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eager than his own, and added it scrupulously to the account, and tried to persuade herself that his relaxations were only necessary, as long as she could. Her sense of her own inferiority to him was so strong, that it was long indeed before she ventured on a remonstrance, and what she suffered, ere she did so venture, can scarcely be described. It was about three weeks after her arrival-he had been out all day, and she was sitting up for him. He came at about one o'clock in the morning, and she heard his voice in the passage, calling vehemently for tea, before he would go to bed. She hurried out to him: "George, dear! come innobody is up-I will get you some tea, directly."

beautiful hypocrisy that theory will accommodate itself to facts, and strive to seem unaltered. The union between this brother and sister was never disturbed she never spoke harshly to him; indeed, she was too timid to speak as freely as she ought. But gradually the reproving silence of her quiet sorrow did its work, and the last month that they spent together, resembled, in some faint degree, the portrait of her imagination; and the time for returning home arrived.

"Yes, there it is! That is the church tower, George; how kind of the moon to appear for a moment, and show it me! We are almost at home. In five minutes more, the horses' feet will be upon the stones."

He came in—his manner was strange and abrupt -he looked vacantly at her-uttered an oath, the first she had ever heard from his lips-threw him- Their heads were put eagerly out of the carself on to a sofa, and before she could complete riage windows as they drove up the street, and her hasty and trembling preparations, was breath- turned the well-known corner. Soon, by the ing hard, in sudden, heavy sleep. Even Clara's light of the wayside lamps, they distinguished inexperience could not mistake the symptoms, and, the small, formal-looking, red-brick house, with instead of making tea, she sat down and cried its green door and trellised porch, its miniature how bitterly, none but those can tell who have front garden, some thirty feet square, with a believed in, and doated upon, and worshipped an straight gravel walk up the middle, and a circuimaginary divinity, and then suddenly discovered lar border on each side, in the centre of a plot of it to be weaker than ordinary human weakness. grass. The upper and lower windows of the To Clara's pure and gentle eyes, this was griev-house were dark, though it was already two hours ous sin-and, with the painful charity of disappointed affection, she began to devise excuses for what she could not refuse to see; but, oh! the bitterness of the new, terrible truth, which made those excuses necessary!

When George awoke on the following morning, he was still on the sofa, and his sister still watching beside him. It was some time before he thoroughly comprehended what had passed, and then, half ashamed, half angry, he made an awkward explanation; he had been out all day in the open air, had returned quite exhausted, and a glass or two of wine more than his habit had been too much for him-he was afraid he had frightened her-what a simpleton she was, not to have gone to bed! &c. &c. And poor Clara took this scanty balm to her aching heart, and tried to be satisfied with it.

George was by no means very bad, only Clara had fancied him so very good that it was hard to be undeceived. Her influence, patiently, tenderly, trustfully exerted, was not without its effect. And, bitter as was her disappointment, she lived through it; the path which seems perpendicular when you gaze at it from a distance, may toilsomely be climbed when your feet are actually set upon it. Some half dozen times, in the course of Clara's sojourn with him, the scene which had so bitterly afflicted her was repeated; but, on the whole, he improved. He tried to work more regularly; occasionally he refused an invitation; sometimes he laid out a plan for the distribution of his time, and once he kept to it for a whole week. Clara learned to rejoice in things which, three months before, she would have disdained to believe. It is wonderful what love will bear-how perfect is its theory, yet with what a

after sunset; suddenly the gleam of a candle was
seen; it passed rapidly from one window to an-
other; then the door of the house was thrown
violently open, and a female servant, without bon-
net or cloak, rushed out, and ran at full speed up
the street, scarcely a second ere the carriage
stopped before the swinging gate. Quick, speech-
less terror came upon George and Clara, and the
former was out of the carriage almost before it
had ceased to move-sick at heart with nameless
fear, his sister followed him into the house. There
was no one in the hall. From above-stairs came
the sound of hurrying footsteps, interrupted by a
low moaning and sobbing, as of some one in great
agitation, but unable to give it free vent.
stood still, appalled. She would have given worlds
to know, either at once or never, what was hap-
pening. She felt tempted to turn and run away,
as if she could so escape what was about to come
upon her. In another moment, the loud, unre-
strained cry of childish sorrow burst upon her
ears, and little Annie came running down stairs,
weeping bitterly, and covering her face with her
handkerchief. The brief paralysis which had ren-
dered Clara incapable of thinking or acting, passed
away in an instant; taking the child in her arms,
she asked, in low, hasty accents, What is it,
Annie ?-what is it?"

