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THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

Written for the Casket.

form; and yet, her loveliness was forgotten in that The Mother and Daughter. something than beauty dearer the soul-the spirit in

By L. H. MМ.
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds, too late, that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover--
To hide her shame from every eye,

To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom-is to die.-GOLDSMITH.

"The fact of the matter is, Mr. Freeman, that you are growing old and cross, and can make no reasonable allowances for the little peccadillos of youth."

"No! the matter of fact is, Mrs. Freeman, that you want to be younger than you are, and will listen to no arguments tending to a contrary conviction."

This retort uncourteous, which seemed to be the winding up of a very strenuous debate, was uttered by a gentleman of about fifty years of age, to a lady who had not numbered above two-thirds of that amount; and if the character may be judged from the countenance, a looker-on would readily have declared the dispositions of the pair to be as dissimilar as their ages. Mr. Freeman was a man with whom the world had dealt hardly;-born with warm and generous feelings, he had early been the dupe of the cunning and the cold; and though the cautery of misfortune had not wholly consumed those kindly affections, it yet had seared and blunted them; disappointment, too, and that, where his heart had most been garnered, poured its gall into the milk of human nature, and tinged his words with bitterness; yet, as the rarest and loveliest flowers are found upon the rockiest ground, so beneath the caustic coldness of Mr. Freeman's manner there lay a fund of generosity and goodness, which never yet bade the wretched "go and wail elsewhere." Like many a man who, in matters of importance, is firm and decisive, yet easy, to weakness, in trifles, Mr. Freeman had suffered himself to be half persuaded, half cajoled, into marrying a young woman of considerable personal attractions, but no mind; and from the saine desire for peace, he had allowed her to run a course of the most ridiculous extravagance, hoping that the evil would cure itself; but he was beginning to discover that the disease fed itself, and increased daily; moreover, his quiet and much desired ease suffered continual interruption from visitors by day, and parties by night, varied by occasional importunate tradespeople, and grumbling servants. But it was much easier to say make his words

her the generous enthusiasm the winning tenderness that graced her words and won the hearer's heart with love. Of the mother of Euthanasia, question nor answer were never made; that he had met her, loved and lost her, in his foreign travels, was all that curiosity could gain of information; and though Mrs. Freeman was famed for her fondness for prying into secrets, the open Sesame of this one, baffled even her ingenuity. Not being, however, ill tempered in the main, the good dane loved Euthanasia very dearly, in spite of her beauty and the mystery that hung about her; and as she had very extraordinary ways of showing affection, she had already much injured the innocent girl by babbling about her doubts, ideas, and own opinion concerning her birth, origin, and bringing up.

The family scene to which we have sans ceremonie introduced our readers, took place at Mr. Freeman's house, which house was situave, infinitely to the mortification of Mrs. Freeman, in Spruce in instead of Chesnut street, -the interesting matrimonial dialogue, which had seemed nearly ended, was, by the unlucky mention of ages, resumed on the lady's side with considerable vigour.

"I want to appear younger than I am!-and pray, Mr. Freeman, how old am I?"

"Somewhere on the wintry side of thirty, I imagine, my dear."

"Mr. Freeman, sir, it is a false slander. I was twenty-four when I married you, two years ago-I am sure I sha'n't forget the time."

"Nor I, mv dear; my remeinbrances are both loud and striking."

"Mr. Freeman, I disdain to answer you, sir! I don't often speak my mind, sir, but when I do I can talk as well as my neighbours."

"I never doubted it, my dear," replied he, cooly.

"Now don't get into a passion, Mr. Freemanwhat's the good of flying out," demanded his lady, whose face and voice began to threaten a storm. "What is there to make you mad?-haven't you got an affectionate wife at home, and plenty of good friends abroad? Don't I talk to you, and amuse you? Do I leave you ever alone, to be duli?"

"No, my dear, you certainly never do," replied he, taking an encouraging pinch of suuff.

