"Do you know, Isabel, the secret of a woman's power over these boasting lords of creation?" "I must ask you," she answered," experience teaches well."

"Not another compliment to-night, sweet innocence. Their lightness has already etherealized your unambitious Kate-but yes, I will take yours up on second thought; for, coming from one of the sex, sure it is a priceless curiosity."

"Then be generous as I, and give me the secret."

"If you promise not to rival me, dearest," said the winning Catharine, softly pressing a hand on each cheek of Isabel, and kissing a pair of lips almost as tempting as her own. "Like the strength of Sampson, the spell of a woman's enchantment lies in her hair, her rich, curling, magnificent hair. What are your swimming eyes, without their moleskin brows and camel's hair lashes? Just imagine what the bewitching face and elegant head of yours would look like, were it shorn of its sunny dress of ringlets! Ah! Isabel, this is Cupid's own ambush, and see here!" she added, flinging the long, dancing curls over her friend's white and beautiful bosom, and turning her to the mirror, "there is nature's most lovely sight, beauty unadorned. Oh! if our husbands could not love us for ourselves, then indeed is love a phantom."

"Indeed, Catharine," laughed the amused and flattered Isabel," beside affording a fatal ambush to the puissant boy-god, I think too that female hair furnishes him with his vaunted silken chains. When we were sweet, friendship-swearing sixteen, I think I saw such a chain on the wrist of your bashful cousin when will he be home again?"

It was well that her unbound tresses shaded the instant paleness of her countenance, else Catharine had betrayed the intense emotion the question elicited. "I thought he might have been here to-night," she answered in a quivering tone.

An hour after, when nothing was heard but the gentle breathing of the sleeping Isabel, Catharine had stolen from her arms, and mingled her tears with the dew of the flowers that hung heavy with their sweet burden in the windows. Long and bitter was that reverie. The crowded incidents and giddy éclât of the past day had shut out reflection, or rather she had sought their excitement through dread of thought. But in that still hour when the moon taught gentleness, and the stars led memory home, she thought of her wronged cousin. It was the hour when the heart owns its truth. Truth, like echo, dwells in solitude, startling with her floating whisper the burdened soul that seeks her communion. He was gone forever! "Will he come back? will he forgive me?" she almost shrieked "O I will pray the stars for tears-the dove for her imploring glance to plead a pardon; and then he is lord of this heart forever. He said he loved me! Love! mysterious power. knew thee not before." She ceased, for the moon was sinking under the dusky line of the far-off shore; her shadow fell like a long still pillar of light across the sleeping bay, and then all was dark, still, and mystic.

I

One who trifles with affection is like the too envious seer who peers over the cavern's brink, holding only a slender switch. Love is the frail and beautiful flower reared in a lady's boudoir. Tender as the hand that caresses its leaves, it blooms the type of its lovely priestess. Sighs are its dew and its summer wind. A flower so fleeting, yet O! so exquisitely prized, perishes at the out-door blast.

CHAPTER III.

THE PORT THE SAILING OF THE SEA-GULL.

It was an autumnal morn in 1812, and the domes, towers and steeples of the monumental city loomed bright and glancing above a sea of vapor, like distant ships becalmed. Here and there groups of roofs and chimneys, frowning with smoke, and port-like windows were anchored, like floating batteries, on the white expanse. The fire-wand of the magician Sun touched the heavy canopy; it folded grandly up, and the city stood awake. A rumbling noise of far off wheels and bells gathered depth and distinctness till the eternal roar of the crowded mart floated on the chilly morning air.— Yet it was not all the bustle of trade. The shrill music of the pipe, and the rolling tones of the drum lent an echo to the passing air. Hundreds of flags were hanging around and afar, from the heights and shipping; but they were not the peaceful telegraphs of commerce, for when the buoyant breeze unfurled their blazoned folds the banner of stars and stripes was proudly flung alee.

