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9 jPamils S.etospafrKs©rbtfa to attcrature, tttr arts, Science, Sgrtrultarr, Jttcciianfts, Eattcation, jForelau ana Domestic SntrlUaencr, Rumour, tct. VOLUME I. \P& r £T [&¥□ LOVED AND LOST. BY MRS. EMEU* WELBY. Pale Star, that with thy soft, sad light, Cnmeout noon rny bridal eve, I have a song to siog to-night, Bef>rethou takest thy mournful leave. Since then so softly time hath stirred, That months have aim >st seemed like hours, And I am like a little bird That's slept too long among the flowers, And waking, sits with waveless wing, ‘Soft singing ’mid the shades of even ; SBtit oh ! with sadder heart I sing— I sing of one who dwells in I leaven. “The winds nre soft, the clouds are few, And tenderest th ought mv heart beguiles, As H i.ating up through mist and dew, Toe pale young mom cones out and smiles, And to the green, resounding shore. In silvery troops the ripples crowd, Tii! all the ncearofjlimpled o’er, f, s up its voice, and laughs aloud 5 Lit- a n giar, all soft and calm. And star o ’ arch serenely blue ; Floats up yo.. Btee p e( j j n h a |m And lost to earth, a M ( My spirit flddts in ether ‘ Loved one! though lost to humsn sight, I feel thy spiritlingering near, Ass >ltly as I teel the light That trembles thr >ugh the atmosphere : As in some temple’s holy shades Though mute the hymn and hush’d the prayers, A solemn awe the soul pervades. Which tells that worship h is been there ; A breath of incense lelt alone, Where many a censer, swung around, Will thrill the wanderer, like a tone, Who treads on consecrated ground. 1 knotv thy soul, from worlds of bliss, That stoops awhile to dwell with me, Hath caught the prayer I breathed in this, That 1 at last might dwell with thee. 1 hear a murmur from the seas, Titat thrills me like thy spirit's sighs— -1 hear a voice on every breeze, That make 9 to mine its low replies— A voice, all low and sweet, like thine: It gives an answer to my prayer, And brings my soul from heaven a sign, That it shall know and meet thee there. I’ll know thee there by that sweet fat e, Round which a tender halo plays. Still touched with that expressive grace, That made thee lovely ail thy days i By that sweet smile that o'er it shed A beauty like the light of even. Whose so ft expression never fled, Even when its soul had flown to Heaven. I'll know thee by the starry crown That glitters 111 thy golden hair; Oh! by these blessed signs alone,’ I’ll know thee there—l’ll know thee there. For ah ! thine eyes, within whose shpere The sweets of youth and beauty meet, That swam in bve and softness here, Mustswun in love and softness yet; For ah ! its dark and liquid beams, Though saddened by a thousand sighs, Were holier than the light that streams Down Irom the gates of Paradise — Were bright and radiantlike the morn, Yet soft and dewy a9 the eve— Too sad fur eyes where smiles are born — Too young foreye9 that learn to grieve. I wonder if this cool, sweet breeze, Hath touched thy lips and fanned thy brow ? For all my spirit hears and sees, Recalls thee to my memory now ; For every hour we breath apart Will bat increase—if that can be— The love that fills this little heart, Already filled so full of thee. Yet many a tear these eyes must weep, And many a sin must be forgiven, Ere these pal lids shall gjnk to steep — Ere thou and I shall meet in Htaven. M]aS[i[LLA!OT O From Graham’s Magazine. PROCRASTINATION. HY MRS. M. H. PARSONS, ‘‘To-morrow, l will do it to morrow,” wis the curse of Lucy Clifton’s life. Wher. a chiM, she always harl it in view to make such charming’ little dresses—to-morrow When girlhood came her lessons were nev eruerfect—“only excuse me for this once m imn i. and I w 11 never put off my les sons <gaiu !’ The plesder was lovely, and lengaginaf, mamma v\'as weakly indulgent : Lucy was forgiven and the fault grew Rpace, until she rarely did any thing to-day, that could he put off till to-morrow. She xvas a wife, and the mother of two children, fct the period our story commences. With a cultivated mind, most engaging manners, and great beauty of form, and features, Lucy had already lost all influence over the mind of her husband, and was fast losing her hold on his affections. She had been married when quite young, as so many American girls unfortunately are, and with a character scarcely formed, had been thrown into situations of emergency and trial she was very unprepared to encounter. Her husband was a physician, had !