She was ambitious. She wished her lover-her serious and true lover the man she expected to marry

She

to possess strength. Perhaps she felt her own weakness, and saw her need of some strong staff to lean upon. She saw that I had not much determination in any course that interfered with my pleasure. Hence her unwillingness to acknowledge me as her lover, to the world. wished to keep me in her chains - to hold me from others—and, although she loved me, I am convinced, still at times there was a taint of coquetry in her manner to me in public, that made me appear ridiculous. I could not, would not, bear this, and I determined to offer myself to her, and in case of refusal to go-I knew not where.

I know of nothing so laughable as feigned passion. It must put people to a world of trouble, to play extatics, to weep tears, to kiss passionately, to embrace, while the heart is ice, and the temper clouded; to be playing lover, while one is thinking how long it is before dinner.

I had worked myself up into quite a passion. I thought my whole soul was absorbed in this affair. I wished to be married forthwith. I could not think of delay; and in these moods used to press my suit with a mad earnestness, and ask her acknowledged love, with all my heart, and with a temporary sincerity.

One night, we were walking late on the banks of a river, in a beautiful meadow. The town was far above us. Every sound of labor was hushed, and we were alone, in the stillness of a moonlight night, with no witnesses except the stars, and the long shadows of our figures, as we alternately walked and sat by the way. The scene was a bewitching one; the river was calm, and reflected the heavens; the night was balmy with new-mown hay. We were alive with health, and youth, and love. I had been singing low, plaintive airs to her, expressive of ill-requited affection, as we walked along. She said but little. Her face looked pale and thoughtful, as ever and anon she turned her large eyes full upon me, as if to search my very inmost soul. She was deliberating upon my proposal. I was unsuspecting, but free and open to tell her all. Suddenly she threw her arms about my neck, and seemed fainting, by the weight that pressed upon me. I seated her upon the bank of the river, and still she wept, and spoke not a word, while her tears flowed, and her frame trembled. I cried out for help, but she stopped me; and as no one came, I waited till she recovered herself. That night we sat long by the bank of the river, and she gave me her heart, and the compact was sealed by the first kiss I had ever given to pure lips. She then confessed to me all her doubts, and in a dignified manner, which confused while it charmed me, told me the risks she incurred in yielding to her feelings. I had nothing to boast of in the conquest, for while it displayed to me the weakness and tenderness of woman, it told me how weak and inferior I was, in all the essentials of a useful man. It certainly was the most singular confession and compact that ever took place between man and woman, since the time Adam took Eve to wife, in the gar den of Paradise.

After this, her manner changed toward me entirely. There was no reserve. She pointed out my faults; she endeavored to excite me

to honorable exertion. Often has she ran away from me, to force me to go and study; and if, when I returned, I bore the marks of mental fatigue, how happy it used to make her! She was aware that I might rise to respectability in my profession; but she did not know the cruel negligence of my early life; she did not know the longriveted habits of idleness I had indulged; she did not know how hopeless and blank my prospects really were.

If I appear indifferent and cold-blooded to the reader, he knows nothing of human nature. There is a point to which a man sometimes arrives, which to all intents amounts to a kind of fatality. Does the drunkard lose his moral agency? Yes! when his faculties are deadened. Is there a man who could resist food, if placed before his eyes just as he was dying of starvation? Is there not a moral deadness of the faculties, produced by habits of idleness and pleasure, equally binding, equally calling for indulgence? Nothing is impossible to God; but man's powers, even in his own favor, are limited; and I am disposed to think, that the vicious man is punished, partly, in this world. He sees, by the examples around him, his certain destiny. He is ever, in his solitary moments, looking over the abyss into which he knows he must fall. He makes effort after effort to escape. It is all fruitless, unless the power of God assist him, as it sometimes does. He is like the sailor standing upon the shattered wreck of his good ship, and looking at the mountain wave approaching, that he knows will engulf him in the deep. Added to this, there are the stings of an upbraiding conscience, and the fear of everlasting punishment.

But there were times when we forgot all unpleasant reflections; when we talked of our prospects of happiness. I was to inherit a fortune to distinguish myself at the bar. We were to travel over Europe together; perhaps find some delightful retreat in the classic south, and there (I loving only her) we were to spend a life of love and blessedness.

I can hardly believe that she yielded as implicitly to these illusions as I did. I had got myself worked up into a perfect madman; and though at times I knew how false and fleeting were all these plans, yet in her presence, and after talking upon such subjects, my imagination took the reins of my reason, and I made these fanciful excursions with sincerity, and took a pleasure in the anticipation more than equal, I am convinced, to any they could have afforded in reality. I do not think she felt with me here. As I remember her, with her strong sense, her conception of the ridiculous, and exaggeration in others, her keen wit and cutting sarcasm, it seems impossible that she should. Nevertheless, every one is conscious of strange inconsistencies of feeling. A scene strikes us to-day with awe and pathetic effect, which to-morrow we pass coldly by. Every thing depends upon the state of the nervous temperament, the attending circumstances, our previous reading, the chain of events. And by the way, this is the chief use of philosophy, that it enables us to look at every thing with an investigating eye, and never to yield to impulse. The mind is taken up in sound reflection, and it has no time to lose itself in the mazes of the imagination. Age, necessity, torpor of the blood, experience, produce the same effects;

while youth, and romantic ardor, and the poetical parts of life, run wild, solely from a want of habits of reflection.

