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WJTMM MKMII mm E TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. (Original For the Southern Literary Gazette. SUMMER NIGHT WIND. BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ. riow soothingly, to close the sultry day, Conies ih.: sweet breeze from off the murmuring waves, That break away in music; —and I feel Asa new spirit were within my veins And anew life tn nature. I awake From the deep weight of weariness, that fell. Fall-like, upon my spirit as my frame, Making the sense of helplessness a pain, Even to the heart ; —a fresher pulse of life, Throbs quickly through each vein and artery. And anew wing, a livelier nerve and strength. Kindles tht languid spirit into play. Oh generous nature, this is then thy boon, i hfcae airs that come with evening—these sweet spells 1 hat glide into the bosom with the embrace, Whose very touch is life, and on the frame, O’erborue and humbled by the oppressive weight Os this fierce August atmosphere, bestow’st A sense as precious as the boon that takes The captive from iiis dungeon, and provides The wings for Ins departure to free realms Where no oppression harbours. Oh ! I lift My brow, as with a consciousness of power I had not known betore. I drink a joy Most like a rapture, from each gushing air That rustles and ruffles over the green shrub. And the gay orange, late so motionless, That half obscure my window. Precious airs, Fail of delicious affluence, flow’ on With wings that beat the drowsy atmosphere, Until, in emulous munner like your own, It mates with ye in anthem, such as thrills The Atlantic, till each billow takes a voice, And echoes the deep chaunt. Ye come ! I feel Youi vwngs in playtui office all about me, Lilting tin” moisten’d hair upon my brows, As if some spirit fann’d me. Is it not A spirit, thus wrought from subtlest elements, Child of the storm, perchance of ocean born, But with commission sweet to check its sire And soothe hie rage to fondness. Thou per suad’st Hi? passions to repose, beside the sea. Aud chid’st bis billows. With a sportive play Thou steal’st the freshening vigour from his waves, And bear’st it to the fainting on the waste Where other wings are lire, and nature droops Amidst her richest treasures. Ah 1 how sweet 1 hat lervent wish, that shook apart the boughs, Aud made the orange quiver ’neath the eaves, Even to its odorous roots. Had I the voice, To mingle with that mighty chaunt, and grow, With its caprices flexible—now borne, A torrent through the void, and now’ a sigh, Drooping with folded wing beside the couch, As glad but gentle in the dutious office, That soothes even while it stirs. Again the strain, Swelling m gradual volume, till the burst Mocks the cathedral anthem, and rolls on. Precursor of new billows of proud song That grow to mountains on the beaten beach, ‘suddenly to subside in the great deeps i hut sent them first abroad. How lowlily The murmurs waken now, and now the voice iiinks audibly, with seeming consciousness:— As one, a maid, that falters in her sports, Steals back with sweet timidity of step, As fearing that, in very guilelessness, Her play hath been too wild:—And now as bold, By truer thought, that forward glides again, Rem wing dance and song, surpassing still, M ith each fresh effort the repeated grace. How w.ld that sudden gust—how sweet tha breath i hat seem'd borrow music from the hills Os l’aphos, kindling to an amorous mood lhe sense so lately dull. Alas! it shrinks! The Breeze’s virtue is not constancy!— What gay caprice!—but hence its secret fervor, The charm that piques to renovate the heart, And cools to fan its tires. It shrunk away, To gather up new strength. Subdued and awed it wantons forth us moments —a soft breath, Thut whispers at the lattice —then creeps in As doubtful of permission:—to be seen, Swelling the shrinking drapery of the couch. Then melting into silence. Now, agaiu, It comes, and with a perfume in its breath, Caught up from spicy gardens. The fair maid Whose roses thus yield tribute to the march 01 that wild rover, guesses not the thief, W lio'.e fierce embrace thus robs them of their youth, Aud virgin treasure —leaving them at morn, lo weep that eager, fond soliciting, They knew not to resist. Yet I rejoice I hat they are thus despoiled. ’Twere an ill wind 1 hat brought to none its treasure. Is it not A loving providence that thus provides With blessiug such as this, the unfavor’d one Who the had never known it ? In my cot, Who sees the precious flowers of foreign growth, I roin whose unfolding bosoms, this wild thief, Drinks the aroma, to bestow on me 1 •Ty lordly neighbour’s palace frowns me down, His wallsshut out my footsteps—his great gates, Cpen not to bid me enter, and mine eyes, Catch but faint glimpses of that prisoner realm, His floral Ilarem, where his flowers but fade, Having no proper worshipper. Yet vain, His stone precautions and his iron gates, Against my Ariel, my trickey spirit, i hat comes to me again with sw'eets so laden As half to check his flight. My precious breeze, Misfortune well may love thee. Thou hast fled The gayest regions. The high palaces, l air groves and gardens of nice excellence, — The pride of power—the