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penses, during my residence with my friend. Friend,' it read, thee is in distress; and although I yielded to thy entreaty to take money for thy board, I did so to avoid opposing thy will at the time. In giving it back, I have done even as I would that others should do to me. If we could change places, I feel assured that thee would have acted as I have done. Accept it, as a loan, at least; and when convenient, return it, if thee pleases. We are all amply recompensed for thy expenses, by the mutual kindness and improvement we have reaped from thy tarrying with us. May heaven bless thee! Call upon Friend Bond. He can employ thee, as I think.'

I lost no time in calling upon Friend Bond, whom I found to be a merchant of high standing, retired from business, upon an easy fortune, which he spent in works of benevolence and christianity.

He promptly opened his subject, and after saying he was perfectly satisfied with the letter I brought him, offered me a home in his house, if I would consent to keep his accounts. I found that William Garrets had transacted the whole business for me, probably seeing my unfitness to make any application in my own behalf. And on the second day of my arrival, I found myself partaking of the simple refinements of Quaker life in a city, than which nothing is in truer taste. I soon got acquainted with his wishes, though I made but a sad beginning; but he corrected my errors so kindly, and by never appearing other than satisfied, I became pleased with myself, and more anxious to please him. Occupation, which is the secret of happiness, kept out morbid states of mind, and I was really happy, for a time, in the exercise of constant labor.

Six months rolled on, and still found me improved, and the source of improvement to others; but my early disposition to love, soon wrecked all my prospects.

Friend Bond's eldest daughter was nearly seventeen; an artless girl, who had read more than was for her own good. Under her cold exterior, she covered a heart all passion and fire. It was not art that concealed it, but native modesty; and I hardly believe she herself knew the depth of her own enthusiasm. I can scarcely tell how it was, but an attachment certainly grew between us; involuntary on my part-perhaps so on hers. I know how I ought to have acted. I should have fled from this peaceful family; but then I should only have left the effect to have been produced by others, while I should have escaped. Yes! I should have fled; but, blinded by my own passion, I kept on, and nursed the pinion that impelled the steel.' It was so new to be loved, simply and honestly, with no guile or plan; to trust to the feeling itself, and not to artificial aids to passion, which most people are obliged to resort to, to keep up the illusion, that I loved now better than ever, and while I indulged an old passion, by the novelty of the attending circumstances, it was almost like a new one. Beside, I got room to draw some philosophical deductions about the passion; to find out the falsity of that theory of love, which makes it impossible for us to love but one object during life. The truth of the whole matter is this: We feel but once that headlong ardor, that intensity of passion, which is spurred on by novelty and inexperience, and which places woman

above humanity-a being to be idolized, and looked up to, and prayed to. When such a love is not consummated, the passing away of the illusion is like taking the vital breath from the body; it is like the escape of air condensed by artificial means, which sometimes destroys the vessel that contains it. This sudden change of habit, of feeling sometimes, if acting upon a sickly imagination, destroys life. So that people do die for love, as well as for loss of property, and other misfortunes which take away interest in life, and leave a canker at the heart. But shall we conclude from this, that we may not feel attachment twice? Deprived, by freak, of one object of affection, though we may mourn the loss, if we discover qualities to admire in another, may we not wish to bring ourselves within the sphere of their influence?-to possess them? This is love. Is it inconsistent to have shades of remembrance of past friends? Are we unjust to the present, by reflecting upon the noble qualities of those we have lost? Is not the present possession raised in value, by feeling that it is something really true, and common, and rational, and lasting, that we possess? Young men, mad with wine, and tobacco, and young ladies nervous from late hours, and tight lacing, and cologne water- may sneer at such reasoning; but we shall find it to be true in life.

There are many incentives to loving. The beauty of the object, the thought that we are beloved, the desire of returning an honorable attachment, the fear of wounding the pride of a delicate girl. I cannot say whether I felt most pleasure or pain, in suspecting that I had gained the affections of Rebecca Bond. If I had thought that she knew me, if she could have known all my weaknesses, and crimes, and faults, and then have loved me, I should have been thankful for her affection. But now she only knew me by present appearances. She was giving her earliest affections, her virgin feelings, to one who had run through the whole catalogue of vices. To not undeceive her, seemed like theft; and yet I could not do it. So that in reflecting upon the subject, I began in earnest to love her.

One evening I was about to start upon a journey to a distant part of the country, on urgent business for her father, and it so happened that we were left alone in the library. I began to talk of my contemplated absence, and to hope she would study a great deal, etc. I looked in her face, and it was suffused with tears. She felt the secret was out. Her simplicity could not save her; and all she could do, was to hide her face in my bosom. What could I have done? Upon the instant I determined to marry her. I saw no other ground I could honorably take. I consoled her grief, cautioned her about her feelings, assured her of my happiness, and said all I should have said, and perhaps more. The next morning I departed.

During my journey, she occupied my whole thoughts, and every stage only increased my passion. How superior,' thought I, 'is the love of this young girl, unaccustomed to the world, to that of the heartless and false doll of dress, whose every word is for effect, and every thought a desire for admiration; who can sacrifice all domestic pleasures, and follow fashion and vice-vice of thought; who lives only in crowds, and is miserable alone; who loves self supremely,

and takes a husband for his carriage and house, and enters into matrimony for the liberties it allows her.' There are such women; the idols of the ball-room, and the belles of watering-places. They enjoy a butterfly celebrity, and then decay early, in mind and body; the victims to fashion, or worse. What thoughts must linger around the bosoms of such women, on their dying beds, as they think of their neglected children, their neglected God! Young men know not what they follow, as they glide on in the wake of the pluméd syren of the dance. They are the false lights which meteors hold out to draw the tumbling ships upon the rocks. They lure us on with music, and the pattering of tiny feet, and their jewelled fingers, and false smiles, and falser hearts; and when the victim is caught, like the veiled prophet, they display their awful hideousness. No, no! Love is found in gentle hearts. It dwells not amid the riots of pleasure; it dies in the glare of splendor, and cannot live in the heart devoted to dress, and weak follies. It is more nurtured in quietness, than in loud applause, or the world's praise. Give me the hardly defined feelings of a young and timid girl, and I leave to you the confessions of the gaudy coquette. Give me the beaming glance of a liquid eye, and I yield the bright and flashing blaze of the proud beauty to others. I would not trust a belle nor a blue. They are each too philosophical in their own way.

