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‘L- .I-! ”B- 7 : .-■ ■ “ “- 1 -?*’ ‘‘'x>' ; S |; roN | t VK a mwm mholi jouiiML, —.mwrm to wm&nm, t m mts mb sbimcis, mb to wmml immMiim For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. AN EVENING CHAUNT. 11Y WM. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ. Blessings upon the night—the quiet night— The sad heart’s time of respite! Then the crowd. That oursed and crushed are silent—the rude din Is banished ; o’er the earth and in the sky Sits rapture, in the mansion of repose, Musing with hope, whose fond deluding strains .Summon us far, in sweet forgetfulness Os sorrows that are past. We sleep, we dream, Or, waking, find in thought a counterfeit, Like t<> a pleasant sleep, whose images Promise us ] eace. With absence of the strife, Pay’s character and business, we forget Our wounds, —and in the soothing c:.lw of night, Perceive the hand of healing on our hearts:— < iod’s holy hand ! Around, his ministers Glide in attendance. Soft, the precious breeze Slow stealing off from ocean sweet the breath, As from celestial gardens :—pure the light, As caught from chrystal fountains,high in heaven, Among her loftiest hills; —and dear the calm, A whisper,not a murmur, that, through all, Breathes love, —and with a spiritual tone, lYms the docile element y Oh ! Light, if 1 thee in my heart; —l turn to thee, F r succour ! Sad, upon my w< ary eyes, Shines the too gaudy day, that mocks the woe It looks ou ; —us the merry strain of Leila Vexes the ear which frequent griefs have made, Familiar but to sorrow’s utterance,— The sigh, the groan, gasped pray r and broken plea, iGubtfel of grace, to heaven. This is a time For worship;—for most sure, the Lord is now, Within his liuly temple. O’er the void, His and ve hangs brooding. Matchl’ ssly scren ‘, The aspect of his world. llow beautiful Barth grows in heaven’s embrace. It is the time For the bruised spirit to awake to life, And half forget its sorrows.—half awake To dreams of rapture. Wit h the voice of man, No longer vexing, God’s may find its way — Break in on thought, and in the holy heart 1 )f contemplation, build up happiest s hemes Os heavenly labor; —purposes most lit For new possessions, on the instant shown, For the first time, to the poor destitute, But lato a beggar. One may well ascend, Now, while the skies seem opening, and partake Os the celestial sweetness that pours forth, In heavenly affluence, from the homo of gifts, For the selected spirit which hath worn Garth's chains, the better that it may enjoy Heaven’s honors—which such loveliness as this Betokens well and promises ; —1 look, Lifted l.y worship, from dull thought’s emhraoo, Into that blessed home and feci it mine. And nothing, ’neath the broad andshclt’ring cape, But speaks of that high harmony which heaven Breathes o’er inferior objects Larth is still, — The evening’s solitude is like the strain Os some remote and holy instrument, Subsiding, in a murmur that still creeps, And lingers, by the echo’s mountain caves. The chatter and the clamor of the day, Arc done, —and the self vexing discontent, — Man, sleeps his stupid sleep, while thought is free, Aul hope goes forth, and love, and innocent song Link their joint fortunes, and beneath the night Wear its own face of sympathy and peace. With what a matchless, melancholy grace, How calm, yet conscious of supremacy, Ghe holds her regal progress. On her robes Os solemn sable, strung with myriad gems. How glorious is the light; and, as she moves, Lo! comes the attendant moon, herself a queen, * rowifd. mightv, but to her a virgin form Bearing obedient lights. A mighty chaunt Bvi'oa from ocean, o’er whose billowy harp BWcs the enamoured wind, with swelling checks, B hat sjnd the song along a thousand waves, A’.rl thence to heaven. Oh! methinks 1 hear, A music of the soul, that lifts it high la its own contemplation Such will be, I {< province—such its sway—o’er land and deep, he sky, and each aerial influence, Mysterious to us now Our eyes shall trace— nur hands shall grasp—the secrets which now bind, In night, the Wondrous whole ; and wc shall walk, ( “nipanioncd by the glorious images W hich now inspire our dreams; laiut images, hich, when tho evening lights around us burn— And the winds w hisper, and upon the ear 1 tow into accents of divinity,— arn us of higher hopes and purj oses, I huu fill our hearts by day. Oh ! not for mo Fo slumber, when my soul may drink from heaven spiritual blessings. Life for me Moves heavily by day-light. Strifes of earth * s lckeu and sudden. Man pursues with scorn Or euvy,—and the weary soul, subdued By the unfriendly and unequal strife, Ketires in gloom within her gloomy cell, 1 o dream of better things,—r.or, as I tins*, F° dream in vain. I turn from lowly hopes Os earthly fortune. What to me the strife | °r the poor pomp of woek-dny vanity 1— Ihe grandeur, favor, riches, power and pride, ( ®dn joy, and superfluity, and state, an U'l.v told, but make a point in time, ‘ oon swallowed up, as billows of tho sea, so,no succeeding swell. My heme and self * on ® are mine, and what is mine with these, bit virtue, Jove ; tho only wealth that lasts *brough time, and makes our cajital iu heaven, j When Time shall be no more. From narrow scheme, Os mortal labor, idly wrought or plann’d, I turn, with sense of strange relief, to hail The present good and God, —to seek the grace, That still implores, in every hour and place, An instant quest; but ever most by night,— \V hen thought retires upon her hidden stores, And vain ambition, and frail vanity, Striving no more, leave freedom to the heart, For truth to find fit entrance and abode. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. TO AJVIFE. Mary! I own thee, my dear better part; Ah! truly art thou the pulse of my heart! Bo.y the day, when thy soft maiden charms Yielded their empire to my longing arms, \ irtue and modesty, each a bright gem, | Are inlaid like pearls, in thy diadem— : Delighted with Hymen—-buoyant with pride, | Lnraptur and, I hail, sweet Mary, my brido. Ah ! what can surpass the joy of the groom, United, in love, to soft maiden bloom ! Youth’s charms, dear Mary, have now given place E’en sweetly succeeds thy matronly grace, j Ah, rare the gifts, which thy bosom possess; Darlir g! thy form I still fondly caress, Oh ! Mary thou art the lamp of my life, Never did husband more dote on his wife. I COXJUX. If SI 818 UiilAiteziu m '’ ° ‘-gT/ X* v • -::AV,v B c ■■ • :d : ■ O'SSgf’ . ‘V'" : ~ v . r -~.^y . -*\Ss* •-o.xgN Vy v -.liy f’lfi From tho Maiden Aunt. THE ALCESTE. BV S. M. [Emma, the youngest sister of Margaret Forde, married James Ferrars, a captain in i the navy, and was left a widow, with two i children, —a son, who followed his father's ; profession, and a daughter, who was the 1 i godchil 1 and namesake of her aunt Mar garet. Mrs. Ferrars resided near a large I seaport town on the southern coast, which we shall call Weal mouth.] July 7th, 18 —. This morning 1 arrived at my sister's for the visit which I have annually paid ever since that happy day when 1 laid the little Margaret, a sweet, fair, whimpering baby, one hour old, in ! her mother's arms. Dear child! I have watched her through life, and perhaps loved her all the better, because she is not one of those who have received the blessed gift of being generally loved. She has little beauty, though there is a charm of sense and sweetness in her face, which makes it lovely in my eyes: and she has always been sogiave and shy in society, that there must be many who have known her all her life, without having an idea of her true character. But 1 know her noble ness of mind : I know how rich she is in those fine, pure, elevated feelings, which people who are not capable of understand ing them are in the habit of stigmatizing as romantic. Nevertheless the world goes so much by outward appearance, and Mar garet has so universally obtained the repu tation of a quiet, cold, gentle girl, with nothing striking in her exterior, and very little general conversation, that I confess I was surprised when the news reached me that she was engaged to be mariicd. 1 had set her down for one of the sisterhood, —not, perhaps, exactly for the same reas ons that have made me an old maid, for 1 might have married, had I so chosen, seve ral times over. But, knowing the earnest ness, the imagination, the enthusiasm, which lay hidden under Margaret’s quiet manner and composed features, 1 felt sure that she could not attach herself to a com monplace person; and, alas! her want of fascination rendered it too probable, that one who was not commonplace would not attach himself to her. Pity', thought I, that such capacities for loving as hers should not find full employment. But 1 was all wrong, and l confess my mistake with delight. Seldom have 1 known a happier morning than that which announc ed to me her engagement. And to-day 1 heard all the particulars, which are in ev ery respect satisfactory. Doctor Thornton is thirty-two; that is, eight years older than his betrothed, which I consider a very proper difference. He is already in excel lent practice ; and, as the other physician I in Wearmouth is an old man, and there can be no doubt that Dr. Thornton will succeed to his connection, his income is likely lo be handsomer than Emma had any reason to expect for her daughter.