A deep, deep sigh-a long, long gaze-a silence more expressive than the richest oratory—a slight pressure of the hand -tears-sudden and frequent these were her confession. That moment repaid me for all that I had suffered during the fever of my fear.

My dear

you all.

Then followed the full and mutual confession - each to each of all that disturbs the heart. In the midst of this I remembered that I had one more confession to make one due to my own honor, to my pride, to my self esteem. I spoke to her thus-for I well remember every syllable that was uttered at that memorable time: girl, I have told you much-pardon me that I have not told You have pressed your lip to mine. You have given your heart to mine all in the trusting hope that I deserved you. Listen to me. do not. I am the veriest cheat that ever won a woman's heart. dared, not forgetful of yourself, to remember your fortune. I have deceived myself—you, I would not. Nor do I ask forgiveness. Spurn me; reject me; despise me; I deserve it all.'

Mariana appeared thunderstruck. At last she spoke.

I

I have

Julian, you

a fortune-hunter-you a cheat? You must not deceive me now!' I related all that had passed. She listened attentively, and a shade of abstracted thought clouded her brow. At last she spoke: I would fain hope that even what you say were true, rather than that, having seen my weakness in confessing that I love you, you would trifle with it thus, and now. Answer me -do you know any thing new concerning yourself? do you know any thing about Tressilian Court?' I told her I knew nothing. Nothing! Have you no letters?' I remembered the letters which I had not opened, and produced them. She laid her hand upon mine, ere I opened them. 'If,' said she, 'the contents of those letters should make your purpose waver for a moment, (and I know the intelligence they bring, have known it since yesterday, and thought it brought you to my feet to-day,) — if your purpose wavers for a moment, remember, I release you from your vows. I, too, would

not be held as a fortune-hunter. Read them now.'

I opened them: one was from the family solicitor, written a week before, informing me that my uncle and his two sons had been lost at sea, on their voyage to Madeira, whither the latter had been ordered for the benefit of their health, and suggesting the propriety, as I now was heir at law to the title and estates, of my visiting Tressilian Court, where my surviving uncle was anxious to receive me. The other letter was from my cousin Emma, praying that I would lose no time in coming to Cornwall. In a postscript, which always contains the pith of a young lady's letter, she hoped that my wooing throve.' I suppose you may imagine what my first impulse was. I felt no inclination to release Mariana from her plighted faith-doubly proud that I could best show that it was indeed herself that I had sought. 'She told me that she had been a school-fellow of my cousin Emma's, and from her had known and regretted my evil fortunes - that when she first heard my name, her interest was excited, and all the rest she had confessed an hour before! This she added, that she had already heard from Emma of my change of fortune, and that she believed at first, that it was this ray of sunshine over my path which had led me to tell in words what her woman's wit had long since conjectured. She told me, also, that as I had won her heart long since, she would have given her hand with it, to Julian Tressilian, whatever were his prospects.

'It is full time that I bring my story to a conclusion. I went to Tressilian Court; I soon became a favorite with Sir Edgar. It was a cherished plan of his to marry me to my gentle and lovely cousin; but, I was engaged, and, for the matter of that, so was the lady also.

'One morning, there was a double marriage at Tressilian Court. The beauty of Harley-street became more beautiful in the wilds of Cornwall and my cousin, transplanted to the garden of Wiltshire, did not become less lovely than before, and (her smiles said) even more happy.

My uncle lived to see his grand-children climb his knee—to embrace my children also. He was gathered to his ancestors some ten years ago; and if any of my hearers wish to see how we keep up old customs at the Court, Julian Tressilian will gladly show them a happy househould.

As for our happiness But here comes Mariana, scarcely changed from what she was when first I saw her, except that her eldest daughter will soon take a part, as she did then, in the great drama of marriage. She weds a husband whose years better suit her own.

'Mariana, I have told to our surrounding friends the story of our 'whole course of love:' it is well, dearest, that you were absent, for otherwise I could not have spoken of you as you were, and are, and will be the beautiful, the happy-hearted, and the faithful!'