pageantry and pomp I hat gild ambition and conceal its cares, — Could not detain thee 1 Thou hast fled them all. And iike an angel, still on blessing bent, Hast come to cheer the lonely. It is meet, Ihy welcome should be lavish like thysell. * >‘ou art no flatterer, and thou shouldst not creep Inrough a close lattice, with but half thy train hen I would gather all of thee, and w r rap Ihy draperies about me, as a robe Dear as the first dews of the embracing spring I f| the young buds of nature. Sweet, O! sweet, 1 key play about my brows. Thy whispers tell Dt songs in tree tops, when the forest pines ‘■Ave shelter, ’neath their ample and green boughs Ik dark and mighty colonades, to airs ftrat had no refuge else. They whisper me i fiffiiai mwmk mmm m mm mm >m mb mmm. mb m mm*L mtwMwm. A music such as glads the o’erladen heart, Subdued, yet sleepless, fever’d with the heat Os the long day in Summer. Dear the dream Thy sendee brings me. The still vexing care Os body sleepless, that still troubles mind, And makes one long commotion in the brain, Grows soothed beneath thy ministry, and now, Slumbers so coy, and wooed so long in vain. Are wrapping mo at last. I will lie down Beneath my window . There shall be no bar To thy free entrance. Thou wilt linger here, And with thy wings above my wearied brow, Will put aside the masses of my hair, With a mysterious kindness—'till my sleep Shall seem to me, in dreams which thou wilt shape, Hallow’d by Love’s officious tenderness, And watched by one, the heart’s ideal beauty, Whose smile shall be a treasure like thine own, Though never, in the experience of the day, It finds mortal match for my desire. iDrigittnl (Knits. For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE (MTRASTS OF A CITY. BY MRS. .JOSEPH C. NEAL. Life, in its many shapes, was there, The busy and the gay , Faces that seemed too young and fair To ever know decay. Wealth, its waste, its pomp and pride, Led forth its glittering train ; And poverty’s pale face beside, Asked aid, and asked in vain. [ Miss London. Oh, world, how strange thy lots are given ! Life’s aim ! How rarely understood ! And man, how far estranged from Heaven, If Heaven requires a brotherhood. [ Mrs. Hulr. Nothing strikes the country visitor of large towns more forcibly,—than the contrasts between wealth and poverty, vice and virtue, ease, and unremitting toil.— that force themselves upon the notice at every step. In country vil lages there are no glaring extremes. — The “squire”—the rich man of the place, lives almost as plainly, as those who come under his jurisdiction, as a magistrate. Absolute poverty is the effect of vice, and is even then pitied and relieved. But in a large city, grades and classes of society grov. more distinct. The rich man owns no brotherhood with his poorer neighbours,—lie may talk loud ly ofhis charities,but with a few honour able exceptions, kind words, and earnest sympathy, which cost so little, rarely go with the gift. Want becomes des titution, and vice is the next footstep in the downward path. But all this was suggested by a stray leaf from the journal of a city lady, which fell into our hands by accident. It would seem to to be the unvarnished narrative of the events of one day, and may have interest for those who tread less busy haunts. Januaky 20, 18— The weather still continues intensely cold. The furnace is scarely felt in the hall, and we have fires lighted in all the grates. My first call this morning, was on the beautiful Miss Carrington. Their parlours here have been refurnished, there is an exquisite air of good taste and comfort over all, —from the rich crimson damask curtains, to the Wil ton carpet, that muffles every footstep. The mirrors 1 have always admired.they have been re-set in richly carved frames, the cornices are re-gilt, and altogether I do not know a more elegant suite of rooms. The mistress of all this luxu ry, received me in a cashmere morning dress, trimmed with ermine, and dis playing her graceful form to the best possible advantage. Well, she is an only child, and ought to be indulged! She sang for me before 1 left. Her style has improved this winter, her voice is as rich as ever, and as 1 listen ed to the full gushing tide of sound, and watched the varying expression ol her lively face, —I thought how singularly blest had been the lot, that had left no kind of sorrow in her pure forehead, — and had given no tremulous tone toiler delicate voice. May God shield her from future care. May she ever be watched over by anxious affection 1 My next visit was to a seamstress, I have recently employed. She is one of three sisters, who left the “old coun try” some four years ago. Their mother came with them. The eldest was married shortly alter her arrival, and has gone W est with her husband. The others occupy a small room in Car penter Street, and their mother a con firmed invalid, is supported by their in dustry. At the time 1 first found them, they were in extreme poverty, and had not had any work for several weeks. Now they are doing better, but as they incurred what is to them, a heavy bur den of debt, during the first part of the winter, —every dollar is carefully laid by, with the exception of the merest pittance. The