been publicly announced, her conduct towards him, which would have injured her in the eyes of the well thinking, was never known, and a few brilliant weeks previous to her marriage were passed by her in exhibiting her elegant lover to the admiring world in which she lived. The meeting between Sophy and her sister was colder even than ordinary: for the warmth which had heretofore been exhibited was wholly on Sophy's part, and now even that was wanting. The first interview between Mrs. Ellis and Sophy was, on the contrary, marked by a greater degree of warmth than ever occurred before. Differing with her husband on the point which had so deeply wounded her, and on terms of scarcely decent intercourse with Emily, Mrs. Ellis turned to Sophy for sympathy in her distress. Sophy's most heartfelt sympathy she certainly possessed; and when we add to this a decided improvement in her manner to her stepmother, we must not be surprised to find her on the high road of favouritism with Mrs. Ellis. Robert Ashleigh, resenting the treatment which he had received from Mr. Ellis, refused to enter his house, even to visit his aunt; and Mrs. Ellis now only saw him when she met him in society, or visited him at his lodgings. Sophy never saw Ashleigh, but during her weekly visits home she heard from Mrs. Ellis all that she herself knew of him; for with Mrs. Ellis, Ashleigh and the ill treatment he had received were a never-ending theme of discourse.

Emily's marriage took place in June, and she left her father's house for her new home, without any wish expressed on the part of Mrs. Ellis that she should again revisit it. Robert Ashleigh, the following autumn, went abroad, to travel in Europe till his thirst for wandering should be satisfied-a thirst recently induced by the bitterness and irritation which his disappointment had occasioned. Ashleigh felt Emily's conduct poignantly. Endowing her as he had with all the charms that surrounded his ideal, he had lavished upon her all his warm affections, without suspicion or guile. The shock, the disappointment, were proportionably severe; nor is it surprising that he left his country a sceptic in woman's virtues, a doubter in her truth. Nothing is so wounding to a man's vanity, as to doubt his own penetration and judgment; and nine times in ten he consoles himself under similar circumstances, by broad and sweeping censure upon the whole sex, sooner than acknowledge his blindness or deficiency in either of these qualities.

Sophy left school on the occasion of her sister's marriage, and, after Emily's departure, it was decided that she should not again return, but continue her studies with her masters as before. A year earlier such an attempt to overrule a favourite project would have met with strong resistance from Sophy; but after a simple expression of her wish to continue with Mrs. Montague, she yielded in quiet submission to her mother's wishes. This change alone, in Sophy, would have produced a corresponding effect in Mrs. Ellis; but, when we throw into

the scale her disappointment in, and resentment towards Emily, it is not surprising that we should find Sophy rising as high in her stepmother's regard as she formerly fell below it. All the indulgence, the petting, which Emily once engrossed, now fell entirely upon her; and it is difficult to say which extreme was the most trying ordeal for the character of a young person to pass through. Sophy, however, was doubly armed; her knowledge of the past had rendered her clear-sighted; and nothing but her firm determination to do what was right enabled her to bear with patience the oftentimes oppressive consequences of such favouritism.

When the winter came round, it was evident that Mrs. Ellis inclined to take Sophy with her to Washington: but upon this occasion her father interfered in her behalf. Sophy was too young, at little more than sixteen, to enter into society, and he decided that she should again return to Mrs. Montague's during their absence. This was a subject of great rejoicing to Sophy; and when, at the beginning of the session, her parents departed for the capital, she returned with a light heart to her kind friend Mrs. Montague, and her old schoolmates.

During this period the letters-which came few and far between-from Emily were anything but encouraging in the picture which they gave of her mind. Emily was evidently disappointed. The paradise-home which a lover's tongue had painted, proved to her disenchanted eye nothing more than a secluded wilderness, called a plantation. The society and the hospitality of which she had received such glowing accounts were so scattered, that to enjoy them was a labour which, with her town-bred habits, she was entirely unfitted for. Emily soon perceived that her elegant lover was far less amiable in a shabby coat and rough country boots than when sauntering up Pensylvanian Avenue with her the morning after a ball-that he loved the companionship of his horse and his cigar very often better than he did hers; and, worse than all, she discovered that, though proprietor of a large landed estate, her husband was what she called a poor man, for he had very little ready money, and even that little depended upon the fluctuating chances of good and bad crops; and when she found that, instead of passing a gay winter in Washington, as she had proposed, she must remain during the whole dreary season in the country, she felt herself ill-used and deceived. It is true her husband obligingly told her that, if the old gentleman-meaning her father-would take a house in Washington, and send for them to pass the winter with him, he would go with pleasure. But this, strange to say, did not console her.

All this Emily did not, of course, actually say in her letters; but there was enough told for any one to perceive that she had been disappointed in the great aim of her ambition-the uncurbed enjoyment of a life of gay and luxurious indulgence, of glitter and show.

