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A few months afterwards, a very lovely girl, one of Mary's most intimate friends, entered the parlor where she and her mother sat sewing.

"You are the very person I wish to see, Emily," said Mary. "I was just thinking of calling on you for the purpose of making a particular request."

"And it is to make a particular request that I have called on you," said Emily. "I should not be surprised," said Mrs. Appleton, "if they should prove to be similar, for I understand that you are engaged to George Endicott. As you are here, I think you should have the privilege of making your request first."

"You suspect," said Emily, "that I came to ask Mary to be my bridesmaid." "Which I will be with great pleasure," said Mary, "unless I should require your services first."

"Mary's wedding is to be a week from to-day," said Mrs. Appleton.

"Then I am too late," replied Emily, "for mine is to take place a week later.

TAKING THE VEIL.

THE author is known to be the wife of the Chevalier Calderon de la Barea, formerly Spanish Minister to this country, and subsequently Spanish Envoy to Mexico, after the recognition of the independence of that republic by the mother country. Madame Calderon's position secured to her opportunities of observation which would be denied to most persons. The ceremony of taking the veil has often been described, but never perhaps has the parting of friends, which the act involves, been depicted with more thrilling interest, than in the following passages from Madame Calderon's work. She received an invitation as follows:

"On Wednesday, the of this month, at six o'clock in the evening, my daughter Dona Maria de la Conception, P—e—, will assume the habit of a Nun in the choir and the black veil in the Convent of Our Lady of the Incarnation. I have the honor to inform you of this, intreating you to co-operate with your presence in the solemnity of this act, a favor which will be highly esteemed by your affectionate servant, who kisses your hand. MARIA JOSEFA DE -"

The girl being of distinguished family, the ceremony was expected to be peculiarly magnificent. Madame C. having called at the house in the morning, to make arrangements for attending the ceremony with the family, found about a hundred persons, relatives of the family, assembled at a sort of fete, given on the occasion. The young lady who was about to be entombed alive, was dressed in purple velvet, with diamonds and pearls, and a crown of flowers, the corsage of her gown being entirely covered with bows of ribband of different colors, which her friends had given her. She had short sleeves, and white satin shoes. She was handsome, and only eighteen years of age. Madame Calderon having arranged for her attendance upon the ceremony, took her departure from the house, to return again in the evening. She says: "I arrived at the hour appointed, and being led up stairs by the Senator Don

found the morning party, with many additions, lingering over the dessert. There was some gaiety, but evidently forced. It reminded me of a marriage feast, previous to the departure of the bride, who is about to be separated from her family for the first time. Yet how different in fact this banquet, where the mother and daughter met together for the last time on earth!

At stated periods, indeed, the mother may hear her daughter's voice, speaking to her as from the depths of the tomb; but she may never more fold her in her arms,

never more share in her joys or in her sorrows, or nurse her in sickness; and when her own last hour arrives, though but a few streets divide them, she may not give her dying blessing to the child who has been, for so many years, the pride of her eyes

and eart.

I have seen no country, where families are so knit together as in Mexico, where the affections are so concentrated, or where such devoted respect and obedience are shown by the married sons and daughters to their parents. In that respect, they always remain as little children. I know many families, of which the married branches continue to live in teir father's house, forming a sort of small colony, and living in the most perfect harmony. They cannot bear the idea of being separated, and nothing but dire necessity ever forces them to leave their father-land. To all the accounts, which travellers give them, of the pleasures to be met with in European capitals, they turn a deaf ear. Their families are in Mexico, their parents, and sisters, and relatives, and there is no happiness for them elsewhere. The greater, therefore, is the sacrifice which those parents make who, from religious motives, devote their daughters to a conventual life.

however, was furious at the whole affair, which, he said, was entirely against the mother's consent, though that of the father had been obtained, and pointed out to me the confessor, whose influence had brought it about. The girl herself was now very pale, but evidently resolved to conceal her agitation, and the mother seemed as if she could shed no more tears-quite exhausted with weeping. As the hour for the ceremony drew near, the whole party became more grave and sad, all but the priests, who were smiling and talking together in groups. The girl was not still a moment. She kept walking hastily through the house, taking leave of the servants, and naming, probably, her last wishes about every thing. She was followed by her younger sis ters, all in tears.

