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« Oil,” said I, sitting myself once more be side her, “ what a time to love, and how sweet tliis hour to lovers. ’ « Nor would it be less sweet,” sakl she. “ for its declaration.” “ Not to you, not now,” said I. r- Site drew «-loi>g and disturbed breath, and said, “And veL Doctor, I could love a noble •g«nf?cfnrm*todistraction. Oh! I could adore & v him.” *=- “ Have you ever loved ? said I. al* A' lose silence was the only answer 1 receiv ed to my enquin' for some time. At * she SsuT.* “ If you were interested in it, I might *tel! vou.” at least not to understand her, and still thinking of the old charge preferred Ufrftinst her of coquetry, I flew otl to some thing else, until it was at length resumed, and brought to a close again, by her saying, “Sir, if vou have any proposals to make, why not do at ?” This I did not feel prepared for, inas "ynuch as I had often resolved never to be re jected by a woman, if it was possible to escape tt. At length I made another effort to start home, remarking as 1 took her hand, rather r.nthoughtedly but very enquiringly, that as she had agreed to write to me, she must not •play the coquette with an unsuspecting heart. Ido not remember of ever witnessing a more powerful effect exhibited in any person from the more enunciation ot a few' words, than I then beheld in her. The countenance which was before placid and serene, seemed to change to a cloud in which a portentous storm ■was raging; and eyes that before were mild and benignant in their beamings, now seemed to flash \vkh unearthly fire. The next moment a flood of tears came to her relief, and she cov ered her eyes with her handkerchief. For some time" she tried to speak but her voice seemed charged with some distressing passion. At length she said, rather angrily, “Sir, how could you be so cruel to one who had thus con fided in your goodness. Our communications must cease from this moment, and cease for ever. No, I would not write you a sylable, if it were to save my own life. Nor would I forgive, were you to ask a thousand pardons.” i stood almost petrified for some moments, unable to determine on the proper course of procedure. I deprecated very much the idea of losing the esteem of one I loved so well: •vet, the native pride of my heart, could not brook the idea of crouching at a woman’s shrine. So I reached my hat, and said in a very subdued tone of voice, which partook a little of sadness, “ Tiien, Miss S , I must hid you farewell forever. If the asking of a ■thousand pardons might suffice to receive an absolution at your hands, I might still remain, and make an effort to obtain so desirable an end, but since you say even the offence would I muol, roluotcuit as I am to do it, leave you to see you never again. But I hope that there will be some little idle mo ments of your existence, put in to complete the links of your destiny, where the remem brance of your lost friend shall make you feci to regret the cool and chilling blast which swept so early over the garden of our affections, and nipped the lovely flowers of sentiment which had so lately opened their infant beams to the vernal sun.” This earnest appeal to the feelings of an amiable girl, was productive of the most salu tary effect in sweeping away the clouds from herbrow, and causing the tearof anguish which had fallen so profusely before, to change to those of sentiment, and all together presented the picturesque appearance of a beautiful show .er, falling in the clear sunshine, while a thou sand prismatic beauties were reflccled on the pearly drops which descended so gently on the bosom of the earth. She struggled to speak hgain'for a moment, but her feelings prevented her, till at length she offered me her hand, and took the handkerchief from her face, while her cheeks, which, were yet bathed in tears, seem ed heightened almost to the point of fusion, added much to the interest of the scene. And those soft blue eyes, shall I ever forget them ? or their magic influence, as they were rolled benignly upward, and fixed upon my counte nance, swimming in the tears of their own cre ation ? And shall 1 forget the smile so heavenly sweet that played upon her countenance, as she said— “ Doctor, I hope you arc not hurt with me. It was a freak of bitter anguish that came over me, to think so dear a friend could suspect me of coquetry. lam sure you have no crime to answer for now, if so, "’tis all forgiven. I can appreciate tlie motive that urged so harsh an enquiry, hut when you have proved me, you will find that I am not the gay, heartless thing some take me to lie.” Like the tempest-tossed mariner feels when a sudden tornado, which threatened instant destruction to his vessel, has passed away, and the clear sun shines once more with placid i*lumination on the unruffled bosom of the blue ocean, so did I feel whilst listening to a language which bespoke so much of sentiment, uttered by a voice so tremulous, so sweet, so lieavenly 'sweet. I assured her, that for the future, I should be more guarded in all my addresses, and especially in my written com munications, and that.