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PAKTOX 11' VOL: X.--NO. 30.] Office of the Star & Banner: Chambersburg Street, a few doors West o the Court• House. T. The STAB & IL:PUBLICAN DAlrsratt fa pub flAhell at TWO DOLLARS per annum (or Vol ume of 62 numbers,) payable half-yearly in ad vance: or TWO DOLLARS & FIFTY CENTS, if not paid until after the expiration of the year. IL No subscription will be received for a shorter period than six months; nor will the paper be dis continued until all arrearages are paid, unless at -Alio option of the Editor. A failure to notify a dig 'continuance will be considered a new engagement 'and the paper forwarded accordingly. 111. ADVRIITTREMENTS not exceeding a square will be inserted TIInEE times for l, and 25 cents for each subssquent insertion—the number of in sertion to be marked, or they will be published till forbid and charged accordingly; longer ones in the same proportion. A reasonabledoduction will be made to those who advertise by the year. 111. MI Lettereand Communications addressed to tho Editor by mail must be post-paid, or they will not be attended to TUE GARLAND —"With sweetest flower' enricliNt, Prom various gardens cull'd with care." From the Public Ledger • .ntentmentr•••Or a Hint to Bachelorw tom• boast of their riches, and some of high life, And aome of what's better— I mean a good wife. With her,, though a shilling there's scarce a command, They're as happy as,any great mon in the land. To work they go early,' and cheerful all day, Tho Sarno when omploy'd as they aro when at play : And when to their house at eve they repair, They aro met with a smile by a good natured fair. , Tho supper is ready, it matters not what ; Contentment's a (east, and what moro can they wish ! A relish it gives to the homeliest dish. Yo Bachelors, list! and with care now attend To this my advice, for It comes from a friend : If you would live happy and peaceable lives, Be good fleet yourselves, and, you'll all got good Sept, 19„ 1839. Froni 14 Albany Evening purnal. Thou host learnato !boo another ! Thou host whispered in her ear Tho burning words that once were breatli'd To ono nn longer dear. Thou host clasp'd another's band in thine, And-pressed it to thy heart ; Thy lips have kiss'd another's cheek-- Thou host said that ""we must-part !" Thou knowest that I have loY'd thee t That in pleaanre or in pain This heart has bent for only thee,. • And has it lov'd in vain I If ust'tho hoarded love of many years Do cast aside for one, Who has not learned as ~ 1 have To lovo thy lightest tone t To watch thy smiles, to note thy wordai And weep with jealous fear, Lest ono more beautiful might win The heart I held so dear. She has oat &caned of thee by, night, And thought of thee by day, And felt the tears unbidden start, If thou west far away. The sunshine of her path through life, Thy smile alone would never wake.✓ rhy voice within her haughty heart Does not “wild echoes wake." For long, long years thou hest not been The day-dream of her heart ; The cherish 'd idol, from whose ahrino "l'were worse than death to part. But all this thou hart Iteen to me, And its memory will not die, Till I go to the weary mourner's home, And in death's cold shit:otters lie. Fhe loves thou not as I have lov'd, As I shall ever lovo ; For ah ! not e'cn thy faithlessness My anguish'd heart can move. Wilt thou cast mo ofr like an ocean weed, To be toss'd by wind and wave Like a barque at midnight sent atone. A stormy sea to bravo 1 Canst thou leave me in my sorrow Alone to t r ead life's thorny path ? No smile to cheer, no hand to guide, And shield mo from its wrath ? But mays! thou happy be for aye— May joy forever with then dwell ; Yet sometimes think of hor who loves '.Not wisely, but too well"— Who Inst her all in loving thee ; Whno grief Words may not tell, And who only asks to offer thee This sad and last farewell. Attgusl 10, 1839. S meet Day so eool. Env anonos HMODERT.—Born 1593, di0d1633.] 