"She They were standing before the South Battery, and Agnes || cried the man, as they were dragging him off. started when she beheld the last of the party pass into knows I love her dearly. His own Agnes! ha! ha! the burial-ground, while she remained alone with Mor ho! ho!" And with the struggle and shout of a drunley. She had evaded an avowal of his feelings with ken man, he was carried into the Guard-house. much dexterity before, and now feared it must be made. She felt an indiscribable confusion of faculties coming over her, and the blood was mounting to her face; but aware she needed all her calmness, she made a desperate struggle for it, and forced herself to converse, as the best means of occupying his attention until they could rejoin their party. While Morley was mustering up courage for his intended attack, Agnes observed "What a pretty object is yonder South Battery-so brilliantly white, surrounded by green grass and trees." "Yes, Miss Gordon, but-there is a subject-" The large Saloon at Colonel Gordon's was that evening filled with company. Belles and beaux were there from the city, and the officers' families from the military stations of Fort Hamilton and Bedlow's Island. The gay dresses of the militaires contrasted well with the more sober-suited citizens, and contributed much to the brilliancy of the room. A full band, stationed in the front balcony, furnished the dancers with waltzes and quadrilles. "Pon my word, Colonel," said Mr. Carter, one of the "And the cannon and arched gateway appear so war-city guests, "you have a fine collection here; and they like, and the men look so picturesque in their fanciful all seem to be enjoying themselves vastly." blue and yellow dresses, lounging in groups or reclining on the grass to read or play games." Colonel Gordon bowed, and was most happy his friends were pleased. "A party cannot well be otherwise than gay, where you officers are," continued Mr. Carter; "and it has always been a problem to me, why you are so light-hear "Yes, they look well enough at a distance," said Captain Morley, eager to despatch this subject, that Agnes might listen to one of more moment to him; "and there is one, a new recruit, leaning against that tree-heted, living as you do, slaves-if I may say so, of another would make a fine bandit in your picture." Agnes glanced towards him—a half shriek burst from her lips, and turning away, she covered her face with man's will, and liable to be removed here or there, as he may order or called at any moment away from your families, and placed at the cannon's mouth. Besides her hands, as if to shut out some sight hateful to her. being-I speak of inferior officers-straightened in their "What is the matter, my own Agnes ?" exclaimed means of living. Their very desultory and unsettled the alarmed Morley. Are you afraid of that man?-existence, would be a life, I should imagine, to depress, he only comes to speak to me." "Is he coming then!-alas! is there no hope?" she cried, wildly, and was turning to fly towards her party, when the soldier stood before her. "Your pardon, sir," he said, touching his hat to Captain Morley, "I have come to present this Jersey rose to your own Agnes!" Captain Morley frowned upon the forward man, but too much occupied with Agnes to speak to him, he placed her hand in his arm, and was passing on. Nay, Madam," persevered the soldier, standing in their path, "do not refuse my flowers, I picked them on purpose for you." "Do you not see you alarm the lady? Away, sir!You are a stranger here, or I should punish this impertinence." instead of raising, a man's spirits." "It is that very situation which occasions our lightheartedness," replied Colonel Gordon. "We are not, like merchants, or professional men, obliged to wear ourselves out, by plodding in the toils of business from morning to night in order to earn our daily bread. Our means of subsistence, scanty though it be, comes at regular intervals, and the grand care of life, working for our living, we are free from. We are o.dered hither and thither at the will of another, it is true; but, if free agency is taken from us, responsibility is of course; and that is another weight off our shoulders." 