Meanwhile Sophy's moral as well as mental education continued to progress, under the fos

N

tering care of Mrs. Montague-a woman of enlarged mind and unpretending piety-and time flew by, as it ever does with the happy and the occupied. But this state of repose was not to continue long trials and afflictions came, as they always do, in crowds; and Sophy's fortitude and patience were put to the severest trials.

Early in the spring she was hurried to Washington to see her father breathe his last. Mr. Ellis had been fatally injured by the overturning of a carriage, and did not survive the accident three days. Mrs. Ellis, who accompanied him, was also severely hurt, and upon Sophy fell the task of nursing and soothing her under this twofold affliction. Scarcely had the first dark days of sorrow and bereavement passed away, when intelligence was received of the death of Mr. Gaythorn. He was taken off suddenly by a violent fever, and from the hints contained in Emily's letters, leaving his affairs in great entanglement.

Mrs. Ellis had never entirely forgiven Emily her conduct to her nephew; and when the announcement of her loss was received, instead of inviting her to return to her former home, as Sophy expected, she merely dictated a querulous common-place letter of condolence to her, and it was evident to Sophy, who did all in her power to soften her mother's resentment, that Mrs. Ellis had no conciliating feelings towards her.

Mrs. Ellis had now become a confirmed invalid, and it was the opinion of her physicians that she never would entirely recover from the injuries which she had sustained. On the death of her husband she had given up her townhouse, and she now determined to reside henceforth entirely in the country. In this step she was warmly seconded by Sophy, who loved the country. In this step she was warmly seconded by Sophy, who loved the country, and whose occupations and amusements never suffered her to feel a weary moment while there. And now her occupations were manifold. She was nurse, adviser, consoler, and companion. She was the organ through which all business matters were arranged, housekeeper, secretary, and proxy in general. And yet Sophy found time for all this--Sophy the self-willed-Sophy the obstinate! Prompt, cheerful, and decided, she quietly accomplished all that fell to her share, and still had hours open each day for her own employments. Mrs. Ellis insisted upon the daily walk or drive; and for the rest, there were odd moments enough, beside the sofa of the invalid, for the book, the work, or the drawing; while night brought its hours of solitude, meditation, and independence.

In this quiet routine more than two peaceful ears passed away; Mrs. Ellis's health, which gradually became more and more undermined, being the only source of uneasiness experienced by Sophy. Letters came at long intervals from Emily, usually filled with expressions of discontent, principally founded upon the complication and einbarrassment of her affairs; while more regular and frequent epistles were received from

Ashleigh, who now promised his aunt to return home, her declining health inducing her to urge it strongly.

Ashleigh never made a promise but in good faith; and early in the autumn, some weeks before he was expected, he arrived after an absence of three years. Three years is a period in the existence of any one. Three years spent by the domestic fireside changes us often materially; how much greater, then, must be the effect of such an interval of time on one who has passed it in the rapid and struggling current of life, where strange and novel scenes are passing before him, and where, "'Mid the shock, the hum of men," he has been taught to uproot his own prejudices, to respect those of others, and in stranger lands to read human nature in its outspread book! All this had happened to Ashleigh. In many respects he was altered; but a little while sufficed to convince Mrs. Ellis, who feared that foreign travel had made him "fine," that in all essentials he was in no way changed for the worse. The same frank, affectionate manner, the same simple tastes remained, as when they parted last.

In compliance with the earnest wish of Mrs. Ellis, Ashleigh, a few months after his return, came permanently to reside with her, it being her wish that the remainder of her life might be cheered as much as possible by his presence.

The interest which Sophy so early felt in Ashleigh had never died away. She met him with a warm and friendly greeting; though, unconsciously to herself, that warmth was measured to conceal how great that pleasure was. Often and often, during the cheerful happy hours now passed by them at their quiet fireside, did Sophy wonder if Ashleigh had forgotten Emily. He never spoke of her sister, or to her knowledge inquired for her; and Sophy, afraid to mention hername, had only heard her alluded to once, when Mrs. Ellis asked him if he thought Sophy had grown up like Emily-"Not at all, ma'am," was the quick reply: "very different."

"Mamma forgets the past," mused Sophy. "Idolized as she was, she must always stand alone in his imagination."

And yet Sophy was mistaken. Ashleigh was not thinking of her sister at that moment: he was gazing upon her, and telling himself that never in all his wanderings had he met with a lovelier woman-never looked into the depths of more loving, truth-telling eyes!

It was a pleasant winter, after all. Ashleigh never tired of describing his travels and adventures abroad to his two curious and unwearied listeners. Then there were pleasant books to read, and daily news to tell-for Ashleigh went nearly every day to town, occasionally returning with a friend or two, to enliven their circle and vary their amusement. Mrs. Ellis revived visibly under these cheering influences, and schemes for the future again began to occupy her thoughts.