"Well, and isn't there the French Countesse la Parvenus, who would rather dine here than at any house in Philadelphia?"

Then there

"She is very condescending; don't you think the expensive dishes you have sent from Fossard, for her, has any to it? is the English Mrs. Dashaway-who is so obliging as her? Hem! She is pretty considerably in your debt, I believe."

"For shame, Mr. Freeman-I am ashamed of you; what objections will you make to Mrs. Canter, Miss Straightlace, Mrs. Wouldbefine, and a hundred others that visit here, and are so partial to me?"

such doings should cease, than to good. Mrs. Freeman was blessed with a resolute will, a loud voice, and a most indefatigable tongue. She supported her cause with Amazonian courage, and declared, with much praiseworthy candour and astonishing coolness, that she had married to have her own way, and have it she would; if Mr. Freeman did not like it, he had nobody but himself to blame; for what besides had he to marry? This last arguinent was terribly convincing, and poor Mr. Freeman would echo, with a disconsolate sigh, "What, indeed?" Amidst all these annoyances, there was one fountainspring of joy in the wild waste of indifference-one blossom of love was blooming through every discord --one voice still sounded true to melody and gentleman, since you are so clever and so smart, and all

ness, Mr. Freeman had a darling child. And well did the beautiful Euthanasia merit her doating father's love, she was the daughter of a southern clime, and the sunbright skies of her native land were not more resplendant, in heaven's own lustre, than her dark, soul-fraught eye; -the wild antelope, bounding in beauty over the golden sand, was not more true to nature and to grace, than every motion of her perfect

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"Objections, my dear!" answered Mr. Freeman, quietly, none in the world; they use your carriage for a hack, your house for an hotel, your purse for a supply; they compliment you, curtesy to you, and laugh at you, who's the fool, I pray ?"

"Go on, go on, sir; I won't be out of temper; you sha'u't make me angry; and pray, sir-pray Mr. Free

that,-pray, Mr. Freeman, what will you say of Sir George Charles Belson-what is he, sir?"

"One, on whom every god hath set his seal to give the world assurance of a man!" exclaimed a third voice, breaking in upon the dialogue with tones of such sweet fervency, that the listener held his breath to hear. It was Euthanasia. Too well used to these connubial fracases to pay thein much attention, she had

THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

483

been long seated upon a low pile of cushions, deeply | Euthanasia looked long after him, and as the tears

engaged in arranging papers from a portfolio which lay at her feet; by her side was couched a large Italian greyhound, of the purest breed, who, with his long silvery paws stretched across her feet, and his large gazing eyes bent on her face, lay so graceful and motionless as to give the group a resemblance rather to rare statuary than to living, breathing creatures. But the simile, which might hold good while the maiden's eyes were bent downwards, and her cheek as purely pale as the white muslin which draped her, was lost when the above words passed her lips. She had sprung up and spoken with a burst of enthusiasm that had called the eloquent blood in volumes to her face; and now confusion doubled its glow, as the cold eye of her father rested on her.

"Ha, girl," he said, slowly, "and how may you answer for him so readily ?"

Long tongues are sometimes useful, and Mrs. Freeman's was now servicable to her daughter-in-law, for she struck in with,

"And pray, why shouldn't she answer for him, pray? For my part, I think it shows her sense; for Sir George Charles Belson is-"

"Noble, generous, and true!" interrupted Euthanasia.

"With a baronetcy and ten thousand pounds a year!" edged in Mrs. Freeman.

The port of a lion-the gentleness of a ring dove!" exclaimed the other.

"The Order of St. George-the medal of Waterloo -the title of a K. C. B.!" shrieked the lady mother, like a gull in a storm.

"Silence! I command ye both," cried Mr. Freeman, now thoroughly roused; and turning severely to his wife, "Woman, what is this that you have done? Who and what is this man to whom you have dared to introduce my child?"