His heart would have been cold indeed, that would not have been touched with the proofs of love I received from the gentle Rebecca, on my return. She had grown thin and pale, during my absence. The first time we were alone together, she wished the assurance of my affection, and I gave it to her, as truly as tears now blot the page for her sufferings. I explained to her as much as I could of myself, and warned her to be circumspect. I felt guilty in cherishing this secret attachment, but who can resist the fascinations of woman's love? The good Quaker suspected nothing wrong; and there was nothing wrong; though to be secret, might be wrong. I came to love her extravagantly, and was fast approaching the climacterac of my feelings. Her affections seemed pure from the hand of nature. Like the young bud of the wilderness, human eye had never looked upon her heart. Her heart was a bud blossoming because it was ripe, and I happened to be the first passer-by to snatch its fragrance. Would to God we had never met!

I am drawing near to the end of my story. I have got as far as it can do good for any one to know. Why must I harrow up my own feelings, by telling of the base suspicions that rested upon me? Yes, I was charged by the simple-hearted old man with the ruin of his daughter. The same simplicity that gave me all liberties, now was turned into the opposite scale. A kiss betrayed us.

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William Garrets exculpated me, in his own mind, but he could not convince his friend. My eyes were open to the evil I had unconsciously committed. This,' said I, adds another heart, blighted by contact with mine, and one more link to the long chain of my unhappiness.'

SHE clung to me as if for life. Suddenly I felt a quivering sensation run through her body, and with a shrill cry of agony, she dropped

dead at my feet. Oh, my God! -the agony of that moment! The old man gave me one pale, wild glance; and the daughter he would not look at while living, he embraced when dead.

I staid in this city long enough for the affair to undergo legal examination, and then departed.. Where?

CHAPTER XVIII.

YES, where! I have traversed many lands, solitary and alone. I have never dared, since that fatal night, when my arms enclosed a corpse, to give or receive friendship. A curse seemed to light upon all associated with me; and it seems that I was born to become a beacon to others; kept alive to endure the buffetings of the storm, and, amid the tempests that well nigh overwhelm it, raising a light to warn off the approaching ship. My story is the light I was made to lift. I have told a long tale, because my approaching dissolution warns me to employ all my remaining strength, (which has been wonderfully preserved, it would seem, for the very purpose,) for the good of my fellow-men. All I can say more, is, let others look to the early years of their children. Let young men look to the early years still left them. Our early years color our whole lives, as surely as the fountain sweetens or embitters the waters of the stream.

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THE TRUE HERO.

'INGANAS curas, studiumque ignobile vulgi talia, mens horum sobria post habuit; sed quasi per latebras et amæna silentia vallis, innocuam vitæ sustinuere viain.'

DEEP in the vale of humble life,
Oft have I seen the mortal strife

By village hero waged;
Stretched on nis pallet cold and scant,
With destitution, sickness, want,

And pain at once engaged.

Deserted in his hour of need
By friends as false as broken reed,
He to himself is true!
Though unsupported by the loud
But senseless clamors of the crowd,
Or plaudits of the few.

One EYE there is, and that alone
This moral grandeur from His throne
Contemplates, and sustains:
More high doth HE that peasant hold
Than him who, canopied by gold,

O'er subject millions reigns.

Then think no more that Virtue stands
More firm, because admiring bands
Of friends or flatterers cheer;
Through darkness, silence, solitude,
By none sustained, by nought subdued,
She holds her bright career.

Friendless, forlorn, with pain to cope,
And peril doom'd, till faith and hope
Are in fruition lost;

Each ill surmounted or o'erthrown,
She courts the ken of One alone,
But finds that One a host!

Thus, throned on rocks, Missouri takes
His giant leap, and thundering shakes
The depth of woods below!
His lone magnificence displays,
Where not an eye the pomp surveys,
But His that bade him flow.

OBSERVATIONS

ON THE TIDES OF THE OCEAN AND THE 'GULF STREAM.'

EY MOSES MOHAWK.

In every operation of nature, which we profess clearly to understand, we may remark that the most striking feature is SIMPLICITY. We find nothing at variance with, or in the least degree differing from, the plainest notions or conceptions of propriety and common sense. And not unfrequently, when we have removed a seeming veil, and unfolded a hidden mystery, our admiration and wonder are excited, as we are made acquainted with the apparently artless means by which Nature accomplishes her works. This is a prominent feature every where, and in every thing. It is this which so powerfully captivates our wondering sense,' and here we may trace the true source of the 'sublime and beautiful.' And yet, notwithstanding these manifestations, men are too much disposed to look to far distant causes of certain effects, when those very causes lie spread before them. Hence we find, that some investigators soar into the regions of space, and others plunge into the bowels of the earth, in search of facts and arguments to substantiate a favorite theory, when the causes they would endeavor to explain, surround them like the air they breathe, and are sometimes palpable to the touch.

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The tides of the ocean have been an enigma to learned men through all time, and until within a late period, their movements were a mystery as incomprehensible as the structure of the heavens.

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