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Oh! it was too delicious! and all the good and your wife both look so young, that we've thoughts took flight again.

CHAPTER IV.

That evening after tea, Everard began his negociations with Mr. Gridley, for the purchase of the much admired glen.

"Glen!" said honest Bildad, who sat as usual, pipe in mouth, by the front window. Everard explained.

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Why, Lord bless ye! yes, I own two hundred and seventy odd acres jist round there; and that 'ere gulf is part on't. Ahasuerus began to make a clearin' there, but it's so plaguily lumber'd up with stuns, and so kind o' slantin' besides, that we thought it would never pay for ploughin'. So Hazzy has gone to work up north here, and gets along like smoke.”

"Would you be willing to sell a small place there?" inquired Everard, who felt inexpressibly sheepish when he set about buying this "stunny" spot.

Mr. Gridley stared at him in unfeigned astonishment.

After a moment's pause, he answered, after the manner of his nation, by asking,

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Why, do you know any body that wants to buy?"

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"I have some thoughts of settling here myself," said his guest.

Another stare, and the landlord fell to smoking with all his might, looking withal full of meditation.

At length "You settle here!" he said; "what for, in all nature?”

"I've taken a fancy to the place," said Everard; "and if you choose to sell, I may perhaps be a purchaser."

“Well!” said the landlord, laying his pipe on the window sill; "if this aint the queerest -But I'll tell ye what, Mr. I never can think o' your name; if you really want this place, why, I'll-" but here he stopped again. He fixed his eyes on Everard, as if he would look through his mortal coil.

"There's one thing," proceeded he again, "may I jist be so sarcy as to ask you I don't know as you'd think it a very civil question; but I don't know as we can get on without it. Are you sure," speaking very deliberately "are you sure that you're married to this young gal?"

"Married!" said Everard, his fine eyes flashing lightning, while poor Cora, completely humbled, felt ready to sink through the floor. "Married!" he repeated in high indignation, which an instant's pause served to calm. "I can assure you I can assure -you-"

And he was flying after Cora, who had slipped out of the room, but the good man called him back.

"No 'casion, no 'casion! you say you sartinly are, and that's enough; but ra'ly you

been plaguily puzzled what to make on't."

Everard, deeply mortified, reverted as speedily as possible to his desired purchase; and after a few observations as to the unprofitableness of the scheme, Mr. Gridley concluded, with an air of kindness, which soothed the feelings of his young auditor,-“ You know your own business best, I dare say; and if so be you are determined upon it, you may have it, and make use of it as long as you like; and I 'spose you won't think o' puttin' up much of a house upon sich a place as that when you are tired on't, we'll settle the matter one way or t'other."

Everard readily agreed to the proposition, for he knew himself the avowed heir of the rich bachelor uncle whose name he bore, and he was little concerned about the pecuniary part of his affairs.

And there was a house to be built on a green hill-side in the deep woods-and this grande opus fully absorbed our friends until it was completed. In taking possession of it, and in arranging the simple requisites which formed its furniture, Cora found herself happier than she had been since she left home. It must be confessed that every day brought its inconveniences; one can't at first snuff the candle well with the tongs. Here were neither papa's side-boards nor mama's dressing-tables; but there was the charm of housekeeping, and every young wife knows what a charm that is, for a year or two at least; and then pride whispered, that whenever papa did find them out, he would acknowledge how very well they had managed to be happy in their own way.

After all, it must be confessed, that the fairy-footed Cora nourished in some unexplored nook of her warm little heart, a fund of something which she dignified by the names of resolution, firmness, perseverance, &c., but which ill-natured and severe people might perhaps have been disposed to call obstinacy, or self will. But she was a spoiled child, and her boy-husband the most indulgent of human beings, so we must excuse her if she was a a little naughty as well as very romantic. The world's harshness soon cures romance, as well as some other things that we set out with; but Cora had as yet made no acquaintance with the world, that most severe of all teachers.

