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/er. ’fTcrcntsklc* Mr. Atkins’sympathies allbc’i genlisted iVt Miss Eustace Mr. Chaun tcv’s. of coarse, fcr Miss Leigh. both, how ever, were too gentlemanly to express tlieii tidings by word or sign, that at length the game seemed drawing to a eiose, and again ;n Miss Leigh's favor, when a skilful move on Miss Eustace’s part, turned the whole face of the battle. Miss Lcign, ho a ever, sccme 1 no, aware of it, so intent was she on tne manoeu vre she hod been performing. Eat Mr. C.iuun ccy’s heart licat quick, as no saw ad iier dan ger; and when siic placed her fingers on a recce, to have moved whicn, would have decid ed her fate at once, his self-command forsook him, and uttering an emphatic Ah!” he turn ed suddenly from the table. He could not endure to witness her defeat ! Miss Leigh suspended her movement, but she was 100 much excited to see clearly, and after u momentary pause, she made the flital move. The next instant she saw her error — it was too much —and at the moment when Mr. Ciiauncey resumed his post, with a flam- ; :ig cheek and flashing eyes, she swept her arm across the table, exclaiming— *• 1 vviii never play anotiier r game of chess whiic 1 live!” Miss Eustace looked up with an expression of anxiety on her features; Mr. Atkins with re.e of undisguised displeasure; while t!.c < omitciianee of Mr. Ciiauncey spoke amaze ment and consternation. Miss Leigh instant • lv !pft the table, and walked toward too iire, followed by Miss Eustace. “ Who is the victor to-night, Abby ?” in quired Mrs. Atkins, raising jaer eyes from her ook. “ Neither,” said Miss Eustace, in a very soft .nd low tone; “we did not finish the game.” “ You kow better, Miss Eustace!” said Miss Leigh; “You know you were yourself victo rious, and I will never play another game of chess while I live!” llcr voice though but •lightly raised, had the tone of passionate ex citement ; and her words wore scarcely ut tered, ere she burs*, into a paroxism of tears. Miss Eustace again looked up with an expres sion of distress —stood suspended a moment as if in doubt what to do, and then silently left the room. “ Are you petrified V* said Mr. Atkins, as ho turned round, and observed Mr. Ciiauncey, 'van ling immovable beside the chess-tablc, iiis t yes riveted upon it. The question of Mr. Atkins roused him, and drawing out his watch, he said, while his voice betrayed much emotion— “lt is later than I thought —I must bid you good night.” “O, not yet, Horace,” said Mr. Atkins. That unlucky game of chess has engrossed the whole evening. Come, sit down. Susan will throw aside lier book—‘-Augusta will get over her defeat—and we will have some ration id conversation.” “You will excuse me this evening,” said Mr. Ciiauncey, and uttering a hasty “good right,” he left the room. tie w is scarcely conscious of anything an t: 1 he lb ind himself in ins own chamber at his boarding-house. Stirring the oecaying em bers that lay on the hearth to make them burn more brightly, he snatched the lately written letter from his pocket, and laid it upon them. He watched it as it consumed, until the last particle was reduced to ashes, and then, draw ing a long breath, he uttered an emphatic— “ Thank heaven!” An hour afterwards he rang bell for a servant, gave some directions, and at five the next morning, while the stars were yet bright in the heavens, he took a seat in the mail coach, dial whirled him rapidly away from the scene of liis danger. “ Wh" l has become of Mr. Chauncey ?” in quired Mrs. Atkins, the second evening after the decisive game of chess had been pluved ; “ lie is staying from us much longer than usual, I think.” Miss Leigh looked up with a face of anx ious inquiry, as Mr. Atkins replied : “ Indeed I don’t know what has become of him. I have not had a sight of him since Tuesday evening. Perhaps,” lie added, laugh ing, “ perhaps he died of the fright you tiiat night gave him, Augusta!” Coloring the deepest crimson, while the tears fore c l themselves to her eyes, Miss Leigh re plied : At least my hasty temper will frighten all your friends from your house, Mr. Atkins, should its effects not prove any more fatal. O, could my friends know how much my ungov ernable passions' cost me, they would pity as much as they blame me !” “O, do not talk of it, dear Augusta,” said Miss Eustace, taking her hand. “ Forget it idl, as we tlo—or remember it only to strive sifter more self-command for the future. You remember how much we admired the senti ment we read yesterday— -1 Qui sait se posseder, peut commandcr'au monde.’ ” “O, yes—but all iny efforts cat self-posses sion are useless,” said Miss Leigh, almost sob bing; “lean never remember till it is too late; and then mortification and self-upbraid ing are my just reward. I would give the world, Abby,” she added, as she parted the hair from her friend’s placid brow —“ I would give the world, had I your equanimity of tem per!” “ Well, let us talk no more of it,” said Mr. Atkins. “To-morrow I will look after the truant, and learn the cause of liis absence.” He had scarcely done speaking, when a servant brought in the letters and papers which had just arrived by the mail. Looking them over, Mr. Atkins caught up one, exclaiming— “ This is curious!—this must be Horace’s hand-writing, and the post-murk is Boston!” “ Pray open it,” cried Mrs. Atkins —■“ what docs he say ?” “ Why, he says,” answered Mr. Atkins, af ter rapidly running the letter over —“ be says that he writes to bid us a “ good-bye,” that lie could not come to utter in his own person.” “Good-bye!” cried Mrs. Atkins —“pray when did he leav* town ?” “ At five the next morning after lie left us,” said 37r. Atkins. “ And how long is lie to be absent ?” Mrs. Atkins inquired. “ Uncertain,” answered her husband. “ The length of las absence will depend on circum stances. Perhaps we shall not see him again these three months.” “This is very singular!” remarked Mrs. Atkins. “ Does lie say what called him away in such haste, to be gone for so long a peri od ?” “Not a word. The letter seems to have been written in great haste. I have never seen such a scroll come from beneath Hor ace’s hand, lie must have been in great baste,” Mr. Atkins then proceeded to open other letters, and nothing further was said of Mr. Ciiauncey, or his abrupt departure, bet a glance at the faces of the trio of ladies would have proved that the subject was not dismiss ed from their thoughts. Mrs. Atkins, with] half-closed eyes, sat looking at the fire, with j an air of abstraction which showed that site was endeavoring to unravel the enigma. A1 iss Leigh’s features wore an expression of blank disappointment; and after an unsuccessful at tempt to conceal or control her feelings, she retired to her chamber. The heightened col or in Miss Eustace’s cheek was the only thing about her face that bespoke emotion • but an eye, fixed intently on the frill that fell over her bosom, would have seen with what force and rapidity her heart was beating. “ Gone!” said Miss Leigh, as she closed the door of her chamber ; “ Gone for three months! From mu —forever! Tne die is cast!” She wept in the bitterness of disnppoijiment and mortification. Slh* had for many days lieen hourly expecting the odes of his hand —the hand she most strongly wished to possess. She had felt coufi lent of his attachment —she had told her cousin of her expectations. She had read his affection, his admiration, in his eyes, in tire tone of Ills voice. Had she been deceived ! Had lie tried to deceive her ! O. no—Horace Chauncev was above deceit. llt had loved her ! —but like a fool—or rather, l.ke a furv, she had forced him from her! It must have been so—that game of chess had .sealed i;or fate! Such was the. train of thought that accompanied her tumultuous and compunctious feelings. Her peace, her happiness, her self respect were gone ; and the most b.ttor drop in her cup of sorrow, was the full conscious ness that she had brought on her own misery —that she deserved her wretchedness ! From this period, all enjoyment of her visit to Mrs. Atkins was at an end. She dragged out a week or two, every solitary moment of which was spent in bitter self-upbraiding, and then took an abrupt departure for home. Miss Eustace would have accompanied her, but to this M rs. Atkins would not listen fora moment. “No, no, Abby,” said she ; “it must not be ! I cannot part with you both at once ; and one day must not be taken from the time that your ! mother allotted for your visit, unless by provi | dential appointment.” “Whom suppose you I saw alighting from the stage-coach just now?” said Mr. Atkins with much animation, as he