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"Papa, papa!" sobbed the little girl; "he has had a fit-he is dying."

They stood together, a moment, in the dark hall, closely folded in each other's arms, but unable to see each other's faces. Then Clara hurried up stairs-but ere she joined the ghastly and troubled group who stood around the bed, all was over, and she was an orphan.

The course of a great sorrow is common-place | charity and honest self-denial she forgave her the enough, a thing of every day. There is the wild bay-window, and reproached herself not a little incredulity and the unreal composure, half stupor, for her former censorious judgment. Every comhalf excitement; there is the struggle, more or fort and help came from or through Mrs. Middleless vehement, of the will against the adverse ton; it was she who found the situation for Emily, power which is laboring to subdue it; the defeat and assisted Clara in arranging and carrying and the victory, the brave effort, the helpless sur- through the whole affair; it was she too who render. There are prayers, such as that prayer cheered George when his heart was heavy and which was once wrung from the agony of a great his hopes were low, as giving up of course his heart, and which is the voice of a new grief for intention of taking orders, he began the weariall time. "Lord! thou hast permitted it, there- some task of looking for employment. Aided by fore I submit with all my strength." * There is her, Clara began gradually to rally from her exthe heavy weariness, and the aching resignation, treme depression, and to exert herself as heretoand the utter weakness, and the deep solemn calm, fore. Her greatest present difficulty, the mainand the holy strength, and the melancholy peace tenance and destination of her two younger brothso sweet in the midst of bitterness, when the ers, was relieved in an unlooked-for and mysterious vision of heaven dawns upon those eyes which manner. In the midst of her first despondency are too blind with tears to see any longer the arrived a letter from the master with whom the beauty of earth; there is the slow, painful return boys were placed, acknowledging the receipt of a to old habits and ways, the endeavor, now feeble, year's payment in advance for his pupils. On now vigorous, the gradual interrupted success, inquiry it was found that the sum had been sent the shuddering recurrence of familiar images and in Mr. Capel's name; but all exertions to discovassociated sounds-and the final closing up of a er the source from which it came proved utterly memory into the heart's inmost temple, where it futile. This bounty, come whence it might, came dwells and lives forever, which the world calls like manna in the desert; yet poor Clara was forgetfulness, or at least recovery. And the nearly as much inclined to murmur at it as were mourner goes back again to the outer world and the Israelites of old. There was in her character common life, like one who has had a fever and is a strength of natural pride, hitherto unsuspected in health again, though somewhat wan and feeble, by herself, mingling a bitterness with her gratiand needing more than heretofore to be cared for tude, of which she felt deeply ashamed. The and considered. Sorrows are the pulses of spirit- discipline which she was now undergoing was ual life; after each beat we pause only that we specially needful to her, and therefore, of course, may gather strength for the next. specially painful; she had so loved to be all-sufficient in her family, to know secretly, however little she presumed upon it outwardly, that she was the prop, the guide, the guardian of them all. Now she found herself helpless, powerless, useless; one whom she had well-nigh despised was her supporter, one unknown was her benefactor. She herself was—nothing!