4 6‘veat day so cool, so calm, so hi fight, The bridal of the earth and sici; The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, Fur thou must die. Street roan, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye; Tidy root is ever in the grave. And thou must dte. Only 0. sweet and virtuous send, Like eraiiiin'd timber, never giver.; ut though the whole world turn to coal, Then rhitil% SELECT TALE. Pio% the Ladiee Book tIZIM 017.72.A.11. a 92‘5112. Tr was night—a worm night in early summer. The stars were out in their mighty =neon!, shed ding over the far earth the light of their pure and quiet beauty. Soothingly fell their influence up on the struggling heart of Isabella Everett, as her prayer went up to the (treat Watcher of the skies for strength to bear In this the hoar of her heavy trial. Even the shadow of death Was resting up. on the brow of her mother—the tried friend, and protector of her childhood, the affectionate and judicious counsellor of maturer years. Very sad and solemn ware the low tones of that dying mother, to her only chill. "Yet a little while, Isabel, and I shall no longer be with you. The days of my appointed time aro draw-' ing to a close. My gout is heavy with disease and long suffering—l am weary and would be at rest. Do not grieve so bitterly, oh, my Isabel ! It would console me in the hour of death, to see some portion of that fortitude, I have so earnestly endeavored to instil into your mind. You need, in solitude, communion with your own rebellious heart ; seek it in your chamber, my child ; and return to me, when you have calmed the violence of your sorrow ; for oh, it is swept to die, when watchful eyes and loving hearts are round us." Isabel raised the hand that lay motionless upon her own, her tears fell upon the thin. emaciated fingers, as she pressed them to her lips, but no word escaped her as she turned from tho bed, and with a noiseless step left the apartment. • A lone, in her chamber, the pent up agony burst forth : that long low wail of despairing nature 1 it came upon the ear like the cry of a feeble child, smitten to the earth. But a change passed over the spirit of the maiden ; the early teaching, the faithful counsels, the bright example of that dying mother, rose up before her. The stormy violence of her grief was subdued ; clasping her hands, she exclaimed : '.My mother 1 my mother ! very desolate wilt thou leave me, thy fatherless gel ! But I will bear up, and oh, my mother ! I will be to thee the comforter, through the last earthly struggle thou halt been to me through all the years of my life." As the words died away upon the lips of Isabel, she moved to the window and looked forth. The night breeze lifted the curls from her pale l)row, and cooled the fever upon her parched lip. How soothing to her excited feelings was the shadowy beauty of thn solemn and mysterious night ! Before the mighty works of nature, man dwindles into nothingness. A sense of her own insignificance pressed heavily upon the heart of Isabel, but other, and better thoughts arose within her. He who bad created the o'enshadowing heaven, the broad and beautiful earth, the kindly fvelings'and warm sympathies that dwelt in her own bosom, had created man immortal, and would caroler the last, and most glorious work of his almighty. hand. It is not our purpose to introduce our readers to the sad scene of that night. The morning saw Isabel Everett an orphan. Not in the grave pee. red away the influence of her mother ! Like the lone star that guideth on, ever and ever, memory of her was a shining light ; to•guard and guide in the sure path of virtue and honor. A week after Mrs. Everett's death, the carriage rolled from the door, thet was to convoy Isabel to her future home. It was with her maternal un• do, who was the companion of her journey, she was in future to reside. For the present we leave them, and turn to her past history, and those with whom dro was hereafter to be so inti. mately connected. Mrs. Everett was the youngest or three chil dren ; the two eldest were boys, and cherished for their beautiful sister, the fondest and most de. voted affection. Her marriage had been ono of great happiness, but the time of its duration was short : Mr. Everett died when Isabel had reached her sixth year, leaving hid family very destitute. A liberal allowance bed bean settled upon Mrs. Everett, by her eldest brother, Richard Meteor ton, who hail been for many years of his life in India. and still continued to reside there.. Living in tho near vicinity of a largo town, Mrs. Everett found no difficulty in procuring for Isabel every advantage necessary to completing her education. But most she depended upon herself, for eho had been highly and nobly educated ; the rich stores o f knowledge she bad garnered in her youth, were now of inestimable value to her ; and she impart. ed them to her daughter, with all a mother's fond solicitude, in the welfare of her child. The deep sorrow Mrs. Everett bore through life, under mined the springs of her constitution, and even tually shortened her days. Yet, all unrepiniugly and meekly, she bowed to