War had been declared between Great Britain and America. A billow of that tremendous storm that had lashed Europe into foam, had strayed across the Atlantic, and drowned the lights of peace along the coast. The spirit of a brave people had risen from vain fury at unprovoked aggression to a noble consciousness of equality. A chivalric eagerness for the contest at once pervaded all classes of the people; for already the iron thunder of the Constitution had rolled across the deep to tell the proud court of St. James that a rival star was shining on the sea.

Business was at a stand, yet every body was busy; thousands of citizens were thronging the streets.

Behind the ample flags that flaunted over them, the distant observer might note the solid ranks and even tramp of the military. The port was alive with boats passing and hailing. A few bay-craft were standing up, which were boarded by the curious and idle, who for once were determined to be astir for the good of the country. Every arrival seemed freighted with the destiny of the nation, and a large crowd, hungry for news, stood upon the wharves. Now and then a burst of artillery was heard, which called forth vast shouting and vociferous patriotism. The splendid and unexpected victory of the Constitution had elated a people "unused to conquest and uncertain of their own powers." Every soul was ready to fight-no matter what-the devil, or any thing in general-yet all had an especial hankering to cuff the stout corporation of old John Bull on his vaunted ocean home. Nor was this "all talk and no cider," for they of the monumental city have gathered laurels on hard-won fields, and their fleet cruisers, in distant seas, have overhauled and downhauled many a flag of the enemy. The brave will ever honor and reward valor, else whence that proud title "Monumental?"

A short distance from the wharf, at the lower part of the city, lay a small half-brig, half-schoonerlooking craft, which at a glance fastened attention by the surpassing beauty of her model. She was of that peculiar and singularly elegant class well known in American ports as an hermaphrodite brig. Her masts were tall and wand-like, with narrow shrouds, and a beautiful rake; her white tapering spars were bright and clean, and her rigging throughout was in tasteful and elegant style. She sat long and low in the water, and swung with the breeze as gay and light as a floating plume. A single white streak of paint, clear and even as if cut out of pearl, swept, with a scarcely perceptible curve, along the dark leaden hull, and a small snowy sea-gull, with crouched neck and half extended wings, seemed ready to fly from the ornamented bow. There was a flourish of golden seagrass on her handsome stern, which was almost brushed by the long stripes of the United States' flag as it flaunted over the taffrail. Four port holes on each side revealed the black mouths of as many cannon; a long eighteen pounder was poised upon a pivot abaft the foremast, and two ports for stern chasers opened on each side of the wheel. A pilot signal was flying at the fore.

The appearance of the vessel was that of a privateer, and the bustle and hurrah of recruiting discipline which a seaman's eye quickly detects, attached her at once to that daring and somewhat equivocal class. Her officers were brave and skillful, and she was manned by a choice crew of nearly one hundred men, whom patriotism, or the more seductive spirit of gain, had drawn together.

Privateering has been quaintly called "a school of piracy," and probably with some truth; but it is no prejudice to say that American privateers in the late American war are a noble exception. The navy was small as it was gallant, and private armed vessels might rather have been regarded sharers of the national defence than speculating plunderers. It is well known that they paid their respects to all vessels of the enemy, making no invidious distinction between armed and unarmed. Many gallant men played at that brilliant game from the purest national feeling; and what American, when reading the history of their daring victories in the last war, would withhold the meed of applause and gratitude?

But now there was a sudden stir on board the Sea-Gull. The boatswain's whistle split the air, and the loud "all hands up anchor," startled a gallant array of blue jackets to their duty. The numerous boats that had crowded around the brig put off, and cloud after cloud of clean new canvas boomed gladly in the gale. With a graceful careen to leeward, she glided like magic away. The drum and fife struck up a stirring march, and a long and thrilling shout burst from the admiring crowd on the wharves. She clipped it beautifully past the fort, her happy flag waving recognition to the large ensign that presided frowningly over the batteries. Another shout-a whiff of smoke from the deck-a single gun-and the Sea-Gull was away on the wave.

[To be continued.]

то

Fair maiden, let thy generous heart
From its present pathway part not-
Being every thing which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.