Mr. Capel's affairs were found to be in great confusion. It often happens that the men whom we have believed to be most cautious and least sanguine are the very men to engage in some sudden rash speculation which results in ruin. Such was the case now. He had embarked what little principal he possessed in a new railroad; the scheme failed, and his family found themselves literally penniless. The poor widow and little Annie were taken by Mrs. Dacre, whose very moderate income was taxed to its utmost to maintain them. A situation as pupil-teacher in a considerable school was found for Emily; Clara and George were, for the present, received at the vicarage. Mrs. Middleton was throughout Clara's chief support; her warm unselfish kindness amply atoned for any little deficiency in refinement. She insisted upon taking the poor dejected girl to her own home till a suitable position as governess could be found for her, and she interested herself most earnestly in the preliminary negotiations, taking special care that Clara should not "throw herself away in a hurry, which would be perfectly absurd, as the vicarage was open to her for any length of time, and she would not suffer her to leave it unless the prospect were thoroughly satisfactory." As Clara witnessed her life of busy

This was the ejaculation repeatedly uttered by the unhappy Henrietta Maria, when she began to recover from the stupor into which she was thrown by the news of her royal husband's murder.

It was Clara's birth-day; no one ventured to congratulate her, and she herself shrank from any allusion to the subject. When we are in much affliction it seems natural to put out the lights. They can but show others what we suffer, or force us to contemplate their tears. At breakfast, Clara received a note from a lady in the neighborhood, a stranger to her, who required a governess for her children, and requested an interview with Miss Capel. Twelve was the hour appointed, and the writer's residence was two miles distant from the vicarage; with many a good wish and many a salutary caution from Mrs. Middleton, who failed not to remind her, again and again, that she had promised not to conclude an engagement without previous consultation, Clara set forth on her soliitary walk. As she went, she thought anxiously about George; he was trying for a situation as mathematical tutor in a scholastic establishment, which had just been founded under somewhat peculiar circumstances. The founder was a man of large fortune, and eccentric habits; he had reserved to himself alone, the selection and appoint

with your pupils. You will have perfect freedom, and I hope you will be very comfortable. My housekeeper will settle the pecuniary arrangements with you.'

Miserable as Clara was, she yet shrank from the future indicated by these words. She re

ment of the various professors, and it was said that he tried the patience of the applicants not a little, in the course of his investigation of their claims, moral, intellectual, and theological. George's college honors had been much in his favor, and Clara's hopes had been high till a few days before, when he received a letter which ap-membered at a little fishing village on the seapeared to annoy him, and which he did not show coast to have seen a mule employed in carrying her. He was a long while composing his reply, sand and sea-weed; the animal had a kind of and after he had despatched it, he seemed more wooden saddle fitted upon its back, and was sent than usually low-spirited, and evaded all discus- to and fro between the carts waiting to be loaded sion of the subject with his anxious and vigilant and the water's edge, a distance of some eight hunsister. It was not possible to her nature to seek dred yards. To and fro, across this measured the confidence even of those she most loved, when melancholy space, it trudged doggedly and pathey withheld it, so she wondered and grieved in tiently, pausing at the one end of its journey to silence; and many a fear, and many a prayer, receive its burthen, and at the other end to be repassed through her heart, in the hours when her lieved of it, and pausing for nothing else. Clara aching head rested on a pillow now unfamiliar thought of the mule when Mrs. Bouverie described with sleep. Thus, more than commonly anxious, her governess' day, and felt glad that she had and with the bitter memory of former birthdays pledged herself not to decide. She replied quistirring within her, she knocked at Mrs. Bouverie's door, and was admitted into that lady's presence.

Clara felt too sorrowful to be shy, otherwise the exceeding coldness of her reception might have daunted her a little. Mrs. Bouverie, a tall, lean, hard-featured woman, of fifty-six, with keen eyes, thin lips, and a general dryness of expression perfectly indescribable, slightly bowed, and, without rising, motioned her visitor to a seat. She uttered two civil sentences, which she had learned by rote, about its being a fine day, and a long walk; and then proceeded at once to business. She was one of those people who are as chary of small talk as though they were capable of conversation, and as niggard of courtesies as though they were ready with secret kindnesses. Now it is all very well to be reserved when you have got something to hide, but it is really too provoking to see people so careful to lock up empty caskets, and seal blank envelopes. It is an imposition upon society, and ought not to be tolerated.