(To be continued.)

LADY MARGARET'S SONG.

I have been, O beloved! to our own green hill,
When the morning's sweet smile fell
On the leaping light of the rosy rill,
And the dear and daisied dell.
The fragrant breeze flew over my brow,
And freshened my fevered cheek;
Stirring with music the leafy bough,
That waved from the lofty peak.
The spirit of all sweet sounds was there,
Rustling his sunny wings;
And blossoms upthrew on the busy air
Their spirit-murmurings.

The earth, as some fair huntress of old,
Moved in a mantle of green and gold!

But a shadow came o'er my quivering heart,
And sharpened my aching sense;

And my tears gushed forth with a sudden start,
Wrung out from a pain intense.
I sat me down where the foamy surf
Dashed up to the lav'rock's nest,
And longed for a mound of mossy turf
Pressed down on my pulseless breast;
For I knew that however bright the place,
It never could seem to me

Like the lovely spot where I saw thy face,
And plighted a vow to thee;

And I shuddered to think of the stormy cloud,
That had fallen and crushed a heart so proud.

I have been at night in a crowded room,
'Mid flashes of mirth and wit;

And the light seemed moved with a faint perfume,
As the soft air fluttered it.
Woman, with music's magic spell,

And beauty's witching smile,

Spake out with the tone of a silver bell,
Ringing far through a fairy isle.
Statesmen, with names of high renown,
As some old gods moved along,
Poets, whose brows bore a lofty crown,
Less bright than their heaven-taught song.
Glorious minds by no world-chain bound,
Hallowed and softened the scene around!

I looked on all with a vacant eye,

For one kind voice was not there;

I passed from the throng with a struggling sigh,
Born of my heart's despair.

The curtain which fate had closely drawn,
Pale memory's hand unrolled,

And I saw two-hearts in their early dawn,
As pure as unsoiled gold.

I wept as I went on my thorny path,
My tears fell down like rain;

I whispered, "The Past a sweet life hath,
Which can never be mine again."
And Hope hath turned her face, to weep
Over the grave where her children sleep!

Let me not murmur-some lives there are
Flowing on from a placid source;
Never the brighter for one high star
Bending over their dreamy course;
But mine was cheered for a little time,
Made pure by one gleaming ray,
Keeping my feet from the path of crime,
Though the light was far away.

DEAR BOB,

A FRIEND.

I am very sorry I cannot come down for the races; I would strain any point to be with you, but positively I can't leave London just at present. I have such a number of disagreeable bills coming due next month, and I am puzzled "how to live on a hundred a-year," which (in spite of the sixpenny treatise) is not so easy when a man has a taste for natural history, which induces him to commit himself with regard to dogs and horses. I expect, in accordance with my usual ill-luck, that "GreenCheese" will come in last on Monday. How I shall get over it, if he do, I know not. What do you think I have been foolish enough to do? Let me plead in extenuation that I had imbibed a good deal of champagne. I have actually proposed to Miss Elizabeth Smith-a little pug-nosed girl with high shoulders, and five thousand pounds to her fortune. Her money is her only redeeming quality. She is half-educated, sentimental, and silly. I shall be as unhappy as any poor dog with a kettle to his tail!

What makes me so particularly angry about it is, that I find I might have had Rose Fenton with ten thousand! I cannot declare off; for, with my usual wisdom, I have committed myself in writing, and she is too sentimental to burn a letter !

Oh, Bob! if I could but feel free, and be down on Monday to the races, how we should enjoy ourselves! My father-in-law elect is such a vulgar old fellow! I shall never be able to endure it, I am sure. I shall be driven to emigration, if things continue to harass me thus: but I am expected to be on parade at eight o'clock, so adieu. Peste des Femmes.

Your afflicted friend,

GUS. FOG.

No. IV. THE SAME TO HIS FATHER IN THE COUNTRY.

HONOURED AND DEAR SIR,

I have been so engaged in my law studies, that I have had no time until now to acknowledge your last judicious letter. I trust the excellent advice it contains will have a due effect upon one whose highest boast it is to possess such a worthy parent. How I commiserate the condition of those young men who have no paternal relative to advise them! I find London a place full of dissipation; but while others are hurrying from

a lonely chamber, with a solitary candle, and a wet towel bound around his throbbing brow, studying, and finding as he progresses that

"Alps on Alps arise."