the bitterness of her bereavement, the shadow on her pathway bad dimmed the world's light to her, but it had •not clouded the brow of her beautiful and sinless chill. Silently, the mother bore on, striving in the faithful performance of her duties, to weaken the link of' dark remembrance that bound her to the dead ! She lived to see the eighteenth birth day. of her child,- and she did not grieve, although she knew she might never look upon another, she was going to that long home, where the "weary laden" shall Grid rest ! The younger brother of Mrs. Everett, to whose home Isabella was hastening, was a man of warm and noble impulses ; great benevolence of dispo sition, and kindliness of heart. Yet Henry Mal verton was of strong and passionate temper, rash in judgment, and hasty in decision ; he woe easily imposed upon, his temper often preventing the full exercise of his reason ; but he was much and universully beloved, for a warmer heart never beat in a man's bosom. He w as a merchant ; not a successful ono in speculation, for he did not pos sess the qualities that would render him such ; his regular business had been lucrative, but he lived expensively, and every farthing of his income was yearly consumed, In his sister's pecuniary diffi culties, it had always been a source of grief to Henry Malverton, that he • could not allow her a fixed sten, for her support ; and it anothod his warm and generous heart to render unto her child, nut only the moans of support, but a home and • father's love. He bad married a woman, who bed fairly "caught tom," and wedded him, be sau-e he was a ..goo,l ;" as tvr3ll as she axwatzrawilia. trw3mazkart (DvatbM2M 99 9 aaapc. was vain, heartless, worldly and haughty ;. she nevertheless contrived to make him believe she was peculiarly constituted to render him happy in domestic life. One only child they had _at this time, Clara Malverton was tvventv.two years of age. [for father, aware of her mother's indiffer ence and carelessness,in all that regarded the child, strove to remedy such negle'ct, so far its it was in his power ; but ho was totally unfitted for the task—by turns, violent to excess, or indulgent to weakness, he failed in correcting any of those er rors of heart, or faults of character, apparent even to his partial eye. As years passed over the bead of Clara, she learned concealment; her father believed it emend ment ; ho was very proud of her, and lavished money upon her education with no stintiughand. Fond to excess of dress, she was indulged to the extent of her wishes by both father and mother. Living near the vicinity of a largo town, the house of Mr. Malverton was the resort of many visiters, the warmth and hospitality of his reception ren dering them ever welcome. The showy manners and fashionable education of Clara attracted con siderable attention ; so far as it was in her power she monopolized those little courtesies extended towards the , sex. She was a tiirt, decidedly, and had received on that account, perhaps, very mark ed attention from some of the fineot men in the country ; but she had not as yet mot with an offer, and to this end her wishes began strongly to point. Clara was toll and graceful in kipearance, her dross was always distinguished for its perfect taste, and extreme elegance ; her features were . good, and at times the expressioq p ras p!oasing ; but when the corners of the mouth curved down in scorn or anger, it gave to her whole counten ance a repulsive anti haughty exptcssion. There was much of the bold and resolute in her charac ter ; it hod been said of her by an intimate female acquaintance—that Clara Malverton would do more, and dare more to accomplish a purpose, than any woman she had ever known—yet with. al, she was popular, and generally voted upon all sides, "a charming girl!' rhe grand defect in her character was want of principle ; there was no strong restraining power within, to regulate the evil passions of her nature, if they were once aroused. Yet was she totally unconscious of this herself, she believed herself quite as good as the generality of people ; on only and idolized child, she scarce knew what opposition to her n ishes was. Clara truly loved her father, she therefore concealed from him any traits of char_ actor calculated to give pain ; yet, uneasy thoughts would oft times fill his mind for the future happi noes of his child ; he could not but notice the contraction of the brow, tho flash of the dark eyo, tho haughty curve of the full mouth, when his decision was in opposition to hrr wishes. But