-if I was ever guilty again of So fearful a breach of confidence and esteenV: s ! x> might truly cast me off forever. the t hrilling incident of that event ful evening.' I was then induced to re gard asan-eri in’the history of my life. For certainly, that which tends to unite ones desti ny impermeably and forever to an object or dishevev him from it, deserves to he consider ed as an important item in the course of events. Such did I regard, was the tendency of the an imated scCne described above, to which all lovers will doubtlessly find a thrilling response in their own bosoms. The next day found me wending my way homeward in a crowded stage coach, which landed me safely there after one or two severe up-settings. I Was to remain but a few days, and then leave for a distant city for the pur pose of completing my medical education. And though I expected to give R a pass ing call, 1 could not resist the temptation of writing her a hasty communication, and pre sent an apology for my conduct, in a more dig nified style. I could not have expec f ed an answer to this, as I anticipated seeing her in a few days, at any rate 1 did not receive one, and had to take up the line of march once more with some doubt still impending above me, in relation to its probable reception, and "The course it would bo necessary for me to pursue in future. [to be concluded.] For the Southern Post. THE CONSUMPTIVE. “ She was a being bright in youth and love, Yet while she shone in beauty’s sky serene, Her light grew dim, away, before The eye could gaze and love her brilliancy." It was the first day of May, 183—, that I left the small village ot C , in this State, to proceed on my journey to the mountains, for the purpose of restoring my health, which at that time, was in a feeble state. And on that day I met with one whose image is now present to my mind, and which no vicissitudes of life—no lapse of time, can entirely destroy. The was cold and rainy—the wind mourned as it passed, in its invisible flight, the distant mountains, which, when the sky is se rene, and their lofty summits are towering in majesty to Heaven, are calculated to absorb the mind, and dispel the thoughts of gloom, were hid by the lowering clouds; and, in fact, every object around was a source of dismal loneli ness and gloomy thought. And often I thought of my distant home, and the friends whose fellowship was love—the dear beings whose moments of joy were mine—and such recollec tions commingling with the perception of the dreary solitude around, produced a state of mind unenviable indeed. In this frame I tra velled a few hours, when 1 resolved to stop at the first house I came to, and endeavor to drown my spirit of loneliness in company with those whose hearts were free from the thoughts which made my own so sad, even though utter strangers. Finally, I arrived at a neat man sion on the top of a very high hill, very pictur esque in its situation, for it was encompassed by ranges ot exceeding lofty hills, which tow ered higher, and higher, and grew more indis tinct in their outlines, until they were losta mong the distant mountains. Around the house grew fruit trees of various kinds, which, although it was unusually cold at the time, had put forth blossoms and leaves to catch the cheering rays of spring’s mild sun. Cluster ing vines clung to the walls, and over each window spread the yellow jessamine in tender beauty, while every object wore the aspect of neatness and plenty. The lady of the house received me with every mark of politeness, and ushered me into the parlor, long before the la dy (who, I afterwards learnt, was a Mrs. C ,) came into the room, and commenced conversing with me upon various subjects, which had a tendency to drive away sadness, and produce in its stead, contentment and in terest. And in fact, I was much interested with every thing I saw or heard. Mrs. C was a widow woman, about thirty-five years of age, of very good mind, and, I thought, bril liant imagination, improved and refined by a good education in youth, and by the experi ence of riper years. Her conversation was plain, yet indicative of a thorough knowledge of the world’s business, and the deep things of the human mind. In her company I soon felt as if at home, yet ever and anon, a shade of deep rooted sorrow seemed to spread itself over her feelings, and check for awhile the ease and composure of her manners and conversa tion. I thought perhaps that the husband of her youth, and companion and hope of her life, had not long been taken away to the home of the dead, leaving her alone and widowed, and her children fatherless. She thought that I had noticed her feelings, and immediately told me that her only child was in the lowest stage of consumption, and a few days perhaps, would rob her of her comfort here, and hasten her own existence to an untimely end. When she had concluded, in an apartment above, I heard a voice that thrilled in my soul like the song of the departing saint. We remained silent, and the angel voice swelled higher in melody, mingling with the sighing wind, as it passed to its unknown home. Plaintive in sorrow, they blended and swept o’er my soul, leaving my heart in sadness more wretched than ever. And how many mournful reflec tions came thronging in upon my desolate feelings! The theme of her mourning strain was fraught with the thoughts of the lone man sion of the dead —of the afflictions of the tie parting soul, from its mortality here—of tlie tears and sighs of the bereaved of earth—and the tones