So with the world thy gentle ways,
Thy unassuming beauty,
Thy truth-shall be a theme of praise
Forever, and love a duty.

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

BY G. J. M., OF WILMINGTON, N. C.

A FEW years ago, I resided for a short time, during the summer months, in the little village of P******, the borough-town of one of the central counties of that unpretending state, to which the name of Irving's sleeping hero is now most usually applied. It was a retired place. There was little of the stateliness and pride, the gloss and tinsel show of more frequented spots. The surrounding country could boast no grand imposing views, yet the scenery was indeed lovely and picturesque. It needed the murmuring music of no Tivoli to give it interest, the blaze of no Etna to lend a richer or more glowing tint to its skies. The prospect was one the eye delights to dwell upon. No appearance of the elaborate efforts of Art was visible, but all was clothed in the sweet simplicity of Nature's garb. To a mind such as mine, the quiet seclusion of the neighboring groves, vested in their own thick foliage, was always inviting. I was one the world might suppose habitually gay, yet was it otherwise. At times dark and burning thoughts crowded through my aching brain. I withdrew from the society of my fellow man, and rejected with embittered heart his proffered sympathy. Then did I love to wander forth alone, to breathe the free air of the hills, crowded with verdure; to listen to the rich melody of the feathered warblers, for they could soothe my gloomy feelings and divert from their rough channel my fevered thoughts. Among the many retreats of my melancholy, there was one peculiarly a favorite, but a short stroll from my dwelling. It was the humble cottage of a faithful servant, who had numbered more than a century of years; now sheltered in his decaying age by the affectionate gratitude of his master's only representative. Him, when a boy, he had often fondled on his knee and breathed for his welfare his simple prayer, with that purity and intensity of feeling that came from the heart. There was a wildness about his home that made it deeply interesting and romantic. Around his little dwelling, constructed comfortably yet without reference to taste, the luxuriant grass spread its tapestried freshness, and three or four giant oaks, veterans as himself, over its moss-covered roof had interwoven their branches, as if with solicitude to guard him from the heat of a southern sun. A few paces in the rear, embedded in a thicket of plum trees, was a modest grave, scarcely now to be distinguished. Above it the yellow jessamine hung in graceful festoons, filling the air with its exquisite fragrance, while the white rose, sweet-briar, and honeysuckle, clustered in loveliness, appeared here and there through the interstices of the shrubbery, as if to tempt the heedless stranger to the perilous adventure of reaching them. Such was his choice for the retreat of his declining years, near the mouldering remains of a master whom he ever tenderly remembered, and expected to join in a happier world with the mild piety of the christian's hope. For the last twenty years of his life he had seldom passed the immediate limits of his little farm. His wants, which were few, were weekly supplied from the village by the filial attention of a grandson, who had now attained the age of manhood, and his store of luxuries increased by contributions of his favorite weed from visiters, and the small presents I found it in my power occasionally to supply. In the worn outlines of a form attenuated and bent by the ravages of time might be detected the vestiges of a once athletic and vigorous frame. The presence of some he scarcely noticed, but me he always met with the smile of younger days. He was one of the few remaining links connecting the present and the olden time. Seated by his side, I have often listened with eager joy and throbbing heart to his many stories. He would seek to beguile my visits with all the wonted garrulity of old age-tell me of our fathers-paint the scene in which they moved in the strong color of truth. There in the distance, where the country court-house once stood, he would point out the spot where the haughty Briton dared to plant his tent on freedom's soil;-where his own cottage rose, encamped the patriot force. With kindling eye, he would trace the hasty retreat the spirited pursuit, and the well-contested though unequal fight of the allies-the startling danger of a too gallant master, and his own successful efforts to rescue him, while the tear of remembered triumph stole down his furrowed cheek. Much to my regret, parental commands soon called me away. Í visited before leaving, for the last time, my old friend. He bade me farewell with touching earnestness-he said we would never meet again, and I felt, as feelings of sorrow stole over me, that his words were true. I left him with a kind adieu and small gift. Even now his last words, "God bless you, master," seem to ring in my ear. Three years afterwards, I returned to the same little town, and soon was on my way to my favorite haunt. The little path I had so often trodden was overgrown with rank weeds-where once stood his house was a mournful pile of rubbish. But, by the grave I had often visited, one of more recent date told the story of his end-old Richard was no more. May the turf rest lightly upon him! Peace be to his ashes!