these things passed away, and Henry Malverton was not of a disposition to indulge unhappy thoughts, "sufficient for the day," &c. had been his motto through life : alas ! it had been the goveLing rule in the rearing of his child—ho had sown the wind, and dare a parent murmur if ho reaps tho whirlwind. It was some years since Clara had seen her young cousin Isabel Everett, and she awaited her coming with interest and curiosity. The day was drawing to a close, on which they expected her—at was nearly dark when they arrived. "We aro at home now, my dear Isabel, said her uncle, joyously ; ~ a nd may it ever prove to you a happy one•" Ho kissed her cheek ere he assisted her to alight, for it distressed him to see her evident agitation. Mrs. Malverton met them within the parlor loot, toting you another daughter, Emma ! cherish her tenderly for my sake." As Mr. Malverton spoke, he took the ' hand of Isabel, and placed it within that of his wife. Perchance the cold heart of that woman was touched by the mournful end sorrowing countenance that met her gaze; she drew Isabel towards her, and pressed her lips upon her fore head. “The ehad of your sistet. itenry, shall receive every mark of affection from me ; sure I am, she deserves it all for her own sake.” Mr. Malverton threw his arm about the waist of Isabel, and clasped her warmly to his heart, as he exclaimed, "Yes ! for her own sake, she de; serves it all t I shall never forget her self-sacrifice, her noble and sustained devotion at the couch of her dying mother. Clara ! in that hour, my prayer was, for such a daughter to close my eyes in death ! You mint love Isabel with a sister's love, to the exclusion of all differences, all petty jealousies. Will you not, my Clara t" "Yes, father, I will !" said Clara, and the teats stood in her dark eyes, as she embraced her con, sin ; fondly was that embrace returned by the da. isolate orphan, whose heart beat almost to bursting; touchingly she said, "Shall we not love each oth. or, my sister Isabel was so nearly overcome. that het uncle, leading her to a seat, strove to give the converse. Lion a more cheerful turn. Shortly after, tea was brought In ; when it was over, Isabel begged to retire for tho night. "Think me not ungrateful for all your kindness, my dear aunt ! but I feel us though I needed au- ude end rest." Her wish was readily complied with, by Mrs. Ma'cotton, Who bad formed an engagement for that evening, she was desirous of fulfilling; but was restrained from so doing by the arrival of her niece: that °bated° removed, she left the house almost as soon as Isabel had retired to her chem. ber. Shortly after fitiV Malverton's 'departlre, a gentleman entered the drawing-room, who was warmly welcomed by Mr. Malverton as ""My dear Harry," by Clara, as ""Mr. Sydenham." Much pleasure was expressed on both sit/es at the Meet ing: at length, however, Mr. Sydenharts inquired "If Miss Everett had accompanied Mr. Malverton home, as he understood letters had been received to that effect." Clara replied "that Miss Everett had arrived with her father, but was so overcome with fatigue, she had been compelled to wire to her own room." "Do you know," said Sydenhom, "I have a great desire to see Miss Everett: I am told s i lo i s very like her mother, and I have reason to believe from many circumstances, that at one period of hia life, my father was fondly attached to Mrs, Everett. Was it not so, Mr. Malvertonl" ..Nay," said Mr.:dab/erten, smi/in...art is a very direct question indeed; see! my hnir is white “FEARLESS AND FREE.” with age, yet, you would have me remember the I "'I cannot, Richard—l have plighted my faith love passages in the life of my earliest friend!—to another!' Ah! Harry, these things pass away from the •'For one brief moment, Richard Molvcrion fur thoughts of those who arc full of years—even as got ho was a man. The fiery passions of his no love, and life, and Isabel, have passed from a ture Ivere roused from their inmost depths—words weary world!" Tears gathered into the eyes of ho said, dark, and bitter, and terrible—words that the kindly old man; but his nature was essentially no alter time could recall—the tears,the entreaties, a cheerful one; the cloud upon his spirits gave of Isabel were alike unheeded. 'When tho way, before the charm of Harry Sydenham's con- grave has buried the memory of my wrong, then versation: and when again tipiestioned relative to the early history of his sister, and of flurry's fath er (who had been dead for some years,) ho replied: "You shall hear all that I know,my dear young friend: I like not to stir tho hidden founts of mem ory. laden as they are with su much of bitterness. 