Selections from The Token and Atlantic Souvenir, edited by Samuel Goodrich (Boston: Charles Bowen, 1836)

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[presentation page]

Drawn by G. L. Brown                  Engraved by E. Gallaudet

THE

TOKEN

AND

ATLANTIC SOUVENIR.



F. Alexander        Jno. Cheney



BOSTON

CHARLES BOWEN

1836

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[printed title page]

THE TOKEN

AND

ATLANTIC SOUVENIR.

A

CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR'S PRESENT.



EDITED BY S. G. GOODRICH.

BOSTON.
PUBLISHED BY CHARLES BOWEN.
MDCCCXXXVI.

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[copyright page]

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year eighteen hundred and thirty-five, by Charles Bowen, in the Clerk's Office of the district Court of Massachusetts.

BOSTON:
Samuel N. Dickinson, Printer,
52, Washington street.

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[p. iii]

PREFACE.

From the commencement of the Token in 1828, it has been the desire of the proprietors to render the work as little dependent, as possible, upon foreign art. The literary department has been sustained for nine years, by American writers; and in the other departments nothing has been borrowed from European artists, with the exception of designs for the engravings. A part of the prints have been unavoidably copied from the productions of foreign painters; yet a preference has always been given to the works of our own artists, and no volume has appeared, that was not embellished with several copies of American pictures.

The rapid advance that has recently been made here, in the various arts, particularly that of painting, together with the interest manifested by the community, in the productions of our countrymen, have induced the proprietor this year, to introduce no other engravings than those from original paintings or drawings by American artists. The present volume, therefore, is not only considerably enlarged, but it is wholly an American production. It is the first annual, and the only highly embellished book, issued from the American press, which could claim entire independence of foreign aid.

In accomplishing his design, the publisher has encountered difficulties, which the public can in part appreciate. Amid the multiplied productions of the pencil, there are very few suited to the purposes of an annual. Of the thousands of fine pictures painted every year in Europe, there are probably not a dozen that would prove decidedly popular in a work of this kind. In this country the artists being few, and restricting ourselves to the productions of American painters, it is plain that our choice is confined within very narrow limits. We have, in the present volume, used our best endeavors, yet as it must come into comparison with those of England, where selections may be made, alike from the numerous productions of living artists, and the exhaustless treasures of the past, accumulated

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in the halls, castles, palaces and galleries throughout Europe, it might be wise to bespeak some favor in behalf of our work on the ground of its American character. If we were driven to this plea, we hope it might not be without avail--and that if further apology were needed, it might be found in the difficulties which usually beset a first attempt. Should this attempt be approved by the public, it is our design to continue the work upon its present basis, and doubt not that with the advancing arts, we shall be able year by year, to make nearer and yet nearer approaches to perfection.

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[contents]

CONTENTS.

THE TOKEN.

_______

            TO **** ******

     IN THE TITLE PAGE.

It is not for thine ample curls,
Where glowing sunset ever lingers--
It is not for the simple pearls,
Thou 'st placed there with thy rosy fingers--
It is not for thy banded hair--
Or snowy brow I ask thine aid--
These, these are gifts that thou mayst share,
With many a fair and favored maid.
No, Necromancer, not for these,
I seek to claim thy sense of duty--
The envied power, thou know'st to please,
Belongs to Truth, and not to Beauty:
For truth is like yon level lake,
That mirrors Heaven within its breast,
While yet the bordering features take
A holier aspect in their rest--
As if the rocks, and hills, and flowers,
Of earth were but a part of Heaven--

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And all aside from beauty, powers
Like these, to such as thou, are given.
For there is truth upon thy brow,
That mirrors forth a world of love,
Within a form of earth--so thou
Hast caught enchantment from above.
And prithee with thy wand attend--
Be thou the guardian of our book--
Go with thy semblance, and befriend
These pages ever with thy look.
'Twill turn aside the critic's curses,
And change his gathered gall to honey--
Convert to gold our leaden verses,
And turn our rhymes to ready money.
So prithee go--for thy sweet sake,
The grisly bachelor will buy--
For thee my lady's purse will quake,
And e'en the miser's strings untie.
I'd rather have thee for a muse,
Than any gray old mountain maid--
I trust to thee, and those who choose,
May go to Helicon for aid.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

BY MISS SEDGWICK.

'I wish I could find a solution for one mystery,' said Mary Moore to her mother, as during the last your of the last night of 1834 they sat together, not over the inspiring embers of a nutwood fire, as in good old times, but within the circumambient atmosphere of a grate glowing with Schuylkill coals.

'Is there but one mystery in life that puzzles you, Mary?' asked her mother.

'One more than all others, and that is, why Lizzy Percival is so tormented.'

'Lizzy tormented? she seems to me the happiest girl of all our acquaintance.'

'Mother! Did she not begin with the greatest of all earthly plagues--a step-mother?'

'A step-mother, my dear child, is not of course a plague.'

'But Lizzy's was, you know, mother.'

'A plague to herself, undoubtedly, but the greatest of all blessings to Lizzy.'

'A blessing to Lizzy! what do you mean, mother?'

'I mean that the trials of Lizzy's childhood and youth developed and strengthened her virtue; Lizzy's matchless sweetness of temper, was acquired, or at least

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perfected, by the continual discipline which it required to endure patiently the exactions and indolence of her step-mother. In short, Mary, Lizzy has been made far better by her relation with her step-mother. She has overcome evil, and not been overcome by it. I wish, my dear Mary, you could realize that it is not the circumstances in which we are placed, but the temper in which we meet them; the fruit we reap from them that make them either fortunate or unfortunate for us.'

'Well, mother, I suppose if I were as old, and as wise, and above all, as good as you are, I should think as you do, but in the meantime, (an endless meantime!) I must account such a step-mother as Lizzy Percival's the first and chiefest of all miseries. And then when it pleased kind Heaven to reward Lizzy's virtue by the removal of this gracious lady, you know she left behind her half a dozen little pledges, to whom poor Lizzy has been obliged to devote and sacrifice herself.'

'And this devotion and self-sacrifice has made her the exemplary and lovely creature she is. Her youth, instead of being wasted in frivolity has been most profitably employed. Duty is now happiness to her, and she is rewarded a thousand fold, for all her exertions by the improvement of her character, and the devoted love of her little brothers and sisters.'

'Well, mother, you are very ingenious, but I think it will puzzle you to prove, that there is more profit than loss to Lizzy in being thwarted in her affections. Never was there a truer, deeper, or better merited love than Lizzy's for Harry Stuart; never any thing more unreasonable, nor more obstinate than Mr. Percival's opposition to their engagement, and if I were Lizzy--' she hesitated, and her mother finished the sentence.

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'You would take the matter into your own hands.'

'I do not say that, but I certainly would not submit implicitly, as she does, toiling on and on for that regiment of children, and trying, while she is sacrificing her happiness to appear perfectly cheerful, and what provokes me more than all, being so the greater part of her time in spite of every thing.'

'Ah! Mary, a kind disposition, a gentle temper, an approving conscience, and occupation for every moment of a most useful life, must make Lizzy happy, even though the current of true-love does not run smooth.'

'But Lizzy does flag sometimes; I have seen her very sad.'

'For any length of time?'

'Oh, no! because she has always something or other to do.'

'True, Mary, it is your idlers who make the most of misery, and create it when it is not ready made to their hands. Lizzy will finally have the reward of her virtue; her father will relent.'

'Never--never, mother. You hope against hope. Mr. Percival is as proud and obstinate as all the Montagues and Capulets together. He is one of the infallibles. He prides himself on never changing a resolve, nor even an opinion; on never unsaying what he has once said, and you know he not only said, but swore, and that in Lizzy's presence too, that she should never marry a son of Gilbert Stuart.'

'Yes, I know. But continual dropping wears the rock, and the sun, if it were to shine long enough, would melt polar ice. Mr. Percival's heart may be hardened by self-will, but he cannot forever resist the

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continued unintermitting influence of such goodness as Lizzy's. He is not naturally hard hearted. His heart is soft enough, if you can penetrate the crust of pride that overlays it.'

'Oh, mother, you mistake, it is all crust.'

'No, Mary. The human heart is mingled of many elements, and not, as you young people think, formed of a single one, good or evil.'

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The scene changes to Mr. Percival's house. The clock is on the stroke of twelve. A lovely young creature, not looking the victim of sentiment, but with a clear, serene brow, her eye, not 'blue and sunken,' but full, bright and hazle, and lips and cheeks as glowing as Hebe's, is busied with a single handmaid in preparing new year's gifts for a bevy of children. Lizzy Percival's maid Madeline, a German girl, had persuaded her young mistress to arrange the gifts after the fashion of her father-land, and accordingly a fine tree of respectable growth had been purchased in market, and though when it entered the house it looked much like the theatrical presentation of 'Birnam woods coming to Dunsinane,' the mistress and maid had contrived, with infinite ingenuity, to elude the eyes of the young Arguses, and to plant it in the library, which adjoined the drawing room, without its being seen by one of them.

Never did Christmas tree bear more multifarious fruit,--for St. Nicholas, that most benign of all the saints of the Calendar, had, through the hands of many a ministering priest and priestess, showered his gifts. The sturdiest branch drooped with its burden of books, chess-men, puzzles, &c., for Julius, a stripling of thirteen. Dolls,

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birds, beasts, and boxes were hung on the lesser limbs. A regiment of soldiers had alighted on one bough, and Noah's ark was anchored to another, and to all the slender branches were attached cherries, plumbs, strawberries and peaches as tempting, and at least as sweet, as the fruits of paradise.

Nothing remained to be done, but to label each bough. Miss Percival was writing the names, and Madeline walking round and round the tree, her mind, as the smile on her lip, and the tear in her eye indicated, divided between the present pleasure and recollections of by-gone festivals in the land of her home,--when both were startled by the ringing of the door-bell.

'It is very late,' said Miss Percival, with a look at Madeline which expressed, it is very odd that any one should ring at this hour. 'Close the blinds, Madeline,' she added, for the first time observing they were open. The ring was repeated, and as at first, very gently.

'Whoever it is, is afraid of being heard,' said Madeline, 'but,' bristling up with a coward's show of courage, 'there 's nothing to fear, Miss Lizzy,' she added, 'and if you 'll just come with me into the entry, I 'll find out before I open the door who it is.'

'You hold the lamp, Madeline, and I will open the door,' replied Lizzy, who had a good deal more moral courage than her domestic.

'Oh, no! that would shame me too much, dear Miss Lizzy.'

'But I am not afraid, Madeline;' so giving Madeline the lamp, she sprang forward, and with her hand on the bolt, asked in a tone that might have converted an enemy into a friend, 'who is there?'

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A voice, low, anxious, and thrilling, answered, 'Lizzy!'

Now indeed her cheek paled, and her hand trembled, and Madeline, naturally inferring that these signals betokened fear, said, 'Shall I scream to your father?'