"Lord! here's a fuss!" retorted Mrs. Freeman. Who is he? Why don't I tell you he is an English baronet, with ten thousand pounds a year, and a K. C. В., which means King of the Cold Bath, I suppose."

"A baronet, and Knight Commander of the Bath!" murmured her husband, "dangerous enough tinsel that. Come hither, Euthanasia-where first did you meet this man?"

"At New York, father; in the English consul's house."

"And he has followed you here?" demanded he. "Father," said Euthanasia, softly-" father, I hope 50."

"You hope so! Alas! poor child, has the arrow stricken you so early-why was I not made acquainted with this before?"

"Lord have mercy on us, Mr. Freeman! what extraordinary questions you ask,-deliver us!--why I suppose you'll want to know next what I put on in the morning, and how often Thany fixes her hair!-come, child-come with me; I want to talk with you about the new Sultana sleeves."

Mrs. Freeman sailed off as she spoke, with the air of a seventy-two, that has just fired a settling broadside, and Euthanasia silently moved to follow her. Her father caught her by one of the long, graceful curls, which, untortured by scorching or frizzing, hung in native elegance down her swan-like throat; and while parental tenderness softened his rugged features, almost to beauty, exclaimed,

"And is there one of these tendrils that is not dear to me? My child-my darling-guard yourself, for your fond father's life is bound with yours."

gathered over her straining orbs, and dropped heavily from their dark fringes, she murmured

"Have I deserved this love, that can deceive so much affection? Oh, Belson! was this enforced concealment kindly done? no; my father-my kind, generous, trusting parent, it shall last no longer; even if it part us forever, my father shall know all."

As she spoke of her lover she turned hastily to leave the room, and met himself; he took her tre:nbling hand, and leading her back, said mournfully,

"Can it be Euthanasia from whom I have these words? or was she aware I heard them, and wished to prove that love which, even in unkindness, is more deeply her's?"

The man who spoke thus, was past the spring-al. most the summer of life; yet, years

"Had not quenched the open truth-
The vivid colouring of youth."

His bold brow was as the tablet of unutterable thoughts,
whereon pride and genius, passion and imagination, had-
graven lines, which heightened intellect if they dining
ished beauty; his proud glance fell like the lightnine
flash, and often seemed alike to dare and defy the
world; yet it could soften to more than woman'
witching tenderness; and though his lip was often
curved with proud contempt, or galling scorn, it could
pour forth such words of magic sweetness, as made
the 'rapt one tremble with delight. And Euthanasia
loved him with all the first, deep devotion of a wo-
man's heart she loved him, the very pride and dark-
ness of his humour but held a stronger mastery over
her; she was a young romancer, and storm and shade
were more beautiful to her enthusiasm, than an unva-
ried sunlight-the rushing torrent, to the silent stream.
It was long ere she replied; and though she dared not
raise her eyes, she felt the gaze of Belson to her soul;
at last,

"Sir George Belson," she said.

"Sir George Belson!" interrupted he, passionately, "and is it so that Euthanasia calls him whom once she professed to love? Why not spare this cutting coldness, and say at once that you no longer love me?" "Because it would not be true," replied she, steadily-"do not be so unjust; I am not formed to change with every passing breath; but this deception to my father, preys upon my heart. Oh, Belson! let me but have his blessing on our affection, and try me if weal or wo, life or death, can alter my regard."

Sir George Belson was a mighty master of the human heart, and he at once perceived that though Euthanasia's generous temper might be won by entreaty, it could not be cowed by pride or reproach; he took her hand, and raising it to his lips with the most devoted humility, replied,

"Even so let it be then, my soul's best treasure; yet do me justice as to the motives which have prompted me to conceal what kings might be proud to own. Euthanasia, you have heard me speak of my sister; in helpless infancy, when deprived of my parents' fostering care, she gave her blooming youth to raise my sickly childhood; willingly she torsook the gay, ad. miring world, and devoted herself, her talents, and her beauty, to solitude and me; - with unequalled fortitude and love, she even resigned the man she loved, lest the duties of a wife should make her less mindful of her self-imposed charge to me. Now she is sinking in the vale of years, with impaired health, broken spirits, and shattered nerves; her last desire is, to see me united to a friend of her own; and though neither the lady in question nor myself desire the match, we both too

