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make her first appearance before a public au dience. Much was anticipated from a pupil of Ma me.Viilaret, nor were those anticipations d;>a o ted. Pauline made a splendid debut, her Oiiess was quite satisfied, and the sim ple girl. dazzled a*d bewildered flattery tmd adulation, began totnink it was a blessed day w.ien tne French lady* paused to listen to her as she sat singing by the ruined well. Af ter a short and mg.ily' successful season, M. Vniaret proposed a journey to Naples, where he iiad excepted a lucrative engagement in the name of Ins young protege. Pauline offered no objections; sue only stipulated that they should make the cottage of her father in the route. T e old man received her with rap turous delig.it; he looked younger and better than wiieu they parted. The cottage was simply, but neatly and comfortably furnished, and as Paulino glanced around her, she re meinliered that these comforts she had already procured for her parent. Andre was absent, but she left a thousand kind messages for him her father, who told her that the fame she had acquired, had uhready readied this re mote village, and formed a tneme of wonder and conversation amongst her old companions, but that such reports had only served to ren der Andre more than usually gloomy and dis pirited, “He has not yet learned to trust me, then,” thong it Pauline. “ Well, no matter, another voar, and all this doubting and fearing will have passed away, and l shall lie all his own.” Alas ! who shall dare to say what one year may produce, to what ages of joy or sorrow it may be the forerunner. God only knoweth the future ! This visit was noccssar ly a hr; f o 10, hut her former companions ali followed the carriage for some distance on its route, of fusing their simple flowers, and their heart-felt wishes lor her speedy and happy return. Af focted by their love, Paulino leant back in the carriage, and covering her face with her hands wept lung and silently; such tears, shod for such a cause, were indeed u luxury. A lapse of several years must intervene be. fore 1 again commence my narrative, nor will wo e lqiiii'o what were Pauline’s pursuits in the interim. Ir is a painful task to trace too min utely the progress of demo al zatioa and vice ; to mark tile plague spot of sin and misery, gradually deepening and spreading over the o ice innocent and young heart, until cverv t .<*r o ‘ its e irl v purity is effaced. 1 shall a l *- siii f oni doing t lis, and return to our hero ine', .vii) was now in full career of what men c < gory, and angel’s sin ! O.i t ie evening to which l refer, she stooi' before a crowded and enthusiastic audience in the the itre at Naples, and the tumultuous mur muring* of applause flushed the pule chocks utid kindled the bright eves ot* their universal favorite. Taut night sho had been even more l than usually effective, and the people hold their; breath lest one no’e of that sweet melody should be lost. Suddenly the songstress paus ed, and the air was abruptly terminated bv a wild shriek; there was music even in that &hriek ; ii was the voice of human agony.— M ny t lo .igiit it but the startling effect of pre mo litated art, but those who were near enough to m irk nor lived brow, and shuddering frame felt it to he the language of irrepresible emo tio l. Sue was born from the stage to her own dressing room, where she soon recovered at least the o t vaid appearance, of coinpos u a “ Vanvitelli.” she said in a whisper to the handsome yo mg Neapolitan, wiio was bend ing anxiously over her couch, “ return instant ly to the theatre, and seek out the young man wiio wore a green jerkin, and scarcely took his eyes otf me the whole evening.” “ I saw that y’ou noticed him.” “You must bring him to me, I would speak to him in private.” Tne count hesitated, and Pauline perceiv ing the frown which gathered over his brow, laid her white jeweled hand upon his, and ad ded with a persuasive smile—• “ It is an old friend, a countryman of mine ; I would hut ask if my poor father is yet alive!” Subdued by the tears which dimmed her beautiful eyes, the count bowed and withdrew to fulfil her request, The following morning as Pauline sat sad O O and alone in her desolate, yet splendid apart ments, the aoor was suddenly flung ojxtn, and the accents of a never-to-be-forgotten voice, thrillod to her very soul. “ I have brought the stranger you wished to see,” said Vanvitelli, and drawing nearer, he added in a whisjaer, “ let your conference be a short one, I shall return in an hour.” She did not look up—she dare not! The door