— How one falls into the habit of mentioning income first, when a marriage is in ques tion! Money is to happiness very much what the alphabet is to learning; it would be hopeless and absurd to expect lo do without it; but the absurdity of being satis fied with its possession, as though it were the on!} 7 thing necessary, is far more glar ing, and far less excusable. I have heard little of my new kinsman ; but I feel so secure of his high-mindedness and excel lence, because he is the choice of that dear girl, that I have scarcely cared to ask any questions about him. Yet lam heartily glad that he dines here to-day. Margaret’s wedding is only delayed till her brother Frederick returns, and, as his vessel, the Alceste, is expected daily 7 , the important ceremony will take place (D. Y.) before I leave them. As for Margaret, she is a changed creature, and I can scarcely take my eyes from her face. Such radiance of happiness 1 never beheld, —and happiness, too, which partakes not of the quietness and restraint consistent with her habitual demeanor. It is as if you were to follow a stream from its source, under the shadow of thick trees and tall overhanging rocks, and then suddenly step forth into the sun shine, and see the dark, sombre waters changed into gushing, sparkling ripules of light. She passes from tears to laughter, and from laughter to tears, like a child.— How Owen would be astonished if he could see her! He once told me that he thought her the most uninteresting one of all his nieces. Dr. Thornton, or Francis, as I am to call him—(he called me aunt Peggy immediate ly, and entreated me to be equally uncere monious with him) —arrived early. At the first glance, 1 admired; at the first warm shake of the hand, 1 felt sure I should like him. I detest that cold strok ing of fingers,—that light touch of the lips against the cheek, which some persons consider to be the warmest testimonies of affection tolerated by refined society. Give me my darling Margaret’s shower of fond kisses, or her Francis's hearty, prolonged shake of the hand, which sends a feeling of warmth and comfort to the heart. He is a distinguished looking man; tail and stately, with a remarkably fine forehead, mouth expressive, intellectu.i4 and some what stern, but eyes so full of openness and kindliness, that you feel at home with him instantly. I can easily believe what Emma tells me, viz : that he has been an object ot speculation among the Wear mouth ladies ; and 1 can fancy, moreover, that no little astonishment has been felt at his choice. The evening was rather happy than lively, and afforded several opportunities for the display of Francis Thornton’s con versational powers. It was easy to see hat he had read much and thought deeply: bat 1 was chiefly interested by certain slight indications of an under-current of h.eti enthusiastic feeling, which I knew to hi so thoroughly in accordance with the temper of Margaret’s mind. Forir.stance, my sister, in speaking of her son’s charac ter and prospects, observed, “ Yes, he should have had a college education, ill as 1 could have afforded it —but, from a child, his heart was set upon the navy, so I let him have his way. What more can we wish for those we love than to know that they are happy ?” Thornton acquiesced in the sentiment, but glanced somewhat expressively at Margaret, who answered with kindling eyes, “ You don't think so, do yon, Fran cis 1 That is not in accordance with your theories.” He turned to Mrs. Ferrars with a kind of half-deprecating smile, and said gently, in answer to her exclamation of wonder, “Oh, we shall find that we think pretty nearly alike when we come to define our notions of happiness.” “And what is your notion of happiness ?” asked I. “ First, to be good, and then to do good ; and then, if possible, to be great.” “What, Francis?” cried Mrs. Ferrars, reproachfully; “and you leave out affec tion m your notions of happiness? ’ “ Do 1 leave it out ?” said lie earnestly “ Nay, on the contrary, it pervades the whole idea. But the happiness of affection consists not so much in the presence as in the nobleness of the object beloved. It is the incentive and safeguard to virtue.