stairs approaching their little room were scrupulously white, and clean, but narrow and in many places broken. As regards neatness they were a singular contrast to the first flight,—which is travelled over hourly by an incredible number of persons, the occupants of the second floor with their lodgers. I could but think, as I toiled upwards, of the richly furnished hall l had last entered, —with its soft carpets and beautiful oil cloths, and the light falling dimly through stained glass. The room was also in direct con trast. The temperature differed little from the open street, and cloaked and furred as I was, I involuntarily drew towards the small coal fire, where a faint flame was struggling through a mass of cinders. “We don’t keep it well stirred ma'am, it burns away so fast,” said Margaret, in atone of apolo gy. Bridget the youngest, drew a thin shawl closely about her, and again stooped over her work. The poor child has grown very thin since I last saw them, and her cough is worse. I am afraid she will not live long, if she is obliged to bend over her needle so constantly. I did not tell her so though, —for, I knew it would be inflicting cru el, useless pain. There is no resource for her, save charity, and that they are too proud to accept. I think her colds are taken in going out too thinly clad, — as well as by sitting in that cold room. I must send her the plaid cloak I wore last winter. She surely cannot refuse it. Their mother is still confined to her bed—the only one in the room by the way. The girls must take turns in sharing it with her. Margaret said : “ It was good for her. that she could’nt rise, for may be she didn’t feel the cowld, nor crave for the meat like them that works about.” 1 noticed that all the spare articles of their scanty wardrobe, were heaped upon the patch-work quilt. That quilt 1 had admired, much to their delight, on my first visit. It was Bridget’s neat work, done at the parish school, when she was a child. I very much fear there were no blankets under it now. Poor Mrs. McMurdy, their mother, told me over again the sad story, of their land lord’s cruelty, to her husband, and how “ he died, with the heart of him broke intirely.” She seams to find relief by dwelling on any particular at length, and 1 encouraged her to go over it for the twentieth time at least, in spite of Margaret’s remonstrance, who told her mother, —“that sure the lady knew as much about it as themselves, and why should she be tired out with the re payting it.” Although there is not the slightest actual resemblance, Mrs. McMurdy always reminds me of my mother. How I thanked God in my heart, that she whom 1 loved best on earth, was surrounded by every comfort in her old age. It must be constant pain to those poor girls to see their only parent wanting so many things that they are unable to supply. Mother’s basket came before 1 left. She promised to send it when brother John’s waiter came with his daily note of inquiry. Mrs. McMurdy’s pale, blue eyes looked eagerly at the oranges as 1 took them out one by one,' —and such a thing as chicken broth she has not tasted in many a day. 1 told the girls how to prepare it, and Bridget at once placed the little skillet, their sole cooking utensil, over the fire. It would have done my mother’s heart good, to hear their earnest thanks and prayers for every “ blessin upon her head.” It is so easy to make the poor, and little children happy. I wish l could relieve Bridget from her constant labours, and furnish them at once with a proper fire. But I see so much wretchedness that it is impossible to relieve! 1 could do nothing but pay them liberally, for what they have already done, and pro mise them more work. My next call was at Mrs. Heed’s in Arch Street; 1 wished to arrange with Annie about the music party for Wednesday, but as she had gone to the House of Employment, it being her week in attendance, I harried up to Schuylkill-Sixth Street. Harriet Reed accompanied me to the door, as I took leave. She was wrapped in a richly furred sacque, but shivered as the chill wind swept through the half-opened door. Here, too, was a luxuriously furnished hall, heated by a furnace, and shielded by a vestibule. 1 thought of Bridget, and turned sadly away, leav ing my young friend to hurry back to her German teacher, who had arrived meantime. How little does she know of actual inclemency. If she was ex posed to it a little more she would be ail the healthier. These close rooms, and midnight revels are doing the same work on Harriet, that poverty and la bour, have wrought for Nannie. The House of Employment, 1 had never before visited. The front is oc cupied by a small store, where the work of the poor women is disposed of. Here are all kinds of common clothing, and a case of really ingenious fancy articles. This is “tended” by one of the ladies, on the visiting commit tee, who alternate in their self appoint ed task. Annie was in the sewing room, and thus I had leisure to inspect the store while 1 waited for her. As I had a little time to spare, I begged her to show me through the house, and ac cordingly we first descended a flight of stairs to the basement, which is occu CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, JULY 13. 