closed, and she was alone with her first love! Neither spoke for several minutes, and wrapt in gloomy abstraction, the young man; was unconcious that the gifted, the beautiful, y the idol of Naples was kneeling at his feet. “ Pauline !” he said at length, and the memo ry of early innocent days, came back to her with the sound of that voice. “ Pauline, mine own love! why this position to me ? It is I who ought to kneel for having dared to doubt your purity and truth. But fearful rumors reached me in my far off home, and almost drove me mad. I have travelled hundreds of miles to hear them contradicted by your own lips; and now I ask not one word. It is enough to gaze on thy young face to know there is no shade of sin on that high pure brow.” lie bent over her with all the long hoarded affection of years, but Pauline sprang from the ground, and avoided his embrace. “ Oh do not, do not curse me !” she exclaim ed wildly. “It was all true that you heard of me, ah! lam indeed fallen, lam unworthy of you!” “And this parazzo?” asked Andre, gaz ing around the splendid apartment with the bewildered air of one who dreams. “ Belongs to Count Vanvitclli, he who brought you hither.” “ Then your are his wife—his countess. — God grant that his love may be able to recom pense you for that which you have scorned and .despised.” “ No, no !” interrupted the agonized girl, while a burning blush crimsoned her neck and brow, “it is worse, even than that. Although the mistress of this splendid mansion, I am only Pauline Durant, if one so lost dare assume a name until now unsullied.” The young man rudely snaclied his cloak from her frenzied grasp, but she flew to the door, and extended tier snowy arms to prevent him leaving her, exclaiming— “But one word! Oh! in mercy, Andre, tell me of my father.” “lle is dead.! Return thanks to God, wretch ed girl, that he lived not to see this day.” The heart stricken Pauline uttered oi.o low cry, and sank lifeless on the ground. In the delirious fever which followed this sudden shock, Count Vanvitclli sent for Madam Vil iaret to take charge of her laic pupil, and their united care and attention in time restored her to health. But a change seemed to have pas sed over her ; the still small voice of conscience Iliad Ixren awakened, and refused to sluinbc. I again, and bo’h the cairessess of Madam are 1 tne love of the young count were become liate j ful toiler After a long interval oc‘asioned by ill health, the re-apporance of Pauline Du- rant.was announced to take place in a few days, and a crowded audience assembled to welcome back their favorite. But they came in vain! after waiting some time the manager made his appearance before them, and informed them that there was reason to believe that Made moiselle Durant had secretly quitted Naples /unvitelii was like one distracted. lle oflere: rewards for anv intelligence of her, and dis >a*ched messengers in all directions, but with o t success ; Pauline was last to him and to the world for ever. It was at the close of a beautiful Sabbath eve ling, concluded in a way which may aj>- p nr strange to our English prejudices, by r a dance on the green turf, that a female form was and seemed, mo. ing forwards with feeble tops it paused repeatedly, as if oxercome with fatigue, and dropped down at length wit 1 a heavy gro m. Tre dancers suddenly paused, i .u g i ie ed anxio i sly around the stranger. “Sure’y I hou’d know that face ?” exclaim ed a young girl, pressing eagerly forward, “ Can it be Pauline Durant ?” “Fanchon,” said the wanderer in a feeble voice, “ do not forsake me ; you all loved Pau line once—for the memory of those hajipy days, then do not scorn me!” Her young companions wept, and kissed her pale emaciated hands in silence. There was but one sentiment in every breast—pity for the unfortunate, and they said among them selves, “ we all know that she was once inno cent and good; but we cannot, in our igno rance of the world, conceive the power of those temptations which have led her to fall. God forbid that we should judge harshly of her, or scorn her, now that she is ill and unhappy. This was simple reasoning, but it was the lan guage of the heart—and worth all the philoso phy in the world. At her request they bore her in their arms to the cottage of Andre and laid her on his rude couch. Life was ebbing fast, she could not speak but the heart of her lover was not proof against the mute eloquence of her looks ; he supported her head on his bosom, and wiped away the damps which gathered over her pale brow. At that moment years of past sin and misery were blotted out, and she was a. gain