— Love, to be perfect, must cast out not only fear, but sin also-and even weakness. And it does so.” There was a momentary pause, which Francis broke by saying, in a changed aud playful tone, “ This is good philoso phy, but I hope it may not be put to the test. Margaret, could you play Thekla if there were need ?” “Don’task me,” said she, looking down, while a sudden glow rose to her cheeks; “yet I hope and believe that I could.” “ My dear child,” cried her fond mother, who did not exactly understand the allu sion, “ I am quite sure you could play any thing you choose to attempt, only you are so diffident. Was not that a knock at the door ?” “ You have a late visiter,” said I. “ Who can it be 1” The servant announced Mr. Moreton, the Rector of Wearmouth, and an old friend of the family. He entered, and greeted me kindly, with an effort to assume his ordinary manner; but his face was grave and his demeanor troubled. “ You are come early, or rather late, to pay your respects to Aunt Peggy,” said Emma. “When did you hear that she had arrived.” “1 did not know Miss Forde was here,” returned he. “I came for a different reas on. lam sorry to say, my dear friends, that I bring you unpleasant news.” All looked at him in silent anxiety. “ Let me begin,” continued he, “by tell ing you our great cause for thankfulness. Frederick is perfectly 7 well.” “ What has happened ?’ cried Emma, vehemently. “It is this,” replied he. “The Alceste has arrived, but cannot be admitted into the harbor: in short, there is sickness on board, and she must go through some sort of quarantine.” “ And Frederick v ’ said Emma. “ Are you telling me the truth ?” “ l pledge you my word,” replied lie, , solemnly, “that he is, as yet, perfectly , well; but it would be mistaken kindness to conceal from you liiat he is in a position , of danger.” “What is the complaint?” inquired Francis. “ They call it,” answered Mr. Moreton, with some appearance of reluctance, “the Black Fever.” My eyes were on Thornton’s face, and I could see that he changed color as these words were uttered. He continued to question Mr. Moreton,but in at undertone of voice. “How many deaths?” “ Nine—in three days.” “ And the medical officer—” Died, on the second day after the dis ease made its appearance.” “But what attendance have tley? Who lias volunteered to take his place?” “No one,” replied Mr. Moieton. “ Dr. Monckton has a wife and family : and so lias Brookes. But the news has been sent up to London, and doubtless by the day after to-morrow—” “The day after to-morrow!” cried Dr. Tfiornton. “And they are dying by dozens !” lie paused—perhaps struck by a sudden deep sigh from Margaret, who clasped my hand at the moment with a Movement as of terror. Her cheeks were as white as paper, and her eyes fixed on her lover’s face. Looking earnestly upon her, he stood up and said, “My dear, dear friends, sure ly there can be but one opinion as to my duty.” “Good God! Francis,” exclaimed Em ma, “ what are you thinking of ? Is there not misery enough ?” “These poor people,” began he—but Emma interrupted him, putting her hand upon his arm, and speaking with much agitation. “ We will not hear of it,” she said. “No, no; you have no light to sport with Mar ! garet's happiness in this manner. You ; have other duties to think of. Margaret, speak to him.” l’oor Margaret! She sat speechless and motionless, drawing her breath with a quick uneasy sound, and never lifting her eyes. I held her trembling hand between my , own. “Margaret shall herself decide,” said I Francis, whose voice plainly showed how deeply he shared the emotion to which he S was determined not to yield. “ You are right, my dear mother; her claim is indeed great. Speak, my beloved, shall 1 go or j stay ?” She cast herself upon her knees, covcr- I ing her face with her hands, and murmur , ing, in broken tones, the words, -‘God help me ! God help me!” Francis approached her, raised her with I the utmost tenderness, and placed her in a chair. “Nay, my dearest,” said he. great ly moved, “it is too much for you. Be calm, be comforted; I will never leave you.” With a sudden movement she flung her arms around hjm. - Oh, go—go!” she : cried, “1 would, not keep you for a mo ment. (Jo, dearest, —God be with you!” Gently unlocking her clasped hands, he | consigned her to me; the poor mother, ut- terly overwhelmed with sorrow, was sob bing on the sofa. Oil, the sound of his feet as he moved across the room to de t part! He paused in the doorway, anil ’ gave one look back—Margaret did not see j it—she was kneeling, with her face hidden l in my lap. She had not dared to look up i on him since she pronounced the fatal word “ go!”