came into tea one evening, about a fortnight after Miss Leigh’s departure. “ Horace Ciiauncev!” said Mrs. Atkins. “ Horace Ciuiuncev !” repeated Mr. Atkins, “ llow came you to think of him ?” “ Because there is no one likely to arrive here, whom I should be so glad to see,” Mrs. Atkins replied. “Well, you arecorrect in your conjecture,” said Mr. Atkins. “It was Horace, and he has promised to look in upon us for a few min utes in the course of the evening. But you need not look so much moved, Abbv; for I dare say nothing will happen to drive him away to-night.” “ There is nothing pleasant in the recollec tion of the last time I saw him,” said Miss Eustace. She blushed as she was speaking, at the disingeniousness which led her to permit Mr. Atkins to ascribe her emotion to a wrong cause. She felt as if “L’art le plus innocent, tient de la perfidic.” But it was not art —it was nature. The love in a woman’s heart likes not to lie looked up on, at least not until it may with propriety be expresssed. It is a littlo treasure which she feels to he all her own—a treasure she has a right to conceal from all eyes. Timidity, deli ! cacy, natural female reserve, arc the causes of this concealment, rather than want of ingen iousness. In the most perfect solitude she would blush to clothe in sound the words *' I love,” though she might constantly he conscious of the fact—constantly have her eye fixed on the image of the beloved object engraven on her heart. The woman who can, to a third ! person, speak freely of her love, loves not as j woman is capable of loving! . As expected, 3/r. Ciiauncey came in before tlie evening was far advanced, and though on his first appearance, his manner was not quite as calm and collected as usual, his embarrass ment soon wore away, and his visit, instead of being one of a few minutes, was lengthened to a couple of horn’s. “ You need no new invitation to favor us with frequent visits, Mr. Chauncey,” said Mrs. Atkins, as he was taking leave ; “ those you formerly received were for life.” . Notwithstanding the kindness and delicacy of this remark, Mr. Chauncey for awhile was less frequently to be seen at his friend’s than formerly. lie was not a pining but he had received a shock from which he could not at once recover. His was not a heart that could long continue to love, after the be loved object had ceased to command his re spect. To marry 3/iss Leigh, to look to her to make his home the abode of peace, serenity and joy, was impossible ; and after this full conviction of bis judgment, to spend his time in sighing for her loss would be puerile. Yet apart from every selfish consideration, he did mourn, that a woman possessing such quali ties as she possessed, and who might be all that the heart or the judgment could require, should be spoiled by the indulgence of one baneful passion. Even at tlie time when be yielded himself most completely to Miss Leigh’s attractions, the contrast between her temper and that of Mis.s Eustace would force itself upon him. At the moment of the destruction of the pyramid, the leather screen came fully before bis mem ory ; and the different expressions of the two young ladies’ faces, when Mr. Atkins ventured to propose some improvement in the mode of wearing their riding-caps, were vividly paint ed to his imagination. He strove, however, to persuade himself, that it was unreasonable to expect in one person a combination of all the excellent and lovely qualities that are divi ded among tlie sex ; and lie endeavored to believe, that that candor which was so ready to acknowledge a fault, was even more desira ble than uniform sweetness of temper. Butt the veil had been rudely torn from bis eyes; his sophistry had all been overthrown—and j after one struggle, he was him-eif again—re stored to the full conviction, that one great de lect will spoil a character. It was not long, however before Mr. Chaun cey’s visits at his friend’s house were as fre quent as ever, though the character of his en joyment was changed. He was no longer engrossed !>v one exciting object, and there was anew quietness breathing about Ills friend’s fire-side., that rendered their rich nor •al and intellectual pleasures truly delightful. Formerly his visits had had all the excitement of pleasure; on returning home he had needed repose; now they had the soothing e fleet o : happiness, and if he went weary, he returned home re (Vos lied. During several of his earlier visits, Miss Eustace was as silent as she had formerly ' !