his own, his pure—-his first, and only love. Suddenly Pauline lifted up her pale wan face from his bosom, and shook back the damp and disheveled masses of hair which had half concealed it. Her mind was evidently wan dering to the past, her eyes shone with intense lustre, and she sang. The notes were beuti ful, touchingly sweet, and the peasant girls clung to each other and listened as though under the 5 influence of a spell. The strain terminated abruptly, and a thrilling cry from Andre pro claimed tiiat the soul of the vocalist had pas sed away in its sweet but unholy melody. Thoughts on Life and Death. “ Time, like an ever rolling stream, Bears all its sons away— They fly forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day.” - llow applicable are the figures here made use of; for no sooner do we take our stand on the wide and busy stage of life, than we are hurried with a rapid flight down to the vale ot death! Men of mature and advanced age can look back on the days of childhood, anti all its passing events, with all the vividness of recollection, as though but an hour had inter vened. Each one recollects when he rambled into the green field, culled the Fir flowers thereof, and inhaled their sweets; or how he sprightly played under yon nodding trees, or lightly skipped upon the streamlet’s bank, with all other scenes in his juvenile history, as though this earth had but performed one revolution since the events transpired. Such is the bre vity of life! Then, if life be so short, does it not behove us to seek a refuge where death never comes, but where beauty blooms through endless years? O, how solemn must the thought of death be to one who seeks no hope in future bliss—but who wanders on through the rugged path of life, trusting to none but himself- —a broken reed at best. When the thoughts of death rush into his mind, O how he shrinks ! He looks upon the earth, and sees it barien of hope ; not a solitary gleam gilds the \ ista of his coming years, nor lights up his imagina tion with expected scenes of ne\er fading beau ty. Ah, no ! To such a one death is a ] oint at which he st >ps : he dare not look beyond t; for it is to h m a dreary waste, on which no beauty blooms—a stormy ocean, on which no bark can ride in safely—a fiery element, that blasts a id destroys a ! ! ope. Thus wh it is to the Christian a source of joy. is to the wicked a source of misery. Fee bow changed are the Christian’s views.— Death s a point from whence he begins to see the glories of Paradise!—it is an eminence ! on which he o-/eßooks the boundaries of time, and takes a view of the delightful scenery am happy employments in a glorious eternity ; i 1 is a point whence hope shrinks not, but beam3 brighter and brig]iter into perfect gloiy. 0 yes! It is the Christian’s observatory, from which he looks with eyes possessing the mag nitude of a telescope, into the fair objects ofi more glorious region; and it is also a stand from which he looks with microscopic eyes upon the dim and fading vanities of this inno cent sphere. And while the one recedes and i disappears, the other opens on his eyes and 'ears with sights and sounds seraphic : at length he cries : “ Lend, lend your wings, I mount, I fly— O "rave, Witre is thy victory ? O death, wh re is thy sting f” RELIGION, We pity the m:m who has no religion in his heart—-no high and irresistible yearning af ter a better and holier existence—who is con tented with the sensuality and grossness of earth —whose spirit never revolts at the dark ness of its prison house, nor exults at the thought of its final emancipation. We pity him, for he aflbrds no evidence of his high ori gin—no manifestation of that intellectual pre rogative, which renders him the delegated lord of the visible creation. He can rank no high er than animal nature, the spiritual could nev er stoop so lowly. To seek for beastly ex citements—to minister, with a bountiful hand to depraved and strange appetites—are the at tributes of the animal alone. To limit our hopes and aspirations to this life, and this world, is like remaining forever in the place of our birth, without ever lifting the veil of the visible horizon which bent over our infancy. There is religion in every thing around us ; a calm and holy religion in the unbreathing things of nature, which man would do well to imitate. It is meek and blessed influence; stealing in, as it were, upon the heart. It comes quietly, and without excitement. It has no terror; no gloom in its approaches. It does not rouse up the passions; it is untram melled by the creeds and unshadowed by the superstitions of man. It