of her voice were tremulous upon her dying tongue, though in melancholy sweetness they were richer than the music of the breeze shaken harp. Her gentle soul melted in the strain, until she ceased to chant the music of her deep toned woe, and when she liad finish ;ed. Mrs. C rone hastily from her seat and retired to a distant room to conceal the feelings that so much distressed her, and no doubt to give vent in tears, to her unhappy anxiety, concerning the fate of her who was her first horn pledge ofyoutliful love. 1 began to think that I was intrading by re maining a witness, and a stranger to their sor rows, consequently, when Mrs. C return ed, I told her, that although I was weak in healtli myself, and would willingly shun the wind and ram, by remaining in some place shut in from their influence, yet I did not wish to be a burthen to her, in her house of pain and distress, and woukl leave immediately. She insisted upon my staying under the circum stances, and added, that company was a solace to her, whilst o’erwhelmed in sorrow. She told me that Mary would be glad to enjoy the benefits of company and conversation, in order to dispel the mdarteholy thought of her ap proaching dissolution ; and feeling anxious to learn more of the unfortunate being, who was young in years, and on tlie verge of Etenity’s unknown realms—and to see her whom fancy ro!>ed in innocence and love, before she de parted hence to mingle with the throng of hap py saints in the world of light and immortal youth—l resolved to stay. Immediately after, the decaying angel en tered the room, and never before had I beheld such a lovely being, for she was lovely and beautiful in the arms of Death. She walked with a feeble step to a seat opposite me, while her anxious mother was solicitous to know if she had experienced any change in her feelings for the better. She was tall and delicately framed—her beautiful black eyes had been robbed of their sparkling lustre hv disease, yet they were lus trous still, and expressive of gentleness and love—lier ample forehead, the seat of an active mind and vivid imagination, was partly con cealed- fey curls of jet, which hung in grace upon her pure white neck—her cheek was flushed with consumption’s fire —and her deli cate lips were tinged as the rose in its early bloom. On such a flower did the destroyer revel, and such was the secrecy and deception of liis work, that beauty lingered where his steps were seen. Her conversation was of a pleasing melan choly cast; yet upon some subjects, she seem ed to forget that the light of her life was pale, and would dwell with delight upon some fu ture hour, which hope’s inspiration had paint ed in gorgeous colors before her. As for my self, I hoped that she might live to enjoy the blessings of an unruffled life—that a few more months would restore her to health and to hap piness in the company of her fond mother. Yet I knew the power of the destroying hand— I knew his deceitfulness, and hope died within me. Could ouch a DeautifUl being, who had not lived seventeen summers, go away and Ix3 forgotten in the earth’s cold bosom ?—could those eyes grow dim, and that tender heart be stilled ?—could her dulcit voice be hushed in the silence of death?—could that immortal mind he divorced from its companion so soon, and fly away to unknown worlds ? Such re flections occupied my mind, while we were conversing, and Ix3fore she retired, a secret in fluence crept o’er my feelings, impressing her worth, and youth and destiny upon my lieart; and I hoped that she might live, and I be per mitted to dwell in her presence forever—and if she had to die, I thought I should be blessed if I eouldVatch around her dying pillow—to gaze on the beautiful star, till its light had van ished away. . After Mary had retired, Mrs. C remark ed to me, that she feared that Mary was sink ing fast—that although her lips were blooming, and her cheeks were roseate in youth, yet con sumption’s fires burned within, and soon, per haps suddenly, her flower would droop its head and die. I learned that her husband had died three years before, when Mary was at the celebrated school in Sm, in a sifter State, whither she had gone a few months before, to polish her naturally strong mind, and prepare herself for the severer duties of after life. Os an affa ble disposition, and gentle, and friendly in all her intercourse with her youthful associates— she soon became a great favorite with them, and beloved by the older portion of her ac quaintances. Her progress in science reflect ed honor upon her talents, and gained for her the approbation and esteem of those who had charge of her infant mind, and were training her for usefulness , and ornament in society. Mary regarded education as a guide through the troubles of life—and a power to overcome all obstacles, and break down all barriers—a jewel in affluence, and a solace in misfortunes; while many young ladies, in this our day, spend money, and health, and youth, for the purpose of acquiring a few pert sayings, graceful tear ing, and other parlour exercises—without judgment to direct them in the path of useful ness, and without prudence to protect them from the contempt of others. Consequently, by continual application, and actuated by a hope to honor the memory of her deceased fa ther, she soon attained a high stand