AND THE FUTURE.

A DREAM.

ELDER, COLUMBIA, PA.

HALF ΑΝ HOUR

IN THE ACADEMY

O F FINE ARTS

AT PHILADELPHIA.

BY A PHILADELPHIAN.

Ir is a hot morning, and we have been strolling in Chestnut street to refresh our fancy with the various female wonders of Nature and Art, with which every great city abounds. We have not, it must be confessed, been very successful in our search, for Chestnut street we find is losing very decidedly the character for high fashion which it once enjoyed, and Walnut street is beginning to usurp its best glories. There is no place in the world where fashion (we allude to the selectest) is so sensitive, or capricious, as in Philadelphia: the moment that a place is so attractive or so well known that "every body" is supposed capable of going there, and the frequenting of it ceases to be a distinction, that instant it is pronounced vulgar, and people of ton fly from it with horror. In consequence of this foolish fastidiousness the most agreeable places in this city, (as Washington square,) are entirely in the hands of second or third rate persons. Our Chestnut street walk has therefore brought us little but a red-hot face and pair of dusty boots. Now the only cool place in Philadelphia, when the weather is hot, is the Academy of Fine Arts; we will, therefore, drop in there for a few moments, to regain our due personal solidity, and amuse our sight by turning from painted faces to painted canvas.

When we recover from the astonishment produced by the appearance of an enormous pile of plaster in the centre of the outer room which seems placed there for no other purpose than to prevent a single picture from being seen at the proper distance, and to injure the sight in judging of colors, the first thing that engages our attention is Alston's huge painting of the dead man restored to life, by touching the corpse of Elisha, (catalogue No. 46.) The painter is what the cant of the times denominates "a native artist," and it is therefore a high offence against patriotism, honor, good feeling, and the seven cardinal virtues in a lump, to bestow on the performance any thing else than "honied words of praise." Phew! The delineator of such a monstrossity aught to be rolled up in his canvas, and both of them burnt together on the altar of beauty.

The taste which selected this subject for the pencil was unacquainted with that strict boundary line within which the graces have encircled this art. Pleasure is the sole end of painting; beauty is the sole source of unqualified pleasure: beauty then is the supreme law of this, and all the other, arts of design. The Greeks I take to be the despotic law-givers for the world in all that concerns art: they painted, not to display their skill or exhibit a resemblance, but to produce an object whose loveliness should gratify the spectator. Impression, which most modern artists seek, was not their aim; beauty was their constant Latium; and if they ever selected subjects of a tragical nature they softened down the terror under the control of beauty. Laocoon in Virgil shrieks with the wild horror of irrepressible agony: such an emotion would in stone be too violent to give pleasure, and the extended mouth would have been ungraceful; in the sculpture, therefore, there is nothing seen of this but what Sadoleto has called, "the stifled sigh of anguish." When Timanthes painted the sacrifice of Iphigenia, he drew a veil over the father's face; not from inability to represent his grief in adequate power, for the more violent the emotion the more strongly are the features disposed, and the more easy, in consequence, is the painter's task; but because the deep passion of that deadly suffering would have carried him beyond the bounds of beauty. Let me fortify my position by the authority of Winkelmann: "There are some sorts of sensation," says the best of all modern critics, "which are displayed in the countenance by the most shocking contortions, and throw the entire figure into postures so violent that all those lines of grace, which its forms evolved when its disposition was tranquil, are destroyed. These passions the ancients either avoided entirely, or represented them under such modifications as admitted a certain proportion of beauty. The images of rage and despair deformed none of their works. Anger was subdued into severity. Jupiter hurling thunder was, in the verse of the poet, furious with indignation; in the marble of the sculptor he was