Euthanasia burst into tears: "Father," she exclaimed "father, I will tell you all"-she would have much revere the dying saint to oppose her wishes openadded, but a thundering knock at the door prevented ly. A few weeks-nay, a few days, may close her her words; and Mr. Freeman made a rapid exit to toilsome path, and must he for whom she has done so avoid the dreaded clack of his lady's visitors' tongues. much, poison the latest dregs of life? Yet, Euthana

484

THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

sia, let it be so-let your father know, and publish to the world, what is, in fact, my dearest joy; and if you are happier, I will not repine that my sister, mother, guide, instructress, and friend, shall heave her last sigh for my ingratitude and baseness."

He turned away in deep emotion; a struggle crossed the sweet face of Euthanasia; then turning to him, with a voice suppressed by tears, she said, "Use your power over over me well, Belson, for it is great; never shall it be said, that to gratify my weakness you wounded a heart like your noble sister's; let the subject drop between us; my happiness is too much bound in yours to find peace in what can give you pain."

He caught her hand, and clasped the yielding girl to his manly breast; she raised her soft eyes to speak, but the proud, triumphant flash they met from his, struck cold upon her heart, and releasing herself, she said, with some effort,

"I have a confession to make, and a boon to beg." "They both are granted, love, before they are heard."

"I hope the first is not of evil omen, George-you remember the ring you gave me as the first pledge of love?"

"The ring!"-and a dark shade crossed his brow"I remember it well."

"

Well, I was the other day, unexpectedly, amidst a scene of heart-rending misery. I had emptied my purse in the morning for some trifling occasion of my mother's; their wants were urgent, and it was the only thing of value I had with me are you very angry that I left it in pledge with them for money, until I could have time to send it?"

"Perish the paltry bauble!" exclaimed he, "that ring was never a favourite of mine; but you chose it because it bore the most trifling value: let me replace it with one more befitting the wearer; and yet I am angry with you-why, dearest, will you venture this precious life, that is my all of happiness, in scenes of disease and squalid misery? I love your humanity and mercy-but why not send relief? This fairy form should never tread but in the courts of affluence and love."

"Oh! Belson, one kind word is worth more, to a suffering heart, than all the gold of India. Leave me now; it is my hour to read to my father, in his library -leave me, I pray you?"

"Promise me then that I shall see you to-night, at Mrs. Gray's?"

"I had forgotten," exclaimed she, suddenly, "that you would excuse me there was the boon I would have asked-Belson, my father dislikes Mrs. Gray exceedingly."

The eye of the baronet grew dark as a thunder cloud; he drew himself haughtily up to his fullest height, and said,

"And it is my request, Euthanasia, that you do go. Mrs. Gray is my friend, and as such commands your respect. Am I in all things to be sacrificed to your father?"

"One must concede, and it shall be me; farewell, sir-look you do not bend the bow to breaking."

Again did the lover prevent her retiring; and stooping from his pride the moment his end was gained, poured forth such winning words of gratitude and love, that the bewitched girl too soon stood a willing listener. A slight noise roused them. "Oh, begone!" she cried, "I forget all in hearing you."

"Not without the seal of pardon-by this, and this." "Hush! do you hear nothing?"

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Yes, my best, love, I hear the beatings of your fluttering heart."

"But," said the girl, turning fearfully round, "do you see nothing?"

Belson rose from his knee, and gazed round; in the

deepening gloom of evening a dark figure seemed to move.

"What mockery is this?" cried he, aloud-"What cowardly eaves-dropper skulks there?"