>ecti but a year or two in practice, at the time of their marriage. William Clifton was a young man of fine abilities, and most excel lent character ; of quick temper, and im patient, he was ever generous, and ready to acknowledge his fault. Whenhemarried Lu cy, he thought her as near perfectionas it was possible for a woman to be ; proportionate was his disappointment, at finding the evil habit of procrastination, almost inherent in her nature frojn long indulgence, threaten ing to overturn the whole fabric of domes sovtßiair tic happiness his fancy had delighted to rear. There was no order in his household, no comfort by his fireside : and oftentimes when irritated to bitter anger, words escap ed the husband, that fell crushingly on the warm, affectionate heart of the wife. The evil habit of procrastination had “ grown with bet gtowth ” no parental hand, kind in its severity, had lopped off the excrescence, that now threatened to destroy her peace, that shadowed by its evil consequences her otherwise fair and beautiful character. In Lucy’s sphere of life there was necessity for much self-exertion, and active superin tendance over the affairs of her- household. They lived retired; eeon >my and good management were essential to render the limited income Doctor Clifton derived from his practice fully adequate to their support —that income wns steadily on the increase, and his friends deemed the day not far dis tant, when he would rise to eminence in his profession. Lucy’s father, a man of consi derable wealth, hut large family, had pur chased a house, furnished it, and presented it to Lucy ; she was quite willing to limit tier visiting circle to a few friends, as best suited with titfir present means. Surely WilliamCliftoit was not unreasonable, when ! he looked forward io a life of domestic hap-’ piness, with his young anJ tenderly nurtur ed bride. Hecould not know her ma ny bright excelling virtues of character would he dimmed, by the growth of the ,me fad 1 ’ u,,t ‘* a shadow lay on the pathway of j lls> daily *e. It mothers could lift the dim curtain of the future, and read the destiny of their chiiJ’ en, they would see neglected faults, piercing i.'.’ -e sharp adders the bosoms that bore them, and mingling with the agony, that she, who n„'d moulded their young minds, had not done hei work aright! It was four years after their tor Clifton entered the nursery hurriedly. “ Lucy, my dear, will you have my things in order by twelve o’clock ? I must leave home for two days, perhaps longer, if I find the patient I am called to see very iii.” “Yes, yes ! 1 will see to them. What shall I do with the child, William, he is so very fretful ? How I wish I had given him the medicine yesterday ; he is vety trou blesome !” “If you think he needs it give it to him at once ;” said her husband abruptly, “ and don’t 1 beg, Lucy, forget my clothes.” He left the room, and Lucy tried to hush bady to sleep, hut baby would not go, then the nurse girl, who assisted her could not keep him quiet, and the mother, as she had often been before, became bewildered, and at a loss what to do first. “If you please ma’am what am 1 to get for dinner?” said the cook, the only servant they kept in the kitchen, putting her head in at the door, and looking round with a half smile, on the littered room, and squal ling baby. “ Directly, I shall he down directly Betty, I must first get baby to sleep.” “Very well, ma’am,” was the reply, and going down an hour afterwards, Mrs. Clif ton found Betty with her feet stretched out and her arms folded one over the other, com fortably seated before an open window, in tent in watching, and enjoying the move ments in every passer-by. “Betty, Betty!” said the mistress angri ly, “have vou nothing to do, that you sit so idly here ?*” ‘I waited for orders, ma’am.’ Dinner was an hour back, Lucy assisted for a short time herself, and then went up stairs to arrange Clifton’s clothes. Baby was screaming ter ribly; and Lucy half terrified did yesterday's work, by giving him a dose of medicine. So the morning sped on. Clifton came in at the appointed time. ‘ Are rny clothes in readiness, Lucy V She colored with vexation, and shame. * The baby has been very cross ; l have not indeed had time. But l will go now.’ Clif ton went down to his solitary dinner, and when he returned found Lucy busy with her needle ; it was evident even to his un skilled eye there was much to be done. ‘lt is impossible to wait. Give me the things as they are ; I am so accustomed to wearing my shirts without buttons, and my blockings with boles in, that l shall find it tothing new —nor more annoying than I laily endure.’ He threw the things care essly into his carpet-bag, and left the room, tordid lie say one kindly word in farewell, >r affection. It was this giving away to vio lent anger, and using harsh language to his wife that had broken her spirit, almost her heart. She never even thought of reform ing herself; she grieved bitterly, but hope lessly. Surely it is better when man and wife are joined together by the tie that ‘n< man may put asunder,’ to strive seriously and in affection to correct fine another’s faults. There is scarcely any defect of char acter, that a husband, by taking the light method may not cure ; always providing his wife is not unprincipled. But lie must be very patient ; bear for a season ; add !■ judicious counsel much tenderness and af fection : making it clear to her mind tha love for herself and solicitude for thei mutual happiness are the objects it view. Hard in heart, and with little o woman’s devotion unto him to whom he faith is plighted, must the wife be who could long resist. Not such an one was Lucy Clifton ; but her husband in the stormy re vulsion of feeling that had attended the first breaking up of his domestic happiness, had done injustice to her mind, to the sweetness of disposition that had borne all his anger without retorting in like manner. If Clif ton was conscious of his own quickness of temper, approaching to violence, he did not for one moment suppose* that he was the PUBLISHED ‘WEEKLY, BY C. R. IIANLEITER, AT TWO DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. MADISON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, MAY 7, 1812. cause of any portion of the misery brooding over his daily path. He attributed it all to the procrastinating spirit of Lucy, and upon her head belaid the blame with no unspar ing hand. He forgot that she had number ed twenty years, and was the mother of two children ; that her situation wns one of ex ertion, and toil under the most favorable circumstances ; that lie was much her seni or, had promised to cherish her tenderly. Yet the first harsh word that dwelt on Lti i cy’s heart was from the lips of her husband! How tenderly in years long gone hail she been nurtured! The kind arm of a father had guided and guarded her; the tender voice of a mother had lighted on her path like- sunshine—and now ? Oh ye, who would crush the spit it of the young and gen tle, instead of leading it tenderly by a straight path in the way of wisdom—po down into the breaking heart and learn its agony ; its desolation, when the fine feelings of a wasted nature go in upon the brain and consume it! One morning Clifton entered the nursery, 4 Lucy,’ said lie ; ‘my old classmate, and very dear friend Walter Eustace is in town. He came unexpectedly ; his stay is short ; I should like to ask him to spend the day with me. Could you manage, love, to have the time pass comfortably to my friend ?’ Lucy felt all the meaning conveyed in the emphasis on a word that from his lips sound ed almost formidable in her ears. ‘ I will do all 1 can,’ she answered sadly. • not scruple Lucy to get assistance. Have every thing ready in time, and do not fail in having oro? r , * n<l g°° d arrangement. There was a time, Lucy, when Eustace heard much of you ; I sliouM be gratified to think he found the wife worthy i.’f the praise the lover lavished so freely upon her. Sing for us to-night—it i3 long since the pian.’ was opened! and look, and smile as you once did, in the days that are gone, but not forgotten, Lucy.’ His voice softened un consciously, he had gone back to that early time, when love of Lucy absorbed every feeling of his heart. He sighed ; the stern, and bitter realities of his life came with their heavy weight upon him, and there was no bahn in the future, for the endurance of present evils. He turned and left the room ; Lucy’s eyes fallowed him, and as the door closed she murmured —‘ not forgotten ! Oh, Clifton’ how little reason I have to believe you!’ Lucy was absorbed in her own thoughts so long as to be unconscious of the flight of lime. When she roused, she thought she would go down stairs and see what was to he done, but her little boy asked her some question, which she stopped to answer; half an hour more elapsed before she got to the kitchen. She told Hetty she meant to hire a cook for the morrow—thought she had better go at once and engage one—yet, no, on second thoughts, she might come with her to the parlors and assist in arranging them ; it would he quite time enough to en gage the cook when they were completed. To the parlors they went, and Lucy was well satisfied with the result of their labor —hut mark her comment: ‘ What a great while we have been detained here ; well, I am sure I have meant this three weeks to clean the parlors, but never could find time. If I could but manage to attend them every day, they would never get so out of order.’ The next morning came, the cook not en gaged yet., Betty was despatched in haste, hut was unsuccessful—all engaged for the day. So Betty must be trusted, who some times did well, and at others signally failed. Lucy spent the morning in the kitchen as sisting Betty and arranging every thing she could do, but matters above were in the mean time sadly neglected, her children dirty, and ill dressed, the nursery in confu sion, and Liicj almost bewildered in decid ing what had better be done, and what left undone. She concluded to keep the child ren in the nursery without changing their dress, and then hastened to arrange her own, and go down stairs, as her husband and his friend had by this time arrived. Her face was flushed, and her countenance anxious ; she was conscious that Mr. Eustace noticed it, and her uncomfortable feelings increased. The dinner, the dinner—it it were only ov er ! she thought a hundred times. It came at last, and all other mortifications was as nothing in comparison. There was not a dish really well cooked, and every thing was served up in a slovenly * manner. Lu cy’s cheeks tingled with shame. Oh, if she had only sent in time for a cook. It was her birterest thought even then. When the dinner was over Mr. Eustace asked for the children, expressing a strong desire to see them. Lucy colored, and in evident con fusion. evaded the request. Her husband was silent, having a suspicion how matters stood. Just then a great roar came from the hall, md the oldest boy burst into the. room. • Mother! mother ! Hannah shut me up, she did !’ A word from his father silenced him, and Lucy took her dirty, ill dressed viy by the hand and left the toom. She could not restrain her tears, but her keen •ense of right prevented her punishing the •hild, as she was fully aware, had he been •roperly dressed, she would not have ob jected to his presence, and that he was only laiming on accorded privilege. Mr. Eus •ace very soon left, amt as soon as the door closed on him Clifton thought: ‘ I nevercan hope to see a friend in comfort until I can afford to keep a house-keeper. Was there ever such a curse in a man’s house as a pro crastinating spirit !’ With such feelings, jt may be supposed, he could not meet his wife with any degree of cordiality. Lucy said ‘there was no help for it, she had .done her very best.’ Clifton answered her con- Itemptuously ; wearied and exhausted with the fatigues of the day, she made no reply, j but rose up and retired to rest, glad to seek in sleep forgetfulness of the weary life she ‘led. Clifton had been unusually irritated; when the morrow came, it still manifested itself in many ways that bore hard on Lucy; she did not reply to an angry word that fell ftom his lips, hut she felt none the less deep ly. Some misconduct in the child induced him to reflect with bitterness on the mater nal management. She drew her hand over her eyes to keep back the tears, her lip quivered, and her voice trembled as she ut tered : ‘Do not speak so harshly, Clifton, if the fault is all mine, most certainly the misery is also !’ ‘Of what avail is it to speak otherwise V said he sternly, ‘ you deserve wretchedness, and it is only the sure result of your pre cious system.’ ‘ Did you ever encourage me to reform, or point out the way V urged Lucy, gently. • I married a woman for a companion, not a child to instruct her,’ he answered, bitter iy- 1 Ah—hut I was a child! happy—so hap py in that olden time, with all to love, and none to chide me. A child, even in years, when you took me for a wife—too s'xtn a mother, shrinking from my responsibilities, and without courage to meet my trials. I found no sympathy to encourage me—no forbearance that my years were few—no advice when most 1 needed it—no tender ness when my heart was nearly breaking. It is the first time, Clifton, I have reproached you ; hut the worm will turn if it is trodden upon,’ and Lucy left the room. It was strange, even to herself, that she had spoken so freely, yet it seemed a sort of relief to the anguish of her heart. That he had al lowed her to depart without reply did not surprise her ; it may he doubted, although her heart pined ti.r it, if ever she expected tenderness from Clifton more. It was per-! haps an hour alter her conversation with i Clifton, Lucy sat alone in the nursery ; her baby was asleep in the cradle beside her; they were alone together, and as she gazed on its happy face, she hoped with an hum ble hope, to rear it up, that it might he en abled to give and receive happiness. There was a slight rap at the door; she opened if, and a glad cry escaped hei—‘Uncle Joshua!’ she exclaimed. He took her iri his arms’ fora moment —tnat kindly and excellent old man, while a tear dimmed his eye as he witnessed her joy atseeinghim. She drew a stool towards him, and sat down at bis ‘ feet as she had often done before in her hap-, py, girlish days; she was glad when his j hand rested on her heed, even ns it had done in another time ; she felt a friend had tome back to her, who had her interest nearly at heart, who had loved her long and most ten derly. Mr. Tremaine was the brother of Lucy’s mother—he had arrived in town un expectedly ; indeed had come chiefly with a view of discovering the cause of Lucy’s low-spirited letters —he feared all was not right, and as she was the object of almost his sole earthly attachment, he could not rest in peace while he believed her unhap-’ py. He was fast approaching three score years and ten ; never was there a warmer] heart, a more incorruptible, or sterling na ture. Eccentric in many things, possessing some prejudices, which inclined to ridicule in himself, no man had sounder common sense, or a more careful judgment. His hair was white, and fell in long smooth locks over his shoulders; his eye-brows were heavy, and shaded an eye as keen and penetrating as though years had no power to dim its 1 ght. The high, open luow, and the quiet tenderness that dwelt in his smile, were the ct owning charms of a countenance on which nature had stamped her seal as her ‘ noblest work.’ He spoke to Lucy of other days, of the happy home from whence he came, till her tears came down like ‘sum mer rain,’ witli the mingling of sweet and hitter recollections. Os her children next, and her eye lighted, and her color came bright and joyous—the warm feel ngs of a mother’s heart responded to every word of praise he uttered. Os her husband—and sadly‘Uncle Joshua’ noticed the change; her voice was low and despondimr, and a look of sorrow and care came back to the youthful face : ‘Clifton was succeeding in busino-s ; she was gratified and proud of his success,’ and was all she said. * Uncle Joshua’s’ visit was of some dura tion. He saw things as they r'nlly were, and the truth pained him deeply. ‘ Lucy,’ said he quietly, as one day they were alone together— ‘ 1 have much to say, and you to hear. Can you bear the truth, my dear girl ?’ She was by his side in a moment. ‘Anything from you, uncle. Tell me freely all you think, and if it is censure of poor Lucy, little doubt but that she will pro fit by it.’ ‘You are a good girl !’ said ‘Uncle Jo shua,’ resting his hand on her head, * and you will be rewarded yet.’ He paused for a moment ere he said— * Lucy you are not a happy wife. You married with bright prospects —who is to blame V ‘I am—but not alone,’ said Lucy, in a chocking voice, ‘ not alone, there are some faults on both sides.’ ‘ Let us first consider yours; Clifton’s faults will not exonerate you from the per formance of your duty. For the love 1 bear’ you, Lucy, I will snonk the truth : all the misery of your wedded life proceeds from the fatal indulgence of a procrastinating spirit. One unrorrected'-fault has been the means of alienating your husband’s alloc- j tions, and bringing discord and misrule into ■ the very heart of your domestic Eden. This 1 must not be. You have strong sense and feeling, and must, conquer the defect of character that weighs so heavily on your peace.’ Lucy burst into tears—‘l fear I never can—and if I do, Clifton will not thank me, or care.’ ‘ Try, Lucy. You can have little know ledge of the happiness it would bring or you would make the effort. And Clifton will care. Bring order into his household and comfort to his fireside, and he will take you to his heart with a tenderer love than he ev er gave to the bride of his youth.’ Lucy drew her breath gaspingly, and for a moment gazed into her uncle’s face with something of his own enthusiasm ; hut it passed anil despondency came with its with ering train of tortures to frighten her from exertion. ‘ You cannot think, dear uncle, how much I have to do ; and my children are so trou blesome, that I can never systematize time.’ * Let us see first what you can do. What is your first duty in the morning after you have dressed yourself?’ ‘To wash and dress the children.’ ‘Do you always do it? Because if you rise early you have time before breakfast. Your children are happy and comfortable; only in your regular management of every thing connected with them.’ ‘ 1 cannot always do it,’ said Lucy, blush ing— ‘sometimes I get np as low-spirited and weary as nfter the fatigues of the day. I have no heart to go to work; Clifton is cold, and hurries off’ to business. After breakfast I go through the house Hud to the kitchen, so that it is often noon before I can manage to dress them.’ ‘ Now instead of all this, if you were to rise early, dress your little ones liefore breakfast, arrange your work, ard go regu larly from one work to the other ; never put ting off’ one to finish another, you would get through everything, and have time to walk —that each day may have its necessary por tion of exercise in the open air. That would dissipate weariness, raise your spirits, and invigorate your frame. Lucy, will you not make the trial for Clifton’s sake ? Make hi.-- home a well-ordered one, and he will be glad to come into it.’ And Lucy promised to think of it. But her uncle was surprised at her apparent apathy, and not long in divining the true reason. Her heart is not in k, he thought, and if her hush md don’t rouse it, never will lie. Lucy felt she was an object of indif ference, if not dislike to Clinton ; there was no end to be accomplished by self-ex ertion ; and as there was nothing to repay Iter for her wasted love of many years, she would encourage no new hopes to find them as false as the past. * Undo Joshua’ sat together with Dr. Clifton, in the office of the latter. ‘ lias it ever struck you. Doctor, how much Lucy is altered of late ?’ 4 1 cannot say that I see any particular al teration. It is some time since you saw her; matrimony is not very favorable to good looks, and may have diminished her beauty/ ‘lt is not of her beauty 1 speak. Her character is wholly changed ; her spirits depressed, and her energies gone,’ and ‘Un cle Joshua’ spoke warmly. ‘ I never thought her particularly energe tic,’ said the Doctor, dryly. ‘No one would suppose, my good sir, you had ever thought, or cared much about her.’ ‘ Uncle Joshua’was angry ; hot the red spot left his cheek as soon as it came there as he went on : ‘ Let us speak in kind ness of this sad business. I see Lucy was in the right in thinking you had lost all af fection for her.’ ‘Did Lucy say that ? I should be sorry she thought so.’ ‘ A man has cause for sorrow, when a i wife fully believes his love for her is gone. Nothing can he more disheartening—noth ing hardens the heart more fearfully, and sad indeed is the lot of that woman who hears the evils of matrimony without the hapjiiness which often counterbalances them. VVe, who are of harder natures, have too little sym|mthy, perhaps too little thought for her peculiar trials.’ Gently then, as a father to an otfly son. the <rld man related to Clifton all that had passed be tween Lucy and himself. More than once he saw his eyes moisten and strong emotion manifest itself in its manly countenance. A something of remorseful sorrow filled his heart, and its shadow lay on his fc.ee. ‘Un cle Joshua’ read aright the expression, and his honest heart beat with joy tit the pros pects he thought it opened before them. Al ways wise-judging lie said nothing further, but left him to his own reflections. And Clifton did indeed reflect long and anxious ly : he saw indeed how much his own con duct had discouraged his wife, while it had been a source of positive Unhappiness toiler. He went at length to seek her; she was | alone in the parlor reading, or rather a lawik , was before her, from which her eyes often ! wandered, until her head sank on the arm of the sofa, and a heavy sigh came sadly on the ear of Clifton. ‘ Lucy, dear Lucy, grieve no more ! We have both been wrong, but I have erred the most —having years oil ’my side and experience. Shall-we not for j give each other, my sweet wife V and he ’ lifted her tenderly in his arms, mid kissed the tears as they tell on her cheek. ‘ I have caused you much suffering. Lucy, I greatly fear; your faults occasioned me , only inconvenience. Diy up your tears, ■ and let me hear that you forgive me, Lucy.’ * I have nothing to forgive,’ exclaimed Lucy. ‘ Oh, 1 have been wrong, very wrong! but if you had only encourage.! me to re form, and sustained and aided me in my ef fort* to do so by your affection* so many of our married days would not have passed iii sorrow and sufl'erihg.’ ’ I feel they would not,’ said Clifton ah most moved to tears. ‘ Now, Lucy, the self-exertion shall be mutual. I will never rest until I correct the violence of temper, that has caused you so much pain. You have hut one fault, procrastination—will yot t strive also to overcome it V ‘ 1 will.’ said Lucy ; ‘ but you must be very patient with me, and rather encourage me to new exertions. I have depended too long on yourJnoks not to be influenced by them still—my Jove, Clifton, stronger than your own, fed on the memory of our early happiness, until my heart grew sick that it would never return. Oh ! if you could love me as you did then, could respect me as once you did, I feel I could make any exertion to deserve it.’ > ‘ And will you not be more worthy of es teem and love than ever you were, dear Lu cy, if you succeed in reforming yourself I 1 believe you capable of the eflbrt; and if success attends it, the blessing will fall on us Iwith, Lucy, and on ourown dear children. Os one thing be assured, that my love will know no further change nr diminution. You shall not have cause to complain of me again, Lucy. Now smile on me, dearest, as you once did in a time we will never for get—nod tell me you will be happy for my sake.’ Lucy smiled, and gave the assurance— her heart beat lightly in her bosom—the color spread over her face—her eyes spar kled with the new, glad feelings of hope and happiness, and as Clifton clasped her in his arms, he thought her more beautiful than in that early time jyhen he had first won her love. In that very hour Lucy began her work •of reform; h seemed as though new life had been infused into her hitherto drooping frame. She warbled many a sweet note of her ynnth, long since forgotten, for her spirits seemed running over from very ex cess of happiness. • Uncle Joshua’ Was consulted in all her arrangements, and of great use he was : he planned for her, en couraged her, made all easy by his method and management. She had gone to work with a strong wish to do her duty, and with a luisban l’a love shining steadily on her path, a husband’s affection for all success, and sprnpathy witli every failure, there Was little spar of her not succeeding. ’Tis true, the habit had been long in forming, but eve ry link she broke in the chain that boittid her, brought anew comfort lo that happy household hearth. Clifton had insisted oir hiring a woman to take charge of the child ren—this was a great relief. A-nd some how or other, ‘ Uncle Joshua’ looked up a good cook. ‘Now,’ said Lucy, * to fail would be a pos itive ifisgrace.’ *No danger of your failing, irtv sweet wife,’ said Clifton, with a glance of affec tion that might have satisfied even her heart. 4 You are already beyond the fear of it/ Lucy shook her head—‘l must watch or my old enemy will be back agaitr before t am fully rid of him/ 4 lt is right to watch ourselves, I know, Lucy ; are you satisfied that I have done so. and have, in some measure, corrected! myself?’ said Clifton, ‘I have never seen a frown on your face* since you promised me to be patient. You have been, and will continue to be, l an* sure,’ said Lucy, fondly, as she raised his hand to her lips which had rested on her arm. They were happy both, and whatev er trouble was in store for them in their fu ture life, they had strong mutual affection to sustain them under it. ‘ God bless them both,’ murmured 4 Un cle Joshua,’ as he drew bis hand hard across * his eyes after witnessing this little scene. * I have done good here, but in many a case I might be termed a meddling old fool, and not without reason, perhaps. ’Tis a pity though, that folks, who will get their necks into this matrimonial yoke, would not try to make smooth the uneven places, instead of stumbling all the way, breaking their hearts by way of amusement, as they go/ * What is that you say, ‘Uncle Joshua?’ * said Lucy, turning quickly round, and walk ing towards him, accompanied by her hus band. * ‘ I have a bad habit of talking aload,’ said he, smiling. ‘ Hut I thought you were abusing matri mony, uncle—you surely were not ?’ ’Cannot say exactly what.l was thinking aloud. lam an old bachelor, Lticy, ana have few objects of affection in the world 1 you have been to me as a child, always a good child, Lucy, too—and now I think you will make a good wife, and find the hap winess you so well deserve. Am 1 right, love ?’ • I hope you are, uncle. If it had not been for your kindness though, I might nev er have been happy again,’ and tears dim med Lucy’s eyes at the recollection. 4 We shall not forget your kindness,’ said Clifton when he extended his hand, which * Uncle Joshua’ grasped warmly, ‘I wish every married pair in trouble could find ■ gn<id genius like yourself to interfere in their favor.’ * Ten to one he would be kicked out of doors!’ said the old man, laughing. “This matrimony is a queer thing—those who ; have their necks in the noose had better | mukc the most of it —and those out of the scrape keep so. Ah ! you little reprobate!’ he cried as he caught Lucy’s bright eye, and disbelieving shake of the head—-'you don't pretend to contradict me V % •Yea I do, with my whole heart too. I would not five up my husband for the wide NUMBER 61*