But no word yet of inquiries from home. No advertisements, no rewards, no "afflicted parents.' This was rather mortifying. At length Everard ventured to propose writing to his uncle, and though Cora pretended to be quite indifferent, she was right glad to have an excuse for opening a communication with home. But no answer came. The cold winds of autumn turned the maple leaves yellow, then scarlet, then brown, and no letter! The whole face of the earth presented to the appalled eye of the city-bred beauty, but one

expanse of mud-deep, tenacious, hopeless mud. No walks either by day or evening; books all read and re-read: no sewing, for small change of dress suffices in the woods; no company but squire Bildad or Mrs. Dart. (The squire's "gal" was teaching school for the winter, and the interesting Hazzy thought Everard "a queer stick to sit all day in the house a readin," and did not much affect his society.)

Deep winter, and no word from New York.

Everard now wrote to his father, the most indulgent of fathers; but though he often saw the name of the well-known firm in a stray newspaper, no notice whatever was taken of his missives. This was a turn of affairs for which he was entirely unprepared. Cora tossed her pretty head, and then cried, and said she did not care, and cried again. But now a new interest arose. The prospect of becoming a mother awakened at once the most intense delight and a terror amounting almost to agony; and Cora at length wrote to her mother.

Spring came, and with the flowers a little daughter; and Cora found in the one-eyed, odd looking widow, the kindest and most motherly of nurses, while Mr. Gridley and his family, kindly interested in their inexperienced neighbours, were not lacking in aid of any sort. So Cora made out much better than she deserved.

When she was able to venture out, the good squire came with his waggon to fetch her to spend the day by way of change; and Cora most thankfully accepted this and other kindnesses of her rustic friends. A short residence in the woods modifies most surprisingly one's views on certain points.

Some travellers emigrating to far Michigan had been resting at Mr. Gridley's when Cora spent her day there, and it was to this unlucky encounter that we must ascribe the sickening of Cora's darling, who was after some days attacked with an alarming eruption. Mrs. Dart declared it the small-pox, and having, unfortunately, less judgment than kindness, she curtained its little bed from every breath of air, and fed it with herb teas and other rustic stimulants, till the poor little thing seemed like to stifle; and just at this juncture Everard was taken ill, with the same symptoms.

Cora bore up wonderfully for a few days, but the baby grew worse, and Everard no better. Medical aid was sought, but the doctor proved quite as much of an old woman as Mrs. Dart.

The dear baby's strength was evidently diminishing; the spots on its little cheeks assumed a livid appearance. Mrs. Dart's pale face grew paler, and Cora awaited with an agony which might be read in her wild and vacant eye, the destruction of her hopes.

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agony.

Her mother, her own dear mother, laid it on her bosom without a word, but she saw that it breathed in a soft sleep, and tears relieved her bursting heart.

"O mother, mother, can you forgive ?" was all that she could say, and it was enough. Her father too was there, and he took her in his arms, and weeping blest her and forgave all.

The crisis or turn of the disease, had been so severe as to assume the aspect of approaching dissolution, and from that hour the precious baby-the wilderness the place to love children-began to amend, and the. And then came such young papa with it. long talks about the past, the present, and the future such minute explanations of all feelings and plans. Everard and Cora seemed to live a whole year extra in these few weeks which succeeded the time of this sore trial. And Cora was a new creature, a rational being, a mother, a matron, full of sorrow for the past, and of sage plans for the future.

The silent disregard of the letters had been systematic. The flying pair had been recognized by some person on their journey westward; and the parents, indulgent as they were, felt that some atonement was due for this cruel disregard of their feelings, and forgetfulness of the common obligations. When months passed on without any evidence of repentance, they felt still more deeply hurt, as well as seriously anxious; and though Everard's letters relieved in some measure their solicitude for the welfare of their undutiful children, it was not until Cora wrote to her mother that the visit was resolved on which proved so opportune and so delightful.

And there was more to be told. Fortune had become weary of smiling on the long established house of Hastings and Mans

field, and heavy losses had much impaired the worldly means of these worthy people. The summer-palaces on the Hudson were about to pass into other hands, and great changes were to be made in many particulars. Everard must get his own living.

And

This was a thing which Cora at least had never included in her plans.

After much consultation it was conceded on all hands that it would be rather awkward returning to Mr. J.'s office after this little excursion. A frolic is a frolic to be sure, but people don't always take the view we wish them to take of our vagaries. Mr. Mansfield proposed his Michigan lands.