"Not any," replied a low, tranquil voice, as the form of a woman, dressed in sweeping drapery of black, advanced up the room. "I am a poor nun of the Order of Charity, and have business with this lady." With me!" cried Euthanasia, fearfully. "Good woman, if you are begging for your convent, here is for this lady and myself; weare engaged, you see."

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"Put up your gold, my vow prohibits my touching it; and for your eloquence, try it upon one younger and weaker than myself. Lady, I must speak with you."

Belson had seemed more daunted by the cold words of the nun, than could have been expected; and he replied, with effort, "Lay it then before me-we have no secrets together."

"Have you not?" asked she, thrillingly, "have you no private hope nor fear-no secret sin buried in the heart-no small still voice of accusing conscience ?then are you indeed happy."

The constraint was now felt powerfully by both, and Euthanasia whispered an entreaty to Belson to leave her alone with her strange visitor.

"I fear," he answered, very low, "that she is mad." "No, I am not mad," replied the nun. "though it had been small wonder if I were; for I have known treachery, sorrow, and sin enough to turn my brain; be not afraid of me, sweet lady, my office is to minis ter by the dying bed, and there I have heard of you. The spirit of my order is Charity and Peace, both of which dwell in your heart; virtue like yours should fear nothing."

"Nor do I fear you, good sister," replied Euthanasia, promptly, "leave me, Sir George, I request it as a favour."

"Well, I believe these venerable sisters make it a point to be paramount wherever they go, so I must yield. Farewell! remember we meet to-night at Mrs. Gray's-a Dios, love."

The nun gazed earnestly after him, then repeating his last words solemnly: "To God to God you commend her! Oh, man, man! dare you appeal your Maker's name as a cover to your guilt! Young lady, this ring you left with the palsied woman-speak-he who has left you was the giver ?"

"He was." "

love him?"

"Even so I feared-and-and-you-you "What can be your reason for-" "Answer me; as you value your honour, happiness, and peace, answer me."

" I do love him then-most fondly-most truly." "And your family-your friends do they know the character he bears?"

"Excuse me," replied Euthanasia, with dignity: "when I licensed you to speak to me on business, it was no permission to intrude upon my private vate feelings -I wish you good evening."

"Yet stay, in mercy to yourself, and hear me. Look on me; I have worn this holy habit fifteen years, and worn the altarstones with kneeling; I have been by the deathbed, and wept in agony for the stilly peace of the daparted; I am dying now, yet remorse dogs the foot. steps of death; and the memory of broken oaths, violated duties, and foul misdeeds, will drown the halle. lujahs of the sacred choir."

"Be calm, I implore you."

"This agony is for you; look on this face!"-she dashed away the hood, and gazed up in Euthanasia's face with a look of the most piercing anguish: "see, it was once lovely, flattered and admired, as your own. See it now, worn with sorrow, lined with care, con. suming with premature decay. Put your hand upon

THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

my heart-feel its faint beatings-soon it will be at rest, in solitude and shame, unwept and uncared for. Once it bounded with joy and hope; once it made the happiness of others' lives, and the rapture of its own. Lady, what has changed me? a specious deceiver betrayed and ruined me! I forsook for him home, husband, friends, country, and he he left me. Lady, that is the man!"

"For the mercy of God! not Sir George Belson!" gasped the horror-stricken girl.

"I knew him not by that name, yet it is the same," continued the agitated woman: "that ring was the first gift of illicit love-I gave it to him-he gave it to you. I heard of you as the ministering angel in the abodes of disease and misery. I flew to save youinet and knew him: he is the man."

66

Away! I will not believe you; the ring may have been bought by him; time has deceived-suffering has crazed you; he is far too young to be the same-away, I do not believe you."