66 They ought to be gay," said Agnes, who held her father's arm, "for they have nothing to do but dress and dance and amuse themselves. "Now, Miss Gordon," said Blakely, who was listen They passed on, but the soldier, with an impudenting-"you have mentioned the most disagreeable part leer, and flourishing bow, exclaimed— "Oh, I beg pardon of your lordship if I have offended you or your lady; I don't know your customs-but I think it a very good one not to talk to another man's wife, and hope you will keep to it." "Halloo, there!" cried the Captain to the men collected near the South Battery. "Here! Corporal of the Guard-Sergeant! Some of you take this fellow to the Guard-house-he is drunk." "Oh, no, no!" cried Agnes, grasping his arm. "Let him go do dear Captain. He only meant to please me. Do free him-he thought to oblige us." of a soldier's life-the having nothing to do, is so wearisome. We are shut up in Forts the most of our lives, where our duties, generally speaking, are soon despatched-and then come long hours, of sauntering about, and riding the same roads, and trying to amuse ourselves." "You can visit the people around, and a young soldier is always a welcome guest." "True, Miss Gordon," said Mr. Cartera well dressed officer, is always smilingly received, especially by the ladies-ha, Miss Gordon." 'Perhaps it is so," said Agnes, smiling-"but not "Pardon me, Miss Gordon," said Captain Morley, merely for his dress." gravely, "he must to the Guard-house." " gay Ah, Miss Agnes-you know well, 'maidens like "Oh, yes, she knows I only meant to please her," moths, are caught by glare!'' "Not so, Mr. Carter. Pray let me defend my sex || against this love of finery and show. As far as my experience goes, I do not believe the ladies prefer a soldier to a more plainly dressed man, because of his gold and embroidery, but that dress speaks of power and rank above his fellows; and, as you call us the weaker part of creation, is it not natural we should cling for protection to the most powerful." "You are a brave pleader, Miss Gordon, but see-they are forming a Spanish contra-dance-shall I have the pleasure of your hand?" Agnes smiled an assent, and was soon pacing a stately measure with her partner. Morley had been received so coldly by Agnes that evening, and she was so constantly occupied with others, that he withdrew from the circle of her admirers, and stood apart, following her with his eyes as she glided through the quadrille, or floated in a waltz. "How beautiful, and yet how strange a being she is," he murmured, "that, silver band well becomes her dark hair-and can she, with all that grace, and loveliness, be without a heart. She knows with what a devouring passion I regard her, and yet, can break my heart with her coldness, and lavish all her smiles on yonder butterfly crew. And yet, at times-for I have watched her well, she appears fully to return my passion, and if hope leads me on to allude to my love, she starts, and appears to suffer agony unutterable. Strange inexplicable girl! what can be the solution of this mystery?" In vain Morley turned the subject in his mind, he could form no conjecture of the cause of that distress, which any allusion to his feelings, produced. Determined to live no longer in suspense he resolved the next day, to demand an interview, and lay open the state of his heart to her. While revolving this, he observed Agnes stealing out from the crowd, to the back balcony, and started up to follow her, but found his course impeded by Major Gossip. "Stop a moment, Morley," he said-"do not be in such a hurry-I want your opinion regarding the new uniform. See, I have mine finished at last." Morley muttered a curse, but, as there was no help for it, he was obliged to listen, with his feelings all in a ferment, while Major Gossip described the various merits of scarlet stripes, eiguellettes, epaulettes, and all the etcetra of his new dress. "My God, how happy they are," exclaimed Agnes, as she stood alone on the balcony. "I cannot remain longer in a scene where all is so foreign to my feelings. I can feign no longer. To laugh and sing, and appear gay and happy when my heart is filled with remorse and dispair, is a task too great for me. I am young yet in deception. Scarce seventeen and already steeped in crime and deceit !-and how shall I escape from the toils in which I have entangled myself. Oh, that my grave was laid in those dark shores, shrouded from the world for ever-or that I lay in peace beneath those quiet waters-there the starry skies are reflected, as an innocent bosom in which heaven ever dwelleth, and in their depths there must be rest." Agnes laid her head against the railing of the balcony, and endeavored to calm her thoughts and still the tumult within, that she might arrange her plans to meet the events which she knew must now take place. Wilson, her husband, was on the island, and would no doubt, soon seek her out, and all must be proclaimed to the world. Her heart sank at the idea of producing that low, vulgar soldier, into her stately father's presence as one to whom she had been married, secretly, a whole year. What shame, what anguish would be her's! How could she meet the eye of the high-souled Morley, after having played so weak a part. "Oh, why did I marry him!" she exclaimed in agony of spirit-" blinded creature, to find aught to catch my fancy in yonder sot. I never loved him—oh, no-it was weakness, vanity, which led me on; but for that, what might not have been my fate. Morley, gentle, noble!