We will not weary the reader with the oft-repeated scene of hiring a governess. Suffice it to say, that Mrs. Bouverie having inquired into Clara's qualifications, and examined her testimonials with apparent satisfaction, proceeded to sum up her own requisitions in the following man



etly and courteously that she would send a definitive answer in the evening, as she was bound to consult a friend ere she finally determined. Bouverie drew herself up, and Clara became aware that it was possible for her manners to assume an additional coldness; a fact which the strongest imagination could scarcely have conceived before experiencing it. However, Mrs. Bouverie piqued herself upon being always considerate, so she said with grim civility, "You will do what you think best, Miss Capel; and now I need detain you no longer."


When Clara reëntered the drawing-room at the vicarage, she found George alone. His face was flushed, and his manner perturbed; he started up, as she came in, with a nervous eagerness very unusual in him. Not a question did he ask as to the result of her expedition; he began at once upon a totally different topic. My dearest Clara, I am so glad you are returned. This is a matter of the greatest importance. Read this letter; you will soon learn how much depends upon you; and I am happy, indeed, that it is upon you that it depends." He placed an open letter in her hands as he spoke, and Clara read as follows:

Brampton, April 17.

DEAR SIR-I am most anxious, in circumstances which it must be allowed are somewhat difficult, to act with all the consideration towards yourself which "You will have six pupils, Miss Capel, be- is compatible with justice, and with a strict adhertween the ages of seven and fourteen; you will ence to that determination with which I have alhave the exclusive charge of their education in ready acquainted you. Common fairness requires English and French, and the two elder girls will that you should be the first person to learn the learn German. The music-master attends once a steps I may resolve upon taking. I have, thereweek, and you will be present at the lessons, and will very carefully watch-I am particular about this-the practising of each of your pupils daily. Drawing and fancy-work you will of course teach yourself. You will breakfast and dine early with your pupils, and walk with them for two hours a day; and at eight o'clock, when the younger girls go to bed, I shall expect the pleasure of your company at my tea-table. I always like music in the evening, and shall hope to hear you play and sing

fore, to inform you, that, not considering your ex-
planation of the very painful reports alluded to in
my last, per ctly satisfactory, I have written to
Mr. Middleton, (who, besides being the clergyman
of your parish, is an old and highly respected ac-
quaintance of my own,) to say that if he is ready
to vouch for your freedom from this pernicious
habit, I am ready on my part to appoint you to the
vacant professorship. I have the honor to remain,
yours sincerely,

*This trait is from life.

Clara looked up wonderingly and full of in- | brain, and ring dizzily in her ears. She held her quiry. Her brother had scarcely patience to wait forehead with her hand, and stood still, wondering till she had finished the letter. "Now, Clara," if any woe could go beyond what she then felt, exclaimed he, "it all depends upon you. Mr. and feeling certain that if there were any such Middleton's conscience, it seems, is very squeam- sorrow she should be called upon to endure it. ish in these matters; he heartily wishes to serve She longed for death, for imbecility, for madness; me, I do believe, but it seems he has made a rule for anything that should obliterate consciousness of never becoming responsible for any man on his and destroy the capacity for suffering. own assertion merely. But if you will assure him that during the time you kept house for me, you had no reason to believe-in short, I suppose you guess what these confounded reports are. Old Brookes has been told that I drank, and it seems he has a vow not to give one of his professorships to any man on whom such an imputation rests. You have only to free me from it, and I am secure. These miserable reports refer to the time that we were together; and Mr. Middleton says that he will pledge himself for me if you will give him your assurance that he may do so. He is in his study. Go to him directly, there's a good girl, for it only wants an hour of post time."

The words were poured forth breathlessly; but Clara stood immovable, clasping her hands together with a look of misery. Then she ran to George's chair, and folding her arms about his neck covered his face with tears and kisses, as if to atone for the pain she was about to inflict. He half pushed her away, saying impatiently, "Come, come, what does this mean?"


"I cannot do it," murmured the sobbing girl; "you know I cannot. Oh, my dearest brother, what will become of me!"

"May I speak to you, dear Miss Capel?" said a gentle voice, at her side; "I have so long wished to see you. Surely, so old a friend as myself has some privilege." And Mr. Archer took her trembling hand in his, and then drew it within his arm, looking earnestly into her face, and adding, " You are ill-is anything fresh amiss? Can I serve you? Pray tell me."