'Oh! no, no!; not for the world; stand back, wait one moment;' and while she hesitated whether she might turn the bolt, an earnest, irresistible entreaty from without prevailed. 'For Heaven's sake open the door, Lizzy; I will not enter; I will not even speak to you.' The bolt was turned, and Lizzy said with the frankness that characterized her, 'if I might ask you in, you know I would, Harry.' Stuart seized her hand, slipped into a note, and impressed with his lips the thanks that, true to the letter of his promise, he dared not speak, and then hastily retreated, and the door was reclosed.

'It was Mr. Stuart, Madeline.'

'Yes, Miss Lizzy, I saw it was; but I promise you I shall not tell.'

'No, do not, Madeline, for I shall tell papa, who is the only person that has a right to know.'

'You are quite different from other young ladies,' said Madeline, with an expression of honest wonder. But not entirely different was Lizzy, for she forgot to finish the little that remained undone, and hastily dismissing Madeline, she hurried to her own apartment, and opened the twisted note Stuart had given her. It enveloped a ring, and contained the following in pencil: 'Dearest Lizzy--I have been walking before your window for the last hour, watching your kind preparations for those who are every day blest with the brightest and softest of all lights--the light of your countenance.

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Your very happy face has made me sad; for my selfish thoughts tell me this happiness is quite independent of me. Shame--shame to me! There is my Lizzy, I have said, giving gifts, and receiving them, making others happy, and made happy herself, and bestowing no thought on me! I have wrapped up this little ring, on which is an enamelled forget-me-not, and bade it speak to your heart, the cravings of mine. Forget me not, dear Lizzy! The ring is indeed too true an emblem of the endless circle of my sorrows. No beam of light is there in the parting--none in the dawning year for me.'

Lizzy read and re-read the note--very like all lovers' notes--but, as she thought, peculiar and most peculiarly heart-breaking. The ring she put on her finger, and went to bed, holding it in the palm of her other hand, and before morning she had dreamed out a very pretty romance with a right pleasant and fitting conclusion. The morning came, New Year's morning with its early greetings, its pleasant bustle, its noisy joys, and to Lizzy its cares; for there is no play-day in the Calendar of an American mistress of a family, be she old or young. Lizzy the genius loci was the dispenser-general of the bounties of the season. The children waked her at dawn with their kisses and their cries of 'Happy New Year, sister.' The servants besieged her door with their earnest taps and their heart-felt good wishes, and each received a gift and a kind word to grace it.

After breakfast the library door was opened, and the land of promise revealed to the little expectants. Then what exclamations of surprise! what bursts of joy, and what a rush as each sprang forward to pluck his own fruit from the laden tree! Each we said, but little Ella,

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the youngling of the flock, clung to Lizzy and leading her to the extremity of the room uncovered a basket, containing various souvenirs, saying, 'Papa said we might all div something to the one we loved best, and so we dived this to you, sister.'

And now in the happy group around the tree, was apparent the blossoming of that fruit which their sister had planted and nurtured in their hearts. 'Thank you, sister,' said Julius, taking from his branch a nice book, filled with copies for him to draw after; 'how much pains you have taken to do this for me! how much time and trouble you have spent upon it; I hope I shall never feel tired of doing any thing for you![']

'O, sister Lizzy!' exclaimed little Sue, 'I did not know when I spilt all your beads that you was knitting this bag for me; but you was so good natured that I was as sorry as ever I could be!'

'Sister, sister, did you paint these soldiers?' cried Hal; 'kiss me, you are the best sister that ever lived.'

'O, Anne, your doll is dressed just like mine; sister has even worked their pocket handkerchiefs. But you have a paint-box, I 'm glad of that!'

'And you have an embroidered apron, and I am glad of that! O papa! does not sister do every thing for us?'

'She does, my dear children,' said Mr. Percival, who, though not of the melting order, was affected even to tears by this little home scene. 'Come here to me, Lizzy,' he said, drawing her aside, and putting his arm around her, 'tell me, dear good child, what shall I give you.'

Lizzy hid her blushing face for a moment on her father's bosom, and then courageously drawing back her

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head and raising her hand and pointing to her ring, she replied, 'give me leave, Sir, to wear this gift from Harry Stuart!'

Mr. Percival's brow clouded. 'How is this Lizzy? did I not long ago command you to dismiss him from your thoughts?'

'Yes, papa, but I could not obey you.'

'Nonsense, nonsense, Lizzy.'

'I tried, Sir, indeed I did, but the more I tried the more I could not!'

'And so by way of aiding your efforts you wish to keep this gewgaw with a forget-me-not engraven on it?'

'With your leave, Sir, I would wear it. It will make no difference papa. Harry has engraved the forget-me-not on my heart. There it is cut in, as the engravers say.'

Lizzy's frankness and perseverance astonished her father, there was something kindred to his own spirit in it. He felt it to be so, and this it was perhaps, that mitigated his displeasure as he paced the room, his hands behind him, as was his wont, when perplexed.--'I must not be fooled out of my resolution,' he thought, 'it was very presuming of Harry Stuart to give this ring to Lizzy when he knows my determination is invincible.' He turned to claim the ring, when Madeline, who a few minutes before entered with a little paquet directed to him, caught his eye. He opened it, and found it contained a pair of slippers, Lizzy's new year's gift to him, beautifully wrought by her own hands. This was not all, there were several pairs of fine woolen hose which she had knit for him, in her intervals of leisure. They were just such as he liked,

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just such as he could not buy, just such as nobody but Lizzy could knit, at least so he thought, and thanking and kissing her, he said, 'well, well, Lizzy, wear the ring to-day, and after that'--

'I may still wear it, papa?'

'I'll consider of it my child.'

'C'est le premier pas qui coûte,' thought Lizzy, and with a light heart and joyous face, she bounded away to perform her next duty. Lizzy's duties were so blended with pleasure, that she no more separated them, than the naked eye separates the twisted ray of light.

'Come with me Madeline,' she said. Madeline followed, marvelling at the young lady who, even in her love passages, dared to walk in light. These humbled persons are prompt to discern truth and rectitude, and to imbibe its influence from their superiors in station!

in a few minutes Lizzy and her maiden were on their way to the Sixth Avenue, where lived a certain widow Carey, who, with her four children, had long been blessed with Lizzy's friendship. This young lady not contenting herself with setting down her father's name as a subscriber to the Widow's Society, literally and most religiously obeyed the command which recognises the first duty of the rich to the poor, and 'visited the widow and the orphan,' and not only lightened their burdens, but partook their happiness. The poor feel a sympathy in their joys more than the relief that is vouchsafed to their miseries, for that always reminds them of the superior condition of the bestower. Madeline carried on her arm a basket containing substantial gifts for the Careys, prepared by Lizzy's own hands, and an abund-

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ance of toys for the children, contributed by the little Percivals from their last year's stores.

The young Careys were all at the window, one head over another's shoulder when Miss Percival appeared, and answered with smiles and nods to their out-break of clamorous joy and shouts of 'I knew you would come Miss Lizzy.' 'I told mother you would come.'

'And did I say she would not?' said the mother, while her tears and smiles seemed contending which should most effectively express her gratitude.

Lizzy had no time to lose, and she hastily dispensed her gifts; one little urchin was taught to guide, by most mysterious magnetic attraction, a stately goose through such a pond as might be contained within the bounds of a wash-basin. His brother was shown how to set up a little village, a pretty mimicry of the building of Chicago, or any other of our wilderness towns that grow up like Jonah's gourd, and the two little girls, miniature women, were seated at a stand to arrange their tea-set, and gossip with their pretty new-dressed dolls.

Lizzy, as she paused for a moment to look at them, was a fit personation of the saint of a child's festival; she was not herself too far beyond the precincts of childhood to feel the glow of its pleasures, and they were now reflected in her sparkling eye and dimpled cheek. She looked to the good mother for her sympathy, but her back was turned, and she seemed in earnest conversation with Madeline, whose eyes, as she listened, were filled with tears. 'Why, what is the matter, Mrs. Carey?' asked Lizzy, advancing and laying her hand on Mrs. Carey's shoulder.

'Ah! Miss Lizzy, it's being thankless to a gracious

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Providence to spake of trouble just now, and to you. These flannel petticoats and frocks,' she took up the bundle Madeline had just put down, 'will carry my children warm and dacent through the winter. God bless you, Miss Lizzy!'

'But what is it troubles you, Mrs. Carey?'

'There's no use in clouding your sunshine, Miss Lizzy, this day above all other.'

'But perhaps I can drive away the clouds, so tell me all, and quickly, because you know I must be at home and dressed before twelve o'clock.'

Mrs. Carey did not require urging, her heart was full, and there was a power in Lizzy's touch that swelled the waters to overflowing. Her story was a very short one. When the collector had come for her rent the preceding evening, he had told her that she must give up the room she occupied at the close of the week, unless she could pay double the rent she now paid, as that had been offered by one of her neighbors. Mrs. Carey thought this a very hard case, as she had herself increased the value of the property by keeping thread, needles, and similar commodities to supply the neighbors, and gracing her window with candies that attracted customers from a school in the vicinity. She could afford, she said, to pay an advance, but double the rent, she could not, and where she should go, and how get bread for her children, she knew not, and now she cried so bitterly that the little objects of her motherly fears forsook their toys and gathered around her. Lizzy's smiles, too, were changed to tears, but she soon cleared them away, for she was not a person to rest satisfied with pouring out a little bootless salt water.

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'Who is your landlord, Mrs. Carey?' she asked.

Mrs. Carey did not know his name, she knew only that he lived at a certain number which she mentioned, in Leonard Street.

'I will stop there as I go down,' said Lizzy, [']let Johnny put on his hat and coat and go with me, and if your landlord is not cross and crusty, and hard an cold as marble, I will send you back good news by Johnny.'

'Hard and cold as marble his heart must be, Miss Lizzy, if you cannot soften it.'

Lizzy, after dismissing Madeline with domestic orders, rung at a door in Leonard Street, and no informing door-plate telling the proprietor's name, she asked for the master of the house, and was ushered into the drawing-room, and received by an elderly gentleman, who laid aside the newspaper he was reading, and gave her a chair so courteously that she was emboldened to proceed at once to business. She told the name of the tenant in whose behalf she was speaking, and her distress at the communication she had received from his agent the preceding evening.

The gentleman said he knew nothing of the matter, that he confided the management of his rents to a trust-worthy person, who took good care of his concerns, and never abused his tenants.

Lizzy then, with a clearness and judiciousness that astonished her auditor, stated Mrs. Carey's circumstances, and the seeming hardships of virtually ejecting her from a tenement of which she had enhanced the value by certain moral influences, for she was sure that it was Mrs. Carey's good humor, kind tempered voice, and zeal in the service of her customers, that had attracted

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custom to her little shop, and made it observed and coveted by her neighbors. Having laid a firm foundation in reason (the best mode of addressing a sensible man) she proceeded to her superstructure. She described Mrs. Carey, she spoke with a tremulous voice of her past trials, of her persevering and as yet successful exertions to keep her little family independent of public charities; she described the children, dwelt on the industry of these busy little bees, and the plans and the hopes of the mother, till her auditor felt much like one, who from the shore, sees a little boat's hardy company forcing their way against the current, and longs to put in his oar to help them.