'Tis a sad story, Harry, the story of your father's first love! "You know he was an only child; when very young he lest his mother. His father much oc cupied in business, had little time to devote to the society of his son. Living as we did,so near ench other, it is not surprising, we were constantly to gether; early in the morning—late at night—at all times ‘ and seasons; we were inseparable. As years went over us, there came a change over our young affections; the love between Richard and Sydenham became stronger, and more marked: the - same studies, the some pursuits, I had almost said the same thoughts, bound them in the strong band of congeniality together. How title, how faithful, how self-denying was their friendship!— Even now, they rise up before me in the beauty, truth, and fervour of that first affection! They were much alike in character: both wore dream- era, both had the same intenseness of feeling; both loved the deep forest trees—the banks of the quiet river: wherever, there wan 'nook, or dell,' secluded from public gaze, Richatd and B,Ktlen ham, made it their own. "Do you wonder where I was all this time? Enjoying myself in my own way; dearly I loved them both, brothers in my heart the same, but the link of sympathy was not between us. True friends we always were, with none of the heart's deep communion, that existed between Richard and Sydenham. A very fair share I had, of my sister Isabel's society—how she loved a ride over the hills, or a row upon the waters! I hear her merry laugh so musical, yet so full of joyousness; through the shadow of long years, her eye of light sad love is beaming upon me! how beautiful she was in her innocence and youth! i.From a very child, a fairy child, Sydenham loved her. There was a great disparity of years between thorn; and there was much of reverence, of looking up in the love Isabel bore unto him; perhaps there was a alight tincture of fear, It had been arranged by our parents, that Syden ham's lessons should be talon at our house; we all had the same masters; and so ardently did Sy denham desire the improvement of Isabel, that oft times ho urged her too far, and her spirit would weary from confinement and stud. Richard, ydeniun, and myself became men, Mingled in Alto world, engaged in business, and Sydenham was only deterred, by the extreme youth of Isabel, from offering his hand. Richard who had been for years the confidant of his passion, always ad• vised him to wait: 'she is but h child,' ho would say, 'let her go forth into the world, she will then discover your infinite superiority, over the crowd around her—who could know you, Sydenham, as Isabel has known you, and not love youl' ""My brother Richard was a man of strong, im petuous passions, yet, they were seldom called in to action; ho •vas almost vindictive in his resent ments—he rarely forgave. His lovti for Isabel and Sydenham, was but one love; it was the mos. ter passion of his heart! nothing but the Intensity of that love could have chained his fiery spirit, so long to our narrow circle, I have seen him, his eyes sparkling with excitement, and his race flush ed to his lofty brow; as he repeated 'The ChiWe's' heart-stirring wordei "Once Mare tipon flue touters! Yet onto And the waves bandit beneath me as a steed That knows his rider—" "My sister Isabel had left her home, to spend the winter with an aunt of ours, who led a very gay life in city. She was three months ab sent, and her return home was hastened; by the with of our parents, that her birthzday should be spent undei 'her father's roof. She waa then eighteen,the rare beauty that her youth bed prom ised, wat more than fulfilled. "The morning after her arrival, Richard Men tioned a party that had been arreosed the night before, he spoke of a lady ho wished me to take and then turning to Isabel, said quietly, t 'You, oUeourse, will ride with Harry Syden;. ham.' The blood sprang high up in the cheek of Isabel, as she replied, "Not of course, Richard, you must exam!, me —I cannot ride with Harry Sydenhatte "'And why not, I pray?' said Richard, in a tone of angry astonishment; 'have your new fang led notions and fine beaus, taught you to forget the attachments of your youth?' 