and the current strong enough to have carried her immediately beyond my reach.

At first she resisted, and strove to disengage herself from my grasp; but, finding her strength inadequate, she submitted, and accompanied me back to the seat, where she burst into tears.

"Oh, sir," she said, "why did you do this? You know not to what a life of misery you have preserved me. By this time I should have been unconscious of my degradation." "And standing in the presence of an offended God," I observed, interrupting her. "Think of that, my unhappy friend, and you will thank me for having prevented you from committing a very sinful act."

"Is it sinful," she inquired with much simplicity, "for

PAYABLE IN ADVANCE.

NUMBER 26.

one like me, who am very miserable, and whose future life must be one of shame and disgrace, to quit this world in the way I had intended ?"

"God gave your life," I replied, and you have no right to throw it away, because he has been pleased to plunge you into affliction."

"You know best," she said, " and I am now sorry, very sorry, that I made the attempt. I trust that I shall be forgiven. Oh, I have been cruelly, cruelly treated."

Here her tears flowed copiously afresh. "You have been the victim, then-"

"You shall hear. But why should I reveal my dismal story? What has happened admits of no remedy, and I may as well spare myself the pain of a recital."

"It is not an idle curiosity that induces me to urge you," said I. "I wish to be a true friend to you, and I hope you will trust me with your history."

"Promise me, then," she said, after a moment's hesitation," that what I may reveal shall remain a secret with you; that nothing shall be done by you in my behalf without my permission; and; above all, that you will not inform my friend where I may be found."

I succeeded in inducing her not to insist upon my making such a promise, because I wished to be at liberty to act for her as I, not she, should deem proper. She then related to me, succinctly, the history of the preceding six months of her life. It is a tale that has been told ten thousand times in every tongue, and while man is perfidious and woman confiding and unsuspicious, it will be told again and again till the end of time.

Her name was Sophia Gray, and she was the daughter of a wealthy farmer residing in M, New-Jersey. During a little excursion which she had made in company with two or three of her friends, she had become acquainted with a gentleman of prepossessing appearance and manners, who subsequently visited her occasionally, and after awhile solicited her hand. He had succeeded in making a deep impression upon her heart, and her attachment secured him a favourable response. Young, inexperienced, and devoted to her lover, she conceived no suspicion of his honour, when he requested that their engagement might be kept a secret from her parents, till it should suit him to reveal it to them.

At length, after the lapse of two or three months, he found a pretext to quarrel with her, and then suddenly discontinued his attentions, leaving her to the anger of her friends and the derision of the world.

Her father's passion knew no restraint on learning the calamity that had befallen his family, and he literally turned her out of doors with a curse, and bade her see his face no more. The name of the person who had thus deceived her she would not reveal, lest I should execute a threat I had made of punishing him as he deserved. The charming creature, notwithstanding her grievous wrongs, loved him still, and could not endure the thought of his being placed in any danger of being injured. She mentioned, however, and it was done inadvertently, that he was a resident of Philadelphia; but anything concerning him, beyond that single fact, I could not learn.

"Thus you see," she continued, "that my folly brought

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