'She shan't budge a foot my dear,' said he, 'not one foot;' he rung the bell, wiped his eyes, cleared his voice and ordered his servant, who opened the door, to bring his writing desk. The writing desk was brought, and he wrote, signed and sealed a promise to the widow Carey, to retain her as a tenant on the terms on which she had hitherto rented his apartment, so long as she regularly paid her rent.

'And now,' said he, explaining the document, and giving it into Lizzy's hands, 'tell me my dear young lady who you are, that come forth on New Year's morning on such an errand, when all the girls in the city are frizzing and rigging to receive their beaux. Will you tell me your name, my dear?'

'Elizabeth Percival, Sir.'

'Percival!--William Percival's daughter--William Percival who lives at the corner of Broadway and ---- Street.'

'Yes Sir,' she replied, smiling at the stranger's earnestness.

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'Extraordinary!--most extraordinary!' he exclaimed, and added as if thinking aloud, 'I can understand now--he should'--

'Good morning, Sir,' said Lizzy, 'I wish you as happy a New Year as your kindness had made for others,' and she was turning away with the suspicion that her host was under the influence of a sudden hallucination, when he seized her hand. 'Stop my dear child,' he said, 'one moment--never mind, you may go now--I think--don't promise--but I think I shall see you again to-day. It is good--did you not say so?--to make people happy on the New Year. Good bye, my dear child--God bless you.'

Lizzy gave the precious paper into Johnny's hands, and carefully noting the number of the house, she hurried homeward, resolved, at the first convenient opportunity, to ascertain the name of its singular and interesting proprietor. There was something in his countenance that, together with his prompt and most kind answer to her petition, made a deep impression on her heart.

But she had no time now to speculate on her new acquaintance, it was not far from twelve o'clock, and that, as we all know, is the hour when the general rush of winter begins on New Year's day.

Lizzy's toilet was soon despatched. We wish all young ladies would, like her, take advantage of the period of freshness, bloom, roundness, and cheerfulness, and not waste time and art in vieing with (and only obscuring) the inimitable adornments of nature. Sure we are in all the visiting rounds of this great city, no lovelier group was seen, than that in Mr. Perci-

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val's drawing-room, our friend Lizzy, the mother-sister, presiding over it.

From all that appeared to offer the customary salutations of the season, Lizzy's thoughts often turned to him that did not come, that could not, must not, but she indulged a hope natural to the young and good (and therefore happy) that all would yet be well, and she met the greetings of the day with a face lighted with smiles, and a spirit of cheerfulness befitting them. Mr. Percival's family being one of the oldest in the city, one of the most extended in its connections, and one of the few who have been residents here for several generations, their visiters were innumerable, and a continual stream poured in and poured out, emitting in its passage the stereotyped sayings of the season, such as

'Many returns of this happy season to you Miss Percival--may you live a thousand years, and as much longer as you desire!'

'A fine old custom this, Miss Percival, transmitted by our Dutch ancestors!'

This staple remark was made and often reiterated by some profane interloper who had not a drop of the good old Dutch blood running in his veins; alas for the fallen dynasty!

'A custom peculiar to New York and Albany, they have tried to introduce it in our other cities, but it is impossible to transplant old usages, and make them thrive in a new soil.'

'Charming custom!' exclaims an elderly friend, kissing Lizzy's offered cheek, and heartily smacking the children all round, 'it gives us old fellows privileges.'

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'Uncommonly fine day,' Miss Percival, much pleasanter than last New Year's, but not quite so pleasant as the year before.'

'What a happy anniversary for the children! a lovely group here Miss Percival, and the prettiest table (looking at that on which the toys were spread) that I have yet seen.'

'I guess why,' replied little Sue, casting a side-long glance at the speaker through her dark eye-lashes--'nobody but us has a sister Lizzy.'

'Do you keep a list of your visiters, Miss Elizabeth.'

'In my memory, Sir.'

'Ah, you should not trust to that, you should have the documents to show. Mrs. M., last year, had two hundred on her list, and Mrs. H. one hundred and eighty, exclusing of married men!' Lizzy was quite too young to make any sage reflections of the proteus shapes of vanity. She laughed and said she cared only for the names she could remember.

'What a splendid set-out has Mrs. T.' exclaimed an enthusiastic lover of the fine arts that minister to eating and drinking, 'oysters, sandwiches, chocolate, coffee, wines and whiskey-punch.'

'Whiskey-punch! I thought' Lizzy ventured modestly to say, 'was banished from all refined society.'

'Shockingly vulgar to be sure--mais, chacun á son goût.'

'Mrs. L. has a most refined entertainment, champagne and cakes, upon my word, nothing but champagne and cakes!'

'Ah, but you should have seen the refreshment at the Miss C.'s, quite foreign and elegant, (this opinion

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judicially delivered by a youth who had been once over the ocean, on a six week's agency to Birmingham,) soup, patées de fois gras, mareschino, &c. &c.'

'Is my cousin well to-day?' asked Lizzy, 'I hear she does not receive her friends.'

but, between ourselves, my dear Lizzy, the draperies to the drawing-room curtains are not completed--that's all.'

While some practiced and ultra fashionable visiters were merely bowing in, and bowing out, some other young gentlemen more ambitious, or more gifted, or more at leisure than the rest, made flights into the region of original remark. One admired Miss Percival's boquet, commented on the triumphs of man's (especially that rare individual Florist Thorburn's) art over the elements, and noted some very pretty analogies between the flowers and the children. Another lauded the weather, and said that nature had, last of all the publishers, come out with her annual, and the gentlemen had found it 'a book of beauty.'

The morning wore on. Mr. Percival returned to his home, having made a few visits to old friends, and claiming as to the rest his age's right of exemption. He sat down and pleased himself with observing his daughter's graceful reception of her guests. Her cordiality to humble friends, her modest and quiet demeanor to the class technically ycleped beaux, and her respectful and even deferential manner (a grace, we are sorry to say, not universal among our young ladies) to her

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elders. In proportion as Mr. Percival's heart overflowed with approbation and love for his daughter, he was restless and dejected. The ring had revealed her unchanged affection for Harry Stuart, and he began to perceive that there was a moral impossibility in her withdrawing that affection in compliance with his will. He felt too that his absolute will was no reason why she should. Harry Stuart, if man could, deserved her, and he was obliged in his secret heart to acknowledge himself the only obstacle to their happiness--happiness so rational! so well merited!

These were most uncomfortable reflections to a father essentially good hearted, though sometimes the slave (and victim as well as slave) of a violent temper. It was no wonder that he exclaimed in reply to a passing remark 'that this was a charming anniversary, so many new friendships begun, so many old ones revived.'

'Pshaw, Sir, that is mere talk, you may as well attempt to mend broken glass with patent cement, as broken friendships with a New Year's visit.'

'O! Percival, my dear friend,' interposed a contemporary, 'you are wrong. I have known at least half a dozen terrible breaches healed on New Year's day. Depend on't these eminences from which we can look forward and backward--these mile stones in life which mark our progress, are of essential service in our moral training. One does not like when he surveys his journey to its end to bear on with him the burden of an old enmity.'

'It is a heavy burden,' murmured Mr. Percival, in an under tone. Lizzy caught the words, and sighed as she made their just application.

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'Mr. Percival,' said a servant, 'there 's a gentleman wishes to speak with you in the library.'

'Show him into the drawing-room.'

'He says his business is private, Sir.'

'This is no day for business of any sort,' grumbled Mr. Percival, as he left the room, in no very auspicious humor for his visiter.

The morning verged to the dinner hour. Miss Percival's last lagging visiters had come and gone, but not among them had appeared, as she had hoped from his intimation, the kind landlord who had so graciously granted her the boon she asked, and whose manner had excited her curiosity. 'There was something in his face,' she thought, 'that impressed me like a familiar friend, and yet I am sure I never saw him before--heigho! this new yearing after all, is tedious when we see every body but the one we wish most to see--I wonder if papa will let me continue to wear this ring, if he should'--Her meditation, like many a one, more or less interesting, was broken off by the ringing of the dinner-bell. Her father did not answer to its call. The children forsook their toys and became clamorous. The bell was re-run. Still he came not. Lizzy sent a servant to enquire how much longer the dinner must wait. The servant returned with a face smiling all over and full of meaning, but what it meant Lizzy could not divine, and before he could deliver his answer, the library door was thrown open, and within, and standing beside her father, she saw the landlord her morning friend, and behind them Harry Stuart. All their eyes were directed towards her, and never did eyes of old or young look more kindly.

'Come here, my dear child,' said her father. Lizzy

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obeyed. 'Keep your ring Lizzy, and give Harry Stuart your hand, as far as my leave goes, it's his for life.'

'What can this mean?' thought Lizzy, confounded, and not restored to her senses by her lover seizing her hand and pressing it to his lips in the presence of a stranger. Her father interpreted and replied to the embarrassment and amazement expressed in her countenance.

'This gentleman is Harry Stuart's father, Lizzy! We were once friends, and are again, thank God. I have been a fool, and he has been ---- foolish. Now look up boldly, my girl, and give him a kiss, and I'll explain the whys and wherefores afterwards.'

The story afterwards most frankly told, was very like the stories of most quarrels among honest men. It had originated in mutual mistakes, and been aggravated and protracted by suspicion and pride, till the morning of the New Year, when conscience was awakened by the thrilling voice of that anniversary, and all the good feelings stirred by the charities of the season, and when Lizzy like a dove of peace was guided by Providence to the presence of Harry Stuart' s father, and fairly made a perch on his heart. After a little reflection, he obeyed the impulse the sight of her sweet face, and the revelation of her character had given him, and availing himself of the privileges of the day, he sought an interview with Mr. Percival. Mutual explanations and mutual concessions followed, and when nothing more remained to be explained for forgiven, Harry Stuart was sent for, and Lizzy admitted to the library, and the day ended with the general acknowledgement that this was to these reconciled friends, and united lovers, the happiest of all happy New Years.

             ANNA'S PICTURE.