in the in stitution, aud received the first honors of her Alma Mater for her skill and knowledge in all tte branches of polite literature. After rem; vising «t school about two years, she returned to the home of her childhood— the pride of her mother, and hope of her de clining years. Her teauties were rich in the buoyancy of youth, her soul was mild as the gentle dove—and her mind was a star that shod its influence wliere’er she wept. Her name wae tlie theme of love end beauty—and ; as she and her mother strolled on Sabbath to the house of prayer, to give thanks unto Him, who was the husband of the widow, and the father to the fatherless—many were the happy friends who thronged to salute tee object of their love. Then she was happy—then her gentle soul could drink at the fountains of in nocent pleasure, and revel in the fulness of joy. But soon the spoiler came. A rose jut t budding out in the spring of life, the cold wind of disease bent its blushing beauty down. Con sumption seized her for its prey—the morning of her existence was clouded—the night of her future was dark',' for the sun of her life was set ting. With melancholy feelings I retired to rest that night—and in the morning I hid adieu to the disconsolate mother, to pursue my journey, resolved in my mind, to stop when 1 returned, and learn the fate of tlie beautiful Mary. After an absence of four weeks, I stopped at the gate of the yard—every object looked lonely and sad—no being could 1 see—and the thought flashed across mv mind, that Mary was dead. I walked slow ly to the door of the mansion, and gently knocked ; in a few mo ments the door was opened, and Mrs. C - invited me in. I knew from her countenance that her treasure had fled—that she was heart stricken and alone, with no comfort in her af fection, save the consoling power of faith in tlie goodness and mercy of Him, whose prom ise can heal the broken hearted here. I gathered from her relation of the circum stances, that Mary’s health declined rapidly for about two weeks after I left, when one stormy night her strength failed, and every symptom indicated speedy dissolution. Her tears and prayers went before the altar of Hea ven’s mercy, and her plaints were heard there, pleading for her dying 'Lavy. Tlie poor suf ferer, in meek submission to the will of Hea ven, was composed and beautiful in death. No pains tortured her tender frame, hut in fecu.'s ness she sung an anthem of triumph, confident that in a few more fleeting moments, her im mortal tongue would swell higher notes in the great choir of Heaven, in fellowship with those who would live and sing throughout Eternity’s day. The poor unhappy mother said she watched her fleeting breath, till at last Mary gazed upon her, and a tear gathered in her closing eye, when amid the howling wind— without a groan, the spirit of her first born fled above the flying storm, to the saint’s ever lasting rest. <■ W. Warrcnton, Geo. For the SouthernTPoet. THE FORSAKEN MAID. As through a lonely path I Grayed, I saw a charming, lovely maid ; With pensive air her head she raised And on a beauteous rose she gazed. “ Ah, could I live,” said she, “ alone, Be like this ro3e, by all unknown ; He whom I love is far away— I find no pleasure with the gay, But soon my sorrows will be o’er, And soon this rose will bloom no more ; Now winter comes with rapid pace, And soon will rob its native grace ; It looks quite pretty in bloom to-day, To-morrow perhaps it fades awey— And such indeed is beauty’s power, Like thee she falls, poor, trifling flower.” Now, while she stood with form so light, I gazed with rapture on the sight— A form, I thought, of finest mould, A better, none could ne’er behold— And gloomy thoughts stole on me, said, This looks like a deserted maid ! Why does she leave her rural cot To tread this dark, this lonely spot— I’ll try to soften all her care, Each thought, each wish, each feeling share— And as I spoke she turned aside And strove in vain her shame to hide. “ Most honored Miss, why leave your bower, Why do you weep o’er this lone flower, Why do you look so much distressed, Are you by grief and wo oppressed ?” ’Twas then I saw her tearful eye Look upwards to her native sky— And said, “ I am a contrite maid, By one that’s false I am betrayed ; Who said that I alone should share His strong affection, as his early care ; But he’s proved false, and I’m undone, A poor, a lost, forsaken one ; But when my soul shall leave this clay, Oh ! kindly hear my bones away— In a dark charnel lay me not — But in some green, lone, sunny spot, Where the wild rose I love so dear, May shed its balmy influence there ; And whispering winds the graas shall wave Quite gently o’er my silent grave. MUZA. Mr. Clarke, operator at Apothecaries’ Hall, has been engaged by the Admiralty, in analys ing fourteen hundred and sixty-seven sacks of flour, which were lying in warehouse at Hull, lie took samples from each sack,.and in some he found that upwards of a third was plaster of paris and ground bones, two of the most abominable ingredients, and which the stom ach of neither man nor beast is capable of di gesting. lie sent specimens of this stuff bak ed, in many of its processes, to the Lords of the Admiralty. The person who owned it, aud who was about to send it to Spain or Por tugal. was fined in the penalty of ten thousand