1850. pied as a nursery. Here were a dozen or more small children, some of whom are made to act as nurses to those still younger. All are under the care of a clean Irish woman, who was tossing an infant a few months old. My heart ached for one sickly little creature who was being pushed about in a little chair, by the oldest boy. The child was de formed in some way, but the rest seem ed very kind and attentive to it. One dear little girl—Kitty they called her, looked up with a shy, yet confiding air when we spoke to her. I have rarely seen a more delicate face ; the features were finely cut, the eyes soft, and blue. I shall speak to Mrs. Orne about her, if she is an orphan. If looks are any criterion, 1 would rather adopt her than any child I have yet met with. How they are kept amused all day, I cannot tell. There was no appearance of playthings if we except the little chair on wheels, given up to the invalid, and a few yarn spools, clothes-pins, and the like, that were rolling about the floor. In the second story, 1 found the mothers of these children, and many more women young and old, who pass the day here. They are sure of warmth and food, and earn a little besides. — They were seated in groups about the large room, as inclination prompted, and seemed to enjoy each other’s socie ty amazingly. All were industriously employed on common plain sewing, a few having fine shirts, etc., entrusted to them. A table at the head of the room was filled with work, some of it just cut out, and other articles nearly completed. A half open drawer dis closed a lage stock of sewing materials, spools, buttons, tape and the like. Here the lady whose duty it is to preside for the day, is stationed. She preserves order among them (that is when she can,) gives out the work, and examines it when done, —encourages and cen sures, as it may be needful, those un der her charge. The women themselves, were as a general thing, respectably clad. There was a fine opportunity for the study of character among them, but I had not time for physiognomical research.— They are of course from the poorest classes of society, but they seem wil ling to work, and were tolerably neat. I was pained however to see several old women among them, who looked also infirm. It does not seem right that the aged should toil. They “have borne the burden and heat of the day,” and their evening, at least, should be a time of repose. 1 believe it was a thought of dear mother, that brought tears to my eyes, as I looked at them, —of her quiet, and serene old age.— Thus it seems to me should pass the close of any active and useful life. God help the aged and friendless poor! and may he shield all 1 love from such a cheerless fate. The women come early in the morn ing and stay until four or five in the afternoon. They dine in a room ad joining the store, where 1 found the cook busy in putting all to rights, after their only mid-day meal. It is furnish ed with long benches and tables, and the cook told me, that sixty persons had often dined there. The food is abundant, excellent of its kind, and is always well cooked. So much for this somewhat recent system of Charity; “the House of Employment”—l should think that the relief it affords, was most judiciously bestowed. The committee of inspectors is large, and their atten tion is voluntary. Annie moved among the poor women like an Angel of good ness. It is thus she finds forgetfulness of her own great sorrows. “Verily she hath her reward.” It was now near our dinner hour, but as I had left word at home that the time of my return was uncertain, —I con cluded to accept cousin Mary’s general invitation, and dine with them. I found the children all in high glee, crowding around Mary, who was seated upon the carpet as if she had been one of them. A pile of engravings, fashion plates, etc. were scattered about, and they were choosing fancy dresses for a little party their Aunt is about to give them. Henry had just concluded to go as a Highland boy, with a full tartan suit, and coquettish cap and feather. Mary is to be the strawberry girl, in Mrs. Stephens beautiful tale “ Palaces and Prisons.” Ellen’s costume had not yet been decided upon, but she waited mama’s choice with exemplary patience. I am afraid Mary is initiating them too early into the gay life she has al ways led. And yet, with all her frivol ity, she has a warm and generous heart. She readily promised that the McMur dy’s should all her new house linen, as soon as I told her of their des titute condition. She will pay them liberally too ; she is not a type of that numerous class of fine ladiee, who make most of their display by saving from servants and work-people’s w ages. As I looked about the comfortable nur sery, furnished with every new r inven tion to minister to the comfort, and health of the children —from the tassel led baby-jumper, in which my name- sake was crowing, to the costly book case filled with juvenile publications for the elder children. I thought of the little ones 1 had just seen, and the dark, badly ventilated apartment where I had left them. The mother of my young relatives, how different her lot from that of the toiling seamstresses ! My beautiful Mary, with her