'You wrong me, Richard, by such unvtorthy suspicions: I love Harry with the same affection I ever did; more he must never expect.' ' , lsabel sighed heavily as she ceased speaiting, but she did not look up; if she had, the changing countenance of Richard must have struck her very painfully. He ofose et last and stood beside heti he threw back the long sunny curls that lay upon that fair brow; and then he spoke in a low tone of tenderness, and love, ...Isabel, my only sister? your own heart will best tell you, how dear—how very dear, you have ever been to me; but the affection I bear to you, is no whit more engrossing than that 1 have borne Harry Sydenham from my youth up. Sister! it has been the dream of my life to see you his wife —my sister, if you love me destroy it not!--des. troy it not!"—and the stern and proud Richard Malverton knelt down by her side, with his arms folded aroun'! her—end he the high hearted, and haughty, dropped tears for his friend, his own ag ony never would have wrung forth. "The face of Isabel grew deadly polo. she clas ped her small white bands together, and raised them up towards Richard; who had risen and stood beside hell she strove to speak, but the words dud away upon her lips—she knew the an guish they must inflict upon her brother! "Richard bent down and kissed her, while he said, " *Tel me in all honour, and sincerity, !sex! —will you be the wife of Harry Hydenlianir you may hope for my forgiveness,' was his stem declaration av ho left her. '.Terrified and distressed, Isabel clung to me; I strove to soothe hcr, and asked also, an explana tion of what had been as much matter of ast ,r.ish ment to me as to Richard. "Isabel said, 'Edward Everett, (the name 'of the gentleman to whom she was enghged.) had not declared his love until the evening before she had left the house of her aunt; she had been the bear er of a communication from him to her parents, and had received their blessing end apprebatton.' I made no mention in my letters of Edward Ev erett, because I feared to give pain to Harry Sy. denham—knowledge of my own heart opened my eyes to the truth—that he had borne me nu broth er's love! Last night, when he sat by my side, and his low tones foil upon my ear—breathing of the heart's deep tenderness—/ trembled os I licard! —for oh! my brother, it is terrible to wreck the love of a noble and generous bosom.' There wan a pause in the story, Mr. Malvorton was greatly moved; and it was some time ore he resumed: "Richard had looked forward to the union o Isabel end Sydontram, with a degree of certainty never shadowed by a doubt; he literally Tr:coiled from communicating the utter annihilation of hie hopes to his unfortunate friend. Wo did not see him through the day, ho did not leave his chemb er, save for a brief space to send a noto to Syden ham; all that weary night, his footstepti sounded over my head, now rapid and excited, now heavy and slow. There was no alco:i for either of us, through the long hours of that night. I know the earnest, enthusiastic nature of Sydenham, and could form some idea of the intenseness of his love—Richard had sounded its depths. •Early the next morning Richard sought an in terview with my father; when it was over ho left tho house, I saw him enter that of Sydenham; ho did not return home until evening. Another long conference followed with my father, at the con. clusion of which we weto told Richard and Sy donham were going to Europe, and would leave home for New York, in the afternoon of the next day. I.Richard avoided all intercourse with Isabel whose evident distress could not escape his ob servation; he never spoke to her, but oft times I marked his eye resting upon her with an expres sion of dark and bitter feeling. allinner was over; there was hut an hour left foratithard 'in the old home of his youth! Per chance that recollection softened him; he rose from his seat, and when he hod joined me at the window, he drew my arm within his own. ir4 'Como with mo, ho said, wto the blowy.' I did as he desired. 'DWI:is the room where our childhood had been spent—our school room! hoart strolled within me; there was not n table s chair, or book that war not linkod with Isa bel; S and could he I:irt from her thus—in aliena tion, in ungerl passed my OM around him, as I was Wont to do ih our boyish days, and I implored him for the sake of our early love, not to part with our sister in itnkindnoes=long I pleaded and earnest ly; he hoard me to the end s and then, in a voice so low and deep it startled mo, ho said, have no desire to part from you in anger, we may not meet again this side the gravo--but for her—fur Isabel, who hai dared to destroy the happiness of my noble hearted friend.to crush the hopes t have garnered through my life there is neither pity not forgiveness loft in my bosom— no more of her—no more I say!' and his eye flash ed out a light that wee intolerable, as ho paced with hasty steps the apartment. dqtt that momobt hobo! entered the room! she walked up to Richard and laid hertrombling hand upon his aim; ho Etood still—the low tones of her soft voice, I hear the.:: still—how they sank into my heart! 