pounds. Mr. Clarke has also analysed Sou chong tea, and found there was twenty-five per cent, of led ore in it. FRENCH LITERARY LADIES. MADAME GEOFFRIN. * * * * Madame Geoffrin’s husband li the husbands of many other distinguS ‘ blues,’ was a thoroughly insignificant age—a perfect cipher in his own hoie* Grimm tells some amusing stories of him h was in the habit of borrowing books of aft who, by way of joke, lent him the same bi several times over. It happened to be a \-r ume of Father Labat’s Travels. Monsit°' Geoffrin, with the most perfect it over every time it was lent him. »\y sir,” said his friend, “how do you like th travels?” “Oh, very good—very good j r . deed ; but I think the author given a little ;* repetition.” A literary foreigner, who y frequently dined at Madame Geoffrin’s witW knowing lier husband, asked her one day, ts. ter a long ahsenoe from Paris, what had i* come of tlie poor gentleman he used to meet there, and who always sat without opening t lips. “Oh,” said the lady, “that was rrn husband ; he is dead.” She was celebrated for her bon-mts, n ; which many arc preserved by Grimm and oth er writers of the day. The Count de Coigny was one day at her table, telling, as was his wont, interminable stories. Some dish being set before him, he took a little clasp-knife from his pocket and began to help himself, prosing away all the while. “M. le Comte,” said Madame Geoffrin at last, out of patience, “at dinner we should have large knives and little stories.” One of lier literary friends, M. de Rulhiero, having threatened to publish some very imprudent remarks on tlie conduct ofthe court of Russia, from the sale of which he ex. pected to make a large profit, she offered him a handsome sum to put liis manuscript in the fire, from a good-natured wish to keep him from getting himself into trouble. The author began to talk in a high tone about honor and independence, and the baseness of taking mo. ncy as a bribe for suppressing the truth. “Well, well,” said she, with a quiet smile, “ say your, self how much more you must have.” THE MARQUISE DU DEFFANT. * * * * Besides Pont de Vesle, she had another lover, the President Henault, the his. torian. There is an amusing anecdote of their liaison, which has the advantage, too, of being authentic. They were both complaining one day of the continual interruptions they met with from the society in which they lived. “What a pleasant thing it would he,” said Madame dn Defiant, “ to have a whole day to ourselves!” The lover eagerly caught at the idea, and it was determined to put it in execution. They found a small apartment in the Tuilleries, be longing to a friend, which was unoccupied; and there they resolved, like Seged, the Empe ror of Ethiopia, to spend a happy day. They arrived accordingly, in separate carriages, about eleven in the forenoon ; ordered their carriages to return at twelve at night, and be spoke dinner from a traileur. The morning was spent entirely to the satisfaction of both parties, in the usual conversation of lovers. “ Well!” they could not help saying every now and then, “ were every day like this, life would really he too short!” Dinner came, was heartily partaken of, and sentiment gave way to wit and gaiety. About six the Marquise looked at her watch. “ Athalie is to be played to-night, and the new .actress is to make her appearance.” “ I must own,” said the President, “ that were I not here. I should regret not seeing her. “ Take care, President; what you say is an expression of regret. Were you as happy as you profess to be, you never would have thought of the possibility of going to see the new actress.” The President defended himself, and in turn became the accuser. “Is it for you to com plain of me, when you were the first to look at your watch, and to remark that Athalie was to be acted to-night ? There ought to be no watches for people who are happy.” The dispute went on. The loving pair got more and more out of humor with each other; and by seven o’clock would lx>th of them have been very glad to separate. But that was im possible. “Ah !” cried the Marquise, “ I can never stay here till twelve o’clock ; four hours lon ger—what a penance !” The Marquise went and sat down behind 8 screen, leaving the rest of the room to tlie President. Piqued at this, tte gentleman seizes a pen, writes a note full of reproaches, and throws it over the screen. The lady picks it up, goes in search of pen, ink, and pajier, and writes an answer in the sharpest terms. At last the happy hour of twelve struck ; and each hurried ofi separately, resolved never again to try such an experiment. Her death was characteristic of herself and her society. “Her dearest friends,” says * •rimm, “ Madame dc Luxembourg, Madame de Choiseul, and Madame de Cambise, were constantly with her in her last illness. Through an extraordinary excess of attachment these ladies played at 100 every evening in her bed* room till she had drawn her last breath.” Ano ther writer says that ter visiters happened, in the middle of their game, to discover that she was dead, but sat stiil, and played it out with great composure. Lore. —At three years we love our moth ers—at six, our fathers—at ten, holidays—at sixteen, dress—at twenty, our sweet-hearts — at twenty-five, our wives—at fortv, our chil* dren—und at sixty, ourselves.