And Everard and his subdued and humbled but happy Cora, confessed that they had imbibed a taste for the wilderness, an unfashionable liking for early rising and deshabille; a yearning common to those who have lived in the free woods,

To forsake

Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. Visionary still says the reader. Perhaps so, but to Michigan they came, and with a fine, large, fertile tract, managed by a practical farmer and his family, they find it possible to exist, and are, I had almost said, the happiest people of my acquaintance.

REMINISCENCES OF THE POET BRAINERD.

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BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

To the intellectual power, and poetical eminence of Brainerd, the lovers of genius have done justice. But those who knew and valued him as a friend, can best bear testimony to the intrinsic merit of his character, to that hidden wealth of the heart, with which strangers intermeddle not." They were admitted, with a generous freedom, into the sanctuary of his soul. They saw there, fountains of deep disinterested feeling, which, to the eye of careless observation, were hermetically sealed. Friendship, with him, was not what we too often discover it to be, a modification of selfishne., lightly called into existence, and as lightly dissolved.

His con

ceptions of it, were formed on the noble models of ancient story; and he proved himself capable of its delicate perceptions-its ardent interchange-its unswerving integrity. His heart possessed a native aptitude both for its confidential interccurse, and its sacred responsibilities.

In mixed society, he exhibited neither the pride of genius nor the pedantry of knowledge. Perhaps he too sedulously drew the veil over his own excellences. To the critic, he appeared deficient in personal dignity. So humbly did he think of himself and his attainments, that the smile of kindness, and the voice of approbation seemed necessary to assure his spirits, and to sustain his perseverance in literary labours. He was endowed

with genuine wit, and with that playful humour, which still more than wit, renders a man's company sought and admired. But entirely free from arrogance and asperity, he never trifled with the feelings of others, nor aimed to shine at their expense. Hence, he naturally expected the same regard to his own mental comfort, and was painfully vulnerable to the careless jest, or to the chillness of reserve. It did not require the eye of an adept in human nature, to discover that he was the possessor of a most acute sensibility. This derived early nurture and example in the bosom of a happy and affectionate home. The endearing associations connected with his paternal mansion, preserved their freshness and force, long after he ceased to be a habitant there. For the despondency to which he was occasionally subject, it was ever a remedy to elicit from him descriptions of the sea-girdled spot of his birth of the rambles of his boyhood-of the exploits of the little boat in which he first dared the waves; but more especially, of his beloved parents-of his aged grandmother-of his fraternal companion, and of those deep-seated sympathies which constituted so great a part of his happiness. After he had been for years a denizen of the busy world, and had mingled in those competitions which are wont to wear the edge from the finer feeling, a visit to New London, to his home, was a subject of joyous anticipation-of cherished recollection. I saw him at one of his last departures from that idolized spot, ere he returned thither to die. From the deck of the boat, he watched every receding vestige of spire, tree, roof, and hillock, with lingering and intense affection. Perceiving himself to be observed, he suddenly dashed away the tears that had gathered like rain-drops, and seeking, as was his practice, to cover his depressed emotion with levity, said, in a careless tone, "Well! well! they are, certainly, good people there, at home, all but me; so they sent me away-that was the reason.

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The boat in which he returned to Hertford, contained a large party of military men, and others, who had been to attend the ceremony of laying the corner-stone of the Groton Monument. This event was peculiarly congenial to his feelings, and soothing to his patriotic pride. Yet, amid the festivities of the voyage, his attention was almost entirely devoted to the comfort of an aged and isolated veteran, who had lost a limb at the taking of the fort in 1781, by the vindictive Arnold. His soothing, and almost filial devotion to this old man, evinced the warmth of a kind and benevolent spirit.

The efforts which Brainerd put forth during his intercourse with mankind, to conceal his extreme susceptibility, gave to his manners a levity which had no affinity with his heart. Hence, he was often misconstrued; and a

sort of prophetic consciousness, inherent in minds of his class, sometimes led him to suspect misconstruction where it did not exist. This induced melancholy, and occasional seclusion, thus throwing him still further from those sympathies for which he languished. Still his sensibility had not a morbid tendency. It shrank, indeed, like the mimosa, but it had no worm at its root. Its goings forth were into the harmonies and charms of nature. Its breathings were in benevolence to the humblest creature to the poor child in the streets, and to the forest-bird. It had affinity with love to God, and good will to man. Had his life been prolonged, and he permitted to encircle with the beautiful domestic charities, a household hearth of his own, the hidden virtues of his character would have gained more perfect illustration. It possessed a simplicity of trusting confidence a fulness of tender and enduring affection, which would there have found free scope, and legitimate action. There he might have worn as a crown, that exquisite sensibility, which, among proud and lofty spirits, he covered as a blemish, or shrank from as a reproach.