But it struck six, and the priests intimated that it was time to move. She and her mother went down stairs alone, and entered the carriage, which was to drive them through all the principal streets, to show the nun to the public, according to custom, and to let them take their last look, they of her, and she of them. As they got in, we all crowded to the balconies to see her take leave of her house, her aunts saying, Yes, child, despidete de tu casa, take leave of your house, for you will never see it again!' Then came sobs from the sisters, and many of the gentlemen, ashamed of their emotion, hastily quitted the room. I hope for the sake of humanity, I did not rightly interpret the look of constrained anguish, which the poor girl threw from the window of the carriage at the home of her childhood.

They drove off, and the relatives prepared to walk in procession to the church. I walked with the Count S-o; the others followed in pairs. The church was very brilliantly illuminated, and, as we entered, the band was playing one of Strauss's waltzes! The crowd was so tremendous, that we were nearly squeezed to a jelly in getting to our places. I was carried off my feet between two fat Senoras in mantillas and shaking diamond pendants, exactly as if I had been packed between two movable feather beds.

They gave me, however, an excellent place, quite close to the grating, beside the Countess de S- -o, that is to say, a place to kneel on. A great bustle and much preparation seemed to be going on, within the convent, and veiled figures were flitting about, whispering, arranging, &c. Sometimes a skinny old dame would come close to the grating, and, lifting up her veil, bestow upon the pensive public a generous view of a very haughty and very wrinkled visage of some seventy years standing, and beckon into the church for the majo-domo of the convent, (an excellent and profitable situation by the way,) or for Padre this or that. Some of the holy ladies recog nized and spoke to me, through the grating.

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But at the discharge of fireworks outside the church, the curtain was dropped, for this was the signal that the nun and her mother had arrived. An opening was made in the crowd, as they passed into the church, and the girl, kneeling down, was questioned by the bishop, but I could not make out the dialogue, which was carried on in a low voice. She then passed into the convent by a side door, and her mother, quite exhausted, and nearly in hysterics, was supported through the crowd to a place beside us, in front of the grating. The music struck up; the curtain was again drawn aside. The scene was as striking here, as in the convent of Santa Teresa, but not so lugubrious. The nuns all ranged around and carrying lighted tapers in their hands, were dressed in mantles of bright blue, with a gold plate on the left shoulder. Their faces, however, were covered with deep black veils. The girl kneeling in front, and also bearing a heavy lighted taper, looked beautiful, with her dark hair and rich dress, and the long black lashes resting on her glowing face. The churchmen near the illuminated and magnificently-decked altar, formed, as usual, a brilliant back-ground to the picture. The ceremony was the same, as on the former occasion, but there was no

sermon.

The most terrible thing to witness, was the last straining, anxious look which the mother gave her daughter through the grating. She had seen her child pressed to the arms of strangers, and welcomed to her new home. She was no longer hers. All the sweet ties of nature had been rudely severed, and she had been forced to consign her, in the very bloom of youth and beauty, at the very age in which she most required a mother's care, and when she had but just fulfilled the promise of her childhood to a living tomb. Still, as long as the curtain had not fallen, she could gaze upon her, as upon one on whom, though dead, the coffin-lid is not yet closed.

But while the new-made nun was in a blaze of light, and distinct on the fore-ground, so that we could mark each varying expression of her face, the crowd in the church, and the comparative faintness of the light, probably, made it difficult for her to distinguish her mother; for, knowing that the end was at hand, she looked anxiously and hurriedly into the church, without seeming able to fix her eyes on any particular object; while her mother seemed as if her eyes were glazed, so intently were they fixed upon her daughter.