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"Believe me not then," solemnly replied the nungo on in your wilful dream of infatuated blindness; go on, but your awaking is nigh. I will save you in your despite. I will break the spell that binds you to dishonour. As a humble servant of the most high God, I will do my Lord's bidding in warning your friends." She passed slowly towards the door. Euthanasia sprung forward with a cry, to detain her. In the struggle the slight chain which supported the miniature of her father, that Euthanasia always wore, burst, and it dropped to the floor. At the moment the lamp was lighted outside, and the full glare burst upon the portrait. A scream, wild and hopeless as the cry of a broken heart, sounded from the sister of charity; she caught up the picture and shrieked rather than said,

"These features! God! can it be; or do they rise to haunt me?"

"It is the portrait of my father-why does it move you thus?"

"Your father!-yours!-will you swear it? father!-conte hither, let me look upon you."

Your

She dragged Euthanasia with frantic violence to the window, and pushed back the masses of her hair; then stared with a fixed and frightful rigidity upon her features. Terrified without knowing why, the trembling girl sunk upon her knees. Slowly gathered the large tears over the nun's glazing eye, and gradually her breast heaved with heavy, convulsive sobs. At last nature's agony reached its climax, and with a wild burst of tears she fell prostrate before the girl, exclaiming,

"Do not curse me-do not curse me." "What is all this?" cried the voice of Mr. Freeman, entering at the moment,-" bring lights here-what is this disturbance?"

"Stand away," shrieked the wretched woman, raising on her knees, and extending her arms with a low, hissing sound of horror: "I thought you dead; can the grave give up its buried dust to curse the living? Yes, curse me then-trample on me-kill me-it will be mercy."

"Leave us, Euthanasia," said Mr. Freeman, in a suffocated voice: "no words-obey me."

Not a sound except the gasping of the woman broke the pause, after Euthanasia had departed, for many minutes. At last he spoke, and coldly,

"Eloisa, why is this? Wretched woman, have you not caused misery enough without breaking the little peace I could hope for on earth?"

"I did not know you; had I, I would not have dared to crawl hither even for my dying pardon, could I recognize the gallant Lord Eustace Selwyn as Mr. Freeman, and in America."

"I charge you, woman," answered he sternly, "that you name not that name. Think ye I will have my innocent child poisoned with its false pomp and hate

485

ful gauds? I have brought her to this free, happy land of equality and virtue, where vice is not masked with tinsel rank, to save her from"

"Her mother's crimes-speak it-there can lay no adders in your tongue like those which, for tifteen years, have gnawed my heart; and oh! if the tears of repentance that have furrowed my cheeks-if the un. wearying labours of humility-if the deep remorse that is breaking my heart, may be accepted at the mercy seat, there there shall my prayers for her avail."

"May there be pardon for you there," said he, turning to go.

"Stay," shrieked the almost fainting creature, "hear me, Selwyn, for her sake; let me but aid to save my child, then turn me from your doors to die." "How! does danger threaten Euthanasia?"

"There does. Away these tears-avaunt this shame-do you remember him who, with boyish looks of simplicity and heart of deepest guile, visited us in our happy home upon the Tyrol hills?"

"Do I remember!"

"Selwyn, by the remembrance of that happy home, before sin entered or sorrow defiled its beauty; by the love you bore me when you brought me there a rejoicing bride; by the gratitude you spoke when first I placed our infant in your arms; by my remorse-ing sufferings my fast approaching death, I swear to you that the same man is now winding his serpen lure around your child."

Mr. Freeman (such we continue to call him) turned suddenly and stood like one transfixed, gazing upon the nun. She folded her arms upon her breast, and, with less emotion but deep solemnity, said,

"Ave, even so; round her the fatal web is winding; but there yet is time to break its folds. Force can do nothing. To save her, reason and feeling must join to give conviction. I conjure you by this holy habit, and by the life of humility and prayer that, for fifteen years, I have led; -more than all, by an erring mother's love for her innocent offspring, trust me this once."

"Woman!" cried he, passionately, "dare I trust you? You broke my generous, trusting confidence; you left your home-disgraced your family-forsook your child-wretched, erring creature, date I trust you?"