— I might have been mine: and now, what am I-a wife, shunning her duties, despising her husband, and—oh, horror! loving another!" Agnes covered her face with her hands and wept as the pure and the innocent never weep-tears of remorse and regret. "What, all alone!" cried Morley as he stepped on the balcony. "Why do you deprive us of the pleasure of your company, Miss Agnes ?" Agnes did not answer, for she could not-her heart was too full for speech. "I am afraid I have intruded on you, Miss Gordon. Pardon me, Agnes, but you well know, I am never happy unless near you. Will you not speak to me. Tell me how I have offended one whom, to please, is the dearest wish of my life." Agnes struggled for calmness, for she felt she could not, ought not, longer to evade the subject. The noble, generous conduct of Captain Morley, deserved an explanation of her sentiments, and bitterly did she lament, she had ever led him on to hope for love. "Hear me, Agnes-let me tell you how deeply I love you, and give me sentence of life or death! Can I not hope for some little return of affection from you?" Morley!" said Agnes, but in a tone so low, so tremulous, that he held his breath to listen, "I have been most faulty-I have a long tale of shame and sorrow to tell you-I have acted towards you, with such deceit! such cruelty. With one word I must crush all hope." "No, no! dearest Agnes! I will not hear you-I can divine all-you love me not, and perhaps regret you have ever suffered me to hope. But do not cast me off, time may perhaps change your feelings." "Hear me, Morley !" she said, shaking back the curls which had fallen in disorder over her face, and looking firmly up to him, "I did not deceive you—I loved you, aye! do love you, as fondly, as devotedly, as ever woman loved-nay, hear me-from this hour we are parted for ever." "Edith, my own Edith," he said, "you have promised to remember me, and to greet my return with pleasure; one more request, and I have done. Accept this ring, and promise me, as you value my peace, that no other shall remove it. On my return, dearest, it shall be re She seized his hand, and pressing it fondly to her forehead, while the tears were fast falling from her eyes"My own Morley," she said—“I have been most un-placed by another at the altar. Will you not promise kind to you-for know, when I encouraged and shared your affection, I was pledged to another. So firmly bound, that nothing on earth can sever us more." With a groan of anguish, Morley drew away his hand, and staggered against the wall. "Pardon me, Morley-Oh, say you forgive me." He would hear no more, but with distress unutterable rushed from the house to give vent to his despair, alone and unseen. "I have looked my last on Morley," said Agnes, as she watched his receding form. "Farewell to all I love on earth, and henceforth, misery and shame." "Agnes!" said a voice beneath the balcony. She held her breath in terror. "Agnes, your husband hears you." With a heavy sigh the exhausted Agnes, sank on the balcony. NEVER shone the sun upon a fairer creature than was Edith Hasselden, and never until now, upon a happier one. Her life had been a summer's morning-all brightness and joy. Even Love, that urchin of storm and calm, of smiles and tears, had been productive of nothing but happiness to her. The scene was changing now; she had to endure her first trial, her lover was to bid her adieu that evening, for some months, as he was about to pay a long-promised visit to an old friend of his father's in Paris. Edith was pacing the garden, anx-| iously waiting his arrival. She felt unhappy, beyond what the occasion warranted; she did not fear he would forget her, she was too true herself to suspect treachery in him; her love was so pure, so undivided, a thing so almost holy, that it seemed impossible she could have bestowed it on one unworthy. No, it was not a doubt of his affection, or his constancy, that caused her present uneasiness, but an undefined presentiment of future evil. She did not know Horace Seaton; there were few that did. Even those far more conversant with the world than her, could no. deem that beneath that warm glowing manner, there was hidden a cold, calculating, selfish heart. It was true, he loved Edith Hasselden, as