long cluster ing curls, and child-like smiles, —so loved so honoured, so surrounded by Heaven’s choicest gifts! My more than sister! May she never know of poverty, save through description, its teachings would be too harsh for one so delicately nurtured. The time slipped away most rapidly and delightfully here. I had to examine Henry’s drawings, hear Mary play, besides spending some time in a vain endeavour to discover my little name sake’s new tooth. I found it was quite too late when I looked at my watch, to visit the parochial school, as had been my first intention. So 1 bade Mary a reluctant farewell, just as Mr. Howard entered. He had dined down town for a wonder, and Mary accosted him with playful upbraiding at his neg lect. His very first movement, was stopping her tirade with kisses, was to snatch the baby from nurse Denham’s arms, and toss her so high that nurse fairly screamed. I will not say that no feeling of re gret stole over my heart, as 1 passed down the now darkening street s. Twi light, a winter’s twilight particularly, is always saddening, and I never turn from a scene of quiet domestic happi ness, without the echo of a pang, that such can never be my lot in life. 1 picture what my home might have been had the bright dream of my youth been realized; that a husband’s arm might have encircled me, and his de votion shielded me from ill. Who would believe that the plain “old maid” is ever visited by such thoughts as these ! She who goes through life so calmly, with a serene and happy face. But Herbert, —when I think of thee, — dying in the early promise of thy man hood, —dying with my name upon thy lips,—Oh God ! Why should I have been chosen for such a blow ? Father in Heaven forgive the murmurer! 1 struggled against this mood. I thought how really lonely and desolate my life might have been. I recalled the patient faces of those poor women I had seen through the day. I watched the shop-girls hurrying home from their weary labour, and contrasted my lot with theirs. 1 have still health, com petency, the love of friends, the means of doing good to many, and while my mother lives, an aim in life. Dear Mother! As I entered our warmly lighted parlour, and w as greet ed by her cheerful smile, and kindly inquiries about the day’s employment, I wondered that I could wish for any other happiness, than that which 1 now’ enjoy. My piano, w'ith its smiling ivory keys, new books, new music upon the centre table, and letters from our dear northern friends, greeted me. 1 drew my lounging chair into the light and w'armth of the fire side, and fin ished the day by reading aloud to my best and dearest friend, who so con stantly sets me a beautiful example of all virtue, intelligence and excellence. €'lj? ftnrt} tE'rllrr. From the London Family Herald. MABEL DELAFIELD. “ Why are you so sad, dear Mabel?” “ I feel as if this were the last even ing we should ever spend together, Har ry, a long, long time must elapse be fore we meet again.” “ Pshaw'!” said Mr. Delafield; “you are so desponding, it is enough to dis courage me, Mabel—a w ife should al ways encourage her husband by cheer ful spirit.” “ 1 should like to do so, dear Har ry,” and she laid one arm timidly around his neek and looked earnesly in his face, “but indeed I cannot be cheerful to-night—my heart will have its way—l cannot control it. A sad and fearful presentiment tells me we shall part to-morrow for ever.” “ Presentiment! What folly.” “It may he folly, but if I loved you less the presentiment w ould not have fixed itself in my heart.” “ Have done with this nonsense, Ma bel—l cannot endure it—you have given me the vapours already,” and Mr. Delafield left his seat, and walked with impatient steps backward and forward, muttering to himself about the folly and superstition of w'omen. Mrs. Delafield remained silent. She knew her husband’s temper too well to attempt to disturb him, but her thoughts were sad and hitter. She thought of her apparently happy marriage-season five years before—of how ardently her husband seemed to love her then, how’ careful he was to note her every w'ant, and regard her slightest wish. But he was changed—his manner w as cold and reserved—he had closed the sanctuary of his heart against her. When she spoke of it he listened unwillingly, and gave as excuses his many cares and anx ieties. She knew that much of this was true, for the riches that w ere theirs at their union had taken “to themselves w'ings” and flown away ; but she also knew, as only a woman can know, that she was not loved as she had been —as she desired to be loved. Then hope w hispered gently that the future was not all dark, that when this burthen of of care, of which he complained so much, should have been lifted from his heart, all would again be well. Delafield wasleaning listlessly against the mantel-piece—his eyes fixed on the decaying fire—when his wife rose soft ly and laid her hand on his arm. “For give me, Harry, if 1 have been dull and uninteresting. You know I would do anything to make you happy.” An unusual softness stole over the features of Mr. Delafield as he returned his wife’s caress, and he said, kindly, “ Brighter days may come to us yet, Mabel. Cheer up, and let us hope for the