THUS did we hear the story: and slight as it here may seem, it won admiration, and warm thanks from those who heard it. At any rate, it was a frank confession, and lost nothing from the manner in which it was told. We felt that its narrator was not romancing, and perhaps the apparent truth of the tale was one of its greatest charms.

DEATH: (AN EXTRACT.)

BY J. G. PERCIVAL.

'Tis good to think on death-it bends the will
From that stern purpose, which no man can hold
And yet be happy: we must go and fill

Thought with affection, where pale mourners fold
The shroud around those chill limbs, whose fair mould
Imaged unearthly beauty. Why not blend
With tears awhile, and leave that stern, that cold
Contempt of all that waits us, when we end
Our proud career in death, where all, hope-lifted, bend.

'Tis good to hold communion with the dead,
To walk the lane where bending willows throw
Gloom o'er the dark green turf, ere day is fled,
And cast deep shadow on the tomb below;
For, as we muse thus silently, we know
The worth of all our longings, and we pay
New worship unto purity, and so

We gather strength to take our toilsome way,
Which must be meekly borne, or life be thrown away.

FAREWELL TO EARTH.

A YOUNG girl seeks the retirement of the cloister, as a peaceful asylum, after the sorrow and bereavement of the world. It is supposed to be the evening before she takes the veil.

ALL nature is a joy ;

The wrought soul, freed of earth, might bathe itself

In its deep luxury, and the rapt heart
Read a sage lesson in the voiceless air.
On such an eve as this, the dreamy spirit
Of the star-searching Plato went abroad
To its dim vigil o'er the universe;

And the wild sophist, in his burning vision,
Wandered amidst earth's mysteries, and woke,
And believed the beautiful, bright air was- God.

The vesper breeze steals through the open casement,
And the dark ringlet on the maiden's brow
Vibrates to its delicate touch, as it laves,
In its delicious fragrance, her young cheek:
To her the hyacinth has lost its beauty,
And the plant its bloom, that bends to meet her
So wooingly; and the still breath of eve
Its freshness, for the golden tone is hushed,
And the silver chord loosened at her heart;
Alas! that one so few of years should wither,
While the slow foot-falls of the aged trace

A pleasant pathway to a distant tomb.

Hark! she sings, and her pent thoughts are breathed
Upon the strings.

'My cabin-home; it is lone and dim,

And the rank weeds grow o'er the fount's low brim;
For the fawns have fled to the covert's glade,
From their leafy lair, and their realm of shade,
And the wing of the hum-bird there is still,
That built its nest on the misty rill;

And the violet's cup, and the heath-flowers bell,
Spring no more in the green-wood dell;
It is changed all changed - the beauty has gone
From my childhood's home, and I am lone.

'And where is he, with his voice to bless,
And his yearning heart and his kind caress,
And the smile that told his love's fond power,

As I played at his side, in the green-leaved bower?

Father! kind father! thy form's at rest,
And the mossy turf's on thy aged breast:
No more shall come thy voice, loved well,
And thy eye's bright glance, as a kindly spell;
We are parted now, thou hast passed, thou hast fled,
And I weep no tears, yet I mourn for the dead.

'And again and again, O where art thou,
With thy tender eye, and placid brow?
Mother, thy heart has oft rocked to rest,
This form on thy gently heaving breast,

And thy hand smoothed down the couch of pain,
Whilst thy voice sang low, the ballad-strain;
Yet thou -even thou, hast past away

Like the waning sounds of thine own sweet lay;
Thou lovedst me, mother, yet thou art gone:
Oh! why should I weep, for I am lone!

'Farewell then, O Earth; I mourn thee not,
For thou art to me but a dreary spot;
Thy woods, and vales, and thy rock-built hills,
With the bubbling gush of their thousand rills,
Bear no charm; it has gone, it has fled;

I mourn not these: my heart's with the dead,
From the gala-bower, from the dance and song,
And the heartless mirth of the festal throng,
As a flower-wreath faded, the joy has gone:
I weep no more, for I am lone.'

Trenton, (N. J.,) 1836.

C. F. M. E.

THE WATER LILY.

'CONSIDER the lilies of the field how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.'