'Tis but a pencil sketch, yet lovely still,
And true as lovely!  The rich mouth is there,
The simple parting of the sun-brown hair,
The large and lustrous eyes, all eloquent,
With their unchildlike, earnest look of thought,
And the transparent fairness of the forehead!
It is all Anna, save the faint rose shade,
That trembles on her cheek, but, in her lips,
Deepens to crimson, and the tinge of gold,
Revelling like a sun beam 'mid her hair,
While in those eyes, which wear the self-same hue
Of glossy brown, it melts to tender smiles!
I would the picture could, those colors, wear;
For, in their contrast, half her beauty lies.
Her long, silk lashes, drooping on her cheek,
Their chesnut richness and the rose-tints warm,
Are brightened by each other's loveliness.
I would this little sketch those colors wore;
But I've another portrait of the child,
Wrought by a hand more powerful and true,
A portrait, that will never fade, a hand,
Whose angel-skill is perfect and undying!
There the brown hair, on blue-veined temples, rests,
Just as it did on Anna's; the sweet lips
Are as like hers, as hers are like a rosebud!
And the clear beaming eyes, the color wear,
With which her own are radiant.  It is true;
For, long ago, before our darling left us,
Love drew her picture, in my 'heart of hearts,'
And Memory preserves it beautiful!

              THE BRIDE.

         BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.

I came, but she was gone.
          There lay her lute,
Just as she touch'd it last, at the soft hour
Of summer twilight, when the woodbine cups
Filling with deeper fragrance, fondly press'd
Thro' the rais'd casement, uttering tender thanks
To her who train'd them.  On her favorite seat
Still lay her work-box open, and the book
That last she read, and careless near its page
A note, whose cover her slight pen had trac'd
With lines unconscious, while her lover spake
That dialect, which brings forgetfulness
Of all beside.  It was the pleasant home
Where from her childhood she had been the star
Of hope and joy.
                 I came, and she was gone.
But this I knew, for I remember'd well
Her parting look, when from the altar led,
With silvery veil, but slightly swept aside,
How the young rose leaf deepen'd on her cheek,
And on her brow a solemn beauty sat,
Like one who gives a priceless gift away.
And there was silence.  Mid that stranger throng,
Even strangers, and the hard of heart, did draw
Their breath supprest, to see the mother's lip
Turn ghastly pale, and the tall stately sire

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Bow with a secret sorrow, as he gave
His darling to an untried guardianship,
And to a far-off clime.  Perchance his thought
Travers'd the moss-grown prairies, and the shores
Of the cold lakes,--or those o'erhanging cliffs
And mighty mountain tops, that rose to bar
Her log rear'd mansion from the anxious eye
Of kindred and of friend.
                 Even triflers felt
How strong and beautiful is woman's love,--
That taking in its hand the joys of home,--
The tenderest melodies of tuneful years,--
Yea, and its own life also, lays them all
Meek and unblenching on a mortal's breast,
Reserving nought, save that unspoken hope
Which hath its root in God.
                 Mock not with mirth
A scene like this,--ye laughter-loving ones,--
Hence with the hackney'd jest.--The dancer's heel--
What doth it here?
                 Joy, serious and sublime,--
Such as doth nerve the energies of prayer,
Should swell the bosom, when a maiden's hand
Fresh from its young flower-gathering girdeth on
That harness, which the minister of death
Alone unlooseth,--and whose power doth aid
Or mar the journey of the soul to Heaven.

              I WILL FORGET THEE.

                 BY B. B. THATCHER.

     I will forget thee;--veteran soldiers said
           Of the old Traitor of the Army, they
     Would bury the one limb which the British bled
           In battle for his country,--in the way
The brave are buried,--fitly,--and expose
The remnant of the faithless rascal for the crows.

     And so shall I forget thee; that is, try
           Most lustily to do so;--I will tell
     Thy virtues o'er--ah, witch!--I can't deny
           Thou hast or hadst them; it were very well,--
Quite soothing,--could I make thee worse than sin
In ugliness, (thou darling,) both outside and in.

     But since thou wilt not be so, e'en to please
           Thy quondam crony, and I must confess,
     Thy charms are multifold enough to tease
           The life out from me,--and thy cunning face
Delightful,--and thy feet as much so,--and
No Indian ivory like thy dainty little hand;

     Why then--I must forget thee.  Once to night,
           I'll tell thy virtues o'er, and swell the dear
     List fondly, and dwell on them with delight,
           In dreams, as usual; and perchance a tear
Or so may soothe me when I wake to dim
Remembrance--as the warriors would have wept for him,

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     The Scoundrel of the Story,--and pell-mell,
           Poured a few vollies o'er the limb,--and told
     The leg-end of his labors,--and a bell
           Also;--then I will venture to be bold,
And take a last look at thee, (as a kind
Of corpse)--quite coldly,--and just kiss thee till I find

     I can forget thee; and devote an hour
           To walking in a grave-yard; and a line procure,
     To extend the neck up neatly in a bower,
           Where we as lovers loitered,--(but be sure
'T is found out in due season, to prevent,
In mercy to thy nerves, a horrid accident,)--

     Tho' not till I have sent thee a small note,
           Three-cornered, in rose paper, with a seal
     Significant, in doves and daggers, that I dote
           In death upon thee; then I will appeal
To thy best feelings--(hast thou any better?)
And beg thee to inform me of my fate by letter:

     And that will be the end on't,--not of me,--
           By no means,--but of it; by which I mean,
     Merely, that having buried by the free
           Flow of my passion, all the good, I ween,
There was about thee, and my honor showed
By strangling,--or almost,--(which is the better mode,)

     I 'll straightway marry thy rich rival, (hang her!)
           And take medicine, and money, and go thin
     To Italy, and so push on for Padang or
           Smyrna, and return accomplished, and at Lynn
Open a shoe-store, dearest;--all to fret thee
With a fine frenzy of philosophy--and forget thee!

         THE FIRST FROST OF AUTUMN.

                   BY S. G. GOODRICH.

At evening it rose in the hollow glade,
Where wild-flowers blushed mid silence and shade;
Where, hid from the gaze of the garish noon,
They were slily wooed by the quivering moon.
It rose, for the guardian zephyrs had flown,
And left the valley that night alone:
No sigh was borne from the leafy hill,
No murmur came from the lapsing rill;
The boughs of the willow in silence wept,
And the aspen leaves in that sabbath slept.
The valley dreamed, and the fairy lute
Of the whispering reed by the brook was mute.
The slender rush o'er the glassy rill,
Like a marble shaft, was erect and still,
And no airy sylph o'er the mirror wave,
A dimpling trace of its footstep gave.
The moon shone down, but the shadows deep
Of the pensile flowers, they were hushed in sleep.
The pulse was still in that vale of bloom,
And the Spirit rose from its marshy tomb.
It rose o'er the breast of a silver spring,
Where the mist at morn shook its snowy wing,
And robed like the dew, when it woos the flowers,
It stole away to their secret bowers.
With a lover's sigh, and a zephyr's breath,
It whispered bliss, but its work was death.

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WEALTH AND FASHION.

'What a pity it is,' said Caroline, throwing aside her book, 'we are born under a republican government!'

'Upon my word,' said her brother Horace, 'that is a patriotic observation for an American.'

'O, I know,' replied the sister, 'that it is not a popular one; we must all join in the cry of liberty and equality, and bless our stars that we have neither Kings nor Emperors to rule over us, and that our first audible squeak was republican. If we don't join in the shout, and hang our hats on hickory trees or liberty poles, we are considered unnatural monsters. For my part, I am tired of it, and I am determined to say what I think. I hate republicanism; I hate liberty and equality; and I don't hesitate to declare, that I am for a monarchy. You may laugh, but I would say it at the stake.'

'Bravo!' exclaimed Horace; 'why, you have almost run yourself out of breath, Cara, you deserve to be prime minister to the king.'

'You mistake me,' replied she, with dignity. 'I have no wish to mingle in political broils, not even if I could be as renowned as Pitt or Fox; but I must say, I think our equality is odious. What do you think? To-day,

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the new chamber-maid put her head into the door, and said, "Caroline! your marm wants you."'

'Excellent!' said Horace, clapping his hands, and laughing; 'I suppose, if ours were a monarchical government, she would have bent one knee to the ground, or saluted your little foot, before she spoke.'

'No, Horace, you know there are no such forms as those, except in the papal dominions. I believe his holiness the Pope, requires such a ceremony.'

'Perhaps you would like to be a Pope?'

'No! I am no Roman Catholic.'

'May I ask your highness, what you would like to be?'

'I should like,' said she, glancing at the glass, 'I should like to be a Countess.'

'You are moderate in your ambition; a Countess, now a days, is the fag end of nobility.'

'O! but it sounds to delightfully ...... The young Countess Caroline!'

'If sound is all, you shall have that pleasure; we will call you the young Countess Caroline!'

'That would be mere burlesque, Horace, and would make me ridiculous.'

'True,' replied Horace; 'nothing can be more inconsistent for us than aiming at titles.'

'For us, I grant you,' replied Caroline; 'but if they were hereditary, if we had been born to them, if they came to us through belted knights and high-born dames, then we might be proud to wear them. I never shall cease to regret that I was not born under a monarchy.'

'You seem to forget,' said Horace, 'that all are not lords and ladies in the royal dominions. Suppose your

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first squeak, as you call it, should have been among the plebeians; suppose it should have been your lot to crouch and bend, or be trodden under foot by some titled personage, whom in your heart you despised; what then?'

'You may easily suppose, that I did not mean to take those chances. No, I meant to be born among the higher ranks.'

'Your own reason must tell you, that all cannot be born among the higher ranks, for then the lower ones would be wanting, which constitute the comparison. Now, Caroline, we come to the very point. Is it not better to be born under a government, in which there is neither extreme of high or low; where one man cannot be raised pre-eminently over another; and where our nobility consists of talent and virtue.'

'That sounds very patriotic, brother,' said Caroline, with a laugh; 'but I am inclined to think, that wealth constitutes our nobility, and the right of abusing each other, our liberty.'

'You are as fond of aphorisms as ever Lavater was,' replied Horace, good-humoredly; 'but they are not always true.'

'I will just ask you,' returned she, 'if our rich men, who ride in their own carriages, who have fine houses, and who count by millions, are not our great men?'

'They have all the greatness that money can buy; but this is a very limited one.'

'In my opinion,' said Caroline, 'money is power.'

'You mistake,' returned Horace; 'money may buy a temporary power, but talent is power itself; and when united to virtue, a God-like power, one before which the

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mere man of millions quails. No, give me talent, health, and unwavering principle, and I will not ask for wealth, but I will carve my own way; and depend upon it, wealth will be honorably mine.'

'Well, Horace, I am sure I heartily wish you that possession of all together, talent, principle, and wealth. Really, without flattery, the two first you have; and the last, according to your own idea, will come when you beckon to it. Now I can tell you, that I feel as determined as you do, to "carve my own way." I see you smile, but I have always believed we could accomplish what we steadily will. Depend upon it, the time is not distant, when you shall see me in possession of all the rank that any one can obtain in our plebeian country.'

Such were the sentiments of the brother and sister; both perhaps unusually endowed with talent. Horace had just received his diploma as attorney at law, Caroline had entered her eighteenth year, and was a belle in her own circle. There is many a young lady, who throws aside an English novel, with the same desire as our heroine had, of being a Duchess or a Countess, or perhaps a maid of honor; and at last centres her ambition in attaining what she considers the aristocracy of our country, wealth and fashion.