Suddenly, and without preparation, down fell the black curtain, like a pall, and the sobs and tears of the family broke forth. One beautiful little child was carried out almost in fits. Water was brought to the poor mother; and, at last, making our way with difficulty through the dense crowd, we got into the sacristy. I declare,' said the Countess to me, wiping her eyes, 'it is worse than a marriage!' I expressed my horror at the sacrifice of a girl so young, that she could not possibly have known her own mind. Almost all the ladies agreed with me, especially all who had daughters, but many of the old gentlemen were of a different opinion. The young men were decidedly of my way of thinking; but many young girls, who were conversing together, seemed rather to envy their friend, who had looked so pretty and graceful, and 'so happy,' and whose dress' suited her so well;' and to have no objection to 'go and do likewise.''

To be satisfied with the acquittal of the world, though accompanied with the secret condemnation of conscience, this is the mark of a little mind; but it requires a soul of no common stamp to be satisfied with his own acquittal, and to despise the condemnation of the world.

The firmest friendships have been formed in mutual adversity, as iron is most strongly united by the fiercest flame.

From the Poems of Ossian.

THE WAR OF CAROS.

BY J. MACPHERSON, ESQ.

[Caros is probably the noted usurper Carausius, by birth a Menapian, who assumed the purple in the year 284; and, seizing on Britain, defeated the Emperor Maximinian Herculius in several naval engagements, which gives propriety to his being called in this poem “the king of ships." He repaired Agricola's wall, in order to obstruct the incursions of the Caledonians; and when he was employed in that work, it appears he was attacked by a party under command of Oscar, the son of Ossian. This battle is the foundation of the present poem, which is addressed to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar.]

BRING, daughter of Toscar, bring the harp! the light of the song rises in Ossian's soul! It is like the field when darkness covers the hills around, and the shadow grows slowly on the plain of the sun. I behold my son, O Malvina! near the mossy rock of Crona. But it is the mist of the desert, tinged with the beam of the west! Lovely is the mist that assumes the form of Oscar! turn from it, ye winds, when ye roar on the side of Ardven!

His staff is in his hand, He often looks back to "What does Caros, king

Who comes towards my son with the murmur of a song? his gray hair loose on the wind. Surly joy lightens his face. Caros. It is Ryno of songs, he that went to view the foe. of ships?" said the son of the now mounted Ossian: "spreads he the wings* of his pride, bard of the times of old?"— -"He spreads them, Oscar," replied the bard, "but it is behind his gathered heap. He looks over his stones with fear. He beholds thee terrible, as the ghost of night, that rolls the wave to his ships!"

"Go, thou first of my bards!" says Oscar, "take the spear of Fingal. Fix a flame on its point. Shake it to the winds of heaven. Bid him, in songs, to advance, and leave the rolling of his wave. Tell to Caros that I long for battle; that my bow is weary of the chase of Cona. Tell him the mighty are not here; and that my arm is young."

He went with the murmur of songs. Oscar reared his voice on high. It reached his heroes on Ardven, like the noise of a cave; when the sea of Togorma rolls before it, and its trees meet the roaring winds. They gather round my son like the streams of the hill; when, after rain, they roll in the pride of their course. Ryno came to the mighty Caros. He struck his flaming spear. Come to the battle of Oscar, O thou that sittest on the rolling of waves! Fingal is distant far; he hears the songs of bards in Morven : the wind of his hall is in his hair. His terrible spear is at his side; his shield that is like the darkened moon! Come to the battle of Oscar; the hero is alone.

He came not over the streamy Carun. The bard returned with his song. Gray night grows dim on Crona. The feast of shells is spread. A hundred oaks burn to the wind; faint light gleams over the heath. The ghosts of Ardven pass through the beam, and show their dim and distant forms. Comalat is half unseen on her meteor; Hidallan is sullen and dim, like the darkened moon behind the mist of night. "Why are thou sad?" said Ryno; for he alone beheld the chief. Why art thou sad, Hidallan! hast thou not received thy fame? The songs of Ossian have been heard; thy ghost has brightened in wind, when thou didst bend from thy cloud, to hear the song of Morven's bard!"-"And do thine eyes," said Oscar, "behold the

*The Roman eagle.