best.” Those few kind words were like the | sunlight streaming through a prisoner’s j bars, carrying glimpses of freedom and hope to his yearning soul. Dreams of future happiness stole over the heart of Mabel as she retired to rest that night, and she slept sweetly, even though she knew that the coming mor- , row would part her from the one she loved so fervently. In her dreams she overleaped the months which were to separate them, and in the reunion for got the past, with all its doubts and dreamy fears. What a scene would this fair and beautiful world exhibit if hope were fixed—if the melody of her voice were no longer heard, and the gleaming of her wings were banished for ever! The morrow came, and with it the dreaded parting—the sad and silent fare well. With high and ardent hopes Delafield started for the West—there he expected to regain the fortune he had lost—to fulfill his dreams of worldly ambition, and be satisfied. Some weeks passed away, and then came a cold and careless letter to Ma bel Delafield, telling of anticipated suc cess, but not one allusion to the past, nor a hope of future happiness with her. He spoke not of returning nor of send ing for her—and yet, even while the burning tears were streaming down her cheeks, she hoped on, and dreamed of happier clays. She “ hoped against hope,” and persuaded her heart into the belief that care and anxiety were preying on his mind, and for a little while had swallowed up affection—but again it would appear refined and puri fied by absence and trial. Faithful to her own love she wrote a long and tender letter in return —she encouraged him to persevere in his busi ness, assured him of her own unwaver ing affection, and looked joyfully for ward to the time when they should be reunited, and forget all past reverses in their crowning happiness. Months, long and wearisome months, rolled on, and no answer came to her kind and gentle letter. Then Mabel found the truth of those beautiful words, that “ hope deferred maketh the heart sick,” arid she thought that any certainty was better than suspense, and yet at that certainty there was no means of arri ving. The reed was broken on which she had leaned, and, unfortunately, she had never been taught that there was a higher refuge—a home for the weary—a resting-place for the broken heart. • A year passed heavily on, no tidings came to Mrs. Delafield of her husband, and she gave him up as dead. Her heart told her that the grave alone could raise a barrier between her and the husband she had loved so tenderly. But there were those even among her dearest friends who thought very dif ferently —who, while they did every thing that kindness could dictate for Mabel, hoped that Delafield- would never return. Seven years passed away and with them the dearest and kindest of Mrs. Delafield’s friends; and now’ that she began to look around her for support, she found that that support must be made by her ow n efforts. The West offered a broader field for exertion than any other part of the country, and thither she determined to go. ller spirit had been chastened and purified by sorrow—the ashes of affec tion were cold on the altar-place of her heart —they could never be again re lumed, and in their place a flame had been kindled, pure and holy, indeed, because it was born of the spirit w hich pervades all things beautiful and good. She had learned to look forward to a rock that can never be broken—to “an inheritance that fadeth not away”—but sad and lonely she could not help but feel as she left the home of her happy childhood to seek a new’ one among strangers. Her life had been spent among those who knew’ her, and looked upon her faults with kindness —they knew that the errors she committed were not prompted by the heart—her faults w'ere only like motes in the sun beam. After a comfortable journey, Mabel found herself in the hospitable city of L , and there first felt how easily wounded is the stranger’s heart. But Mabel had a way of stealing quietly in to people’s hearts before they knew’ it, and a warm circle of friends was soon formed around her, so that through their influence and by their aid, she opened a school, and soon had the pleasure of seeing it well filled with happy faces. A year passed by, and Mrs Delafield was comparatively happy in doing her duty, and thereby preserving a good conscience. One bright and sunny morning one of her favourite pupils brought a visit or, a little girl of seven summers. The child was more than usually beautiful, and Mrs. Delafield, attracted by her ap pearance, called her to her side. As she took the child’s hand, and parted the luxuriant curls from the open brow, her eyes involuntarily wandered to a locket of gold which confined a hair necklace around the child’s neck. A paleness like that of death came over her features, and she trembled in every limb; but by a strong effort of will she suppressed the shriek of surprise which arose to her lips, and said as calmly as she could to her favourite, “A glass of water, dear Mary, 1 am quite faint.” The water was brought quickly, and putting aside the anxious children who crow'ded around her, she THIRD VOLUME-NO. 11 WHOLE NO. 111. drew the stranger child towards her, and said kindly, “Allow me to look at your pretty locket.” The child was pleased with the atten tion, and unclasping it, hastily laid it in her hands. “Can it be possible?” thought Mabel, as she examined it; “this certainly was once my own!” “ Who gave you this locket my child?” asked Mrs. Delafield, soothingly. “ My father—dear, good father,” re plied the child, in delight. “\\ hat is your name ?”