—and the door closed, and he was gone. Margaret arose, went to her mother, clasped her aims around her, and they j wept in silence oil each other’s bosoms. We felt how vain it was to offer consola tion : we could only sympathize; but when M. Moreton spoke of the nobleness of j that spirit of martyrdom which was ready to give up all for the sake of duty, the poor girl lifted up her face, ami looked at i him for an instant with such an expression j —it was proud, it was almost joyful. But it was drowned in a fresh burst of tears, j Never shall I forget the few days that i followed. Margaret moved about the house like a restless spirit, or sat mot’on- j less with clasped hands; sometimes, to all appearance, unconscious, sometimes evi dently engaged in mental prayer. Emma, with the true unselfishness of a mother’s grief, did nothing but watch and wait upon her child. Each evening Mr. Moreton brought us the report from tbe Alceste.— Entering without knocking, and coming rapidly up stairs so as to give us no sus j pense, lie would cry, ‘‘Good news,” be- I fore he opened the door. And then we | kneeled down and gave thanks : and then , heard the sad tale of disease and death, ! which always, however, began and ended ! with the delicious words, “Frederick and Thornton are well.” When 1 would call up before my eyes j an image of those four terrible days, it is j neither the pale and tearful face of Emma, nor poor Margaret's glazed and melancholy eves and drooping figure, that I behold. 1 : see the scene visible from the staircase window of my 7 sister’s cottaae, at which it was impossible to help pausing every time one passed it. The gay 7 town, the busy harbor with its clustering masts, the cloud less summer sky, the broad and sunny sea; | land there, in the midst of that sheet of | ! bright waters, like the evil spirit lurkine at the gates of paradise, lay the black hulk of the plague-ship, rocking aud swinging with every movement of the lazy waves. What scenes were enacting on board that : gloomy vessel! What tortures were there preparing for our unconscious hearts! 1 shudder when I think of it. The fourth evening came. We were sitting together, as we generally did, when ‘ the hour of Mr. Moreton's visit drew near, i 1 was now somewhat past the time at which | i lie usually arrived, and we uneasily avoid- i ed each other’s eyes, as we tried to keep ] ii]i a forced and languid conversation, to | conceal from ourselves that we were be ginning to grow fearful. “Poor Mrs. Ellis sent for some winefor her little boy this morning,” said Mar garet ; “he has been—” She stopped ; short; her cheeks and lips became deadly white, as though every drop of hlooJ had ! been driven back to the heart. There was ! a knock at the door. “ My darling girl, how nervous yo^ire!’ 1 cried I, jumping up. “There—stay quiet ly where you are, and I will go and learn what it means.” I hurried nut of the room, and met Mr. Moreton on the stairs. The first glance at his face was sufficient : 1 saw we had something terrible to hear. Ho grasped my hand. “Oh. how shall j we tell her ? how shall we teli her?’’ said he much agitated. “ Which is it?” 1 gasped, scarcely able j to articulate. “ Thornton,” lie replied ; “he sickened this morning.” We were interrupted by a cry, the sound of which did not leave my ears for many days,—it expressed such bitterness of deso lation. Margaret, unable to restrain her anxiety, had followed me to the door, and heard the fatal words. The next instant she was, happily for herself, insensible. Her swoon lasted long, and. when she recovered, she was in a high fever,—a re sult which might easily have been foreseen, after four days of such suffering, ending so 1 terribly'. She was delirious, and knew no one who approached her. For three weeks, the violence of her disorder continued un abated ; alternating between tits of raving, and a kind of stupor that was not sleep. During this time our kind and true Iriend, Mr. Moreton, was constantly with us; and great were the comfort and support which my poor sister and I derived from his presence. l! A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is horn for adversity.” Mow much added force does the truth of these words acquire, when the friend and comforter of your affliction is one whose : high and holy mission is to sneak peace to [ the troubled spirit, and declare the counsels | of God! At length the delirium ceased, and was succeeded by a long and profound stupor, supposed to he the crisis of the di-ease. —’ For several days aftor this left her, she 1 was in a strange kind of state : her eyes | were open, and she took obediently what ! ever was presented to her, but never spoke ‘or moved ; andjwe knew not how far she j was conscious of what passed around her. ! Every day 7 there seemed to be more and | more of sense in those cad eyes, which ’ feebly followed our movements about the chamber, with an expression so pathetic, that Emma and I were frequently unable ! to restrain our tears. At last—it wasl about five weeks from the first beginning j of the fever—l was sitting alone by her bedside, and the sloping rays of the red and sinking sun were showering their warm rich light upon tile windows of the sick chamber, when she spoke to me. “ Aunt Peggy.” said she, in a low, but perfectly distinct voice, “13 it only you ?” I took her wasted hand, aud bent over i Iter. “ Yes, dearest; there is no one else here. What do you want ?” “Oh, now then, tell me all—every thing. 1 would not speak before, because of dis tressing mamma. But, dear Aunt Peggy, do tell me!” I was troubled, and hardly knew how to answer her. “ What am fto tell you ?” I said, at last. “ You must try to compose yourself.” “Yes, yes; 1 will, indeed,” blie replied. “But 1 shall be so much better when 1 know it with certainty. It is several days ; since niv mind came back to me; but it is still weak. I remember all: butsometimes my recollection is confused; and then my dreams—my 7 dreams are so dreadful. 1 think, if 1 were once to hear it distinctly, 1 should not dream in this dreadful manner. Oh, if any thing would stop my dreams !” “Are they so very melancholy?” ask ed I. “Oh, no, no ; it is their happiness which is so terrible. I dream as if nothing had happened; and then, you know, l wake, and can hardly bear it; and then 1 get be wildered. But if you would only tell me how it all happened; if you would say it i to tnc in words, perhaps I should notdream ( so again.” My tears fell fast, as 1 kissed her fore-1 head, and replied : - But I would not check those dreams : they are sent in mercy, my I own one; they arc comforts an 1 not tor-■ ments.” “ Ah, you cannot understand me,” she : said; “but pray, pray, have pity on me. j and do what I ask you.” “You have not strength,” I said; “! must go for Dr. Monckton.” She hell my hand tightly. “Oh, no — no, no,” she cried, earnestly; “don’t go away; I want no one but you. I have strength for any thing; you don’t know j how much better I am.” I hesitated, and considered within my- j self. It was ten days since the ciisis ha t terminated favorably. Dr. Monckton had ; pronounced that the disease was absolutely : gone. Her weakness was excessive, but; then she had been taking nourishment, and gaining strength day by day. 1 thought \ that the vexation consequent uponmyeva- j sion of her inquiries, might be worse for her than the agitation of having them an swered. At any rate, 1 -aw no means of escape; and being at all times a bal dis scmbler, 1 felt that 1 could not disguise the truth any longer; so 1 stoo|ed over her, and kissed her, and spoke with a tumbling heart. “My darling child, suppose that those dreams were only preparations for reali | ty.” She looked wildly at me, but did not speak. “Recollect,” I continued, “you know, nothing certainly. When your dreadful illness began, it was all doubtful. God has been very merciful to us : your dear brother never caught the fever, and he is now at home ; and—” l burst into tears, and could not proceed. But the disclosure which 1 had begun, perhaps somewhat rashly was still more rashly completed.