The woman answered nothing, but fell upon her knees and raised her arms appealingly on high; the lamp light fell upon her wasted features-misery, hamility, lowly faith was graven there; but of the sinsthe feelings of the world, was there nothing. The stern nature of Freeman melted; he strove to speak, sobbed, struggled with himself, and said,

"I-I trust you. Poor, misguided Eloisa, God pity you. I trust you; but, woman, look to it; play that angel fair, or may eternal-no-no, I trust you."

He rushed from the room as he spoke, nor heard the solemn "Amen" of the kneeling creature whom he left alone with God and her own heart.

*

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It was about seven o'clock, the same evening, that Mrs. Freeman was engaged in the important business of dressing for the fashionable soiree at Mrs. Gray's. The toilette was to her a work of immense time and importance; and not contented to leave her really interesting features to themselves, she contrived so to overload them with pearl powder and rouge-to surround them with such a chevaux de frise of false curls, false flowers, and false jewels, as to make them actually ridiculous and disgusting, And then her dresssuch flounces, and such furbelows; such ill assorted colours, and badly matched stuffs--why she killed all the graces at a glance, and might have been haunted by Joseph for stealing his coat of many colours. Το please others you must first please yourself, says or said the elegant Chesterfield. Certainly Mrs. Free486

THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

man did the latter completely; but had that refined | watch, chain, and seals, three rows of transparent to

writer contemplated such perversion of his high bred dictates, he would have poisoned himself by eating mock turtle soup, and found his misery in muslin sheets. Fully confident, however, in her own attractions, Mrs. Freeman sailed up and down before the pier glass wishing, like Alexander, for new worlds to conquer, and looking for all the world as if every one (like in the Spectator's dream) had thrown away the ungainly part of their dress, and each absurdity had pitched upon her luckless person. At last, impatient of wasting her sweetness upon the deserted (not desert) room, Mrs. Freeman summoned her confidential Abigail, and, after making a few preliminary flourishes, began with "Judy, hem! have you any taste, Judy?"

"I guess so, Missis," responded Judy, opening her big round eyes to rounder and bigger proportions, "I can tell whiskey from water, any how."

"You're a fool, Judy; I mean taste in dress. What would you say to mine, for instance?"

"That I be monsers glad to have it," replied the coloured grisette, readily, "its just the picture of what black Mauritia cleared out to marry in."

"Get out with you," exclaimed the indignant lady, "and call Miss Thany here; it's time to go."

Slowly d d Euthanasia obey the summons; her face was pale, and her dress very simple. She was fol. lowed by her greyhound, who looked anxiously up in her face, as if to ask what was her disquiet.

"Mercy on me, child, what an object you are! You are enough to frighten the crows, as Mrs. Dashaway says; here, let me fix you."

"No," said Euthanasia, positively, "if I go at all, it is so."

"Well, but have a bunch of peonies or a sunflower in your hair; have these aqua merines round your throat; and a leetle, tiny touch of rouge."

"Madam, my feelings are not suited to flowers and gems. I go because I have said I will; because anything, even do spair, is preferable to this sus; ense; but I am a mourner in heart, and will not wear the garments of rejoicing."

"Bless us all! here's a high horse. Don't I know better than you, Miss; and I tell you it is highly impertinent to make yourself singular; and to go in that wishy-washy way, is-is-s mighty improper, Miss." "Well, Madam, it may be so: let us drop the subject, and each retain our own opinion. I await your pleasure."

Mrs. Freeman knew vastly well that, though respectful, Euthanasia was never subservient; so, like a skiltul general, ge she avoided the impregnable part and d a battery elsewhere.

opened

"Now, Thany, you are a good enough girl, but of course you can't know as well as me, who am older, and also a married woman; so I am going to give you some good advice. In the first place, you don't enter a room at all as the elect should: this way, for instance." Unfortunately, in her dignified perambulations, as the elite should do, Mrs. Freeman trod upon the greyhound's long, extended paws, who, acknowledging her "airy tread" with a howl, would have received no gentle salute in return, but for the in. terference of his mistress.