Clara burst into an agony of weeping; and, as soon as she could speak, tried to put aside his questions, but he was not so to be baffled. He persevered till he had drawn from her the history of what had occurred, which she gave with the less reluctance that she knew him to be already aware of George's misconduct. Indeed, it was a hint received from Mr. Archer which had induced Mr. Capel to send Clara to his son. Incoherent and interrupted were her words, but her listener speedily apprehended their meaning. He soothed her with the utmost tenderness, and once more put hope into her desolate heart. He knew Mr. Brookes well, and had, indeed, recommended George to him; he would speak to George, and if he found him properly disposed, (of which he felt no doubt,) he would himself see Mr. Brookes, and endeavor George was furious; he affected incredulity, he to induce him to accept his (Mr. Archer's) surety tried entreaties, protestations, menaces, ridicule. for George's future steadiness and good conduct. She could not be in earnest. Would she ruin her He entertained no fears. Above all, never let own brother, because some once or twice she had Clara for one moment regret that she had done seen him when he had been a little imprudent? right in circumstances so painful. She had probAnd when he said this he positively believed that it ably saved her brother, for this lesson would be was but once or twice, and that her scruples were one that he never could forget. Clara could as absurd as they were unkind. Clara wept to scarcely express her gratitude. They walked toagony, but never wavered. It was, indeed, a mar-gether for some time in silence, her tears flowing tyrdom which had more than the bitterness of quietly and relieving her overstrained nerves. At death. And this idolized brother parted from her last he spoke again: "Do you remember a conat last with words which burned indelible traces versation we had, some years ago, about Tennyupon her heart-she did not love him-she was son's Love and Duty?" his enemy-she had ruined his prospects forever. She felt that she had alienated from her the only heart which she had believed to be entirely her


She looked up in surprise. Yes, she had not forgotten it.

"You said then," he pursued, "that no woman could feel sure that she was beloved till she was actually told it; and that it was selfishness in a man to keep silence, because, in order to avoid the possible humiliation of a refusal, or the pain of a scene of parting if separation were necessary, he might be depriving her (mark I only say might) of a certainty which-which-she might wish to possess. Clara . all this while I have

She sat down in a kind of desperation, and wrote to Mrs. Bouverie, accepting the situation, and offering to come to her immediately. She did not like to send a servant with the note; she feared to be prevented from sending it at all if she delayed, and yet she felt that it was the only thing to be done. Inaction seemed impossible, and she hurried out with it herself. How she walked those two miles she did not know. Her head ached to dis-loved you!" traction, and her thoughts were all bewildered; There was again a silence, Clara's face hidden but she left the note, sealed her own fate, and then in her hands. And so, not absolutely discouraged, set forth again to the vicarage. "I shall be very Mr. Archer told his history. He had loved her unhappy, always, all my life," said she to herself; all this while-for her charms, for her faults, for "but George will not care! George will not care!" her noble struggle against those faults, for her and the words seemed to strike heavily against her | self-conquest, for herself. He believed it impossi

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ble that she should love him; he had never meant | truth, so many witnesses to that inner sense which to speak of it. But those words of hers had re- was awake indeed, but unconscious and ungrateful! mained unforgotten; and, at last, he was doing what, perhaps, he might ever afterwards repent. Did he repent it? He spoke of his defect, he accused himself of presumption, he was ashamed, afraid of what he had done. Reader, did he repent it?

How did she, who had so gloried in her self-dependence, glory now, in owing all to him! Yes, all! Her happiness, the comfort of her family, (for I need scarcely say that he was the anonymous benefactor,) the complete reformation of George, who distinguished himself to her heart's content, as Oh, how often did Clara Archer, the happy, mathematical professor; and the improvement in idolized wife, recur to those days of self-deception her own character, which she verily believed to when, out of the bitterness of her mortification, have been caused, though unconsciously at the in believing that he did not like her, she persuaded time, by her contemplation of his. In her happiherself that she disliked him! How did she delight ness as in her bitter grief, in her weakness as in to trace the marks of her secret, unsuspected, un- her strength, in her faults as in her noble qualities acknowledged love, in her irritability towards him, she remained, from first to lasther shyness in his presence, her unsatisfied and morbid cravings after affection, which were, in