441 y brother! you are going to leave uti—oh! I entreat you by the old familiar love of our youth, not to part from me in unkindness; and she wept bitterly as she laid her head upon his arm— the long glossy ails tell over his band, so soft and silken to the touch! ho seemed moved, but there was only ono path to his love, and at that moment he believed Isabel would win it back at any goat. "He raised with his bath] that fair white fore head, and looked win her face—very fair was that face to look upon, In ita touching and child like beauty. ti lid , saki gently, 'there is ono way of restoring happiness to us all—break your faith with this new lover, and marry Sydenharn.' otittly, I *tie proud of my sister. Her eye sparkled with indignation, and born a glance lofty as his own; rho stepped back, with her hand rai sod in the air, and her voice was stern and clear. 'Go, Richard! it is time! Better that the sea roll its waters between us. You have counselled me to an act dishonourable and beset—my the wretchedness you would deal out to others never fall in retribution upon your own hoed!! And so they patted—that brother and sister! "In throe years from that time Sydenham re turned; he brought to the home of his fathers, a fair and noble English lady. You have her sun ny smile, my young friend—her ope n . brow—but your warmth of heart and generosity of character are all your father's. •-ftichord wandered over many lands, and at last mulct() in India; we have had many rumors dims great wealth; but ho never mentions it. When my sister was left destitute, by the unex pected death of her husband, I wrote to Richard, stating the circumstances in which she was placed. Ha gave me directions to allow her a fixed sum, which I have regularly received: •he has never mentioned her child, although I frequently in my letters spoke of her. I havd written since my sis ter's death,.ruid I hope the allowance settled upon the mother will be continued to the child. "You Harry, have always been to my brother an object of the deepest interest, he loves you for the Haim., perhaps, as much as the relationship G. air .Piitiwiars, Editors. [WHOLE NO. 498. you bear your father. Richard seems to have had no yearnings after his 4Yether Land,' he is my el der brother—yet my hair is white with the snows of time—would that homer° hero once more!" Mr. Molverton ceased speaking, and was warm. ly thanked by hie daughter and Harry Sydenhom, whose deiiro to sea Isabel Everott was in no de gree diminished, by the recital or her mother'', early history. The morning after Isabel Everett's arrival, Clara Malvertan rose njs with a determina ... tion to love, with a sister's love, her young cousin. - Timepassed rapidly on: Isabel grieved too deep ly to enter into any society, she never appeared when visitors were at the house—she shrank with the first sensitiveness of deep sorrow, from ill companionship with strangers. She welcomed Clara with her sweetest smile, and the gentlonesa of tone and look had almost warmed the heart of Clara into affection. Mrs. Malverton treated Isa bel with indifference, nometimes with coldness,buS her husband amply repaid her neglect. Already he loved Isabel as a daughter; and how devotedly she returned that love!—ho was the only object for her heart to . cling to, and she was so very like her mother, that oftthnes in the heart of her un cle, she brought back the olden time of his youth —the sister of his childhood. Such :reclusion as Isabel persisted in,. began at last to affect lier health; her cheek was far paler than its wont, her eye grew heavy, her stop slow. Her uncle noti ced the change, and urged a change in her habits.; Clara joined her father, declaring Isabel ttwould mope herself to death, sitting in her chamber froth morning till night," Isabel, yielding to their per suasions, rode out, walked, or joined the family circle when visitera wore present. Perrhance, If Clara Malverton could have road aright her own heart, she had not counsellor Isa bel to leave her seclusion; she had never supposed for one moment, that her cousin would draw away any portion of that attention, she had been accus tomed to receive. But