•—“ Mabel Delafield.” “ Mabel Delafield !—why that is my name !’” and Mabel gasped for breath; but she was determined to go on and solve the mystery if possible. “ How olrl are you, Mabel?”—“Seven years old in June—and this is June, I declare.’ “Have you always lived here?” — “Yes, 1 was born here.” “And your name is Mabel Delafield?” “ Yes; is it a pretty name* ? —why do you ask ?” “Why, it is strange,” and Mabel tried to speak carelessly, “ that you should have my name.” “ You will love me now because I am your namesake,” said the child, as she put her face close to Mrs. Dela field’s, and looked into her eyes earnestly. There was something in that look that went to Mabel’s soul, and remind ed her of Delafield as he was wont to look on her in moments of tenderness. She pressed her lips on the forehead of the innocent child, and strove to speak in a steady voice. “ Can you tell me where your father lived before he came to this city ?” “ In New York.” Mabel groaned aloud, but, taking up the necklace, she clasped it on the child’s neck, and said, scarcely thinking of what she spoke, “And the hair, whose soft, glossy hair is this? Is it your mother’s V “Oh, no, it is a lady’s who lives away in New York—she gave it to papa with this locket! “And her name —was what?” de manded Mabel, eagerly. “Mabel Delafield too —that makes three Mabel Delafields. and the child laughed merrily. But poor Mabel did not hear the laugh—she only heard the words that had carried conviction of the unwel come truth to her trusting heart. She had fainted, and a long time elapsed, notwithstanding the kind efforts of friends, before Mabel showed a sign of life. The school was dismissed ; and the innocent little Mabel had no idea of the mischief she had unconsciously wrought. And now, kind reader, let me trans port you to a fine-looking house in the same good city of . In the par lour sits Henry Delafield, intent on reading the morning paper. Near him, elegantly dressed, sits a lady, young and beautiful, regarding him with an interest which nothing but love could create. “ Do lay aside that paper, Harry, and go with me; I have been w'aiting this half hour,” said the lady somewhat im patiently. “Where was it you wished to go, Emily?” asked Delafield in an abstract ed manner. “To see this Mrs. Delafield about sending Mabel to school.” “ I thought you did send her this morning.” “ Oh! I let her go with Mary Palm er just to see how she’d like it, and told her we’d follow directly. I hear so much of this Mrs. Delafield’s school that I think it would be better for us to send Mabel there. By the way, 1 think Delafield is getting to be quite a com mon name.” “So it is. Did you ever hear this lady’s Christian name ?” “ No, 1 did not. But why do you ask ?” “ Mere curiosity—that’s all!” and Delafield shuddered inwardly. “ You surely don’t think it can be your cousin Mabel, Henry. I do be lieve I shall be jealous of her!” “ What nonsense, Emily. Do you think my cousin would be here and I not know it ?” “ Such a thing might be, but 1 have half a mind to be jealous of her any how; you called her name so often in your dreams last night.” “ Did 1 ?” asked Delafield, much con fused, but then recovering himself, he added, “but it was my own little Ma bel 1 was calling Emily; and here she comes now,” and Mabel came running in out of breath, and exclaiming, “Oh! papa, I have found another Mabel Dela field !” Both father and mother looked sur prised, but summoning his courage, Delafield asked, “Where did you find her, my child?” “She is the lady that teaches school —I love her so much.” “ I told you,” said Mrs. Delafield, playfully. “ that it might be your cousin Mabel, and 1 suspect it is; but what brought you home, Mabel the third ?” “ Mrs. Delafield was so ill—she faint ed—and, papa, she thought this locket and hair so beautiful—she took it off my neck, and looked at it for a long time.” Delafield was rooted to the spot — the mystery was solved —he knew that his deserted wife was near him—he alone guessed the connexion between the fainting fit and the locket. But Dela field had gone too far in crime to permit this to crush him without a struggle, and, gathering up all his effrontery, he professed to believe that the lady in question was his cousin, who, for some inexplicable cause, had not warned him of her arrival. We are always ready to be led by our own wishes, therefore Emily did not doubt the truth of Delafield, even though she thought it strange that he should evince so much feeling on the subject, but whatever her fears were they were soon calmed by the caresses of her husband. Life had been but as a summer’s day to Emily; no cloud had darkened it, and che one now looming above the horizon might pass on without destroying its brightnes.