But it pleased the Father of his tuneful spirit, early to transfer it, where the cloud of loneliness might no longer weigh heavy upon its harp-strings, nor the jarring machinery of earth unsettle or obstruct its melody.

ENIGMAS.-THE CLOUD.

IN light, in shade, its changing form appears
Now clothed in blushes and now bathed in tears;
It spreads its wings upon the summer air,
And sits in silence on the mountain bare;
Wrapped in the shadows of its gloomy breast,
The springs of life, the fires of vengeance, rest;
It floats in kindness, and it flies in wrath,
And skies grow darker in its awful path;
It paints the petal of the dying flower,
It shakes the temple, and it rocks the tower!
Its shaft strikes down the lovely and the brave,
Yet will it turn and weep upon the
grave.

THE DEW-DROP.

It came unheard, and darkness veiled its birth,
The child of heaven, yet only seen on earth;
It lay half hidden in the folded leaves,
The sleeping floweret round her bosom weaves,
And when the moonbeam touched it from afar,
It shone and sparkled like a fallen star;
But ah, it trembled in the breath of day,
And softly faded like a dream away.
Such was its fate, and thus without a stain
It came to earth and sought the skies again;
A rosy cradle, and a golden shroud,
Born in a flower, and dying in a CLOUD.

CONFESSIONS OF A DISCONTENTED MAN, BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

My grief, for the loss of my wife, was as profound as it was sincere. Now that she was lost to me for ever, her virtues and graces

rose up, as it were, in judgment against me. My natural disposition, to view everything on its darkest side, rendered me doubly susceptible of real grief, and for many months after Maria's death, I was quite inconsolable. But time wrought its usual changes.

On her death-bed, my wife had confided to her cousin the charge of our child, and from the time of her mother's burial, my daughter had resided with Ellen. There existed, therefore, a bond of union between us, which could not easily be severed, and as I visited my child daily, I began to find an agreeable solace for my loneliness, in the society of her adopted mother. Ellen possessed that elasticity of temper which offers strong resistance to the pressure of sorrow, and which soon rebounds even if bowed down, for a time, by an overpowering weight. She had tenderly loved her husband, who died about the time of my wife's death, and had deeply lamented his death, but she was not one to cherish sorrow as a duty, and brood over melancholy resolutions with romantic enthusiasm. When time had subdued her grief, she could be cheerful and even joyous. I have heard the ringing laugh burst from her rosy lips, while the dusk habiliments of deep mourning, still enveloped her form; and the merry sparkle of her bright eye sometimes gleamed out strangely from beneath the widow's veil. Yet, I never doubted the sincerity of her feelings, and, perhaps, was not sorry, in this instance, to distrust their durability.

The bud of spring, the blossom of summer, the falling leaf of autumn, and the shroud-like snows of winter, had thrice visited Maria's tomb, ere I ventured to think of filling the vacant place in my heart and home. Was it strange that my thoughts should recur to the days gone by, and recall the passionate devotion of my disappointed youth? In the pride of youth and loveliness, Ellen had rejected my suit, but she had, since then, tasted the bitter cup of sorrow, of disappointment, almost of poverty, and I now hoped a better result. The romance of early youth had for ever faded from the hearts of both, and it was with little of the trepidation of former times, that I now proffered my hand to the object of my early love.

Her reply was characterized by her usual frankness. She assured me of the warmest esteem and friendship, but at the same time avowed her belief that her feelings were not sufficiently warm to satisfy my wishes.

"The love of my youth has departed," said she, "I have not the same capacity for affection which I once possessed; early recollection, and kindly associations, attach me more closely to you than to any one now living, but those very recollections, and the memory of your sweet wife, would have prevented me from ever accepting your hand, had I not made a solemn promise to the dy

ing. I pledged myself to Maria, that if ever you made me such a proposal, and it was not repugnant to my feelings, I would become the mother of her orphan child. If you can deem your affection sufficiently repaid by my deep love for your child, and my warm friendship for yourself, I am willing to become your wife; but I beseech you to examine your own heart, and assure yourself whether you will be content with so cold a return."