— The door opened, and Frederick entered. But whose was that pale, joyful face be hind him? Who is it that lingers otr the threshold, looking wistfully into tiiecham ’ her, but afraid to advance: his eyes bright i with thankful hope and eager happiness, though his whole figure bears the traces of recent and severe illness? Need I name him ? The sound of his step was enough —Margaret wept, and stretched out her arms. But we must leave the sacred rap ture of that moment untouched. And what a party was it that gathered i [around the invalid’s bed that evening!— The mother, with her eyes fixed on her ’ child's face, scarcely daring to rejoice, yet j full of thankfulness, and clasping fondly ! m hers the band of her restored son ; and ] Thornton, the noble and self-devoted, re- I reiving, even on earth, the abundant re ■ ward of his goodness. Os all who sie.ken j cal in that unhappy Alceste, he was the only one who recovered. And don t ior get Aunt l’eggy; no heart was happier, or more grateful than hers. Truly may we ! old maids thank God that the privilege of [sympathy is vouchsafed to us; for if we suffer by the sorrows of those we love, we have also great happiness in their joys! “j 1 xi Lii}}-LiX IB I o •‘~“7 ‘ ‘ “' r ‘ THE RED CAP. [Fr-m M -I Ellet’s “Evenings at Woodlawn.J “ Hans Christoph, the bailiff of a small town in Germany, was in possession (be sides the respect and consideration due him in right of office and personal character) of a young wife, whose name was Eva. As often as the worthy bailiff called her by that name, lie grumbled that it should be long to her, for it never failed to put him in mind of the nefarious doings ot mother Eve, when she circumvented Adam in Paradise. 1 What befel the first man,’ tie would say to himself, ‘ may fall to the lot of old llaus Chi'stopli; for if ihe Eve that took the apple had one devil to help her, my Eva may have ten thousand if she choose ! Ob, Hans Christoph, it was a foolish tiling to marry so young a wile!’ “By the ‘ten thousand devils,’ Ilans meant nothing more than the young men. particularly those of gentle blood, ten miles round the neighborhood. For the fact Could not be denied, that they came from far and near, ou foot and on horseback, to pay their respects to the lovely wife of the bailiff, or to almire her as they rode or walked past the house. Hans Christoph was not long in finding ‘.his out; and the (liowrvty *!••- KI vx info n tr:j nSDOFt f>f rage and jealousy. lie would no longer, permit Eva lo go to the door, nor to leave the house on any pretext; and at last for- Ia le her even looking out of the window, Eva was a sweet, innocent, amiable creature, and had always entertained a profound respect for her old husband. Hut when he showed such unreasonable dis tiust, and treated her so harshly, her re spect, as a matter of course, was reduced to naught; while he continued, day after dav, to torment her by his unfounded sus picious. ‘ldle rebellious spirit in her hu man nature was routed, until she was at last provoked into wishing for an oppor tunity to deceive him. *• What a woman seeks to do, she is not long in finding means to accomplish, in spite of all ilia Argus watching in the world. For many days had the nephew of their landlord, in passing the house, thrown in pitying glances, intended for the pretty victim of tyranny, which jooks. ; caught by stealth, were readily understood. So, one day, when the bailiti’was gone to the tavern to examine a thief who had let himself down by the chimney to steal, Master Fritz availed himself of the same means to enter the kitchen of Hans Chris toph's house. There Eva received him, and disburdened herself of all her troubles. , Whom else had she to complain to ? Fritz listened sympathizing!}-, and said that he thought lie could help her. lie knew of a way to cure the old bailiff of his jeal ousy. Eva shook her head incredulously. That would be a miracle indeed! But Fritz hoped for the best, and presently un folded his scheme. Eva laughed heartily at it, and promised her aid to the best of : her power. “ fn the afternoon of the same day the ballitl was sitting in a very sullen in- 01, oil the bench before his door, lie was wondering how it happened that his yi nag wife had not wept bitterly, as usual, at i > reproaches; and trying to think who had been daring enough to offer her consola tion. A slight noise interrupted his rev erie. and looking up, he savv an old Polish Jew, in course traveling gear, with a knap sack on his shoulders. “ 1 Anything to buy V asked the pedler.