>eeii ; but. gradually her friends were draw ing her out by addressing themselves to her. or asking her opinion; and Mr. Chauncey himself was becoming interested in eliciting her remarks. She did not awaken his admi ration, like Miss Leigh ; but he soon became ensible, that if what she said was less shining, it was generally better digested ; and if she had less wit herself, she more heartily enjoyed the wit of others. If he did not leave her so ciety dazzled by her brilliancy, he found that what she said called forth thought and reflec tion: and if her observations had less force and fire than her friend’s, they would better bear examination. Her lustre was mild, not overpowering; and her influence upon the heart and mind, like the dews of a summer’s evening descending on the flowers—noiseless, gentle, insensible —but invigorating and re freshing. That dreamy recollection, too—that strange association of certain expressions of her coun tenance with some bygone pleasure, which he iiad experienced on their first acquaintance, but which had been lost sight of while he was engrossed by Miss Leigh, was returning with increased force upon him, and awakened a pe culiar interest. It was something undefina ble, untangible; but still something that gave a throb to the heart whenever it crossed him. Yet so quiet was Miss Eustace’s influence; so different the feelings she awakened from those excited by Miss Leigh, that his heart was a captive while he yet suspected not his loss of freedom. One evening on entering his friend’s parlor, he found Miss Eustace alone, Mr. and Mrs. Atkins having gone out for an hour. She was standing at a window, partially screened from view by the heavy folds of the window curtain. She took no notice of his entrance, supposing it one of the family who came in ; but he immediately joined her remarking— “ You seem lost in thought, Miss Eustace. Will you permit me to participate in your re flections?” “ I was looking forth on the beauties of the evening,” said Miss Eustace. It was a glorious night. The moon, clear as a pearl, was riding high in the heavens, and looking down on the earth, which seemed hush ed to perfect peace—and every star that could make itself visible in the presence of the queen of night, was sparkling like a diamond. “ It is indeed a night to awaken admiration, and inspire poetry,” said Mr. Chauncey. “ Has not the music visited you ?” “ I believe not,” said Miss Eustace. “ The influence of such a night on my heart is like that of music ; I think it is feeling, not thought, that it inspires. O, could one communicate feelings without the intervention of words— could they throw them on paper without the mechanical drudgery of expressing them, what a volume would there be to read !” She rais ed her face towards him while speaking, beam ing with the inspiration of the soul. 9 “ Who is it! what is it! that you are per petually bringing athwart my imagination— my memory ?” said Mr. Chauncey, abruptly. “ I seem to have had a pre-existence, in which you were known to me 1” Miss Eustace made no reply. The sud denness of the question made her heart beat tumultuously —painfully; and the intensity of her feeling produced a sensation of faintness ; but she supported herself against the window frame, and her agitation M as unnoticed. “ I have it—that must be it!” exclaimed Mr. Ciiauncey, after a moment’s abstraction— “ Gen. Gardner! —Years ago, when quite a boy, I spent a week at his house. He had a lovely little daughter— her name, too was Ab by—l have neither seen nor heard from her since; but she strongly resembled you ! The same lovely expression animated her features ! Am 1 not right ?” Scarcely able to command voice enough to speak, Miss Eustace replied—“l believe Gen. Gardner never bad a daughter.” “O, you must be mistaken!” said Mr. Ciiauncey. “It has all come as fiesli to my memory as the events of yesterday. Mv fa ther went a long journey, took me with him as far as the General’s, and left me until his re turn. I was with his lovely little daughter, daily, for a week ; and remember asking her before I came away, if she would not be my wile when she became a woman !” “ Most true !” thought Mm Eustace, trem bling from head to foot, “and you followed the question by a kiss.” “ You are acquainted with the General’s family,” continued 37r. Chauncey, “and yet you say he never had a daughter ! But you must be mistaken ! 