— Thus thought Delalield as his wife and child sat beside him in unshaken confidence. “ Well,” said Emily, “we must call on this cousin of yours, dear Harry, im mediately; and why not now?’ “Is Mrs. Delafield papas cousin?— say, mamma, may I not go too ? “Be quiet, Mabel,” -aid Delafield, and then, turning to Emily, “I must first go myself. Mabel is very proud, and she must have some cause for acting in this way.” “Well ! I don't like proud women, and I shall not like her, I am sure.” “Yes, you will,” joined in little Ma bel, “you can’t help loving her—every body loves her.” “ Sometime to-day,” said Delafield, as he took up his hat, “I shall call and see her.” With a trembling heart and a conscience that goaded him almost to madness, he left his happy and con fiding wife, and walked on, on, he cared not whither; but at last, as if his steps were impelled by some secret form, he found himself in front of Mrs. Dela field’s seminary. He ascended the steps, and rang the bell with a trem bling hand—a servant obeyed the sum mons, and he asked, “ Can I see Mrs. Delafield ?” “She is not well; but walk in, and I will see!” While waiting for the servant’s re turn the moments were as hours, for he felt that everything dear to him in life depended on this interview. The servant returned and required his name—his agitation was intense as he presented liis card, but he observed, “ I should have thought of this before.” Mrs. Delafield had, in some measure, regained her composure, and, though still pale and agitated, she was sitting up when the servant brought her the card ; as her eyes fell upon the name she had dearly loved, she sprang con vulsively to her feet, and exclaimed, “ Harry Delafield !” and then ashamed of exposing her feelings to the servant, she sank into her chair, and said, “Ask him to walk up.” “Here! to your own room, madam?” inquired the servant. “ Yes, Here—he is a relation—a par ticular friend.” As the servant left the room, she clasped her hands over her face, and said, ‘‘The bitterest enemy I ever had. Forsake me not now, my Heavenly Father, but sustain me in this trial ?” The door opened, but Mabel did not look up—she felt that Delafield stood before her as she said, “ Be seated, sir, and tell me the cause of this visit.” “ Mabel—l know not what to say.” “Then why come to disturb my peace ? What do you desire?” “ Your forbearance—your forgive ness !” “ My forgiveness you have—my for bearance you do not deserve.” “You have ceased to love me, Mabel.” “ Dare you upbraid me with not lov ing you ? and her form towered ; her eyes dilated, and she looked on him for the first time, but his eyes refused to meet hers. “Harry Delafield! love is extinguished in my heart for ever; but I can have compassion on your in nocent child—on the unfortunate wo man whom you call your wife. I would not have her suffer the misery— the wretchednes you have made me feel—but you , you —what do you not deserve ?” “ Have mercy, Mabel—do not de stroy their happiness—do not expose me to ruin.” “ I know what you would ask, Dela field—you would ask me to bear my wrongs in silence—to bury them in the ashes of my love for the sake of others —that their happiness be not destroyed —but how can this be ? —for whom does your wife take me ?” “ For my cousin,” and his lips quiver ed in agony. hor a minute Mabel was confound ed by his impudence, and contempt sealed her lips, but recovering, she said, “ Let it be so, then—but remember it is for the sake of them —not for your sake that 1 withhold you from justice —and we must never meet again /” “ How can 1 explain- that ?” “ In any way you like, I will not con tradict you. To your wife and child 1 will be a friend, to you as one dead ; and now- leave me, 1 would be alone, and may God forgive you as I do now!” Overcome by her high-w rought feel ings, she sank back in her chair and closed her eyes. “ Mabel! farewell!” She did not speak, and he passed to the door; as he opened it, he said; “May Heaven bless you, Mabel! Will you not say ‘Farewell ?” One word 7” But Mabel moved not; and he went out thinking how strange it was that she who had once loved him so fondly should have changed so much. W hen, after some time, the servant entered the apartment, Mabell was still sitting as Delafield had left her, but the spirit had fled for ever. She had laid her life as a sacrifice on another’s shrine. It was said that Mrs. Delafield died of disease of the heart, and no one thought of inquiring wiiat produced the disease. Little did the unconscious Emily think as she gazed on that face for the first time, now cold and still in death, of the secret buried in that bo som for ever. She dreamed not of the sacrifice made for her and her child.— And what M ere the feelings of Dela field as he gazed on the inanimate form which had so often rested on his own bosom ? lie thought of her never-tir ing kindness—of her patience and gen tle forbearance—and above all, of the sacrifice she made of her own life. But a secret joy stole over his heart as he reflected that “ the dead tell no tales” —that his danger was past. A few days more,and Mabel Delafield M r as laid in the cold grave. The secret of her sudden death was enveloped in dark ness until all secrets are brought to light, for “then is nothing hid that shall not be revealed.”