Few, even of the most reasonable men, would have been quite satisfied with this calm answer, and it may easily be imagined how little it suited my ardent temper. Her very coldness, however, was a new incitement to the pursuit, and, contrary to her advice, with a determination not to be content with her friendship, I resolved to make her my wife. Let no man hope to bring back, in after life, the bright visions of his youth. In my early anticipation, it seemed to me that to stand at the altar with Ellen as my bride, would be to attain the very summit of felicity; and yet, when the hour came when I knelt beside her and listened to the holy words which made her mine for ever-the image of the gentle creature, who had pledged to me the virgin faith of her pure heart, rose up before my troubled fancy, and my heart grew sick as I thought of the love which had passed away from earth and left no trace.

The first few months after my second marriage, were spent in travelling, and, amid its excitements and annoyances, I found opportunity enough for the exercise of my carping spirit, so that my wife escaped its influence. But when we were once settled in our own home, I quickly returned to old habits, and Ellen found, to her great surprise, that the devoted lover was transformed into the peevish husband. At first, she looked upon my outbreaks of temper as accidental, but when she discovered that they were habitual, they appeared to her such evidences of weakness and folly, that they were met by the most unsparing ridicule. With all my affection for Ellen, I had never been ignorant of her vast inferiority to her cousin in point of intellect. I had been accustomed to be treated by Maria, with the most undeviating respect; no display of infirmity of temper, on my part, could make her forget the honour as well as love which she vowed towards her husband, and it was now exceedingly annoying to find myself a butt for the gay jests of my less gifted wife. But all my ill-humour was of no avail. The more angry I became, the more amusing my conduct seemed to Ellen. High-spirited, but perfectly good-tempered-imperturbably cheerful and careless of slight troubles, she could not but consider my petulance as extremely ludicrous. Entirely unaccustomed to study the depths of character, she could only judge of the straws upon the surface, and, overlooking the deep affection of my nature,

which would have been a powerful agent in her hands for the subjection of my violent temper, she undertook to meet it with the keen weapons of ridicule, which she certainly used most cruelly.

In my intercourse with my fellow men, I had managed to render myself very unpopular. Inconsistent and captious, it is not to be supposed that I could secure many friends; but I had hitherto prided myself upon my unbending integrity, and I was now to learn that forgetfulness of the minor morals of life, may lead us into the labyrinth of vice as certainly as want of principle.

Α

My estate was situated in a beautiful part of the country, and all that art could do to embellish nature, had been successfully tried. The grounds were extensive and beautiful, trees of every variety adorned the parks, and the garden and conservatories were filled with plants from every climate under Heaven. It was not in my disposition to be quite contented with any thing, but there was certainly nothing in my possessions which so nearly approached my ideas of perfection, as Hazelton Hall. My fault-finding spirit found little food there, except in trifling affairs which came under the supervision of the gardeners, but, like the princess in the fairy tale, I was destined to have my complacency destroyed by the knowledge that one thing was yet wanting. friend who was one day walking with me, happened to observe that my estate only required a natural stream of water to possess every variety of scenery. Woodland and meadow, hill and valley, artificial watercourses, and fountains, were all there-the winding course of a mountain torrent alone was absent. From that unlucky moment, the demon of discontent took entire possession of me, and I determined to supply, by some means, the deficiency in my patrimonial grounds. My next neighbour was a widow, whose small plot of two acres just sufficed to provide subsistence for herself and idiot son. Her land ran back to the foot of a craggy mountain, through whose deep ravines ran a rapid brook. Just within the limits of her little farm, the stream dashed over a cluster of rocks, forming a tiny waterfall, and then widening its course, wandered off in inimitable beauty, until it lost itself in a large river some ten miles distant. I now cast a covetous eye upon the little spot which contained the only gift that had not been lavished upon me. To possess that rivulet, I would have given almost any price, but like Naboth, she refused to part with the land which had been tilled by her fathers. No temptation could induce her to sell it. Her idiot-boy had made companionship with every stone and tree, and the place was endeared to her no less by his attachment to it, than by early recollections. I then endeavoured to purchase the rocky and untillable portion which formed the channel of the

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