1!e certainly had one then, if lie lias one no longer !” “ 1 cannot be mistaken sir,” said 3/iss Eus tace, in tones that were scarcely audible, “as I have passed n udi ol’ my time there from in fancy.” “Then it was yourself,” cried 3/r. Chaun cev, “ your own self that I saw there ! Ain 1 not right! Do you not remember it?” “ 1 do,” 3/iss Eustace had just voice enough to utter. “ And did you remember me when we first methcie?’’ inquired 3/r. Ciiauncey, with ea geincss. “ I did,” said 3/iss Eustace. “ And why,” he cried, “ why did you never -peak of our former acquaintance? Win could you not kindly recall rnv earlier enjoy ment of vour society ?” M:>s Eustace could make no answer. She ‘•-•It as if about to betray her heart’s most hid den secret; as if Mr. Chauncey would read her whole soul, should she attempt to uttei another syllable. Her trembling limbs#’ could no longer support her, and with an unsteady motion she crossed the room, and seated her self on the sofa. The attachment of Miss Eustace to Mr. Chauncey was rather an mslinrt than a •pas sion. She was but eight years old when she met him at Gen. Gardner’s, and she had never seen him since, until they met at Mr. Atkins’; yet the little attentions he then paid her, which were the very first she had received from one of the other sex. and which had a peculiar deli cacy for the attentions of a youth of sixteen, made an indelible impression on her feelings. The strange question he asked her was ever awake in her heart—the kiss he imprinted ever warm on her cheek ! She would have felt it profanation to have had it displaced by one from tiny other lips. But though she had nev er since seen, she had very frequently heard of him; and the sound of his name, a name she herself never uttered, was ever music to her ear ; and for the ten long years during which they had been separated, his image had filled her whole soul. For Abbv Eustace to have loved another would have been inimpossible ! Her love for Horace Chauncey was a part of her very being! Mr. Chauncey did not instantly follow Miss Eustace to the sofa. He wished to look at his heart—to still its emotions ere lie went further. But one look showed him that he loved her wholly, entirely, undividedly; the sight of her agitation encouraged his hope— and advancing to the hack of the sofa, and lean ingover it, he said, in the softest tone — “ Now that you are a woman, may I repeat the request of my boyhood ?—Will you be my wife ?” Miss Eustace spoke not a word, but her eyes met those of her lover ; —language on cither side was unnecessary—both felt that tlicv lov ed and were beloved—that they were one for ever ! Something more than a year afler this event ful moment, Mr. and Mrs. Chauncey were spending a social evening with their friends, in the same pleasant parlor in which their hearts had first lveen opened to each other. In the course of conversation, Mrs. Atkins made known the fact, that, her cousin Miss Leigh, was on the verge of matrimony. “ 1 pity her husband,” said Mr. Chauncey. “ Pitv him!” exclaimed Mr. Atkins ; “for what ? I dare say he considers himself one of the most fortunate fellows alive!” “ Undoubtedly he does,” said Mr, Cb*un cey; “ but it will be a miracle if he ever cn. joys domestic happiness.” “ Why ?” demanded Mrs. Atkins. “ Sure ly Augusta lias many valuable and attractive qualities.” “I grant it,” said 3/r. Chauncey, “and ac knowledge that I once felt their ’force. But should a woman combine in her own charac ter all the valuable qualities in the world, she could not secure happiness to her husband where they allied to a temper like hers.” ' “ Is not that going too far, Horace ?” asked Mr. Atkins—“ Is it not laying too much stress on temper ?” “ I think not,” answered 3/r. Chauncey. “ Early in life my mother often spoke to me of the importance of good temper. Her re. marks, which made a deep impression, led me to careful observation—and lam convinced that could we accurately learn the detailed hisl tory of any one, from the cradle of his infancy" to the grave in which he was laid at threescore years and