is fresh from tl hands of the author, and glowing from the immediate presence of the Great Spirit, which pervades and quickens it. It is written on the arched sky. It looks out from every star. It is on the sailing, and in the invisible wind. It is among the hilh and valleys of earth—where the shrubless mountain top pierces the thin atmosphere of eternal winter—or where the mighty forest fluctuates before the strong wind, with its dark waves of green foliage. It is spread out like a legible language upon the broad face of the unsleeping ocean. It is the poetry of nature. It is this which uplifts the spirit within us, until it is tall enough to overlook tie shadows of our place of probation;—which breaks link, after link, the chains which bind us to materiality and which opens to our imagination a world of spiritual beauty and holines. EDUCATION OF FEMALES. There is a season when the youthful must cease to be young, and the beautiful to excite admiration ; to learn how to grow old grace . folly, is, perhaps, one of the rarest and most valuable arts that can be taught to woman.— And, it must be confessed, it is a most severe trial for those women to laydown beauty,who have nothing else to take up. It is lor this sober season of life that education should lay |up its rich resources. However disregarded they may have been, they will be wanted now. When admirers fall away, and if it find no entertainment at home, will be driven back again upon the world with increased force.— Yet, forgetting this, do we not seem to educate our daughters exclusively to the transient period of youth ? Do we not educate their fora crowd and not for themselves? for show and not for use ? for time and not for eterni. ty ? MEW CASE OF ANIMAL MAGNETISM. BV TOM HOOD, The patient was a fine young woman enough, dressed half-and-half between a fine young lady and a servant-maid ; but as sly. looking a baggage as you could select from an assortment of gipsies, and, unless her face Ixiiied her, quite capable of scratcing a Cock, lane {.host. Indeed, something came across me that I had seen her before ; and if my me. mory don’t deceive, it was at some private the. atricals cont i ary to law. For certain she could i keep her counlei nnce; for if the outlandish figure of a doctor, with his queer faces,had pos. ; tiued, and pawed, and j oked towards me, with his fingers, for all the world like the old game of “ My gandmother lends you a staff, and you’re neither to smile nor to laugh,” as he did to her, 1 should have bursted, to a dead cer* tuir.tv, instead of going off, as she did, into an easy sleep. As soon as she was sound, tlie Count turned round to me with his broken English : “ Ladies and gentlemen,” says lie, “ look here at dis young maidens, Mizz Chariot Ann Elizabeth Martin,” —for that is his way of talking—“ wid my magnetismuses I tro her into von state of sombamboozleism,” —or something to that effect. “ Mizz Chariot Ann, j dou art a slijn” “As fast as a church, Mister | Count,” say r s she, talking and hearing as easy |as broad aw ake. “ Ferry goot,” says he.— “ Now, I take this boke—Missis Glasse Coke* ■ ry—and I shall make the maidens read some j little of him wid her back. Dare he is between ji er shoulders. Mizz Chariot Ann w hat yon see now wid your eyes turned the wrong way for to look ?”—“ Why then,” says she, Mr. Count, 1 see quite plain a T and an O. Thin comes 11, and O, and S, and T ; and the next word is 11, and A, and I, and R.” “Ferry goot,” cried the Count over again. “ Dat is to rost de hare. Ladies and gentlemens, yon all here ? As Gott is my shudge, so is herein boke. Now, den, Missis Chariot Ann, voitf more. Vot you test in your mouse V “ Why, then Master,” says Charlotte Ann, “as sure an fate, I taste sweet herbs chopped up stnall l”" - “ Very' goot, indeed ! but w hat mor besides sweet herrubs?” “ Why,” says she, “ it’* B relish of salt and peper, and mace—and let see—there’s flavor of currant jell)'.” “ Bess# and besser !” cries the Count. “Ladies and gentlemen are not dese vonderfools ? you shall see every wort of it in de print. Mizz Char* lot Ann, vot you feel now ?” “ Lawk a mercy- Mister Count,” says she, “there’s a sort cj stuffy feel, so there is !” “ Yaw ! like one fo<|J abdimun ! Ferry goot! Now, you feel vot ? “Feel! Mister Count ?” says she. “ Whv, don’t feel nothing at all—the stuffiness is clcr>n gone away !” “ Yaw, my child !” says he, “ is because I take avay de cokry boke from y two shoulders. Ladies and gentlemens dese ’ grand powers of magnetismus ! Ach himme As Hamlet say, dere mure in our than dere is in de heavens or de earth !