"THE Soul of man, like common Nature, admits no vacuum; if God be not there, Mammon must be; and it is as impossible to serve neither, as it is to serve both. And for this there is an essential reason in our constitution. For man is designed and born an indigent creature, full of wants and appetites, and a restless desire of happiness, which he can by no means find within himself; and this indispensably obliges him to seek for his happiness abroad. Now if he seek his happiness from God, he answers the very intention of his frame, and has made a wise choice of an object that is adequate to all his wants and desires. But then if he does not seek his happiness from God, he must necessarily seek it somewhere else; for his appetites cannot hang long undetermined they are eager, and must have their quarry if he forsake the Fountain of Living Waters, yet he cannot forsake his thirst, and therefore he lies under the necessity of hewing out broken cisterns to himself; he must pursue, and at least promise himself satisfaction in other enjoyments. Thus when our hope, our trust, and our expectations abate towards God, they do not abate in themselves, but are only scattered among undue and inferior objects. And this makes the connection infallible between indevotion and moral idolatry; that is, between the neglect of God's worship, and worshipping the creature: for whatsoever share we abate towards God, we always place upon something else; and whatsoever thing else we prosecute with that share of love, desire, or complacency, which is due unto God, that is in effect our idol."-Dean Young's Sermons, vol. 1, p. 19.

[FASCINATION Of danger.]

AT the siege of Gibraltar, Lieutenant Lowe of the 12th regiment, a superintendent of the working parties, lost his leg by a shot, on the slope of the hill under the castle. He saw the shot, before the fatal effect, but was fascinated to the spot. This sudden arrest of the faculties was not uncommon. Several instances occurred to my own observation, where men totally free have had their senses so engaged by a shell in its descent, that though sensible of their danger, even so far as to ory for assistance, they have been immediately fixed to the place. But what is more remarkable, these men have so instantaneously recovered themselves on its fall to the ground, as to remove to a place of safety before the shell burst.-Drinkwater, p. 156.


[JACOB BEHMEN'S SECOND RAPTUre.] WHEN Jacob Behmen was in the twenty-sixth year of his age, he was "enraptured a second time with the light of God, and with the astral spirit of the soul, by means of an instantaneous glance of the eye cast upon a bright pewter dish ;-being the lovely Jovialist shine or aspect, introduced into the innermost ground of the recondite, or hidden nature."-Okely's Memoirs of Jacob Behmen.— Monthly Review, vol. 63, p. 523.

"This," says the reviewer, "is another instance of that strange mixture of metaphysical and chemical terms to which the ingenuity and learning of Paracelsus, and after him, of our English Fludd, gave some credit. The pewter dish is here represented as the medium of the divine influence; and the light reflected from it is called the Jovialist shine, because Jupiter, or Jove, was the astrological or chemical representation of tin, of which metal pewter chiefly consists."


GREAT Nature she doth cloathe the Soul within
A Fleshy Garment which the Fates do spin;
And when these Garments are grown old and bare,
With sickness torn, Death takes them off with care,
And folds them up in Peace and quiet Rest;
So lays them safe within an Earthly Chest,
Then scours them and makes them sweet and

Fit for the soul to wear those cloaths again.

Duchess of Newcastle, Poems, p. 135.

NEW APPLICATION OF STEAM.-A new application of the principle of steam has been successfully made during the last eight months. A few words will suffice to indicate it. Water boils and gives off steam at 100 degrees, French scale. Heat the boiler to 800 degrees, and the same quantity of water will give off steam with an expansive power, perhaps fifty times as great. The heat should be always kept just below that at which the water takes the spherical state and gives off no steam at all. A French mechanic has made a small boiler, which, under the great heat above-mentioned, runs powerful machinery. The boiler and engine occupy about one twentieth part of the space occupied by a common boiler of the same power. We need not point out the great utility of this for vessels of all kinds, especially for sea packets, where economy of space is important.

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