It is said, 'education makes the character;' and in support of this doctrine, that admirable line of the poet's is again quoted for the five thousand and fiftieth time: 'Just as the twig is bent, the tree 's inclined.' Mr. and Mrs. Warner had given birth to a forest of little twigs, and certainly had tried to bend them all one way, that is, to make them virtuous and contented. But, under

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the same gentle discipline, nothing could be more different than the dispositions of the two oldest girls, Caroline and Frances.

Mrs. Warner was a plain unassuming woman, with no higher ambition than her means afforded. Some sacrifices had been made, to send their eldest son, Horace, to college, with the belief, that, to give him a good education, was qualifying him to assist in the advancement of his brothers. He had as yet fully realized their expectations. He had not thought it necessary, while at college, to engage in any rebellion to prove his spirit and independence, but had trod the path of duty with undeviating step, had had one of the first parts awarded to him, and received an honorable degree, instead of being suspended or expelled. He had prosecuted his professional studies with diligence, and was now known as attorney at law.

Frances, or Fanny, as she was familiarly called, relieved her mother from many of her domestic cares; the other children were still too young to bear much part in the busy scenes of life.

Among Horace's college friends, was a young man by the name of Benson. He had there been his chum, and was now his partner in business. They occupied the same office, and were bound together by the strongest ties of friendship. His association had hitherto been chiefly confined to the young men. In answer to Horace's commendations of his friend, Caroline constantly replied, 'he may be all you say, but nobody knows him, he is in no society.' When she met him, however, at a splendid ball, given by one who stood first in his profession, her heart became a little softened towards him and in

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issuing invitations for a party, one was sent to Mr. Benson. To her astonishment, an answer was returned 'declining the honor.' 'I am very glad,' said Caroline, a little piqued, 'it would have been an awkward thing; he does not visit in our circle.'

'No,' replied Horace, 'he does not, at present, visit in any circle, he is devoted to business.'

'How I detest a drone!' said she, pettishly.

'If you mean to apply that epithet to my friend, you are greatly mistaken.'

'True, I ought to have said a drudge.'

Not long after, Caroline again met Benson in a circle which she considered fashionable. She had no longer any objection to admitting him to her society, and even exerted herself to appear amiable and charming.

'You certainly did not overrate your friend,' said she one day to her brother; 'he is one of the most agreeable men I ever met with. I wish he was a more fashionable man.'

'I don't know what you mean,' said Horace; 'he certainly dresses remarkably well.'

'His dress is well enough; I don't mean that.'

'His manners are easy, and those of a gentleman.'

'Yes, all that is very well, but I mean, that I wish it was the fashion to invite and notice him.'

By degrees, Caroline ceased to cavil at Mr. Benson's standing in society. She had talent enough to appreciate him, and all her powers of captivation were exerted to enslave him.

What does a man devoted to business know of female character! He was entirely satisfied that Miss Warner

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was 'perfect and peerless, and made of every creature's best.' In a very few months he was completely in love, and at the end of another, had offered himself.

Caroline consulted her brother. His encomiums as usual were warm. 'I know Benson perfectly,' said he, 'he is a man of honorable principle and first rate talent.'

'Do you think he will ever be rich?'

'I think he is too fine a fellow,' said Horace, with feeling, 'to be sacrificed to a woman whose first question is, "Will he ever be rich?"'

'Let us understand each other,' said Caroline. 'I like Benson. I even prefer him to any one I know. You say I am ambitious, I admit it is so; then my object must be to marry ambitiously. there is no sin in this; and I never will marry any an that is not distinguished, or able to make himself so. if Benson were rich, I should not hesitate; if I were sure he would be rich, I should hesitate no longer, because with wealth, he could command any rank in society.'

'I do not enter into these cold calculations,' returned Horace; 'if ever I fall in love, it will be with a woman whose heart and not whose head is at work. However, you ask the question, and I will answer it. I do think that, in time, he will not only be rich, but be one of our most distinguished men.'

It is difficult to say how much this opinion influenced the young calculator, but her answer was by no means such as to throw Benson into despair. In a short time, he was the acknowledged lover of Caroline, with the full and free consent of her parents, the warm-hearted approbation of her brother, and the silent, though feeling acquiescence of her sister.

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Might it not seem that in such an union there were materials enough for happiness? But when is ambition satisfied! Benson was neither rich, nor a man of fashion; and after the first excitement of being engaged was over, Caroline grew listless and languid. Sometimes she was vexed that he did not devote his time to her, rather than to his profession; and sometimes she secretly murmured at her own rashness in forming an engagement upon such an uncertain basis, and was ready to mourn that beauty and talents like hers, should be doomed to such an unworthy lot. For a long time, Benson was too entirely shielded by the uprightness of his own mind to suspect the tumult of her thoughts. Gradually, however, unpleasant reflections forced themselves upon him; he even suspected there might be something a little worldly in her character; but if so, what a proof she had given him of her attachment! She had taken him without fortune, and was willing to wait till a competence could be acquired.

One year passed away, and the winter of the second arrived. Caroline's discontent seemed to increase; she became even fretful at times, but there was a dignity and elevation in Benson's character which always checked the first ebullitions of spleen, and he saw much less of it, than her own family. Horace became seriously alarmed; he feared that he might have made his friend's, as well as his sister's future misery, in promoting a match, that he began to think, was not suited to either. At this crisis, Caroline received an invitation to pass a few weeks with a relation at New York. Horace warmly seconded her wish to accept it, for he considered that her affection wanted such a test. A pleasant party of

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friends were going on, and the lovers parted with mutual protestations of fidelity.

A short residence with her cousins, the Ellisons, convinced her, they were among the êlite, and stood on the very pinnacle of fashion.

We trust our readers have already discovered that Caroline had a reflecting mind. She immediately began to investigate and analyze the causes of their exaltation. In the first place, it was not beauty; for Mrs. Ellison, without her French hat, blond veil, and diamond ear-rings, was almost plain. It certainly could not be high birth, for 'her parents were nobody;' the conclusion was obvious; it was her wealth, her elegant house, her stylish parties, and superb carriage. Here, then, she concluded she had found the primum mobile of American aristocracy, and with this conviction came all the horrors of her own lot; at the best, a competency with Benson!

One morning, Caroline went to an auction with Mrs. Ellison; fashionable ladies in New York, condescend to buy bargains, as well as in London. She was struck with the amount and magnitude of her purchases. 'Have you no fear,' said Caroline, as they were returning home, 'that Mr. Ellison will think you extravagant?'

'It is nothing to him,' said the lady; 'I buy all out of my own allowance.'

'Is it possible,' said Caroline, 'that you have regular pin money?'

'You may call it pin money, if you please,' said Mrs. Ellison. 'I have a stated sum for my own expenses; I should be perfectly wretched if I had to go to Mr. Ellison for every farthing I wanted to spend; never marry without such a stipulation.' Caroline thought of

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Benson; the recollection of him came over her like an east wish, and she turned blue and cold.

At first, Caroline was noticed as Mrs. Ellison's friend, but her beauty soon attracted observation, and she quickly caught whatever was stylish in those with whom she associated. People ceased to inquire whether she was 'any body.' Many a distinguished lady of fashion, whose name had hitherto met her ear in faint echoes, now left her card for Miss Warner, and solicited her company at her soirées. 'O,' thought Caroline, 'if ever the time arrives when I can give soirées!' and again the image of Benson came over her, and again she turned blue and cold. It may be easily supposed, under such circumstances, that she strove to banish him from her mind; she ceased to write home, and hardly deigned to answer the letters she received.

'Miss Warner,' said Mr. Ellison, one morning at the breakfast table, 'I have a special embassy to you.'

'What is it?' she enquired.

'I suppose you have discovered that you are quite the glass and mould of fashion.'

Mrs. Ellison colored, though her guest did not. 'I would thank you for an egg,' said she. Mr. Ellison handed his lady the egg, and then continued; 'You may now, Miss Warner, certainly be styled the reigning belle.'

'Which do you think the best way of eating eggs?' enquired the fair mistress of the mansion; 'for my part, notwithstanding Major Hamilton pronounces breaking them into a glass vulgar, I shall take the liberty;' and she knocked it so violently with her spoon, that had she not been a lady, it might have appeared as if she were relieving some excess of feeling.

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'Well, now for your embassy,' said Caroline, with a bewitching smile.

'Let us have it by all means,' said Mrs. Ellison, with a forced laugh. '"To the fairest of the fair," I suppose.'

'You appear a little discomposed, my dear,' retorted Mr. Ellison.

'I do detest flattery,' replied the lady; she might have added, when it was not addressed to herself. Alas, how does the petty rivalship of beauty and fashion, degrade the character and ruffle the temper.

'Nevertheless, I must accomplish my embassy,' said Mr. Ellison, 'if it does happen to be surcharged with flattery. Mr. Burrell called on me yesterday, and after the warmest encomiums on Miss Warner's beauty, wit, and sweetness, asked me if she was disengaged. I told him I presumed so. Am I right?' Caroline colored, but gave an assenting bow.

'What was the meaning of that report I heard about your being engaged?' asked Mrs. Ellison, as Caroline thought, very ill-naturedly.

'I am not answerable for reports,' replied she, blushing still deeper.

'Never mind, Miss Warner,' said the gentleman, 'married ladies always think the right of flirtation belongs exclusively to themselves.'

'Not exclusively,' said the lady, 'at least their amiable partners share in the right.' The husband and wife looked any thing but amiable now; and Caroline, who was an apt disciple in such a school, sat wondering what would come next.

Mr. Ellison first broke the silence. 'Mr. Burrell,' said he, 'requests permission to call on you this evening,

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and that you will have the goodness to see him alone. The truth is, he means to offer himself, and you must be prepared with an answer.'

'Mr. Burrell!' exclaimed she, with affected astonishment, 'he is old enough to be my father!'

'Your grandfather, I should think,' said the gentleman.

'No matter,' said Mrs. Ellison; 'he is as rich as Crœsus.'

'Is he thought a man of fashion?' asked Caroline.

'Whoever becomes Mrs. Burrell,' said Mr. Ellison, 'will have the most splendid house, carriages, furniture, et cetera, in the city; she will have every thing but a young and agreeable husband.'

'Is he thought liberal?' said Caroline.

'That is not his general character, but probably a young wife will make him so.'

Evening found Caroline equipped for the interview. Mr. Burrell came at the appointed hour. Notwithstanding his peruke, whiskers and teeth were of the best workmanship, the man of sixty stood revealed.

His manner of making love certainly did not disgrace his years, as it was quite in the old fashioned style; he called her 'his lovely girl, his adorable charmer.' She in return, was all artlessness, and acknowledged that he had interested her from the first moment of her introduction. She did not think it necessary to add, that she had previously heard of his overflowing coffers.