It seems, no doubt, a strange inconsistency, that I did not exert myself, if I so loved this noble girl. We must distinguish between passion and affection. The very nature of the first admits of no reflection. The last is all reflection, and quiet yielding of its own convenience for the happiness of the loved object. Passion is the lava of the volcano, which covers up and ruins all things under it; affection is the refreshing shower, the gentle dew, making the pastures green, and the earth glad. A good, well-regulated mind would have done otherwise than I did, but it would likewise have loved otherwise than I did.

I had not two wills, one

I yielded to nature and my temperament. to oppose the other; there was not in my nature any thing to oppose my nature. I have all along described myself as a foolish creature of impulse; and I was, and am, and never shall be any thing else.

One night, after some irregularity caused by lovers' quarrel, and the consequent restlessness, which sought relief in pleasure, she was representing to me the consequences of such habits of dissipation, as tenderly as she could, and I was moved by her earnestness to tears. She followed up her advantage, and throwing herself upon her knees before me, she wept, herself, in sobs, for some moments. Then raising her tearful eyes, she begged, she implored, she entreated me, to change my course of life; not to bring ruin upon us both; not to blight our prospects, by such cruel neglect of every honorable pursuit. She seemed to feel that every thing depended upon me ; she saw me on the brink of a precipice; she exerted eloquence that might have drawn tears from a statue; and I was earnest, that night, in my resolutions, as I laid my head upon my pillow. But I did not ask assistance from God; and herein lay my error.

I have since found, that all resolutions are futile and useless, unless we confirm and strengthen them by prayer. The very exercise of prayer is its own answer. Prostration of ourselves before God produces a calm and dispassionate frame of mind, and a sense of our accountability. As our thoughts, in such seasons, dwell upon the truth of an eternal existence, the world and its vanities recede, and appear in their true insignificance. We then are prepared to take the first steps in goodness. Who that has passed out of a life of vice into a life of virtue, ever turns back? The first step is the important one. Let that be taken, in good faith, and each succeeding one opens wider and wider the peace of the path of virtue.

THE BLUE BIRD.

SWEET bird! how gladly thy cerulean wing
Opens o'er all the loveliness of spring;
As thy slow shadow, sailing far on high,
Tells me the time of birds' is drawing nigh.
Perchance the down of that pure azure breast

On trees of Italy was lately prest;

Or mid the ivy of the crumbled fane,

Thy nest was sheltered from the sparkling rain:
Till to thy heart a whisper, as from home,

Told thee of melting snows, and bade thee 'come!'

G. H.

A NEW-ENGLAND SKETCH: BY THE AUTHOR OF MASSANIELLO, A TALE OF NAPLES.'

'A man severe he was, and stern to view.' - Goldsmith.

THERE is no employment more pleasant or profitable to the reflective mind, than that of scanning the various characters that come within the scope of one's acquaintance. Even though that acquaintance be limited to the precincts of a retired village, there will be found the same variety of character, though perhaps less strongly developed than in the great city of the world. In its business transactions and social relations, the same passions are found to agitate, that in a wider sphere of action convulse entire continents, and fill the world with wonder. Many an obscure person would have been a hero, in time and place of heroic actions.

COMFORT MAKEPEACE was a lineal descendant from one of the original puritans. The name of his ancestor stood recorded with those of Carver, Winslow, Brewster, and Standish; and no lordly stem of a noble stock ever prided himself more on the score of descent. His father, and his grandfather, and every other descendant of the primitive settler, that went before them, were as decided puritans as ever trod the turf. The name, as he himself bore it, had been transmitted from father to son, as far back as could be traced the genealogical tree of the family. The old homestead on which he lived had been cleared and settled by a grandson of the first Comfort that crossed the Atlantic; it had descended regularly from thence through every first son to the worthy owner in the time of my childhood, and there stood, ready to take the noble patrimony, at his father's death, a Comfort, junior, in every way worthy to connect the stout chain with remotest posterity. Of course Comfort made proud show of the strongly-marked characteristics for which his ancestors and their compeers were distinguished. A follower of Old Noll himself never walked more zealously in the rigid puritanical path, nor could any one have kept more faithfully every observance that had been handed down from the passengers in the good bark that first anchored off Plymouth-rock. While in his family, one might readily imagine himself transported back to that of some Roundhead Captain Fight-and-Praise-God, or Colonel Smite-'em-Hip-and-Thigh, in the service of the Great Protector.

Comfort Makepeace had married early in life, and he displayed no ordinary depth of judgment in the selection of one, scarce if any less than himself attached to the devotional customs of his puritanical ancestry. Faithful was an obedient wife and managed the household concerns with a prudence and care that would have done credit to the noblest. She rivalled the emblematic bee in industry, and helped her husband to make some substantial additions to the ample means that had descended to them. She bore him sons and daughters, in no stinted number; and under her maternal oversight, they grew up strong and comely, the pride of both. Comfort often spoke of her as a crown to her husband, and no one ever repeated with more sincerity the saying of the wise man of old.