there was a wondrous charm In Inhere manner, to win the admiration of all who approached her, and Clara saw her the object of attraction and interest, grefiler far than she had ever been in her palmiest days. The dark pnssion envy - stirred within her bo som— that passion so contemptible in itself, and so degrading in its consequiences. How often has it dimmed tho brightness of woman's youth; and marred the glory of her beauty! Among the gentlemen who visited at Mr. Mal verton's, Harry Sydenhotra and Edward Merton were upon terms of the greatest intimacy. The latter gentleman, generally designated as Ne Merton, was of remarkably fine figure; ho read well, and laughed musically—long association with good society had given him the ease and self pnesession natural to men of the world. With all these - advantages there was something repul sive in the countenance of Ned—perchance it wee the bloat stock worn without a shirt collar, "which will impart a cast of vulgarity to the finest face," (I quote ) see Miss Leslie,)—or'it might be the little Week eyes that twinkled Most AlleineuelY from out their mass of flesh—let it be what it would, Isabel turned away in dislike, for she thought upon that face she could trace the lines wrought by meanness anti hyPocrisy. Merton possessed a small yearly income, bare ly sufficient for hie support; he was an incorrigi. hie idler, a hanger on in the houses of the rich—it suited him well to partake largely of the jompital ity of Mt. Malverton. To the datighteir he was useful-410 made parties Whim there was none— attended her when no better beau presented— humbly bowed himself out of sight, when they did. many times had he thought what a desira ble thing it Would ho for,him to marry Clara--an• only daugther, her father reputed very wealthy-- surely nothing could be better! Nor was he quite without hope, for nearly four years he had•paid. her unremitting attention; ho was always a favor ite with Clara, and although she looked upon his homage as something she was of right entitled to; yet, if be was absent she aniseed his Battery, amik never failed to let him know how much pleasure his return gave her. Merton could flirt. ay, Witt . the mast accomplished among them, yet %would. have been a difficult point to decide whether Cla ra or he most thoroughly understood:the art. Thole were reasons many why Clara Mslver. ton hoped in her secret heart to become the wife of Harry Sydenb.arn. For three.generations the fortune of the Sydenhama had gone from father to son, receiving from each an. addition: to be mis tress of the noble mansion diat stood within eight of her present home, an& wife to its master, was far more than a wish, it watthe ruling passion of her heart. Her eye was keen to read. the work ings of Harry Sydenham's face, and already sus picion was growing into certainty—that he had looked upon Isabel Everett as he had, never look.. ed upon woman before. .Come hitheP, my dear cousin., T pray you. said Isabel, as Clara Entered the room ono eve ning whore she an Sydenham were sitting, 'and see if you can convince Mr. Sydenham of his error.' As Clara approached, she was struck, as she had often been of late. with the exceeding beauty of Isabel. Her eyes wore of the clearest and most splendid hazel, and the long silken hair fell upon a neck white and pure as marble; her fair and noble brow betokened intellect—softened into love and woman's gentleness, by the sweet ex pression of her beautiful mouth; and her smile— the heart sprung to meet it—so appealitg, so fem inine was that child-like runny smile. what has Mr. Sydenham erred?' asked Clara quietly, as she joined them. Isabel laughed, and replied, el am sure yeti will think it very odd,but he declares nothing wilt induce him to marry a meek woman—Walt — men had been of his opinion, there would have been little nse for that very diinigrstable word—obey." Clara smiled, as she said to Sytlenlism—t ' , Should you fancy a aistel"' oNo," ho mists-ere.% (mot a Petrurllio's office; T have ever thought the fair lady of Padua was ta med too entirely to the will of her 'liege lord'and master,' in a wifo—l should prefer a woman of high spirit, who possegeedgood sense and jui/13. ment to regulate it." "I think you are veryzight, Mr. Rythuthsth," Waa Clant'a reply; '•high spirit is almost ihrsys allied to energy and declaim' of character, with many other good qualities : however, men gene ra:ly prefer exereisMu their juJetteut for that. wi%es well as theraveives,",
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