That evening would have decided the fate of Caroline, had she not determined to stipulate for pin money. Though titles could not be introduced into America, she saw no reason why this excellent English custom should not be adopted; she, therefore, after whispering the

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yielding state of her mind, begged him to wait for a more decisive answer, till she had written to her dear parents.

The next day the following letter was despatched to her brother:

                  'Dear Horace,

'Though you and I were born in the same era, there can be nothing more different than our vocations. You labor in yours, I in mine; we can be no judges of each other's conduct, it behoves us then then to be mutually candid.

'You got me into a scrape, now for heaven's sake help me out of it. I do not accuse you of making the match between Benson and me, but certainly you were instrumental to it. Do you remember I prophesied that the time would arrive when you would see me possessing all the rank we could attain in the country? That time is near; there is no obstacle but Benson. You must break the matter to him as well as you can. Save his feelings, but be decisive, for I never will marry him. Another thing you must do, is to prepare my father and mother for a new match; and tell them that like a dutiful child, I am waiting for their consent. All this you can do much better than I can; I am sure you will do it well, but do manage it so that I may never set eyes on Benson again. I say nothing of Fanny, because I can manage her myself; I shall tell her I have acted from principle, and then the good child will say, "you have done perfectly right."

'After all, Horace, this is a troublesome world; my visit here has not been too pleasant. Mrs. Ellison hates me, because I am handsomer than she is, and because

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her caro sposo thinks so; but that is not the worst of it, I am over head and ears in --; but I forgot I was writing to you, Horace.

'A letter will accompany this from Mr. Burrell, asking my parents' consent. I have a secret for your ears only, he is two years older than his intended father-in-law. How ridiculous! I shall insist upon his kneeling and asking his papa's and mama's blessing. Do, dear Horace, write me immediately, and don't be severe on the frailties of your poor sister.'

Caroline had intended to delay giving an answer to her lover, till she had secured the article of pin-money, but he was too 'wary to be kept' in suspense, and she soon found that now or never, was his motto. She therefore permitted him to announce the engagement. Many remarks were made upon her mercenary motives; and it was said to have excited even twelve days of wonder.

At length a letter arrived, and even Caroline's nerves were a little agitated at the sight of her brother's handwriting; she broke the seal and read:

                  'My dear Caroline,

'Your long silence had prepared us for some change in your feelings, but I had not anticipated such a total dereliction from just and upright principle. You beg me not to be severe, I feel no disposition to say any thing unkind. I am sick, sick at heart, to see one so young, made in God's own image, so heartless. But I forgot my resolution, not to speak harshly; why should I? It is you who are the sufferer; it is you who are debarred from the highest and noblest privilege of our nature, a generous and disinterested attachment. If it were not

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too late, I might strive to touch your reason; but perhaps it is best that it should be as it is; virtue is formed by discipline, and He who knows our deficiencies can best tell what degree is necessary for us. All is arranged here; you can return when you please, without any fear of meeting Benson. Our parents feel great disappointment, but they do not perfectly mistake her character, but I leave you to find out its excellence, for, with the only trait you comprehend, gentleness, she unites high-souled resolution.

'There is one sentence in your letter left unfinished, which fills me with apprehension. You say "I am over head and ears in --" and then break off, as if unwilling to proceed. You cannot mean over head and ears in love, for you are no hypocrite; can it be in debt? If you have thoughtlessly involved yourself in expense, do not let it have any influence in forming this connection. I promise you that you shall be extricated from all embarrassment, without its being known; I know that I have more than sufficient for the purpose. Write to me openly and fearlessly, it is not too late to retract.'

Such was the purport of the letter. Caroline shed a few natural tears as she folded it up.

Horace had discovered one part of the truth; she was in debt, far beyond her means to discharge. It was utterly impossible that she should dress in the style of Mrs. Ellison, with her limited means, without running in debt. There were bills at the dress-makers, milliners, and jewellers. Since her engagement, these were unimportant, they were all ready to wait till she returned Mrs. Burrell. Her lover wished to accompany

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her home, but some remains of feeling prevented her accepting his offer. She was received by her family with unchanged affection. It had been a general agreement, that Benson should not visit there till after Caroline's marriage and departure. She was by that means saved from the mortification of meeting him.

When Horace first communicated to him the purport of Caroline's letter, he received the intelligence with strong emotion; in a short time, however, he grew collected and calm.

'There is more,' said he, 'to mortify my self-love in this affair, than my affection. I have felt almost from the first, that we were neither of us satisfied with each other. Often have I sought refuge with Frances, when wearied with the caprices of her sister, and I candidly acknowledge that I have sometimes wished my good genius had directed me to her in the first place.'

'My dear fellow,' said Horace, squeezing his hand, 'let us drop this subject entirely, when Caroline goes to New York, you will visit us as usual.'

A new scene was now enacting in the quiet mansion of Mr. Warner. He had made his daughter a present sufficient to amply furnish her wardrobe; beyond that was not in his power. Her apartment was crowded with silks, satins, shawls and French flowers; not a chair nor a table but was loaded with articles of this nature. It was a season of triumph for Caroline; never before had she indulged the exuberance of her really elegant taste, not even on her late visit at New York, where her debts remained unpaid. Once or twice it occurred to her that she would reserve a few hundreds to discharge them;

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but when is vanity satisfied? there was still something more to purchase, and the whole was soon appropriated.

Frances looked on with a feeling of wonder and regret; there was much in the whole affair she could not comprehend. She felt impatient to behold the man who could rival Benson, and she once expressed the feeling to her sister. Caroline laughed scornfully; there was no hypocrisy in her character. Had this trait arisen from principle, it might have been a redeeming point; but it rather proceeded from want of feeling; she could not comprehend that what was immaterial to her, would shock others.

'Do you really think, Fanny,' said she, 'that I am going to marry Burrell for his beauty or his talents? No, my sweet one, it is for his goods and chattels. How I wish he could be translated like Elijah, I am sure he is as venerable, and let his mantle of gold fall on me.' It was a favorite source of drollery with Caroline to apply Scripture passages ludicrously. 'But why do you look so serious? I verily believe you envy me my Methuselah.'

'I do not at present envy you any thing you are to possess,' said Frances, quietly; 'of all misery, I can imagine, the greatest is giving the hand without the heart.'

'There are many ideas,' replied Caroline, 'that read well in a novel, which are not fit for real life. Do you really think one half of the matches that take place are from affection? No, no, Fanny; once in a very, very great while, the heart and hand are joined together; but when they are, it is like the Siamese twins, a prodigy. Now a truce to sentiment, I want your opinion about

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these satins; which will look best with diamonds, the white or amber?'

'White looks well with every thing. Are you going to purchase diamonds?'

'I purchase diamonds! Why you dear innocent soul, my father's whole income would not buy me a pair of diamond ear-rings. No, Burrell desired that he might furnish my bridal jewels; of course they will be diamonds. Mrs. Ellison's are superb, but mine will undoubtedly be more so; Burrell's income is much larger than Ellison's. He has not made me a present worth speaking of, since we were engaged, and I have no doubt he means to put all his strength into my diamonds. I perceive you do not enter into my splendid prospects. I forgive you; it is human nature. Never mind, Fanny, when I get settled, I will send for you, and you will have much greater advantages for making a match than I had.'

'I thank you, but I am sure diamonds would not add to my happiness.'

'You think so now, because you know nothing of their importance in the world.'

'I hope I never shall know.'

'You are deceiving yourself, if you suppose all this indifference arises from principle. It is ignorance, pure ignorance.'

'Then let me enjoy it,' said Frances, smiling, 'there are some subjects on which it is folly to be wise.'

'You cannot expect me, however, to introduce you to the circle in which I shall move, without you are willing to conform to it.'

'Caroline,' said Frances, firmly, 'you must not suppose because I have been silent, that I have not my own

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views and opinions of the plan you are pursuing. God only knows how it will terminate; but I would not exchange situations with you, for all this world can give. And now let us drop the subject.'

'With all my heart, I am sure we shall never agree upon it. Have you seen Benson lately?'

'Not since you returned.'

'Did he take my dismissal of him much in dudgeon?'

'He made an observation that perhaps you will not like to hear repeated.'

'O yes, I shall, pray tell me what it was.'

'He said, "that when we ceased to esteem, it was easy to cease to love."'

'Nonsense, that was all pique, but I really think, Fanny, you and he would make an excellent match. Perhaps, however, you would not choose to take up with my cast off garments.'

'O,' replied she, good humoredly, 'you know I have always been accustomed to them.'

'That is true, you took them as fast as I outgrew them; that was mamma's economy; how odious all these details are. I do really think it had an effect on your character; wearing old clothes all your life!'

At length Mr. Burrell arrived; his equipage was splendid. He told Caroline, 'her house wanted only its lovely mistress to render it complete.' In the eyes of Horace and Frances, he was any thing but attractive; but the one most interested, seemed perfectly satisfied.

The wedding evening arrived, and still no jewels had been presented. Caroline arrayed herself in her bridal dress, and arranged her hair for the splendid tiara of diamonds, which was to far surpass Mrs. Ellison's.

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Radiant in smiles, she descended to the parlor, to meet her lover tete-á-tete, before the hour appointed for the ceremony arrived. He was the most admiring, the most enraptured of men, and thanking his fair mistress for her attention to his request in permitting him to furnish her wedding jewels, placed a package in her hand. She only waited to express her thanks, and flew to her room to examine and adorn herself with her treasures. She found Frances quietly folding up her dresses and putting the apartment in order. 'They have come! I have got them!' she exclaimed, 'give me a pair of scissors, a knife, any thing,' and she began pulling upon the knot with her slender fingers, and white teeth. At length the package was unfastened, and the little red morocco case appeared before her; for a moment she hesitated, then hastily opened it! it fell from her hand, and she threw herself back, as if in the act of fainting. Frances flew to assist her. 'Stand off!' exclaimed Caroline, 'I want breath.' The struggle was for a moment doubtful, but happily a burst of tears relieved her. It was long and violent, but at length her words found utterance. 'A wretch! a monster! an old super-annuated fool! it is not too late yet,' and she began to tear off the orange blossoms from her glossy ringlets.

'You are distracted,' said her sister, 'what does all this mean?'

'Look,' she exclaimed, spurning, with her white satin shoe, the case that lay on the carpet. Frances picked it up; it contained a pair of pearl ear-rings and a pin, neither remarkable for their richness or beauty.

'They are very pretty,' said Frances, 'shall I put them into your ears?' Another burst of tears followed.

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'You will render yourself unfit to be seen; and what will Mr. Burrell think!'

'I care not what he thinks.' Violent passion soon relieves itself. Caroline began to reflect upon his house, his equipage, his fashion and wealth, and grew calmer; but with a tact for which she was remarkable, she determined to wear no ear-rings that evening. Composing her countenance, and again arranging her orange blossoms, she descended to the admiring bridegroom.