"Do not strike the faithful animal, madam, I have heard he was my mother's, and as such he is dear to Alas! I never knew a mother's fostering care; I never had her love to guide me--her fond bosom to weep upon."

me.

paz, one locket of rough gold, one amie of polished amber, besides innumerable breast-pins, &c., it must have been a commodious resting-place. Euthanasia faintly smiled, and bent over her dog. It was clear to the larmayante dame that she could not squeeze out a tear, so she wisely folded up her mouchoir brode, and having flattened it with a little eau de mouseline, she proceeded to call another cause.

"Thany, you'll see Sir George Charles Belson tonight." She started. "Now pray, my dear, take advice from me; remember he is a K. C. B.; and if he says he loves you, say thankye, sir, and if he asks you to have him, say if you please, sir,' and"

"Mrs. Freeman, excuse my interruption, but you waste your words. Sir George Belson is, I own, inexpressibly dear to me, if he be what I have fondly pictured him; but if if he be base and vile, I will rend this weakness from my heart, though every fibre burst as I tear it away: to-night-aye, to-night will decide. Madam, I follow you."

"Lord, be good to us! here's passions, rages, hurricanes, and storms; but let us go-we are late; but the Countesse le Parvenue says, it is hot town to be late-come away."

The company were all assembled; the lights were blaz ng cheerily; and the music, mixed with many gay voices, sounding merrily, as the carriage of Mrs. Freeman drove to Mrs. Gray's house, in -, and the gloom which had been gathering over the brow of the hostess, and some others, dispersed at once when their names were sounded through the room.

Mrs. Giay was a lady of a certain age, without the least pretensions to beauty; for her tace was so hope. lessly ploughed by that scourge of features, the smallpox, that even MacAdam might have despaired of evening it. Her eyes were sinall and cunning, rendered more so by hundreds of wrinkles puckered be. neath them; nor did she ever fully face those to whom she spoke. But her voice redeemed these unpleasantries, for it was true, in every tone, to harmony and blandness. In her dress and manners, Mrs. Gray was perfect-there was not one singularity-nothin particular, on which the attention could rest; there was no glare of colour-no forcing of effect-all was easy, elegant, and lady-like. Her words were always natural in their fascination; it was the toute ensemble of her manner that carried you along without being conscious where laid the charm. Mrs. Gray said, and wished it to be believed, that she visited the first circle in Philadelphia. It is ill manners to contradict a lady, yet those who have ever been within that graceful group, might readily declare Mrs. Gray was not one of them. Gay, but polished; cheerful, but correct; easy, but dignified, none who once mixed there can mistake that charming coterie. In the soirees of Mrs. Gray, men formed the greater number; what women there were, were either coldly constrained or daringly tree: no, no; Mrs. Gray had not the pass to that happier, easier Almacks.

Mr. Freeman, not mixing at all with the world in which he lived, knew nothing of the vortex through which his wife and child were rushing; sometimes when disturbed by too late a return, he would bestow a blessing on Mrs. Gray as the cause, but soon for peace give up the contention. Such, then, was the lady who rose with a bland smile to welcome her vis.. tors; and taking a hand of each, said,

Mrs. Freeman, who had taken her cue from the tears in Euthanasia's eyes, was now deliberately pre-must cite you in the court of politesse, to answer for a

paring her handkerchief. When it was unfurled, she extended her arms, and swimming up to her daughter. in-law, proffered her bosom as a substitute; and considering that, besides double rows of standing lace, and treble flounces of falling blonde, there was swung a

"Oh! you are sad truants; do you give us so little of your company, to make us prize it still higher? I breach of etiquette, if you neglect me thus again." Mrs. Freeman bowed, and Mrs. Freeman bobbed. She had never heard of such a court nor such a crime; but she felt sure all was right, and so she bobbed and bowed the more.

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