much as such a heart ever loves; she was young and beautiful, and that gratified his pride; she loved him, and that pleased his vanity. He had kept his appointment with her, and the moment of parting had arrived. They were sitting on a garden bench, both appeared sorrowful, his arm was round her, and he whispered words of love, and hopes of future happiness. me?" The blushing girl hesitated; again that chilling; vague uneasiness, crept over her heart; but she banished it, and placed her hand in his. The large dark eye of Edith, would have been startling at that moment, with its intensity of lustre, but that it was softened into mild beauty, by the tears which trembled in it. She looked at him with an expression, in which love and entire confidence were blended. “Horace,” she said, “I will—I do promise, that this ring shall never be removed, but at the altar. I will not ask you to remember me, while away, it would be implying a doubt that you would not: but for me, I will think of you, day and night; I will hold this spot sacred; I will hold communion with none here, but Him, who now sees us, and who knows the truth or falsehood of our hearts. To Him will I pray for your happiness, whatever my fate may be." They parted, and oh! how the fond girl cherished the memory of that parting-scene, and the words he had uttered; for days afterwards she fancied that she could still hear his voice floating round her-could still feel the pressure of his hand as he passed the ring upon her finger. She little thought that they had parted for ever!-that that voice and hand, would henceforth be dead to her;-that she had wasted her young warm heart's best and freshest feelings on one who would outrage them; those feelings, which the heart entertains but once; which we would give empires-worlds, to entertain again! He had promised to write to her, and had broken that promise. Edith counted the hours each day, until the post was delivered, with a wild and throbbing heart; but each day proved him more and more forgetful. At length, strange rumors reached her of an approaching marriage, between Horace Seaton and a young lady in Paris, of great fortune. They crushed and chilled her spirit-and the gay-the happy Edith, was no more. We will not-we cannot describe her feelings, when first she heard these tidings; she treated them as base calumny! she wrote to him-her letter was unanswered! She accidentally met an acquaintance, who had just returned from France, and from him she learnt that it was too true. He had been for some weeks married! She heard it with a calm and composed countenance; but a withered, blighted, breaking heart. Three years had elapsed, and Edith Hasselden stood gazing from her casement upon the lake below, while the soft moon shone in unclouded loveliness. The next day was to be her marriage-day, A gentleman, named Fortescue, had seen and admired her; love is too strong a word. He admired her beauty, was not repulsed by her coldness, and, after a few months' acquaintance, obtained a cool, careless consent from her, to become his wife. She was strangely altered; no longer the buoyant | the ring: it was too much, the bow was overbent and enthusiastic girl, with looks and thoughts equally fresh snapped; it was the last feather that broke the camel's and glowing she had become the calm, unimpassioned, back, and this last stroke overcame poor fragile Edith dignified woman. Tears had washed every trace of the Hasselden. rose from her cheek, and what with her paleness, and the constant repression of every feeling on her countenance, she had acquired the appearance of one of Canova's statues; cold, yet wonderfully beautiful. She stood sometime at her casement in deep thought: at length she murmured, "It must be !" and turning from the window seated herself at a desk, from whence she removed a small packet of letters. She trembled violently as she rose and walked towards a fire at the other end of the room. She held them over the flame for an instant, and in the next they were burning. "So perish all remembrance of him," she said. Again she walked towards the window, and took from her bosom a miniature; she appeared collecting courage to destroy that also. A pang shot over her heart and brow as she gazed upon the picture. She pressed it convulsively to her lips; and bitter tears, in spite of her desperate effort to repress them, burst forth in torrents, as if from a source long pent up; she passed her hand over her brow as if to ease its burning pain. "I cannot, oh, no!