ten, we should find that temper, his own, or that of others, had occasioned three fourths of the unhappiness lie had endured. Neither poverty nor toil, pain nor sickness' disappointment nor the loss of friends,—neil tlier, nor all of these together, have caused so many hours of bitterness in this sorrowing world, as ill-temper. It is the scorpion atnoncr the passions—it stings the deepest, the most envenomed wounds that are inflicted on human happiness!” “ I rather think you are right, Horace,” said 3/r. Atkins, after sitting for a lew minutes in silent abstraction—“ I rather think you are right; and if so,” he playfully added, “ I real, ly sympathize with you an account of Abbv’s unhappy temper!” “A bin’s unhappy temper!” repeated 3/r. Chauncey. while his eyes beamed v'ith unuttcr. able complacency and love as they rested upon her. “ Look at her, Charles. Picture to yourself that face inflamed and distorted bv passion ! Imagine your own wife so disfigur. i'd ! Is not the picture horrible? Whoever imagined a woman as she should be, without investing her with meekness, gentleness, pa. fience, forbearance, as tlie genuine character, isties of her sex ? When destitute of these, she lenies her nature—counteracts the very de. -ign of her creation !” “ But vow will grant,” said 3/r. Atkins, ••that some women are born with much strong, j cr passions than others: will you make no al low. inre for these ?” “ Not the least,” said 3/r. Chauncey. “I have no belief in ungovernable passions. I would as soon excuse a thief for his stealing, or i drunkard for his intemperance, as a sensible woman for indulging a bod temper, on tie -core of natural infirmity. At the point of danger, a. double guard must be placed. Eve ry woman owes this, not only to herself, but •:o her friends. She was made to lighten cure; to soothe corroded feelings; to console tie afflicted ; to sympathize with tlie sufi’erirg; and, by her gentle influence, to allay the stormy and conflicting elements that agitate the mom mgged nature of man ! Instead of this, shall she permit her own angry passions to le the whirlwind that shall raise the stoim? The wo. man who does this, should be disowned of her sex, like those who abandon themselves to any other vicious inclination. An ill-tempered man is a tyrantbut an ill-tempered woman is a monster *” PUNISHMENT FOR BLASPHEMY IN THE 10TH CENTURY. An extraordinary and humiliating spectacle was witnessed by hundreds in the city of But ton on the 7th of April, 16718. Abr.er Knee land appeared bcfoic the Supreme Court of Massachusetts on Saturday morning, to ie ecive sentence upon the conviction of the “in famous crime” of publishing his peculiar beta on matters of religion ! This remarkable persecution of an unfortu nate individual for opinion’s sake, which been persisted in for lour years, will stamp another indelliblc page of shame on Massa chusetts. It will loan ai.otl cr chapter to h placed beside those that relate to the dark I workings of superstition, religious bigotryl intolerance, when, under sanction of law, tlo I ministers of justice hung four Quakers in and nineteen witches in ICP2. In Massachusetts they punish a man foriV-l nying God, though he denies that he ever^l nied him. The Court and Attorney insist they know Knee-lard’s religious creeil better than he does himself. They will co l take his word for it, that lie does bel'cve » , I God, for while they are about to imprison I'#! for denying the existence of a God, l:c op : r l proclaims before them and th.c world, that h| docs believe in a God, nn-j charges them '>l blaspheming his God The sentence th I construe into a dcr.jal of God, he insists * n | not deny God, v n d this point of consiew* j to be decidqy by tl-.e critical construct^l the court, not by the p el : c f an( i intent of «*■ criminal! The court, which is composed of os Sl j blc, learned, and excellent men as exist - J where, evidently enter into this business *'■ extreme reluctance. They are unqucsWJ bly, as sincere in their belief that it is « duty to punish Kneeland for publishing ■ opinions, as he is in maintaining these H ions, and it is as much an anomaly in t‘ iC J man understanding, that men so crlig' llf J and learned and meritorious as arc the J u of the Supreme Court, can punish a nrtO 'H proeJaiming his religious belief or dist»lK , ||