'It is all in vain,' said she, 'to try, I cannot wear the ear-rings; I must have my ears prepared for them.' Her flushed cheeks and swollen eyes bore testimony to the pain she had suffered in trying to force them through her ears. Her lover assured her she wanted no ornaments in his eyes, and that he had never fancied ear-rings.

'There is a style of dress, however,' said Caroline, 'that is consistent with one's rank in life. I hope I shall always dress in such a manner as to do you honor.'

'Sweet creature,' exclaimed the bridegroom, kissing her hand.

'I have always thought,' said Caroline, making a last effort to effect her purpose, 'that a husband must save himself much trouble, by appropriating a sum to his wife's dress. I am told that pin-money is coming quite into fashion.'

'Indeed!' exclaimed the bridegroom.

'Don't you agree with me?' asked the fair bride.

'Talk not of pin-money. Is not my heart, my hand, my fortune, at your disposal?'

Caroline turned away with disgust, and sad misgivings came over her. In one hour the ceremony had passed, and bridal visitors began to throng. Perhaps, among

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them all, there was not one less happy than the beautiful bride; the two great objects for which she had as yet been toiling were still unaccomplished, pin-money and diamonds.

The evening went off just as such evenings usually do. Caroline stood in the midst of her bridemaids, resplendent in external loveliness. The orange flowers, so lately torn with indignation from her hair, were carefully replaced, and trembled with every motion of her head; the veil de noce hung in graceful folds to the border of her white satin garment; all was in fine taste, all complete, except ear-rings, necklace, and bracelets; alas, these were wanting!

The next morning at ten, the equipage was at the door; the bride took leave of her family, and was handed into her carriage by the alert bridegroom; the coach with its four bays and out-rider, disappeared, like Cinderella's equipage, and all at Mr. Warner's returned to its usual state of domestic quiet.

It is said by some sensible person, that we become more acquainted with people in three days travel, than a year's stationary residence.

The first day, the new married couple were very conversable. The bridegroom described his house and furniture, told how much he gave for every article, and they rolled smoothly on. The second day's conversation flagged a little. Caroline began to complain of being 'shut up,' and how tedious it was to journey, and at last proposed letting down the green shades, which had been closed at the express desire of the gentleman, who was much troubled with an inflammation in his eyes. 'Certainly, my love, if you desire it,' said he, but without

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making any movement to assist her efforts. After some time she accomplished her purpose, let down the shade and the window, and, putting her head out, declared 'it was delightful to breathe the fresh air.' 'O not the window, my love,' said Mr. Burrell, gently drawing her towards him, and pulling it up. 'I cannot permit you to endanger your precious health, the air is very cold; you don't consider it is the third of November,' and he wrapped his wadded silk coat round him. 'I am not the least afraid of taking cold,' said she, 'I must have it down. I shall die to ride so shut up.' 'To be honest,' replied he, 'if you are not afraid, I am.'

'O that is quite another affair,' said Caroline; 'vous êtes le maitre. I suppose I have nothing to do but obey.'

It seemed as if the bridegroom thought the same, for in a few moments he said 'this light is insupportable,' and he drew up the shade.

'Good gracious!' exclaimed the bride, 'am I to ride all day to-day, shut up, as I was yesterday?'

'Perhaps you will take a little nap, my love, I always sleep a great deal when I ride.'

'I am not so fortunate,' returned she.

'Every thing depends upon the carriage in which you travel. I had this built on purpose for my comfort.'

'So it seems,' replied Caroline.

'It is finished in the most thorough manner, it cost nearly three thousand dollars, my horses cost twenty-five hundred more; there is not, perhaps, a handsomer team in New York. You travelled in a very different style from this when you went on and returned last fall, and this spring.'

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'Very different,' said Caroline, and she thought of the gay and animated party in the stage-coach, and the pleasant variety on board the steam-boat; and, notwithstanding the style in which she was travelling, heartily wished she could exchange the mode.

'Pray try to get a little nap, my love; nothing shortens the way like sleep,' and the bridegroom drew from one of the pockets of the carriage, a travelling cap, took off his hat, put on the cap, and leant back. In a very short time, he gave evident signs of being asleep. Nothing could have been less interesting to a young bride, than her present contemplations. There is a relaxation of the muscles in sleep, by no means favorable to age; the falling under lip, the strongly marked lines of the countenance, the drooping corners of the mouth, the eminent risk of losing his balance, first on one side, then on the other; the danger, too, that Caroline's French hat incurred, by his sudden inclinations towards her; all this was not calculated to improve the already ruffled temper of the young lady. At length her bonnet received so rude a shock, that she hastily moved to the front, and left him the sole possessor of the back seat.

'And I am to pass my life with this being!' thought she. 'Where Benson in his place, how animated, how pleasant would be his conversation! After all there is nothing like mind; nothing, at least, but wealth and fashion. Thank heaven! I have secured these, and these will command every thing. Pray heaven this may be the last journey we shall take together.'

Uninteresting as was Burrell's conversation, still it was less vexatious than her thoughts. Her own family circle, composed of beings so unlike the one before

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her, rose to her view; her brother Horace, so intellectual, so manly, and high-souled; Frances so gentle and disinterested, and Benson, who wanted nothing but rank, to make him peerless; Benson, who had loved her with such discriminating affection, who had appreciated the powers of her mind, powers that now were totally incomprehensible to the being who sat nodding and reeling opposite. It was insupportable, she could not endure it, and hastily again letting down the green shade and the window, she once more breathed the fresh air. The stone walls and leafless trees, were more agreeable to her sight, than her companion within, and resting her chin on the window, she gazed on every object, as the carriage rapidly passed, till a sudden jolt awoke her husband. He uttered an exclamation of astonishment. 'The window down, the air blowing upon me, and I asleep!'

'Upon my word,' said Caroline, 'I could endure my prison no longer, and I thought as you had accommodated yourself, I would take the same liberty.'

'I probably shall have to thank you for an attack of the rheumatism, Mrs. Burrell,' said the bridegroom, for the first time calling her by her new name.

'And I have already to thank you for a fit of the head ache, Mr. Burrell,' replied Caroline.

The air and light were again excluded, and the new married couple, who felt that they had mutual wrongs, did not attempt any conversation. Every little while, the gentleman rubbed the shoulder which had been exposed to the air, with an expression of pain, and the lady did not forget, occasionally, to press her hand to her forehead, and smell of her Cologne bottle.

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Such was the second day of the journey, and the third of the bridals! Of the following day, there is but little to recount; it was one of selfish accommodation on his side, of vexation and ennui on her's. [sic]

Caroline was not ill-tempered, she was only heartless, and when they got into the carriage the fourth morning, an observation of his restored her animation and good humor.

'To-night, my love,' said he, 'we shall spend in our own house; and I believe I may venture to say, that I have the handsomest house, the handsomest carriage, and the handsomest wife in the city. We shall have every body calling, you had better fix a day for the wedding visits, that they may be in style.'

'O certainly; it will be my wish to do credit to your taste.'

'That there is no doubt of.'

'I hope you liked my wedding dress?'

'Very much.'

'It was very costly,' said Caroline, assuming with her usual tact, his style of calculation. 'I paid two dollars a yard for the satin, and seventy dollars for the blond veil.'

'Every thing should be consistent,' said he, 'your dress, and my house.'

'Yes,' said Caroline, 'I suppose--perhaps--you will choose I should wear diamonds.'

'Certainly, if you have them.'

'I have not,' replied she; 'my father could not afford to give them to me.' The ice was broken, and she continued, 'but you can, and of course, will.'

'I prefer pearls,' said he.

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'Pearls are very well for half dress, but no lady of fortune or fashion, now a days, appears in full dress without diamonds. How beautiful Mrs. Ellison's are!'

'I never observed them.'

'They are exquisite. I was one day praising them to Mr. Ellison, after I was engaged to you, and he said--but I won't tell you, you will think me vain.'

'O yes, do tell me, I insist upon it.'

'Well, then, he said you had the handsomest house, the handsomest carriage, and would have the handsomest wife in the city, but his had the handsomest diamonds.'

'Perhaps he will find he is mistaken,' said Mr. Burrell, looking significantly.

When they entered New York, and the wheels of the carriage rattled over the pavements, Caroline forgot her tedious journey, her disgust at her companion, and her ennui. The house was as splendid as her husband had described it; it was furnished in the best taste, and adorned with beautiful specimens of statuary. Thus far, wealth possessed the power that she ascribed to it, and thus far she was satisfied.

'Shall I fix on next Wednesday, my dear,' said Caroline, 'for the wedding visits?'

'Next Wednesday? I see no objection.'

'I hear Mrs. Ellison is determined, on that occasion, to eclipse every one.'

'She shall not eclipse my wife,' said Mr. Burrell, proudly.

'Her diamonds will throw my pearl ear-rings and pin, quite into the shade.'

'My wife shall wear diamonds more costly than Mr. Ellison's,' said the bridegroom, with dignity.

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The diamonds were purchased, they were larger, more costly, and more brilliant than Mrs. Ellison's; and Caroline had obtained one of the objects for which she married.

There is no happiness without alloy. Caroline appeared in her drawing-room, ready for company; a tiara of diamonds sparkled on her brow, a string of them encircled her white neck and arms, and a dazzling cross hung upon her breast. Her husband met her as she approached him, reflecting a thousand colors from her brilliant ornaments.

'How superb!' he exclaimed. 'I long to hear what Ellison will say to my diamonds.'

'Yours!' said Caroline; 'I thought they were a present to me!'

'You shall wear them, my love, but they cost a great many thousand dollars; they are property.'

'After all, then,' thought Caroline, 'they are only lent to me!'

That evening was one of triumph; all the fashion and beauty of the city were congregated. Caroline saw her diamonds reflected from mirrors on every side, but still the thought obtruded, 'they are not mine.'

Invitations poured in; she was the evening and morning star of fashion. 'At length,' she wrote to Horace, 'I have accomplished my object; all the rank that one can obtain in this country, I possess; I hold in my hand the key-stone of the arch,--Wealth and Fashion.'

Caroline, however, had too much intellect to be long blind to the degree of estimation in which she was held. She soon perceived that her husband was laughed

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at, and that she was pitied rather than envied. It was true she had all the outward signs of homage, but every thing about her was mockery. There is no tyranny like that of the weak. Burrell regarded her only as an appendage to himself; she found him selfish, ostentatious and mean. In vain she strove to obtain the ultimatum of her desires, pin-money. Like herself, he considered wealth power, and not a particle would he trust out of his hands; this was a source of constant altercation.

After the novelty of showing a handsome wife was over, Burrell began to feel the want of his bachelor habits; he liked whist-clubs and supper- parties, better than soirées and pic-nics. The privation of his company was no annoyance to his wife; but when he no longer entered into her mode of visiting, or her amusements, he thought them unnecessary, and complained of so much useless expense. Every thing, in his view, was useless, except what contributed to his pleasure. Caroline had gone on accumulating debts without looking forward to any payment. Those incurred before her marriage were still unsettled; the same trades-people were happy to supply her to any amount; and as a request for money always produced a scene, she acquired the constant habit of running up bills.