-I cannot destroy his picture," she said again, and she looked on it long and fixedly: dreams of other days flitted before her, and she sobbed as if her heart would burst. But this emotion passed away, she was again still, and calm, and beautiful as Parian marble. She unclasped the lock of the chain which supported the miniature of Horace Seaton-again she gazed upon it. The thought that at that time to-morrow it would be guilt for her so to gaze, came across her mind, and she resolved though she could not destroy, never again to behold it. She placed it in paper which she carefully sealed, and locked it in her desk. "Now, then, thank heaven, it is over, and I shall become another's without one thought of him lingering in my breast," she murmured; but the tone of misery and utter desolation was in contradiction to her words. It was morning, and Edith was arrayed in her bridal dress. Not the quivering of a lip, not the trembling of an eye-lid, betrayed what was passing in her heart. She walked steadily up the aisle of the church; she uttered the responses in a low yet audible voice; but this calm was unnatural, and was soon to be destroyed. The ceremony was nearly over, and Fortescue took her hand upon which he was to place the wedding-ring. He started at its death-like coldness, and was surprised to see a jewelled one, which he had noticed her constantly wearing, was not removed. She had forgotten that. And now the recollection of the vow she had made never to let another remove it than he who, however, false he had proved, was still Horace Seaton, the playmate of her childhood, the idol of her first affections, flashed upon her. The long, long interval of weary days and sleepless nights, and wasted years, faded away, and she remembered only their parting hour, and his parting words, "I will replace it with another at the altar!" At this moment the bridegroom attempted to withdraw "Never, never!" she murmured, as she struggled to release her hand. In the struggle the ring was removed, and fell on the marble steps of the altar. She gazed upon it for a moment, in speechless misery, and then a loud wild scream escaped her, so loud, so wild, that the hearers felt the blood run cold in their hearts. She fell. Fortescue thought she had fainted, and he raised her head from the floor, but it fell heavily on his arm. shuddered; the color had forsaken her lips, those bright, beautiful eyes were closed for ever. was dead! He Edith Hasselden THE LAKE OF KILLARNEY. The romantic story of Kate of Killarney is too well known to need repetition. It is said she cherished a visionary passion for O'Donoyhue, an enchanted chieftain, who haunts those beautiful Lakes, and to have died a victim" of folly, of love, and of madness." No azure eyes like her's are there. Although her father's guests are met; She knows the first pale star is set, Another look, their chief is gone, And clear and cold the Lake flows on; How many, lured by fancy's beam, And pine, the victims of a dream. DESPONDENCY. SORROW treads heavily and leaves behind A deep impression e'en when she departs: And scarcely leaves a trace upon our hearts Original. THE DEVOTED. BY THE REV. A. A. LIPSCOMB. WHC, that possesses the least acquaintance with the philosophy of the female heart, is ignorant of the fact, that it is peculiarly calculated to struggle with the reverses of Fortune? Who does not know, that there belongs to woman's nature, a fortitude, which trials serve only to draw forth-a fortitude, which neither disappointment nor distress can destroy? Unnoticed this quality may be, amid the glare of earthly prosperity, but in the time of tribulation, when thick darkness settles upon the pathway-when the present and the future are alike destitute of consolation, then, like some solitary star, that flings its radiance upon the surrounding gloom, it shows to an admiring world, that a selfsupporting principle enters into the constitution of the softer sex. Adversity may wither the heart of manit may dim his lustrous eye and pale his roseate cheek, but in woman, it meets with a disposition, that resists in the proportion that is oppressed-a disposition that counteracts every impression of sorrow and like a shield, blunts every arrow of grief. Let female virtue and innocence be cast into the furnace of misfortune and they will come out the brighter-the eye of their hope unobscured, and the strength of their victorious spirits, unbroken. What is their motto? "Cast down but not destroyed." What their emblem? The bush of Honeb, surrounded by the flames, but not consumed. Meeting sometime since with a sketch, which may illustrate the above remarks, we have concluded, dear reader, to furnish it for your pleasure and profit. and joined the Southern division of the army. He ever manifested uncommon