I require a great many expensive books, which, however, I cannot afford to buy. I often sigh for the money squandered so lavishly by more wealthy young men. I want especially an edition of-but I must not dwell on such thoughts. I am very solitary here, as you may imagine. I have, however, become acquainted with a family namedSmith, and-(I fear you will be displeased, but I shall not marry for years to come)-I am engaged to Miss Smith. Her father is a wealthy man, of some common sense, and a great deal of intelligence. As for my Elizabeth, she is a pattern of domestic virtue, and, like her namesake in the tale my sister loves so well, she would brighten even the wilds of Siberia. Though it is not matter of a moment's thought on my part, I may just name to you that her father will give her ten thousand pounds!

"Felices ter et amplius," &c. I beg pardon, honoured sir, for quoting a language your bounty has taught me, but which is unknown to you. I may refer you to a parallel passage in Thomson

"O happy they, the happiest of their kind," &c.

I am made for domestic life, sir. With a wife, and a good law library, I should be happy indeed.

With fond love to my sister (for whose society I constantly sigh) and with the most profound gratitude and affection to yourself, I am, dear and honoured sir, Your obliged son,

GUSTAVUS FOGTHORPE.

No. V. GUSTAVUS FOGTHORPE, ESQ., TO HIS FRIEND.

Hurrah, Bob! engage a bed at the Crown. I'm coming down on Monday, after all. I wrote and received by return of post five hundred a Chesterfieldian epistle to my ancient parent, pounds. Wasn't Pope right?

"Heaven first gave letters for some wretch's aid." "Green Cheese" will be down on Saturday, pray take care of him!

Ever thine,
G. FOGTHORPE.

KNOWLEDGE OF VICE.-Knowing how to do mischief is very different from wishing to do it; and the most innocent persons are generally the least ignorant.-Maria Edgeworth.

BANKRUPT.-This word comes from two Italian words, banco rotto-broken bench. | Bankers and merchants used formerly to count their money and write their bills of exchange upon benches in the streets; and when a merchant or banker lost his credit, and was unable to pay his debts, his bench was broken.-The Parent's Assistant.

RELIGION IN CHINA. A_correspondent asks the meaning of the words Tao Tze, on the title-page of "Zadkiel's Almanac." The following extract from a work entitled Thought not a Function of the Brain," will probably clear up the mystery :—

"In China the immortality of the soul is believed generally by the people. Its incorporeal nature is strongly maintained by the sect of the TaoSee-in ancient times the most considerable and influential in the empire. For these facts we are indebted to the learned and indefatigable Amiot, who resided as a missionary amongst the Chinese during many years, and from whose letters, as they appear in the Memoires des Chinois,' the following extracts are taken :-'La religion de Fo est la religion dominante du peuple. • * Les Bonzes (the priests of Fo) enseignent qu'après la mort il y a des recompenses pour la vertu, des punitions pour le crime; que c'est au Dieu Fo qu'ils doivent l'expiation de leur pèchés et une nouvelle naissance à laquelle ils sont destinés dans l'autre monde.'-Memoirs des Chinois, tom. v. "The sect of the Tao-See regard the soul as composed of two parts or principles. One of these, which they term Ling, is the seat of the intellectual powers; the other, and inferior part, named Houen, is the abode of the passions. Tant,' says Amiot, in his account of the doctrines of this sect-Tant que les parties constitutives de cet être mixte sont unies et forment un tout, ce tout est un homme; mais quand les liens qui les unissoient ensemble sont rompus par l'altération, la corruption, ou la dissolution de celles qui composoient le corps, il cesse d'être ce qu'il étoit, sans cependant cesser d'exister.

Le corps formé des parties les plus grossières rentre dans la classe des principes dont il étoit émané pour servir de sujet à d'autres formes. Le Ling et le Houen formés des parties les plus subtiles demeurent unis et font un être à part, qui prend differentes dénominations suivant le rang qu'il occupe dans la classe générale des êtres; et ce rang lui est assigné par le Tien (the Supreme Being) en recompense ou en punition de l'usage bon ou mauvais qu'il aura fait de ses facultés lorsqu'il étoit compté parmi les hommes.'-Memoires des Chinois, tom. 15.Lettre d'Amiot écrite de Pekin le 16 Octobre, 1787, sur la Secte de Tao-Sée."

CHINESE APHORISMS.

The more a woman sets herself up to be worshipped, the fewer adorers will she have.

Modesty is the courage of women.

He who goes to sleep a slanderer will awake calumniated.

Mud may hide a ruby, but cannot contaminate it.

The best-kept secret is that which is never heard of.

ters is she who has only sons. The mother who is most happy in her daugh

FOUR THINGS ARE NECESSARY TO A WOMAN:
Virtue in her heart;

Modesty in her countenance;
Gentleness on her lips;
And work in her hands.

THE DAY IS DONE.
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist-

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles rain.
Come read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavour;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasur'd volume
The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music;
And the cares, that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.-Longfellow.
SINCERITY-with the young as with the old

ways be ready to sell it.