+ Agricola's wall, which Carausius repaired.

This is the scene of Comala's death, which is the subject of the dramatic poem,

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chief, like the dim meteor of night? Say, Ryno, say, how fell Hidallan, the renowned, in the days of my fathers! His name remains on the rocks of Cona. I have often seen the streams of his hills!"

Fingal, replied the bard, drove Hidallan from his wars. The king's soul was sad for Comala, and his eyes could not behold the chief. Lonely, sad, along the heath he slowly moved with silent steps. His arms hang disordered on his side. His hair flies loose from his brow. The tear is in his downcast eyes; a sigh half silent in his breast! Three days he strayed unseen, alone, before he came to Lamor's halls: the mossy halls of his fathers, at the stream of Balva. There Lamor sat alone beneath a tree; for he had sent his people with Hidallan to war. The stream ran at his feet, his gray head rested on his staff. Sightless are his aged eyes. He hums the song of other times. The noise of Hidallan's feet came to his ear; he knew the tread of his son. "Is the son of Lamor returned; or is it the sound of his ghost? Hast thou fallen on the banks of Carun, son of the aged Lamor? Or, if I hear the sound of Hidallan's feet, where are the mighty in the war? where are my people, Hidallan! that were wont to return with their echoing shields? Have they fallen on the banks of Carun ?” "No," replied the sighing youth, "the people of Lamor live. They are renowned in war, my father! but Hidallan is renowned no more. I must sit alone on the banks of Balva, when the roar of the battle grows.”

"But thy fathers never sat alone," replied the rising pride of Lamor. "They never sat alone on the banks of Balva, when the roar of battle rose. Dost thou not behold that tomb? My eyes discern it not; there rests the noble Garmállon, who never fled from war! Come, thou renowned in battle, he says, come to thy father's tomb. am I renowned, Gamállo? my son has fled from war!"

How

"King of the streamy Balva!" said Hidallan with a sigh, "why dost thou torment my soul? Lamor, I never fled. Fingal was sad for Comala; he denied his wars to Hidallan. Go to the gray streams of thy land, he said; moulder like a leafless oak, which the winds have bent over Balva, never more to grow!"

"And must I hear," Lamor replied, the lonely tread of Hidallan's feet? When thousands are renowned in battle, shall he bend over my gray streams? Spirit of the noble Garmállon! carry Lamor to his place; his eyes are dark, his soul is sad, his son has lost his fame!"

"Where," said the youth, "shall I search for fame, to gladden the soul of Lamor? From whence shall I return with renown, that the sound of my arins may be pleasant in his ear? If I go to the chase of hinds, my name will not be heard. Lamor will not feel my dogs with his hands, glad at my arrival from the hill. He will not inquire of his mountains, or of the dark-brown deer of his deserts!"

"I must fall," said Lamor, "like a leafless oak: it grew on a rock! it was overturned by the winds! My ghost will be seen on my hills, mournful for my young Hidallan. Will not ye, ye mists, as ye rise, hide him from my sight! My son, go to Lamor's hall: there the arms of our fathers hang. Bring the sword of Garmállon: he took it from a foe!"

He went and brought the sword with all its studded thongs. He gave it to his father. The gray-haired hero felt the point with his hand.

“My son, lead me to Garmállon's tomb: it rises beside that rustling tree. The long grass is withered; I hear the breezes whistling there. A little fountain murmurs near, and sends its waters to Balva. There let me rest; it is noon: the sun is on our fields!"

He led him to Garmállon's tomb. Lamor pierced the side of his son. They sleep together their ancient halls moulder away. Ghosts are seen there at noon: the valley is silent, and the people shun the place of Lamor.