bravery and discernment. Deeply imbued with the spirit of freedom, he exerted all his talents and contributed his undivided energy to the deliverance of America, until he fell, covered with glory, upon the field of contest. Could courage-magnanimity and patriotism have averted the blow, he would have been saved, but alas! for himself and his relatives, he fell-fell with the banner of our nation waving over his head and the enemies of right in his front. Though his remains have not mingled with his mother land-though the shamrock grows not over his lowly bed, he shall not be forgotten. Historians shall record his love of freedom and poets sing of his virtues, while his name shall be handed down to posterity, with glory and courage for its bright associates. Shall we undertake to describe the distress of the family who lost in Mr. W. an invaluable blessing? It would be useless, for whose conceptions are so vividwhose pen is so ready, as to pourtray the feeling which such an event occasions? Who, but those that have experienced it, can form adequate views of that sorrow which is produced, when the parent tree, around whose trunk the ivy twined, and upon whose boughs the tendrils leaned, is cut down! An husband's death! A father's dissolution! What is it but the destruction of the fondest hopes-the crushing of the most ardent wishes-the overthrow of one of life's firmest and most certain supports! The peculiar character of Mr. W's. death, augmented the misery which it would have excited under the most mitigating circumstances, and consequently it is not surprising that the deepest gloom enshrouded his family. The bad health of Mrs. W. was made still worse, and in a few months consumption, which had already commenced the execution of its commission, speedily terminated his work of ruin. Ere the anniversary of her husband's death had returned, she had disappeared from the earth and added one more to the inhabitants of the tomb. Where the frowning battlements of Fort Washington look down upon the Potomac, there lived, many years ago, a family of wealth and influer.ce. Compelled to leave their own land, on account of its unsettled state, they had crossed the wide Atlantic to find a peaceful sanctuary in the newly-settled wilds of America. Their situation here fully equalled the expectations which There was one surviver of that partial wreck. And they had formed, and though they often yearned for who was that? The only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. their sea-girdled isle—though removal from it had pro- || W.-a young and interesting lady, who had just compleduced in their bosoms a vacancy that no other placeted her education. Virginia was just such a female as could entirely fill, yet, that the tranquillity of this, the a sculptor would select for a model, or the imitator for country of their adoption, compensated them for the sa- example. Whatever graces we love to see, were found crifice which had been made. Delivered from all the in her. If the sad catastrophe of the fall left any remtroubles which had agitated the land of their nativity-nant of heavenly purity and meekness, that relic assurhappy in themselves and in their acquaintance, this in- edly was in her character. If there be any thing in teresting and exiled family lived in the most pleasant humanity attractive to the eye of angels, that charm manner. But how uncertain are all human calculations! dwelt in her. I have known others, distinguished for How easily may the foundations of our joy be swept the fair proportions of their forms, or some particular away from us! When the war of the Revolution had quality of intellect. I have seen many different persons commenced-when the united force of the lovers of that were justly praised for some one transcendant disfreedom flocked to the embattled plain, Mr. W. attach-position; but in no other than Virginia, did I ever know ed himself to our army. His patriotic feelings had accompanied him in his emigration. Liberty was the idol of his heart's warmest devotion, and hence it is not strange that he espoused the cause of the injured Colonists, and pledged his word—his honor and his all, to support a rebellion. Commending his dear family to the care of Providence, Mr. W. left his charming home all graces to blend, and, like gems in a crown, or stars in a constellation, mingle their light and beauty together. Lovely girl!-How did she associate within herself and present at one view all that wins regard and secures admiration! An orphan! Destitute of kindred, in a cold world-a fragile flower, with no hand to defend it from the blast-a lovely barque upon the swelling sea of |