Where now were her brilliant prospects? She was either alone, or in a crowded circle, or what was still worse, tete-à-tete with Burrell. Among all the circle of fashion, she possessed not one real friend. Mrs. Ellison was as heartless as Caroline, without her talents. Often her thoughts reverted to her own home, the abode of her childhood, and she felt that in the depths and fullness of domestic love, there was even more power than wealth

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can bestow. In one of those fits of musing, which occur to every rational mind, a letter was brought to Caroline; she opened it, and found it was from Horace, informing her 'that the favorite wish of his heart was now accomplished; Benson was, after all that had passed, to become his brother, and that the day was appointed for the marriage to take place between him and Frances.'

'My predictions,' he added, 'with regard to him are fast fulfilling; he is attaining eminence in his profession. I am commissioned by my parents as well as the parties, to request that you and Mr. Burrell will come on to the nuptials. They are to be private and without show, but it is pleasant for families to congregate on these occasions. You need have no apprehension about Benson; he views your former engagement with him much in the same light as you do, one most happily set aside.' Caroline read the letter with a feeling of vexation. 'It is only two years,' said she, 'since he professed to be attached to me; what inconsistent creatures men are; at least I have been uniform in my conduct.'

There was still, however, a pleasure in the idea of going in style to the humble nuptials of her sister. When Mr. Burrell entered, she informed him of the invitation.

'Go, and welcome,' said he, 'but don't ask me.'

'Shall I travel with two horses or four?' asked the lady.

'O, four by all means; the stage coach is the best way of travelling.'

'You surely do not mean to let your wife go in the public stage?'

'Why not, it was the way in which you were accustomed to travel before we became acquainted.'

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'Mr. Burrell,' said the lady, 'it would be disgraceful to you to suffer me to travel in that manner.'

'Then stay at home; the carriage and horses, I suppose, you will allow are mine; I had the carriage built for my own convenience; I am going a journey [sic] next month, and shall want it. It is much better for you to go in the style of your family.'

'This is intolerable,' said Caroline, with a vehemence that sometimes overcame her usual tact; 'to be the wife of a man that is worth millions, and derive no advantage from his wealth.'

'Is it no advantage, madam, to live in a house like this? to visit in the first circles, and to wear diamonds when you please?'

'None,' said she, the truth forcing its way, 'compared to what I relinquished.'

'And pray, madam, what did you relinquish?'

'What you, had you lavished upon me all the wealth, to which, as your wife, I am entitled, could never have procured me, self-approbation.'

We sometimes from habit, or want of thought, rely too much upon the obtuseness of minds that we estimate lowly. This was the case with Caroline. She in several instances had suffered her disgust or indignation to vent itself in words, of which she did not realize the strength. The undisciplined prepare scorpion whips for themselves. Her ill-disguised contempt and aversion first broke down the common barriers of forbearance, and when her husband became convinced that she had no affection for him, he heartily repaid her aversion. Scenes of accusation and retort followed. Burrell assured her she had full permission to return to her boasted home, and

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remain there as long as she pleased. Caroline replied, that it was the first wish of her heart, but as his wife, she was entitled to a suitable maintenance. It would be painful and useless to detail the low altercations that followed, before a paltry pittance was granted. It may easily be imagined in what manner they parted, and with what sensations she returned to her early home. In one sense she had accomplished all for which she had panted, wealth, fashion, and diamonds; and her present allowance she was at liberty to dignify by the name of pin-money.

The morning before her departure, she gave orders to a servant to desire her creditors to send in their bills to Mr. Burrell, the ensuing week. His rage may easily be imagined, when they poured in upon him; but after consulting gentlemen of the law, he concluded to pay them.

Caroline arrived in season to witness the nuptials of her sister. What a contrast to her own! For the first time, she felt, that if there is a paradise on earth, it is formed by mutual affection. How could she help comparing Benson, in all the grace of youthful intellect and manly beauty, to Burrell! The thought was agony, and unable to command her tears, she flew to her room. Horace followed her, and begged for admission.

'My dear brother,' said she, 'I return to you an altered creature. I detest the very sound of wealth and fashion, and I perfectly despise my own folly in supposing there could be happiness in either. I only wish now to forget all that has passed, and I hope you will forget it too.'

'No, Caroline, I cannot forget it, nor do I wish you to forget the past. If we rightly remember our errors,

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they become eventually sources of improvement. An author has observed, "that in every one's life there have been thousands of feelings, each of which, if strongly seized upon, and made the subject of reflection, would have shown us what our character was, and what it was likely to become." In the early aspirations of your mind, you may read your history thus far; do not, therefore, strive to banish wholesome reflection, but convert it to its best purposes, moral discipline.'

'I am sure,' said Caroline, 'I have had enough of discipline since I married, and I don't see that I am at all the better for it.'

'There is no magical power in discipline that compels us to improve,' said Horace, 'but it is our own fault if we do not accept improvement from lessons of suffering and disappointment.'

'I have learnt nothing by it,' again repeated Caroline.

'I think you have; you have learnt that wealth and fashion can, in themselves alone, confer no happiness; and that the only nobility in our land, worth possessing, is derived from talent and virtue.'

There is a certain church in the city of New York, which I have always regarded with peculiar interest, on account of a marriage there solemnized, under very singular circumstances, in my grandmother's girlhood. That venerable lady chanced to be a spectator of the scene, and ever after made it her favorite narrative. Whether the edifice now standing on the same site be the identical one to which she referred, I am not antiquarian enough to know; nor would it be worth while to correct myself, perhaps, of an agreeable error, by reading the date of its erection on the tablet over the door. It is a stately church, surrounded by an inclosure of the loveliest green, within which appear urns, pillars, obelisks, and other forms of monumental marble, the tributes of private affection, or more splendid memorials of historic dust. With such a place, though the tumult of the city rolls beneath its tower, one would be willing to connect some legendary interest.

The marriage might be considered as the result of an early engagement, though there had been two intermediate weddings on the lady's part, and forty years of celibacy on that of the gentleman. At sixty-five, Mr. Ellenwood was a shy, but not quite a secluded man; selfish, like all men who brood over their own hearts, yet manifesting, on rare occasions, a vein of generous sentiment; a scholar, throughout life, though always

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an indolent one, because his studies had no definite object, either of public advantage or personal ambition; a gentleman, high-bred and fastidiously delicate, yet sometimes requiring a considerable relaxation, in his behalf, of the common rules of society. In truth, there were so many anomalies in his character, and, though shrinking with diseased sensibility from public notice, it had been his fatality so often to become the topic of the day, by some wild eccentricity of conduct, that people searched his lineage for an hereditary taint of insanity. But there was no need of this. His caprices had their origin in a mind that lacked the support of an engrossing purpose, and in feelings that preyed upon themselves, for want of other food. If he were mad, it was the consequence, and not the cause, of an aimless and abortive life.

The widow was as complete a contrast to her third bridegroom, in every thing but age, as can well be conceived. Compelled to relinquish her first engagement, she had been united to a man of twice her own years, to whom she became an exemplary wife, and by whose death she was left in possession of a splendid fortune. A southern gentleman considerably younger than herself, succeeded to her hand, and carried her to Charleston, where, after many uncomfortable years, she found herself again a widow. It would have been singular, if any uncommon delicacy of feeling had survived through such a life as Mrs. Dabney's; it could not but be crushed and killed by her early disappointment, the cold duty of her first marriage, the dislocation of the heart's principles, consequent on a second union, and the unkindness of her southern husband, which had inevitably driven her

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to connect the idea of his death with that of her comfort. To be brief, she was that wisest, but unloveliest variety of woman, a philosopher, bearing troubles of the heart with equanimity, dispensing with all that should have been her happiness, and making the best of what remained. Sage in most matters, the widow was perhaps the more amiable, for the one frailty that made her ridiculous. Being childless, she could not remain beautiful by proxy, in the person of a daughter; she therefore refused to grow old and ugly, on any consideration; she struggled with time, and held fast her roses in spite of him, till the venerable thief appeared to have relinquished the spoil, as not worth the trouble of acquiring it.

The approaching marriage of this woman of the world, with such an unworldly man as Mr. Ellenwood, was announced soon after Mrs. Dabney's return to her native city. Superficial observers, and deeper ones, seemed to concur, in supposing that the lady must have borne no inactive part, in arranging the affair; there were considerations of expediency, which she would be far more likely to appreciate than Mr. Ellenwood; and there was just the specious phantom of sentiment and romance, in this late union of two early lovers, which sometimes makes a fool of a woman, who has lost her true feelings among the accidents of life. All the wonder was, how the gentleman, with his lack of worldly wisdom, and agonizing consciousness of ridicule, could have been induced to take a measure, at once so prudent and so laughable. But while people talked, the wedding day arrived. The ceremony was to be solem-

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nized according to the Episcopalian forms, and in open church, with a degree of publicity that attracted many spectators, who occupied the front seats of the galleries, and the pews near the altar and along the broad aisle. It had been arranged, or possibly it was the custom of the day, that the parties should proceed separately to church. By some accident, the bridegroom was a little less punctual than the widow and her bridal attendants; with whose arrival, after this tedious, but necessary preface, the action of our tale may be said to commence.

The clumsy wheels of several old fashioned coaches were heard, and the gentlemen and ladies, composing the bridal party, came through the church door, with the sudden and gladsome effect of a burst of sunshine. The whole group, except the principal figure, was made up of youth and gaiety. As they streamed up the broad aisle, while the pews and pillars seemed to brighten on either side, their steps were as buoyant as if they mistook the church for a ball-room, and were ready to dance hand in hand to the altar. So brilliant was the spectacle, that few took notice of a singular phenomenon that had marked its entrance. At the moment when the bride's foot touched the threshold, the bell swung heavily in the tower above her, and sent forth its deepest knell. The vibrations died away and returned, with prolonged solemnity, as she entered the body of the church.

'Good heavens! what an omen,' whispered a young lady to her love.

'On my honor,' replied the gentleman, 'I believe the bell has the good taste to toll of its own accord. What

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has she to do with weddings? If you, dearest Julia, were approaching the altar, the bell would ring out its merriest peal. It has only a funeral knell for her.'

The bride, and most of her company, had been too much occupied with the bustle of entrance, to hear the first boding stroke of the bell, or at least to reflect on the singularity of such a welcome to the altar. They therefore continued to advance, with undiminished gaiety. The gorgeous dresses of the time, the crimson velvet coats, the gold-laced hats, the hoop-petticoats, the silk, satin, brocade and embroidery, the buckles, canes and swords, all displayed to the best advantage on persons suited to such finery, made the group appear more like a bright colored picture, than any thing real. But by what perversity of taste, had the artist represented his principal figure as so wrinkled and decayed, while yet he had decked her out in the brightest splendor of attire, as if the lov