WE long for that which pleases the eye. Ingenuity is exercised, taste questioned, form varied, and color diversified, for the production of the beautiful. The gems of science lend their brilliancy to the fabrications of the artificer, and the proudest discoveries of the student of nature irradiate the labors of the artist, in his attempts to create such objects as shall fascinate the vision with exquisite workmanship, rich coloring, or elegance of figure. Every age has made its essay, but none has succeeded, or ever will succeed, in raising the works of art to an equality with those of nature. The marble or the canvass, one presented by the immortal sculptors of Greece, almost breathing with life, the other by the great masters of Italy, almost glowing with passion, while they rivet our admiration and excite our enthusiasm, still exist, in reality, but as copies of more attractive and more glorious originals. No landscape, be its hues ever so gorgeous, can equal the golden sea of the harvest field, or the splendour of the rich drapery in which the sun is enrobed when he sinks to rest; no carved form so perfect as that of man when unrestrained by the torturing customs of civilization; no pencilling or teinting so delicate and faultless, as the symmetry or colors of the shrub and its flowers. Nor, above all, have the noblest creations of art that mystery none can penetrate, that beauty inimitable, that spirit which connects us in sympathy with every thing it pervades vitality. None but a Prometheus can give life to the productions of the artist; and hence the humblest flowret possesses an interest which is

wanting in the most sublime efforts of the imagination of the painter or sculptor.

As animated living nature is thus beautiful, so also is it rendered peculiarly attractive by the many curious instances of adaptation it affords, and by the perfect mechanism which regulates its production and its existence; and as the vegetable world unfolds the most delightful objects to the sense, so also does it contain, for the support of its vitality, a system of machinery unsurpassed in ingenuity and contrivance. Here, as elsewhere in creation, each part, even the smallest petal, is formed on a plan which answers best its particular purpose, while at the same time it fits in complete adjustment with the other parts which depend on it for their regular action. Proportion, adaptation, and design, are visible throughout its conformation, and as the microcosm thus moving and acting is minute, as the apparatus by which it retains its life is most delicate, and as the most subtle principles are employed as agents, we rise from its contemplation with wonder and admiration. Regarding vegetable life in this view, a more holy light is shed round its beauties, a more lovely garment encircles it; its teints seem to receive a richer hue, its odours a finer perfume, and the smallest plant, once insignificant and unnoticed, becomes more engaging from its very minuteness; thus the wing of the little insect, dull and dingy to the naked eye, when placed before the glass is perceived to be variegated with brilliant colors, and feathered with the richest plumage.

Who has not seen the water lily, the Vestal Nymphæa, resting on the bosom of the waters, opening its white bloom to the sun, and rising and falling with every ripple? The shades of evening come, and its green petals fold to shelter their treasure from blasts too rude. The morning breaks, the sunbeams dance around its couch, and it unfolds again, to diffuse its sweet fragrance. It is one of the humblest tenants of the universe; yet its conformation might afford study for a life, and the care bestowed on its mechanism, the wise provisions made for its safety, lead the mind to the contemplation of the most sublime truths.

The root which is its organ of nutrition, is formed so as to perform its offices in the most admirable manner. With one main body to attach the plant firmly to the soil, it sends out its little rootlets and fibrils which act as so many mouths to imbibe nourishment. The functions of the fibrils have been but lately pointed out; it seems that by the aid of electricity they absorb the nutritious fluids from the earth by means of small cells which, when distended, send their contents up the vessels of the rootlets to the herbaceous parts. On passing from the cells into the vessels, these fluids become sap, and, rising to the leaves, there become operated upon by the changing influences of light and heat. By the experiments of Priestly and Ingenhouz, it is well established that the leaves, when exposed to the light of the sun, absorb carbonic acid, and from the decomposition of that gas evolve oxygen, while in the night, the contrary process takes place, and they respire the same as animals; hence the presence of these gases is necessary to the proper performance of the functions of the leaves. Now the trunk of the Nymphæa does not rise perpendicularly, but is prostrate, and as it grows in waters whose rise might otherwise submerge the whole plant, and deprive it of life, we here find a wise provision for keeping its leaves and flowers upon the surface.